Sir Malcolm rose again from his chair and began to orbit the office. 
"Well, I've always been a little more open-minded than my peers. 
When | was younger | became interested in spiritualism, and 
metaphysics. Later, | looked to eastern religions. Siddhartha 
Gautama, Lao Tzu. | discovered that | had a certain acuity of mind 
that acquitted itself well in the deeper exercises of these disciplines. 
| spent some time in Tibet with a group of monks there—they taught 
me the art of externalising my thoughts, manifesting them into 
something visible. To do it you have to be able to precisely visualise 
what you are creating down to the smallest detail. It can take pupils 
years to master, but | found a shortcut. | thought—whom do | know 
so intimately | can visualise every part of their body—and even their 
mind?" He waited for guesses. When none were forthcoming from 
Keagan or Renton he went on, triumphantly. "Myself! | visualised 
and externalised myself. The monks said to choose something else, 
but | think they say that to everyone. | could tell they were cross | 
had short-circuited their windy lectures." 


Keagan sat there, listening to Sir Malcolm pouring out his lunatic 
ideas, feeling more certain and more sick every moment. 


The phone on Sir Malcolm desk began to ring. "Just a second,” he 
said. He picked it up and listened to the voice on the other end. 


"I'm sorry," he said, brow furrowing, "but this is a personal call. | 
don't think you need anything further from me?" 


Renton mutely shook his head and began to rise. Keagan sat in 
near-shock for a moment until Renton pulled at the sleeve of his T- 
shirt to get him to his feet. 


Sir Malcolm waved distractedly in their direction then turned towards 
the window with the phone in his hand, cord spiralling from him back 
to the desk. The door was opened for them a fraction of a second 
before they reached it by the guard, who ushered them out into the 
corridor. 


"What the hell was that?" Renton hissed, as enough space opened 
up between them and the guard for conversation. "You completely 
spaced out in there." 


"It's nothing, really. Just—l remembered something important." 


"Really?" Renton asked scornfully. "More important than being sent 
to Greenland to help in a plan to topple governments and overthrow 
a secret conspiracy? You must have some interesting priorities 
going for you there." 


Keagan didn't reply. It was currently taking a certain amount of self- 
control not to turn around, run back through the offices, kick open Sir 
Malcolm's door and throttle him until he confessed to being the man 
who had corresponded with 'Jacky' just days before the Judge's 
murder. He was reasonably sure given the police presence on the 
premises that he wouldn't get very far afterwards. It was all 
circumstantial, but Keagan himself had no doubt that he had seen 
and talked to the Judge's last mark. What did that mean? He had 
assumed since attacking and interrogating Patrick Goettsch that it 
had been the organisation that had approached him that had enticed 
Goettsch into perjury with the promise of freedom and protection— 
had naturally called up in his mind the image of Fredericka 
Mendelbrot sitting opposite Goettsch, telling him he would be taken 
far away from the man he was about to accuse. But thinking back, 
Goettsch had never actually identified the individual who had fed 
him the information about the scam—only that they represented the 
Foundation. Which one?, he thought. 


They waited in the reception, at Renton's urging, to see whether 
there might be any further word from Sir Malcolm after he had 
finished his call, and his instincts proved good—a crumpled note 
was borne down to them by one of the security guards, which on 
folding turned out to be a napkin enclosing three £50 notes. On it 
had been written, in perfect copperplate, ‘get him kitted out’. 


"| guess you can't really have credit cards," Keagan reflected, 
"because then they could trace where the money was coming from." 


"No," Renton agreed. "Got to be cash. Come on, we'll hit up some 
outdoor stores." He looked thoroughly miserable as they walked 
down the steps. 


"No offence, but it seems like Sir Malcolm is giving out quite a few 
orders. Not just to this Schaeffer guy." 


"It seems that way, doesn't it?” Renton said, bitterly. "Doesn't it just 
seem that way?" 


Any thoughts Keagan had of escape had for the moment gone into 
hiding—as he followed Renton through a series of clothing and 
shoe-shops, drawing strange looks from the cashiers and other 
customers as he walked out into the late summer heat carrying 
thermal jackets, ski goggles and snowshoes. | can't stop, he 
thought. Not before | know why. 


"| don't have to put all this on now, do |?" Keagan asked, only half- 
jokingly. When they returned to the safehouse Renton shooed 
Keagan off into one of the unused rooms and broke the news to the 
other cell members. They seemed to take it, if possible, even worse 
than Renton, and Keagan heard shouting building to a fever-pitch 
before a table was overturned with a number of soft, plinking 
crunches that could well have been a dozen or so of the cell's 
burners calling ita day. Eventually Bones, haggard-eyed and lips 
curled into a snarl, opened the door of the room Keagan was in and 
barked they had better set off straight away. Keagan insisted it was 
only humane that he be allowed at least a wash first, and on 
reflection Bones conceded that sharing a car with a man who hadn't 
even seen a flannel in four days straight might not be such a brilliant 
idea. Accordingly, they boiled some water in an electric kettle and 
sent him off with a shaving mirror, a piece of wadded-up shirt and a 
comb. When he was finished, he thought the week's worth of 
stubble he was sporting still made him look like someone you 
wouldn't give a lift to, but at least he was somewhat cleaner and 
more presentable. 


lt was midday by the time the rent-a-car arrived, driven by what was 
presumably a member of another London-based cell, or perhaps of 
the more general regional cadre Sir Malcolm had mentioned. Bones 
said nothing to him as he got in the passenger seat; Keagan had 
barely clambered into the back and closed the door before the driver 
hit the pedal and started a vigorous but ultimately futile attempt to 
navigate the streets of London at speed, which resulted in a 
nauseating stop-start motion as he thrust forward then slammed on 
the brakes in the face of traffic lights and queues. Given the limited 
communication that seemed to be taking place Keagan presumed 


he knew where he was going, otherwise he was going to look pretty 
silly. His concerns multiplied as the driver crossed Westminster 
Bridge, beeping at slow-moving traffic and jockeying between lanes 
the whole way, then made efforts to join the southbound New Kent 
Road. 


"Maybe I've got this wrong," Keagan said, "but aren't we supposed 
to be going to Greenland?" 


"We are," Bones said, and apparently considered that ample 
information to satisfy his petitioner's curiosity. 


Keagan sat watching people walk across a pedestrian crossing in 
front of them while the driver revved the car impatiently. Bones at 
least seemed satisfied, unless, of course, he had absolutely no idea 
which direction they were, in fact, going. When they passed 
Elephant and Castle with no signs of changing direction, Keagan felt 
it his duty to speak again. 


"I'm probably a novice at this. Isn't Iceland generally more—| don't 
know, north?" 


Bones responded, voice drenched in a corrosive sarcasm that left 
Keagan's mild attempt looking distinctly weedy. "Is it? | had no 
fucking idea." 


Finally, the lunatic at the wheel was able to distract himself from 
trying to run over grandmothers long enough to put Keagan out of 
his misery. "You don't go north from London if you wanna get to 
Iceland, mate. We're going through the Eurotunnel, driving through 
the Low Countries, then getting the ferry from Denmark." 


That's me told, Keagan thought. They joined the M20 at Dartford 
and once again the buildings evaporated, this time into the heat- 
hazed tarmac wilderness of the motorway. They stopped at a petrol 
station in Aylesford—Bones got out and would return a few minutes 
later with Lucozade and Polos—apparently his idea of a balanced 
meal on the move—and copies of The Sun. The headline: 'I still hear 
his awful scream when | close my eyes’. Something about a shark 
attack. Keagan opted not to pick up the copy Bones chucked him— 
he'd always been more of an Evening Standard man in any case. 


The sports, anyway. 


They reached Folkestone at about 3.30pm, and Keagan discovered 
the reason for the driver's haste. Somehow Keagan had imagined 
that one drove through the Chunnel, had prepared himself for just 
mile after mile of lights flashing by in darkness on enclosing brick 
walls, like Blackwall writ large. Of course, that was a nonsense— 
imagine the effect of a pileup 15 miles in, deep under the English 
Channel, tangled wreckage cutting Britain off from the continent, 
impossible to recover and stranding hundreds of people below the 
English Channel, all slowly suffocating. Instead, a vehicle shuttle 
whisked 600 vehicles at a time back and forth between Folkestone 
and Calais. 


"Erm, don't we need passports?" Keagan suddenly realised with 
some alarm as they drew up in the line to roll onto the shuttle. He 
couldn't be entirely sure that his own would not have expired had it 
not almost certainly been utterly erased from existence; the last time 
he had used it had been a senior year University jaunt, a decade 
ago. Bones tossed him something dark blue over his shoulder. 
Keagan caught it; no mention of European Union, 'United Kingdom 
of Great Britain and Ireland’ rather than 'Northern Ireland’. Pre-2006, 
which meant pre-biometric. 


"You're Martin Bell," Bones said without further explanation. 


The customs official didn't even ask to see in the trunk—I thought 
they were supposed to be doing that now, Keagan thought vaguely 
—he just waved them through when he saw three UK passports 
pressed to the windows. The interior of the shuttle was brightly lit 
and the walls a savagely cheerful yellow but the sudden relief from 
the maniac at the wheel's driving style was such that Keagan felt 
immediately drowsy and curled up on the back seat, and in the 
absence of conversation from his fellow travellers was soon asleep. 


The two men entered Lambeth Auto Repairs where he was working 
in the auto shop. The long-handled wrench was in his hand; levering 
off the rusted wheel nuts on a 2004 Suzuki Swift. Last time they had 
visited him they had worn expensive suits but seemed ill at ease in 
them, one rolling cigarette papers in clammy hands. 


He didn't look at them, because they didn't exist for him, yet. If he 
had to look at them, think about them again, they would become real 
and he would have to make a decision. 


| didn't get your call, Theo Megali said. Our offer only has a limited 
time period. 


There was a clatter from the back of the shop as Steven Crae began 
picking things up and dropping them on the floor like an animal, 
taking his world away from him, one properly knolled array of 
spanners at a time. 


I'm not interested in what you're selling. Get out of my shop. 
I've tried to be absolutely as clear as | can be. 

| reckon | get you. 

| don't think you get us at all. 


Just one more moment, please, just let me stay asleep one more 
moment. 


Something rustled nearby, Megali's jacket, and he couldn't put it off 
any longer. A hand on his shoulder. He turned and swung the 
wrench, but it went wide. Megali drew the knife out of his jacket as 
Crae stepped in with the bat, hit his hand just above the knuckles. 
He dropped the wrench on the floor. 


Megali stepped in and he watched him slide the silver thing in his 
hand into his abdomen once, twice, four times, six times. There's no 
pain at first, something strangely academic. Then there is pain; 
unimaginable, icy cold. He's drawing back, sinking into the ground, 
dissolving. 


"Oh shit," he heard Megali say. "Oh shit. Why the fuck did you do 
that?" 


"Me? You stabbed him, you fucking wanker, why the hell did you 
bring that thing?" 


His vision faded but he heard footsteps, running from the shop. At 


<26 minutes, 29 seconds> SCP-682 begins to 
regenerate while SCP-204-1 is busy consuming severed 
pieces of it. 


<29 minutes, 3 seconds> SCP-682 regains motion and 
proceeds to attack SCP-204-1, this time gaining the 
upper hand due to SCP-204-1's current state of damage. 


<29 minutes, 46 seconds> SCP-204-2 and SCP-682 
both tranquilized. SCP-682 additionally hosed with 
hydrochloric acid to prevent additional breach attempts. 
SCP-204-2 removed from testing chamber and returned 
to containment. 


<End Log> 


Notes: While SCP-204-1 does appear to be capable of defeating 
SCP-682 in pitched combat, the carnivorous nature of SCP-204-1 
does not seem to be an effective way of neutralizing SCP-682. 
SCP-682 regenerates too quickly to allow SCP-204-1 to destroy it 
completely. SCP-204-1 is hereby proposed as a last resort 
countermeasure against SCP-682 in the event of a full containment 
breach. If nothing else, the bastards can hack each other to bits 
while we try to regain control of the situation. 


Addendum: Proposal denied. We are not now, nor are we ever 
going to risk the containment breach of a 2nd Keter class SCP 
during an ongoing Keter class breach situation. -O5 Command 


Item: SCP-3108 


Tissue Test Record: 
Tissue was transformed into a piece of Uroplatus fimbriatus (giant 
leaf-tailed gecko) tissue. 


Termination Test Record: 

D-1782 was instructed to enter SCP-682's containment chamber 
and shoot SCP-682 with SCP-3108. After missing 6 times due to 
fear, D-1782 successfully hit SCP-682 with an SCP-3108-1 
instance. However, instead of becoming inferior as expected, 


least close the door, he thinks. 

You didn't notice when you died, did you? 
Shut up, you bastard. 

What's your name? 

Martin Bell. 

What's your name? 

D-8671. 

What's your name? 

Keagan O'Neill. 

What's your name? 


He awoke shivering, and folded his arms over his chest and belly, 
the scabbed-over wounds aching with cold. There was daylight 
outside the carriage windows. 


The French customs was the next hurdle, but it seemed the fix was 
already in. Bones waved out of his window at a customs official—a 
tubby man with greasy black hair and a goatee—and told him in 
carefully enunciated tones, appropos it seemed of nothing for any 
ticket had surely been arranged in advance—"Second Class, 
Please." The French official suddenly adjusted his cap, muttered 'Ce 
n'est pas grave, monsieur' and gestured for them to move on. 


Other than the disconcerting sensation of driving on the right hand 
side of the road there seemed to be little to differentiate the hours 
that subsequently passed from those Keagan had spent recently 
being driven through English countryside, save only that Bones 
spent more time fiddling with a sat-nav and giving directions such as 
‘north for fifty kilometres’ which were, in the stated opinion of the 
driver whose name Keagan had still not learned, ‘completely fucking 
useless’. They reached Belgium as it was getting dark and Bones 
took his shift at the wheel. His driving style was considerably 


smoother than the man he replaced but he made up for this by 
making repeated turns onto the wrong side of the road, then having 
to reverse back out into Antwerp traffic which made the journey if 
anything more nerve-splitting. Only once they reached the German 
Autobahnen did he come into his own, cruising past Osnabrtck, 
Bremen and Hamburg as his co-driver snored in the passenger seat.