"Sure, like that" she said, exhasperated. "That's what I'm a 
consultant on. | helped them build a language to program that stuff. 
It's tech magic, the sort of stuff | specialise in with the Hand." 


"Did you do that to us, when you were, you know, stabbing us in the 
back?" 


Emmy shot him a dirty glare at his phrasing. 


"When | was stopping you from choking to death on your own 
tongue, no, | did not implant any concepts in your head. Not that | 
know of, at least. I'm working on a standard package someone else 
developed, so, | dunno, maybe some compliance shit. Nothing 
major. What I'm doing now, however..." She looked over to the lump 
where Aries lay, the tendrils around it flushing now from grey to pink. 
"This was Aries' idea. | have no idea how she knew. 'Make it think 
different’. She thought we could reprogram it, stop it eating 
memories." 


"And you can do that?" Dominic said, raising an eyebrow skeptically. 


"| don't know" Emmy admitted. "It's - I've never written one before, 


nothing that was intended for practical use. And I'm working with the 
worst possible tools and..." she sighed, defeated. "And I'm starting 
to get the headache." 


The pink flush in the tendrils was starting to spread from where Aries 
lay. Where it touched the edge of the ring surrounding the brain 
thing, it began to spread, new branches sprouting from the existing 
tendrils to entirely cover the surface. Was it coincidence that the ring 
was moving toward them? Dominic put the thought out of his head. 


"What are you trying to program? What thought?" 


"Just... smaller. Less. | can't get it to stop entirely, not if that goes 
against its entire nature, but if | can just sway it to pray on individual 
people maybe | can slow it down. Give the Foundation time to, to 
figure something out." Emmy shrugged her shoulder, resuming 


typing. 


The wait for Emmy to finish typing was long, unbearable. Dominic 
moved over to Fenton, trying to console him as his thoughts slowly 
went, trying to ignore the urgent worries in his own head, reminding 
him he would be like this sooner rather than later. Soon, Fenton was 
nonverbal, grunting and clutching his hand over his bloodshot eyes. 
He started trying to get up, leaning toward the still-growing ring of 
tendrils that surrounded the bioweapon. 


Dominic tried to push Fenton down, but the man was strong, twisting 
his arm til something popped and tossing him aside. Shoulder 
probably dislocated, he tried to grab at the tails of the man's jacket, 
but missed. Resigned, Emmy just watched the man march into the 
ring. 


The tendrils parted under his feet as he walked, wriggling happily, 
then clamped down when the man fell to his knees. Slowly, they 
tugged at his chest, pulling him down into a bow and then engulfing 
him completely. In seconds, Fenton was gone. 


"Fuck!" Dominic yelled, pain and frustration bubbling up from his 
core."Fuck, fuck fuuuuuck. Emmy, please tell me you're done. | don't 
want to- Fuck, I'm not going into that shit, ok?" 


Emmy looked up at him, her eyes apologetic. 
"Soon." she said "Soon." 


He paced restlessly, the bipping from the device burrowing into his 
head, engulfing his thoughts. Your name is Dominic Alvares, he 
thought to himself, You've survived two goddamn years doing this 
shit, and you'll survive longer. The woman with the machine is 
Emmy Way. She's Hand, you can trust her. Trust the Hand, trust 
Emmy. Your name is Dominic Alvares... 


Ten minutes later, Dominic's legs were getting tired, and Emmy 
stood. 


"Dominic. Dominic, hey!" 
He turned. Your name is Dominic Alvares... 


"What?" he said, frowning at the machine in Emmy's hand. What 
was- 


"Dominic, tell me what tuna is. You don't need detail, just tell me 
anything about it." Her face was serious, worried. You will survive 
this. 


Dominic shrugged. 


"Never heard of it." He said, honestly. Probably some anomalous 
thing. "Two na?" 


"Ok," said Emmy, nodding. "Ok, this will have to do." She pressed a 
few buttons on the device she held in her good hand, and it made a 
loud bip. Trust the Hand, trust Emmy. "It's compiling now. This 
should only take a minute, but I'm afraid you might - Dominic, | want 
you to listen really carefully, ok? 


Your name is Dominic Alvares. She was talking to him. He nodded. 


"Dominic, | don't know what's going to happen when | try to work 
this. If | - if something goes wrong, | need you to take the needle 
here - " Emmy turned the device around so he could see a sharp 
needle that protruded from its bottom. " - and push it into that thing 


there, ok?" 


Looking up, Dominic could see a huge creature, grey and pink, with 
arms that stretched through the room. How could he not have 
noticed that before? You will survive this. He nodded vaguely, still 
gazing at the huge thing. 


"Ok, ok, and then the only other thing you need to do is press this 
green button, ok?" She pointed with her thumb to a button marked 
EXECUTE. Trust Emmy. Dominic nodded again. 


The woman smiled. The... Emmy. Emmy smiled. She smiled, and 
she turned and walked into the mass of pink. Instantly, the pink 
began to move. Writhing, angry, it grabbed at her, closing around 
her scarred hand, a hand she couldn't move. She yelled for him. 


Your name is Dominic Alvares. Dominic rushed in after her, ignored 
by the pink. It was only after her, after Emmy. Seeing him, she 
yelped, and held out the machine. She'd been talking about it, hadn't 
she? It was important. Dominic took it. 


"Stab it in the fucking back." she said, grinning, and the pink 
surrounded her. 


You will survive this. He was alone now, in a room filled with the 
whirring of fans and, this close to the beast, the gentle sucking 
sounds of its movements. It was a soothing sound, it calmed the 
buzzing in his mind. Dominic looked down at the lump of metal he 
held, the sharp point angry in his hands. Why would he hurt this 
thing? 


Trust... the woman. The woman was gone, but she had asked him 
to do this. He leaned forward, unable to move his feet, bound by the 
pink. With a grunt, he pushed the spike into the grey flesh of the 
thing. He expected it to cry out, but it made no soun. Instead, the 
pink below him writhed faster, climbing his legs. 


Your name... The was one more thing he was supposed to do. He 
knew this, but he didn't know what it was. Like a million tiny tasks 
you forgot as you moved to do them. Like walking through a 
doorway he couldn't walk back through. 


Your name is.... The pink was around his chest now, climbing his 
arms. His head screamed, the pain behind his eyes so blistering he 
could barely see. He stretched, reaching for the device. The pink 
was at his wrists, writhing urgently to wrap around his fingers. He 
was just in reach of the keypad, his fingers brushing against the 
buttons. 


Dominic Alvares. He pushed the green one. Maybe it was right, 
maybe it wasn't. He couldn't see what the screen said as the pink 
spread over him, filling his mouth to stop him from screaming. The 
pain in his head was all he was, all he'd ever been. 


You will survive this. 


The pink pushed into his eyes, behind them, moving with a hungry 
precision. For a second, the pain was gone. 


And then Dominic was gone too. 


ACTION REPORT: FINAL MEASURES, JANUARY 2030 


PRIORITY 1 (Upsilon-4): FAILURE - NO WIDELY- 
DISTRIBUTABLE CURE FOUND 


PRIORITY 2 (Rho-1): FAILURE - ASSET DESTROYED 
IN HANDLING. ALEXYLVA UNCONTACTABLE. 


PRIORITY 3 (lota-0): FAILURE - APPEAL TO KNOWN 
ANOMALOUS INFLUENCERS NOT MANAGED 


PRIORITY 4 (Alpha-1): FAILURE - BLANKET O5 
PROTECTION NOT ACHIEVED. 05-6 
COMPROMISED. 


PRIORITY 5 (Sigma-66): FAILURE - MIA 


PRIORITY 6 (Delta-3): FAILURE - QUARANTINE IN 
THREE PORTLANDS UNACHIEVABLE. LETHE 
EVENTS OCCURRING WITHIN CITY BOUNDS. 


O5 COUNCIL MINUTES, FEBRUARY 5 2030 


* SCP-3848 status changed from Keter to 
Uncontained. 

* O5-6 replacement suggested: Dr Nuru Jua 

(Director, Site-91) 

Vote held for change in status of Operation 

Oceanus from Rejected to Pending: Passed, 9-3 

Vote held for change in status of Operation 

Oceanus from Pending to In Effect: Passed, 7-5 

Vote to upgrade Operation Oceanus to Priority 1: 

Passed, 7-5 


END OF MINUTES 


That Goddamn Thing 


The seat that was provided was a harsh gunmetal black edifice, 
warped enough that it was effectively impossible to place all four 
legs on the floor at once. It made an obnoxious clacking sound when 
Dr. Johannes Sorts shifted his weight, the noise echoing through the 
unnecessarily large concrete room. Row upon row of harsh 
florescent lights buzzed overhead, the sound only momentarily 
drowned out when Dr. Sorts shifted his weight back again. Clack. 


Agent Schaffer cast an irritated glance over the top of a manila 
folder. He closed it and clasped his hands atop the blank cover, 
leaning forward across the scarred and pitted old cafeteria table 
between himself and the doctor. Apart from the comfortable padded 
folding chair he occupied, the doctor and the table were the only 
other things in the stadium sized chamber. 


"You do, of course, know where we are and why we are here?" 
Schaffer asked, the first he had spoken since security had escorted 
the twitchy little doctor into the room. 


Dr. Sorts rolled his eyes in open contempt but cast his gaze towards 
the unfinished floor and mumbled, "I'm not stupid. | also Know you 
stuck me in this chair to make me feel uncomfortable. | Know what 
this room was used for before it was re-purposed to contain th— 
that... goddamn thing." 


Schaffer watched the doctor very carefully, noting the difficulty with 
which the other man spoke. He opened the folder again, noting that 
the enclosed psychological profile had indicated a marked increase 
in the subject's paranoia in the past months. "Doctor, that was the 
only other chair in the room. We did not bring it in here to torment 
you. It's not like we entertain guests here." 


"Yeah, t-two chairs in the room, and you got the good one. Call it 
what you will," Sorts grumbled, shifting his weight again to send a 
clacking sound to bounce about the distant walls. "The floors in here 


are rough and dirty, only worn smooth in tracks where the forklifts 
moved the pallets around. How much manpower did it take to yank 
up all the old shelves that used to be in this storage room just so it 
could be a glorified lobby for you... | mean that... that fu—goddamn 
thing..." 


"Would you like to trade seats?" the agent offered calmly. 


"| think I'm fine where | am, annoying you with this unbalanced 
chair." Sorts squirmed back and forth until his chair made a 
squealing noise on the concrete. 


"Doctor Sorts, you are a level 2 researcher. Given that you lack the 
clearance, could you explain exactly how you learned about me?" 


Sorts gripped the edge of the table with pudgy hands and finally met 
the Agent's eyes with a contemptuous glare. "Don't talk like that. 
You and | both know wh-what..." The doctor licked his dry lips and 
swallowed before continuing. "You and | both know what we're 
talking about. But I'm the only person who can speak honestly here. 
You lack the capability." 


"You didn't answer my question. This is a grave security breach. 
Given your own specialized research into memetics, you understand 
the severity of this leak and how your very knowledge of me is a 
dangerous liability." 


"So what, you're going to terminate me?" Sorts screeched. "The only 
person who can deal with... that goddamn thing?" 


"Your open discussion of..." Agent Schaffer paused to consider his 
words carefully. "...this matter caused a memetic containment 
breach that infected the entire breakroom at site 19." 


"Memetics is bullshit!" Sorts interjected. "A meme is when | say 
‘Knock, knock' and you say 'Who's there?’ It's not a virus, it's nota 
weapon. It's not a compulsion. The other researchers in the 
breakroom are not sick—any more than they already were, anyway." 


"Doctor..." 


Sorts laughed. "Meme is a fucking stupid word to fancy up the 


concept of a running joke, one of the more irritating concepts that 
mouth-breathing crap-flinger Richard Dawkins has inflicted upon an 
undeserving world. | hate the very word. 'Mmmmeeeeeeem.' | 
pronounce it 'maim' every time | can because | hate it so much." 


"| thought it was pronounced that way." Schaffer frowned. 


"You thought, you thought, you thought eight things tonight!" Sorts 
laughed, then rubbed his forehead. "Oh god. There | go. That's an 
obscure one, | don't expect you'd know the reference. But see? A 
meme is only as good as the amount of people that understand its 
context. Context is the key to unlocking these things. | learned about 
that goddamn thing by paying attention to the context. | talked to the 
people who were rotated out of working containment in here. | 
noticed the peculiar pattern in their speech. | deduced the rest." 


Schaffer raised his eyebrows. "You'd never seen me before now?" 


Sorts just narrowed his eyes. "| know enough about that goddamn 
thing to know this is a ridiculous waste of resources. Where is it right 
now? That old supply closet over there? The one that has a fancy 
electric lock and the old faded ‘fertilizer’ sign that was obviously 
recently added? All the other doors in this room are either sealed off 
or specifically go somewhere. Seriously pathetic misdirection there." 


Schaffer had heard enough, he stood up from his seat and gestured 
to the aforementioned door. "Yes, that's where they keep me. Would 
you like a look at the room? Perhaps, since you have learned so 
much about me, you can offer some insight into future containment 
procedures." 


The two men strode towards the old closet, which Schaffer opened 
with a wave of his unique key card. Schaffer picked up a clipboard 
from the reverse side of the door and read the introductory language 
that had been carefully prepared to make otherwise straightforward 
containment procedures sensible. 


Schaffer cleared his throat and recited the lines he had spoken only 
a few times before, when he was first assigned to security for this 
containment chamber and during scheduled testing: 


SCP-951: Yep! 


Dr. =: Why did it take you so long to 
respond? 


SCP-951: | was thinking. 


Dr. :1see. SCP-951, why do you help 
players to beat this game? 


SCP-951: Players? 


Dr. :Letme rephrase, why are you helping 
me beat this game? 


SCP-951: Because you're my friend, and | 
want you to win! 


Dr. |: Why do you consider me your friend? 
You hardly know me. 


SCP-951: I've never had any friends, and | like 
you! You're nice to me! 


Dr. :Howcan you say you've never had 
any friends if your earliest memory is meeting 
me? 


SCP-951: The same reason | know my name 
is LUCAS: | just do! 


Dr. :1see. Are you aware of what happens 
to you after the game is completed? 


SCP-951: | die. 


(Dr. pauses momentarily before 
continuing) 


Dr. : Could you elaborate what you mean 
by that for me, please? 


"Hello, | am SCP-426. | must be introduced this way in order to 
prevent ambiguity. | am an ordinary toaster, able to toast bread 
when supplied with electricity. However, when any human being 
mentions me, they inadvertently refer to me in the first person. 
Despite all attempts, there is yet to be a way to speak or write about 
me in the third person." 


Sorts made a derisive sound and waved towards the object sitting 
on the middle of a shelf in the otherwise empty closet. "That 
goddamn thing. That goddamn thing is a goddamn toaster." 


"No one else has ever been able to refer to me in that way before, 
Doctor Sorts. How did you do it? Your file said you had a talent for 
defusing memetic effects."