The beeping blows the sensors way past 14 decibels. Zhao and | 
are frozen in place, but suddenly | see movement. Just a head stuck 
around the corner to see what's happening, but the skip is so fast. A 
dozen wires shoot lightning-quick down the hall, bursting through the 
foam baffles. The guard has no time to react before they grab him 
and haul him into the corridor, twisting snake-like around him as 
more and more tendrils flow down to join them. And then... 


| have to watch it. | can't turn my head or close my eyes. | try to turn 
my mind off but | have to watch it shake him and shake him. 


It doesn't last long, less than a minute. The copper snakes trail back 
in to the body of the skip, just a couple of feet across again. They 
draw back through the holes in the ruined baffle and | try to think 
what we can do. And then, after an age, once it's safe to move 
again, | look at Zhao. 


She's gone. She didn't see it, but she watched me see it. Her 
breathing is shallow and her eyes are unfocused - she's lost it. It's 
been too long - she's forgotten how it feels to have death breathing 
over your shoulder. She is motioning feebly to abort, but what the 
hell will we do then? Godammit, why did you have to choose today 
to pussy out, you weak bi- 


Jesus fuck it's on my foot! The skip has shuffled right onto my 
padded boot. My breath catches in my throat and my tongue turns to 
sandpaper. | can feel the copper wires scratching against my calf, 
the thick fabric warped and stretched by the movement. It feels 
obscene. This fuckin' thing is so wrong, why can't they just destroy 
it? It seems to sit there forever, blindly waving, and | just want to 
scream, to kick it away, to end it all in a moment of blessed release. 


And then it's off me, and | can breathe again. My mind is racing, but 
it's all about how the Silencer's broken, the foam's broken, Zhao's 
broken. We're fucked, we're fucked, we're - no, shut up. | have to 
think about what to do. | have time to think - I'm not moving, and | 
won't make any sound inside the suit. 


The suit! The tendrils didn't pierce it, because the material has some 
give. And it will block enough sound to let us get a new box around 
the skip. All | have to do is drape the suit over it, and then wait for 


SCP-690: Joke Bandages 


Item #: SCP-690 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-690 is to be stored ina 
refrigerated locked container in Sector-7 Euclid SCP containment, 
with a temperature no greater than 10 degrees Celsius. Access to 
SCP-690 is restricted to personnel with level 2 access or higher. 
Experiments involving SCP-690 must be approved by an individual 
holding Level-4 clearance before testing commences. 


Personnel with any cuts, scratches, or other injuries of the skin are 
to be restricted from access to SCP-690. If any unauthorized 
personnel use a bandage from SCP-690, security personnel are to 
be called immediately to subdue the offending personnel, and then 
remove and dispose of the bandage as biological waste. 


Description: SCP-690 appears to be a standard box of 
commercially-available adhesive bandages, now containing forty- 
seven (47) bandages. The logo on the box states that its contents 
are "Anti-Bandages (box of 64) - for the practical joker!", and that 
they are supplied by "your friends at the Factory". 


When a bandage from SCP-690 is applied to a wound, it will prevent 
the wound from healing naturally, aggravating the wound and 
causing infection. Analysis of the bandages has revealed that this is 
not the result of anomalous properties: the bandages are composed 
of asbestos and fiberglass, and impregnated with microcapsules 
which dissolve upon exposure to body heat. These microcapsules 
contain a mixture of highly concentrated anticoagulants (heparin, 
hirudin, brodifacoum), and particularly virulent (out not anomalous) 
strains of Streptococcus, Yersinia, Staphylococcus, and Clostridium. 


The anomalous property of SCP-690 is that they impose a moderate 
compulsion on nearby injured humans to take a bandage and apply 


backup. 


| start loosening the fabric ties - no noisy zips or velcro. I'm not 
looking at Zhao, she may as well not be here. Once the suit is off, | 
feel very exposed, even in my uniform. My skin prickles and the 
sweat on my face is cold. | can't look at the sensor anymore, so | 
can't afford to make a sound. But the skip is still close - | just need to 
lean over and cover it without any noise. 


"Just keep your cool..." 


Godammit, that song! Of course, right when | need to concentrate 
most, that "gift" from my so-called teammates comes back to bite 
me. I'm trying to breathe silently, but | can feel my jaw clench. 


Turn me from a lab rat into a stray mutt they've adopted, and they 
expect me to be grateful? Expect me to risk my life for their broken 
task force that no-one gives a shit about? Expect me to save their 
asses when they can't do the job themselves? 


My blood is boiling. I'm leaning as far out as | can, weight all on one 
foot, reaching out with the suit in both hands, when it happens. 


The flashlight in my pocket slips out, and the ring of keys tumbles to 
the floor. 


In that moment, as | lose my balance and know that | am dead, a 
memory hits me from fifteen years ago. 


Raised voices. | come out to see half the squad arguing with some 
pencil-neck from RAISA. Daniels, Smith, Stepovski, even 
Hennessey is bellowing. The info-sec rat is flanked by burly site 
guards, and things feel ugly. Then the Commander comes in. He 
takes the RAISA papers, waves the rat away, reads them and then 
looks up. At me. And the Commander says, clearly and slowly: "I'm 
afraid that your records are out of date. This woman is an MTF 
agent, and under my jurisdiction. You have no authority here. 
Agent... Agent Dee, you may return to your post." 


That's the last thought | have, watching the keys drop, feeling myself 
fall. | remember feeling proud. 


And then Zhao's hand comes from nowhere, sliding under the keys, 
catching them, muffling them in the soft glove of her suit. I'm not 
falling any more - Zhao is crouched, her other hand against my 
collarbone, holding me in balance. She looks up at me - | see her 
eyes scan left to the sensor - and gives me a slow blink. And Zhao 
gets up, takes the suit from my hands, and wraps the skip as 
carefully as a baby. 


Once it's in a new box, and wheeled silently away to a new 
containment cell, | look over at Zhao. She takes off the hood of her 
suit, and sinks slowly to the floor - it looks like she's crying. Weak as 
shit, | start to think, but then my legs turn to jelly and I'm sitting on 
the floor next to her and somehow there are tears on my face too. 
Zhao hands me the flashlight and the keys without a word. She just 
puts an arm around my shoulders, and we sit there for a long time in 
silence. 


What do you call a group of people that you mostly can't stand, but 
they're the only people who really know you, and you owe them 
everything? Oh yeah: family. 


Afterwards, the Commander requests a commendation for us. He 
saw the whole thing, but couldn't risk approaching once the Silencer 
died. He says H and Mike did a good job containing the other skips, 
and we've all earned some down time. Ha, that was basically the 
first up-time we've had in two years. 


So how strange is it that all those auditory skips broke containment 
at the same time? It's like someone wanted us kept busy. | almost 
suspect the Commander of trying to keep the MTF in business. Why 
would anyone do it otherwise? 


It's not until the next day that we find out SCP-012 was stolen. 


Our Mutual Guide 


« An Impenitent Thief | Hub | Pattern Breaker » 


| can feel it calling to me. It is always calling to me. 


Those old pages, dust-dry and crumbling. Lines of staff like furrows, 
seeded with notes, waiting to grow. They cry out in thirst, desperate 
for me to quench and renew them with a rain of my blood. 


No! Not with my blood. With the blood of others. | have never looked 
on the score itself - have never beheld its harsh beauty. | cannot, | 
must not. Others will be the instruments of its fruition. | must hold 
myself apart. | will be the shepherd, leading my lambs ... to where 
all lambs eventually go. 


| should not think of these things. It is getting harder to control 
myself; people will notice. | turn on some music to distract me. 
Bartok: Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta - | let the sounds 
soak into me, restoring, cleansing. 


| have always loved music. As a child, | would listen on my own for 
hours, playing and replaying my parents’ records. The crystalline 
clockwork of Bach, the looming towers of Mahler, the furious 
crimson of Prokofiev - | was entranced by them. Even as | grew, 
those feelings never left me. Music has been the spindle around 
which my life has turned - | have returned to it in my work, in my 
home, in my family. 


And then | learned of a piece of music that renders all others 
irrelevant. Unheard, unperformed, it has had more influence than 
any chanson or symphony. | have followed its trail through history, 
seen its power: Gesualdo, composer and murderer - Salieri, who cut 
his own throat in an institution - Scriabin, Berg, dead of "blood 
poisoning" - Purcell, Tchaikovksy, Schumann, Mozart - so much 
madness, so many deaths unexplained. What had they learned? 


Where did that knowledge lead them? 


My mind is wandering again, down too dangerous a path. The 
Bartok is not enough - | need to empty my thoughts. Fortunately | 
have access to many interesting volumes, and | have been reading 
widely. There are certain techniques of meditation that are rumoured 
to have connection with my muse, and which | have found useful in 
maintaining my outward composure, especially in recent months. 
Importantly, the preparations are easy - and easily hidden. | lock my 
door, arrange the materials, close my eyes, and commence. 


Darkness. 
Silence. 
Vertigo, then weightlessness. 


Intense heat. The smell of violets. A polychromic sheen across the 
blackness, like a bubble on an oil slick. Poignancy. My skin prickles. 


Sensations chase each other across my consciousness. A taste of 
metal and salt. A sharp pain in my chest. The overwhelming need to 
sleep. A swelling at my throat. 


This time is different. | sense the people in this building. | Know them 
utterly. | do not share their thoughts, but | experience their emotions. 
Anger. Devotion. Boredom. Wry amusement. Shame. Fear of failure, 
of death, of being forgotten. Hopes of improvement, of revenge, of 
forgiveness. 


Something is wrong. Feelings collide and commingle, as the effect 
grows wider, encompassing many buildings, a city, many cities. 
Frustrated excitement with guilty grief with wild joy. Each could be 
savoured, but this is like eating every dish at a banquet at the same 
time. It is like drowning. It is too much. 


The seething maelstrom grows and roils, subsuming me. It is 
everything anyone has ever felt, will ever feel. | will be obliterated. 


And then, like a deep bell striking, everything else disappears, and | 
have knowledge. 


It is not pictures or words - it is neither and both. It is like the visions 
painted by music. | have always known these things. | will learn 
them soon. 


A hill. The clouds form a blank sheet above. Two bearded men in 
roughspun robes approach. They carry some object, wrapped in 
goatskin, with great care. It is precious to them. They have walked 
far, from the side of a high mountain, through flood-ravaged lands. 
They follow a figure without substance, both present and absent: 
their guide to this hill at the centre of the world. 


At the base of the hill, near the gaping mouth of a cave, the guide is 
no longer with them. They unwrap their burden. Old bones, a skull. 
The man whose bones these are knew this place too. Here he 
crushed the serpent's head. Here he was damned. 


The two men bury the bones carefully in the cave. Afterwards, they 
sing a song to the dead. They know that this place is sacred, but 
they cannot know who will sing songs of worship here, or who the 
worshippers will sing to. Gods of love, gods of fury, gods of avarice, 
gods of sacrifice and gods to be sacrificed. This place, where one 
man was driven away, will bring people of many faiths together in a 
song extending over history. 


The light in the small room is red. The man does not notice that the 
fire has burned so low. He has forgotten his masked patron. He is 
intent on the vellum before him. Intent on the music which burns 
inside him. Noon has become sunset has become morning has 
become dusk. The man pours himself into his writing. He is buried in 
it; he will be buried with it. 


This man is only one thread in a tapestry, one voice in a greater 
chorus, one ripple in a stream. There are other people, in other 
rooms. Lit by embers, candlelight, bright fluourescence, or left in 
shadow. Many people, unknown to one another, yet each following 
the same guidance. Each working towards the same goal. Towards 
an idea whose time has come. 


A city. Proud towers reach toward a xanthous heaven, in which stars 
shine darkly. Four rivers flow out from its walls, black and red and 
white and yellow, singing their way to a sea of pitch. | know of this 
place, although | have never dared travel there. Alagadda. 


But this is not the Alagadda of occult lore. No wild orchestra plays, 
no frantic revellers fill its twisting streets and sumptuous halls. Nor 
are its bricks shattered, decked in crow-feathers and the dust of 
dried blood. This Alagadda does not wear a mask. It is at peace. It is 
whole. 


It is the city as it was, before the corruption of its king and people. It 
is the city as it will be, when the Ambassador abdicates, when 
history ends, when the last note is played. It is the city as it never 
has been, a mere allegory for the one guiding its fate. For the city's 
namesake. 


A hill again, under skies of darkness. Three figures, raised high 
above a crowd of humanity. 


On the right, a slave to base desire. A predator: hungry, lustful. 
Uncaring of consequence. Spiteful in its damnation. Its music is 
frenzy. 


On the left, another slave, looking for freedom through plans and 
designs. Analysing the predicament and trying to reason a way out. 
A thinker: denying the base motives of its companion, of its own past 
self. Its music is calculation. 


These two bicker and spit, their melodies clashing in raucous 
counterpoint, as the crowd below looks on. 


The figure in the centre is above the other two - apart from them. 
Beyond them. Their petty squabbles are nothing. The outcome 
matters not. At the appointed time, the melodies of raw power and 
cold reason will no longer hold any meaning. They will be absorbed 
into an infinite song - into the coming perfection. 


The central figure is the centre - it is everything and eternity. It is not 
a being - it is existence. It is called a saint, but it is not holy, it is 


holiness - it is the stuff of which gods are made. No-one can find it, 
but all are guided by it. No-one can know it, but all will feel it. It has 
always been, it has returned, it will return again. It is outside time. At 
the appointed time, time itself will cease to be. 


And all will come together in perfect harmony. 
The echoes of the bell die away as understanding fills me. | open my 
eyes. 


| have a new purpose: | am not just a shepherd, not just a music- 
lover. | am a thief. 


It is time to snatch a prize from those to whom it never belonged. | 
must take great risks, | must work in darkness, but | will find the way. 


For | have a guide. 


Pattern Breaker 


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"Stolen!? How can it be stolen?"