As Alan drifted out of his dream state and into full 
unconsciousness, he wondered about the other Alan's 
before him. Was there an Alan with nobody to talk to 
over the radio? Were the guards even still looking for 
him? This was probably a bad plan, he thought. Then he 
exhaled his last dry breath. 


Click to return. (0) 
> Open 3.9 


Alan reached. He freed his hand and reached until his 
elbow popped from the strain. As his fingertips grazed 
the light, he was washed in a brightness as the world 
around him melted away. This was it. The brightness 
faded as he rushed straight ahead it felt like. Something 
in his brain however faulted. He blinked hard. 


When he opened his eyes, he was sitting on the couch. 
Back in the room. 


«The hell is this place?» Chirped the radio on the table. 
Alan took a breath and he started the motions. 


"D-3454, do you copy?” Alan waited for his other self's 
response. 


END? 


Cat's in the Cradle 


Doctor Jack Bright stared ruefully at the simple bowl in front of him, 
filled with a creamy French Onion soup, the smell alluring enough to 
make his assistant sniff the air and lick his lips. He didn’t do any 
more than this, however, as he could tell that the doctor was ina 
foul mood. The last thing he needed was to become the object of ire 
of one of the most particularly infamous Senior Staff members. 


The old doctor rubbed his temples and suppressed a groan, waiting 
for his headache to go away completely. It was bad enough when he 
first learned that he was going to be testing this, and, for whatever 
godforsaken reason, couldn’t opt out of it, for all his power and 
influence. If there was one thing that Doctor Bright couldn’t stand, it 
was being told what he could and could not do. If there were two 
things that he couldn't stand, then the second thing was headaches. 
And if there were three things that Doctor Bright couldn’t stand, then 
the third thing would be the fact that the bowl was filled with French 
Onion soup. He already knew how this test was going to turn out, 
and he was not going to enjoy it in the slightest. 


“Is everything alright, doctor?” The assistant shook his head and 
ignored the delectable aroma for a moment to show concern for the 
man with the tall and youthful body. 


Bright turned to face him, as the pain began to subside. “It's nothing. 
I’m fine, Hector. Just a little migraine.” 


He wrote something down on a notepad to the right of the bowl, 
before picking up a recorder to the left of it. He looked back over at 
Hector, and, figuring he knew to keep quiet, hit ‘record.’ 


“This is Doctor Jack Bright, recording testing log SCP-348-3278-1. 
Primary goal of this test is to discover whether SCP-348's effects will 
alter accordingly if the consciousness of a body comes from one 
who holds a different biological father. Why someone felt the need to 
know this, is a question that will have to be answered another day.” 


He wondered if he should edit that part out, before deciding “to hell 
with it.” No one had the stones, or even a particular desire at all, to 
try and discipline him for an off-hand remark, especially since 
everyone knew that it wouldn’t stop him from making more in the 
future. 


“For reference, the body | am currently in, D-7251, was that of one 
Thiago Branco. Records show that Mr. Branco had a close 
relationship with his father. If this is correct, and if the soup is indeed 
intended for D-7251, then | should feel as if ‘something is missing’. 
In the unlikely chance that there be a message at the bottom, it will 
be in Portuguese.” 


He ended the recording, neglecting to mention the obvious question 
of what would happen if the soup was intended for him instead. 
Those with the proper security clearance and need-to-know could 
guess at that. Everyone else could mind their own goddamned 
business. 


He picked up the bowl carefully, and slowly brought it to his lips. He 
wondered if maybe Mr. Branco’s favorite soup was French Onion. 
Maybe he and his father would bond over bowls of it throughout his 
childhood. Maybe this test would turn out differently than Bright 
expected. 


He took the tiniest bit of soup in his mouth. 
Nope. He could never be so lucky. 


Hector saw the doctor grimace at the taste, before setting the bowl 
down, picking up his recorder and his pad and pencil, before 
standing up and walking briskly out of the room. 


“Tasted god-awful. Glad that’s over with. You can have the rest, 
Hector, | don’t give a damn.” Before his assistant could even make a 
sound, Doctor Bright had exited the testing room. 


Hector processed what had just happened, before shrugging and 
deciding to save questioning it until after he had finished the soup. 
He took the bowl back to his office, letting the guard on duty know 
that he’d bring it back within an hour, and sat down with it at his 


desk. (Being the assistant to Doctor Jack Bright afforded Hector 
certain privileges that would be unthinkable for most other personnel 
to have.) 


He nursed it, on and off for twenty minutes while he worked, 
occasionally taking a bit of onion into his mouth. He didn’t know 
what Bright was on, but this soup wasn't bad at all. He was 
surprised that he had finished it so quickly, and even more surprised 
when he noticed that it had a message at the bottom. 


He wondered if he should tell anybody that it did, but, upon reading 
it, he decided it would be best that he not mention it. Word would 
inevitably get back to Doctor Bright about what it had said and that 
Hector was the one who first found out and told someone. He didn’t 
want to think about what the doctor’s reaction to that might be. 


Hector took the bowl back to the guard on duty, and told her he was 
ready to bring it back to its locker. The two of them walked to the 
vast rows of containment lockers, passing by a few dozen before 
reaching one that was labelled with tape with “348” neatly written in 
black marker on it. The guard, (Katherine, it said on her ID badge), 
deftly spun the dial, and opened it up. Hector slid the bowl on the 
shelf inside, and Katherine shut the locker, giving the dial one more 
spin for good measure. 


As the two of them left to go back to their respective duties, the bowl 
sat in the dark of the locker, the faded blue message on its bottom 
still visible. There were precious few people alive who could know its 
context, and one of them had made it clear that he had no intention 
of giving it any more thought. He didn’t have to read it to know what 
it said. 


"You have every right to hate me" 


She stared at the bowl in front of her. Bits of celery, a couple of 
potatoes, and even a few clams stared back at her as they lazily 
floated around. The researcher standing by the door wrinkled her 
nose in disgust. 


“All you have to do is have enough of it to tell us how it tastes,” the 


researcher, Denise, said, wanting to reassure the young woman that 
she wouldn’t have to finish what was sitting in front of her. 


The woman looked at the bowl for a second longer before 
responding. “Would it be alright if | had all of it?” 


Denise raised an eyebrow, but nodded. Why in God’s name would 
she want to actually want to have all of that stuff? The smell was so 
abysmal it made Denise’s skin crawl. It made her feel like she was 
being watched. Like she was being leered at. Why the hell was that 
woman able to stand smelling that stuff, let alone eating it? Denise 
shrugged. Maybe it was just a welcome change from her usual diet. 
Lord knows that couldn’t be much more pleasant. 


The young woman brought the bowl to her lips, blew some of the 
steam away, and tasted its contents. 


It was warm and rich, but those were the only two specific words she 
could use to describe it. Everything else, she couldn’t put her finger 
on. She couldn’t tell if the actual taste wasn’t that bad and it was the 
aftertaste that left something to be desired, or vice-versa. The 
texture seemed thicker on her lips, but runnier as soon as it got past 
her teeth. The potatoes were firm and salty, but by the time she was 
finished, she swore they were almost sweet, somehow. 


As she relayed all of this information to Denise, the researcher kept 
as straight a face as she could, ignoring the urge to cringe every 
time the girl paused to take another slurp. Thankfully, the girl was 
finished quickly enough, and Denise walked up behind her, looking 
at the empty bowl from over the her shoulder. 


There was a message at the bottom of the bowl. When Denise read 
it, she had to suppress a shudder, noticing that she had been righter 
than she would have liked to have been in her assessment as to 
how the bowl made her feel. If the young woman sitting in the chair 
was similarly disturbed, however, she didn't show it. 


Alright,” Denise said, doing her best at ignoring how perturbed she 
was, “you’re done here. You can go ahead and leave.” 


The girl walked out of the room, nodding to the guard on the other 


side of the door. Together, the two of them walked back to her suite. 


Denise sat down in the now-open chair, pushing the bowl away to 
the edge of the table, making sure not to look any more at the 
message inside of it. She pulled her notepad and pencil from her 
coat pockets, and began to write down her observations of the test. 


The young woman gingerly sat on her soft bed, reflecting on what 
had just happened. It certainly wasn’t the best thing she had ever 
tasted, but it was certainly better than what she’d usually been 
having for the longest time. 


She tried to remember what exactly it had tasted like, but it was 
hard. Like remembering something from years ago rather than 
minutes ago. The message came to her clearly enough, however, 
and she wondered if it had anything to do with the letter that she 
received on her last birthday. Despite having the chance to only 
read it once before it was taken away, it too came to her as clear as 
day. 


She was certain that the message had been from the same person 
who sent the letter. She didn't know how he did it, but she knew her 
father, whoever he was, was making good on his promise. 


Deciding that she would save her thoughts for after a nap, the young 
woman rested her head on her pillow, and drifted off to sleep, 
dreaming about the face she could never quite remember upon 
waking up. 


Upon SCP-166 being brought into its presence, SCP-348 filled with 
what appeared to be New Englana-style clam chowder. This 
researcher observed a very unpleasant odor emanating from 
SCP-348, but SCP-166 made no mention of such a stench, if she 
even noticed it at all. 


SCP-166 described the taste of SCP-348 in vague terms. The taste, 
texture, and other qualities were noted as seeming conflicting, and 
the only definite terms SCP-166 used to describe SCP-348 were 
“warm” and “rich.” 


Of particular note is the message that manifested on the bottom of 


the inside of the bowl, as has happened in some previous tests. 


This message read, “I'm still keeping an eye on you, sweetheart. 
Every day.” 


ALERT NOTICE: GOLDENROD 

On 06/16/2015, at approximately 0830 hours, SCP-348 
was found to be missing from its containment locker. In 
its place was a handwritten note, reading “Just borrowing 
it. Will have it back soon,” and signed with an illustration 
of a black queen chess piece. Assuming that the Black 
Queen is going to return the item as the note implies, all 
security personnel are to be prepared for this event. 
Standard protocols for capturing intruding parties do 


apply. 
Director Tilda D. Moose 


The Black Queen kept the bowl in a small cupboard for three days, 
telling herself that she would wait until she felt “sick enough” for it. 
She had found the file on this particular item almost a year 
beforehand, but it took her several months and several missed 
opportunities before she finally resolved to request that one of her 
Little Sisters fetch it for her. She didn’t want to go after it personally, 
for fear of it somehow manifesting its contents while she was holding 
it. It might have thrown her off of her game. She imagined such a 
scenario playing out, with Foundation security teams surrounding 
her, the infamous Black Queen herself, while she stood staring 
wide-eyed at a bowl of soup. 


She chuckled dryly at the mental picture. 


She’d been feeling the cold coming on ever since shortly before she 
had had the bowl retrieved, but she kept putting it off and off, until 
eventually, it felt like there was an airtight seal in her nostrils, 
sandpaper was massaging her esophagus, and she could no longer 
deny that she was indeed “sick enough.” 


Opening up her cupboard, she removed the bowl, setting it down on 
the plain table in the center of her kitchen. She wondered if she 


should grab a spoon too, but she decided against it. She didn’t know 
if she had any clean spoons at the moment, and all it would take for 
her to talk herself out of the experience would be something as 
simple as not wanting to have soup with a dirty spoon. 


Sitting down in front of the table, she stared at what exactly had 
filled the bowl in front of her. There were a few wispy won tons, 
along with bits of pork and onion. She stared at it for a long, long 
time, before finally taking a deep breath and lifting the bowl up to her 
lips. 


She blinked back a couple of tears when she felt just how cold it 
was. She’d been expecting that. It hit her like a semi truck, but she 
had been expecting it. She tipped the bowl further, taking some of 
the won tons and pork and onions into her mouth. Each time she 
chewed, or something rolled onto her tongue, she tried to gauge 
what exactly the flavor was, but it wasn’t anything beyond the bare 
minimum of what she’d expect from wonton soup. She’d expected 
that too, but it didn’t stop her from hoping for some kind of feeling to 
hit her. Anything at all, good or bad, so long as she wasn’t expecting 
it. 


But the soup remained cold, and the pork and onions tasted like 
nothing special. Her throat might have felt slightly better, and her 
nose a little clearer, but there was nothing about this meal that she 
hadn’t been expecting. 


She stared at the wall opposite of her for a few minutes, wondering 
what she’d do now. The bowl would have to be returned eventually. 
She did promise she would do so, after all, as she had a reputation 
and an image to maintain. She began thinking about what it would 
take to sneak past the inevitably heightened security in order to get 
the bowl back to its locker. Nothing she couldn't handle with enough 
time to plan it out. Sighing, she stood up, about to go back to her 
normal routine just as she expected she would, but far sooner than 
she hoped that she would have. 


But, then she looked back down at the bowl. And what she saw 
inside of it was not something she had been expecting at all. 


The file had said that messages were rare for adult subjects, and, 


SCP-809: Combat Boots 


Item #: SCP-809 
Object Class: Safe 


Containment Procedures: SCP-809 is to be kept in a secure 

storage locker in Site 19. No additional security beyond a standard 

keypad lock is necessary for containment. A room outfitted with 

monitoring equipment and four-point restraints is recommended for 

testing on unwilling subjects. As of / /20 , please contact Agent 
to confirm availability of SCP-809. 


Description: SCP-809 is a heavily stained and worn pair of leather 
boots, designated SCP-809-1 and SCP-809-2 for the left and right 
boot respectively. Forensic analysis of the boots confirms that the 
stains are composed of clay-rich soil and human blood. The design 
of SCP-809 is consistent with those of the boots worn by French 
infantry in the last years of World War One.