Then the prey had changed. A smaller, scrawnier sort of prey, with 
more stone teeth than the others, so that at first the tribe still hunted 
the bone-heads. The thinner prey hunted the bone-heads too, 
though not for food, and between them the supply dried up. This 
new sort of prey was harder to hunt and catch, even back then - 
they sealed themselves away in burrows which gave way to hives, 
with the horrible criss-crossing branches exactly perpendicular to 
each other that made his tribe's eyes water and their stomachs 
heave when they looked at them. And they had the burning light, like 
lightning but contained in a bundle of sticks. Still, they had 
prospered; he had found a mate - he found that if he tried hard he 
could recall the curves of her body as they lay together - and had 
children who ran wildly over the plains like he had. 


But the prey had grown ever further entrenched, and it seemed the 
more the prey swarmed together the harder it was to get inside, to 
skip over into the twilight world that let them move through the walls 
and floors of their hives. They ringed their hives with running water; 
the first time he had burrowed into that he remembered the mind- 
consuming movement, a taste of what the whole world would 
become. 


How had he been captured? He thought for a moment that he could 
not longer remember, until the outlines of a narrative suggested 
themselves to his mind. Was it true? Who could tell? 


He had been alone - perhaps for decades. The last member of his 
tribe - he could no longer recall whether it had been his mate or one 
of his offspring - had vanished one day like all the rest. He 


sometimes entertained himself with the thought that she was still 
alive, then wondered what that meant. He would not wish this - this 
disintegration, this incomprehensible confinement - on her, or any 
member of his tribe. 


He thought he could remember waking one day and feeling hungry - 
more hungry that he had ever felt in his whole existence. He had 
roused himself from near-hibernation in the tree where he lived and 
descended. The prey's hive nestled in the shadow of a hill on the far 
side of the lake the old man remembered being far larger in his 
childhood. The prey drank it, he had realised one day long ago, and 
in their teeming thousands depleted it. When it was dry, the prey 
would be gone, and then what would he do? He had approached, 
moving over and through earth they had pockmarked with their tall 
gold seed, leeching the life out of it. 


The hive was bigger than he remembered, and more dazzling - the 
luminescence the prey produced to light their way through the night 
that had once belonged to his tribe catching off big, flat, reflective 
surfaces that seemed profoundly unnatural. Just one, he thought; he 
just needed one of them, then he could sleep again. He would find 
one of the caves the prey made under their hives and sleep. He 
shivered as he passed through cold, yellow light. Here, at the edge 
of the hive, they still had open areas around each burrow, though 
they had grazed the grass so thoroughly there was almost nothing 
left. 


He remembered seeing one of them - small, tender in his mind's eye 
- and the old man drooled. He had watched it for days, waited for a 
moment when it left the safety of the pack (these days, precious few 
moments - they guarded their young so fiercely). Then, while it was 
running near its burrow, he took it; long arms closing around it and 
fingers searing into its flesh. A twist, practiced many, many times, 
and it was gone. He could not wait to hide; his hunger was too 
severe. His remaining teeth were already gnawing at the soft tissues 
of its nose and ears, even as he hugged the small body to him and 
shrank into the shadows of the treeline. 


Then the light. Then the pain. The prey had found him hours later, 
eating what was left of the infant, and shone their brilliant light in his 
eyes. Blows fell on the old man, crushing him. He felt something pop 


in his arm. Something shining was looped between his wrist and the 
tree, and they went away. He tried to retreat to the fields in his mind, 
but the cold iron kept him there. He had found a way to escape it, 
later, but that was after they had put him in the cell at the centre of 
the maze. 


Then the white coats had come and taken him away, and the lights 
had grown brighter and the pain more intense. No food, no food. He 
was dying, he thought, distantly, starving one day at a time. When 
he had been young he had seen an old man die of starvation - he 
had killed another member of the tribe and no-one would share their 
food with him. His limbs had hollowed out and his skin had become 
like a dried leaf. 


For a long time he had hoped that others of his kind would come 
and find him, save him from this humiliation. But they would not 
relieve his hunger, he knew. They would not share their food with 
him. He had become that old man and he had committed sin. He 
could not remember the reason he had fought the larger male - 
times had become hard and prey scarce, and the other male had 
failed the tribe. It had occured to him later that the older male might 
have been his father. 


The old man remembered the onlookers, faces blurred and shifting, 
watching as he pummelled the larger male to the floor and put his 
hand in the other's skull and moved his fingers until there was no life 
in there anymore. But he had done no better, and his people had 
grown thinner and thinner and left him, one by one, to find richer 
hunting grounds elsewhere. Now he was alone. And as the years 
went by in the metal cell, he began to think an awful thought - / am 
the last. 


Once, these bewildering creatures in white coats would not have 
confused him. His mind would have been clean and sharp and he 
would have navigated the horrible labyrinth outside his cell. 


Once but not now. Now he wandered alone in the crumbling steel 
darkness, the pain from his stomach overwhelming what was left of 
him. 


| have lost everything, he thought. | have lost everything! 


Name: Dr. Greer 

Date: 02/02/2017 

Total Items: Three (3) unopened spray cans of Fox 
Labs 'White Lighting' brand pepper spray. 


Input: 1 spray can 

Setting: Rough 

Output: Several piles of metal and plastic scraps, 
several puddles of various chemicals, and a small puddle 
of oleoresin capsicum. 


Input: 1 spray can 

Setting: 1:1 

Output: One (1) unopened spray can of Fox Labs 'Mean 
Green’ brand pepper spray. 


Input: 1 spray can 

Setting: Very Fine 

Output: One (1) miniature chili pepper. Chemical testing 
revealed a Scoville heat rating of over 300 000 000, 
making it by far the hottest chili in the world. 


Name: Dr. Ursini 

Date: 3/20/17 

Total Items: Three (3) 9mm magazines for a standard 
Glock 19. 


Input: One (1) magazine as stated above. 

Setting: 1:1 

Output: One (1) magazine for the UMP45, with the 
same amount of ammunition, causing the magazine to 
be somewhat empty. 


Input: One (1) magazine as stated above. 

Setting: Fine 

Output: One (1) magazine, seemingly identical to the 
input. Item has no effect when fired on inanimate objects. 
When fired at a human target, the target experiences 
traumatic memories of being shot and will fully believe 
that they have been shot, and will disregard others trying 


He twitched as he realised that in his distress he had drifted further 
from his cell than he ever had before - those decayed corridors of 
mind fell behind him and he found himself in what he thought was 
the waking world, but nothing like the maze he had perceived 
before. Here the air was so fresh his old lungs exhaled suddenly as 
though he had been submerged in ice. He was in a small, tunnel-like 
space, like the burrows of foxes or badgers but hard-cornered and 
metal in the fashion of the prey. 


Below him were slats of light, and he realised dimly that through 
them he could see the world of the white coats, clean and clinical. 
But there was something wrong. Red lights were wheeling back and 
forth, hypnotically. The white coats were running; rushing away to be 
replaced by others with blue hard hats and determined expressions. 


Then, he smelled it, the scent of injured prey, so rich, so replete in 
memory but so harrowingly distant that he wondered if he had 
imagined it, like so much else. But no, there it was again. The old 
man stirred long black limbs and raised himself up as far as he 
could, his ragged nostrils sucking in the fresh, cold air. And his ears, 
dulled as they were, picked up that long-forgotten cry, the gibbering 
assemblage of syllables, almost human, as the prey called out in 
pain and fear. 


The dribble came thickly down his withered chin, and dry old eyes 
moistened again as he remembered marrow, and blood soaking into 
pink, juicy meat, just like it had been in the old days. No doubt the 
white coats would take this morsel from him as they had taken it 
away before. He didn't care; there was not enough left of the old 
man to care. He could only move, down through the slats, towards 
the light. 


The old man came drip, drip, dripping down the wall... 


One Bad Mother 


The Conception 


Dr. Kald and Dr. Mann waited in the main chamber of 542's new 
accommodations, sitting in the lush chairs they had arranged for 
their charge. 


It had taken them months to get access to 542, months yet to be 
made co-chairs of his case. They had wheedled and pleaded for the 
best accommodations for 542 they could from the Foundations. It 
had been worth it. 


Dr. Mann purposely did not look at Dr. Kald. He glanced at the clock 
on the wall, and at the old-fashioned radio (really an MP3 player with 
Chirurg's favorite songs loaded into it), and occasionally at the set of 
medical encyclopedias lining the walls. He looked everywhere in the 
room except at the door to Chirurg's bedroom (he looked away 
bashfully) and at the other doctor (he looked away pointedly). Kald 
just glared at Mann. 


They had both fallen for the old doctor. His wit, his charm, his large 
collection of organs... What wasn't there to love? So they had both 
done their best to woo the SCP, maintaining as much secrecy as 
they could (though surely the Foundation must be aware of their 
torrid affair). They had spent many fascinating hours with Herr 
Chirurg, drinking the finest wines, speaking of philosophy and art, 
and performing impromptu surgery on each other. It was bliss. 


The only wrinkle was the presence of the other. Each wanted 
Chirurg for himself. Sharing was inconceivable. And tonight, they 
each secretly hoped, Chirurg would make his decision, and they 
could finally know if they had his love. 


Finally, the door opened, and Chirurg stepped out. The two doctors 
savored his stooped gait, the delicate artistry of his scars, and the 


grace of his fingers as they caressed the doorknob. 


"Ah, my darlings," the old surgeon said, a fond smile on his lips. 
"Tonight is a very important night for us. | have an announcement to 
make." 


The two doctors held their breath. Surely their time had come at last. 
They both were certain that the other... the interloper would get their 
comeuppance at last. 


"This is not a decision | come to lightly. It has taken a great deal of 
thought and soul-searching. However, | believe that | have come to 
a decision that is right for me. That is right for... us." Chirurg paused 
and cleared his throat, like a patriarch making a declaration before 
the entire family. "| have decided... we should have a child." 


Dr. Kald blinked. "Vas?" 


"Er, could you repeat that?" Dr. Mann said, unsure that he'd heard 
correctly. 


"A child. A baby. My darlings, | think it is time we started a family." 
He sighed, long and heavy, his distended ribcage slowly expanding 
and contracting. "| have been so long without my dear Isabella, but | 
think she would want me to move on after all this time. She was 
good to me, but that was long ago, and it is time to think of the 
future." 


"Ah. Well," Dr. Mann said. "That's... a large step, isn't it?" 
"Ich...Ich mean, | yam honurrd, but... how?" Dr. Kald said. 


"Ah, | thought you might ask that. It will be difficult, but we can do 
anything through the healing power of Science!" Chirurg said. "Now, 
let us consummate our love through microsurgery and genetic 
engineering." 


"To the laboratory!" Dr. Mann said, his heart engaged by the old 
surgeon's enthusiasm. 


"Vith all doo chaste,” Dr. Kald said, momentarily forgetting his rival in 
the warm presence of his darling. 


Within moments, the microsurgery tools were set-up, the genetic 
samples unfrozen, and the mysterious beakers and flasks of colorful 
fluids were bubbling merrily. Dr. Mann and Dr. Kald were happily 
splicing away at DNA. 


"Now, we will take fifteen chromosomes from my darling Everett, 
fifteen from my beloved Josef, fifteen from myself, and one from my 
lost Isabella." Chirurg began the delicate process of combining the 
DNA into one complete set. It was a delicate process, requiring a 
steady, unwavering hand. His thin, multi-jointed digits went to work 
with a will, slowly wending their way into the very stuff of life, until he 
had completed his chromosomal work. 


"Gentlemen," he said to his beloveds, "We have combined our 
genetic material successfully. Now we must raise it to gestation." 


"Chow shall ve prosheed?" Dr. Kald asked. 
"An artificial womb? A surrogate?" Dr. Mann suggested. 


"No, no, that would spoil the magic of it," Chirurg said. "It must be 
one of us." 


"Ah... perchaps Dr. Mann vud like ze honor?" Dr. Kald suggested. 


Dr. Mann shook his head. "No, no, | couldn't. You should do it, Dr. 
Kald. | insist." 


"Ah, | know my little darlings are so eager to make each other 
happy. But there can only be one womb. So... | will flip a coin. 
Heads, Mann, tails Kald." Chirurg reached into his pocket, pulled out 
an old, tarnished Deutschmark, and flipped it upward. The three of 
them watched as it spun, catching the light, and then landed with a 
sharp ringing. 


Dr. Mann walked out with a certain heaviness of heart, saddened 
that he would not, after all, have Chirurg to himself. However, at 
least he had the consolation that he wouldn't be the one to carry the 
child. He had too much to do. He didn't have time to be a working 
mother. 


He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the dark 
shape sneaking up behind him, not until he felt the sharp jab of the 
needle as it slid expertly into the meat of his buttocks. He started to 
turn, but then the world turned to cotton balls, and he thought it best 
to lay down and close his eyes. 


When he woke up, there was a soreness around his lower regions, 
but given certain of his experiments, he thought nothing of it, and 
kept on with his day. It was over a month before the morning 
sickness began, and he realized what had been done to him. 


Month 1 


Dr. Kald was relaxing with the perfectly preserved body of a six- 
year-old when he heard a skittering in his room. He looked around, 
but didn't see anything. He shrugged, and began a new incision. 


"Hello," said a voice. Dr. Kald looked around. It had sounded like Dr. 
Rights, but she was no where in sight. 


"Bastard," said another voice. It sounded like Agent Yoric. But still, 
he didn't see anyone. He held his scalpel a bit tighter, for possible 
use aS a weapon. 


Suddenly, there was a pain in his leg. "Zum donnerwetter!" he said, 
spinning around. Then he fell as the leg collapsed from under him. 
He saw acrab scuttling away. Then another moved at him from the 
side. He lashed out with the scalpel, but it only bounced off the 
crab's carapace, and it scored a tiny cut on his wrist. His hand went 
limp. Others moved in, and he found himself quickly disabled with 
surgical precision.