“It’s quite all right.” Johnson said with a smile. He then walked over 
to the desk and quickly glanced over several folders that had 
already been neatly set aside. “Everything else is squared away 
though, | hope?” 


“Of course,” Johnson’s assistant replied with a nod. 


“Excellent.” Johnson then looked around the room. He chuckled to 
himself as he made a circular gesture with his cane. “I’ve been 


informed that they are handing the lab over to you for continued 
research on 1360-1. Looks like you're king of the castle now.” 
Johnson watched as Conwell frowned. 


“So | was told...” 


“You’ve done a good job so far,” Johnson said as he patted his 
assistant on the shoulder, “and like | said, | imagine you'll continue 
to do a good job in the future. I’ve taught you everything | know and 
given enough time | imagine you'll be able to get 1360 talking again. 
| don’t think there is anyone more suited to the job.” 


“Thank you. | appreciate that Dr. Johnson.” Conwell held out his 
hand, which Johnson shook enthusiastically. 


“It was a pleasure to work for you.” 


Johnson nodded in agreement. He was going to miss his lab, almost 
as much as would miss working with his assistants. Johnson then 
glanced at his watch and made a gesture towards the door. 


“Shall we head to the party then?” 


“| think | safely speak for everyone here when | say that we 
appreciate your service to the Foundation, Dr. Johnson, and that 
Site-19 will not be the same without you.” 

The lunchroom filled with applause as Dr. Gregg Collins finished his 
speech. Shortly thereafter the numerous personnel who had come 
for the cake and refreshments returned to their individual 
conversations. Every now and then one would of them would come 
up and congratulate him on his retirement, but for the most part, 
Johnson idled away at his own table with Conwell as he casually 
listened in on the chat that filled the room. 


Truth be told, most of the individuals that Johnson had considered 
his friends had long vanished from the Foundation, either dead, 
retired or both. Now Site-19 was filled with new faces, and Johnson 
couldn't help but chuckle to himself for how old it made him feel. 


“Something funny?” Collins asked as he approached the table and 


took a seat. 


“The day finally came,” Johnson replied. “I honestly thought | would 
have been killed long ago.” 


“We certainly had our close calls,” Collins said with a grin, “I hate to 
see you go. We had so many adventures.” 


Johnson had worked with Collins on five collaborated projects. To 
his knowledge, those objects that were not being reassigned to his 
assistant were to be assigned to him. 


“You'll have plenty of tales of your own by the time you retire,” 
Johnson smirked. “Exciting ones too, considering how you won't 
have me around to pull your ass out of the fire.” The two men 
laughed quietly, but before long fell silent. 


“Is Freemont going to play ball?” Collins asked. His expression had 
become solemn. 


“She is.” Johnson said with a sad sigh. “I had to call in every favor | 
had left, but I’ve been allowed one last ten minute ‘psychological 
health’ visit. You’ll look after him when I’m gone won't you?” 


“Of course.” Collins nodded in agreement. He then gave a quick look 
around. Now that the cake and refreshments were gone the party 
was already starting to wind down. “I don’t think you’re needed here 
any longer if you’d like to get that out of the way.” 


Johnson gave a small smile and nodded. Without another word the 
two men shook hands and Johnson departed. 


Site-19 humanoid containment cells were not known for their 
comfort, especially the one in which Dr. Harold Thompson was 
contained. Four gray walls, a cot, a sink, a toilet, and the knowledge 
that someone was watching you from the other side of a one-way 
mirror embedded in the wall by the door. Harold looked himself over 
in this mirror as he sat on the cot. The dark rings around his eyes 
suggested he had not slept for several years. 


“Dr. Thompson, please put your gloves back on and remain on the 


cot,” said the voice of a security agent over the intercom. Harold 
looked down at his now upturned hands. Following the accidental 
release and inhalation of an unknown particulate from an 
experimental object Harold had been working on, any time he 
touched living biological tissue caused it to turn into solid marble. 
Reluctantly, Harold hid his deadly mitts in a pair of leather gloves he 
had been given. Shortly thereafter, the cell door opened and an 
elderly man with a walnut cane slowly entered. As he took a seat at 
Harold’s desk and turned with a small smile. 


“It's been a while, Zach.” 


“It sure has,” Johnson agreed, watching as Harold looked nervously 
at the one-way mirror and then back to him. Johnson gave a sad 
nod. Dr. Freemont, the researcher in charge of Harold’s object file, 
was watching their every move. 


“How’s your new assistant treating you?” Harold inquired. Before he 
had been given his own assignments, Harold had worked with Dr. 
Johnson for close to five years. It had been a thoroughly enjoyable 
experience. 


“Well, he’s not you and he’s a bit of a pest at times, but he gets the 
job done at the end of the day,” Johnson replied. 


“Ah,” Harold mumbled. A silence fell over the room. “I heard they 
threw you a great retirement party. | wish | could have been there.” 


“| do too.” Johnson’s smile began to fade. He then turned his 
attention to several photographs that lined the top shelf of the book 
case, each depicting the same woman and boy at various ages 
before ending with a picture of the boy’s wedding day. “Lisa says 
that Jack and Elizabeth are trying to have a baby.” 


“Is that so?” Harold said softly. Johnson knew he had always wanted 
to be a grandfather. “I’m sure Lisa will make a fantastic 
grandmother.” 


“She still misses you terribly, you Know?” Johnson added. “Jack too. 
Every time | see them the conversation always ends up on you.” 


schedule. 


Addendum 693/D: Multiple requests by several Mobile Task Forces 
have been made to use SCP-693 in conjunction with Anomalous 
Object #1115 to allow for increased spying capabilities against 
persons of interest. Requests are currently in review. 


« SCP-692 | SCP-693 | SCP-694 » 


Harold didn’t respond, but rather gave a small melancholy smile as 
he gazed at the floor. 


“You'll still Keep an eye on them, won’t you?” He asked. 


“As often as | can.” Johnson replied. “I’ve had Collins promise to 
relay any new photos to you.” 


Harold nodded in appreciation. The two men once again fell silent. 
Before long Johnson stood and made his way towards the door. 


“Thank you for everything you've done for me over the years, Zach. 
I’d hug you if | could.” Harold stood. His smile morphed into a small 
regretful frown. 


“| appreciate that,” Johnson said and smiled. 


Quietly Johnson exited, turning to give a small nod on his way out 
the door. Without another word Dr. Johnson grabbed his box of 
personal items and left Site-19 forever. 


Part One | Peregrine | Part Two: Simple Sketches 


Simple Sketches 


Researcher Conwell stood over the restraint table. SCP-1360 stared 
back. Its white plastic eyes seemed emotionless as it followed 
Conwell’s every move. Four security officers stood nearby, each 
awaiting for the incapacitated automaton to attempt to escape. 
Conwell gave a quick nod. He pressed record on a small tape 
recorder on the surgical table at his side. 


“Jacob Conwell, July 8th, 2013. Regular scheduled removal of 
SCP-1360-1. Samples are to be removed from SCP-1360’s lower 
torso, left forearm and right thigh. Subject is fully cooperative prior to 
1360-1 removal. Recommended security team is present and on 
standby.” 


Conwell then grabbed a small scalpel and approached the droid. 
The blade shook slightly in his hand. He wished he could look away. 
This was the part that he hated the most. Conwell let out a sharp 
breath. He began to cut, but stopped when one of the security 
officers placed a hand on his shoulder. 


“There’s something poking out of its left middle finger,” he whispered 
into Conwell’s ear. 


Conwell’s head snapped to the side. Sure enough, a small slip of 
paper was visible poking out from underneath the cap that served as 
1360’s fingertip. Conwell gave a small nod to the officer. He gently 
placed the scalpel back on the table. 


“Be ready to restrain it,” Conwell whispered. He then slowly made 
his way to the droid’s hand, and grabbed its middle finger. 
SCP-1360 immediately started to struggle against its restraints. 
Maxwell, Forrest, Harrison and Lee quickly got to work holding the 
droid down. This only made its struggle for freedom increasingly 
more desperate. 


“Got it!” Conwell shouted. He pulled several folded pieces of 


notebook paper from the automaton’s finger. The droid was now 
putting all its strength into trying to break free. Its motions escalated 
to violent thrashing. 1360’s eyes remained locked on him as he 
quickly grabbed the tape recorder and fled towards the door. “Keep 
it restrained until it calms down! Make sure to confiscate its 
notebook and pens before you leave!” 


The four guards grunted in compliance. Every ounce of their 
concentration was devoted to keeping the droid from breaking free. 
Conwell looked back as he stepped into the hallway. The droid’s 
constant gaze only subsided once the containment door slid shut. 


Conwell let out a heavy sigh as he stared at the numerous pieces of 
notebook paper lying on the desk in front of him. Each one was 
crinkled and heavily worn, appearing to have been folded and 
unfolded several times. SCP-1360 had put up an immense struggle 
to try and keep Conwell from taking them, but now that he was able 
to see what all the fuss was about, he could not help but feel 
underwhelmed. On each of the pieces of paper was a small sketch. 


The first depicted an incredibly detailed representation of 1360 
running. Even the mesh pattern of the droid’s fabric skin was visible. 
On 1360’s shoulder was a young girl in a summer dress with a 
flower design. Her long hair was drawn fluttering behind her as 1360 
ran, her arms stretched upwards toward the sky. However, her face 
was left completely blank. No nose, no eyes or mouth. Just blank 


paper. 


A second drawing showed 1360 shaking hands with a man in a suit. 
The man had short hair and appeared to stand half a foot taller than 
1360 itself. The detail that was placed into drawing the creases and 
pleats of the suit was exquisite, but once again, the man’s face was 
blank. 


The third drawing had 1360 walking with the little girl through what 
appeared to be a park of sorts. Conwell was once again amazed 
with the detail that had been placed in the drawing, as the trees in 
the background appeared almost lifelike. The little girl seemed to 
skip along as it held 1360’s hand. Both were adorned in party hats. 
However, yet again the girl’s face was left blank. 


The final drawing was of 1360 wielding a pistol, side by side with 
what appeared to be two other men adorned dress shirts and ties 
covered by bullet proof vests, one brandishing a shotgun while the 
other carried a machine gun. The detail that was put into the their 
clothes, the components of the guns they carried, and their stances 
made the fact that their two faces were left completely blank all the 
more jarring. 


Conwell placed his head in his hands as he sighed, sliding away 
from his desk to spin in his swivel chair. He continued to sit in 
silence for a few more moments, stopping only when he heard a 
knock at his office door. 


“It’s open,” he shouted, sliding back to his desk so as to better 
welcome his guest. He smiled to see that it was none other than Dr. 
Gregg Collins. 


“How am | doing?” Collins asked. A goofy grin was on his face as he 
then sat down in a chair on the other side of the desk. Conwell gave 
a small chuckle, shaking his head before he watched Collins look 
around the sparsely furnished office. “Il see you made yourself right 
at home.” 


“It will be a few more years before | have an office that is 
comparable to Dr. Johnson’s, but I’m doing my best,” Conwell 
replied. “What brings you here?” 


“| promised Zachary that I’d stop by every now and then to tell you 
that you’re doing a good job,” Collins joked, “I also heard that the 
droid gave you a bit of excitement today. If | understand correctly, 
this is the first time it has acted up in several years.” 


“It is.” Conwell slid the sketches across the desk. Collins proceeded 
to delicately look them over. “1360 was hiding these in one of its 
finger compartments. It tried to stop us when we were retrieving 
them. ” 


Conwell sunk down in his chair. Collins whistled before looking up 
from the drawings and scratching his head. 


“These are really nice. Former owners?” he asked. 


“That’s what | thought too. The higher ups want me to press 1360 to 
see if maybe we could get some actual identities for these people. 
Though, I’m sure if | did that 1360’s going to be as tight lipped as all 
the other times we've tried to interview it.” Conwell sighed, sinking 
further into his chair. “If 1860 was a human I’d have requested to 
have Clayton add its name to one of those filing cabinets of his for a 
few days, see where that would lead me, and be done with this. That 
won't work on an automaton though. We'll just end up going through 
the motions again and wind up returning to the usual 1360-1 
harvesting schedule with nothing to show for it.” 


Conwell shuddered. The droid’s fabric skin, SCP-1360-1, was a self- 
repairing aramid fiber that was stronger and lighter than Kevlar. 
These traits made it valuable to the Foundation, which was 
unfortunate as the fabric disintegrated when it was removed from 
the droid for too long. This made periodic harvesting a requirement if 
experimentation in how to stabilize and synthesize the fiber was to 
be even remotely possible. 


“It really gets to you, doesn’t it?” Collins asked. 


“It does.” Conwell replied. “I hate 1360-1 collection. The droid claims 
it can feel pain, and never is that more readily apparent than when | 
practically skin it alive every two weeks. If the damn thing would just 
tell us where to find Anderson, or at least its past owners, maybe 
we could move on. Unfortunately 1360 is just not a talker, at least 
not anymore.” 


“I’ve been in your situation many times before,” Collins said with a 
nod. “It’s not pleasant. Nothing we do is. However, think of the good 
that will come of you finding out how to synthesize 1360-1. The 
sooner we do that the sooner we can stop carving the poor droid up. 
Hell, the sooner we find Anderson, the sooner we can stop carving 
the droid up.” 


Collins had gotten out of his chair and now rested a hand on 
Conwell’s shoulder. 


“No one is asking you to enjoy the work, but keep in mind why you 
do it,” he continued. “Keep in mind why the Foundation does what it 
does in the first place.” 


Conwell looked down at his desk. He gave a heavy sigh and nodded 
his acknowledgement. Collins smiled in return and began to make 
his way towards the door. 


“Let me know how it goes,” he said as he stepped out of the office. 


“Alright 1360,” Conwell said as he sat down across from the table 
from the droid. “After talking with my superiors I’ve been ordered to 
return your sketches, notebook and pen to you if you cooperate with 
me during this interview. For all purposes, cooperation will require 
that you answer all of my questions. What do you say?” 


SCP-1360 looked down at the table. Conwell had placed a small 
notepad and pen in front of him. The same four security officers 
stood nearby, all waiting for the droid to make a move. The room 
remained silent for a few moments, but eventually 1360 picked up 
the pen and began to write. 


Okay