Date: 03/06/201 

Total Items: Three (3) lithium-ion batteries, 
manufactured by A123Systems 


Input: One (1) lithium-ion battery 

Setting: 1:1 

Output: One (1) lithium-ion battery, manufactured by the 
Chinese company Hunan Shanshan Toda Advanced 
Materials Co., Ltd. 


Input: One (1) lithium-ion battery 

Setting: Fine 

Output: One (1) object that resembles an unmarked 
lithium-ion battery. Closer inspection revealed that much 
of the internal mass of the battery had been converted 
into a radioactive isotope of , deriving power from 
its nuclear decay, with a design very similar to that used 
in many spacecraft. Object placed into storage. 


Input: One (1) lithium-ion battery 

Setting: Very Fine 

Output: When the output door opened, air rushed into 
the output chamber as if a vacuum had been present 
within. The object is a black cube with two electrical 
nodes on the top, fifteen (15) cm across, and weighing 
exactly the weight of the input battery plus the air in the 
chamber. The object is unmarked, with the exception of 
a small printing on one side, warning users that the 
object contained antimatter, and advising caution. 
Antimatter composition of object has not yet been 
confirmed, but has shown no limit to energy capacity. 
Object currently under testing. 


Note: | think we should refrain from putting anything with 
a lot of potential energy into SCP-914 in the future. If the 
pressure wave from the air had damaged the output, all 


“Yeah...yeah...I’m fine.” Francis sat up straight, pretending that 
nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Jack shrugged, and if 
anyone had taken any extra notice, they did not show it: the circle 
was, to the man, ragged, and red-eyed. Francis glanced at his watch 
and counted the hours again: fifty-six since he had last slept. That 
was before they had found it. Before they found the statue. 


He tried bringing up Mingus again. The sweet tones held out for only 
a few seconds bit before wobbling. Someone’s voice dribbled in 
through the dying notes, followed by the click of a hung phone 
receiver. No escape from this dream, then. 


Adam walked back into the room, golden retriever padding at his 
heels. He sat back down in his chair as naturally as a man who 
could still see it. As comfortable as a king on his throne, as he 
always was. 


“Is there any more news about Connor?” Agatha spoke for the first 
time in hours. The worry in her voice was evident, no matter how 
much she tried to cover it up. Everyone else was worried, of course, 
but no one as much as Agatha. Connor was an old friend, a mentor, 
and possibly a lover, if rumors were to be believed. Francis didn’t 
particularly care at this point. Did who was bedding who even matter 
when a statue could move? 


“John and Dmitri are with him now. He’s conscious and talking,” 
Adam said, folding his hands. “And the doctors say he'll make a full 
physical recovery.” 


A “That’s good” was ready on Agatha’s lips as Adam shook his 
head. 


“He'll recover, but only physically. Mentally...he’s like a machine 
now. John says he barely speaks more than a word at a time. Mostly 
yes or no. Shaved off all of his hair and claimed it was 
“unnecessary”. The memories are all there, but it’s not him. Not 
really.” 


Adam scratched Kain behind his ears. 


“I’m sorry.” 


Silence passed briefly, before Agatha excused herself, holding back 
sobs. 


“Sorry?” Jack said as the bedroom door slammed. “You saved his 
life.” 


“My best friend now thinks he’s a robot because he got jumped by a 
statue that kills people. That's not much of a life, Jack." He slumped 
down in his chair, looking defeated. Kain licked his hand. “Not much 
of a life at all. | was too slow.” 


Jack set down his coffee. His raccoon eyes were, for once, not 
angry. Not kind either, but not angry. 


“Calm down, man. It's not the time for another breakdown.” 
The phone rang again. 


“I'll get it.” Francis stood up and shuffled over to the kitchen area. 
“Need some more coffee anyway.” It was a lie and a truth. He 
wanted to sleep, he needed to sleep, but he couldn't. Wouldn't. 
Wouldn't couldn't shouldn't and shan't. 


Who was he kidding? He held the receiver up to his ear. 
“Crow residence, Francis speaking," he croaked. 


“Frankie, dude, you have got to come see this. This place is 
amazing.” 


“Ben? What are you...what place?” 

“The place we found the statue, dipshit!” 

Francis was sure his heart stopped. It had to have stopped. 
“You went back?” 


“Yeah, with Nemo and Fats. Do you know how far this goes? We 
only ran through like, some storage areas or some shit when it was 
chasing us. This place goes on for miles! It’s gigantic!” 


“Ben, listen to me. Get out of there. We found that thing in there 
already, and who knows what else is in there, and it’s stil/in there.” 


“But we locked it up.” 
“Yes, but...” 


“No buts, man. This place is a ghost town. Totally empty. Statue 
hasn't moved. Lock the door and it doesn’t bother no-one so long as 
you don’t go looking at it.” 


Francis didn’t respond. Dammit, Ben. You had to go back. Probably 
wanted some photographs or something, like those tourists in Pisa 
when they pretend to hold up the tower. You'd take that fake katana 
of yours and pretend to kill a monster. 


“Hey, Frankie, still there?” 


Francis groaned. He hung up the phone without answering. 
Stumbling back into the living area was more of a daze than before. 
They went back. Why would they go back? To prove something? 
Sheer stupidity? Or to see the statue again? 


Why? 
Why was any of this happening? 


He felt a wave of exhaustion fill his body like water in a glass. 
Whatever fumes he had been running on, they were out. He could 
practically feel his brain giving up and shutting down. Or was that his 
imagination? 


So tired... 
Francis collapsed in his chair. 


“It's Ben,” he managed to say as his eyes slammed shut. He could 
dimly hear the ringing fade off as the face appeared. It had been 
waiting for him. Waiting for him to blink, just like Kayla blinked. His 
consciousness faded swiftly, clawing on to the encroaching dream 
for a few more moments. 


Blink 

No... 

Close your eyes 

No.../ won't blink... won’t sleep 
Sleep. Let all things be undone. 
No. No no no no no no NO 

I’m not blinking, motherfucker. 


I’m watching you. 


Origin of Clef 


"Hello, Everett!" Clef called out cheerfully, as he strode through the 
door into Dr. Mann's office. He immediately hit the floor as a hail of 
bullets passed through the area he'd just been standing in. He 
crawled on his belly towards the good doctor's desk, even as Mann 
continued firing wildly, yelling the entire time. 


"| DON'T CARE WHAT SCP-001 IS! | DON'T WANT TO KNOW 
WHAT THE ORIGIN OF THE FOUNDATION IS! WOULD YOU 
PEOPLE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!" Mann, a little unhinged, 
continued firing until the clip went dry, and then continued pulling the 
trigger, just on the off chance he might have missed a bullet. Clef 
reached up and, carefully, took the gun from Mann's hand. 


"Having a bit of trouble, Doctor?" Clef asked, as he subtly replaced 
the gun with a flask of home brew. He checked the gun absently, 
then tossed it into a corner. 


Mann chugged on the flask, not caring that it burned, or that the 
taste of apples was absolutely overwhelming. It was brain death, 
and it was a welcome relief from the near constant stream of 
Overseers baring their soul. "They...they won't stop Clef. They keep 
coming to me, and unburdening. I'm not sure how much | can take. 
Twelve hours from now, O5-13 comes in to tell me his story. He left 
ten minutes ago. | can't stand that guy!" 


"Relax, Everett, relax. You're with a friend now. Come on, take a 
seat, take some more drink..." Clef casually closed the door, and 
locked it. "You know, as long as you're hearing the secrets, what's 
one more, hmm?" Clef nodded, picking up a chair and setting it so 
he could kick his feet up on Mann's desk. "As long as you're 
listening, why don't | tell you where | came from?" 


As Mann whimpered and sought solace in the flask, Clef began to 
speak. 


It's so long ago, | can barely remember it myself. | didn't used to be 
a field agent, you know. | used to be a researcher, specializing in 
humanoid SCPs. It was horrible, Everett, back in the beginning. 
Humanoid skips got the short end of the stick. I'd begun lobbying for 
some changes. Trying to help people, just a little bit. So they 
demoted me. Assigned me to some of the anomalous skips, that we 
didn't know what they were. So there | am, trying to figure these 
things out... and, coincidentally, someone fucks up on containment 
of 76, and next thing | know, Able is bearing down on me with a 
bloody meat cleaver. 


He got me. He got me bad. | shut down, to avoid the pain. Even 
now, all | can see are flashes of light along the blade... The 
Foundation fucked up. They thought | was dead. Tossed me in a 
mass grave, and forgot about me. 


But | was alive. | crawled out of a grave filled with D-class. Rotting 
bodies all around me, and | still managed to crawl out from under all 
that dirt. Make my way down the road. | killed a man, just for his 
clothes and vehicle. But | didn't think about it, at the time. Thought | 
was just, y'know, tough. 


| made my way to a hideout my brother and | had set up years 
before. One of those ‘just in case' type of things. | spent a month 
there, treating my wounds, recovering my strength. And realizing, | 
was free. | had a mind full of Foundation secrets, and the 
Foundation thought | was dead. 


First thought was MC&D. | could sell all | knew, make myself a 
billionaire, and never have to worry again. But... | couldn't stop 
thinking about the humanoid skips in Foundation custody. And about 
Able. We could have done something about him, could have ended 
him. But no, we had to contain... | actually even thought about going 
to the old man, but you know how he gets. So | went to the GOC. 


They were skeptical. Who wouldn't be? But, in exchange for some 
plastic surgery, a whole new identity, | gave them everything. They 
made me an agent. | made sure | was their top agent, Ukelele. And | 
chose my new name, Alto Clef. 


But it was when dealing with a young lady whose only problem was 


that she was part goat, that | found out | was immortal. My associate 
wanted her dead. She was a Green, albeit a weak one. We argued. 
He shot me, and then her. | didn't die. | shot him back, and held her 
while she died. That girl... she's stayed with me, Everett. 


| digress. The GOC wasn't for me. So, | made overtures to the 
Foundation. If | couldn't defeat them, maybe | could subvert them 
from within. No one was more surprised than myself when they sent 
me to talk with me. But it made my cover complete. None of them 
have ever suspected me. My tentacles stretch throughout this 
Foundation. | can take it down whenever | need to. 


Just thought you should know. 


Clef pried the flask from Mann's unresisting hand. Over the course 
of the story, the doctor had made his way under his desk, where he 
now just sat and rocked, whimpering to himself. The Agent smirked, 
and began to exit, when Mann managed to croak out a response. 


"Alto...Why?" 


Clef just smirked. "Please, Everett. We've known each other for long 
enough. Call me Jack." 


Out of Your Element 


“I-I-I just can’t. You can’t make me.” 


Anguis Salvia leaned back in his seat, tapping a pen against his 
notepad. The interview room was a comfortable looking space, with 
neutral colors and no tables or clocks, just a pair of old leather 
chairs and a wide-screen TV showing a crackling fire. Functional 
enough for a psychotherapist’s office, even if it was a shallow 
disguise. 


“| can't force you to say anything, Jason. We’re only here to talk 
about what you want to talk about.” 


Jason Snodgrass, a Level 4 Operator, put his head in his hands and 
tried to tuck all three in-between his knees. “I-It’s been a y-year and | 
c-can’t stop! | have panic attacks. | can’t s-sleep. | stutter all the time 
now! | never used to st-tutter!” 


“Take a long, controlling breath,” Salvia said. “It'll help.” 


Jason took several desperate gulps of air. “N-no, you d-don’t 
understand, it’s all worse, it’s getting worse!” 


“Since last year?” 


Tearful eyes met Salvia’s. “Y-you were there! You lost it!” His eyes 
darted down to Salvia’s feet. 


“We all lost something that day.” 

“Not everyone!” Jason snapped. “I did, and Amy and Shu and that 
Latino asshole who always had Coronas at lunch. Everyone but you! 
Fuck’s sake, Doc, look at you!” 


Salvia held up a calming hand. “I-” 


Jason shot to his feet. “But you didn’t Jose anything! All of us, it 


didn’t just hurt us! It reached in and took something away! 
Something that made us whole! He took it from us, but he left you 
alone! Why?! 


The door flew open. A pair of fridge-sized men in cheap black suits 
appeared and rushed at Jason. 


“Woah, woah!” Salvia said. 


“Get away from me!” Jason shouted at them, swinging his fists at the 
empty air. 


Alex and Trebek—names Salvia gave them because of their 
matching mustaches—moved with the practiced ease of 
professional orderlies. They pinned Jason down, bound his hands in 
plastic zip-wire and hauled him out, all the while Jason screamed at 
the top of his lungs. 


A moment later Trebek gorilla’ed his way back into the room. “You 
alright, Doc?” 


Salvia tugged off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “This aggression 
will not stand, man.” 


“He was getting violent. Regulations.” 


“| can’t earn his trust if you hired goons are gonna drag him away 
every session.” 


Trebek's only response was a wordless grunt. He squeezed himself 
back out the door after his companion. 


Alone with his thoughts, Salvia scanned over his notes. 
Private-Ryan Sybil lsaac-Clarke Movie-Night. 


All code, of course. A patient getting a hold of his notes would be 
less upset to see random words than “Post Traumatic Stress 
Disorder” (Private Ryan), “Mood Swings” (Sybil), “Survivor Guilt” 
(Isaac Clarke), and “Blame Projection” (Movie Night). 


Pretty cut and dry, really. Jason was sinking into the deep end. 


Under normal circumstances, he would be recommended for a stay 
at a mental healthcare facility, to focus his attention on improving 
full-time. 


But this was the Foundation. Its business was the extra-natural, and 
its currency was madness. Pragmatic efficiency was considered the 
only way to deal with the "loose change." The thought made Salvia 
grimace. 


He stood, nearly tripping as his prosthetic slid out from under his 
right knee. With a bit of effort he wiggled it back into place. Leaning 
on his wooden, snake-headed cane, he headed for the door. 


The therapist's office outside was all blank white walls and grey 
office carpeting. There was a minimum of aesthetic comfort, 
designed to keep people focused on their work. 


Maria, the receptionist, gave Salvia a sympathetic look. “Wow, huh?” 
“Wow, yeah. They taking him upstairs?” 

“Probably.” 

Salvia sighed, patting his pockets. “Gimme a renewal form.” 

Maria handed him the documents and Salvia started down the hall. 
“You want me to cancel two o'clock?” She asked after him. 

“Yeah,” Salvia said. “Rebook for three.” 

“You got it, Doc.” 


Salvia wandered the maze of narrow hallways. Site 17’s non- 
research Level 3 Staff were mostly confined to what Salvia thought 
of as the “Office Complex” floor, which was closer to the surface 
than the research and containment levels he knew were somewhere 
far below. 


A woman’s voice called out to him. “Anguis, | just saw Jason.” 


Salvia turned to greet Johanson, one of his fellow psychologists in 


of Site- could have been destroyed. Not a pleasant 
thought. -Dr. Geralds 


Name: Dr. Kobylka 

Date: 06/05/2017