"Okay," concluded Vikkers. "Now, all cases start out at the 
magistrate's court. This is an indictable offence, so they will in the 
first instance pass you through to the Crown Court. There you'll be 
asked to indicate how you will plead. Have you given it any 
thought?" 


"No. Like | said, | was just defending myself." 


The solicitor looked down at his watch. A few strands of his thinning 
dark hair, grown longish and carefully teased into place with gel, fell 
over his forehead and he brushed them back as he continued: 


"Self-defence requires reasonable force. According to the police 
report, you weren't injured in the exchange?" 


"No. Look, | already told the police..." 


"And | told you, | don't have your statement. Did you have any 
reason to suspect your life was being threatened?" 


"Yes, | thought the guy had a knife." Keagan leaned back on the 


one-piece plastic chair. 


"And by 'the guy’, you presumably mean, er, Theo Megali? The first 
man you hit." That was the name of the man Keagan thought of as 
Slick. 


"Yes," 
"The police report says they didn't find a knife on him." 


"No, | just thought he had it. | wasn't looking at him." Put like that, 
Keagan thought, it sounds perfectly reasonable. Oh no, wait. 


"Erm. R v. Hatton, ah, 2005, | believe represents the current state of 
thinking on the matter, I'm afraid. A mistaken belief that one is about 
to be attacked is irrelevant to innocence or guilt." 


"What about the other guy—Crae? He had a cricket bat." 


"Ah, maybe." Vikkers, looked at his watch again, irritation briefly 
crossing his features. "If you didn't have an opportunity to leave or 
seek police protection self-defence can apply. Did you know they 
were arriving?" 


"Yes," said Keagan. "But | called the police. Several times. They 
said if no threats had been made there was nothing they could do." 


"So they didn't threaten you in any way?" The solicitor pursed his 
lips. 


"Of course they ... they were just thugs who wanted to be paid off or 
they'd wreck my shop." 


"But they didn't make it explicit." 


"They didn't say ‘look, hand over the cash or we'll beat you up and 
trash your business’, no. Apparently that's what the police wanted to 
hear." 


"So why didn't you tell the police that's what they had said?" 


"Why didn't I—what?" Keagan looked the solicitor as though he had 


two heads. Of course, it was perfectly reasonable. It just hadn't 
occurred to him. He had spent days on the telephone being passed 
from community support officer to community support officer and he 
had never once thought of just /ying. Too late now, of course. 


"Never mind. Mister O'Neill, let me be blunt. No previous complaints 
had been made against Mister Megali and Mister Crae and they had 
no criminal records. If they were running a protection racket, either 
they were very good at it or you were their first victim. Whereas, | 
see, you have two convictions for battery, for which you were first 
ordered to pay a £10,000 fine and then received a suspended 
sentence." Vikkers studied the second sheet of paper. 


"| attended an anger management course," Keagan said, slowly. 


"Yes, and the result will appear to a jury to be two dead bodies on 
your shop floor. Look, as your solicitor this is how | see it. You don't 
deny you killed two men—you had the opportunity to leave and 
avoid the confrontation, you also had the option to get the police 
involved. They have no record of criminal activity—you have a 
history of confrontations escalating into violence." 


Keagan glanced at the policeman overseeing their table, trying and 
failing to gauge his tone. He shouted: 


"That shit Crae came at me with a cricket bat! | didn't do nothing 
wrong!" 


The policeman put a hand on his nightstick and stirred himself. 
Vikkers waved his hand dismissively. 


"Okay, so you hit him once." The solicitor slid his spectacles back up 
his nose. 


"| hit him once, but he didn't fall all the way down, so | hit him again." 


Vikkers sighed and started fiddling with his hair again. "A jury will 
see that as the point you crossed from self-defence to murder, even 
if they were sympathetic about Megali." The solicitor's phone began 
to vibrate and he picked it up. "Look, we're out of time here. I'll catch 
up with you just before you go into court, we'll have a little time to 


talk then. But as your solicitor | strongly advise you to consider a 
guilty plea." 


"If | plead guilty, do | get a lighter sentence or something? | mean, 
it's better to do that than go to trial?" 


"What?" Vikkers had already swiped his phone open and raised it to 
his ear. "Yes, yes—excuse me, just a second—it'll be taken into 
account. If you make the State pay for a trial you'll have a rougher 
time of it if you're found guilty. But there are never any guarantees. 
No, I'm with a client. | know I'm late. Just a—look, | really need to 
go. Think about what I've said and let me know before trial. I'll 
assume if | don't hear anything that you're entering a guilty—no, I'm 
coming now." 


With this disjointed summary, Vikkers gestured to the policeman that 
the meeting was over and began to move away, leaving his case on 
the table. Keagan waved it in his direction but he had already left, 
phone clutched to his ear. 


In the coming weeks Keagan would think several times about getting 
a second legal opinion on his case, but his position as laid out for 
him by Luke Vikkers seemed so stark and the simple process of 
finding a firm's phone number and placing a call while in custody so 
convoluted that he simply never found the will. 


"Keagan O'Neill"—The Right Hon Justice Stewart QC once again 
raised baggy eyes from the case notes to favour Keagan with yet 
another vaguely puzzled glare. Keagan wondered whether the judge 
kept being thrown by his skin colour and had to check this was still 
the defendant with the Irish name. 


Vikkers stood at Keagan's side—he had at some point in the 
intervening days retrieved his flaking legal case and had spent much 
of the hearing nervelessly peeling flakes of leather off with his 
thumb. 


"Keagan O'Neill," the judge repeated ponderously, "you have 
accepted the charges brought before you and all that remains is to 
pass sentence. We have heard from your legal representation 


Termination Test Record: 

A secondary sample of SCP-1361 was allowed to grow to 1,000 kg 
in mass. SCP-682's containment chamber was purged of acid and 
SCP-1361 was poured onto SCP-682 from above. SCP-1361 
covered and fully engulfed SCP-682 and no activity was observed 
for 3 hours. In the period from 3 to 7 hours following exposure, 
SCP-1361 began to develop legs, jaws, and a physical appearance 
similar to SCP-682. SCP-1361 breached containment and attacked 
Foundation staff in a manner consistent with an SCP-682 breach 
and killed 17 personnel. SCP-1361 proved immune to small arms 
fire in this state; aerial dispersal of napalm was necessary to destroy 
sample by incineration, after which a skeletal and circulatory system 
identical to SCP-682 was retrieved from its remains. Remains were 
returned to SCP-682's containment chamber, where they 
regenerated into SCP-682 within 6 hours. Subsequent tissue testing 
indicated that SCP-682 temporarily contained DNA markers from 
several species present in SCP-1361, as well as temporarily 
exhibiting a mild scent similar to pork rinds. 


Item: SCP-1933 


Tissue Test Record: 
Sample immersed in 1 liter of bodily fluids from SCP-1933. Sample 
fully converted into Irish cream. 


Termination Test Record: 200 liters of bodily fluids were collected 
from SCP-1933 over a 3-month period. Fluids were introduced into 
SCP-682's containment chamber in bulk. 


SCP-682 begins consuming fluids rapidly, and manifesting apparent 
signs of intoxication far more rapidly than a human would after 
consuming an equivalent amount of Irish cream. This has been 
hypothesized to be the result of portions of SCP-682's anatomy 
being transsubstantiated into Irish cream; however, instead of dying, 
SCP-682 continues consuming the fluids. When it has finished 
consuming all the fluids, SCP-682 collapses on the floor, and begins 
loudly vocalizing while clawing spasmodically at its face and 
abdomen. After 5 minutes of this, SCP-682 begins vomiting up what 
appears to be the bodily fluids of SCP-1933, but in much larger 
quantities; as well, the floors and walls of the containment chamber 


arguments in mitigation, including that Misters Megali and Crae may 
have intended you harm, but | am also conscious of your history of 
violence and the fact that during these proceedings | have not once 
heard from you any expression of remorse. Theo Megali's parents 
and Steven Crae's wife and children are here in court today and 
expect me to administer justice." 


Keagan glanced over his shoulder—impossible to guess which of 
the dozen or so neutral-faced observers might be the relatives he 
spoke of; there were no tears he could see. Lauren, his girlfriend of 
18 months, was still there, lips set tightly and looking off into the 
middle distance. She had the decency to show up, he thought, but 
not to own any connection to the man standing at the table in front of 
the judge, who continued: 


"In view of this | sentence you to two terms of life imprisonment, with 
a minimum tariff of 7 years each, to be served in a high-security 
facility." 


The words didn't immediately register, but something like a sonic 
boom hit Keagan in the face. He had expected a prison sentence, 
but the words '‘life imprisonment' sucked the breath from his throat. 


"| pled guilty!" he shouted, before he realised he was speaking. "I 
said | did it, didn't I! What is this?" 


Keagan turned to look at Lauren, but she had turned red and was 
already rising to leave. Vikkers looked scandalised at the outburst 
and began pulling at Keagan's rented suit. "Sit down! Sit down!" he 
began bellowing, apparently forgetting they had been told to rise for 
sentencing. The court officers seemed unsure as to whether they 
should break up the contact or permit the solicitor to restrain his 
client. 


"The court thanks you for your candour," creaked the judge. "But the 
Murder Act 1965 is very clear; | am only sorry that it has placed 
capital punishment in the UK beyond my reach in cases such as 
this. You are guilty of murder, and you will receive imprisonment for 
life. Please take the prisoner away." 


White-hot rage bubbled up in Keagan's throat and he directed it at 


the nearest person he could blame for his predicament—the pathetic 
figure of Luke Vikkers, still weakly holding onto his sleeve as the 
court officers looked on. 


"Life imprisonment! You said it would be a lighter sentence. Lying 
shit!" He reached out for the solicitor who regained enough 
presence of mind to step away and behind the reassuring bulk of 
one of the officers. 


"| definitely wouldn't have said that, Mister O'Neill. | said it would be 
better for you not to make the State go through with a trial. That 
would have resulted in a longer minimum tariff and possibly a 
maximum-security prison. A guilty plea will also count in your favour 
when the time comes for parole." 


"In fourteen years!" The officers had closed on him now, placing him 
back in cuffs. 


"| don't know what else you want me to do, Mister O'Neill. I've 
provided free legal counsel—in the face of, | must add, a generally 
uncooperative client. I'll thank you to go to another firm if you have 
any further legal needs." This seemed to conclude matters for 
Vikkers, who swept out, again leaving his brief on the table. 


Luke Vikkers, a five-year Associate with Stone Gooding, whose 
keen legal mind was presumably the reason Stone Gooding shuffled 
him off to the monument to British fairness and justice that is Legal 
Aid, plays no further part in this story, though it may interest you to 
know that in another five years, frustrated by his failure to make 
Partner or even Senior Associate, he will leave Stone Gooding and 
attempt to start his own private practice in civil law, which will fail 
abysmally. 


A prisoner being held awaiting trial is considered innocent until 
proven guilty, even if they have indicated they intend to file a guilty 
plea. But as soon as sentence is passed, that changes—Keagan felt 
it in the way the court officers handled him, the way suddenly no-one 
in the stands would meet his eye. He looked for Lauren, but of 
course she had gone. What did you expect, he thought? 


Just before he reached the door, the officers were ambushed by a 


court reporter—a young woman with a blonde page-boy haircut and 
a brown suit. 


"Just a minute,” she said, "can | get a quote?" 
"Make it quick," advised the officer, "he's a pain in the ass." 


"Mister O'Neill, you seemed unhappy with your verdict. Did you have 
anything you wanted to say?" She clicked on a handheld recorder. 


Keagan swallowed. "It's not fair, it's not justice. | mean, if I'd been 
told it'd be ... that is ... just the same, | wouldn't have pled guilty, 
would |? What's the point of it? What's the fucking point?" 


Well done, thought Keagan, what a sparkling quote. That'll make the 
front cover of the Brixton Herald, easily. 


"Okay," said the officer, "| think you've made your point." And with 
that, and an encouraging thump to the back, Keagan was led away. 


HMP Wormwood Scrubs is a Category B men's prison, reserved for 
offenders who are not considered maximum security risks but whose 
crimes nevertheless necessitate a higher level of security than the 
lowest 'closed' prison category. While on remand awaiting trial 
Keagan had spent several nights in HMP Brixton but had seen little 
of the other prisoners. 


The ambience, however, was the same, only amplified—over a 
thousand men living, sleeping and defecating no more than six feet 
from the next. As he entered the square processing centre at the 
front of the complex it struck Keagan to be very similar to the 
atmosphere of a public swimming pool—humid, slightly clammy, a 
cacophony of distant hoots and bellows, people talking loudly to be 
heard, all echoing through the concrete and tiled corridors. 
Occasionally you could pick out a word or two amongst the screams 
—always lunatic in the way any snippet of conversation overheard 
by a third party is lunatic: "fry 'em up ... took the fucking budgie and 
| said ... eatin’ razorblades ... if they can't take a joke." 


There would be no orientation this evening—the Warden was sick. 


Instead, a jovial and rather scruffy guard who introduced himself as 
Taggart told them they knew what they deserved, and if they didn't, 
well, they were getting it anyway. If you choose not to behave, he 
said, you can probably imagine what will happen to you, so make 
damn sure that if you act out that it's worth it. With that practical 
advice, they were marched off by twos or threes to their cells. 


It was with some surprise that Keagan realised he would not be 
bunked with one of the prisoners brought in with him. Instead he 
was led off to the end of B wing where the lifers were accomodated. 
The guard turned the key in the door—no bars, just a big, blocky 
green door with a safety bolt, like a garden shed. Inside the cell was 
painted a sickly shade of yellow and designed so no part of its 
geometry was hidden from the door. A bunk bed, heaped with thin, 
dark brown sheets, a writing desk, and one chair. A notice board 
provided the only relief from monotony in the room—to it had been 
affixed what seemed to be crude stick pictures. 


"Here you go, you creepy bastard," the guard said—apparently to 
Keagan, as otherwise the room appeared empty, "try not to scare 
him too much."