Lucy smiled back. She rolled her eyes and wiped moisture off her 
cheeks. 


Clef nodded and laughed. He leaned against the wall next to her, 
looking down at her and gesturing. 


Lucy began to play with her hair. 

Clef stroked his chin. 

Lucy began to stroke her face behind the ear. 
Clef winked. 

Lucy stroked her throat and collarbone. 


Clef came walking back down the aisle. He walked past the 
bathroom and into the galley. 


Lucy bit her lower lip, then followed Clef into the galley. There was 
the sound of a latch being undone, and a door opening. 


Dimitri counted to twenty, then poked his head into the galley as 
well. The ladder leading down to the baggage compartment was 
open. He slid down and into the darkened baggage compartment. 


The first thing he saw was Clef easing Lucy's unconscious body 

onto a Cargo compartment. There was lipstick on his collar, and the 
doctor's previously buttoned-up Hawaiian shirt was opened up a bit. 
He tossed a ring of keys to Strelnikov. "See if you can get our bags, 
he said. "They're probably in one of those locked cargo containers." 


"Doktor," Strelnikov said patiently, "Please just tell me this. What is 
point of finding bags now?" 


"| don't want to leave them behind when we jump." 


“I no jump without chute. | have done this once, was not fun. Break 
many bone.” Strelnikov opened the lockers and riffled around, 
grabbing the baggage and motioning for Clef to follow. “I have better 
idea.” They navigated the depths of the aircraft, working their way 


through access ways and maintenance corridors that usually only 
the lowliest of wing wipers ever have to crawl through. The 
aluminum skin of the aircraft vibrated from the air moving around it, 
and the noise was deafening. Finally, they stopped in the very 
bottom of aircraft. 


“We wait, now.” 


The pilot had changed course, ostensibly heading where the 
Chechens had instructed him to, but in reality veering towards an 
abandoned military airstrip. The concrete along the runway was 
cracked in places, with weeds breaking through and angling 
skyward. The terminals had long since been bulldozed; all that 
remained now were a few rusting corrugated hangars and a 
dilapidated, disused control tower. He steadied his hands on the 
yoke, knuckles white and eyes alert, still shaken from the events 
earlier. Though he hadn’t seen the massacre firsthand, Lucy had 
told him about it in grim detail. Where was she, anyway? He needed 
a drink, badly. 


The inboard flaps dropped a few degrees, then a few more, 
increasing the plane’s lift and drag, flaring the nose slightly and 
slowing it down. The whine of the engines decreased in intensity, 
causing the aircraft to slowly descend toward the runway below. Clef 
and Dmitri felt the shudder of the fuselage as they lost altitude, and 
heard the telltale hydraulic hisses that indicated the undercarriage 
was about to drop. 


“Hold on! Wait until we slow!” Strelnikov shouted, but it was lost in 
the noise. Clef gave him a confused expression but knew enough 
about gravity to warrant already clutching the legs of the gear. The 
aircraft slowed, dropping to within a few hundred feet of the ground 
and flaring more, nearly within ground effect. The hatch covers 
dropped open and the landing gear unfolded, exposing them to a 
harsh burst of wind that threatened to tear them away, the ground 
below flashing by in a terrifying blur. The concrete rose to them with 
alarming speed as the pilot brought the big passenger liner down— 
the wheels made contact and screeched in annoyance, reluctant to 
carry the tremendous weight. 


The pilot applied brakes and the aircraft decelerated, rolling to a 


stop at the end of the runway. They leapt from the undercarriage 
and sprinted across the tarmac to a nearby line of trees, looking 
back in time to see the ridiculous rubber slides inflate for the other 
passengers to make a considerably more undignified exit. They 
knelt in a small thicket of trees, watching to make sure nobody 
followed them. 


Aboard the aircraft, Lucy picked her head up and groaned. That son 
of a bitch—and to think she almost liked him, despite who he worked 
for. She sighed and rubbed her temples, pulling a cell phone from a 
pocket of her uniform and dialing a secure line. The phone chirped 
and queried her for access codes, which she dutifully punched in, 
surprised that they were correct considering her foggy state of mind. 


“Lieutenant Parks, reporting. | have two probable Foundation assets, 
track from my location and prepare to deploy a shadowing team 
immediately.” 


"| have to admit," Clef said. "Your idea was much better." 


The two men lurked in the treeline for a few minutes, watching the 
Special Forces soldiers board the plane and get the passengers out 
through the inflatable slides. A man in a black suit and tie was going 
from passenger to passenger asking questions: he seemed annoyed 
at not getting the answers he wanted. Up top, a young man in 
camouflage gear leaned out the left side doorway and vomited onto 
the tarmac. Finally, several men wearing medical garb started 
easing three stretcher-bound bodies down the slide. 


"You want stay and watch more?" 
"Nah, I've seen enough. Let's get going." 


They moved silently through the underbrush, crossing the electrified 
fence with the aid of some wire cutters and a sleeping bag, and then 
made their way out into the desert. There was a cracked asphalt 
two-lane highway under the baking sun, stretching out into the 
distance. 


"Well," Clef said, grinning. "It's not Brazil, but it's certainly far enough 


away from work for Glass. Let's go hitching.” 


"First we must find out where we are. Is not good if we wind up in 
Death Valley. Then is no other people for miles." 


"No problem, I'll just check my GPS." Clef said. He pulled his phone 
out of his pocket, turned it back on, and brought up the mapping 
software. "FUCK," he growled. "This is bad." 


"Where we are? Bolivia? Death Valley?" 
"Worse," Clef said grimly. "Texas." 


As if on cue, the silence was broken by the sound of a battered 
pickup truck coming around the bend. Two men in white cowboy 
hats pulled up to the agents, their rusty old Ford emblazoned with a 
Confederate flag across the back windshield, a pair of shotguns on 
the roof, and a dead deer across the hood. The strangers rolled 
down the window as their car ground to a halt by the side of the 
road. The man in the passenger seat, a grizzled-looking one-eyed 
cowboy with unruly black hair, spat tobacco juice on Strelnikov's 
shoes and sneered. 


"Mind tellin’ me what you pair of Mexican Jew lizard faggots are 
doin’ in our neck of the woods?" he growled. 


Clef and Dimitri shared a bemused glance. "You have got be fucking 
with me," Dimitri muttered. 


The blood boiled behind Strelnikov’s eyes. He looked over their 
attire and felt a wave of nausea nearly overtake him—how could 
anyone dress like this? He felt a sudden need to adjust his cap ina 
vain attempt to counteract their atrocious appearance. Clef just 
laughed. 


“What ‘n the hell are ya’ lookin’ at, y’stupid or somethin’?” The one- 
eyed cowboy leaned out the window as the driver turned down the 
radio, which had previously been blaring Toby Keith at an obnoxious 
volume. “Oh, lemme guess, you’re one a’ them commies, aren't 
you?” He spat again. “Il fought you assholes in ‘Nam.” The driver 


nodded. “He fought y’assholes in ‘Nam!” Clef’s smile grew to 
obscene proportions. 


Not being one to let a statement like this go unchallenged, Strelnikov 
immediately rose to the occasion and jabbed a finger in the man’s 
face. “YOU KNOW NOTHING OF WAR. | FIGHT INCHECHYNA 
BOTH TIME AND | MEET BABIES ON THE BATTLEFIELD THAT 
WERE HAVE MORE HONOR THAN YOU, COWARD. MY 
GRANDFATHER TOOK BERLIN WHILE YOUR ANCESTORS SIT 
ON THEIR ASS DRINKING SCHNAPPS AND HOPING THAT 
THEY NOT HAVE TO FIGHT LIKE WE DID. YOUR ENTIRE 
COUNTRY IS BABIES. ALL OF YOU, BABIES.” His finger trembled 
with rage while Clef suppressed a guffaw. The redneck stared at him 
in confusion. 


“...Wot?” 
Strelnikov punched him in the mouth. 


The redneck tumbled over, knocking his compatriot out his seat and 
onto the pavement. Clef was on him in a flash, hauling him up and 
securing his arms behind his back with an unhealthy cracking of 
joints. One-eye regained his composure admirably, and stepped out 
in front of Dmitri. “Y’ stupid god damned commie, you god damned 
near broke my fuckin’ face! What are ya, salty because you lost the 
fuckin’ war?” 


It was too much—such an insult to his Russian patriotism could not 
be allowed to stand. With one hand he lifted the man off the ground 
by his neck and carted him off towards a dead, wiry tree. The 
cowboy flailed wildly, trying to strike him or push him away, but 
Strelnikov had a considerable size advantage. He briefly considered 
hanging the man, but lacking the rope to do so decided to secure 
him to the tree with one-eye’s belt, Clef doing the same with the 
other. Two oversized lone star belt buckles shone in the hot 
southern sun as Clef and Strelnikov stalked away to their truck, 
leaving them to bake for a while. 


“Who won the war now, jackass?” Clef quipped as he climbed into 
the driver's seat. They drove for hours down the Texas highway, 
finding nothing but dust and clumps of rocks. Dmitri watched idly 


from the passenger seat, finding the vastness of the state reminding 
him somewhat of home, if much drier. 


Far behind, the two cowboys were delighted to see a black SUV pull 
off the road, with uniformed men disembarking and approaching 
them quickly. “It’s about bloody time you got here,” one-eye said 
haughtily. 


“Did they take the truck?” Both of them nodded. 


“...Excellent. We’ve got them now.” 


"Stupid fucking American car," Clef grimaced. He slammed the hood 
down on the smoke-emitting engine and kicked impotently at the 
front bumper of the vehicle. "Stupid fucking piece of shit. Ford really 
does stand for Fix or Replace Daily." 


"We should be driving good Russian car. Like Lada. That is good 
solid vehicle. Not break down like shitty American car," Strelnikov 
offered. 


"Do you ever fucking shut up about Russia? Ever?" Clef retorted. 
"Seriously, you've got like, a hard-on for the Motherland so big they 
can see it from orbit. Goddamn." 


"You ever get tired being enormous fucking prick? Seriously, you 
have stick up ass so big can use it as flagpole!" Strelnikov snarled. 


"Fuck you, Dimitri! Fuck you, and FUCK Russia, and FUCK this 
stupid FUCKING vacation," Clef screamed, nearly going into 
histrionics. "All | fucking wanted was to spend some fucking time in 
Brazil lying on the beach, working on my FUCKING tan, and maybe, 
just maybe, having sex with some South American honey, sex 
involving lots of cocoa butter and maybe some leather whips, and 
instead I'm out here in the middle of FUCKING NOWHERE TEXAS, 
Population YOU AND ME and we'll probably die of fucking 
heatstroke before too long!" 


"And how this is any of my fault!?" Strelnikov shouted back, 
slamming his fists on the hood of the broken-down Ford. 


"| HAVE NO FUCKING IDEAI" Clef screamed. 


That was when the two men heard a car horn honk behind them. 
They turned to see a cherry-red Camaro convertible with the top 
down idling by the side of the road. The car gleamed like a jewel. 


So did the three babes riding it. 


The driver was a brunette, her long, curly locks flowing over her bare 
shoulders, her honeyed skin glowing with sweat from the warm 
Texas sun. Her red lips were pursed playfully as she lowered her 
sunglasses and gave the two strangers a slightly amused look. Her 
friend in the passenger's side seat (a tanned blonde with flawless 
skin and gorgeous green eyes) leaned over and waved, while the 
redhead in the back seat popped her gum and winked. 


"Hey boys,” the brunette said. "Seems like you're having a little car 
trouble. Need a lift?" 


"... yes. Yes, we do," Strelnikov said. 


"Well, it's a tight fit, but squeeze in! We'll give you a ride to town!" 
the brunette said. She got up and opened the door of the camaro. 
Clef and Strelnikov could see that all three of the women were 
wearing daisy dukes, sandals, and not much else. All of them had 
bodies that would make supermodels green with envy, their 
voluptuous figures threatening to free themselves from their 
straining tops at any moment. 


Clef and Strelnikov gave each other a bemused look, their argument 
from moments before forgotten. "This doesn't happen," Clef 
whispered. "This NEVER happens. No one EVER gets picked up 
randomly by a hot trio of babes in the middle of nowhere, especially 
if they're a blonde, brunette, and redhead." 


"Don't question it, just smile and get in car," Dimitri whispered. 


Clef shook his head as he saw Strelnikov climb into the back seat, 
sandwiched by the blonde on one side and the redhead on the 

other, grinning as the two scantily clad women pressed up against 
him. He turned his eyes to the sky, beseechingly. "You've gotta be 


fucking with me," he whispered. 


He got in the car anyway. 


“How far away is this strip club you two work at, anyway?” Clef 
asked above the purr of the Camaro’s engine. The brunette next to 
him just smiled and shook her head. 


They had driven for hours. Clef and Strelnikov had no idea where 
they were, but it wasn’t really a concern—they were more than 
content to allow the girls to fawn over them as much as they 
pleased. Clef sat in the front seat with the blonde in his lap, one arm 
around her waist and the other holding a drink. He whispered witty 
compliments in her ear like a suave Latin lover, making her laugh 
coyly and teasingly flick him on the nose. She smiled softly and 
threw her head back to check on Strelnikov and the redhead, her 
golden mane swishing across Clef’s face as it twirled around. 


“Er, what is he doing?” She asked Clef, tapping him on the shoulder. 
He craned his head to look, hearing a sound that could only be 
likened to “blblblbbiblblblb”. 


“Oh, it looks like he’s motorboating her.” She gave him a quizzical 
look, and Strelnikov looked up from the other woman’s bosom long 
enough to say in practiced English, “It is a rapid motion of the mouth 
across the breasts.” 


She giggled and handed him another drink, which he held forward to 
Clef and toasted, the girls’ smiles widening. Their heads lolled about 
and they couldn’t help but notice that the telephone poles were 
whizzing by like blurs, the road becoming a mishmash of grays and 
whites from the evenly painted dividing lines. The sky spun like a top 
and together they fell into the darkness. 


"Well, they're out," the blonde said. 


The other two girls sighed and relaxed. "I thought they'd never drop,” 
the brunette muttered. "Seriously, how much flunitrazepam did we 
slip them, anyway?" 


Procedure: D-837 entered SCP-818's enclosure at : P.M. 
Previous information discovered during recovery suggested that this 
was a specific time when SCP-818 would be at a low point for 
negative activity. D-837 entered and placed three crayons on the 
table: one (1) red, one (1) blue, and one (1) yellow. This was 
followed by a piece of plain white paper. SCP-818 examined each 
crayon before changing the yellow one to green and proceeding to 
color. After exactly minutes, SCP-818 ceased coloring and 
proceeded to the wall of the enclosure, beginning to follow it. D-837 
exited the enclosure before symptoms could worsen. 

Details: D-837 complained for several days of visual hallucinations, 
all of which were the color green. No other symptoms were noted. 
D-837's termination temporarily delayed due to SCP-818's seeming 
acquiescence to her presence. Testing with D-837 will continue. 


Date: 2,19 

Subject: Finger painting