All the color drained out of Clef and Dmitri's faces as they realized 
they'd been getting drunk in the middle of a possible emergency. 
Within moments, they were racing down the hallway, knocking over 
houseplants and (at one point) crashing through a cubicle divider in 
their haste. They burst into the lunchroom with ashen faces and 
pounding hearts... 


... to find a party in full swing. There were banners made of printer 
paper on the walls, saying things like, "CONGRATULATIONS!" and 
"CONDITION GREEN" Along one wall, a vast buffet of various 
foods and drinks had been set up. A karaoke machine was set up on 
one end of the room, and Doctor Gerald was using it to belt out a 
spirited (if painfully off-key) rendition of "Sweet Child o' Mine" by 
Guns N' Roses. 


Everyone paused and stared at the two of them, who had tumbled 
through the doorway and were sitting on the floor. Clef looked up at 
the smirking secretary with annoyance in his eyes. "I thought you 
said it was a crisis!" 


"It was," Bright said, knuckle-walking over and putting party hats on 
their heads. "You guys weren't here!" 


Cheers and laughter. 
Half an hour later, Clef had forgiven them enough to open up his 


liquor cabinet for public consumption. Then the party really got 
started. 


SCP-818: An Abandoned Project 


Item #: SCP-818 
Object Class: Neutralized (Previously Keter) 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-818 was confined in a 
circular area of no less than four meters across, with no object 
directly obscuring the walls. SCP-818's containment area contained: 
one (1) sleeping mattress, one (1) table, and one (1) light fixture, 
fitted with high wattage fluorescent light bulos. SCP-818's cell was 
not, under any circumstances, rearranged, nor was the light turned 
off. Personnel were not permitted in SCP-818's holding cell, nor any 
area within an additional ten meters around the cell's perimeter, 
during its active times (from exactly 8:43 A.M. to 9:21 P.M). 
Personnel exposed to SCP-818's area of effect during its active time 
were reclassified to Class D and enrolled in SCP-818's test group. 


The following document, attributed to the original project head Dr. 

(19 to 199 ), was considered the major directive of the project 
for eight years and was given to each new member of the research 
staff. It is retained here for archival purposes: 


It should be noted that SCP-818 is a creature of precise 
habits. It will follow a specific script [See Attached File 
SCP-818-Script], without fail each day, to the letter. Built 
into this model are the times of deviation during which 
SCP-818 must be closely monitored. It should go without 
saying that failure to note ANY AND ALL additional 
deviations could be disastrous. 


Description: SCP-818 is a young male, appearing to be 
approximately seven to twelve years of age. Additionally, SCP-818 
displays all the signs of severe autism. The examinations of on-site 
behaviorists and recovered medical records show that this condition 
has been present for SCP-818's entire life. SCP-818's physical 
features have a tendency to shift when active; however, during a 


"Well," Kain said, scratching behind his ear with one hind leg. "This 
has to be the best Condition Green party since... when was the last 
one we had? Two years ago?" 


"One year, ten months, sixteen days," Gears said, taking a sip of a 
sparkling glass of something. He was standing in the corner, 
watching Dr. Rights corner several other senior staff members to 
show them pictures of her daughter. 


"Yeah. That party didn't hold a candle to this one." He lapped up a 
bit more of his mai-tai. "For one thing, the food is better." 


"Good company is the best spice," Gears said, taking another sip of 
his drink. 


"That's surprisingly maudlin coming from you,” Kain pointed out. 


"It only makes sense," Gears replied. "All pleasure, including the 
pleasure of eating, is derived from endorphins, and being around 
friends releases endorphins into the bloodstream." 


"Shoulda known, coming from you," Kain laughed. 


"Of course." Gears put down his glass and straightened his tie. 
"Now, if you will excuse me, | believe | will be needed soon. It 
seems a conga line is starting, and when a conga line is in progress, 
one congas. It only makes sense." 


"You know the best thing about having a party when you work at the 
Foundation? You save lots of money on pizza and drinks." 


Around midnight, with the party petering down, a small group of 
people could be seen standing on the roof of the Foundation 
containment site. All of them were high-level site personnel. All of 
them were holding glasses of champagne. 


"In the end,” Dr. Mann said, "All of us will face judgement. When that 
day comes... may | be judged by the quality of my friends." 


"Hear hear," Light replied. 


With a low murmur of agreement, all of them drank. 


In an undisclosed location far away, a man and a woman sat on the 
balcony of an apartment building, staring up at the wide, full moon. 
The remnants of a bottle of fine port, and a wedge of Stilton cheese 
and some crackers, sat on the patio table between them. 


There was a soft, electronic ping, and the cell phone on the patio 
table vibrated gently. The man reached out and flipped it open. 
"Hello," he said softly. 


He listened for a while, then pursed his lips. "How urgent is it?" The 
man listened a while longer, then nodded. "Then let's live and let 
live. It will still be there in the morning. Maintain Condition Green for 
another eight hours, then dispatch a notice to Site 19, Priority 
Yellow. Out." 


"Work calling, dear?" the woman asked. "Is it important?" 


"It can wait," O5-7 said, reaching out to take his wife's hand in his, 
squeezing it tightly. "For now, | think we all deserve some time off." 


END 


Clean Up Act 


"| got a dollar and a dime, gonna clean up the green slime, dead 
bodies are a no-no, alarm says | gotta go go..." sang the translucent 
and bearded janitor sweeping up gore and blood in some forgotten 
cell whose walls had been ripped open like gift wrapping by over- 
sized claws. He looked over his shoulder every few seconds and his 
muscles were tense, like he imagined that someone was watching 
him. There was no SCP-447-2 on that Site, but life in the Foundation 
was full of surprises, and Boris prided himself on being ready for 
everything. There had been a containment breach last night, and 
while Boris hadn't exactly predicted it, he had insisted to his 
colleagues that something felt off and tense about work. Of course, 
being a level 0 Janitor, nobody paid him much attention. That didn't 
bother him. Honest. One hundred percent. It had been mostly like 
that all his life. What DID bother him was when people gave him 
extra work for no good reason, like when some stupid D-Class 
decided to not follow orders when exploring some monster's hidey 
hole or whatever. Such was the life of a janitor: never showered with 
praise, but only with more filth. 


It was about lunchtime, and Boris had trained himself to be entirely 
immune to all the gut-wrenching sights that often followed the 
experiments and containment breaches in the Foundation. He felt 
his stomach rumbling, and a smile forming on his face as he thought 
of that sweet lady that served food in the cafeteria. Even though 
neither of them were exactly icons of material success, Boris still 
found himself fearing rejection on the grounds that she was too good 
for him. Just too nice and caring for his gruff and no-nonsense self. 
He finished cleaning up the last puddle of blood, and paused to 
admire the pristine reflection on the wall. 


Boris flinched back in horror as his reflection turned into the visage 
of a rotting carcass covered in black slime. SCP-106 invaded the 
cell, grinning morbidly and sniffing the air like a jackal for new 
victims. The corpse-demon slowly and awkwardly shambled in the 


direction of Boris, who suddenly realized he was trapped inside the 
cell. The janitor wielded his mop like a sword, hoping to God it would 
hold off the monster long enough for help to come. But something 
very strange happened. The Old Man stared in the general direction 
of the janitor, paused a few feet away, and attacked with its claws. 
When nothing happened to Boris, the Old Man tilted its malformed 
head in confusion and melted into the ground. 


After calming down and realizing that his hard work had been ruined 
by SCP-106's black slime, Boris screamed profanities and threw his 
mop onto the ground. "Why can't | ever get to work with the clean 
and nice ones for a change?" He lamented. But before he could 
dwell on that, there was the matter of why the Old Man hadn't been 
able to affect him. Should he tell his colleagues about this? Would 
he be considered an anomaly as well? Maybe it was better to play it 
safe. He waited until more personnel came into the cell and 
observed them from behind a smashed and corroded computer 
bank. 


The personnel which entered the cell completely ignored Boris as 
usual, but something they mentioned caught his attention. 
Something about sightings of a new spectral class entity around the 
area of the containment breach. Boris followed them outside the cell 
and down several corridors where the freakish aftermath of last night 
was still visible, and blood and gore were the least disturbing things 
there. Giant egg sacs had burst open, fungus-like growths had 
spread over the walls and at least one mutant nervous system still 
crawled about. 


Boris carefully maneuvered around all the anomalies, avoiding 
detection by other personnel for the moment. He needed to confirm 
if something was true, because if it was, then all his years of work 
for the Foundation meant nothing. He would be locked up forever 
same as all the others, probably without so much as a lousy 
commemorative gift for his dedication. And as he entered his room, 
all his fears were confirmed: he had been considered dead in the 
containment breach, his meager possessions had been transported 
elsewhere and his room was going to be occupied by a new 
personnel. Boris looked at his translucent and tattooed arms, and 
only now their abnormality registered on his mind. That could only 


mean one thing. 
He was dead and gone. 


He dropped to the ground and slumped against the wall, holding his 
wrinkled face in his hands. This couldn't be happening. Not after all 
this time, not so close to retirement. What was he supposed to do 
now? Clean filthy cells for all eternity? Atone for some sin he didn't 
know about? Find answers? 


After a long time of breathing heavily and sobbing, Boris regained 
his composure. He always prided himself on being ready for 
everything, so he weighted his options. Number one? Fuck no. 
Number two? That can wait until his soul passes on to the other 
side. Number three? That was useful. Even if he got locked up after 
all, maybe he could help find whoever was responsible for this damn 
breach and get some measure of peace. 


Rising and breathing in slowly, the janitor searched his memory for a 
mental map of the Site. He remembered that the breach had started 
in a laboratory three floors down to where he was. If he was a ghost 
now, he should be able to float and pass through walls without being 
seen. Reaching the laboratory, he found that it was under 
quarantine. Some personnel in hazmat suits were present to 
determine the extent of damage, retrieve samples and determine the 
most likely causes of the breach. The laboratory was covered in 
much the same biological anomalies as the corridors above, albeit in 
smaller quantities. Boris noticed that on one of the walls were words 
he could just barely decipher: "Follow The Jackal". Along with it was 
an image of a stylized and skeletal jackal. 


He didn't remember any anomalies by that name around these 
parts. Was someone trying to intimidate them with cryptic 
nonsense? For what reason? Whatever it could be, the personnel 
had to see this. But how could he show it to them? He wasn't even 
sure if he should do it, they could find out about what really 
happened during the breach. Even so, he couldn't leave without 
helping them somehow. 


Wait a minute. He was holding his mop even though he was 
technically intangible. Maybe he had some form of telekinesis? He 


reached out with his mind and clinked two coffee mugs together to 
call the attention of the personnel to the mysterious words. 


They approached carefully and with hesitation, when suddenly one 
of them started choking and retching inside his hazmat, followed 
after a minute of agony by his helmet bursting open with fungal 
growths that overtook control of his body. The rest of the personnel 
struggled in vain against the growing tendrils of the creature, and 
were crushed into fine paste. The fungal mass squirmed out of the 
hazmat suit and down cracks in the laboratory to look for a more 
appropriate environment. Boris was left alone for a long time, 
surrounded by death and giving a thousand yard stare. His shock 
was interrupted when a skeletal jackal with pale glowing eyes 
walked inside and sat beside the corpses. It sniffed them with 
interest and walked circles around them before releasing a long 
howl. From the corpses emerged luminous spectral entities not 
unlike Boris, but they seemed to still be caught in a torpor. 


Before Boris could say anything, the jackal left through a portal 
along with the spectral entities. The janitor didn't skip a beat and 
followed the jackal inside, hoping to find some answers, any 
answers. But what he found when he made it to the other side were 
only more questions. He was in the waiting room for a what seemed 
like the clinic of a therapist, but the decorations seemed oddly 
Egyptian. There was a solemn but soothing air to the place, like all 
of one's worries could be put to rest here. 


All around Boris were sharply dressed and smiling people with the 
heads of animals attending to the lines of spectres with remarkable 
patience and modern equipment. There were magazines from 
across the eons and realms here and there, and occasionally one of 
the strange workers would come in with refreshments despite 
everyone being dead. A very pleasant and sophisticated music 
played that further soothed the nerves of the recent arrivals. Some 
of the spectres chatted like old friends while others refused to 
believe this was their final destination. 


The rich sights were not enough to stop the gruff janitor from cutting 
the line and demanding to see their manager, or whoever their boss 
was. A lady with a cat head calmly told him that his number would 

be generated soon. He was even offered a massage by the cat lady, 


and immediately refused with a huff. This wasn't the time for 
pleasantries! But rules were rules, he supposed, and so he sat ona 
surprisingly comfortable chair and read a magazine about exotic 
cooking recipes. Soon enough, he heard someone call out his 
name. 


He went through a golden and jewel-encrusted door to the 
therapist's office and found the jackal inside, but with a humanoid 
shape, dressed in a sharp black suit and carrying a golden cane. His 
smile was eager and went from ear to ear as he motioned with his 
cane to a couch beside him. 


"Greetings, Boris. | hope my staff treated you well?" 
"The hell is this place?" he shouted without any elegance. 


"Rude. This isn't Hell. Can't you tell where you are from the decor? 
Or perhaps you think the staff are wearing costumes and this is all a 
prank?" 


"Do you have any idea of who | am?" Boris felt both out of place and 
amazing for getting to say that at least once. 


"Of course | do, it's part of my job. | know you have seen enough 
wonders and terrors to last a dozen lifetimes. | was just pulling your 
leg."