“Thank you,” he manages to say, his voice breaking. “I'll never forget 
this.” 


The doctor smiles at him. “You will, but | appreciate the sentiment all 
the same.” He reaches for the bag’s zipper, then pauses. “I wish you 
all the best, Xiang. Have a good life.” 


Too close to tears to speak, Xiang can only nod as the man zips the 
body bag shut over his face. 


When he's finished the doctor heads for the door; reaching it, he 
looks back—whatever sense of accomplishment he'd been feeling at 
having helped Xiang instantly crumbles at the sight of those nearly 
two dozen body bags neatly placed along the aisle. 


How many of them were mine? he asks himself, the familiar feelings 
of guilt and self-loathing, never far from his mind, returning in full 
force. How many of them did | send here? Three? Four? More? 


He realizes he can't even remember. 


With a bitter sigh he turns around and leaves the room, locking the 
door behind him. 


Boiled, Scrambled, and Fried 


SCP-049 was sick. For the first time in its stay at the Foundation, 
there was something clearly wrong with it. Over the security 
cameras, it had been observed holding its stomach and moaning, 
limping around its cell and stopping occasionally to lie down. The 
medical staff didn’t know what to think. There was nothing noticeably 
off about the plague doctor except for the strange stomach pains. It 
didn’t help that there was no way to get access to its body beneath 
all its skin robes. SCP-049 was taken to the medical station for a 
proper examination. His caretaker was Doctor Richard Omel, who 
specialised in the care of humanoid anomalies. 


“Please, | beg you doctor, leave me be. | can assure you that I’m 
strong enough to withstand the pain.” SCP-049 struggled against his 
restraints as Doctor Omel examined him. 


“Man, what happened to you, 049? This is bizarre.” Omel felt a lump 
in SCP-049’s stomach as he touched the doctor with his gloved 
hand. Abdominal distension, maybe? SCP-049’s breathing became 
labored as it spoke. 


“lll be fine. This has happened to me before, and | promise that it’s 
no disease.” 


“Then you know what’s happening? Why didn’t you tell us?” Doctor 
Omel stopped touching it. 


“| did not think you would believe me, so | said nothing. Doctor... I’m 
pregnant.” 


“You’re what?!” 


“I’m sorry, but | can’t explain it. Please, just let me return to my cell. | 
need to make the proper preparations.” 


“How can you be pregnant? We haven't let you out of our sight in 


months!” SCP-049 tensed up and began breathing heavily. It looked 
like it was in intense pain. “049, are you alright?” 


“Don’t concern yourself with me. This will only take a minute.” Doctor 
Omel ran out of the room to retrieve more members of the medical 
staff. SCP-049 continued to struggle and gasp in pain, until it 
shuddered and let out a cry. Doctor Omel and the others returned 
just in time to see a pearly white egg tumble out from beneath its 
robes. SCP-049 recovered quickly, and spoke. 


“Doctor, would you please free me from these shackles? | need to 
tend to the egg. It will die without my care.” Doctor Omel was so 
shocked that he complied. SCP-049 gently reached down to pick up 
the egg, and cradled it in its arms. 


“We'll need to file a report about this immediately,” breathed one of 
the doctors. “This has never happened before.” SCP-049 slowly 
rocked the egg back and forth. 


The Foundation kindly allowed SCP-049 to keep and raise the egg 
for research purposes. For the past five days, it had devoted all of its 
energy to the care of the egg. It had requested fabric and paper, 
which the Foundation granted to it, and from those materials it made 
a nest in the corner of its cell. The egg was safely contained within 
the soft nest, and 049 sat on it to keep it warm. Many scientists 
reported hearing soft clucking noises from the speakers in the 
observation room. 


Doctor Omel was standing in the observation room, having come to 
write a report on SCP-049 after the event had taken place. It 
seemed healthy, and the egg was in fine condition. Still, this was all 
very strange. SCP-049 certainly had a bird-like appearance, but did 
that mean it was really a bird? Doctor Omel had to confront 049 
when it began to softly peck at the egg. 


“049, could you explain to me what exactly you're trying to do?” 
Doctor Omel’s voice crackled over the speakers in 049’s cell. 


“What needs to be explained? | was checking for signs of life within 
the egg, which | found.” SCP-049 stood up, returned the egg to its 


nest, and sat on top of it again. 
“Are you a bird?” 
“What?” 


“| asked if you were a bird. It’s just.... not normal for something 
humanoid like yourself to lay an egg.” 


SCP-049 thought about it for a moment. “No, as far as I’m aware, | 
have never been a bird. Yet, producing eggs is natural to me.” 


“Then how often does this happen to you?” 


“It’s difficult to keep track of time, but | believe it has not happened 
for decades.” 


“Oh, | see.” Doctor Omel couldn't believe that he was actually writing 
all this in an official report. SCP-049 began humming to itself as it 
rocked back and forth on the nest. 


Ten days after the egg had emerged, SCP-049’s cell was filled with 
researchers holding cameras and taking notes. A glass shield ran 
through the middle of the room, keeping them safe in case 049 
made a move, and multiple guards were on standby. Today was a 
big day. Whatever was inside the egg was going to hatch! SCP-049 
stood protectively over the nest while the researchers whispered to 
each other on the other side of the room. 


The egg was shaking as a crack in the center grew bigger and 
bigger. Finally, something began to break through. A white beak 
broke free of the shell, and then the creature inside tore itself free 
with its arms. It was... another plague doctor. It was small, and 
looked kind of funny in comparison to its father. SCP-049 let out a 
gasp of excitement and picked up the small doctor, hugging it in its 
arms. 


“Should... should we do something about this?” Just as soon as the 
excitement reached its climax, the doctors in the room realized that 
they had just witnessed the birth of a new anomaly that they knew 
nothing about. Why... was it wearing a hat? Why did it smell like a 


garden? Doctor Omel was the first to step forward cautiously. 


“049, would you please put down that... thing? | know you must be 
excited, but we need to observe it, and-” Doctor Omel began 
reaching towards 049, but retreated when the small plague doctor in 
its arms spun around and smacked his hand with a stick. 


“Don’t touch the doctor!” The small doctor leaped from SCP-049’s 
arms and swiftly exited the cell before anyone could react. As the 
containment breach alarms blared, SCP-049 wiped a joyful tear from 
one of its eyes. 


“He... is the cure.” 


SCP-802: Musical Tank 


Item #: SCP-802 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: A security perimeter must be 
maintained at a fifteen kilometer radius around SCP-802's territory. 
Due to the large area needed to be covered, and the isolated nature 
of SCP-802's territory, warning signs, fences, automated security 
systems, and regular patrols should be sufficient to prevent 
unauthorized intrusion. No fewer than three lines of containment 
must be maintained within the perimeter at all times. These lines 
must consist of: 


Outer Perimeter: Basic fences, trenches, and concrete and steel 
vehicle obstacles. Regular patrols with anti-tank weaponry 
equipped. 


Intermediate Perimeter: Additional anti-tank trenches and obstacles. 
Perimeter must also be secured with an unbroken line of anti-tank 
mines. 


Inner Perimeter: Inner perimeter must be secured with an unbroken 
line of Dragon's Teeth anti-tank obstacles constructed out of 
reinforced concrete. Additional anti-tank mines must be added. 


Road access to SCP-802's territory is prohibited. The only allowable 
modes of transportation into the perimeter are either by foot or by 
air. Under no circumstances are the perimeter defenses to be 
breached or compromised to allow vehicle access. Only Level 3 
personnel or higher are allowed within the perimeter. Any 
unauthorized access can and will result in immediate termination. 


Description: SCP-802 appears to be a World War II era Renault 
Char B1 medium battle tank. However, unlike regular tanks, 
SCP-802 is able to operate on its own. It is unknown whether 


Bones of Autumn 


Childe of October, Childe of the Stalks 
| question your presence while the transgressor walks 
The treasure you offer is not yet complete 
The task is still open, make haste with your feet 
Our savior, betrayer, still blessed with his sight 
Escapes his due judgement this October night 
Return to the forest, grace needles with bone 
Make hope a myth now that he is alone 
As you are my pupil, you will bring me his 
So seek out and blind him wherever he is 
Once you have obtained what | crave to receive 


Rejoice on this permanent All Hallow's Eve 


Sandy couldn't see anything. The forest was pitch black, long 
abandoned by any light pollution from the nearby town. The nearest 
coal plant was now strangled by vines, and choked with autumn 
leaves. Logically, he knew he was better off than Kytes, but he 
certainly didn't feel like it at the moment. Branches scraped his 
hands and pulled at his coat as he ran through the thick brush, his 
footfalls quieted by the soft pine needles covering every inch of the 
earthen floor. Not once did he turn his head to see what may have 
followed him on his haphazard course; it didn't matter now because 
he would never be safe again. 


A crazed laugh escaped Sandy's throat as he wheezed from 
exertion. Even if he could escape, even if he could find somewhere 
to feel safe, even if sleeping again could be a remote possibility, 
how would he ever get the image of Kytes face out his mind again? 
Or the sound the man had made when those tiny little skeletal 
fingers dug into his eyes? They had been so close, too. So close to 
fixing Sandy's Great Big Mistake. Sandy's Great Big Mistake! Rated 
PG-13!, Sandy thought. Another crazed laugh floated past his lips 
and into the cold air of infinite October. 


A rogue tree root, strongly objecting to Sandy's evening jog, 
suddenly sent the man sprawling into the endless bed of needles. 
He laid there, face first, catching his breath and ignoring the dread 
that squatted in the back of his mind. He laughed again. "Oh 
Dashiel. Oh Dash. | know I've said this so many times...so many 
times before, but | never wanted any of this for anyone." There was 
no echo; Agent Sandison's words were softly caught by the needles 
like a spiderweb silencing a fly. 


"| should have just done my job. | should have just done my job like | 
did every other day." Nobody objected to Sandy's words. He listened 
for the quiet, skeletal footfalls that he thought for sure would be 
approaching soon, but the forest offered nothing. He slowly rolled 
over onto his back. He thought he could almost make out the light of 
a faint star, just barely poking through the black treetops standing 
over him. He opened his mouth wide. "IF ANYONE IS LISTENING, | 
DIDN'T WANT THIS! DO YOU HEAR ME?! DO YOU FUCKING 
HEAR ME?! | AM NOT A BAD PERSON! I'M NOT! | WANTED 
JUSTICE!" 


"Justice?" 


Sandy's heart stuttered for a moment. Sheer terror prevented him 
from looking to his immediate left, where the question had come 
from. This is how a coward should die, he thought. And then 
suddenly, he felt calm. Paralysis left as quickly as it had come, and 
he found himself giving an answer to the query. "Yes, justice. 
Justice for Dashiel. Justice for the rest of the kids. Justice for you, 
too." 


"Why would | need justice? He already gave the world the justice it 


deserves. | am not wanting for anything now, certainly not justice." 
The voice was raspy and dry, but still clearly a child's. 


Sandy spoke again, still refusing to face his new companion in the 
forest. His right hand slowly stirred, and began to search for 
something. "The world deserved justice, you're right. But this isn't it. 
This isn't justice, this is apocalyptic tyranny. And I'm so sorry that | 
did this to you." 


"You owe me no apologies, transgressor. You owe Him for your 
betrayal. He let you live in His world, knowing that you deserved 
proper judgement. He did you a kindness, and this is how you repay 
Him?" The contempt in the voice's accusation was like sandpaper. 
The thing's footfalls, though quieted by the pine needles, were 
getting audibly closer. 


"He can go fuck Himself." The branch Sandy had quietly found with 
his right hand swung in a quick arc towards the sound of his 
accuser. A small piece of skull sliced the man's cheek as it flew past 
him. Bones fell to the forest floor in a quiet heap, and bore no more 
accusations towards Agent Sandison. 


Was that the one that got Kytes? Sandy couldn't know for sure, not 
in this claustrophobic darkness, not with his eyes at least. He 
decided there was little use in checking for wet and sticky 
phalanges; he was running out of time. They had only been in 
Chilton for fifteen minutes when they had been ambushed, and their 
simple plan had gone to hell. / could go back and try to set the nuke. 
It might be covered in vines or eaten by a damn pumpkin or 
whatever, but | could try. | could, but | won't. Because I'm a coward. 


Sandy slowly lifted himself to his feet, still holding his makeshift club 
the forest had so graciously given him. He kicked at the pile of 
bones, sending ribs skittering through the night. He sighed, and 
leaned on the branch, reminding himself that a real child would 
never speak like that. None of the children he had sheltered with for 
so long had sounded like the thing he had smashed here. He was 
speaking through it, almost certainly. Otherwise it would have 
sounded just like a real child, like- 


"You shouldn't have done that." 


This new voice was sorrowful, regretful. Sandy hadn't heard this one 
approaching. The paralysis came back. It wasn't going anywhere 
this time. Sandy began to cry. 


"I'm so sorry. For everything. | just wanted..." 


"| Know, but there wasn't anything you could do. His will is so far 
beyond yours, don't you see that yet? | even tried to spare you, but 
He wouldn't allow it." 


"That's not you talking. That's ittalking. You're just its puppet now. 
You're not alive!" Sandy sobbed between sentences. 


"Of course | am. | may have died, but He gave me a second life." 


"This isn't life. You're not alive. You're not anything. Not anymore." 
Sandy felt his sorrow slowly turning to rage. His hand gripped the 
branch tighter, blurring the line between his skin and its bark. 


"Your words mean nothing against His truth. You know this. You 
saw what | did to your friend. You will see no more." 


"You're not alive. You're not anything. You're not alive." Rage was 
overcoming sadness. Sandy's words were more a chant than a 
declaration. 


Footfalls on the soft pine floor. Needles against bone. 


The branch swung for a second time. It was louder, more forceful. 
No birds scattered from the trees, no deer fled from the sound. 


Agent Noah Sandison sifted through the pile of shattered bones that 
lay before him at his knees. He had tossed the branch away, and 
now his hands felt for something else. He traced his fingers along 
the length of a small ulna. 


"You're not alive. You're nothing. You're not alive." 
There it was. Metal. 


"You're not alive. You're nothing." 


A metal plate. The kind they sometimes used to help mend a broken 
bone. 


"You're not alive. You're nothing. You're not my son." 


Sandy clutched the bone to his chest. Tears streamed down his 
cheeks. 


"My little boy. Oh Dash, I'm so sorry." 


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