Truman broke into a coughing fit. When it failed to subside Mitchell 
grabbed a half-empty water bottle from the desk and held it to 
Truman's lips while he drank. When he was finished Mitchell sat 
back down. He reached into his trousers and pulled the photograph 
from his underwear, reverently unfolding it and holding it up for 
Truman to see. 


"Say her name," he ordered, and fumbled with the pistol's safety 
catch before realizing that there wasn't one. 


Truman squinted. His breathing was shallow and labored. 
"Say her name," repeated Mitchell. 

"| don't know her name," whined Truman. 

"Say it." 

"| don't know!" 


Mitchell snarled and lunged out of the chair, cramming the picture 


into Truman's face, the barrel of the gun pressed snugly behind it. 
"Don't lie to me. You know her name. Say it. Say it or | swear I'll feed 
you every last goddamn bullet in this thing." 


"| don't know." 

"You know. Say it!" 

"| don't—" 

"Marilyn! Her name is Marilyn!" Mitchell sank back into the chair. 


Truman eyed him like he was a wild animal. "Whatever you think | 
did, | didn't do it. I've no clue what you're talking about." 


Mitchell had known going into this that Truman would lie, try to 
weasel his way out, deflect responsibility as much as possible. He'd 
preemptively steeled himself against tactics that would appeal to his 
empathy and skepticism. 


"Less than two months after we met we were married. Nothing 
official, of course. D-Class don't exist in the eyes of the law. Still, it 
meant something to us. It belonged to us alone, not the Foundation, 
not the skips or the screws, no one else." Mitchell raised his eyes to 
meet Truman's. "But, you know what? We were wrong." He barked a 
joyless laugh. "We were wrong. It never belonged to us. You can't 
own anything in this place. 'Cause you found out, you and your rules 
and regulations, and you took her away. Had my brain wiped, 
bleached it like she never even existed." 


"That didn't happen,” Truman said. 
"It's too late for excuses." 


"Listen, your memories were erased, that's true. But it was for Keter 
assignment. You volunteered." 


"Yeah, that's what the shrink told me too." He stuck the pistol into his 
waistband and stood up, the dowels of the garrote gripped in both 
hands. 


"There was never a Marilyn!" rasped Truman. "We can't wipe an 


entire year's worth of memories. Not at once!" 


Mitchell swiveled the chair around, so that he stood above and 
behind Truman, both of them staring out the office window at a gray, 
dusky sky underscored by the serrated tops of pine trees. 


"Please..." he begged. "Please... | never did anything. You weren't 
married. | can prove it to you." 


Mitchell looped the garrote around his throat. "I'm sure you can." 


"Wait! Wait! It's documented. Forms you signed. Video recordings of 
the agreement. Interviews conducted. | don't know specific details 
about the skip, something memetic | guess. I'm on a need to know 
basis; they just tell what they're looking for and | make the 
recommendation. You think we'd create a whole cover story for a D- 
Class?" 


"You do it all the time." 


"For a D-Class that we — according to you — betrayed? Why risk 
it? We'd just feed you to the crocodile before going through all this 
trouble." 


That creeping doubt, a slow burn, gnawing at his resolve. It all 
sounded so damn reasonable. "Show me then." 


"| don't have it with me." The garrote tightened. "Wait!" he gasped, 
straining against the phone cords. "| can get it..." 


"How?" asked Mitchell. 
"My computer." 


Truman supplied his credentials for Mitchell to log in and then 
navigated him through the different drives and folders. After several 
dead ends he started to suspect Truman was stalling for time. This 
was taking too long, and though he recoiled at the possibility of 
murdering an innocent man, Mitchell couldn't ignore that he was 
being sidetracked from what he came here to accomplish. Perhaps 
sensing his impatience, Truman instructed him to enter his 
employee identification number in the search field of a particular 


folder called VOL KET RECS. A long list of files pulled up. 


"Okay, here we go. Roll me over so | can read them." Truman's eyes 
flicked left to right. "Here, click on this one." 


Screenshots of a signed agreement form, over twenty pages in 
length, with Mitchell's dated signature and initials peppered 
throughout. Mitchell frowned as he clicked through. "This proves 
nothing. You could've forged this, could've told me anything to get 
me to sign without reading." 


Truman shook his head. "You can't erase an entire year's worth of a 
person's memory. I'm no doctor, but even | know the amnestics 
don't work like that. | mean — you can, technically, but the person 
usually ends up comatose or with brain damage. The most we like to 
do is a month at a time, and even that can have severe side effects. 
And you don't strike me as the kind of guy that signs a contract 
without reading it." 


"I'm missing a year." Mitchell closed out of the file and opened the 
one listed below it. It looked like a behavioral health treatment plan. 


"| Know that, that's what I'm trying to explain. So, what typically 
happens is you're on a five shift rotation. You're on duty for four 
weeks, then the next week is spent getting amnestitized and re- 
trained for the containment procedures. Get it? Always four groups 
of D-Class on, and always one going through orientation. And it 
rotates—" 


"Yeah, | got it." 


"That way you don't run as much of a chance waking up drooling 
and wearing diapers. The amnestics are cumulative, though. It's still 
dangerous. Sometimes, halfway through we get a subject that can't 
even remember his own name. It happens. We compensate it with 
weekly psychological tests to monitor your condition... and the pay, 
of course." 


"What pay?" Adherence records, a log of his punches. He closed out 
and opened another. His criminal history. Dishonorably discharged. 
DUI charges. Busted on I-45 outside of Houston with fifty pounds of 


Addendum 1: SCP-884-4 

At the insistence of Insurgency Defector A, one of three 
operatives to openly approach the Foundation with information 
about the Insurgency and request the opportunity to rejoin, 
Foundation officials have ordered SCP-884-4's containment staff to 
move the object to a safer location at Site- . 


Addendum 2: SCP-884-4 

February 19, 195, Incident Report SCP-884-4: Following the deaths 
of Agent Norris and Dr. Ignit on October 14, 19 , at the hands of 
Chaos Insurgency Personnel, Insurgency Defector A is to be 
terminated. SCP-884-4 reclassified as Lost. 


Addendum 3: SCP-884-4 

April 11, 195 , Recovery Report SCP-884-4: Successful raids on 
suspected Insurgency storage locations resulted in the recovery of 
SCP- , SCP-884-4, SCP- , and no fewer than anomalous 
objects. SCP-884-4 was discovered in an Insurgency Lab, with 
several extensive experiments set up, including [DATA EXPUNGED] 
and [DATA EXPUNGED]. Agent Jones and Corporal Blake are 
credited with the recovery of SCP-884-4 at great personal peril. Both 
have been awarded [DATA REDACTED] for their actions, as well as 
one week paid leave. Dr. Cho has been provided with a lab and staff 
to reconstruct Insurgency research. 


Addendum 4: SCP-884-4 

Extensive testing has concluded that the Insurgency's testing was 
without purpose. SCP-884-4 is remanded to storage at Site- . Fora 
full report of testing and trials, please see attached document 
SCP-884-4- 


Addendum 5: SCP-884-4 

October 2, 19 , Concerning Insurgency Action 327: The Chaos 
Insurgency staged an attack on Site- , losing approximately () of 
their number. The only target of the attack, circumstantial evidence 
has led officials to conclude, was SCP-884-4's containment locker. 
By order of O5- , testing on SCP-884-4 has been slated to resume. 


Addendum 6: SCP-884-4 
Due to Dr. Cho's drowning death in 19 , Dr. Rasmusson has been 
asked to head research on SCP-884-4. Researchers will be asked 


Mexican dope in his trunk. He closed out and opened another. 


"Usually it's ten years off your sentence and a deposit to the 
commissary. | don't know the exact number, but | think it's a couple 
grand." 


Mitchell looked up from the computer. He had a large balance on his 
commissary that he couldn't account for. "There're no videos here," 
he said. 


Truman winced. "They must not be on the shared drive. They take 
up a lot of space. But | can get them. Please. Let me help you. You 
should've told the psychiatrist you were having these memories, it's 
called confabulation. It can be common in amnesiacs, one of the 
reasons we continue to monitor them." 


"And rat myself out to the Foundation?" scoffed Mitchell. "Show 
them that the amnestics didn't work." 


"They're not real memories. Maybe if you'd shared them in the 
sessions we could've helped you realize this, helped you work 
through all this. You weren't even stationed at this site prior to the 
Keter assignment. Come on, you know it makes more sense than 
the story you've cooked up. If you got caught in a relationship — and 
it happens often — you probably would've gotten written up, 
separated. Yeah, maybe you'd never see her again. But we would 
not have scrapped a year of memories. We wouldn't have forged 
false documents. That's a waste of resources, and I've got better 
things to do than mess with D-Class." 


Mitchell gazed at the crinkled picture. His ingénue was beautiful, if 
not in a contemporary sense, then certainly in a classical style that 
would never fall out of fashion. She wasn't fat, but she wasn't 
supermodel-emaciated, either. She had curves in all the places a 
woman should. Voluptuous would've been the word he'd use to 
describe her. 


"I'm sorry," Truman said, watching him closely. "She's not real. She 
never was." 


Mitchell closed his eyes and tried to remember: he heard her laugh, 


mischievous and sensual. He inhaled her; consumed her. She 
smelled like fresh-picked flowers and cantaloupe. He savored the 
taste of her sweet lips pressed against his, open-mouthed, the 
exchange of breath. Of essence. He ran the tips of his fingers, 
delicate as a feather, along the soft hair on her spine, tracing it 
slowly downward... she broke out in ridges of gooseflesh and 
involuntarily shivered, her toes curled, and meanwhile he continued 
his journey down her back, further, downward... until she couldn't 
withstand the tease any longer and was devoured by passion. 


"I can help you. We'll figure this out." 


Mitchell snapped out of his woolgathering. She was real. Her name 
was Marilyn. Ingénue to him alone. She was his wife. The bastard 
was trying to trick him. It wasn't enough to erase her, now he was 
playing with his mind, like it was all a sick game. 


"This was always a one-way ticket for me," he said remorsefully. 


"No one knows what's happened here today except for you and me, 
and you haven't done anything that can't be fixed," soothed Truman. 
Mitchell stared at him blankly. "I'll get those videos for you, and 
together we'll solve this thing. | promise. On my children's lives." 


Mitchell's breath caught in his throat. He'd never killed anyone 
before, and he'd like to never have to start, but the idea of Marilyn 
being nothing more than a figment of his imagination was more 
terrifying than the alternative. 


There was a knock at the door. 
Both men froze. 


"Mr. Truman? Everything all right in there? Downstairs rang and said 
you opened the safe. They've been trying to call you but there's 
something wrong with your phone." It was Brian, the guard from the 
checkpoint. 


"He's got my fucking gun!" screamed Truman. Mitchell flinched at 
the sudden volume of his voice. 


Apparently Brian was also caught off guard. "Who?" he asked. 


"The fucking D-Class you—" 


Mitchell swung the Glock, the barrel connecting with Truman's 
mouth at the end of its arc, splitting his bottom lip and knocking out 
two teeth. But he was too late. The entire facility would be pounding 
at the office door in a matter of minutes. He heard radio chatter 
outside while Brian called it in, but couldn't make out the actual 
words being said. 


"You lying piece of shit." 
"Wait! Please! | wasn't lying," spat Truman, his mouth full of blood. 
"You fucked up then." 


Mitchell spun him around in the chair until he was in position and 
wrapped the garrote around his neck. He pulled back and down, 
putting his weight into it. The ropey muscles in his forearms 
clenched. 


A bullet struck the corner of the desk, showering Mitchell in sawdust 
and splinters. It was another moment before he registered the gun's 
report. A second bullet flew by his face, so close it ruffled his hair. It 
hit the window and spider-webbed the glass. He dropped to the 
floor, pulling Truman down with him. The third bullet tore through the 
space he'd previously occupied. 


He crawled on his elbows and peeked around the desk. The door 
was still secure; no one had busted it down. He briefly entertained 
the idea that someone was shooting through the window, but they 
were too high for a guard to make a clear shot from the yard. 


Then he saw it. There were loopholes in the door, small portholes 
that opened up, allowing someone to fire out or in with relative cover 
behind the thick steel. That's what those circular plates had been. 
Now one of the slits was open, and he could see Brian scanning the 
room, the snout of his service pistol perched on the lip of the hole. 


Mitchell took aim and squeezed off two rounds. They both went 
wide, the bullets pinging against the steel, but close enough to give 
Brian a jump and make him back off. 


He turned his attention back to Truman. Reinforcements would be 
here soon, and who knew what toys they'd bring along to try and 
stop him. 


Truman had somehow managed to twist out of the restraints for his 
chest and left arm. Partially free, he was clawing his way up the 
desk. Mitchell followed his course and saw he was headed straight 
for the carbine. Things had quickly unraveled. Mitchell had never 
had any intention of surviving, and yet he hadn't planned for this 
escalation of violence, either. It was all supposed to have been quick 
and quiet. 


He shot Truman. 
Then he shot him again. 


Truman yelped and crashed to the floor, still half-trussed to the 
chair. He'd aimed low, placing one round in his thigh, the other in his 


hip. 


He emptied the rest of the clip at the door and then snatched the 
carbine off the desk, tossing the pistol aside. The acrid tang of 
cordite filled the room, and Mitchell's ears rang. Through the roar he 
could hear Truman moaning faintly as he rocked side-to-side. There 
was a small pool of blood — no larger than a teacup saucer — 
forming under his legs, slowly spreading through the carpet fibers. 


He heard shouting, but couldn't parse the words or its source. An 
alarm sounded somewhere. The face of his and Truman's alert 
bracelets lit up with a notification of site-lockdown. As the ringing in 
Mitchell's ears subsided the shouting became intelligible: 


"... D-3009! Steve Truman! Please respond!" 


Mitchell hazarded a glance around the desk. Multiple loopholes in 
the door were now open, each nesting the barrel of an assault rifle. 


"D-3009 respond! Mr. Truman!" 


"Yeah? What do you want?" called Mitchell. "What happened to the 
other guy? Brian." 


Soft chatter behind the door, and then the same voice hollering: 
"Speaker! Please identify yourself." 


"This is D-3009." 

"Is Mr. Truman with you?" 

"Yeah..." 

"Why doesn't he respond? Is he alive?"