"-Had failing lungs, more tar than teeth and a reenactment of the 
Bolshevik Revolution occurring in his liver. I'm a picture of perfect 
health, and look here: I've even gotten my teeth whitened." 


"Mr. Fendrel. | don't know how your sense of humor works but- " 


"Let's talk somewhere else, you're perspiring. How about we discuss 
all sorts of lovely things at that coffee shop down the street? The 


one that sells those club sandwiches you liked so much. The one 
where you convinced me to invest in the pharmaceutical business. If 
I'm leading you along, then all you lose is time, a null concept now. 
But if I'm not... I'll make your New Year's resolution really something 
to remember." 


KreSimira Kovacevié cycled home one late Autumn evening, with the 
cloud-smothered sun beckoning her to sleep while the rocks and 
fissures spread over road kept her awake and steady. The bottle of 
pills in her backpack rattled the whole journey back home, but the 
bag of maggots bounced about silently. 


The Croatian winter was deceptive and wretched. KreSimira felt 
warm in her sweater, but the wind nipped through the concierge 
uniform underneath. Home was a concrete, brick shaped structure 
with carved niches serving as windows and a single staircase to the 
top, so steep that it felt more like climbing a slide. Kresimira found 
her apartment. It was the one with the scent of perfume, rotting flesh 
and scrambled eggs spilling out from beneath the door. 


The apartment had mosquito coils burning on every table and by 
every wall, and the lights were off. A saucepan sat on a low flame in 
the kitchen. KreSimira's father came out of the bedroom, eyes like 
those of a corpse, and smelling like a dug up grave. 


"Where have you been, child?" he asked, "Have you been drinking?" 
"No, father. It was a bad day at the hotel; I'm tired." 


KreSimira moved to set her bag down and her father scrambled to 
the table, putting his hands to the wood and leaning himself over to 
leer. 


"You're tired. Your mother sympathizes: she's spent the last few 
hours having flies scooped out of her. Where's the replacement?" 


KreSimira fished out the antibiotics and medicinal maggots, then 
handed them over. Her father snatched them away and scampered 
into the bedroom again. He left stains of black bile over KreSimira's 
hand. 


The refrigerator was mostly full of eggs. They were cheap and full of 
protein. KreSimira washed out the saucepan her father had left going 
on the stove and broke four eggs into it, followed by butter, milk and 
salt. She stirred the mixture till it was creamy yellow all around, and 
more still till it was chunky and gooey. Dinner. 


"KreSimira!" her father roared, jumping out of the room, "What is 
this?" 


"It looks like the receipt, father," KreSimira said, "they've been giving 
them out at stores for quite a while now." 


"Did you look at the price? Did you even think? Why was this so 
expensive?" 


"New pharmacy clerk. Father, I'll try to negotiate a better price, but 
can | please eat?" 


"Fine. Eat. Sleep. Drink. Whore. I'll be staying up, Keeping this roof-" 


"-Keeping what, father?" KreSimira turned in her chair, "Keeping 
mother comfortable? Her kidneys have failed and her heart doesn't 
pump blood. How comfortable do those extra pillows make her? 
How confident are you really when you flush our savings into the 
doctor who only has one thing to say when he looks upon that 
corpse?" 


"Watch your tone, girl." 


"He tells me to watch my tone. Mother's body is dead and you treat 
her as though she only has the flu. And if you could have waited just 
a little, | could have finished my education and gotten an actual, 


paying jo-" 


KreSimira's father took ahold of her plate and hurled it at the wall 
behind her. He looked at her, his eyes spoke: yes, try even reaching 
for the refrigerator and see what gets broken next. He couldn't stop 
her from eating the egg already on her fork, and she chewed it 
slowly. She let her father turn off the stove and went to her room. 


She changed out of her uniform and into sleeping clothes, setting 
her "Mira" nametag aside. With the blanket pinned between the wall 


SCP-876: Element-Switching Pills 


Item #: SCP-876 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-876-1 through 
SCP-876-83, excluding SCP-876-43 and SCP-876-61, (known 
collectively as Group A) are to be kept in a standard large storage 
container, with two locks. Access to one key is enabled by Level 2 
and higher personnel. The second is only available to Level 3 or 
higher personnel to prevent accidental abuse. 


Information as to the location of SCP-876-84 through SCP-876-121, 
SCP-876-43, and SCP-876-61, (known collectively as Group B) is 
only accessible to Level 4 or higher. Class B amnestic must be 
given when business regarding Group B is complete. Each bottle in 
Group B must have its own containment cell, with individual keys. 
The containment site has 1.5 meter-thick walls of lead. 


All bottles, whether Group A or Group B, must have their numbers 
indicated. Labels cannot be placed on the bottles. 


Description: SCP-876 is a group of traditional pill bottles, label 
[DATA EXPUNGED]. The bottles are visually identical. If one is 
damaged, relabeled, or otherwise altered, it will revert to the usual 
form in seconds. If any of the containers becomes empty, one 
capsule pill will appear inside of it. The pill will be two different 
colors, but the coloration is always the same for each bottle—for 
example, SCP-876-2 always forms and samples. 


Colors observed are red, transparent, orange, blue, green, white, 
black, violet, yellow, gray, and [REDACTED]. 


When one pill is swallowed, no ill effects are observed. When a 
second pill is swallowed, however, an unknown procedure 
instantaneously converts all atoms of one element in the user's body 


and the back of her head, KreSimira went through her phone for any 
emails. She saw a lot of rejections, as usual, but there was 
something else. It was tucked between the rejection notices from the 
photography studio and the artist's school. It was some sort of paid 
modelling internship. / shouldn’t be getting these, she thought, / 
Cropped out. But when she opened it, she saw that it wasn’t an 
invitation to apply. It was just an invitation. 


"And when we first came here, the waitress sat us down in that 
booth over there- the one by the corner where those two bovine 
hags now sit." 


"We did." 


"If you still aren’t convinced, | do happen to remember what we ate 
as well." 


"No, no no that's... how can this be? What have you done to 
yourself, Greene? Is this plastic surgery?" 


"Now that's a market | would not recommend investing in. If 
anything, you at least have that bit of foresight to give your clients 
now." 


"Then how..." 


"Hold that thought: waiter incoming." 


KKK 


"Tenderloin? The maggots must be hungry today. Mardbury, I'll get 
right to the point. | didn’t know what the fuck | was doing before. | 
always thought you stock broker types were slimy weasels with 
champagne bottles up your bums and cocaine where most people 
have nostril hairs. But I’d be worse off than you are now if | hadn't 
taken your advice. | owe you for this, all of this. I'm not just talking 
about the Italian sports we drove here in, I'm talking about all of this: 
from the fingers I'm holding this fork with to the working taste buds 
that I'm enjoying this food with. | owe you, and I’m gratefully here to 
cut you in on what I’ve been getting." 


"You haven't told me what it is." 


"It's real-estate, free, in your case. A new home for you, for the rest 
of however long you want to last. I'm talking about moving your brain 
into a body that isn’t so globular, and | say that kindly." 


"Excuse me?" 


"A little less excitement, please. We'll continue after the waiter wipes 
up all that water. Jesus, look at you." 


KreSimira didn't tell her father she was leaving. As far as she was 
concerned, she was already on her way to the chopping block with 
the hotel for defending herself against Suite 12's occupant. It was 
good that she didn't tell her father, she thought, he'd have yelled at 
her for turning down the money. 


She threw together a pack containing water, some boiled eggs and 
her passport. She also brought her concierge uniform with her, if 
only so her father would think she was at work until she didn’t return. 
Leaving the house was sickening: the mosquito coils had burned out 
and the stench coming from the bedroom made her gag until tears 
rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t imagine how her father could 
sleep in there. 


When she arrived at Dubrovnik International Airport, the egg in her 
pocket had been crushed into goo, the sun was setting and 
starching the sky into a musky orange, and Kresimira was peddling 
her bicycle just a little faster than most people were walking. She 
sold the bike to a tourist, threw the concierge uniform into a trash 
can, and bought some water. She was breathing like a choked fish, 
the muscles in her legs felt like broken branches scraping against 
her nerves, and she was rather sweaty. They'll take a look at me 
and send me away, KreSimira thought, and then I'll return home to 
father without a job and as a runaway. She pulled herself into one of 
the bathrooms. It was unoccupied. Kresimira pulled shampoo, 
conditioner and soap out of her backpack, let the water flow out of 
the tap, clogged the drain with one palm and waited till the water 
filled before dunking her head inside. 


Deeper inside the terminal, KreSimira saw a tall man holding up a 
laminated sign bearing the logo of the internship program. Huddled 
all around him were the other interns. They all looked handsome 
and pretty, almost dressed up for the runway. KreSimira had 
changed out of the clothes she cycled over in, but she looked 
absolutely atrocious comparatively. She walked up to the tall man, 
and he tilted his head straight down to look at her; his eyes were 
hidden behind aviators. 


"Your name is... KreSimira Kovacéevic, yes?" he asked, in poor 
Croatian. 


"Yes," 


The tall man set down the sign and pulled a notebook out of his suit. 
KreSimira couldn’t see what he was looking at, but she felt his 
lethargic gaze jump between her and whatever was written down. 
He made no markings in the book but let her stay on the condition 
that she ‘tidy up' more before leaving. 

She was not the only one given the same instructions. The 
restrooms closest to the group were all crowded with other interns. 
Some of them were a bit older than her, maybe graduate students, 
and others looked like they weren’t even out of high school yet. She 
stood next to one in front of the mirror, a truly impish girl that looked 
as though she was wrenched out of a fairy-tale. The girl saw 
KreSimira standing there with nothing but a comb. 


“Forget your things?” she asked softly. 
“Don't have things.” KreSimira said. 


The girl offered her own kit and stood by while KreSimira worked. 
The child’s name was Veselka. Her parents were the ones who 
received the invitation, and were all too happy to graduate her from 
kiddy pageants. 


“What are we doing? We'’re just flying over there, aren’t we?” 
KreSimira asked. 


“We're meeting the designers once we touch down. Some of the 
older models are saying that there’s a full wardrobe on board too, 


and that we’re doing our first photoshoot on the tarmac!” Veselka 
said, nervously. 


“Older models. How old are you?” 
“Sixteen.” 


KreSimira returned to her eyeliner. She couldn’t even remember 
where in life she was during her first, shambling year at the 
academy. 


"This is my fourth one now. The first was exciting, but a mistake. 
The body was clean shaven in the photograph but, genetically, it 
sprouted hair like a plant seed on steroids. The second was fine, but 
also had a bad genetic history | didn't want to gamble with. The third 
was great, my favorite. It was the full package of excellent health, 
looks and genes. Even changed my name just to truly get that 'new 
life' experience. Bad car accident changed that, quite irreparably 
too, tragically. But it also opened my eyes to what I've been missing 
all this time. Now this is new. This is exhilarating." 


"Where do you get the bodies? Clone vats? Petri dishes?" 


"Oh don't play the humanitarian, Mardbury. They've got hospital 
wings full of people like you: decaying corpses that still feel on the 
inside. They pour maggots inside you to nibble away all the dead 
flesh. | hear you can actually feel the spoon dig into you as all the 
adult flies and pupae chunks are scraped up." 


"Stop that. I'll lose my appetite.” 


"Your stomach ruptured years ago, Moby Dick- no offense. I'm 
offering you a restart. I'm offering you decades, almost an entire 
lifetime, to start over with. You can pick up a new hobby, you can 
start a new job, you can even surprise the wife - I'm willing to offer 
her the same deal if you both want to renew your wedding vows." 


"We don't talk much anymore." 


"Because your body is dead, Mardbury; this is exactly what I’m 
talking about! This is why what I’m offering you should have you 


bouncing out of your seat. I'm...I'm... 
"Is that blood? Are you all right?" 


"Waiter. Waiter! Water please!" 


"Did whatever that was also come with the body?" 


"Everyone has the same deal. There is a pill regimen. A very strict 
one. I've never been in your shitty shoes so that you'll hardly 
consider it pain. Just remember to take them before bed, or in cases 
of discomfort." 


"Exciting." 
"Isn't it? Are you interested, or are you not?" 
"Where do you get the bodies?" 


"Fine. This is a corporate secret, but we use cloning vats. Get DNA 
samples from donors, tweak the genes, and grow a fresh body that’s 
programmed to create an empty brain instead of one that thinks, if 
you catch my meaning. Swap it out with yours and poof." 


"That’s a relief. There's no problem then. How much?" 


"A few million, although it varies. But not for you. First one's on the 
house, my treat. Here's the URL. Password, well mine, is 'Lazarus,' 
capital L, followed by the ‘at’ symbol and two sevens. Use my tablet 
but keep it angled away from the rest of the coffee shop. If the 
portrait is grayed out, then the body's unavailable; someone got to it 
first or a health issue was discovered. Golden frame is premium but 
that doesn't apply to you, on the house and all that. Click one and 
you'll get the full genetic and aesthetic read-out, not to mention a 
really nice gallery of photographs to feed the imagination." 


"Handsome fellows. 7 feet tall? Auburn hair? No genetic history for 
disease? There's another catalog here. What's the password?" 


"That's not really-" 


"| want to look. What's the password?" 


"| don't use that catalog but | can get signed up. You'll have it 
tonight, weirdo." 


"Thank you. However, if | may: if you have the technology to 
genetically alter these bodies, then it would be more profitable to 
allow for customer customization, as opposed to just selling a variety 
of presets." 


"We're working on that." 


There really was a full wardrobe on the plane. KreSimira stepped 
onto American soil accessorized and runway-ready. They took her 
photo and sorted her, and the other interns, into groups. KreSimira 
watched Veselka get sorted into the group opposite and they got 
into buses headed for different boutiques. 


KreSimira and her group arrived at the fashion studio, Fendrel and 
Dain’s, in West Virginia.