The psychiatrist continued, unfazed. "Oh, and you were right in the 
middle of that Cl ambush. Says that one of the agents dispatched to 
rescue you was shot right in front of you. That must have been 
horrific." 


| suppose ‘horrific' can describe the smell of a good man's blood 
drenched in your clothes and hair, or the slimy texture of his grey 
matter on your cheek. Ben was a good man. A decisive man. Quick. 
| suppose he was all sorts of other things that I'll never know about. 


Something about remembering Agent Nguyen's mannerisms 
dredged up a dark sludge within Nigel. He clenched his fists next to 
his head, determined to remain in control. If the psychiatrist noticed 
(/f!, Nigel thought bitterly) he did not show it. 


"| suppose this is the part where | conclude that you chose to cope 
with these deaths by forgetting them," said the psychiatrist in that 
hatefully bloodless voice. Nigel gave him a skull's grin meant as a 
gesture of agreement. It vanished as the psychiatrist continued. 
"That would be asinine, of course. A man of your genius wouldn't 
dose himself up the way you did to forget some passing 
acquaintances." The doctor continued placidly as Nigel began to 
sputter. "Oh, not that they didn't matter to you. But you were trying to 
forget something far deeper to your heart than some co-workers." 


Silence descended upon the infirmary. 
"Andrea has been worried about you, Nigel." 


Nigel allowed the rage to contort his face for a second before forcing 
it into a mask of serenity. "Who?" 


"| told you, we know the amnestic didn't work." 
"| don't know what you mean." 


"The conclusion is quite obvious. I'm hardly judging you, Nigel. 
Sharing a workplace with one's wife can lead to unbearable tension 
within a marriage. You'd clearly grown sick of her, but not sick 
enough to break her heart. An accidental dose of Forget-Me-Drops 
could be the catalyst you needed." 


"It's not like that." 


"Not to mention that Foundation hires seem to be getting more 
attractive by the year. You can hardly betray your marital vows with 
an intern if you don't remember making the vows in the first place." 


"Shut up! Shut up! You cold bastard with your fucking clipboard, you 
have no idea. You have no idea at all!" Some rational slice of Nigel 
Segerstrom knew he had snapped, but the rest of him didn't care. 


"Clearly | don't." 


"Damn right you don't! You fucker, you've never loved anyone as 
much as | loved Andrea. You don't even know what love is, Doctor." 
Nigel spat out the last word with all the contempt he could muster. 


"Explain it to me, Nigel. What is love?" 


"You fucking want to know what love is? You know the UIU? Let's 
pretend we liked them. Like, we really fucking like them. So much 
that we threw opsec out the window and told them everything. 
Everything. We tell them what 447 does to dead bodies. We tell 
them all the nasty details of 110-Montauk. And just to top off the 
love-fest, we give them some goddamn Keter and tell them 'hey, we 
like you guys So much we're just going to give you this and hope 
nothing bad happens’. And of course because we're talking about 
the UIU, they fuck up. They don't feed it at exactly the right time, or 
they cross test it with the wrong skip, and the entire goddamn 
Foundation crumbles. And once the shell-shocked survivors rebuild, 
once every fuckin' skip is back in its cell, you know what we do?" 


"What do we do, Nigel?" 


"We find the UIU and do it all over again. That's love." 


The psychiatrist pauses. "So your wife betrayed your trust, either 
through physical or emotional infidelity. I'm sorry to hear that, Nigel." 


Nigel threw the blankets off his bed, yanked his body to a sitting 

position, and screamed at the doctor. "She didn't betray shit, you 
fucking moron! She's the only goddamn person in this goddamn 

world that has my back no matter what. She's...she's..." 


"She's your Achilles heel," murmured the psychiatrist. 


Stricken, Nigel slumped back. The psychiatrist tapped his pen. 
Finally, Nigel spoke up in a hoarse whisper. 


"Do you realize, Doctor, that my wife works in one of the few 
institutions on the planet where one can die investigating a sack of 
potatoes?" 


"I'm very aware of that." 

"We have a children's cartoon that makes kids violently psychotic." 
"That's true." 

"Did you hear about the murderous teddy bear?" 

"Which one?" 

Nigel shot an inquisitive look at the psychiatrist. "What?" 

"Never mind," said the doctor quickly. 


Luckily, Nigel didn't press the matter further. Staring at the ceiling, 
he said quietly, "You'd think it's not that dangerous to be a 
Foundation psychiatrist, as opposed to an MTF agent ora 
researcher. | mean, you would. But our coworkers just don't 
understand that we're the first line of defense against pathological 
memes and cognitohazards. Bet you my life savings that no one in 
my med school has to worry about their wife dying or going 
irreversibly insane from reading some new book her boss wants her 
to look at." 


SCP-955: Mr. Sillybug 


Item #: SCP-955 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: Specimens of SCP-955 are to 
be contained in an outdoor steel screen kennel with a ceiling anda 
concrete floor that provides for sufficient drainage. The screen mesh 
should be sufficient to contain juvenile specimens, and the screen 
should be coated with anticorrosives and regularly inspected for 
damage. Each kennel shall be of sufficient size to allow the 
specimens to exercise. It is recommended that each kennel contain 
a variety of durable rubber or plastic animal toys in order to reduce 
stress to the specimens. Specimens are to be nourished with 1 to 4 
liters of fructose solution per day and are to have free access to 
clean, fresh water. 


Personnel are advised to wear anticorrosive protective gear when 
visiting the kennel area and to avoid inadvertently making 
threatening movements or startling the specimens. Keepers at 
Site-34 have reported that playing recordings of soft music and the 
sounds of childrens’ laughter is effective in reducing anxiety in the 
SCP-955 specimens housed there. If a soecimen of SCP-955 
becomes distressed, a keeper should first confirm the integrity of his 
or her protective gear, then slowly approach the specimen and make 
physical contact: gently stroking the specimen’s upper thorax or 
carapace has been shown to soothe the specimen. 


Description: SCP-955 is a species of arthropod-like land-dwelling 
creatures native to temperate areas of North America. The 
organisms average between 20 and 200 centimeters in length and 
feature a bulbous head superficially resembling that of a deep-sea 
fish, a large mouth with extensive dentition and surrounded by 
flagellum-like organs, two eyes on crests at the top of the head, a 
large single antenna-like organ between the eyes, fin-like 
protuberances near the back of the head, and a long segmented 


The psychiatrist studied Nigel for a while. "I think you're ready to tell 
me why you did what you did, Dr. Segerstrom." 


Nigel's shoulders sagged and he resigned himself to the tears 
leaking out of his face. "| wanted to forget my wife because | can't 
imagine life without her. All those deaths...| saw Andrea's face on 
both of their corpses." 


The psychiatrist steepled his hands together. "Was it worth it, 
Nigel?" 


"|...1 don't know." 


"What are you going to do now, Nigel?" asked the psychiatrist in the 
mirror. 


Dr. Nigel Segerstrom, Foundation psychiatrist and devoted husband 
of Dr. Andrea Segerstrom, Foundation psychiatrist, looked blankly 
into the mirror to the right of his hospital bed. "I don't know," he 
whispered back. 


"Nigel, this is Nurse Petersen. There's someone here to see you." 
Nigel turned around. There was Nurse Petersen, warm and 
compassionate as ever, and the pale, drawn, lovely face of Andrea 
Segerstrom. 


Nigel didn't know what to do, but he did it anyway. 


The Curious Incident of the Contradictory Crocodile 


Cairo, Egypt 
September 22, 1878 


Dear Aunt Cecilly, 


First, and briefly, Uncle Alec and | are as well as 
can be expected. We will be traveling back to 
Athens within the week, where the good Doctor 
Manos has offered to house us until Uncle’s leg is 
healed, which frankly will suit Uncle quite well: 
they did not have the opportunity during our short 
stay to truly reconnect. | shall a go-a-wandering 
and leave them to it. 


| hope you will forgive the scribble-scrabble nature 
of this note when you read the enclosed 
document. | have copied it over seven times all 
told, not including, though my wrist tells me even 
now | should, a personal copy in my book. | have 
sent copies to yourself and Aunt Jessie, along 
with friends at four other Chapterhouses, and 
given a copy to Lady Stanhope, who may be 
contacting you separately. The reason for this is 
included therein, as is the reason | saw fit to 


contact you by telegram for an Introduction to 
Lady Stanhope, or as | believe | put it, ‘For the 
Love of God Above, is there a Sister here or 
nearby | can call upon to Witness?’ 


| entreat you to heed my call to action and 
conduct a full audit of all our archives, and ensure 
that good and true copies of everything exist 
somewhere, preferably multiple somewheres. 
Forgive my terrible grammar as well. This ordeal 
has served as quite the climax to our adventures. 


Barring further complications, we will be back by 
Christmastime, whereupon | shall be able to 
provide assistance with the audit. | shall send this 
off with the evening post, and then go soak my 
poor hand in some lavender and epsom salts. 


Your loving niece 
and faithful acolyte, 


Elisa 


The Curious Incident of the Contradictory Crocodile 


Being the Statement of Elisa Carrington, Chapterhouse of 
Indianapolis, attested to by herself as the truth to her best 


recollection, and Witnessed by Catherine Stanhope, Late of the 
Chapterhouse of Devonshire, in regards to the recent events at the 
Egyptian Museum of Antiquities, Cairo, Egypt 


| will not trouble with much in the way of preliminary whys and 
wherefores, suffice it to say that after nearly two years of touring the 
Continent, my Uncle and Guardian, Alexander Carrington, and |, had 
arrived in Cairo, the final leg of our grand adventure. And though | 
had dearly loved my time abroad in spite of, and admittedly 
sometimes due to, the advent of several Crises and Curiosities, 
which are detailed under separate cover, | had to admit that | was 
longing to return home. 


Our plan had been to meet with Monsieur Auguste Mariette, the 
celebrated French Egyptologist, and an old friend of Uncle's from his 
‘vagabond’ days. He would join us on our final excursion, a voyage 
down the Nile, as much a guide as a companion. Sadly, it appeared 
at first that this would not occur, and never did, as reports were 
arriving from the regions of the Upper Nile, which is in the South, 
which always seemed odd to me, that this year’s inundation was to 
be rather extreme. While this would not prevent us from hiring a 
dahabiya for a cruise, it would make landing at various points along 
the way more difficult, due to the flooding of the low-lying areas. 


While we waited for further reports, Monsieur Mariette took us on a 
tour of the Museum of Antiquities, which he had established in the 
late fifties in the Boulag district, next to the Nile. The facade of the 
building itself was somewhat marred by scaffolding, as restoration of 
the roof was underway, but the interior was breathtaking, with 
artifacts from all periods of Egypt's history: carvings, stela, 
numerous fragments of and quite a few intact papyrus scrolls, and 
all of Monsieur’s drawings and notes over his decades of work. 


“But here is my Prize, from our recent findings at Mazguna,” he said, 
taking us over to a large table, where a scroll lay unrolled. “I am 
translating it even now.” He put on a pair of white cotton gloves to 
adjust its position but bade us stand back. “For even the dampness 
of your breath may be damaging until we treat it. The greatest 
danger for such things as this is water.” 


It was beautiful. Written in a combination of the Hieroglyphic picture- 


writing, and a flowing script Monsieur called ‘hieratic,’ the colors 
seemed as brilliant as if they had been applied only yesterday. | 
could not, of course, read the writing, but my eye was drawn to one 
of the illustrations. A woman wearing Pharaonic headdress and 
regalia, with the head of a crocodile, sat upon a throne. 


He pointed to a series of cartouches at the bottom of the drawing. 
“Sobekkare Sobeknefru. Her name means ‘The beauty of Sobek’. 
This, and the contents of the text are why we have tentatively dated 
this scroll to the Twelfth Dynasty. Though there are mentions of 
female Pharaohs dating back to even the First Dynasty, the first we 
have evidence for is Queen Sobeknefru, daughter of Amenemhat III, 
who was instrumental in establishing the cult of Sobek that held 
prominence in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Dynasties. “ 


He picked up a book from a nearby desk, opening it to a sketch. 
“This is what we have found of the northern Mazguna pyramid. | say 
pyramid, but the superstructure and that of its southern brother were 
never completed. The interiors, however, are quite like that of 
Amenemhat III's Hawara pyramid. That and the items we retrieved, 
including the scroll, have led us to believe it was her intended tomb, 
though we doubt she was ever interred there.” He sighed. “Sadly, a 
number of sandstorms have made excavation quite difficult. We 
actually lost them between one season and the next a couple of 
years ago. Thankfully, | had extensive notes and drawings of the 
locations. It is important that we preserve these things, or all 
knowledge of them may be lost, even to memory.” 


We spent the rest of the day touring the Museum with Monsieur 
Mariette, before retiring to his house for dinner. It was planned that 
we should stay with him for the next several days, in preparation for 
our hoped Nile excursion. Though even as we left the Museum that 
evening, | had my doubts, looking at the nearby Nile, which to my 
mind seemed closer than it had been even that morning. When | 
mentioned this to Monsieur, he looked serious for a moment, but 
then pointed at a series of structures between us and the river. 


“You see? There are levees and channels which are to route the 
river away from the city proper. And we have certain safeguards 
planned in the Museum itself with which to deal with the river. 
Should the waters begin to rise, we shall go and deal with the issue, 


evacuating if necessary.” 


Though reassured, | still felt an uneasiness | wish | would have 
heeded, though like Cassandra, | do not know that they would have 
heeded me. That uneasiness only increased as we strolled through 
the gardens surrounding the Museum grounds. What had seemed 
hardy palms and sycamores on our way in, to my eye now looked 
somewhat blighted, and terribly, a few seemed near covered with 
small lizards, and even a few serpents. Uncle said that likely they 
had been driven from their nests closer to the river. When pressed, 
he laughed and said we should only start worrying if crocodiles 
started to join them.