Director Weiss: Are you hurt? 


POI: No, no. It grazed me. I'm... I've climbed up onto the 
table, now. 


Director Weiss: Don't you have a cell phone? 


POI: No, | don't. What's— [several foosteps are heard in 
the background of the call] wait, | think | hear them. 


Director Weiss: [Addressing Sigma-9 Leader] 
Sigma-10-9, command. Can you confirm you're in the 
Pyramid?" 


$10L: Confirmed, Director. We're standing near where 
we think the anomalous aperture is. Ready to infiltrate. 


Director Weiss: They're coming in for you, Martha. 
Don't worry. 


POI: Thank you, Nina. I'm so hungry. Thank you. 


[Several second pause, and a Click, indicating Director 
Weiss is in the process of placing down their receiver, 
before they suddenly retrieve it.] 


Director Weiss: | never gave you my first name, Martha. 


POI: [laughing] You don't have to. You've stayed here 
before. | know the names of everyone who's stayed at 
the Pyramid. [A sound of rushing wind is heard, along 
with the breaking down of a wall as Sigma-10-9 infiltrates 
the space the POI occupies.] I'm so hungry. | think I'll 
have some breakfast. 


Director Weiss: What— [the connection between 
Director Weiss and the POI is terminated.] Oh god. Oh 
my god. [Director Weiss, panicked, addresses Sigma-10 
Command] Sigma-10, recall Squad 9 immediately! 
Recall them! Now! 


$10 Command: You're breaking up, director. 


Director Weiss: RECALL SQUAD NINE NOW! THEY 
ARE IN IMMINENT DANGER! WE HAVE BEEN 
STUNG! 


[Sigma-10-9's comms start emitting sounds of combat; 
gunfire, unidentified snapping sounds, loud gurgling, and 
several screams, before several seconds of silence] 


Director Weiss: Sigma-10-9? 


14. Mr. 
15. Mr. 
16. Mr. 
17. Mr. 
18. Mr. 
19. Mr. 
20. Mr. 


Redd (discontinued) 
Money 

Lost 

Lie 

Mad 

Scary 

Stripes 


Addendum 917-2: The document shown was in the possession of 
SCP-917. SCP-905 states that it "lost its copy in the breeze", 
SCP-909 had held a similar list which can be found in Document 
909-a, and SCP-913 apparently ingested its own copy. SCP-920 
claims to have misplaced its copy. - Dr. 


« SCP-916 | SCP-917 | SCP-918 » 


[S10-9L's comms respond to Director Weiss. S10-9L is 
not speaking.] 


Unknown Entity: Thanks for the room service, Nina. It's 
far easier than ordering take-out. 


Life sign monitors of all Sigma-10-9 agents indicate that all members 
of the task force are still alive, but experiencing heightened heart 
rate and adrenaline levels, consistent with a fear response. 


Black Autumn Hub| Chapter 1 » 


Promotion 


Carrying a thick folder in one hand, and a shot glass in the other, the 
veteran operative strode smugly into a lab that smelled strongly of 
beets. Here, dark plastic trays of scrawny plants were parked at odd 
angles around an examination table in the center of the room. A 
starched lab jacket had been draped thoughtfully over one corner, 
and it fluoresced in the ultraviolet light that leaked from the apex of a 
tabletop ziggurat nearby. 


The owner of the jacket was wan and rather dry, like the plants he 
studied. He worked a large touchscreen attached to the science 
whatsit, rearranging cartouches of gene sequences in a dazzling 
Three-card Monte. He noted the intruder only with his peripheral 
vision, and spoke softly as he continued to tickle his puzzle. 


"No beverages in the lab, please. We've got deadly toxins in here." 


This is probably my favorite part of the job, thought the agent. His 
gray dress uniform rarely came off the hanger, but he never failed to 
wear it when he got to give "horrorientation" to some promising 
egghead. Three rows of ribbons seemed to do a lot of the talking for 
him. The first two rows were even genuine. 


"Dr. Blodgett, you're in early today. That's helpful." 
"Mm?" 

"| have news. You're off ACRES." 

"Hmm?" 

"As of now, Syril is taking over SCP-1717 Rho." 


The scientist froze one hand, mid-swipe, and looked over - his brow 
furrowing only slightly deeper. "Essie-pee what now?" 


"That's the Foundation's formal designation for your research. 


You've been reassigned." 


Blodgett blinked, opened his mouth once, then closed it. His nostrils 
flared as he sucked in a deep breath. "Reassigned? Is this the 
budget thing? There's nothing to — | can't —" 


"It's not like that. You'll be working on a more urgent project. You've 
done good work here, but there are bigger fish to fry, and we think 
you're up to the task." 


"Bigger fish than global poisoning and/or starvation?" he scoffed. 
"This team has made tremendous progress. To disrupt our research 
at this critical stage is madness. 'This is the most important study 
ever undertaken by Symbiosys, perhaps by mankind.’ Those aren't 
my words. Those are the words of Director Kim." 


"Yeah, well, as they say, you ain't seen nothin' yet. Kim was only EI- 
Three, and therefore not actually a director. Not really. But now 
you've been promoted to El-Two - the Foundation only promotes 
from within, by the way. You can leave your work just as it is. 
Someone else will clean up, and we need to begin immediately. 
You've got a hell of a day ahead of you." Railroading them invariably 
made it sweeter. 


A quizzical eyebrow. "I'm sorry — e/-two? The foundation?" 


"Think of us as the, uh, holding company for Symbiosys Capital 
Partners. That should get you through the first hour." 


"Your badge is a color | haven't seen before. Who are you exactly?" 


"My name is Ussein. I'm your tour guide through the looking-glass. 
For the rest of the afternoon, Ill be permanently altering your world- 
view." For emphasis, he rapped the glass down on the polished 
stainless steel surface beside Blodgett's hand. "It's easier if you 
have a belt before we get started." 


"This is outrageous. | need to speak with Kim." 


"As a matter of fact, he'll be our first stop, bu-ut —” he drew out the 
last word out in a coy, reverberating bass, "speaking with him will be 
difficult, as Dr. Myung Kim is currently being plucked in pulpy bits 


from a tumblethorn. He was a fair administrator, I'll tell you, and will 
be missed. As a researcher, on the other hand, he was never 
particularly methodical or, frankly, careful. Honestly, we're hoping 
that some fresh blood will improve the safety record around here. 
Shall we begin?" 


Ussein watched carefully. His victim's confusion and anger 
momentarily gave way to disbelief, then stirred in fourteen months of 
half-formed suspicions and fragments of overheard jokes about a 
strange job in a strange place. Five stages of grief in five seconds. 


Finally, obligingly: Blodgett gasped, paled, and made The Face. In 
response, the tiny remaining juvenile corner of Ussein's brain fist- 
pumped, and whispered, Yes! 


"Here's your new badge. And you'll really be wanting the drink. Trust 
me - that whiskey is /iterally out of this world." 


Property of Communication Verifier —, SPC Corporation 


| remember what it was like before this, but | keep on forgetting. 
Even when | remember. 


| don't know how | remember, | simply do. The world has gone 
wrong; we have opened the Box. | do not know what the Box is, but | 
remember when the world was right. | remember when we fed bread 
to pigeons, not flying saucers. | remember when three came after 
two. | remember when South America didn't belong to Play-Dough 
soldiers. 


This world cannot last long, how can it? Even the White House is 
bigger on the inside, because of... can't remember. It is getting 
harder to remember what it was like before. One...eighty...four, | 
think. Yes, it must have been. What is that? | have to keep my 
memories together, | write them down, you see. So | can remember 
what it was like. 


| don't think | worked at Salvicot Private Communications before we 
opened the Box. What is the Box? All | know is that we opened it. 
Who is we, for that matter? Fuck, my head hurts. It hurts to 
remember, | want to forget. This world is fine, | can settle for this. 


The world is not fine. | Know this, it's my job. Look at all the 
information everywhere, every day. Let me see, let me see...here 
we go, straight from Russia. Meat Contagion strikes in Aleysk, 
hundreds dead. There are pictures, too; a bit red, but we can edit it 
for page three hundred and seventy-six, | think. No, we can't, | have 
to remember. But why won't | forget? 


We opened the Box and everything changed. For worse, for better? 
| don't remember, but | don't forget. This one's from the Immortal 
City. Funny folks, pay Mr. Salvicot a lot for child shipments. Or so 
you hear. And | hear everything. 


Anyway, back to the news, Father of thirty-three dead, Blind 


involvement suspected. Suspected? It's all but certain. His eyes 
were closed and his neck was broken. Shit and blood all over the 
house. | hope the American Empire had a good reason for letting 
that thing loose. 


It should have been contained. Like the Box. | think | remember who 
lam now. |am me. You can't close the Box. The Box is open and 
the Box is gone. We just have to carry on living. 


Time to pack up for home, | suppose. My daughter's got a case of 
the clockworks, perhaps I'll get her a Mr. Headless. 


Protect 


"See that one?" Garrett said. Jacob nodded. The baby squirrel was 
chirping peacefully in its nest in the nearest white oak in the 
playground. 


"I'm gonna kill it dead. Soon as we get outside. Just you see." 
Garrett paced around the room, waiting for the teachers to get done 
with whatever speech they were giving the class. "It's gonna be 
awesome. You'll see." 


Jacob kept nodding absently. Garrett was always talking about stuff 
like this, talking about what a big-time hunter he was. Like an eight- 
year old really killed ten birds on one hunt. Garrett was always full of 
talk, but Jacob knew it'd be different if he were actually in that 
situation. 


"Look at 'im," Garrett continued. "I bet the mama squirrel's off getting 
food somewhere. | bet she don't even know what's about to 
happen." 


The teacher, looking impatient at the noise level in the room, finally 
just opened the door. The kids ran out as the teacher tried to count 
heads. Jacob was one of the last, preferring not to be trampled by 
the mob. Garrett ran in a beeline for the tree with the squirrel nest 
above it while Jacob watched. 


"Hey, you peckerheaded lil' fuzzball! You gonna come down here 
this minute!" Garrett threw a rock at the nest, missing. Jacob was 
worried for a moment, looked at the teacher to make sure everything 
was okay. Mr. Carter was talking to another child about being loud 
indoors and wasn't paying attention. Jacob thought about telling him. 
Nah, no way Garrett's actually gonna— 


Jacob could have sworn it happened in slow motion. Garrett picking 
up the other rock. Rearing back. Throwing it as hard as he could. 


The rock making contact with the nest. 


The nest swayed, swayed further. Jacob's eyes darted to the branch 
just in time to (he imagined) make eye contact with the squirrel as it 
started falling. Its legs scrabbled against the air as it fell to the 
ground. Jacob also didn't know if he was imagining the sound of the 
squirrel's legs breaking when it hit the ground, but it seemed dazed 
and had trouble walking. It was too young to know what to do now. 


Some of the other children fell silent. Quite a few, however, started 
yelling. Cheering Garrett on. Mr. Carter turned and looked, saw what 
was happening, started yelling for the kids to get back. Jacob 
watched, smirking. Now he’s going to have to shut up. 


Garrett was unfazed by the teacher yelling. "Watch this!" he 
screamed, and brought his foot up above the squirrel's head. The 
creature began trying to crawl away with its forelegs, squeaking the 
whole time. Mr. Carter was too far away still. The other children 
backed up but kept watching. 


Garrett had an enormous smile on his face as his foot came down, 
heel first, onto the squirrel’'s upper spine. The crunching and 
squealing was hilarious to Garrett, who raised his foot up again and 
brought it stomping down onto the animal's stomach. And again. 
And again. And again. 


Mr. Carter had to drag the cackling Garrett away forcibly, blood 
dripping from his shoe. All of the other boys were laughing and 
cheering him on; one of them ran up to the squirrel (oh my God, it's 
still alive, Jacob thought, / can still hear it, it's still alive) and paraded 
it around, showing it to everyone. Another teacher had to wrangle 
him back towards the building as well. 


Jacob went inside with the rest of the children. The teachers 
lectured everybody about how dangerous wild animals were, and 
about rabies and salmonella and parasites, and how you should 
never touch a dead animal, and made the kids who had touched it 
wash their hands, and made Garrett wash his shoe. Jacob 
overheard one of the teachers say "boys will be boys" to a 
colleague. Was this supposed to be normal? 


The day went on. Jacob was eventually the only one still thinking 
about the squirrel. People occasionally pointed to where it was lying 
on the ground, still squirming occasionally. Finally, Jacob couldn't 
stand it anymore. He waited until most of the class had turned 
around, turned the doorknob as quietly (but quickly) as he could, 
and snuck out the door onto the playground. 


The first tattles rang out before the door was closed, but Jacob was 
running at that point. Mr. Carter was yelling, albeit half-heartedly; 
Jacob wasn't the sort of child he was used to yelling at, the soft- 
spoken and gentle kind of kid he was used to trusting implicitly. But 
Jacob wasn't going to do what he was told this time. 


He reached the squirrel, seeing out of the corner of his eye that he 
only had a couple of seconds to do...what? What was Jacob going 
to do? Without thinking, he reached down, stroked the bloody mess 
across the forehead, and leaned down close to its ear. 


"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for us," he said, before Mr. Carter pulled him 
back into the building. 


"Go on," the director of Site 38 asked. "Then what happened?" 


"What the file says, David," his counterpart said. "The squirrel was 
crippled in half a dozen places, bleeding everywhere, guts hanging 
out. By the time the kid was back in the building, twenty kids and 
three adults had seen the squirrel get up, completely healthy, and 
bound off into the great beyond." 


"You're going to have to explain this further, sir," David said. 


The director of Site 19 sighed. "What is it you don't get? He healed 
the fucking squirrel. That's not natural." 


"But...is he a threat? To anyone?" David asked. 


"Come on, David, that's hardly the point," the other man replied. "We 
aren't called the Eldritch Threat Lockdown Company. We aren't the 
Demonic Containment Initiative. A kid kills a squirrel, the squirrel 
stays dead. That's how the world works. If something makes the 


squirrel *not* be dead, and it's not a veterinarian with a damn fine 
hand, we get called in. That's called "anomalous," and that's what 
we do. Secure, contain, protect." 


"SoO...SO we're protecting the boy?" 


"Eh...sure, if you like," the director of Site 19 replied. "Technically, 
we're protecting everybody else from a world where dead things 
don't stay dead. Were we really going to let a wizard, or reality 
bender, or necromancer, or whatever the hell this kid is go free? 
Just because he's not a threat, by your standards? Who knows what 
he can do?" 


David frowned. "Do we really have a place for something like this? Is 
this really what needs to be done?" 


"Read the second line of the file." 


He pointed at one line on the file in front of the other man, the line 
that read "Object Class: Safe". 


"It's exactly what we do, David. Not everything is grim or dark; some 
of it is just...anomalous. You'll be taking delivery in the morning." 


The other man stood up and left. 


SCP-918: Baby Mill