have no idea what happened next inside there, but two things 
happened. First, eighteen iterations of you appeared in major cities, 
wreaking havoc. Not complete copies of you, just imitations; they all 
died pretty quickly once our task forces arrived. But that was about it 
for the Veil Protocol after that. So congratulations, | suppose." 


"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOU—" 


"We've never understood it, but apparently you did something to 
055. You reappeared in your chamber after we killed the last copy, 
forgetting everything. We never particularly wanted to let you in on it. 
But 055 started putting out energy after that. Just a trickle, then 
more and more as time went on. We were able to harness it, thanks 
to the combined efforts of the Foundation, the GOC, the UIU, 
everybody. We couldn't have done it without global support, the kind 
we never would have had before Rampage Day. It changed the 
world. You changed the world, in a good way. For once." 


The beast was silent. It was like old times again. 


"So, you're free, as of...as soon as I'm out of the building. The 
programs are prewritten. | hit one button, once I'm safely away, and 
you can leave as soon as you like." 


The beast was silent. 


"Yeah, | don't want to mess around with weepy goodbyes either. | 
hope, and | mean this with all my heart, that we never see each 
other again." Jack turned to leave. 


"JACK." 
Jack paused. 
"MAY | SEE THE ARTIFACT FOR ONE LAST TIME." 


Jack stopped to think if there was any way the lizard could exploit 
the amulet to its advantage and couldn't think of any. He pulled the 
amulet out and showed it to the beast. "I'm still in here. Some things 
don't change." 


"THERE ARE ASPECTS OF THAT ARTIFACT THAT YOU WILL 


NEVER UNDERSTAND. REFRACTIONS OF LIGHT THAT YOU 
WILL NEVER SEE. THINGS | COULD NOT EXPLAIN TO YOU 
EVEN WERE | SO INCLINED. 'GOODBYE’, | BELIEVE IS THE 
EXPRESSION." The beast retreated to a corner of its chamber and 
became quiet. 


Jack turned and walked to the elevator. The ride up to the surface 
was long, and uncomfortable. Once in his car, he opened the flexi, 
tapped four times, and put it back. He turned the ignition. 


Jack was at the spaceport boarding the flight when the flexi vibrated 
again. He had programmed Site 19's cameras to follow what 
happened, and the show was apparently over. He watched the 
footage as the preflight checks were completed. 


2345: All containment blocks drop. The monster waits for a moment 
before springing for the exit. It races to the open elevator and crawls 
up the shaft. 


2354: The creature reaches the ground level, knowing instinctively 
when it arrives. It rips through the steel door with its teeth and 
emerges onto the floor of Site 19. It looks from side to side 
momentarily, then rushes for the enormous glass door. It is standing 
open. 


2356: The lizard arrives outside. There is a moment when it looks at 
the giant gate and looks...suspicious, almost. It knows its former 
containers, knows what they are capable of. It knows what Dr. Bright 
is capable of, wonders how sincere he is about this transformation of 
his. The pause is just for a second, but all this is present. The lizard 
could go through the gate, or go around it; crawl over the walls or 
smash them. When the lizard slowly, tentatively starts snaking 
towards the gate, Jack believes it has made a decision. It has 
decided to do something not out of fear, not out of suspicion, but out 
of hope. It has not Known hope in a very, very long time, but perhaps 
it decides that it is time to do something new. 


2358: The lizard reaches the gate. What happens now is 
unrecorded, is likely unrecordable. This was technology nobody 
knew about; not the government, not the rest of the Containment 


Department, nobody. A bright blue flash of light, right when it passes 
under the gate. Jack doesn't know what it feels like for the beast to 
become mortal for the first time, but it doesn't have long to know the 
feeling. 


2359: Site 19 warheads detonate. Something else the government 
didn't know about. Two directly beneath the gate, in fact. 


"SCP-682 decommissioned 25 December 2231, 2359 hours. Site 19 
closed at that time. Send record to headquarters." Dr. Bright tapped 
the pad again. 


The Harold Maine Fan Club 


This is part two in a multi-part story. It is recommended 
that you read the previous entry At the Library first. 


“Hey! Hey wait!” 


Aidan Brown, half-human, half-lobster, continued walking - or 
whatever crippled approximation of walking he was left with - and 
did not turn around. 


“Wait!” A young woman's voice, tired, worn out, urgent. He 
continued on; nobody would or could be talking to him. 


But then, with his one good eye, he noticed the woman at his side, 
easily matching his pace. He stopped. 


“It was you... screaming earlier,” he slurred, the words reluctant to 
leave the mush of his mouth. “Outside the library. You saw me? You 
can see me now?” 


“Yes,” she said. “But no one else can?” 


“No one else can,” he said. His good eye scanned her briefly. Very 

good looking. Tall, slim, elegant. Then he looked down and saw the 
ruin of her arms. The ugly thalidomide-born stumps, the two things 

that might be fingers where they terminated. She saw that he saw, 

and she flushed. 


He was about to ask why she could see him, especially as no one 
else could, when a child - a daughter maybe - appeared from 
nowhere and pressed up against the woman. 


“What time is it?” she asked. 


The woman raised and turned her arm and looked down, as if to 
check a watch, then stopped herself. “I forget sometimes,” she 
apologised. 


perhaps breaking off the part with the unknown figure 
mentioned earlier. [The piece was later found and 
reattached; unknown whether this was of any real 
consequence.] He then made a home for himself in the 
sewer, creating the following over the estimated course 
of one week. 


@ The score, written in varying shades of green, 
brown, and red on the sewer walls, for a somber 
Broadway-style musical about two doomed lovers 
in WWIl-era Stalingrad. 

@ A tragic retelling of Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker from 
the perspective of the Rat King, written in the 
same substances as before. Substances used as 
"ink" were composed of sewage, fecal material of 
untested origin, and blood from various species, 
including rat and human. 

M@ What appeared to be, at one time, a self-portrait; 
at the time of viewing by Agent - , the 
sewage-based "paints" had all but evaporated, 
leaving only the parts of the image painted in red 
on the wall. This included the right eye and half of 
a grinning mouth. most likely used material 
with a higher concentration of water to create this, 
explaining why it disappeared when other 
samples of it did not. 

M@ The phrase "i am just fine" repeated a number of 
times along the walls, primarily in brown. 
Scrawled beneath this in red were the Russian 
words [DATA REDACTED]. Note: According to 
family and doctors’ logs, the individual had no 
history of mental instability prior to contact with 
SCP-960. Dr. _'s hypothesis about the "tenth 
muse" influencing the others may be correct; 
pending further testing. 

@ What could be best described as a stream-of- 
consciousness poem, printed entirely in red along 
fifteen meters of the floor of the sewer. Themes 
included involved the existence or nonexistence 
of both the writer and of God, fear of 


Aidan Brown took three long wheezing breaths and steadied himself 
on his walking sticks. “You forget you've never had hands?” His lung 
palpitated in its half-corrupted housing; the platelets around his jaw 
moved and fidgeted with every painful intake or expellation of air. 
“Sorry,” he offered. “That was harsh. So... how long have you had 
your birth defects?” 


The woman weighed up the risks of confiding in this strange, 
consumed creature; wondered how much she would be endangering 
her daughter, and how much she would be protecting her. She 
remembered the words at the library. Next time, you'll walk. That 
would be ten miles. She couldn't go on like this. 


“Not here,” she said. “Can we go somewhere, get something to 
eat?” 


Aidan studied her for a few moments and shook his head. “I don't 
really fit anywhere. People trip over my tail, drag their chairs over my 
legs... There's a park maybe two blocks away. Usually quiet. Your 
daughter - daughter? - can play there whilst we reminisce about the 
good old days.” 


“Good old days?” 
“Yeah, when you didn't have thalidomide and | didn't - wasn't... this.” 


The woman smiled nervously and looked back at the library in the 
distance. Whatever this monster was, they shared a common 
history. “Okay,” she said. “Let's go.” 


ooo 


“| woke up like this five weeks ago,” the woman said. She sat ona 
park bench in the shade offered by a maple tree, watching her 
daughter play on the swings. Aidan Brown stood near her, lopsided, 
awkward, mopping his face with a handkerchief. He shifted his 
weight on his walking sticks and shooed his persistent fan club flies 
away. 


“You have proof you had hands before?” He asked. “Sorry for asking 
- | just - “ 


“In my clutch bag. Big pocket on the inside.” 


Aidan Brown hesitated, then with his good hand he rummaged 
inside the woman’s bag. “Don't mess it up,” she warned. 


“Think | got it,” he said. He pulled out a photograph, much worn, 
much looked at, of a goddess in a pastel pink bridesmaid's dress, 
holding her daughter smiling in her arms. Such lissom arms; such 
elegant hands and long, slender fingers. And a watch that, even 
today, she had forgotten she no longer wore. Aidan searched for 
something to say - a platitude, a consolation, a gesture of solidarity, 
maybe, but nothing was adequate - how could it be? In the end he 
slipped the photo back into the bag. “I'm sorry,” he said. 


“It was him,” the woman said. And then, in hushed tones, as if she 
didn't want even her own breath to hear, “Harold Maine. He did this.” 
She closed her eyes. Sounds of children playing, bees or wasps or 
flies buzzing lazily, automobiles on the highway. And New Best 
Friend Aidan Brown wheezing and gasping as he stood above her, 
resting on his walking sticks. 


“Yeah,” he said at last. “I figured as much, the sonofabitch. Knew it 
soon as you screamed. Nobody else sees me, notices me, it's like | 
don't exist. So you scream, and | wonder how come... I'm glad you 
waited for me outside.” 


“| wasn't going to,” the woman said. “I was waiting for...” She trailed 
off and looked back at her daughter. “Angela! Come away from 
there! Stay with the small kids.” And back to the matter at hand: “I'm 
not a brave woman,” she continued. “I'm not resourceful, or quick, or 
smart. | live - lived - on my looks. I'm afraid for myself and for my 
daughter. | couldn't see any way out.” 


“So you weren't for waiting for me after all?” 


“No,” she confessed. “I was waiting for a truck. A big, big truck. | was 
going to throw myself and Angela under it.” 


“Christ. Really? I'm sorry... What made you change your mind?” 


The woman shook her head and laughed softly. “Angela. | couldn't 


pick her up.” She raised her stubby arms and the two deformed 
fingers on each stump. “I didn't change my mind. | just physically 
couldn't do it.” 


There was silence between them for a few seconds, punctuated by 
the cries of the children on the swings and the flies buzzing around 
Aidan Brown’s head. “And then you saw me,” he said, “and you 
thought Halle-fucking-lulleiah, things ain't that bad after all.” 


“| saw an innocent monster,” the woman said. “Something that 
couldn't exist. Horrific, nightmarish, agonised.” 


“You sound like my ex-wife.” 


“| recognised the work of Harold Maine. | knew he'd done that to you 
- whatever that is.” 


“He was a regular at a home game | run,” Aidan said. “Poker. 
Always suspected him of not being quite right. Three weeks ago | 
see him set the deck. | confront him. He leaves. Phones me later, 
tells me I'm going to regret ever fucking with him. Tells me no one's 
going to listen to me again.” Aidan took a swig from a bottle of water 
and mopped his brow again. The mandibles and feeders around his 
mouth - or whatever they were - clicked and clacked momentarily. 


“The next day, nobody else can see me or hear me. Colleagues, 
neighbours, people on the bus. I'm totally invisible to them. Like a 
ghost. The day after that, | wake up like this. Half lobster, or 
whatever the fuck this is. He rings me, says give him money and 
he'll make things better, don't and he'll make things much, much 
worse. No brainer. Been paying him what | can ever since.” 


“Must be tricky if you're invisible.” 


“Yeah,” he agreed. “I can't take any money out. Can't go toa 
pawnbroker. So I'm stuck with valuables - small items of jewellery, 
whatever cash | can get my hands - hand - on. I'm an honest man. | 
guess | could steal easy enough...” 


“But?” 


“But I'm not that sort of person. I'm honest. I've never stolen. Now 


I'm going to have to.” He watched the woman's daughter playing on 
the swings. “Amazing bounce-backability, if that's a word,” he said. 
“Kids go through all sorts of shit, but they're like memory foam. Not 
like us.” 


“No,” the woman agreed. “Not like us.” 


"0l 


Angela came running up. “It smells fishy here,” she complained. 
Aidan Brown rolled his good eye; the woman laughed. The girl ran 
off again. 


“So what do we do about this?” The woman asked. “You know he'll 
never free us. You know he can fuck us up in ways even we can't 
imagine. | can't go on like this.” 


Aidan Brown nodded. “How many d’you think he's collecting from? 
How many other poor fuckers out there waking up wrong every day? 
How? How does he do it?” 


“| don't know,” the woman admitted. “Let's find out.” She stood up 
suddenly and called her daughter over. 


“Where are you going?” 


She looked at Aidan Brown and shrugged. “The library. Wherever 
Maine is, that's where you'll find the other ‘poor fuckers’ like us.” 


“Christ,” Aidan wheezed. “We've only just left there,” he complained. 
“Took me half a fucking hour to get here, and now we're going 
back?” 


“You don't have to come.” 


“Well forgive me but...” He shooed the flies away and hesitated 
awkwardly. He raised his lobster claw, and touched her own 
malformed limb, softly and without malice, and she surprised herself 
when she did not flinch. 


“...L thought you might like someone to hold your hand,” he 
wheezed. The different plates of his mouth moved outwards quickly, 
unlocking and blossoming open in what could have been some form 
of laughter. 


“Fucker,” the woman said. “Absolute fucking fucker.” 


“You know it,” Aidan said. “Come on; now we've founded the Harold 
Maine Fan Club, it's time to swell our numbers.” 


Next 


The Has-Been 


The grey little man was gathering his belongings. 


Not many of those. A microfiber towelette he used to clean his 
monitor, a few spare ink cartridges he thought no one would miss, 
his green stapler, that cheap plastic wizard figurine he got ata 
garage sale a few years back. Thirty years of service packed in less 
than half of a cardboard box. 


lt was just like the HR man said. The grey little man remembered the 
plastic smile the HR man plastered on when he told him the news. 


"Your service record is impeccable", he said, "but your expertise is 
simply no longer needed nowadays." 


A plastic bird with a long neck dipped its head into a small container 
of water as the HR man explained the conditions of his 'early 
retirement’, as he called it. The walls were plastered with happy and 
oh so very current Foundation personnel in motivational posters, 
raising beakers and firearms and documents as they all smiled 
blankly at the grey little man from their high abodes.