Thank you for the breach report. It's not proven but | 
think we both know Lazarus has the phone now - he 
interviewed Carol for six hours. He had sole access to 
both. | am truly sorry, Frank. You're blameless, at least. 
Just following orders. Under the circumstances | won't 
bother with an official response. 


[REDACTED] 


Current Situation: Current location of SCP-2982 and Alexander 
Lazarus is unknown. Locating same is of paramount importance and 
Operation Blank Cheque is in place to facilitate this. 


* On 2015-03-03, O5 council member 07 received a 43-second 
anomalous video message which showed her sleeping in bed, 
with Lazarus standing naked over her. This is proof positive 
that Lazarus is now actively using SCP-2982, reasons 
unknown. 


¢ SCP-2982 was misappropriated with only 37% of Core 1/ 
contact tests completed, and 0% of Core 2/Structure tests 
complete. Conclusions: The Foundation cannot confirm the 
full extent of the anomalous properties of SCP-2982. 


» [REDACTED] 


+ 


Alexander Lazarus picked his way through the gravestones and 
found his way at last to the crying tramp. The last few days, though 
productive in their own way, had been somewhat lacking in closure. 
Today would help. Today, all wrongs would be righted, all previous 
injustices would be cleansed from the sleeping, oblivious world. 


"Excuse me," he said. "| need a moment of your time." 


The tramp looked up from his graveside vigil and blinked into the 
sunlight. He tried to look into the man's face but it was silhouetted 
and impenetrable. He turned his gaze downwards instead; a 
business suit, very new and probably expensive. Tailored, maybe. 
Trousers with a razor sharp crease. Unscuffed, virgin shoes. No 
traces of dirt or mud or water stains. The body the clothes adorned 
worked out; the man was lean and tall, mid-fifties with a military 
bearing. Precise, efficient. 


Lazarus nodded towards the gravestone. "Who was it?" 
"Robert Francis Catterson," the tramp replied. "A good man." 
"You knew him?" 


"He was a good man," the man repeated. "Died of a stroke. Did lots 
of work for local folks. Fought against the KKK in his time. Died of a 
stroke. His funeral - still hurts to remember it. Seventy nine years 
old. Grand children were distraught." 


"You knew him? You were at the funeral?" 
The man nodded at last. "He was a good friend.” 


Lazarus squatted down on his haunches and studied the 
gravestone. "Your good friend died 30th March, 1913. He died one 
hundred and two years ago." 


"| Know what you're thinking,” replied the tramp. "And | don't care. | 
know everyone who's died. How and when, too." 


"True," said Lazarus. He massaged his chin, stroking it with 
forefinger and thumb. "Hope you don't mind me saying, but you look 
hungry." He opened up a wallet - it was uncreased and smelt new, 
as if it had not been opened before - and brought out two crisp ten 
dollar bills. He held them out; the tramp accepted them quietly. 
"What's your name?" 


"| don't know," said the tramp. 


"I know," confided Lazarus. The tramp raised his eyebrows. "I know 
who did this to you - this whole "/ know how everyone diea" thing - 
and why. You're part of a bigger picture." He looked down, noticed a 
speck of dirt on his shoe, and wiped it off with his handkerchief. 
"How about we help each other out? You walk away with your 
name, and the name of the man who did this to you." 


"You can do that?" 


"| have contacts,” said Lazarus. "Although if you want revenge, you'll 
be too late. The lowlife responsible is no more." 


"Dead?" 


Lazarus nodded. "Yes," he said. "Died earlier this month. Help me 
and I'll give you his name and you can go piss on his grave or 
something." He shrugged and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his 
jacket. "Smoke?" 


"| don't," the tramp said. 


"Me neither," said Lazarus, putting the box away. "Handy to have 
though, just in case. Listen; | know the name of a dead man isn't 
much closure for you, but it's something." 


"Okay," the tramp said. "What help do you want? You want to find 
someone who's dead? | need their names - and dates of birth or 
death if possible." 


"Small price to pay," Lazarus noted. There was a pause, and then 
he stood up again, his shadow casting a long thin shadow against 
the grave. "Angela Knowledge Gwandoya. Can't be too many of 
them. Lived in Beacon Hill." 


The tramp immediately started to sob. 
"You okay?" 


"She was So little," said the tramp. "She was such a beautiful little 
thing," he said. "Why is there such evil in the world?" 


"To balance out the good, otherwise it's all grey." Lazarus handed 
the tramp a tissue. "Come on, don't cry. You have the chance to 
make everything all right. Do you know where she's buried?" 


The tramp nodded through tears and wiped his nose on his hand. 
"Small place on the outskirts of town," he said. "Quiet place." 


"Here." Lazarus offered his hand to the tramp and helped him up. 
"I'll drive. Show me." 


= 


They stood, perspiring in the sullen March sunshine, over the 
relatively fresh grave of Angela Knowledge Gwandoya. "Bigger than 
| expected," said the tramp. 


"| believe there's a reason for that," said Lazarus. "Still, she's in 
heaven now." 


The two reflected in silence. Lazarus glanced around. They had not 
been followed, and the cemetery was empty. The tramp turned to 
him suddenly. "Why are we here?" he asked. 


"Long story. I'm not really here for the girl. I'm here for her mother. 
Final respects, so to speak." 


"So why not just ask me for her mother?" 


"Good question. Wouldn't work," said Lazarus. "Her final resting 
place is unmarked. My organisation has the location, but | can't 
access it - can't even Google it - without all kinds of flags and alerts 
getting raised. I'm pushing the envelope of good fortune just being 
here talking to you, truth be told. I'm currently undergoing a 


transitional period of strategic realignment and allegiance re- 
prioritisation, you might say." 


"Doesn't make sense," said the tramp. "And how'd you know it 
wouldn't work?" 


"Trust me," said Lazarus. "I've done my homework. There's a file on 
you. You can remember the death of everyone who ever lived. You 
even know where they're buried, but only if their final resting place is 
known to the authorities." He handed the tramp another tissue; he 
had started crying again. "Before you were like this, someone you 
loved disappeared. You obsessed about it. Pissed a certain man off 
with your constant depression, so he did this to you as punishment. 
Thought it would be amusing if you knew every single death except 
the one that mattered to you the most. Thought it would be funny if 
you couldn't remember a single thing about your own life, but knew 
everything about the dead. The fact that you informed on his 
somewhat shady business ventures certainly didn't help." 


Lazarus looked at the tramp. "! apologise if that hurts," he offered. 
"Thought you at least deserved some insight into your condition. 
Guy that did this, did the same thing to a lot of innocent folk. 
Enjoyed hurting them. People think I'm dispassionate, but I've come 
to realise there's no point sugar-coating shit." 


The tramp didn't answer. Lazarus continued. "The organisation | 
work - worked - for, face unimaginable horrors every day. Have to 
do horrible things in the name of humanity. So when they can, they 
perform tiny acts of kindness." He paused to wipe the sweat from his 
brow. "This little girl buried here, she was raped and murdered by a 
freak by the name of Aidan Brown. Broke the mother's heart, she 
never really recovered. So when the mother died, they broke from 
procedure a little. Took her for tests, yes, then disposed of her, yes, 
even made an empty grave for her with her name so everything was 
squared with the authorities. But | think they secretly buried her with 
her daughter here, so they would be together again at last." 


"Jesus," said the tramp. 


Lazarus continued. "Mother died in a car accident on the third of this 
month." He caught the tramp's quizzical expression. "They were 


fleeing the police," he explained. "Driver - man by the name of Geoff 
Mansani - lost control and drove off a bridge straight into the San 
Antonio river. Drowned. Her and Mansani both. Think Aidan Brown 
was in the car too, but he's never been found... Listen. | promised 
you the name of the man who made you the way you are. But | need 
one more bit of information from you. | need to know exactly how 
Helen Gwandoya died. Was it an accident or did that paedophile 
bastard Aidan Brown kill her too?" 


"It wasn't an accident," said the tramp. "It was murder." 


"Murder?" Lazarus turned back to the other man. "Do you know 
what happened?" 


"It's... confused. But it was murder. Premeditated, definitely... Like 
you say - car crash. Helen Gwandoya in the front with Mancini - 
Mansani? Halfway over the bridge, something in the back seat. Like 
a lobster but man sized - pulls a taser on the driver. He loses 
control. They go into the river. Helen Gwandoya drowns - she can't 
open the doors." Then, by way of explanation: "She had poorly 
hands." 


"Post-natal phocomelia," Lazarus said. He saw the tramp's blank 
expression. "Thalidomide-impaired is the PC term - like those babies 
in the sixties and seventies. I've read a lot of medical dictionaries 
since this business started." 


"Mansani died too," the tramp said. "The locks had been tampered 
with, even if he hadn't been zapped. Sorry, no offence." 


"And the lobster man?" 
The tramp shrugged. "Got out. Didn't drown." 


"Goddamn bastard could breathe underwater," said Lazarus. "So 
Aidan Brown just swam away like the fucking freak he is and left 
them to die. He must have planned it like that from day one." 


The tramp chewed his upper lip in thought. Lazarus turned away 
from him and scanned the cemetery for mourners or ground 
workers. There were none. He said, "Wish | could find that evil son 


of a bitch." 


The tramp rolled his eyes, then nodded. "Guy was a fucking 
paedophile? Shit. Good riddance. Anyhow you're too late... Looks 
like neither of us get closure today." 


"What do you mean?" 
"He's dead. Drowned." 


Lazarus wheeled around. "In the car crash? You don't think he got 
out?" 


The tramp sucked the corner of his top lip into his mouth. "No. Aidan 
Brown drowned in a toilet," he said. "Jammed face down in a toilet." 


"You're getting confused,” said Lazarus. He looked around again. 


"| ain't confused," said the tramp. "And he died before the car crash. 
He drowned in a toilet." 


"Where?" 

"In an apartment. Beacon Hill." 

"Who's apartment?" 

"Guy called Harold Augustus Maine." 

"Harold Maine's dead. He's the one who drowned in the toilet." 
The tramp shook his head. "No," he said. "He isn't dead." 


Lazarus looked long into the other man's eyes. "You're very 
informative,” he said. 


"Thank you." 


"No," said Lazarus. "That isn't a good thing. You can't help but tell 
the truth, can you?" 


"A man has to eat," said the tramp. 


Lazarus nodded silently in agreement. "A man has to eat," he 
sighed. He brought out a small black and white photograph, folded 
over. He unfurled it and held it up to the tramp. "You've been a great 
help to me today," he said. "But | think we're done here." 


He tapped the photograph with his free hand. "What do you see?" 


The tramp scanned the picture briefly. "It's just a coupla kittens in a 
basket," he said. "Why'm | looking at this?” 


"Why do you think?" 


"Because.. " the tramp looked confused. "The kittens are me. 
They're me... |... never knew. They're in the shadows. Crusting 
over." The tramp shook his head. "Eyes like buttons." 


Lazarus grunted. "What's the photo of now?" 


"A... burning wish." The tramp was struggling to come up with the 
words. "Given another cloud." 


"Sit down," Lazarus ordered, putting the photograph away, careful 
not to look at it. The tramp obeyed sluggishly, as if even this was a 
task that was rapidly overtaking his ability to perform it. Lazarus 
guided the man downwards until he was almost prone. "They'll come 
for you. They've already done it once, but you don't remember. Don't 
believe me?" He brushed off the tramp's finger marks from his suit 
with a silk handkerchief. "Orange black black yellow titanium blue 
yellow yellow vilifier seventy eight Ferdinand." 


The tramp's eyes widened with lucidity. "Jesus," he gasped. 
"Charcoal school... grown-up." 


"See? You remember. The Foundation will come for you and they'll 
ask you the self same questions | just did and you'll fucking tell them 
everything. Can't have that, Carl." 


"Carl... ?" 


"Your name's Carl Fierri. Can't have you informing on me twice in 
one fucking lifetime.” 


setting before the "end" of the book, SCP-826 will "reset" the setting, 
starting the book's plot over. The subject will then be "incorporated" 
into the book as a background character, losing all memories of a 
previous life outside of SCP-826. 


Researchers studying SCP-826 are advised to enter the results into 
Experiment Log 826. 


« SCP-825 | SCP-826 | SCP-827 » 


"Futile shop," the tramp slurred. "Maria." 


Lazarus took something else from his pocket; a small, black 
cellphone. He swiped the touchscreen and typed for maybe five 
minutes, no longer concerned about the tramp slouched against a 
gravestone behind him. He turned his head back and said, "Even if | 
didn't know where she was buried, if | knew where her kid was 
buried, that would be enough. Knew you'd come through like the 
blabber mouth you are." 


"Trains," whispered the tramp. A trickle of blood emerged from his 
nostrils. It smelt of fish and bleach. "Trains under water, breathing 
with music... Customer facing.” 


Lazarus squatted down and touched the grass covering the grave 
tenderly. "| was wrong to give you a choice," he mused softly. "1 
know where | went wrong. Won't make that mistake this time. Willing 
slave. We have such a future ahead of us." 


Behind him, the tramp tried to get up but failed, his arms and legs no 
longer submissive to his will. "Tape measure," he said. He was 
aware that his mouth was filling up with spit; he had forgotten he 
needed to swallow. "Bottle lift. Bottle entry. Timeout." 


"Hush now," said Lazarus. "Show some respect." 


The tramp gurgled through the phlegm but became quiet almost 
immediately. His hands clutched lumps of soil. 


Lazarus dismissed him with a wave. "It's been a long road," he said. 
"Come a long way. Still, we're here now. Nearly at the end, nearly at 
the end... " He put the phone back in his pocket. "People always 
said | was dumb," he said. "Lacked ambition, lacked imagination. 
Well where the fuck are they?" 


The tramp was twitching, his skin mottling and darkening, his limbs 
twisting in on themselves. 


"You know, | hope this works," Lazarus said. "Otherwise | get to look 
real stupid." He turned to the tramp again. "You just lie there and 
don't try to fight it. You were going to die anyway. Now you get a 


chance to live on. In a way." 


The tramp was losing consciousness, his exposed flesh bruising like 
overripe fruit. "I'm sorry for the deceit," said Lazarus. "But you need 
to be close to each other. Otherwise believe me, | would never risk 
this." He straightened the tramp's arms and legs and tipped his head 
back so that he could breathe more easily. "There might be better 
ways of doing this but I'll stick with what | know. Anyhow | don't have 
all day to dig." 


"Please..." the tramp said. Lazarus mopped the man's brow with his 
handkerchief and started to loosen his clothes. "Apologies," he said. 
"But you stink. Not your fault. But you stink. | can't have you smelling 
or looking like this." 


Having unbuttoned the other man's trousers and shirt, he started the 
long task of undressing him completely. 


+