We talked, then. We talked for a good three hours, about why the 
Hand did what it did, why we did what we did. We forged, if not a 
friendship, then at least mutual respect. | even gave him the silver 
bullet | would have used on him. He had it reforged into a ring, for 
his new mate. She didn’t quite understand why he always referred to 
it as offering her his life, but | knew what he meant. 


We stayed in each other's lives. | made sure | didn't go on any 
missions that involved him. He directly avoided any contact with the 
Foundation. | was a groomsman at his wedding. He would play 
cowboys and Indians with my boys. 


My oldest son killed him 30 years later in an altercation with the 
Serpent's Hand. | never told him the dreaded Winter Wolf was also 
his kindly uncle Jason. | don’t think he would have cared. 


I’m sorry, I’m getting on, and my mind wanders. Our enemies, they 
have always called us monsters, because they think there has to be 
another way. That we should be able to contain skips without 
treating them like objects. That we should be able to use the benign 


ones, or at least make them comfortable. 


The problem will always be knowing which ones are the benign 
ones. Because it changes, you know? 


After all, | was the one who tamed the Beast. | was the one who said 
that it could be useful, that we didn’t just have to contain, but could 
also utilize. | made the biggest mistake the Foundation would see for 
generations. 


| decided we should weaponize The Factory. 


High Ratings 


After what seemed like years, Mark woke up. 


It hadn't been for lack of trying. Several times, he had felt light 
pound against his eyelids, desperate to get in. The piercing, searing 
sensation running through his head only served to make his sleep 
that much more confusing as he rose to his feet, disoriented and 
stumbling. The room was a blur, but he could make out cracked 
concrete, patches of mold, and an aged, decaying musk that 
burrowed itself into his nostrils. 


Mark had no way of knowing how long he was unconscious for. 
Everything that had transpired before waking up in a small, locked 
concrete room faded away like smoke into the air. Only gradually did 
thoughts and senses return to him, most of them doing so suddenly 
and without warning. The pressure in his head ratcheted up, causing 
him to lurch forward a few feet, palm a nearby wall, and vomit. He 
smelled what he thought was breakfast in a puddle on the floor. 


With the few seconds of reprieve throwing up had bought him, Mark 
snapped his head around the room, his gaze eventually falling ona 
rusted metal door with no handle or keyhole. A small pane of glass, 
no bigger than a textbook, rested in the middle of it. He approached 
it and tried to look at the exterior hallway, but the lack of light made it 
too difficult to discern anything useful. A shadow quickly moved 
across one of the walls, coming into view as a particularly large, 
healthy rat. Exasperated, Mark fell to his knees, his back hugging 
the door. 


The only thought that broke through his piercing migraine was that 
he had been kidnapped. 


How? He asked himself silently, eyes still circling around in search 
of anything notable. Why would anyone ao this to me? | don't know 
anyone that would - 


an infected subject for no less than thirty minutes, with symptoms 
manifesting between four and nine days after infection. Stage One 
symptoms typically include a significantly improved short-term 
memory, with subjects typically being able to clearly remember 
events and information for 80% longer than they would otherwise, 
on average. Subjects also report the ability to recall events that 
happened after initial infection with greater accuracy than they would 
otherwise. This has been confirmed by testing. The effects of 
SCP-868 become more pronounced the longer the subject is host to 
the meme. 


Stage Two effects of SCP-868 become apparent roughly five weeks 
after infection. Prior to this, subjects are frequently able to remember 
with near-perfect accuracy any event or information received after 
contracting SCP-868 and from several days before. However, over 
the course of between one and five days (directly proportional to the 
subject’s age), this effect extends to encompass the subject’s entire 
lifespan. 


SCP-868 poses a significant risk to Foundation interests due to its 
interaction with subjects that have been affected by amnestics. 
Testing has shown that hosting SCP-868 for any amount of time is 
sufficient to prevent amnestics from affecting its memories. In 
addition, during the second stage of the infection, SCP-868 
completely negates the effects of any amnestic administered at any 
point in the subject's life, potentially allowing the subject to 
remember sensitive or dangerous information. This has held true for 
all tested methods of inducing amnesia, both natural and man-made 
(See Addendum 868-2). 


Prior to its full containment, SCP-868 caused 5 secrecy breaches, 
necessitating the termination of [REDACTED] individuals to prevent 
the spread of sensitive information regarding the Foundation, SCP 
objects, and other classified data. Subsequent cleanup and cover- 
ups have cost an additional $[REDACTED]. Containment breaches 
after its containment have required an additional [REDACTED] to 
contain. 


Addendum 868-1: In June 19 , Drs. Carson and Basak received 
access to SCP-868 after filing the relevant paperwork.2 
Approximately six weeks later, reports from , Bangladesh, 


Images flashed in front of him. Ted, his wife's boss. Always looking 
for ways to dig his nails into their marriage. Always seeing how far 
he could push himself onto her before Mark stepped in. Always 
asking her to coffee, or lunch. 


But is he capable of...this? Mark continued to question himself, 
running through every scenario and eventuality his mind could 
conjure up. When things began to finally make sense - when a 
logical, plausible theory came to him - a mechanical hum bounced 
around the room before evolving into a high-pitched screech, then 
finally radio static. A man, or what he thought was a man, started to 
speak. 


"Stand up." 


Mark didn't reply. He didn't know who this person was, or what they 
were planning to do. For all he knew, they were making sure he was 
still alive so they could kill him themselves. He carefully rose to his 
feet and approached the source of the noise, uncovering a small 
speaker fixed to one of the walls. 


"Stand up now." 


The inflection grew more intense. Given that he saw no other 
realistic ways to escape the room, Mark decided to bite. He cleared 
his throat and spoke in a shaking, strained tone. 


"Who is this? Why am | here?" Mark inquired, allowing a little too 
much anger to seep into the words. 


"All of those questions will be answered in time." He thought he 
heard the voice chuckle at the end of that sentence, but attributed it 
to his deliriousness. "For now, | need you to listen to me very 
carefully, and do exactly what | tell you to do. If you don't, there will 
be...consequences." The venom dripping from that last word was 
audible, and succeeded in shutting Mark up. 


"In ten seconds, the door to your cell will open. You are to step 
outside. On the floor in front of this room will be a camera, several 
batteries, and a microphone. You are to insert the batteries into the 
camera, turn it on, and turn on the microphone. Do you 


understand?" 
He felt bewildered. Lost. "Why? What is -" 


"Stop." The voice interjected. "Don't ask questions. Just do what | 
say." 


Almost on cue, the metal door swung open. Mark took several steps 
outside of the room. Sure enough, all of the items the voice had 
described were there, resting on the floor. A dried, red liquid coated 
the handle of the camera. Mark did his best to not run through the 
possibilities of what it was. 


"Insert the batteries into the camera and turn it on. | will let you know 
if your feed is coming through." 


He obliged. The camera flickered to life and began recording. 
"Good, we see your feed. Now attach the microphone to your shirt." 
Once again, Mark complied. He spoke into it several times as a test. 


"Reading you loud and clear." The voice paused; Mark heard 
somebody rifle through what sounded like a stack of papers. "Okay, 
now before we begin the game, I'm obligated by law to read a legal 
statement on behalf of my company.” 


Frustration bled into Mark's mind. "Game? What the fuck are you 
talking about?" 


"We'll get to that. First, | need to -" 


"No, fuck this." Mark dropped the camera onto the floor and 
approached one of the speakers. "Tell me where the fuck | am, right 
now!" 


At first, he heard nothing. An eerie, almost unsettling silence washed 
over the hallway. Then, one voice, followed by several others. They 
talked something over, some of them speaking in a language Mark 
didn't recognize, before he heard one of them - the voice that had 
spoken to him already - clear its throat. 


"I'll Keep it simple." The irritation was palpable. "You're competing for 
your life. Do what | tell you to do, and you might go home. Or don't. 
In fact, | honestly want you to ignore me and fuck yourself over. 
Confusion is like...salting the meat." 


Mark's migraine returned to him as he attempted to process what 
had just been said. Reluctantly, but swiftly, he picked up the camera, 
refusing to address his new observer. 


"Good." The voice picked up a sheet of paper. "Now, the legal 
statement." 


Minutes passed as terms he had never heard before were repeated 
in a cold, clinical tone. Death and dismemberment, loss of time, and 
prizes were terms that stood out to him. He took it in stride, pleading 
for the end of a nightmare that seemed endless. The voice finally 
finished and asked him something - it took a few seconds for Mark 
to process it, partially out of fear and partially due to the severe pain 
still rocking his head. 


"Once again, I'm asking if you understand." 
Mark nodded. "Yes." 


"Excellent, then we can begin." The voice chuckled. "For what it's 
worth, | admire your tenacity. | hope you make it through this. But, 
well...stronger men have failed." 


Mark jumped at the sounds of hundreds of metal doors opening 
simultaneously. The thunderous applause of a crowd filled the 
building through the speakers attached to each corner. For a final 
time, the voice spoke. It licked its lips, as if relishing a taste only it 
knew of. 


"Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, all the way from 
Pennsylvania, it's Mark Hawkins!" Loud cheering continued for what 
seemed like hours. "| could give a big old speech, but you've heard it 
all before. Without further adieu, let's get thing started! | think this 
one will be especially entertaining." 


Before Mark could pin down what exactly seemed off about that last 


line, an unnatural, feral crying met his eardrums. He could hear 
footsteps from around the corners. Something, something close, 
was running. 


The audience cheered. Something unspeakable, something awful 
ran at him from across the hallway. And, for the final few hours of 
what he knew to be his existence, Mark never stopped running. 


A Tale of Five Offerings 


In the howling temple of the black moon's light 
Five brave fools came in the night. 


The first gave flesh, 

The second gave stone, 

The third gave the power to move when alone. 
The fourth gave life and the power to think, 
The fifth gave nothing 


for he paused, 


and he blinked. 


His Clockwork Servants 


"Where are His clockwork servants? 
Where is the work of His hands? 
Where are Her digital lovers? 

What are His broken commands ?" 


Vasily swallowed hard as Father Aglayev wiped a slim bronze blade 
on a bright red cloth. The man's grey hair gleamed oddly in the 
flickering half light as he brought the knifepoint to rest lightly on the 
flesh of Vasily's left palm, and he muttered softly a question to which 
they both knew the answer. The chanting of the acolytes 
surrounding them nearly drowned out Vasily's reply. "Yes, father, | 
am certain!" 


"How can we hope to rebuild Him 

if we are still creatures of flesh? 
How can we claim that we serve Him 
till our bodies are broken afresh?" 


Even as Vasily's blood dripped softly to the floor, father Aglayev 
poured oily liquid from a slim vial onto the wound, tears of pride in 
his smiling eyes. "Vasily, my son who | have raised as my own, | 
annoint you into His service. With this, you are ready. Go forth to do 
His work!" 


"What marvels are in His remaking! 
What wonders are in Her control! 
His Broken Gears turn forever 
restoring the penitent soul!" 


Father Aglayev held Vasily for a moment in a strong embrace before 
helping him to his feet. "Come. Your things are packed. Go, 
missionary, and spread His Broken Word!". 


"How can we not spread His message? 
How can we not serve His will? 


How could we stand in His presence 
and let Him remain broken still?" 


A few days later, Penitent Vasily Aglayev walked nervously down a 
crowded street, glancing at the people he passed. His father had 
told him that so long as he made it here by the appointed time, his 
duty to the Church would be done. Suddenly, he stumbled. 


"In light of the bodies He grants us 
what now are our fleshly ones worth? 
Through Her intervention we serve Him! 
Through Her we will remake the earth!" 


Vasily moaned in horror as he felt something in his body begin to 
change. His father had- 


He blinked. 


Vasily twitched for a moment, and continued walking, pausing 
occasionally to touch passerby on the arm or shoulder, muttering 
His blessing. His step grew regular and a smile formed on his face 
as his clockwork mind realised the glory of the task before him. This 
was a blessing he must share! Already the sunlight glinted from the 
tiny gears beginning to form behind his eyes. 


"We are His Clockwork Servants! 
We do the work of His hand! 

Those who oppose will forgive us 
when they are made to understand!" 


His Kind Eyes 


| can't feel my legs. | vaguely remember | have them as | keep 
climbing with my arms. 


| wouldn't be able to go on if not for him. He keeps me company, 
listens to me, and knows exactly what to say, but his eyes are what 
really keep me going. He has such kind eyes. 


Then, he came to me and told me that someone was coming! | was 
so happy, but so scared, | was worried they wouldn't find me. | 
started calling out for them. He looked at me and told me he would 
go bring them to me, and he left. | was relieved, but kept calling and 
climbing. After a while, he came back. He gave me a sad look and 
apologized, telling me that the person had run away. | was crushed. 
He looked so sad. 


A little while later, he told me that someone else had come. We tried 
again, but again, they ran away. | climbed and screamed and cried, 
but it was no use. He was so upset to see me like this. 


When the third person came, he promised me he'd bring them to 
me. We tried again, and | heard them! | heard their footsteps, they 
were so close! But when | heard the crash, | knew something bad 
had happened. He came back, and told me that they came, but fell 
and hurt themselves. He wasn't sure if they would wake up. | cried, 
unable to keep climbing. He cried too. 


Then more came, a lot of them. He wasn't sure what they wanted, 
but he said they had weapons, and he was worried for me. He told 
me to stay where | was, and he would try keep them away from me. 
He held them away for a long, long time, but they kept coming, and 
so he said he would have to do something more drastic. 


He made them go away. 


| couldn't understand what happened. Why did they want to hurt us? 


Why wouldn't they just help? 


| kept climbing, and climbing, and climbing, and finally, | did reach 
the top. | couldn't believe it, and he was so happy for me.