All records were wiped. It was easier, now that they were past 
paper. The minds of thousands of agents and doctors were wiped 
out in an instant. Nobody could petition them any longer. Locked 
safely away, the Overseer Council could keep SCP-500 hidden 
away for generations to come. 


Nobody was supposed to know about SCP-500. The Council knew 
about SCP-500. 


The meeting was called, for the councilors to make their case to the 
others. One by one, they stood in front of their fellows, and pleaded. 


O5-1 was dead. He'd needed SCP-500 longer than any of them, and 
had suffered for it. 


O5-4 had been among the Outsiders for too long. He had been 
nominated for his position, and it was their fault. 


05-2, for hundreds of years, had been ravaged by the sickness they 
found to be inherent to cross-dimensional travel. Her flickering, 
faded form only held out a hand, silently pleading for mercy. How 
could she be refused? 


O5-5 hadn't been as lucky as the others, with their longevity 
equipment. Unlike most of them, he had once been a young man, 
and although he could live forever, what was living? 


And so, the rest of the council, one by one, made their case. Each 
member looked at the other, a certainty in their face that their fellows 
would listen to their plea, and that the last pill would go to them. The 
votes were counted. A 13-way tie. 


O5-6 didn't know who fired first. But he was the only one of the 
Overseers with an agent's training. Even now, thousands of years 
past his prime, he knew better than they how to live and how to 
make death. 


He took the bottle, and emptied the last pill into his hand. Fora 
second, the stink of death and black powder burned his nostrils. 
Then, he pinched his nose, and swallowed. As the pill passed 
through his gullet, the agent they used to call Cowboy felt his bones 


slide back into place, the tumors curling up into nothingness, and all 
of the sores and pains being washed away. Then, he heard a sound 
not unlike a gumball machine being refilled. 


He looked down. SCP-500 was filled to the brim, with a new label. 
"YOU HAVE [unlimited!] REFILLS REMAINING." 


Post Finem 


The world ended yesterday, and none of us noticed until this 
morning. No supplies were meant to arrive. No one was due to go to 
see the psychologists. This morning, | went to check for the 
supplies, and | opened the door. Only fragments of the Earth 
remain. 


Nothing can pass through it now. We can see the floating ruins of 
our planet, but we can't pass through it. Nothing left to pass through 
to, in any case. 


We don't know what destroyed the Earth. The cameras just show a 
flash of light, and then the floating ruins in space. 


Half of us have already committed suicide. | expect another ten to 
twenty before the day is through. Only a handful of us are planning 
to stay until the end of the week. 


That's when the generators run out of fuel, and the ones who live 
wish this world had ended too. 


CNN was camped outside Site 19. Fox News was calling present 
and former members for interviews. The Serpent's Hand was 
holding a press conference in New York, while the head of the GOC 
would only say, "No comment." 


"Are we done, do you think?" asked Agent Lessenger. 


"The Foundation is done, maybe," said Doctor Clef. "| suspect we're 
going to be busy a while longer." 


"But people aren't going to trust us once they find out. They're not 
going to understand." 


"Then screw ‘em. The job still has to be done, whether they like it or 


not. Now, are you going to sit there and get arrested, or are you 
going to help me with Plan B?" 


After a moment, Lessenger stood up, and followed. The world would 
have to wait, or there wouldn't be a world. 


A vast desert stretched out where a world once was, swept clean by 
the hell of its own star's dying breath. A light in the sky appears, dim 
against the night at first, then growing stronger. 


As it approaches the surface, it resolves into a ship of metal and 
light. It brakes against the gravity of the dead planet, and finally 
slows almost to a stop, before alighting gently on the dry dust. 


A figure descends, fully encased in plastic. It undulates as it moves, 
and a long tail stretches out behind it. It sifts through the sand, and 
finds several artifacts of a bygone age, when this planet held life. It 
quickly brings them on board, for the ship must leave before the 
dawn comes and sears the surface once again. 


Back aboard, it removes its heavy suit, and a limb covered with 
horn-like protrusions hovers over its findings, and finally reaches for 
a medallion that caught its eye. It freezes as it does so. And then, 
words come out of a throat never designed to speak them. "Not this 
shit again!" 


I'm laying on a table. | can't move. Why can't | move? There's a man 
in a coat. He looks like someone's granddad with that mustache. 
What's he doing with that knife? Gotta make a change. Just reach 
out and— 


I'm laying on a table. | can't move. Ow! My head. What's happening? 
Gotta make a change. Just reach out and— 


I'm laying on a table. There's something wrong with my head. Why 
can't | move? My arm just moved, but | didn't move it. There's 
someone standing behind me. Oh god. Oh god, they've got me. 
Gotta make a change. Just reach out and— 


Something wrong. Can't move. Head's... wrong. Can't think. Gotta 
change. Reach out and— 


"Isn't this dangerous, Doctor Mann?" asked the assistant 
nervously. "What if he wakes up and tries to erase us from existence 
or something?" 


"He already has," the surgeon replied. "Happily, our blocks keep him 
from doing more than wiping out his own memory." 


Agent Lament Officially died fifteen years ago. A jetski accident on 
a lake in Texas. 


His funeral was a week after that. An open casket had the wrong 
body in it, but no one noticed. 


Brain death was three months ago, after blunt trauma by a loyal 
member of the Church of the Broken God. 


His heart stopped beating six weeks ago. They'd kept it beating to 
make sure he wouldn't do anything interesting. Exposure to skips 
can change things. Even death. 


Five weeks ago, they cremated him, and buried the ashes in a little 
jar. It was sealed with concrete, and marked with a number. 


His files were retired four weeks ago. His pay was stopped. His 
pension was paid, anonymously, to his mother. She thought she'd 
won a contest. 


His friends swore three weeks ago that they'd never forget him. 
They haven't thought about him since. They won't ever again. They'll 
never even notice the change. 


Two days ago, his last active case was resolved. His name no 
longer appears in any active files. 


Today, the clock he'd set went off for the last time, as the new 
occupant threw it out in favor of a new one. And now he's truly dead. 


Kondraki swore as he worked. 


How had they found him? He'd been hiding for over a year. No idiot 
neighbors, no cameras, nothing to give him away. How had the 
Foundation figured out where he'd gone? 


But no one else used that frequency. His codes were out of date, so 
he couldn't tell what was being said, but they were close. They'd 
come for him, at long last. 


No. No, they wouldn't bring him back. They wouldn't execute him. 
Not him. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. 


Was it Clef, he wondered. Yes, it had to be Clef. They wouldn't dare 
send anyone else. No one else could be trusted to bring him in. 
Well, this was one mission the Ukelele Man wouldn't complete. 


He'd retreated to his shelter, and rigged the entire place to go. Not 
only would it kill Clef, it would also kill him, and thus deny them the 
opportunity. Not even his brain would remain intact. The only way it 
could be better would be if he'd had time to rig the resulting blast 
pattern the shape of a middle finger. 


He heard a noise. "Smile, you son of a bitch!" he shouted, as he 
pushed the button. 


Several miles away, Agent Melendez heard a boom. He wondered 
what it could possibly be, then dismissed it. He had an anomalous 
deer to investigate. 


Tom Sawyer rafts down the river. | wave to him from the shore, as 
I've always done. 


The goblins ride to meet our hasty lines. The elves and the humans 
are forming up with us, the gold forgotten. We're all in this together. | 
tighten my grip on my hammer in expectation. 


| stop in the Journal. "Hello?" | ask. There's no answer. | move on. 


Fezziwig is dancing with his wife. Everyone is merry, but there are 
two guests no one sees but me. | resist the urge to wave. That's not 


how the story goes. 


"Off with her head!" the Queen yells, and everyone scampers to 
avoid her wrath. I've never liked this book, but I'm getting desperate 
now. 


"Is anyone there?" It's been a year, though not even | know how | 
can tell. Why isn't anyone answering? Are they gone? Have they 
forgotten me? 


| watch Toad motoring by, reckless. He's certain he'll live forever. 
Only | know he's right. 


Gully Foyle appears, the lines and whorls on his face flashing plain. 
"Make ‘em tell you about PyrE, is all!" he shouts before disappearing 
again. 


"| wish someone was there," | write. "Only I've run out of things to 
read. Hello? Hello?" 


"| will not eat them here in bed, | will not eat them here with Fred! | 
do not like them, Sam | am..." 


Potent Drug 


Priss watched as the Anabasis came on, sending that familiar streak 
of cool air through the room, and the man-shaped mass was brought 
back into being. It had been a man once; what came back looked 
like something's attempt to put back together what had exploded 

into pieces of meat. A man-shaped, man-sized, fully clothed 
hamburger. 


"Something stripped him," Edgars muttered through his gas mask, 
prodding at the mass with a long pole so as not to put his hands on 
it, "Look. All the buttons are done up. And the camera's missing. The 
shoes, too." 


"Saw it coming," Priss said smarmily, "No reason to be using D- 
Class. Machines. A mannequin with a tape recorder. Anything. We 
can't communicate with them once they've crossed over, so why 
bother with a living person?" 


"We use 'em or we lose 'em," Another technician said, "And it's 
better for them if they get to stay with us than returning to prison. 
You see how those places are lately?" 


"No," Priss said, again blandly, watching as the man-shaped 
hamburger started to wetly slouch, "I haven't." 


"Filling up with illegals. | hear it's worse in Hawaii and California, but 
since they're starting to get overcrowded, they're sending Chinese 
refugees all the way over here. Not just in the prisons, but the 
immigration people, too." 


"Why do we even need D-Class anyway?" Priss glared at the group. 
Four ‘technicians’, two junior researchers, and her, an agent. Normal 
personnel outnumbered all the D-Class on-site. Priss figured there 
was no reason they couldn't use animals first, then some volunteers 
when it got safe. 


to more performance. 


11/06/2007 

Well, we've finally found samples of our radio isotope. It's keyed to 
#D-3354's can. The weird thing, though, is that it's not the 
Foundation-approved ideogram. Perhaps it's an attempt to 
communication on the part of #D-3354? 


The disturbing part is how childish the scrawl looks. It almost looks 
like whoever made this was finger painting. I'm at a loss to what it 
means. We've put each person exposed to the interior of SCP-915 
through extensive psychological testing and there's been no 
evidence of any intelligence reduction. 


11/10/2007 
The finger prints are not those of #D-3354. They are not of any 
Foundation employee. What? 


11/15/2007 

We found a child's tea set. Well. We found what look like a teapot 
and cups. They were made of gears. There was a table, too. It 
looked like it was made of pistons and hydralic chambers within an 
exterior wire mesh. 


We found a clockwork doll nearby, about 1ft in length. It looks like it 
has been damaged or thrown — the arm is detached and there are 
a few pieces of damaged clockwork around where it lay. 


There was tea in the teapot. It was warm. 
The conclusion is starting to seem undeniable that, somehow, the 


interior of 915 has been subverted by either a group or individual 
unaffiliated with the Foundation. 


"You'd rather go in?" The technician — Sandy — said. 


"Yeah, | would," Priss jumped slightly as the slouching corpse 
abruptly keeled over, head smashing wetly into the floor, "These 
kind of prisoners have nothing to gain and nothing to lose. Nothing 
stops them from lying their way to freedom." 


"Getting caught does," Edgars retorted. He abruptly jerked, "Easy, 
baby," He patted the Anabasis, and began to fan some of the 
anomalously cool air towards its heated surface. 


"You just reminded me," Priss butted in, "Whatever became of the 
reports? The hallucinations?" 


Sandy shrugged, "Probably something brought in by Ana. We 
quarantined the school and flushed it for any airborne pathogens or 
something. Haven't had any recurrences since." 


"Is that what they said?" Priss mused. The measures the Foundation 
took to prevent just that sort of thing made that statement suspect. 
The fact that both Sharpe and her had seen and touched the same 
thing also made the idea of it being a pathogen or a hallucinogen 
suspect, "Where's the full report?" 


"Not done yet. Marlowe's more focused on her." 


Priss turned, and found her gaze drawn immediately to the 
Anabasis. It hadn't moved, hadn't changed in any way. It was an 
inanimate object, and only reached up to her knees. Yet it had 
drawn her attention first. She suddenly realized everyone had been 
referring to the device as if it were a living being. 


"It's not alive, you know," She glared at Sandy in particular. 


Edgars gave her a queer look, "Yeah, we know. Were you having 
doubts?" 


"You keep calling it 'she' and 'her' and 'baby’..." 


Edgars shrugged, "Like ship captains call their boats? Like guys call 
their cars? So what?" 


She turned and left. 


For the first time in a month, Priscilla Locke came home to a normal, 
tidy house, her sister fully dressed and not drunk or entertaining 
strangers and gossiping behind her back. For once, she was 
actually cleaning, and had on her prosthetic teeth. 


"Hey, Prissy... How're the hormones treating you?" 
She couldn't hope for too much change in her all at once. 
"You know that's not funny, nor an appropriate greeting at all." 


Rhiannon shrugged, "Just making sure you remember who you are. 
Who you were. Everything. I'm talking to people, like you wanted." 


"Therapy?" Priss was hopeful, though this wouldn't be the first time 
Rhie had decided that ‘getting help’ meant using other people's 
money to buy 'them' liquor. 


"Group sessions. We talk. It helps," Rhiannon looked like she was 
telling the truth. She even kept eye contact longer than Priss, "| was 
just waiting for you to come back home. I'll be out late. You can look 
after yourself?" 


Priss nodded, unslinging her bag onto the table, watching as 
Rhiannon went out the door without a snarky word or an odd smirk 
over her shoulder. 


Before the Second World War, the building had been a Jewish 
Temple. That was until the "Hep Scare" when the flood of anti- 
Semitic migrants from northern states to South Florida just so 
happened to coincide with the elections that brought in a West-Civ 
majority in the state senate. Then it became a charity, with much of 
its former owners still holding the deed to the location. Then it was 
abandoned during the riots of 1970. Then it was briefly used as a 
detention center for protestors just ten years before. Then it was 
abandoned again. 


The lights were on at night. Nobody stopped people from coming