| nodded. "I intend to, as soon as | clear up a few things.” 
"Clear up you head!" 


| nodded again, getting lost in that accent. It was like walking 
through a foggy swamp chasing a light in the distance. Probably kill 
me if | took to long. 


"| just need to know what your thoughts on Jack Bright are," | said. 


"Jack Bright needs to learn how to keep his business to his nose," 
Strelnikov spat. "What are you? Lackey for Jack? You needs better 
employment!" 


"| ain't no lackey," | said. "I'm just looking into who killed him." 


"Hell if | cares who kills him. Why you think you got job looking into it 
instead of us? You think security has damns to give about who kills 
man who doesn't die? HAH!" 


It was the first time I'd ever actually heard someone say 'Hah' 
instead of laughing. It was both unsettling and—I blame the accent 
—amazing to hear. 


"You mean you passed on the case? Tossed it to internal affairs?" 


"Why should | care who kill him!?" he yelled. By this time, two of his 
men were carrying the corpse away on a stretcher. 


"You mind sending me a cee-oh-dee when you get it?” | asked. 
"Be fucking yourself." 


As he walked off, | couldn't help but admire a man who gave so little 
shit. | didn't really need a cause of death anyhow. It was obvious 
from the spatter on the wall. He'd shot himself in the head. 


By the time | got back to my office, | was both tired and annoyed. I'd 
wanted to get a drink, and | hadn’t had the time, and now, it'd be 
impossible to get into the on site bar without fighting a crowd. | 
leaned forward and picked up the stack of site security memos from 
my inbox, flicking through them and looking over them all. Two SCP 
breaches—business as usual. Security officer AWOL—probably shit 
himself and ran. Meeting of all site heads—not my problem, 
thankfully. Nothing of real interest. 


| tossed it all back down and thought about my suspects, instantly 
reaching the conclusion that they were shit leads. Too much 
annoyance and not enough anger. You didn’t put a bullet in 
someone you were annoyed with, even if they did come back to life. 
You put a bullet in someone you hated. Because you were angry. 
Mad. 


| was looking down at the memos in my hand, flicking through them 
again, when it hit me. And it hit me hard. 


You killed because you were mad. 


| flicked back to my case file, pulling out the declassified documents 
that I’d been given for the case and poring over them. By the time | 
was done, | was sure | had my answer. 


| walked into the lab, humming to myself a little, and looked over at 
the man hunched over his table. | raised hand and pointed at the 
back of his head with my finger. 


“Bang.” 


Bright jumped and turned around, glaring at me for a moment, then 
straightening out his clothes. “Fuck do you want, Darrow?” he 
asked. 


| grinned a little. “Just checking to see how easy it is to sneak up on 
you,” | said. 


Bright got good and pissed looking, which is how | wanted him, and 
started yelling. | didn't pay too much attention to what he was 


saying. Just watched him for a while, spittle flying from his lips, 
amulet bouncing around on his chest. It took me about five minutes 
to make sure, but by the time | left, | had it. 


| thanked him, watched him sputter for a minute, and headed over to 
security to get a pass. One last angry person to talk to. 


The rain was pouring down when | walked into the graveyard. It was 
the kind of graveyard that no one ever visits because they don’t 
know anyone who’s buried there. You've never think anything of it, 
because it was nicely maintained and mowed and kept. Foundation 
graveyard. Inconspicuous, even in death. You’d never notice how 
few people actually went there or how high the fence was or how 
none of the graves ever got flowers. 


Only now, there was one grave that did. And there was another 
visitor besides me. | walked up to the tombstone and nodded my 
respects before coughing once. 


“Hey, Bright.” 


| didn’t recognize the man that turned and looked at me, but | did 
recognize his uniform. Foundation security. The kid that went 
AWOL. 


Bright nodded to me. “Hey, Darrow,” he said. It was weird to talk to 
him when he wasn’t yelling at me. “Nice work. You’re here a lot 
earlier than | expected.” 


“Thanks,” | said. “It wasn’t easy to figure out. Not until | went and 
talked to that other you in the lab.” 


Bright nodded, then turned back to the grave. “What gave it away?” 
he asked. 


“It was a lotta shit,” | said. “Didn’t dawn on my until | saw him 
screaming and yelling and flailing his arms everywhere. The amulet 
wasn't staying in contact with him. If it doesn’t, he’d be having little 
blackouts.” 


Bright nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s one of the hazards of being 


attached to it. They used to glue it to my head, you know.” 
“Yeah,” | said. It had been in the file. 


“Your other self sent me to the two people who would be the biggest 
pains in the ass to find and talk to,” | said. “Basically, two big 
distractions.” 


“You didn’t get to Strelnikov?” he asked. 


“Nah,” | said. “I saw him. But that was fun. And Clef helped me out, 
too. Said that you’d had the D-Class rotation duty before he did.” 


Bright nodded. “It wasn’t hard to make a simple replica of the 
amulet. Hell, it looks like costume jewelry as it is. | just got a D-Class 
alone, put on the fake one, and put the real one on him. Kept 
assigning that D-Class to myself so no one would notice.” 


| nodded. “And then put him at the top of the list for the ‘new’ Bright 
once the thirty day acclimation period ended,” | added. 


He smiled. “After that, it was just a matter of time. Called Officer...” 
He looked down at the front of his fatigues and read the name“... 
Carlson. He stopped by my office to take my Class-D back, and we 
slipped the amulet on him. Had another face stop by and put the 
bullet in the back of my head. That’s my preferred method of death 
these days, at least.” 


“Another face?” | said. “How many of you are there?” 


“Plenty,” he said. “You read the file. ‘Thoroughly dedicated.’ They 
think I’m just absorbed in my work.” He nodded slightly. "Just so you 
know, you'll never catch that one. He put a bullet in his head, after 
all. After keeping you occupied for a little longer." 


| nodded. The janitor. Made sense. “And now, you’re planning on 
leaving the Foundation,” | said. “After all... it’s the anniversary of 
your death,” | said, gesturing to the headstone. “You must be pretty 
dissatisfied with the progress on getting you unstuck.” 


Bright looked down at it again, narrowing his eyes into little slits. “I’m 
not leaving,” he said. “I just wanted to stop by for my anniversary. 


O5’s told me | couldn’t. | decided | was going to. Not like it took that 
much work. And | was bored.” 


| remembered what Kondraki said. “Yeah, but there’s no way you'll 
be able to get back on base. You're in a security guard that they’re 
looking for. Shoot on sight. They find the amulet on you and the 
entire thing gets blown.” 


Bright nodded, turning to look at me and pulling a syringe out of his 
pocket. | reached for my gun, but his body was in good shape, all 
things considered. The needle stuck me, and | felt a deep burning as 
whatever was in there started to pour into my veins. | staggered 
backward, head already swimming as my vision began to go narrow. 


| saw Bright reaching into his shirt and pulling out that little amulet, 
walking toward me. “You figured out everything Darrow. Almost 
everything,” he said, kneeling next to me as | fell. “I Knew you’d 
figure it out. Come to confront me. Be discreet, like you were doing 
me a favor.” 


My stomach heaved for a moment. | thought about Maggie for a 
second. Laying in the bed. Bloody. The judge in the trial. The man 
with my old face burning in the chair, cooking alive. 


“| didn't kill her,” | said. The words slurred together in my mouth, and 
then in my head as | tried to reach my hands up to push him away. 


Bright nodded at me. “We never thought you did. If you had, you’d 
have been a Class-D instead of a well placed officer, poised for 
promotion.” 


The last thing | thought was—‘Well, now | get to see what happens 
to people’s heads when they stick the amulet on them, right?’ 


And then | found out. 


Mutable State 


About half a pound: that's the first thing she remembers. 


It's the difference between an empty fifteen-round nine-millimeter 
magazine and a full one. When equipped with a fully loaded 
cartridge, the Beretta M9 pistol weighs around two and a half 
pounds. The one she's currently holding is scarcely over two. That 
means it's almost empty. Just almost, because the pistol's slide-bar 
is still in position. 


She has no idea how she knows this. 


There are at least four men charging down the hallway that connects 
to this apartment. Judging by sound of their footsteps, they're 
wearing heavy body-armor. The faint blip of a radio tells her they're 
organized — law enforcement? Maybe. Could be military, too. 


The pistol is warm in her palm; the room has an acrid, eggy smell. 
There's a dead body at her feet, with heat seeping out from a dozen 
or more holes along its chest. Each contributes to the rapidly 
expanding crimson pool that stains the dead man's crisp, white 
cotton shirt. The red trickles down to spread across the hardwood 
floor. She doesn't recognize the corpse's face. 


The footsteps stop at the door behind her. A muffled voice murmurs 
orders. 


She turns and opens the door, stepping behind it. When the shotgun 
swings through, she throws all of her weight forward and slams it 
shut. The barrel is caught between the door and its frame. She steps 
back, lifts the pistol into position, and discharges two rounds directly 
into the side of the shotgun's barrel. The slide snaps back and locks; 
the pistol is now empty. 


By the time the deformed shotgun retracts, Xiaoshan is already on 
the other side of the room. 


Xiaoshan. That's her name. 
The doorway erupts in a cloud of shredded timber and smoke. 


The kitchen is like the rest of the apartment; pearl-white stucco walls 
with a hardwood floor of polished walnut-brown. There's a quaint 
marbled island in the center, with three burgundy velvet stools 
stationed on the end facing away from the counter-top. A rack over 
the oven holds several spices, a bottle of champagne, and a tin of 
olive oil. The space is neat and tidy — 'cozy’. Yes, that's the word. 
Very 'cozy'. 


Xiaoshan snatches the champagne bottle and throws it into the 
microwave along with her pistol. She punches the ‘popcorn’ button 
an instant before she hears one of the men hollering. It sounds like 
‘POLICE!". She snags a steak-knife and dashes low for the 
bedroom. 


So, her name is Xiaoshan. She has (apparently?) killed a man; the 
police are now after her. And judging by how she's locking the 
bedroom door and counting off the seconds before the improvised 
bomb detonates — while simultaneously scouting the exterior 
balcony for signs of an escape route? — she knows how to handle 
herself. 


Now she just needs to figure out who she is and what she's doing 
here. 


The men in the kitchen are shouting something. She can't quite 
make it out, but it sounds English. Alright, then — she's in North 
America. Or maybe Europe? No, the accents are definitely North 
Ameri — 


The room shakes beneath the force of the explosion. Her legs move 
before her body has time to think; she slams the pommel of the 
steak-knife against the pane of sliding glass that separates the 
interior of the bedroom from the balcony. Her body rushes through 
the web of cracks that appear, rupturing it outward into a spray of 
jagged, glittering edges. 


Sunlight. Clear sky. Fresh air. Seven stories. Each spike of sensory 


data stabs through her psyche, then melts into the background. That 
last bit looked important, though. 


She tries to hold onto it, pull it out for analysis — and that's when 
she notices that she has already lunged over the railing and is now 
sailing feet-first toward what will no doubt be her bloody, violent 
demise. 


Well, that was utterly pointle — 
CRNAT. 


She slams down. Asphalt bulges, ripples, and splits beneath her. As 
she collapses, the impact bolts through her legs and hips, spearing 
up her spine. 


The interlocking ceramic plates that comprise her vertebrae snap 
together like puzzle-pieces. Layers of insulating magnetorheological 
fluid compress into dense, flexible shapes, providing structural 
support and acting as secondary energy dampers. Excess kinetic 
force is expelled as whorls of super-heated steam from her mouth 
and nostrils. 


She wobbles to her feet. She's at the edge of a parking lot, 
occupying the small but notable crater where she landed. 


So... apparently, she's some sort of robot? 
Okay. 


That's fine. Good, even. She's learning new things about herself. 
That's a plus, right? Stay focused on the positive. 


For example: There's a short woman about ten yards ahead, 
standing next to a dark blue Toyota Scion. She's staring at Xiaoshan 
with slack-jawed shock, holding what are presumably the car's keys 
in her left hand. 


See? Transportation. Things are looking up. 


Xiaoshan takes a step forward. The woman is petite and brown, with 
a head shaved as smooth as glass — and a face full of iron 


piercings. Her dark burnt sienna skin contrasts sharply with the 
bright pastel blue of her loose-cut kurta top and paijama bottoms. 
She is not moving; instead, she opts to silently stare. 


"Hi. |, uh — need your car." 


Some part of Xiaoshan automatically calculates the distance 
between them and starts formulating plans to acquire those keys. 
Each plan is ranked by their probability for success; all but one 
involves the precise application of violence. The one that doesn't 
has the lowest chance of them all. 


Someone shouts something from way above. Police sirens kick in 
from the other side of the building. Xiaoshan closes her eyes, takes 
a breath, and forces the part of her brain screaming for swift and 
decisive action to just shut the fuck up. 


She opens her eyes: "Please? It's kind of important." 


The woman snaps out of her trance. She looks up at the apartment 
above, then down to where the sirens are howling. Finally, she looks 
at Xiaoshan — and unlocks all the doors. 


"Get in. I'll drive." 
Wait. 


Seriously? 


The 8rd District has a saying. It's one that every officer — from 
traffic cops on up to the district's captain — eventually learns: 'Pass 
it off to the boys down the hall. 


Detective Jackson Worth heard the phrase three weeks after he 
started as a patrolman. He was still green, then — full of piss, 
vinegar, and that special sort of invulnerability that comes with the 
first time you hold a shiny badge and your very own gun. He spent 
shift after shift walking the streets of Philadelphia, distinctly aware of 
the subtle tap, tap, tap of the pistol against his thigh. The shape of it; 
the weight of the thing. 


SCP-909: Nine-Oh-Nine? Why are you calling me that? 
And where am I, anyways? 


Dr. : (Reading from sheet of paper) You are the 
SCP designated 909, and you are currently under my 
custody. | am a Doctor of The Foundation, and | am 
going to research your anomalous effects. 


SCP-909: The Foundation? Wha- 


Dr. : Okay, let's try something else. Write down 
what | just told you. 


SCP-909: Alright. (SCP-909 accepts the pen and 
stationery and proceeds to write.) 


NOTE: Later investigation of Dr. ‘s notes showed 
that he had planned to press the button previously 
mentioned at this point. 


Dr. : (Brief pause) Hey, who are you? 


SCP-909: I'm the, uh, SCP under your custody. Don't 
you remember? 


Dr. : Huh? 


SCP-909: Don't you remember? 


Dr. : No. Where am |? What is this place? 
<End Log> 
Closing Statement: Dr. and SCP-909 were