"Here. My research notes. An old man's rambles. Make the most of 
them, Miss Kiryu. And... thank you for listening." 


Bit by bit, department by department, the pieces of the puzzle were 
mapped out, assembled, and put together. 


When Zyn held her first complete, whole, unblemished magnum 
opus, a Painted Lady butterfly shimmering with wavelengths of light 
arranged to the patterns of reality bender cortical columns and 
infused with her own cells, her own DNA... as she watched the 
luminescent wings open and close as the butterfly regarded her 
serenely, faces and names passing through her mind as she 
remembered the collaboration that had brought her to this point... 
she felt worthwhile. Meaningful. 


Ready. 
“Hello,” she said. 


The butterfly tilted its antennae and slowly, steadily, brought its front 
legs together: with each contact tap, a syllable of sound. 


"Hello. Zyn." 


Incident Zero - Part 1 


The call, like many of the worst things in life, came at 1 in the 
morning. 


Adrian groaned and rolled over in bed, reluctantly separating himself 
from Beats's warmth and softness and scent. One hand fumbled on 
the nightstand for the cell phone, nearly knocking a half-drunk glass 
of water over a dog-eared John Grisham novel. He flipped the 
phone open, silencing the harsh electronic tones, and put the device 
up to his ear. "Andrews," he said groggily. "Talk to me." 


There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry, Adrian," a 
soft, calm voice said. "| must have a wrong number. This is Neil 
Ghost. I'm looking for Maddox." 


"What?" Adrian took a closer look at the phone he was holding. 
Damn, he really had grabbed Beats' phone by accident. "No, no, you 
got the right number," he said. "I'll put Beatrix on the line." 


He hit the mute button, rolled back over in bed and shook his 
sleeping lover's shoulder. "Beats," he whispered. 


"Go 'way," Beats grumbled, pulling the sheets over her head. 
"Can't. It's Ghost." 


"Neil? What the hell does he want?" Beats wondered, her voice 
muffled by the blankets. 


"Don't know, don't care." Andrews shoved the phone into her hand. 
"I'm going to the bathroom. Let me know if it's something important." 


Beats let out a low groan. "Maddox," she said. "... no, Neil, | don't 
want to answer why Andrews has my phone at one in the morning, 
it's none of your business..." 


Adrian yawned and climbed out of bed. He stumbled into the 


bathroom and took a moment to relieve himself, morosely staring at 
himself in the three-quarters length mirror located behind the toilet. 
Whoever had placed that mirror there hadn't really considered the 
effect it might have on a standing male urinating... 


... not that he had anything to be ashamed of, for sure, but still, it 
was enough to make a man feel self-conscious. 


He kept his eyes locked on his face instead: the face of a thirty- 
something psychology nerd with a crash course in lethal combat 
under his belt. The eyes of a man who'd seen horror and survived it. 
The body of a pasty soft ivory-tower intellectual dragooned into 
becoming a soldier. 


His eyes. His face. His body. 


He finished up, flushed, and washed his hands in the sink, flicking 
his hands dry in the direction of the mirror so that the drops of water 
distorted his reflection. 


"Wish you wouldn't do that," Beats said. "Causes water spots." She 
stood in the bathroom doorway, her expression troubled. 


"Sorry," Adrian said. "What's up?" 


"It's Neil," Beats said, gesturing to her phone. "He wants to talk with 
both of us." 


Adrian frowned. He tapped his right forearm with the heel of his left 
hand. Enemy? 


She shook her head and gave him an open-palm wave. Don't 
Understand. "Hang on," she said out loud. "I'll put you on speaker." 
She tapped a button on the phone and put it down on the bathroom 
counter. 


"Ah, all right," Neil's voice said. "Can you hear me now?" 
"Yeah, we hear you," Adrian said. "What's up?" 


Adrian heard Neil sigh on the other end of the line. "We have a 
problem," Ghost said... 


it across Gonzalo’s stomach, spilling his intestines across the 
stage. 


1:44:04 — Alinda takes the dagger from Antonio. She speaks: 
“With this, fool’s blood, it is the Hanged King’s.” She cuts 
Antonio’s throat. 


1:45:31 — Ropes drop from the roof of the stage, a noose for 
each cast member. The cast assembles underneath them. 
Alinda takes position next to SCP-701-1. 


1:46:12 — Alinda: “With this, our blood, it is the Hanged 
King’s.” The cast hang themselves. 


1:47:33 — SCP-701-1 moves through the hanging corpses and 
to front-center stage. 


1:47:41 — The stage lights cut out. 


1:47:46 — Sounds of screaming and physical violence around 
the camera. 


1:48:22 — Loud sound, most likely the camera being knocked 
over. 


1:49:01 — The camera is destroyed. Tape ends. 


The low drone of the vacuum cleaner was the only sound other than 
the automated announcements over the airport intercom. She was 
glad of that: she'd chosen this airport specifically because it was the 
smallest one in the city - mostly commuter flights and private planes. 
If all went well, it wouldn't matter, but if things went wrong, that fact 
might buy her a few precious extra minutes. 


Her boarding pass was in her jacket pocket, and her suitcase was 
resting by her seat. She had a silver pistol case that didn't hold a 
pistol as her other carry-on. The clock said it was twenty minutes 
until boarding, just like it had the last four times she'd looked. 


She fought the urge to stand up and walk around. Drawing any kind 
of attention to herself would be bad. Though her heart was 
pounding, though her palms were sweating, she stayed seated in 
that ratty-ass chair, head bowed, trying to look to the world like an 
exhausted vacationer heading home after a long trip overseas: tired 
of the world, tired of adventure, looking just for a chance to go home 
and sleep in her own bed and... 


.. and... 


Footsteps. The distinctive tromp of heavy-duty boot soles against 
linoleum. She stole a glance down the hallway out of the corner of 
her eye and her heart sank. 


There was a man and woman walking towards her. 


All of her escape plans died then. No point in trying to run now, 
she'd just die tired. 


She hugged herself tightly as the footsteps got closer and closer. 
They stopped in front of her: two pairs of heavy black combat boots, 
one pair men's size twelve, the other a women's size nine. 


She looked up. Adrian Andrews's face was gaunt, and his 
bespectacled brown eyes had a permanent thousand-yard stare. 
That was normal for him. Wearing sweat pants and a flannel pajama 
top wasn't. Adrian usually liked to dress like the academic he once 
was, all button-down shirts and grey blazers and threadbare slacks. 


He still carried himself like one, though: hands stuffed in his pockets 
in a boneless slouch, not the ramrod-straight discipline of the trained 
soldier. 


"Hi," she whispered. 


"Hi, Iris," Adrian said, smiling weakly. "You know why we're here, 
right?" 


Iris Thompson, Age 15, (also known as SCP-105), curled up into a 
ball and began to tremble. "Yeah," she whispered, her throat dry and 
harsh. "You're here to bring me back." 


"Yeah," Adrian said. "We are." 


Iris swallowed hard. Her throat was dry. Her heart was pounding. 
"Doc... Doctor Dantensen," she whimpered, her voice taking a 
whining edge out of desperation. "You read his report, right? M-my 
p-powers are gone. | c-can't... | can't do what | used to any more..." 
She took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm not... not an SC—" 


"Iris," Beatrix interrupted. "Cut the crap. We know Dantensen 
falsified his data. Neil's doing an audit right now. By morning, O5's 
will finish their voting and your release order is going to be 
countermanded..." 


"And what if you're wrong?!" Iris snapped. "What if Dantensen's 
right, and | really don't have any powers any more? What are you 
going to do, lock me up again until | die?" 


Her voice echoed through the empty airport lounge... suspiciously 
empty, in fact. She glanced around quickly. The entire place was 
empty. No more janitor vacuuming the carpet. No more tired old lady 
manning the solitary ticket booth. 


The only ones in the room now were Beatrix, Adrian, and herself. 


"Iris," Beatrix said. "Listen to me." She dropped to one knee in front 
of the younger girl. "| know life on-site is hard..." 


"It's fucking torture," Iris said. 


"Language..." Adrian interjected. 
"Would you both just shut up and let me talk?" Beatrix snapped. 
"| don't want to talk,” Iris retorted. "| want to go home." 


There was a soft chime over the intercom system. Through the wide 
glass windows, a small commuter plane could be seen approaching 
the gate. 


"And that's my ride." Iris picked up her suitcase and camera. 
"Goodbye." 


Beatrix looked up at Adrian, then over at the approaching plane. She 
made a small gesture with her hands that Adrian replied to with a 
shake of his head and a gesture of his own. She didn't seem to like 
that, because she stood up and walked a few steps away, staring 
out the window at the airport tarmac. 


"All right," Adrian said calmly. "We tried to do this Beatrix's way. 
Now we do it my way." 


He threw a Polaroid into lris' lap. It showed the interior mechanism 
of a small-caliber pistol. 


Iris looked up, horrified. 


Adrian pulled a pistol from his pocket and put it to his temple. "I'm 
going to count to three," he said, "and then I'm going to shoot myself 
in the head. You can stop me if you use your powers." 


Iris laughed nervously. "Adrian, stop. This isn't funny.” 


"I'm not joking, Iris. If Beats and | go home without you, we're as 
good as dead. May as well get a head start. One." 


"Adrian, please!" Iris begged. She got to her feet. "Don't make me 
do this..." 


"You don't want to go back? Fine. But if you really want to go home 
that badly, you do it with my blood on your conscience. Two." 


"ADRIAN" Iris screamed. "STOP!" 
"Three." 
There was a hollow click. 


Iris dropped to her knees, holding the photograph in one hand. The 
firing pin of Adrian's pistol fell from her other hand and clattered to 
the floor with a glasslike clink. 


Beatrix was there almost immediately. She grabbed Iris around the 
shoulders and held her close as the tears rose and she began to 
sob. 


Adrian quietly put his plastic pistol back in his pocket and walked 
away. His hands shook so badly that he could barely open his 
phone up and dial a number that didn't exist in any phone book in 
the world. 


"Ghost here," the voice on the other end said. "Report." 


"Adrian Andrews, Mobile Task Force Omega-7," Adrian said. "Agent 
Maddox and | have just captured a confirmed humanoid anomaly. 
Reopen file SCP-105 and disregard prior data suggesting loss of 
anomalous abilities." 


"Understood, Agent," Ghost said. "We will prepare a containment 
cell for your return." A pause. "Was there anything else?" 


"Was there any—" Adrian breathed deeply, biting back the curse on 
his lips. "Neil? Tell the O5s if they ever ask us to do something like 
that again, Beatrix and | will both tender our resignations. That was 
the worst fucking thing I've ever had to do, and that includes 
vivisecting live cats." 


"Adrian, you know I'm doing the best | can. This latest incident 
doesn't help." 


"Neil, Dantensen did what he did because he's not inhuman enough 
to treat a bunch of teenage kids like zoo animals! You steal people 
away from their families, lock them up in cells, and treat them like—" 


"Look... Adrian. | understand. Believe me, | do. But we can't talk 
about this on an unsecure line. Get back to Site-17 ASAP, and we'll 
figure out what to do then." Another pause. "I'll do what | can with 
the O5s, but if Iris doesn't come back to us, I'll have no leverage at 
all. Do you have transport?" 


"Ol' Fritz said he'd have a heli waiting for us at the pad. We'll fly in to 
the nearest site and wait there for further instructions." 


"Do that," Ghost said. There was a long pause. "Look, for what it's 
worth, Adrian, | think we have a solid chance of at least letting the 
less dangerous humanoid anomalies socialize a bit more often. We 
can use this incident as a demonstration of how isolation isn't 
helping their emotional states..." 


"Save it for when we meet in person. I'm technically still on leave. 
Andrews out." 


No one noticed the unmarked black helicopter at the helipad, or the 
three passengers walking across the tarmac. That was as it should 
be. 


Adrian carried her bags as Beatrix helped Iris up into the helicopter. 
The teenager's movements were listless. Sullen. Not surprising. 


"Where to?" the pilot asked, as Adrian climbed in after the two 
women. 


"| don't give a shit," Adrian said. "Just get us to the closest 
Foundation site as fast as you can." 


"Yellowstone, then," the pilot said. "Be a couple of hours." 
"Whatever. If you need me, I'll be in the back." 


Adrian left the cockpit and took his seat in the helicopter's cargo 
area. Iris was curled up in her seat, hugging her knees. She gave 
him an angry glare as the rotors silently soun up. 


"She hates your guts, you know." Beats sat down next to Adrian as 
the vehicle lifted off. 


"So long as she's alive, she can hate all my guts, from my pancreas 
all the way to my colon." 


"Aren't you going to talk to her?" 
"Won't do any good. She hates me. You talk to her." 


"Why do | have to be the one who counsels the angry rebellious 
teenage girl?" Beatrix grumbled. "You're the trained psychologist." 


"Yeah, but you're the woman. Aren't women supposed to be, like, 
you know, naturally nurturing and shit?" 


Beats punched him in the arm, hard. "Ass. Just for that, I'm making 
you do all the paperwork on this one." She walked to the other side 
of the cabin to sit next to Iris, who pulled away and pressed up 
against the cabin's window. 


Adrian sighed and pulled a small red notebook from his pocket. He 
uncapped his pen and began to write. 


Retrieval Mission a success. I'm listing it as, "Recovered 
under pain of death from SCP-173." That'll sound good 
on the report... 


"Agent Andrews?" 


Adrian awoke from his nap, bleary-eyed and sore from sleeping 
sitting up and buckled into his seat. "Andrews," he said into the 
intercom. "Go." 


"You asked me to let you know when we're ten minutes out so you 
could call Yellowstone Station. Well... we're ten minutes out." 


"Yeah, sure," Adrian said. "Wait one, I'll come up to the cockpit." 


He unbuckled his harness and made his way to the front of the 
helicopter. "You got an extra headset?" 


"Sure," the pilot said. "Crew chief's position, over there." 


"Thanks," Adrian said, picking up the headset and slipping it on over 
his head. "Patch me in to the site." 


"Which site?" the pilot asked. 


"To Site..." Adrian's brow furrowed. "I can't... | can't remember. 
Where are we headed, pilot?" 


"|... I'm not entirely sure, sir," the pilot said, frowning. "I could have 
sworn..." 


Adrian looked out the front window. His eyes widened. "PULL UP!" 
he screamed. 


Ahead of them, a snow-covered mountain flickered like a poor- 
quality VHS tape and exploded. 


Incident Zero 
« Part 1 | Part 2| Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 » 


Incident Zero - Part 2 


"Adrian? Adrian!?" 


Adrian Andrews's eyes shot open. Beatrix was leaning over him, a 
worried expression on her face. His jaw hurt and his teeth tasted like 
pennies. He sat up slowly, groaning as the world spun around him, 
the low vibration of the helicopter's rotors setting a counterpoint to 
his throbbing headache. "What happened?" 


"We hit turbulence," Beats said. "You hit your head. | think you're 
fine, but | want you to lay still for a moment." 


"No. What happened?’ Adrian repeated.