The airport bar was crowded, full of weary passengers stopping in to 
have a bite to eat and a few drinks before allowing themselves to be 
carted off in the big Airbuses and Boeings. Strelnikov and Clef 
strolled in quietly and took the only two empty seats at the long bar, 
nodding curtly to the bartender and those next to them before 
settling in for the two hour wait. Their attire was ostentatious and 
drew odd looks from the other patrons: Strelnikov in his olive drab 
dress uniform with peaked cap, and Clef in a Hawaiian shirt with 
obscene portrayals of people engaging in coitus printed in 
flamboyant colors. 


Their chosen drinks said much about their character. The bartender, 
hair in a muss from a long day, pointed at Clef and made eye 
contact, silently inquiring. 


“Bombay Sapphire Martini, stirred, not shaken, two ice cubes only, 
6:1 gin and vermouth, two olives, one onion, and if you bruise the 
vermouth god help you,” Clef responded dryly, as if the bartender 
should have already known. The bartender’s expression went blank 


for a moment, before he nodded slowly and turned to Strelnikov. 
“And you, sir?” 


“Vodka.” 

“What with?” 

Strelnikov gave him the dirtiest of looks. “...Ice.” 
“Any preferred brand?” 


Dmitri’s stare hardened and he clenched his fists on the bar. “Vodka. 
With ice.” 


The alcohol was forthcoming and it both lightened their mood and 
loosened their tongues accordingly as they imbibed. As the first 
rounds went through them, they developed a lively and appropriate 
discussion. 


“You see, Dmitri, a good drink is smooth—you have just a small sip 
and the flavor and aromas combine and are enough to take your 
breath away. It’s like the touch of a beautiful woman, something 
exquisite and rare, something you hold in your hand and show 
people so they can see what a classy son of a bitch you are.” 


“Drink? Drink is not status or class symbol, Doktor Clef. Drink is a 
drink. You drink it. And you get drunk. And then you are drink more, 
until you have drink so much that is make you sober again. 


“...1 don’t believe you’ve understood.” 


Their spirited debate continued, beginning to draw the attention of 
the other customers. Slowly their heads and chairs swiveled to lock 
on the two oddly dressed gentlemen as they argued and jabbed at 
one another’s tastes. As their collection of empty vodka and martini 
glasses grew and grew, the argument mellowed and became a 
happy, family oriented story telling extravaganza. 


“| wanted to see his face when | killed him, Dmitri. That’s why | had 
the snipers hold their fire. See, | came in behind him like this,” 
accompanied with gesticulation of the hands, “and swiped him 
across the face with my pistol. Then he stabbed me and some 


things happened, and blah blah blah, | ended up in a hospital for a 
few weeks. Good times.” 


Strelnikov nodded approvingly. “In Chechnya, our supplies always 
run low. So | was force to hold my fire many time and resort to use 
of bayonet.” He waggled a finger and pointed at Clef, “Many 
Chechens get it in the face and neck, Doktor Clef. Many. Much 
blood.” 


“Ever drive over thirty people in a tank?” 


“Does armored personnel carrier count? What about unarm combat, 
you snap necks?” 


“The spine is usually easier for me, Dmitri. A lot of people prefer the 
traditional twisting-head neck snapping action but | usually stick with 
grabbing them by the hair and shoving a boot into the small of their 
back as hard as | can. It’s a personal preference really.” Strelnikov 
couldn't argue with that. 


“Once, on night mission, we find rebel camp in bombed warehouse. 
| send two team, yes?” He holds up two fingers. “Two team, into 
each entrance, and | climb through window alone, with just knife and 
pistol. They were sleep, guards sleep, everyone was sleep. We 
come in and slit all of their throats in the night and leave them for 
crows.” He coughs. “Later that night | find out there had been a 
mutual cease fire called,” he concludes with a shrug. 


“Oh, man, | know. Once, | was trying an experimental chainsaw that 
we thought was a possible item for containment. There ended up 
being a D-Class riot and, well, | was on hand with the chainsaw and 
one thing led to another. Next thing | know, I’m standing on a pile of 
D-Class bodies holding the saw over my head and screaming in 
bloodlust, then someone comes in and tells me it was just the 
annual costume party and half of my research staff is now dead.” A 
shrug. “Turns out the saw was just a normal saw, too.” Strelnikov 
nodded sadly, feeling Clef's disappointment, pausing for a moment 
and then saying quietly: 


“| was just kid about cease fire, Doktor Clef.” 


“...Oh. | wasn’t. It really was a costume party.” 


Dmitri sighed and turned back to the bar and asked for another 
drink, except nobody answered. He craned his head over the bar 
and found the bartender, pale as a ghost, trembling on the floor with 
a phone in his hand, poised to dial. Strelnikov shrugged and plucked 
the bottle himself, pouring a glass and turning back to face Clef. He 
took a quick look behind him. 


The bar was completely empty. 


"Considering who we work for, you'd think they could afford to give 
us better seats than coach," Clef griped. "Seriously. Charging us five 
bucks for a dry ham sandwich and a half can of soda. This is 
highway robbery." 


"Is better than Aeroflot in 1980s," Dimitri pointed out. "Food 
recognizable. Cabin actually pressurized. Stewardesses smile at 
you instead of scream." He raised an eyebrow at the attractive 
young lady coming down the aisle with the beverage cart. "And are 
much prettier. Aeroflot stewardesses all fat old bitches with horse 
face." 


"| dunno, a boiled beet and some horse-leather meat might actually 
be a step up from this... thing. What the hell are these little green 
flecks, anyway?" Clef muttered, poking the sandwich with his finger. 
"Lizard bits?" 


"Maybe is sperm from 682. Big lizard wet his beak in your sandwich, 
no?" Strelnikov quipped, making a "jerking off" motion with his left 
hand. 


"| wish, it would improve the taste... excuse me, miss? Miss?" Clef 
said, reaching across Dimitri from his window seat to tap the 
stewardess on the elbow. "I'm sorry, miss, but you seem to have 
messed up my order. | ordered a ham and cheese sandwich, not a 
pus and plastic one. From the taste of this, it seems that you've 
confused the two." 


"| see, sir," the stewardess sighed. "I'm sorry you don't like the taste 


of your sandwich. If you'd like a refund..." 


"| don't want a goddamn refund, | want an edible sandwich," Clef 
interrupted. "Now, I'm sure that somewhere in that cart under the 
piles of dried-out human ejaculate and styrofoam sponge, you've got 
something edible, so how about bending that pretty ass over and 
looking a little harder, sweet cheeks?" 


"Ahhhh," the stewardess said. She turned to Dr. Clef and grinned, a 
wide, mirthless smile showing too many teeth. "So, | see, what 
you're really trying to say is that you're the asshole here!" 


She leaned across Dimitri, her voice low and stern, but carrying 
through the suddenly silent cavern, as she addressed the bemused 
Clef. "Listen up, bucko. | don't make the damn food, | just serve it. If 
you've got a problem, you can write a goddamn letter to the people 
who do. But wait until we get on the ground. Until then, it's another 
six hours to Sao Paulo, and I'll be damned if | have to spend it 
listening to you bitch the whole way. So either shut up and eat your 
sandwich or stop complaining about it, or I'll duct tape your mouth 
shut and tape you to the chair." She stood up straight. "And my 
name's not sweet cheeks, asshole. It's Lucy." 


There was a moment of stunned silence, broken by a smattering of 
applause, then the stewardess continued down the aisle, serving 
sodas and coffees to the other, appreciative passengers. Clef 
leaned back and smiled. "I like her," he admitted. "Girl's got spirit." 


"That's nice," Dimitri sighed. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up 
slowly. 


"Where are you going?" Clef asked. "The in-flight movie's about to 
start." 


"To take a shit... and pretend | don't know you,” Dimitri said. 


Clef shrugged and leaned his chair back as far as he could, ignoring 
the angry stare from the fat lady in the seat behind him. He was just 
drifting to sleep when a loud scuffling sound and scream drew his 
attention. 


"DO NOT MOVE!" screamed the bearded man, who held a knife to 
the throat of Lucy the flight attendant. There were two other men, 
holding similar weapons: one held a hand grenade, pin out, over his 
head. All three were wearing kaffiyehs and camouflage t-shirts. 
"This plane now belongs to the Holy Army of the Chechen 
Independent Republic!" 


"Allahu Akbar!" screamed one of the other men. "God is great! Long 
Live Chechnya!" 


"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me," Clef winced. 


The jostling of the aircraft in the turbulent skies made it difficult for 
Strelnikov to piss. It always struck him as odd; he’d have no qualms 
about jumping out of an airplane into a combat zone, but something 
as simple as taking a leak inside of one gave him hell. The 
complexities and nuances of the human psyche escaped him at the 
time, and he chided himself for “being a pansy.” 


He finally got control of himself and was about to go when the door 
was rudely kicked open and someone grabbed him by the shoulder, 
dragging him into the aisle. He quickly buttoned himself and 
stumbled along, too surprised to offer effective resistance. The 
Chechen took a good look at his uniform and noticed the Russian 
crest on his hat—with a quick decision he began dragging him to the 
front of the aircraft. 


“Caught with your pants down, Dmitri?” Clef muttered as they 
dragged Strelnikov between the rows of seats, the irony of his 
witticism wasted. Thinking quickly, he threw his foot out into the aisle 
just in time to catch the Chechen’s ankle, sending him face first into 
the carpet and taking Dmitri down with him. The two others 
immediately rushed forward to try and subdue Clef, one still holding 
the hand grenade over his head and shouting angrily in a Chechen- 
Russian dialect. 


Strelnikov immediately recognized it. 


They were Chechens. 


Force was reported to investigate. Upon their arrival, [DATA 
REDACTED]. Subsequently, Dr. | suggested that [DATA 
REDACTED}, leading to SCP-818's capture. 


Addendum SCP-818-T 


During the last years, the containment procedures for SCPs with 
similar effects have drastically improved, due in part to the efforts of 
SCP-818's containment staff. However, due to an increasingly 
erratic and dangerous lack of absolute adherence to the established 
control script and the increasing presence of more dangerous and 
deadly effects, we have no other choice but to authorize the 
termination of SCP-818. [SEE ADDENDUM: SCP-818-00T, 
Neutralization] 


Experiment Log 818-1: 


Test subjects entering SCP-818's radius of effect during active 
hours reported highly distorted vision, auditory and sensory 
hallucinations, inability to control their motion, and a tendency to 
repeat actions. After removal of subject, these effects seemed to 
have lessened, but repeated exposures seem to extend the 
duration. Presumably, continual exposure would result in the 
permanence of these symptoms. The nature and severity of 
symptoms seems to relate directly to what part of SCP-818's 
scripted program was being enacted. 


For the purposes of this testing, subjects were chosen for a 
resemblance to people in photographs recovered from SCP-818's 
home in 19 . Aslight family resemblance with the passive phase 
appearance of SCP-818 was inferred from the photographs, and 
three Class D personnel (D-1922, D-921, and D-837) were selected. 


On 17,19 , testing was scheduled to determine how SCP-818 
would react to certain events, specifically those which have shown 
flexibility in the past, being manipulated. After the failures of D-1922 
and D-921 to elicit positive reactions, D-837 entered the enclosure. 
The highlights of this testing are listed below. 


Date: 18,19 
Subject: Coloring 


They were on the plane. His plane. 
There were Chechens on his plane. Three of them. 


“... That is three too many,” he said out loud. Clef gave him an odd 
look as he immediately began biting the tripped man’s nose, drawing 
a short knife from the inside of a jackboot and proceeding to punch 
the man in the kidneys. With the knife. 


Clef wasted no time and nearly leapt over the heads of the terrified 
passengers in front of him, lunging for the approaching men. He 
connected with the one carrying the knife, Knocking him to the floor 
also. Clef hauled back and slammed the palm of his hand into the 
man’s face, quickly shattering the bridge of the man’s nose. The 
man winced and staggered back, clutching his heavily bleeding 
nose, as Clef casually disarmed him with a complicated aikido wrist 
lock. He then drove the knife into the man's heart as Strelnikov 
finished rendering his man into a bloody, dying mess. 


There was only one left, still holding the hand grenade and 
seemingly unsure of what to do now that their plan had completely 
deteriorated. "Don't move!" he screamed. "| have a bomb!" 


Simultaneously, Clef and Dmitri rotated their heads upward, rising 
from the bloodied corpses like something out of a cheap horror flick, 
except instead of a dramatic musical score, there was only the 
wailing of the outboard turbofans as the pilot increased throttle. "| 
don't care," Clef said. 


Dmitri just smiled. Steel teeth gleamed. 


The terrorist's eyes darted nervously between the two men, and he 
took a frightened step backward. 


It would be his last. Lucy’s foot caught the man in the back of the 
knee and sent him stumbling forward, right into Strelnikov’s knife. 
Clef deftly snatched the grenade from the man’s hand, paying 
careful attention to make sure he kept pressure on the spoon. 
Dmitri’s bloodied steel teeth glistened underneath the cabin lighting, 
offering the man a most disquieting last sight of this earth. 


He withdrew the knife as violently as he had inserted it, a spray of 
blood splashing across the passengers nearest him, letting the body 
collapse supine on the floor. The occupants of the cabin stared in 
shock and awe at the brief, bloody conflict, offering no applause as 
Clef took his seat, grenade in hand. Strelnikov walked past, heading 
aft. 


“| have to make piss.” 


"We have a problem,” Clef said, when Dimitri came out of the 
restroom, buttoning up his pants. Compared to the Russian, who 
was a bloody, gory mess, the stuck-up prick had somehow managed 
to avoid getting any blood on him at all, despite the violence of the 
past few minutes. 


"No problem. Chechens dead now," Strelnikov pointed out. 


"That's the problem. Three dead terrorists on an airplane, a plane 
full of grateful passengers, media, heroism, a parade, our faces in 
the paper? Do you see where I'm going with this?" Clef pointed out. 


Strelnikov considered the implications of the Director's words. 
"Inconvenient," he murmured. "Doktor Glass will lecture us muchly 
about definition of 'relaxation’ and ‘low profile." 


"To say the least. Wait here. Then follow my lead when you have a 
moment." 


The gangly, big-nosed doctor took a deep breath, then squared his 
shoulders and walked back down the aisle, to where the rather 
shaken young stewardess was sitting in the front of the plane, 
nursing a cup of coffee. Strelnikov couldn't hear what he said over 
the sound of the plane engines, but he could see the way that their 
body language changed. 


Clef said something while standing back near the front row. 
Lucy said something back, still holding the coffee cup in both hands. 


Clef said something else, leaning forward just a bit. He smiled.