"| did what was required," replied Jack. 


It was a subtle shift, but one that Glass noted. Something that was 
necessary equated to a personal decision; something that was 
required pointed to one mandatory. Over the months, Glass 
continued asking different questions of Jack, different leads and 
answers. But he always returned, every so often, to his brother. 


"| did what | was told." 

"It's his own fault." 

"| didn't choose for him to be that way." 

"| did what | wanted." 

Each time, the same motion, the same pattern; a shifting answer. 


But the early files, the files from before he and 963 were linked, 
were consistent. And so was Jack Bright's loyalty to the Foundation. 
That, more so than anything, had led to the man's meteoric rise. It 
was a mere week after his promotion to Foundation Director that he 
stopped by Dr. Glass's office for the last time. He and Glass 
exchanged pleasantries and congratulations, shared a cup of coffee, 
and relaxed, talking about the time Kondraki had shot up a break 
room over a failure to brew proper coffee or the time a new recruit 
mistook Kain for an office pet and tried to rub his belly. 


And for the last time, Dr. Glass looked at Jack, currently in the body 
of a green-eyed, red-haired child rapist, and asked him about his 
brother. This time, instead of looking off to the side, Jack looked 
right at Glass, his gaze intense and penetrating. 


"| don't remember." 


have been produced. Under absolutely no circumstances are black 
candies allowed to be consumed, although other colors may be 
consumed pending prior approval and containment arrangements. 


The initial activation of SCP-983 was in a highly uncontrolled 
environment, so a ‘retelling’ is the best record available of the 
incident. Subsequent tests of interest in more controlled 
environments have been attached to this document as well as candy 
effects for those experiments. 


SCP-983 First Activation 


SCP-983 was purchased from a local flea market intended as a gift 
for a monkey admirer as a joke. The seller of the monkey warned 
the purchaser that it was to be seen and never touched by anyone 
on the day of their birth, but was unable to give exact reasons why, 
stating it was a warning passed to them that was well observed and 
may have been ‘Gypsy legend or some other bull.’ 


Upon the birthday of SCP-983’s intended new owner, the gift was 
unwrapped and the monkey handled, at which point it sprang into 
song. Staff attending the birthday party of their coworker were 
amused as was the recipient at first; however, witnesses state the 
recipient became more and more agitated the longer the monkey 
sang. 


After ten estimated verses, the recipient tried to find a way to turn 
the device off, to no avail. Attendees state that at this time several 
persons noted streaks of silver within the recipient’s hair. Following 
an estimated 8 to 10 more verses from SCP-983, the grey was quite 
pronounced as were signs of wrinkling or stress on the recipient's 
face. Within five more verses, the recipient returned the monkey to 
rest and complained of not having the strength to deal with this 
nonsense, pleading for someone to turn it off. 


With SCP-983 not being fully realized as a potentially dangerous 
object, there was panic and sloth in the reactions of the attending 
staff, which led to SCP-983 being able to complete what can only be 
estimated at thirty or perhaps forty more verses before a 
containment crew could arrive at the party locale. By this point, the 
recipient had long since expired due to aging, leaving only a skeletal 


The Present: 


"According to my reports, there was a massive information dump 
around four months ago. A complete backup was made of all 
Foundation reports. At first | thought it was the standard backup 
before base evacuation, but..." 


"What's the problem, Mr. Halifax?" 


"The entry code was wrong. | did that backup myself, and these are 
not my access codes. Someone went into the system, erased the 
record of my backup, and made one of their own. No one would 
have even noticed it if they hadn't been looking at the specific date 
stamp." 


"You're saying that someone has a copy of the Foundation's 
archive, Halifax? Are you quite sure about that?" 


"Very sure, Dr. Bright. There's no one but me that accesses those 
terminals." 


"Can you tell me the user that accessed it?" 


"No, sir. They covered their tracks well. The only thing | know is that 
their password was last used over a decade ago.” 


"Thank you, Mr. Halifax. See that the code is deactivated and put a 
trace on all public terminals to look for additional access attempts." 


"Yes, Director Bright." 


Jack Bright leaned back into her chair, fingering the outline of 
SCP-963-2 hidden underneath a loose-fitting shirt. Everything was 
beginning to fall into place. The sudden disappearance of Kondraki 
and Imants from incarceration; the damage to the Red Sea Object 
by the unseen gunshot; Clef's suicidal leap into a parallel world; and 
the string of attacks on Foundation archives. They were looking for 
something, whoever they were. And Bright knew she had to find out 
what it was before they laid their hands on it. 


With a complete copy of the archive, though, the paper files should 
be unnecessary. Everything was contained within the archive; the 


only things that they might not have included were the older SCPs 
that were no longer... 


The epiphany hit Dr. Bright like a ton of bricks. They weren't looking 
for something that was still active. They were looking for what was 
left of something. 


Jack leaned back in the chair smiling. All remains were in Site-19 
reliquaries, which meant that they were looking for something 
specific, too specific to just try a mad dash directly into the 
Foundation's heart shooting and looting. She traced the edges of the 
amulet under her shirt, slowly putting everything together. She had 
preparations to make. 


Eleven Years Earlier: 


Dr. Alto Clef carefully polished one of the several shotguns he kept 

around his office, running the oil soaked rag up and down the metal 
barrel before breaking the weapon down and carefully cleaning the 

ejecting mechanism. It was a ritual for him, one he executed weekly 
with an elegant precision, one he'd missed while paralyzed and was 
now eager to resume. 


A knock on his door led to a shell being loaded into the weapon. The 
opening of the door lead to its cocking. 


"Am | disturbing anything, Dr. Clef?" asked Glass. 
"Yes," said Clef. 
"We need to talk sometime soon." 


"My psych evaluation was cleared weeks ago, Glass. Are you 
slipping?" 


"It's not about that." 
"Then what is it about?" 


"Dr. Bright." 


"Jack? He's a good guy. Now if you'll excuse me for a moment, 
Glass, I've got to go take care of a little problem the Foundation has 
been sitting on for a while now." 


"You and Kondraki working together, huh?" 

Clef smiled. "For now." 

"Well, if you could look me up when you get back on site?" 
"When | feel like it, Glass." 


Clef pushed past the psychiatrist into the hall, carrying the gun with 
him. He knew he couldn't take it into the chamber with him, but he 
felt better having it with him, nonetheless. 


The Present: 


Four security guards lay unconscious between the entrance to deep 
storage at Site-11 and the bank of filing cabinets lined the far wall. 
Imants moved from drawer to drawer, carefully flipping through the 
files and examining termination dates. He knew that despite its lack 
of presence in the database, there still had to be some record of the 
object. The Foundation didn't believe in destroying anything, at least 
on the paperwork side of things. It was a destroyed SCP he was 
looking for. 


He switched drawers and redoubled his efforts. His recent 
altercation with Neil Ghost was still playing on his mind. It wasn't too 
late to turn back. It was true, what Ghost had said. The second 
Kondraki approached him, he'd agreed, almost blindly. Kondraki 
was a legend in the Foundation, at least as well-known as Clef, if not 
more. Imants had been more than willing to do what he asked, 
especially if the future of the Foundation was at stake. 


He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the number, pulled out the 
file, and looked over the paperwork. The Foundation was not 
inclined to let anything just drift about uncollected, even something 
that was no longer of use to them. 


Imants shoved the folder into his jacket and prepared to report to 


Kondraki. One way or the other, the job was going to get done. 


Jack Bright had to die. 


Eleven Years Earlier: 
"What are you saying, Glass? You want me to kill him a few times?" 


"No," said Glass, rubbing his eyes in frustration. "We have to 
remove him from a position where anyone can be harmed, then we 
have to find a way to release Jack from the medallion. It's doing 
something to him." 


"Yeah," said Kondraki. "It's making him less appreciative of the 
fragility of life." Kondraki laughed. "So, you want me to kill 963?" 


"Effectively... yes, | suppose. You're one of the Foundation's 
problem solvers. The O5 have ignored my requests for a 
conference, and I've got nowhere else to turn to. | need you to help 
me stop whatever it is his mind is doing." 


"What do you mean, Glass? His mind? The fuck are you talking 
about?" 


"Aggregate personalities." 


"Aggregate Personalities? What do you mean, aggregate 
personalities?" 


"Just what | said," said Glass, his forehead creased. "There seems 
to be a buildup, over time, of personalities... | don't know what to 
call them...chunks. They just stick around in there, somewhere." 


"And we've been attaching him to murderers, rapists, and baboons?" 
"Hence, my concern." 


"God damn it Glass. He's just been made the director! Why didn't 
you come to me earlier?" 


"Apologies, Kondraki. I'm here now, though, and we don't really 


have another choice. Clef and | are on board. Will you help us?" 


A smile was the only answer he received. It was also the only one 
he needed. 


The Present, A Few Weeks Later: 


Quikngruvn Halifax cursed his parents for not the first time as he re- 
affixed his name-badge and proceeded through the opening door. 
Over the past few years, he'd worked himself up to the position of 
chief archivist in the Foundation, a post he was immensely proud of. 
The offer for transfers to other, safe sites had come in over the 
years, but he'd remained at Site-19, comfortable in the hustle and 
bustle of the Foundation's largest site. 


He looked around his perfectly arranged office, paying careful 
attention to everything and adjusting the few trays the cleaning staff 
had bumped when cleaning the previous night. He reached for the 
stereo remote on the corner of his desk and pressed play. He 
stopped, looked at the remote and back at the stereo, pressed the 
button again, and frowned. He walked over to cabinet, prepared to 
reach behind it to reconnect a cord he was sure the janitors had 
disconnected when he felt the circle of cool steel pressed into the 
back of his neck. 


"| want you to understand, Halifax, that while | have nothing against 
you, | am fully prepared to plaster the contents of your skull all over 
that wall. I'm afraid you disabled my old access code, so I'll be 
needing yours. Now." 


Quikngruvn's body tensed when he heard the voice, realizing 
immediately who was right behind him, who had used the antiquated 
access code, and what was pressed against his neck. A reputation 
came with the presence of the legendary Dr. Kondraki, one which he 
was in no way eager to discover the validity of. He eased his hand 
up to his collar, unclipped the name badge, and held it over his 
shoulder. 


"That's a good boy, now." 


Quikngruvn saw as a hand reached over his shoulder, turning on the 
stereo and cranking up the volume. 


"Sorry about the knee." 


The sound of the shot and the harsh drumming of the music meshed 
well, and the solid slap of the cold, metal butt of the gun against his 
head brought a welcomed repose from excruciating reality. 


Eleven Years Earlier: 


"We have to separate him from 963, then present our evidence. 
We'll never even make it to a formal hearing otherwise." 


"Why don't we just chuck him through a Hell gate? Don't we have a 
few of those?" 


"Because, he's our friend. We should help him as best we can." 
"Speak for yourself. I've never liked Bright." 

"You've never liked anyone." 

"Point being?" 


"Nevertheless, the plan stands. We kill Bright's current body, contain 
963, present our evidence, and then hope we don't get our wrists 
slapped." 


"That's an awful plan." 
"Then what do you suggest?" 


"Poison him, then burn him. Then, we put 963 through 093 and 
pretend it never happened." 


"Too complicated. It would never work." 
"We could just use explosives. Explosives always work." 


"963 is practically indestructible. An explosion big enough to take it 
out would be more than enough to burn off the atmosphere." 


"No, just for killing him. Small explosion, then a series of them to 
bury the body in rubble. While they're sorting it out, we can convince 
them to do what we want with the medallion." 


"You guys are forgetting one problem." 

"And what's that, Glass?" 

"He's the director, now. He's going to have guards. Good guards." 
"Guards, Glass? Really? That's what you're worried about?" 


"For God's sake, Glass, I'm a god damned legend. You think | can't 
handle a few trained monkeys?" 


"It's not going to be that easy." 
"Why not?" 

"The guards are him too." 
"Jack's a scientist, not an army." 


"Why don't we just wait for a more opportune moment? Why are we 
rushing this, anyhow?" 


"Have you seen some of the reports coming out of Site-19? For 
god's sake, there have been more decommissions in the last month 
than there have been in the entire life of the Foundation." 


"| heard about a few of them. I'm not sure why 914 was 
disassembled, but he had a good argument for 447. Too much of a 
hazard on site." 


"It doesn't matter. The Foundation has a mission to carry out. We're 
the wall between humanity and all the shit that would break their 
minds. We hold it back; we don't blow it up." 


"I've blown up plenty of shit for them." 
"Not stuff that didn't need it! He's changing the mission!" 


"He's claiming that everything destroyed was a threat to the survival 


of the Foundation." 

"107 was a threat?" 

"107 was decommed?" 

"47 Safe SCPs, 28 Euclid. Gone." 


"Then we're agreed, yes? We have to do this. He has to be stopped, 
our evidence has to be presented." 


"Agreed." 
"Agreed." 
"Yeah, fine." 


"Good. We strike tomorrow." 


The Present: 


Dr. Kondraki had spent the last few years haunting the halls of 
various sites, taking on the roles of people who did or didn't exist, 
acting in a million tiny ways, most of them either obnoxious or 
harmless. The occasional missing sample, the carefully made 
blueprints for the various sites, reports on newly recovered artifacts 
—all passed along to the Global Occult Coalition. The little group 
was a useful tool, for now, and he hoped to keep using them into the 
foreseeable future. He'd always been good at killing things, and it 
was one of the few activities that they appreciated. He could see 
why Clef had worked with them.