8. Assuming that you choose to ratify the Erbil Protocol, Project 736 
will be only the first of many Projects aimed at the protection of the 
anomalous from the senseless destruction and violence so adored 
by the Daesh militants. Already under threat are the Assyrians, with 
their Knucklebones of Toma; the Turkmens, with their Banner of 
Zengi; and even the Sons of Bel, with their Golden Idol. 


9. This memorandum transmitted 3 Dhu al-Hijjah 1435 (27 
September 2014). 


— REGIONAL COORDINATOR "MALAK" 


CONFIDENTIAL 


Of Mats And Masquerades 


September 18th, 1957 


Robert Parsley put a Concentrated Look on his face as the elevator 
door opened. This was Concentrated Look #3 that he was using 
today; he saw it fulfill his purpose adequately as he walked past 
Bethany, the receptionist. Concentrated Look #3 was appropriate 
today; Concentrated Look #1 had too much concern for him to use 
feasibly when receiving a commendation from the director of the 
FBI, and he had already used Concentrated Look #2 the day before. 
No matter what happened, no matter what went wrong, Robert 
Parsley always knew what emotion he needed to seem to feel at any 
given moment. 


"Good morning, Agent Parsley," Bethany said as he walked by. "The 
Director is still in his ten o'clock, but | think they'll be finished in a 
moment. Can | get you some coffee?" 


Concentrated Look #3 shifted to its corollary, Distracted Grin #3, as 
he looked at Bethany. "Yeah, sweetie, that'd be great." He returned 
to a Concentrated Look once she left. He had to use Concentrated 
Look #3 today for those moments when he wanted to look very 
consumed in his work and not interested in conversation. It was 
relatively effective for most people, but J. Edgar Hoover's secretary 
was chosen and trained carefully to behave like the most hospitable 
human being in America. Whatever Bethany thought, felt, or wanted 
was completely disconnected from what she said and did. Robert 
sympathized. 


Returning with the coffee, Bethany picked up the ringing phone. She 
handed the Styrofoam cup to him absently while listening. "He's 
ready for you now, Agent Parsley," she said. 


Robert slurped down as much of the scalding coffee as he could 
(Mr. Hoover didn't allow improprieties like carrying drinks into a 
meeting) before putting the cup back on Bethany's desk. "Thanks, 


693/B.) At this point, the doll begins to move of its own volition, 
portraying the current actions of whoever it is attuned to. SCP-693 
also projects all statements made by said individual, as if it were 
them. The doll reliably portrays all actions and speech of the attuned 
individual for a period of nine days. 


After nine days, the SCP becomes unreliable in both actions and 
speech. Depending on the color of base string, the doll will seek to 
drive its current owner (owner in this case referring to whomever 
placed the hair in the doll, not the attuned individual) to his death, by 
inaccurately depicting the actions of its attuned individual. Colors 
and actions are as follows: 


¢ Red- Seeks to anger its owner into increasingly violent fits of 
rage. 

¢ Blue- Seeks to send its owner into bouts of depression, 
leading to suicide. 

¢ Yellow- Encourages its owner to engage in acts of un- 
reciprocated lust. 

¢ Black- Encourages its owner into increasingly dangerous 
situations. 


If an instance of SCP-693 is successful in causing the death of its 
owner, a new instance of SCP-693 will be found on the owners' 
body. 


The Foundation currently has in containment seven red instances, 
ten blue instances, five yellow instances and one black instance. 


Addendum 693/A: Transcript of Included Instructions: 
"Congratulations on your purchase of a genuine Knotty Stalker! Do 
you love someone, but they won't give you the time of day? Do you 
wish you could hear what they say about you behind their back? 
Well wonder no more! Using this fantabulous product, you can keep 
track of your loved ones' every move, their every word! All you have 
to do is get a single hair from the head of the object of your desires, 
slip it under a loose string on our Knotty Stalker, and see what 
you're missing! Another wonderful product brought to you by The 
Factory." 


Addendum 693/B: Concerning the use of hair from a deceased 


sugar. I'll be back for that in a minute." He considered winking ina 
flirty sort of way, pursue the possibility of the Plan moving in that 
direction, but he was just too distracted to think about his 
masquerade in that much detail. 


J. Edgar Hoover's office was not as special as one might expect 
from an FBI director. He was sitting behind a mahogany desk, with 
two lamps and and inkwell within arms reach. His nameplate, 
reading 'HOOVER'’, was flanked by two brass statues of athletes 
mid-victory. Hoover himself was flanked by two American flags. 
There were no photographs on the desk. Robert sat in a small, 
overstuffed purple office chair as Hoover watched him. 


"Afternoon, make yourself comfortable. | heard you were the boy 
who did the Masterson case, yes? That was a tricky one." 


"Thank you, sir," Robert said, feeling many things but projecting 
Prideful Grin #2. 


"The Unusual Incidents Unit, I've learned, is an important apparatus 
to national security. I'm glad they had a man who knew to trust his 
gut and see it through to the end. A man of good character." Hoover 
shifted in his seat. "Do you mind if | ask what church you go to?" 


Robert reinforced Prideful Grin #2, nearly bumping it up to #1 out of 
sheer discomfort. "| have a membership at Sand Hill Baptist Church 
back home, sir, but I've been attending different ones here and there 
lately. Trying to get a feel for the neighborhood. | won't be moving 
my membership from the family church any time soon, though, sir." 


Everything Robert had said was technically accurate while ignoring 
several pertinent details. 


Hoover smiled. "Maybe you'll see me at your service one day, eh? 
After you do some work on this." He pulled out a small manilla 
envelope, and handed it over. "Case down south, in Atlanta. They're 
having a hell of a time getting the case off the ground. I'm sure 
they'll tell you as much when you get there." 


Robert stood, and Hoover followed him to the door. 


Hoover slapped the back of the tall, pale man walking with him out 
of the office. "Now, you and your boys have been doing a fine job 
down south, but | need you to check in with me more. I'm starting to 
think you don't like coming to see me!" 


Robert smiled a phony smile. "Well... I've got to be going." 


"Here, talk to my secretary. She'll put you up in a hotel, nice place. 
It's old, but it looks new on the inside." 


"Thank you, sir. I'll see my way out." 


Robert made the necessary arrangements (possibly flirtatiously? 
Robert was too distracted to notice) and left the office, making a 
series of well-formed and empty gestures of politeness as needed. 
He was on full autopilot now, expressions changing as needed, 
some probably unnecessary. He made sure to keep his pace steady 
to avoid attention from people at a distance. Even in this town, 
people were nosy. Always looking. Robert always thought they 
suspected. He was so good at keeping his secret, and if anybody 
could keep his secret at the place where he worked, the center of 
red-blooded Americanism, working for the patron saint of Christian 
manhood, surely he could keep it from everyone else around him. 


But he had to stay in control. Just need to get home, Robert thought. 
Just need to get to That Room. The Room that nobody needed to 
know was there. The Room where he could be himself, where 
nobody else could see him. One day, one day soon, he would be 
somewhere where he could always be himself. But until then, he 
had to play his part. Only one man in this town knew about his true 
self, and he was going to need to see him as soon as possible. 


Robert made it home in record time. Close the door. Lock the door. 
Close the windows. Close the shutters. Lock the shutters. The ritual 
was well known by now. Go to the bathroom and wash himself, feel 
the judgment and the watching eyes running off of his body. Go to 
the bookshelf in the hallway, latches and hinges concealed by 
careful, painstaking carpentry. Unlatch the shelf from the wall. Swing 
the shelf fifteen, twenty degrees out; all the spare room available in 
the hallway. Just enough room to open the hidden door and 
squeeze through. The ritual was well known by now. 


In that dark, windowless room was a light bulb with a string beside it; 
he lit the room. Closing the door behind him, he looked down at the 
two objects on the floor. The only evidence in this place, possibly the 
only evidence in his life, that anything he did, said, or believed was 
anything other than what he said it was. He closed the door behind 
him, lamenting how much it looked like he was ashamed of what he 
was about to take part in. One day, he thought to himself, /'// be able 
to be like this in public. He looked at the book on the ground and 
considered how much it would horrify the man whose office he just 
left. Then he thought about the man who knew his true feelings, the 
man he would speak to tomorrow. 


He stood on the saj/ada, turned towards Mecca, and began to pray. 


Of Teachers And Taxicabs 


Robert Parsley listened and watched as the rotor of the phone click- 
click-clicked from each of the numbers he dialed back to the black 0 
at the top. After a short conversation with the operator, she 
connected him with another location on the switchboard. The dial 
tone droned in Robert's ear. 


“Quantico Taxicab & Livery, how can | help you?” 


“Yes, | need a pickup at the Evergreen Apartment complex,” Robert 
said. “On the double.” 


“That'll be fifteen to twenty minutes, sir,” the bored attendant said, 
accent imperceptible. 


“That's not going to do,” Robert said. “I'll need it in no less than 
seven minutes and thirty five seconds, at the outside.” 


Several moments passed. They need to get on the god damn ball 
already, before the operator gets suspicious, Robert thought to 
himself, chiding himself for the mental blasphemy. Not all of these 
guys understand how things work in America. 


“We can do that, sir,” the attendant said. “Have a good day.” 


“Thank you.” 


The driver of the taxi got out and opened Robert's door for him, as 
would be expected of someone in his station. Robert gave a curt 
nod and ducked into the running automobile without another glance 
at the man holding his door, as would be expected of someone in 
his station. 


What was not expected in this situation was the man sitting in the 
driver's side rear seat. “Hello, brother,” the elfin, brown-skinned man 


said. “Peace be unto you.” 


“Peace be also unto you, imam,” Robert said. “Thank you for 
agreeing to speak with me. | have been in need of much guidance 
lately.” 


“This is understandable, my son,” Imam Farahani said. “Your path is 
a difficult one to walk. You have been tasked by God with a mission 
of great importance, but | can sense already that your heart is 
troubled. Tell me of your worries.” 


If the driver of the taxi was disturbed by Robert's burst into tears, he 
did not show it. If he was any more surprised by the blubbering 
confession coming forth in the back of the taxi, he likewise 
possessed enough discretion to avoid commenting on this. Robert 
vented for nearly twenty minutes, rambling on disparately about the 
constant fear of being detected, about the stress of living his double 
life, about the horrors of American society around him and his 
awareness of it, his fear of — oh merciful God, his fear of Edgar 
Hoover finding out what he was. What he was really doing. 


The imam listened at length as Robert vented his spleen. After he 
finished, there was silence in the taxi for quite a long time. 


“Is this road too hard for you, child?” the imam asked. 


“Does it matter if it is?” Robert asked. “Do any of us have a choice? 
We are the Slaves of God, imam; it's in the name.” 


“We all have a choice,” Imam Farahani said. “And your Arabic is 
flawed, son. ‘Muslim’ translates literally as 'one who submits to God. 
The linguists would call that an active verb, | believe. It requires an 
actor, requires action. An active participant. A maker of decisions. 
You have become a Muslim as an act of faith, an act of choice. But 
whatever it is, it is an act. You have not fallen into Islam; no one 
does, no one can. It is a hard road for all. Yours, yes, is a harder 
road than many. But the paradise that awaits all faithful Muslims is 
greater than any of the tribulations in this world. And the world that 
we Muslims seek to build will help guide millions, even billions into 
that paradise.” 


The imam shook his head. “You weep like a child. That is an 
observation, not a critique. Children weep because they spend years 
learning what the world is, learning these rules for living among 
other people through trial and error. And they spend much more 
time in error than not. Becoming a Muslim as a grown man, 
especially in the home of depraved, Godless capitalism? This is as a 
second childhood for you. So long as you keep the tears confined to 
right here and keep the truth confined to your heart, there should be 
no shame here.” 


Robert sniffled further, wiped his nose on the tissue offered to him 
by the imam. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. | can't 
tell you how grateful | am for everything you've done.” 


The imam's face brightened. “Ever since | met you, ever since you 
walked into the masjid in Memphis, ever since | saw the look on your 
face, | knew. | knew you were truly enlightened, or at least capable 
of it. So many of these Westerners cannot see the decadence and 
depravity of their home. But you, you were strong enough to see the 
truth, and strong enough to work with us to help strengthen our 
cause. Even at the cost of your personal self-confidence. Even at 
the cost of your safety, you risk everything for the truth. Risk 
everything for what is right, son. There is no greater cause. 


“The Prophet Muhammad, praise be unto him, this is what he 
dedicated his life to. Like you, he fought a war against every 
institution he had ever known and built something greater than this 
world has ever seen. Unlike you, he did not have the help of an 
elder, a man he could talk to for guidance.” 


The taxi came to a stop outside Robert's house. “We are out of time, 
child,” the /mam said. “Please, keep in mind the things | have said, 
and walk always with God.” He pushed a butane lighter into Robert's 
hand. “This is empty and will open into flat metal. The usual code is 
written on the inside. This is your next mission. Remember, serve 
first the world of God always. Let the world of men catch up to you.” 


Robert nodded, collected himself, kissed his imam on the cheek 
quickly (to avoid being seen by people nearby), and stepped out of 
the taxi. He walked quickly up the steps to his apartment complex's 
door, up the stairs to his apartment. 


“Hey, handsome,” Robert's neighbor said. The neighbor that Robert 
knew had immoral designs on him, the one who disgusted Robert 
more than nearly anyone he saw in his day-to-day relations. He saw 
her as the encapsulation of everything that sickened him about what 
his country had become, about the West. Fat, promiscuous, lazy. 
“You got back quickly.” 


Polite Smile #1 said “Just went for a stroll’ as the man wearing it 
ducked into his apartment. 


The tab on the file read "RECENT DECODES" as Bethany laid it on 
her employer's desk. The first page in the file had a photocopied 
message on top. 


ORGANIZATION FOR THE RECLAMATION OF 
ISLAMIC ARTIFACTS 
PENETRATION 
CONTINUES AS 
EXPECTED. 
PACKAGE 
DELIVERED. 
OPERATIVE EN 
ROUTE. 


J. Edgar Hoover would be back from lunch soon. 


Obligations