Yeah, right. What is it? 

I'm going to die, Mark. 

What? What the fuck are you talking about? 

I'm on the bridge right now. | just thought you should know. 
Are you fucking serious right now? 


The code to my safe is 5515. There should be a note, a key to 


of each vision remains constant. Subjects relive the experience of a 
French infantryman being stabbed repeatedly through the abdomen 
by the bayonet of a German soldier, followed by approximately 
seven hours lying in the bottom of the trench before expiring from 
blood loss and trauma to various internal organs. Upon death in the 
vision, the subject will awaken. To an outside observer, the entire 
experience lasts only forty to sixty seconds. 


SCP-809 has been confirmed to induce severe post-traumatic stress 
disorder in 80% of subjects upon the first use, 95% of subjects upon 
a second use, and 100% of subjects after three or more uses. Data 
collection is ongoing, but preliminary results consistently indicate 
permanent insanity after five to seven uses. 


Class-A amnestics are available upon request to personnel with 
Level 1 security clearance or higher who have been volunteered for 
testing. 


Addendum: Those with Level 2 Security Clearance should see 
document #809-a 


Document #809-a: 


As of / /20 , ownership of primary access privileges to SCP-809 
has been given to Agent for use in interrogation of suspected 
GOC and ORIA agents. Repeated application of SCP-809 has 
proven to be both more cost-effective and less likely to result in 
accidental death than traditional methods of enhanced interrogation. 


« SCP-808 | SCP-809 | SCP-810 » 


my safety deposit box, and a few thousand dollars inside. 


Hold up, man. Hold up. I'm getting in the car right now. Just stay on 
the phone, okay? 


| need you to make sure Lisa gets the money and the note. | 
didn't have time to write up anything official, so I'm just asking 
you to do me a favor as my friend. 


Nothing's happening to you. I'm in the car. Where are you? 
You're not going to get here in time, Mark. 


Listen. Listen to me, Tony. You need to calm down. | know a lot of 
shit is going on with you right now, but just calm down and listen to 
me. 


This isn't a debate. 


For fuck's sake, Tony. Don't do this. I'm begging you, man. | am 
begging you. 


I'm sorry, Mark. Goodbye. 
Tony? Tony, you still there? 


Tony? 


In the desolate parking lot of a McDonald's at 3:00 AM, Jason once 
again flicked his lighter and began puffing from the fourth cigarette 
of the night. Unlike before, he was acutely aware of the pain in his 
lungs, searing through his chest like a raging wildfire. He coughed 
sporadically, phlegm rocketing from his mouth and exploding in a 
splash of gray and red on the pavement, as a blue pickup truck 
made the turn into the lot and shut its headlights off. 


"This him?" The boy, barely fighting off the tantalizing beckon of 
sleep, lifted himself out of the back of the patrol car. Crumbs from a 
burger rolled off his uniform and onto the passenger's side mat. 
Jason rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck before beginning 
his steady march towards the truck, watching as a tall figure ina 


hoodie fell from the driver's seat. 


"Let's be brief. | don't have a lot of time before they trace me." The 
figure, a man in his 40's by Jason's estimates, quickly approached 
the detective and held out a yellow envelope stained with coffee. "As 
promised, the note. I'll take my payment now." 


"Hang on, just hang on." Jason moved his right hand to the top of 
the envelope and began to lift the flap up when a hand stopped him. 


"Not part of the deal, man." The figure was clearly agitated, 
seemingly in fear of something nobody could see. "Look, | can just 
take it back and leave, if that's what you want." 


"Just relax." The detective turned to his colleague, folder still in 
hand. "Get the briefcase out of the trunk, please. And for god's sake, 
clean yourself up." 


After ensuring his uniform was clean of food, the boy shimmied to 
the trunk of the patrol car and lifted it open, his fingers wrapping 
around the handle of a brown leather briefcase. Jason watched as 
droplets of sweat streamed down from his hairline, coating the 
handle in a slick, clear film, and shifted his weight to face away from 
the hooded man in a subtle display of trust. Jason's eyes met the 
boy's and flashed an expression of reassurance and calm, though it 
seemed to be in vain, his face twitching subtly and his right hand 
rapping against the side of his leg. By the time it occurred to Jason 
that the man was seconds away from fleeing in an anxiety induced 
panic, he felt warm leather touch the tips of his fingers. 


"$200,000. Untraceable, as promised." He opened the briefcase for 
the man and watched as the moon lit several stacks of flawless 
green cash. The man craned his neck to look inside before closing it 
and abruptly leaving, quickly walking to his truck. Jason gritted his 
teeth and inhaled sharply. 


"One more thing." 
The figure stopped, snapping his head to the right. 


"| don't know who you are, and frankly, I'd like to keep it that way. 


You got the note as you promised, and as far as | can tell, nobody 
knows about it. But you should know | work for people that don't 
take kindly to leaks. If | find out anyone besides the three of us 
knows about what happened here tonight, well...frankly, there will 
be consequences." He paused. "Might not be tomorrow, might not 
be for a while. But it will happen, and that | can guarantee you." 


The figure remained motionless for several moments before 
marching to the driver's side of the pickup truck. He stepped inside 
and fumbled for his keys before roaring the engine to life and driving 
out of the parking lot into the New Mexico fog. With a certain grace, 
the detective dropped the briefcase and removed a silenced pistol 
from his belt, firing three rounds into the windshield in an explosion 
of glass and crimson. Jason heard the labored breathing of the boy 
behind him. 


"What the fuck, man?!" His voice shook, the anxiety palpable. "The 
hell is going on?! We could be fired! We could be arrested, man! For 
fuck's sake!" 


Jason said nothing, keenly aware of the boy's eyes darting back and 
forth across the envelope as he opened it and removed a single 
sheet of paper. He held it up next to his face and stared intently at it. 


"From the second | saw Antonio's body, none of this made sense." 
He grinned. "Couldn't be sure it was them. Even if it was, this isn't 
their MO. And then, it clicked for me." 


His gaze once again fell to the boy. 


"Get the fuck out of here, and never tell anyone about this. Only 
gonna warn you once." 


The two men left the parking lot moments later, and the boy never 
saw Detective Jason Fritz ever again. 


The beaming young waitress approached Jason's table with an 
endearing grin, setting down a plate of eggs and bacon as she 
looked to the unusually content detective with slight confusion. He 
had been tracking her movements like a wolf ever since she had 


come barreling out of the kitchen, not once directing his gaze 
anywhere but her eyes. She removed several napkins from her 
apron pocket before snapping her head towards the man across 
from Jason, still maintaining a forced smile. 


"Would you like anything else, sir?" 


The man stroked his ash gray beard and flashed a smirk. "I think 
we're okay for now. Thank you." 


She began walking away, but he abruptly raised his hand to stop 
her. 


"What did you say your name was, sweetheart?" 
Her discomfort was now obvious. "Uh...Jessica. Jessica, sir." 


"Right. Jessica." The man clicked his tongue and lifted his glass of 
orange juice off the tablecloth. "My associate and | would like to 
send our compliments to whoever prepared this juice. It's quite 
delicious." 


She chuckled. "It's just store bought orange juice, sir. We don't make 
it." 


"My mistake. Must be jet lag." The three shifted around in awkward 
silence before he spoke again. "Jessica, before | let you go, could | 
ask a favor?" 


"Sure?" 


"You see, me and my associate have some business to attend to. 
Now, without going into details since | imagine you don't want to be 
here all day, it's very important we finish this business before | 
leave." He took a sip from the juice. "So, | politely ask that you do 
not come to our table again, as doing so would be quite distracting. 
Now, | realize that your job necessitates you speak to us." 


His right arm moved off his leg slightly, revealing a silenced pistol 
aimed directly at her chest. 


"| see you around us again before we leave and | will not hesitate to 


split open your pretty little face for everyone on the local news to 
see. Understood?" 


Breaking into a sweat almost instantly, she nodded before walking 
away from the table as quickly as possible without running. Jason 
could still hear her strained hyperventilation as she opened the door 
to the restaurant's kitchen. 


"Was that really necessary?" 


Mr. Suit chuckled. "You've known me long enough to understand my 
theatrics." 


"She's just a kid." 


"You're so right. Which is why, with her bright future ahead of her, 
she won't talk to us again." His grin quickly faded. "Now, your 
report." 


Jason lifted a briefcase from under the table and placed it in front of 
Mr. Suit. 


"Everything's there. Made sure | couldn't be traced." 
"How?" 


"Paid some thug to break into the doc's house. Clipped him as soon 
as | got the briefcase." 


"And the kid?" 


Images of the boy flashed in front of Jason. "He won't be a problem. 
He's scared." 


"| must say, you've certainly exceeded expectations." The smug grin 
returned to Mr. Suit's face, stretching to an almost unsettling extent. 
He removed several papers from the case, skimming over their 
contents before sliding them back inside. "I'll be sure your efforts are 
noted with my superiors. For now, stay quiet and out of sight. There 
will be more assignments for you in the future." 


Mr. Suit stood up from the table, cleaned himself with a napkin, and 


left through the double doors of the diner, making prolonged eye 
contact with Jessica as the doors swung closed. Jason followed him, 
lighting a cigarette as he walked towards the setting Alouquerque 
sun. 


Person of Interest #16619-A 
Name: FRITZ, JASON G. 
DOB: 8/31/1982 

Threat Level: Black 


Profile: Pol #16619-A, identified as Jason Fritz, is 
believed to be in possession of documentation relating to 
the termination of Doctor Antonio Rodriguez, a former 
Level 2 researcher at Site-882. This information details, 
among other sensitive pieces of information, the 
existence of Mobile Task Force 55-Bravo, various 
security protocols at Site-882, and Doctor Rodriguez's 
work on SCP-_. It is speculated that Pol #16619-A will 
attempt to utilize this information for financial gain, 
possibly by providing it to a hostile Group of Interest. Pol 
#16619-A's connections to Groups of Interest, 
specifically the Chaos Insurgency, remain unknown at 
this time. Field reports also suggest Pol #16619-A had 
direct involvement with Incident TAT-22, in which several 
individuals were neutralized during a bank heist due to 
potentially leaking classified information sold to them by 
Doctor Rodriguez. 


Apprehension of Pol #16619-A is considered a top 
priority objective for Mobile Task Force 55-Bravo at this 
time. All individuals linked to Pol #16619-A, either 
directly or indirectly, must be detained and questioned 
upon being identified. Voice modification software similar 
to that used during Foundation cover-up operations 
following Doctor Rodriguez's termination is to be 
employed in an effort to extract information from 
relatives, friends, and former coworkers. The 


whereabouts of Pol #16619-A remain unknown, but 
search efforts are being focused in the New Mexico area 
due to his prior employment as a detective with the 
Albuquerque Police Department. 


In light of this situation, all Foundation records of Doctor 
Rodriguez have been redacted and transferred to a 
secure information storage facility. 


Mr. Suit Hub| > Phoenix 


Caveat Emptor 


Michaelson's coughing racked his wasted frame. He brought his 
handkerchief up to his mouth and hacked until his weak lungs 
stopped trying to clear themselves. Blood spotted the white fabric in 
places, some fresh, some dried. He didn't care about the blood. 
Absentmindedly, his hand touched his bald head, fingers searching 
for hair that was no longer there. It was stupid, really. Lung failure 
had become a part of life long after the hair loss, but he missed his 
locks more than he missed a properly functioning respiratory 
system. 


The doctors had given him six months, and he'd taken three years, 
but now it was all just coming apart. He was getting steadily worse, 
and the cancer just wouldn't go away this time. It wasn't fair, it just 
wasn't fair at all. He was thirty-five for fuck's sake! There were so 
many things he had yet to do. There was a lot of life left for him to 
live, and he'd never submit to illness, not when he had any kind of 
way out. Michaelson was determined to be great. He wouldn't let 
anything, not his so-called peers, not his superiors, not even death 
itself take that greatness from him. It had taken quite a while to set 
his plan in motion, but now all of his work was going to pay off. He 
didn't even care about the price anymore. Anything was better than 
the sick feeling of knowing he would die before forty, 
unaccomplished, nothing at all remarkable about him to be 
remembered. As he pressed the series of buttons in the observation 
booth that brought in the separate pieces of his salvation, another fit 
of coughing tore through his chest. It was worse than the last one, 
and this time, his handkerchief came away with more than a few 
spots of blood. 


Researcher Michaelson shuffled through the testing room door. 
Somewhere, a silent alarm had gone off warning... someone. A 
failsafe. Even when testing was scheduled ahead of time, that alarm 
went off. It had taken a lot of work to get even a hazy idea of who 
the alarm warned. If he was right, then he had successfully disabled 


it. If he was wrong, well, he would have time enough for this. 
Hopefully he could make his deal and be gone before security 
arrived. The cameras had already been rendered useless, and his 
heart pumped faster with fear. It was all well and good to go about 
preparations, but this was the real deal. Being discovered now 
would mean death. Admittedly, it would be a much faster death than 
what his own treacherous body had in store for him. 


Placing a shaking hand on the top of the straight-backed chair, 
Michaelson slumped down into it. Within seconds, there was 
someone sitting across the desk from him. It looked remarkably like 
the salesman who had fast talked him into his first piece of shit car 
years ago. His blond hair was slicked back severely, and a 
welcoming smile danced across pale lips. 


"Mr. Michaelson! How pleasant to see you. What can | offer you 
today?" The voice that came from the creature was a perfect 
facsimile of the salesman, down to his smooth baritone. It leaned 
back in its chair, rocking the elegant piece of furniture back on two 
legs. "Perhaps the love of a beautiful woman? Or no, you're an 
educated man, perchance you'd like all the knowledge of a P.h.D in 
Applied Physics? I'd be happy to offer you just about anything." 


Michaelson didn't have time for this. "No, | don't want either of those. 
| need you to heal my body and make it live longer than normal, and 
it needs to be done immediately!"