individual SCP-776-A members launched an assault on Site- , 
killing personnel, including guards and _ scientists. The remaining 
guards used their combined force to suppress the attack, killing 
members of SCP-776-A in the process. The organizer of the group, 
SCP-776-A-276, was apprehended for interview while the rest of the 
attacking group was terminated. 


+ Interview 776-6 
Interview 776-6 
Interviewee: SCP-776-A-276 
Interviewer: Dr. 
Date: 03/ /20 , hours 


Foreword: Interview log is translated from 
Russian. Dr. was accompanied by 2 
security guards to ensure 276 would cause 
him no harm. 


<Begin Log> 


Dr. :276, would you care to explain why 
you lead an attack on Site- ? 


276: Don't call me that. Call me by my real 
name, [REDACTED]. 


Dr. _: Very well, then. [REDACTED], why did 
you organize an attack on our facility? 


276: ...1 suppose there is no point in hiding it 


neither saying much to the other, with Django softly holding 
Zyn's little hand. After some time, he began to hum a song... 


Narrator 2: ...one he had heard in his youth, when his father 
had sung it to him... 


Narrator 5: And Bright could not help but notice that the man 
was weeping. Tiny Zyn did as well, and wiped her father's 
tears away with the edge of her tattered sleeve. 


Tiny Zyn: Don't cry, papa. Everything will be fine. 
Bright Troy, please. Tell me that Zyn will live. 


Lament: Bright, lad, come ‘ere. These are the shadows of the 
present, man, the most concrete of all. They are untouched by 
the rigors of time, or by the uncertainty *hic* of the future. But 
what may be *burp* if these shadows remain unchanged, | 
see only an empty corner, a forgotten crutch, a stool without 
an owner. Woo. That's dark. 


Bright: No! No, kind spirit, please. Tell me she will be spared. 


Lament: She won't, Jack. Should these shadows *hic* not be 
altered, she will be gone. Uh, perish, as it is. Time is not her 
ally, and her time *hic* is growing short. But better that she do 
it, right? (Laughs.) One less person for you to protect. Hah, 
that's *hic* pretty fucked up, isn't it? 


Narrator 1: Bright hung his head at the sound of his own 
words, echoed back to him as a rebuke. 


Lament: It's not my place to say *hic* what comes after, Jack, 
though | can't help but think that perhaps you're more of a 
dick, and less fit to live than millions like this child, yeah? In 
the face of *hic* judgement, what value do you have over her? 


Narrator 3: Bright bent before the Spirit's words, and 
trembling cast his eyes upon the ground. But he raised them 
speedily, upon hearing his own name issues by Django as a 
toast. 


Bridge: To Doctor Jack Bright. Bright, the Founder of the 
Feast! 


Moose: Pah! Founder of the Feast, indeed! | wish he were 
here right now, I'd show him a thing or two. I'd give him a 
piece of my mind to feast upon, and hope he'd have an 
appetite for it. 


Bridge: Tilda, darling, please. It's Christmas Day. The 
children... 


Moose: It very well should be Christmas Day, I'd assume, for 
you to drink to the health of such a foul, stingy, unfeeling man 
as Jack Bright. You know he is, Django, nobody knows it 
better than you. 


Bridge: My dear... Christmas Day. 


Moose: Fine. I'll drink to his health for your sake and for 
Christmas’... but not for his. Cheers to him, and may he live 
as long a life as he will. He'll be very happy with it, | have no 
doubt. 


Narrator 1: They had their toast, but the warmth had gone out 
of the room. Bright could feel it. Even with the warmth of the 
Spirit's torch near him, he could feel the chill of his own name 
through the family. The very mention of it cast a darkness on 
them that was not readily dispelled. 


Narrator 5: Suddenly, and without warning, Jack found 
himself standing in a bright, dry, gleaming room with the Spirit 
standing by his side smiling, and with the laughter of his 
nephew filling the air. 


They come around a corner to see ROGET, his wife 
ALEXANDRA, and their friends CHELSEA ELLIOTT, JACOB 
CONWELL, DMITRI STRELNIKOV, and DIETRICH LURK 
sitting about. They are all well into gleeful intoxication. 


Roget: ...and then he said, after I'd wished him Merry 
Christmas, to go fuck myself! As I live, those were his words! 


And he meant it, too! 
CHELSEA ELLIOTT scoffs loudly. 
Elliott: Well then, shame on him. 


Strelnikov: Shame? What shame? Is ill temper old man. 
What else is expect? 


Roget: He's a funny old man, that's the truth, though not as 
pleasant as he could be. His ill mannerisms carry their own 
punishments, though, and | hold none of it against him. 


Lurk: He's very rich, yes? That is, you always Say so. 


Roget: Hah, that he were. His wealth is no use to him. He 
doesn't do anything with it. He doesn't use it to make himself 
comfortable, or those around him. If anything, | think he only 
keeps it to gain the satisfaction of knowing (Laughs.) that is 
he never going to benefit us with it. 


Alexandra: Well, | have no patience with him. 


Roget: (Laughs.) Oh, | do. | feel sorry for him, seriously. | 
couldn't be angry with him if | tried. Who suffers from his shitty 
mood? Only him. Look, he's got it in his head that he dislikes 
us all, and he won't come and eat with us. What does he 
lose? Not much of a dinner, I'll tell you that. 


Conwell: Hah! | would think otherwise. | think he misses a 
great dinner! 


ELLIOTT, LURK, STRELNIKOV and ALEXANDRA echo the 
sentiment. 


Roget: Well. I'm glad you all think so, honestly. | only meant it 
to mean that the consequence of his taking a dislike to us is 
missing out on moments like these. I'm sure he has no more 
pleasant companions in his own thoughts, or in that cold office 
at Site-19. I'm going to give him the same chance every year, 
because | pity him. 


Alexandra: He'll just keep turning you down. 


Roget: Then let him! That won't be enough to stop me. He 
may rail against Christmas, and against me, or everybody 
else in the world until he dies, if he dies... but that won't stop 
me from going to him, if just to say "Uncle Bright, hello! How 
are you?" If it puts him in a good enough mood that he gives 
an extra bonus to that poor assistant of his, all the better for it. 
In fact, | think | got through to him yesterday. 


They all laugh at the notion. 


Lament: Hah. Look at that, Bright, look at em. Givin' *hic* you 
the shit right there, yeah? Heh. Maybe you shouldn't have 
been *hic* such an asshole. Oh man, and from *burp* your 
own nephew, too. That's pretty shitty. 


Roget: Alright, all of you, enough about my poor uncle. Come 
on, let's play a game. How about some mafia? 


Narrator 3: As they picked up their game, the Spirit was 
pleased to see Bright joining in quietly, making his own 
guesses and calling out answers along with the others. At the 
end of the game, Bright begged to be allowed to stay until the 
guests had all left. 


Lament: *burp* No can do there, Jack ole buddy. Too much 
else *hic* to take care of, too much else to see. 


Bright: Oh, come on, Troy. There's a new game they're 
starting. It's just a half hour, please. 


Lament: Fine, fine. Do your game, whatever, I'm *hic* gonna 
be in the kitchen. 


Roget: Alright, this is ten questions. I'm going to think of 
something, and you lot have ten yes or no questions to figure 
it out. 


Conwell: Easy enough. Is it an animal? 


ROGET nods. 


Elliott: Is it alive? 

ROGET nods. 

Lurk: Heh. Is it a domesticated animal? 

ROGET shakes his head. 

Strelnikov: Must be wild, then. Is disagreeable, is brute? 
ROGET nods, barely containing laughter. 

Conwell: Does it live in the wild? 

ROGET shakes his head, tears beginning to form on his face. 


Alexandra: Is it something that would be killed in a butcher 
shop? 


ROGET bursts out laughing, but shakes his head. 


Strelnikov: Is mean animal what lives in city. Must be horse, 
yes? 


ROGET shakes his head, reeling now from laughter. 
Elliott: Does it make noise? Does it like, grunt or growl? 
ROGET loses composure completely, laughing wildly. 
Lurk: | think I've got it. It must be a cat! 

Roget: No! No, it isn't a cat! One last question! 
Conwell: Well would you want one in your home? 
Roget: No! No, you most certainly wouldn't! That's it! 
Bright: Oh! | know it! It must be— 

Alexandra: I've got it! | know it! It's— 


Bright: ...SCP-682! 


Alexandra: It's your Uncle Bright! 


Roget: Yes! Yes my dear, my quick-witted wife, yes! It is my 
dearest uncle! 


Narrator 4: The room burst into a series of guffaws. Bright 
laughed along, in spite of himself, for reasons he could not 
accurately describe. He looked to the kitchen, where the Spirit 
was busy helping himself to the brandy, and laughed all the 
louder. 


Roget: He has given us plenty of merriment tonight, my 
friends, and we would be amiss not to drink to his health. A 
toast! To Jack Bright. May he live forever. 


All: To Jack Bright! 


Narrator 2: Bright was so full of glee and light of heart, he 
would have gladly pledged his company to the group and 
thanked them with a fine speech, had the Spirit given him 
time. But by the time the thought had crossed his mind, they 
were gone suddenly. 


Narrator 1: For the next several hours... 
Narrator 3: ...or was it days? Weeks? Years? 


Narrator 1: Bright and Troy traveled across the countryside, 
visiting sick beds, hospitals, jails, containment cells, and all of 
the deepest and darkest, most miserable pits in the world. 
Everywhere they stopped, the Spirit would give his blessing, 
making the place a little brighter. Jack saw then what it was to 
give a person joy, how little was truly required to make a 
difference in the life of another. 


Lament: This is the end of the road *hic* for us, Jack my 
man. | don't know if any of *burp* this has helped, uh, at all, 
but | want you to keep this in mind. 


Bright: Speak, Spirit. Your words have been a gift upon my 
soul. 


Lament: First off, ergh, don't *hic* do that. Second of all, don't 
forget those around you. The human experience is designed 
to *hic* be a shared one. The only way to truly find 
happ*hic*iness is to join with others, and share, uh, joy, or 
whatever. You get the idea. 


Bright: Thank you, Troy. 


Lament: OR, OR! You could just *hic* drink. That's what | did, 
and hey, everything worked out, yeah? (The SPIRIT pats him 
on the back.) Alright, that's it *hic* for me, monkey man. Go 
get em, chief. 


Narrator 2: And then was Bright suddenly back in his 
chambers, cold and alone. His eyes locked on the clock in his 
room, and remembering the words of old Everett Mann, he 
watched as the numbers slowly changed to midnight. 


Narrator 4: From the floor he saw a dark haze begin to rise, 
and the walls around him seemed to collapse. He felt his 
breath catch in his chest, and felt a steely chill begin to pierce 
his furred skin. 


Narrator 1: The clock ceased ticking, the wind ceased 
blowing, and the world grew still... 


Narrator 3: ...very still indeed... 

Narrator 5: ... and from out of the shadows before him came 
a solemn, silent phantom, towering and dreadful, draped in a 
blackness that extended on forever... 


Narrator 2: ...and Jack Bright was afraid... 


Narrator 3: ...very afraid indeed. 


Act V 


The Last of the Spectres 


Bright: You... you are the one called Famine. The Ghost of 
Christmas Yet To Come. 


FAMINE does not respond, but draws a single skeletal hand 
and point outward. 


Bright: You are going to show me the shadows of things that 
have not happened... but will happen in time, is that so. 


FAMINE raises its head slowly, as if to acknowledge BRIGHT. 


Narrator 5: Despite being well acquainted with ghostly 
company at this point, Bright feared this silent figure so much 
that his legs trembled and nearly buckled beneath him. He 
found that he could barely stand on his own when he 
prepared to follow it. The Spirit paused a moment, as if 
observing his condition, and to give him time to recover. 


Bright: Famine... | fear you more than any spectre | have 
seen, or any anomaly | have witnessed, or any terror my heart 
might imagine. But | know your purpose is to do me good, and 
|... | want to be different. | want so much to be a better man 
from what | was, and am prepared to take your company. 
But... will you not speak to me? 


FAMINE does not respond. Its hand remains pointed directly 
before them. 


Bright: Let us do it, then. Guide me, Spirit. The night is 
waning fast, and | know it is precious time to me. Lead on. 


Narrator 4: The phantom stretched out its hand and pulled 
the darkness away like a curtain. Around them suddenly was 
a site, one unknown to Bright and yet still somehow familiar. 
He glanced around, and noticed a sign on the wall reading 
"S-13". Near them stood three people, doctors by the look of 
it, all engaged in some low conversation. Bright couldn't help 
but notice a group of GOC Peacekeepers pass behind them, 
but nobody else seemed to notice. 


Dr. Silver: No, | don't know much about it. Just know that it's 


gone. 
Dr. McTiriss: When did they tear it down? 
Dr. Silver: Last night, | believe. 


Dr. Rosen: Why? And here | thought that place would last 
forever. 


Dr. Silver: God knows. 


Dr. McTiriss: So what happened to all the staff? Are they all 
transferring? 


Dr. Silver: | haven't heard. Dunno if they've made a decision 
yet. 


Dr. Rosen: What about... him? 
Dr. Silver: Hmmm? 
Dr. Rosen: You know. Did he leave with the rest of them? 


Dr. Silver: Oh, that old bag? No, not so far as | know. 
Probably just left him there to die. As much good as anything 
else would do him. 


Dr. McTiriss: That's it then, isn't it? All that time, and that's 
the end of it? No grand send off or ceremony or anything of 
the like? No funeral? 


Dr. Silver: For him? (Laughs.) You think anybody would've 
shown up if they'd done anything? 


Dr. Rosen: | wouldn't have minded going if they'd provided 
lunch, but | do need to be fed. 


They ALL laugh. 


Dr. Silver: Well, I'm the most disinterested of the three of us, 
it seems. I'm not much one for ceremonies, or funerals for that 
matter. But... come to think of it, | think | would've gone. 


Who's to say, | might've been his most particular friend there 
at the end. Used to say hello every couple of weeks as we 
passed in the hall. 


ACTORS fill the hallways, bustling to and fro. Bright notices 
several of the doctors now wearing GOC baages on their 
Jacket sleeves, mixed in with their Foundation counterparts. 


Narrator 1: The men all departed, and suddenly the hallway 
was full of people moving quickly. Bright looked to the Spirit 
next to him for explanation, but received none. He had known 
those doctors, worked with them. 


Narrator 2: Suddenly there were two other men before him, 
and Bright recognized them as esteemed site directors, much 
like himself. They, like he, were of great importance. 


Director Flux: Evening. 

Director Toph: Evening. 

Director Flux: Old Scratch has gotten his at last, aye? 
Director Toph: So they say. Hard to believe, isn't it? 
Director Flux: So it is. Golf later? 

Director Toph: Not much for it. 

Director Flux: Fair enough. 


Narrator 3: And that was the end of their conversation. Bright 
was confused, unsure as to the meaning of such a mundane 
observation. He knew these men as well, but of whom were 
they speaking? Certainly not old Everett Mann, that was in the 
past, and was the past's business. But for the life of him, 
Bright could not think of anyone immediately connected with 
himself, to whom he could apply them. 


Narrator 5: Suddenly they were away again, and now within a 
warehouse stretching as far as the eye could see in every 
direction. Boxes on boxes and containers and crates 


now. You scientists are really the only hope we 
have left. You see, the town has been 
having...problems...as of recent. 


Dr. : Please elaborate.