"Why didn't you fall back to the rallying point?" 
"This is the rallying point. They just kept coming." 
"Fuck. Doc, do you have any ammo? Grenades?" 
"No, | don't have any grenades. I'm a medic." 
"Well, what about these guys behind us?" 
"Krause, the guy in front of us has grenades." 
"What, the one you shot?" 

"Yeah." 


The elder sighs in the only way Armored soldiers can 
and quickly looks above their cover. 


"All right. Schwarz, you run for the grenades. Pull the pin 
and toss one as soon as you reach the guy, then run 
ahead to the next cover. I'll lay down covering fire. You, 
Doc? You keep doing what you're doing. Ask these 
wounded guys for any information they might have. If 
you can get any of them walking, start getting info from 
them, and get them to start doing supply sweeps for us. 
As soon as you've figured out who's gonna make it and 
who isn't, start moving to one of the other rally points, 
taking as many of these guys as you can with you. Can 
you both do that?" 


"Yeah, yeah." The medic is far more focused on his 
patient than anything the corporal has to say. 


"On three?" 
"On three. One... Two... Three GO!" 


The elder immediately puts his right arm over their 
shared cover — a heavy barricade built specifically for 
situations such as the one facing our heroes — and 
begins sending bullets downrange. The younger vaults 
over the cover and rushes towards his objective, picking 
up a small number of grenades from the downed enemy 
and taking to the next piece of cover in a single motion. 
As he reaches his safe point, the young Private pulls the 
pin on one of the grenades and tosses it blindly over his 
cover. A small group of enemies dives out of cover as 
they see the grenade rolling towards them. They're 
quickly cut down by the Corporal as he runs to the 
Private's position. 


"That was good. You cover me as | go to the next one, 
yeah?" 


"Yeah, | can do that. But | think the guy | borrowed the 
grenades from is still alive. Think we should interrogate 
him a bit first?" 


The Corporal considers this information for a moment, 
then nods. "All right, yeah. You cover me, I'm gonna drag 
him over here." 


As he moves out of cover, enemy soldiers round the next 
corner and open fire. The Private is quick to return fire, 
using both of his weapons in an effort to subdue them. 
They quickly return to cover as the Corporal drags his 
quarry back to the Private'’s position. 


"All right. Schwarz, you keep an eye out for this guy's 
buddies. You. Do you speak German?" The messages 
our two heroes pick up from their find are exactly what 
they expect (namely, fear), but he also seems to be 


attempting to contact his allies through a secure channel. 
When the Corporal begins to hold his shotgun to the 
prisoner's face, the messages quickly stop. "Do. You. 
Speak. German. You. Filthy. Piece of. Capitalist. 
American. Garbage?" 


"My name is Rico Camisa-Roja. | am a Staff Sergeant. 
My serial number is 903-57-680. My name is —" The 
American's mantra quickly ceases when the German 
Corporal draws his combat knife and holds it to one of 
the American's wounds. 


"You talk, or | start carving your pretty American-made 
Armor into a fine china set. Do we understand each 
other?" The American nods. "Good. Start talking." 


"My name is Rico Camisa-Roja. | am a Staff —" This 
time, the interruption comes from the Corporal lifting his 
prisoner up and launching him over their shared cover, 
followed with a strongly-worded remark about the 
prisoner's failure to communicate. As he does so, he 
sees more of the enemy rounding the corner at the end 
of the short corridor, enemies who begin laying down 
cover fire as soon as they see him. 


"Schwarz, let me see one of those grenades." The 
Private silently does as he is asked, then takes a 
moment to peek over his cover. "Might as well throw one 
of your own. On three. One... Two... Three!" The two lob 
their grenades near-simultaneously, eliciting a hail of 
bullets followed quickly by a large amount of shouting 
and running for cover from the approaching enemy 
soldiers. The two have no time to take advantage of the 
lull in their enemy's advance, as the medic they left 
behind has begun shouting for their attention. 


"Hey! You two! We have a problem over here!" 


"What the hell is it, Doc?! We're a little busy at the 
moment!" 


of the donor has yet to be determined. 


Regardless of the cause, the "thought leak" caused by SCP-991 
often results in the recipient becoming unhinged, especially if he or 
she receives multiple injections. They begin to possess conflicting 
viewpoints and ideas, and exhibit symptoms similar to those of a 
paranoid schizophrenic. For this reason, use of non-D-class 
personnel as the recipient is highly discouraged. 


SCP-991 appears to actually transfer thoughts, as any idea taken 
from the donor no longer appears in his or her mind; transferred 
memories, emotions, and even opinions seem to vanish from the 
donor when SCP-991-1 is drawn. After repeated donations, donors 
often begin to exhibit symptoms consistent with Alzheimer's 
Disease. In some cases, this will result in the loss of a fundamental 
faculty of the donor, such as swallowing, breathing, or blinking. In 
such cases, subject is to be euthanized once all relevant data on 
their psychology has been taken. 


Use of SCP-991 on Foundation personnel is highly discouraged, 
and requires the consent of both the donor and recipient, as well as 
the approval of two (2) class-4 personnel. 


SCP-991 has proven very useful for interrogation. Cooperative D- 
class can be used as donors for ideas of cooperation, to be injected 
into the individual being interrogated. Conversely, since the 
information desired is often at the forefront of the individual's mind, 
SCP-991 can be drawn from the individual and injected into another, 
in order to obtain the information forcibly. It is encouraged to use 
cooperative D-class for this as well, however, in order to prevent 
"thought leak" into Foundation personnel. 


SCP-991 was recovered from Mental Institution, after the 
Foundation received reports of doctors at the institution going 
insane. Upon recovery, SCP-991-1 was found to be filled with 
SCP-991-2. When injected into a D-class subject, the individual 
began to behave in a manner consistent with dissociative identity 
disorder. 


« SCP-990 | SCP-991 | SCP-992 » 


"This guy is about to bleed out!" 


"What do we care? That's your problem!" The Corporal 
takes a moment to fire a small salvo of flechettes at the 
advancing enemy. 


"Before he lost consciousness, he told me that this whole 
place is rigged to blow!" 


"And? We already knew that!" 


"He said that he's the only thing keeping that from 
happening!" 


"Fuck. Fuck! All right, all right, here's what we do. Doc, if 
you wanna get out of here alive, you're gonna have to 
leave these guys behind. Stay behind us, stay close. 
Schwarz, standard infantry tactics; you lay down cover 
fire when I'm moving, | do the same thing for you. Got 
it?" The medic and the Private state their agreement 
near-simultaneously. The Corporal responds by raising 
himself above his cover and opening fire towards the end 
of the short corridor. "Schwarz, go!" 


The Private is only able to take two steps before the 
wounded soldier behind him expires, triggering the 
detonation of a large number of explosive devices 
throughout their wing of the bunker. The Private, the 
Medic, the Corporal, the several wounded that surround 
them, and the enemy lying in wait beyond the end of the 
corridor are all buried in rubble within seconds. 


Berlin Bunker #1, August 23, 1975: 


The forces coming to reinforce the city's defenders have 
arrived, far earlier than expected, but far later than 


needed. The cost of their soeed was great, and had 
been paid in blood, but even that was not enough. A 
Captain is standing in a short corridor, watching as his 
men remove the rubble blocking their path. One of his 
lieutenants is rushing towards him to deliver news. 


"Captain Belitrov! Captain Belitrov!" 
"Slow down, Sergei. Stop with the formality. What is it?" 


"One of the men found this in an office on the other side 
of the bunker. You have to read it." 


"And? What about Colonel Engels? Have we made 
contact with him?" 


"Colonel Engels is dead, Alexei. Suicide. We found this 
note with him. Please, just read it." 


The ranking officer takes the envelope from the 
Lieutenant and removes its contents. He reads quickly, 
and, when he's finished, slowly leans against the wall. 
The soldiers around him stop working as they begin to 
notice the emotional state of their commander. "Sergei, 
this is our fault. We weren't fast enough." 


"There's nothing we could have done. There's no way we 
could have gotten here faster, and no way we could have 
known. It cost us too many good men as it is to get here 
as quickly as we did. There's nothing left now but to bury 
the dead." 


Berlin Bunker #1, August 22, 1975: 


The Colonel charged with defense of the city sits in his 
small office, huddled over his dented pinewood desk as 
he writes a letter. 


To the commander of the Red Army forces 
liberating Berlin, 


| am sorry. We held them off as long as we 
could. | felt we had no better options. The fault 
here is mine, and mine alone. | do not ask for 
any forgiveness. 


The lowest levels of the bunker complex 
contain everything necessary to rebuild this 
city and to carry on your fight. The Technicians 
reassure me that any Red Army officer will 
have safe access, but be aware that those 
lower bunkers have been rigged with 
explosives to prevent enemy capture. 


Please, do not let Berlin die, do not let our 
sacrifice have been in vain. We cannot let this 
war be lost. 


Respectfully and with fullest regrets, 
Colonel Hans Engel, National People's Army, 
5th Armored Infantry Battalion 


The man pulls the sheet out of the typewriter (a relic from 
before the War, and even the War before that. Very few, 
if any, of its sort are left, much like its owner.) and 
carefully folds it. He slides it into an envelope and places 
that into an interior pocket of his worn and faded dress 
uniform. A rapid series of tremors rocks the small office, 
indications that he does not have long. At his side, a 
semi-automatic pistol hangs, almost never used. He 
draws it, slides the magazine out to be sure that it's 
loaded, replaces the magazine, retracts and releases the 
slide, puts the muzzle under his jaw, and pulls the 
trigger. 


Interlude 


An Undisclosed Location in the Himalayan foothills, 
February 1, 1950: 


A dozen men dressed in green Army fatigues and just as 
many children — most of them orphaned infant girls, 
many of them deformed or otherwise undesirable — wait 
on the edge of a forest in a place few people know of 
and even fewer speak of as the moon begins to rise. The 
only lights are the stars and small oil lamps. The men 
can see their breath in the cool air. Two of the men are 
speaking. 


"So what will happen to them?" 
The shorter of the two men brings a cigarette up to his 
scarred mouth. "Whatever it is, it's worth it. Besides, 


these are orphans. No one will miss them." 


"Still, you have to wonder, JUn, what do the Yezu do with 
them? What could they want with them?" 


"Whatever it is, it's worth it." The short, scarred man 
takes a long drag from his cigarette and continues to 
stare into the bamboo, not looking at his co-worker once. 
"How could you be so sure?" 

The man takes the cigarette from his mouth, flicks it onto 
the ground next to his boot, and stamps it out. "Where 
are you from, Fang?" 

"Pardon?" 

"| said, "Where are you from?’ It's a simple question." 
The man ts taken aback by the question, and the change 


in his posture shows it."...A small village north of 
Baoshan." 


The other nods, and reaches for another cigarette. After 
a second, he offers the taller man one, an offer that is 
guietly refused. "So you never had to deal with the ribén 
guizi, then?" 


"They kept bombing us, because the Americans, the 
Flying Tigers, had been stationed in Baoshan." 


"Everyone was bombed. Did you ever see the actual 
Army, face-to-face?" To this, the taller man can only 
answer in the negative. "Well I'm from Nanking. And | got 
to see the filthy huang jun a lot. They were the last thing 
my mother, my brother, and my sister ever saw." 


"Jun, I'm sorry — " 


"Sorry? Sorry? You're sorry?! No. You're not sorry. You 
weren't there. You didn't see what | did. You didn't have 
to bury anyone after seeing what those — those dogs 
had done to them. If you were truly sorry, you'd be just 
as willing as | am to do anything, anything, to make sure 
our country is never subject to foreign abuse ever again. 
That's why it doesn't matter. That's why it's worth it. 
That's why we're giving these orphans to the Wild Men in 
exchange for weapons. Because whatever these 
children are going to experience, it's nothing compared 
to what our people have already seen, to what they're 
protecting the future from ever seeing!" 


At this point, the man's near-shouting has stopped, and 
he is slowly catching his breath. As he does, a small, red 
light appears in the forest in front of the small group. It's 
quickly joined by another, and then perhaps a dozen 
more. "Light's out, lights out!" The other men are quick to 
concede, as the sound of footsteps in the underbrush 
becomes audible and slowly grows louder. Jun, the man 
from Nanking, steps forward as a singular light begins to 
approach the treeline in the small clearing. "Stay here, 
Fang. And that goes for the rest of you, too!" Quietly, to 
Fang, he says, "If I'm not back by sunrise, assume that 


the deal's gone badly and just head back. Do with the 
tithes what you will." 


The man steps off into the brush by himself; slowly, the 
red lights disappear as the sound of breaking brush 
recedes into the night. Despite his fears and the fears of 
his coworkers, the man returns just as the sun begins to 
rise through the bamboo, accompanied by a lone 
Engineer. As the Engineer inspects the stock, the man 
walks over to where his fellow stands, pulls out a 
cigarette, lights it with shaking hands, and turns to the 
group. "Leave the offering, the Yezu will take care of the 
rest!" Quietly, quickly, they leave the forest, not looking 
back. 


The City of Fallenhold, Year of the Revival 54, Night 
11 of the Season of the Warming North: 


Hurts. Always hurts. Still remember the songs. They 
wanted us to forget the songs. Can't sing, have to learn 
the songs in other ways. Miss the sound of mother's 
voice. 


No mirrors. Not allowed mirrors. Steal looks at reflection 
when | can. What looks back isn't me. They dont like it 
when we think about those things. They take some of us 
away sometimes, we never see the ones They take 
away again. 


We never sleep but we're never tired. Always standing 
and walking. Strong legs. But not like father's. Like a 
cricket. Girls aren't supposed to have legs like a cricket, 
are they? 


Always hungry. They never give us enough to eat. Every 
meal the same. | don't like the way it tastes. Looks like 
worms. | think itis worms. Can't chew. Mouth doesn't 
work the same anymore. When | see my reflection, that 


always scares me. 


They move us around a lot. They don't let us use the big 
hallways, They want us in the little tunnels. Always 
crouching. But that's ok. Strong legs. But not like father's. 


| remember soldiers. Angry. Pushing and shoving and 
grabbing and pulling. Very long journey. Soldiers didn't 
feed us either. They left some of us behind. Hope the 
ones that were left are ok now.