"He's had it out for me for years. Asshole doesn't like that I'm higher 
ranked. And he definitely doesn't like that I'm stuck in this fucking 
necklace. Gives him the heebie-jeebies or some shit." 


| could relate with him at the moment. "So Clef is it?" 


Bright leaned back, sucking in a line of spit that had drifted down his 
chin. "Maybe Kondraki," he added. “Or Strelnikov.” 


| added two more names to the list. "And why would they want to kill 
you?" 


"Oh, just some shit | did. Nothing | can tell you." 

"You sure about that?" 

He nodded, and there was no smirk, so | took him at his word. 
"Anything else you wanna add?" 


"Fuck off. I'm busy." 


| honestly had no interest in talking to Clef. Guy was as big an 
asshole as Bright and twice the attitude. | moved him down my list 
and headed to the cafeteria, deciding to get a bite to eat. Thursdays 
were tuna casserole, presumably because they had a skip that 
churned out massive pails of tuna casserole. 


When | got there, | ducked the worst of the crowd and wormed my 
way toward the ‘empty side.’ All the weirdos were over there, but | 
liked the weirdos, and most people thought | was a weirdo too. 
There was the fat kids, the nerdy kids, and the spooky kids. High 
school all over again. 


| picked a spooky kid and plopped down next to him. Burns. Site 19 
coroner. Guy had a penchant for dead bodies, and | was pretty sure 
he found them more entertaining and interesting than living ones. As 
far as coroners go, he was a legend in the Foundation. Probably 
would have been an amazing forensic officer somewhere else in the 
world. Here? He hid in the morgue all day and never talked to 
people. | think it mighta been too hard on him, making friends with 
people who had an 80% mortality rate at their job. 


Or maybe he was just an asshole. Fuck if | know. 


| knew he’d be the one they had on Bright’s case, and | decided to 
improve the tuna by talking about dead people. 


“Burns.” 


He gave a terse nod, then motioned to the seat across from him. 
Maybe it was coincidence that it was the one furthest from him as 
well. 


“Whatcha want, Darrow? They pass off the Bright case to you?” 
Business. | liked that about Burns. 


“Yeah,” | said. “He gave me a list of big names who thought he was 
a dick. There’s tons of small names out there to. You deal with the 
body?” 


“Yeah,” he said. “Knew it was Bright before they told me.” 


“Oh yeah?” | said. “How’s that?” 


“Gut full of beefaroni and blueberry poptarts.” He said it flat, and | 
wasn't sure if it was a joke for a second. Even if it was, Burns 
wouldn't laugh at it. He only laughed at the fucked up shit, like this 
one corpse that literally had its head up its ass. He carried the 
picture around in his wallet. Asked people if they wanted to see his 
kid. 


“You got the ceeohdee already?” | asked. 


“Bullet to the back of the head,” he said. “Someone shot him.” He 
shrugged. He wasn't interested much in basic causes of death. 
When your job is figuring out what exactly killed someone in a place 
like the Foundation, you lose interest in the mundane things like 
gunshots and stabbings. 


“Anything weird about it?” | asked. 


“Nope. Not a damn thing. Could have let one of the new kids deal 
with it, if it wasn't for the fucker’s rank. Like | don’t have better shit to 
do.” 


| took a bite of the tuna casserole. It wasn't bad. The rest of the meal 
went by in silence. 


| knew there was a reason | liked Burns. 


| finished lunch and took a step back out into the long, round 
hallway, heading down it toward the office ring. 


| should note that it wasn't actually a ring. They called it a ring, but 
the bobs and weaves and twists it took—mostly out of spite, | felt— 
made it more like an office triskaidecagon. That felt better to say, 
anyhow. And it fit the assholes who claimed the whole damn thing. 


| shouldn't dismiss all of them. Some of the doctors and researchers 
were alright. Glass was a ponce, but fun at parties. Vang wasn't bad 
when he wasn't talking politics. Hell, I’d actually liked Freddy 
Heiden. Before he blew his brains out. 


And then there were assholes like Clef. 


Try to image a giant asshole that went around shitting on everyone 
and everything in the room. Like, a literal, giant asshole, between 
two, giant asscheeks, spewing a river of shit. That was what it was 
like when Clef walked in and got started. 


Sorry. Got carried away. Suffice to say that | thought he was a dick. 


| knocked on his door, and you could tell he wasn't the kind of 
person who was accustomed to having his door knocked on. There 
was a little bit of swearing, some angry stomps, and then it opened 
up, Stirring up a stink of old shoes and mint. 


The man standing there looked like someone had slapped Rip Torn 
in the face a few times with a tennis racket. Middle aged, graying 
everywhere, with bags under his eyes and a scruffy, two-week old 
beard. He was wearing a pair of old jeans, an ugly burgundy shirt, 
and a lab coat that had been washed a few too many times (with the 
burgundy shirt, it looked like). 


“Fuck are you?” he asked. 


| introduced myself, flashed my badge, then stepped inside when he 
finally moved out of the way and let me. He hobbled around the 
desk and sat down, shoving sandwich wrappers and soda cans to 
the side just enough to make a bare spot, then put his feet up on it. 


“I’m here to ask you about Jack Bright's recent murder.” 

He laughed, hard and loud. Laughed until he wheezed. When he 
was done, he leaned back in his chair again and grinned with yellow 
teeth. 

“What’d he do this time? Autoerotic asphyxiation?” 


“Bullet,” | said. “Shot in the back on the head in a locked room.” 


Clef smirked. “Locked room mysteries are boring,” he said. “It’s 
always something retarded.” 


“You have experience with killing someone in a locked room?” | 


asked. 


He started laughing again. “Oh, yeah, but when | kill someone in a 
locked room, it’s normally via explosive decompression.” 


| laughed, mostly to be polite and because it’s really sad when 
you've got that one poor fucker who’s laughing alone, then wrote 
‘loon’ down on my notepad to make it look like I’d gotten something 
of use. If someone thinks you've managed an insight, they start 
watching themselves a little more closely. | looked back up at Clef to 
see if he was acting any different. Instead, he’d started picking up 
soda cans and checking to see if one of them had anything left in 
the bottom. 


“You got any beef with Bright?” | asked. 


“He’s a dumb fuck,” Clef said. “He’s a dumb fuck who doesn't get 
out nearly enough. He’s been cooped up on site for so long that he’s 
lost his god damned perspective on the real world. Two thousand 
die? Sure, so long as we keep an infestation of flying lava spores 
secret.” 


“That really happened?” | asked. 
Clef looked at his fingernails. “Nah. Hyperbole.” 


| knew he was lying, but | also knew that it was above my paygrade. 
It might have been even more than two thousand people. It might 
have been more than lava spores, whatever those were. Didn't 
matter. First rule of working with these people: there are some 
things you don’t want to know, and you’re better off never asking for 
stories, clarification, or explanations. Because you might get them. 


| nodded and scribbled down more on my pad. ‘Dislike.’ ‘Angry of 
specific event -> event unknown.’ The usual stuff. 


“You ever wanna kill him?” 


Clef smirked. “What would it matter if | did? It’s not like it really 
takes.” 


| nodded. “That’s what makes this such a damn weird mystery,” | 


said. 


Clef nodded. “Almost like they’re just keeping you busy, huh?” he 
said. 


| cursed internally, but | kept my face neutral. He’d gotten into my 
head, and | didn't like that. In a place like this, the last thing you 
need is a fucker like Clef in your head. 


“Nah,” | said. “Just means the importance is above my pay grade.” 


| stood up, and Clef stayed sitting, so | didn't bother with a 
handshake. “Thanks for your time,” | said. 


“Sure,” said Clef. “Not like | was getting work done anyway. I've got 
the fucking Class-D duty this month. Got to figure out who gets how 
many and for what. And lucky me, Jackie boy got himself shot in the 
head and fucked it all up. Of course, he was in charge of it last 
month, so it’s already fucked up.” 


| nodded. “Death ain't really a convenience too often,” | observed. 


Clef laughed. “You really are green, aren't you?” 


If Clef was a giant asshole, Kondraki was a giant turd. It’s not that 
Clef shit out Kondraki, but rather, they left the same kinds of stains. | 
didn't wanna talk to him next, but StreInikov wasn't taking my calls, 
and he was a real nutcracker if you wanted into his office uninvited. 


| finally caught up with Kondraki—after checking both labs he’s 
assigned to, his office, three meeting halls, and the lunchroom—on 
the damn squash court. 


Number One: didn’t know the Foundation had a damn squash court. 
Number Two: what the fuck is squash? Number Three: what self 
respecting man would wear clothes like that? 


Hell, | dunno. At first, | thought he might not have self respect, you 
know? One of those sheepish little guys that spend all day 
calculating the ratio of elephant piss in the sub-Saharan. That 
impression lasted about five seconds after contact with him. 


“So you’re the guy looking for who killed Bright?” he asked. “What 
are you gonna do? Pin a medal on him?” 


| shook my head, pulling out my notepad, then started writing. 
‘Loon.’ 


“I’m just checking out all leads. You know anyone who might have a 
reason to kill Bright?” | asked. 


“No one other than everyone,” he said, his lips twisting into an 
obnoxious little ‘| need the shit kicked out of me’ smile. 


“That’s a long list of people. Maybe you can narrow it down.” 


He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth, then looked around a 
little bit. “Clef, probably,” he said. “They don’t care for each other.” 


“I’ve already spoken with Dr. Clef,” | said. “Anyone else?” 


He shrugged slightly. “It depends entirely on the bowl of cheerios he 
decided to piss in this month,” Kondraki said. 


“Oh? He piss off a lot of people?” | asked. 


“Bright’s been around for right at a hundred years now, doing the 
same damn job every day. No breaks. No vacation.” Kondraki 
looked like he was going to spit, but thought better of it. “He gets—* 
He raised his fingers into the air to make little quotation motions. 
“—‘bored.” 


“Prankster?” 


Kondraki nodded a little. “Yeah. He once filled my office with little 
paper bags. Most of them had sand. Some of them had dog shit.” 


“Where'd he find the dog?” | asked. Always good to keep them off 
balance. 


Kondraki, to his credit, never missed a beat. “We have a few SCPs 
that are canines. And | imagine he could requisition one.” 


| scribbled on my notepad again, just to see if it would piss him off. 


When | looked back up, he looked annoyed, so | counted it a win. 


“So, he do anything to tick you off other than filling your office with 
doggie bags?” 


Kondraki sighed, which | thought was a bit over dramatic, and rolled 
his eyes. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re trying to find out.” 


“And you can prove that?” 


“| can prove that | wasn’t in the room with him and that | wasn’t in 
that wing. That said, | could kill someone in a locked room from 
across the base without too many problems, too.” 


“Funny. You're the second person to brag about that today.” 


“If you’re good at something, you want people to know,” he said, 
looking at his watch. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got a game to finish. 
Anything else?” 


| shrugged. “If there is, I'll get in touch,” | said. “Thanks for ya time.” 


Kondraki nodded, but | sure as hell didn’t get a ‘you're welcome.’ 
Some people just don’t know how to be polite. 


| was heading back toward the center of the site proper when | got 
that tingle | always get when someone is following me. I've never 
tried to explain it—and after working with these psychos, | decided | 
was better off not really knowing—but | had come to trust that little 
instinct. 


| started walking through the quieter parts of the site. Safe-Class 
containment lockers, sealed cells. Places that weren't highly 
trafficked. 


| got a good glance over my shoulder as | passed a corner, sneaking 
a glance through the crack between a wall and an old vending 
machine full of stale pound cakes and zebra cookies. The guy was 
wearing a grey uniform. Site janitor. 


It threw me for a second, since | was expecting someone in security. 


Addendum 909-1: The words "Mr. Forgetful, from Little Misters ® 
by Dr. Wondertainment" are tattooed upon SCP-909's right calf. 
Upon discovery SCP-909 had been wearing a 3-piece suit with the 
brand name "Doctor's Orders" sewn into the tag. Foundation 
personnel have yet to find a clothing company operating under this 
name. 


Addendum 909-2: Further examination of SCP-909's clothing 
revealed a list of other possible instances of anomalous humanoids 
similar to SCP-909 (See Document 909-a) inside the left pants 
pocket. 


Addendum 909-3: Interview Log 
Interviewed: SCP-909 
Interviewer: Dr. 


Foreword: SCP-909 was put into initial observation for 
seven hours, during which the subject's anterograde 
amnesia and relation to SCP-905 were discovered. 
SCP-909 was then taken in for interview. 


<Begin Log> 
Dr. : Good morning, Nine-Oh-Nine. 


SCP-909: Nine-Oh-Nine? Why are you calling me that? 
And where am I, anyways? 


Dr. : (Reading from sheet of paper) You are the 
SCP designated 909, and you are currently under my 
custody. | am a doctor of the Foundation, and | am going 
to research your anomalous effects. 


SCP-909: The Foundation? What's that? Why d- 


NOTE: At this point Dr. presses a small button, 
generating a loud noise lasting 5 seconds. SCP-909 is 
seen to lose focus. 


Dr. : Hello, Nine-Oh-Nine. 


Then it threw me for another second, because he took out a gun and 
started shooting at me. 


The vending machine slowed the bullets down about as much as 
you'd expect it to, and | managed to hurl myself around the corner 
and against the wall. Hell, Maggie, maybe we'll get to see each 
other again faster than | expected. 


| pulled out my own piece, firing over my shoulder twice as | made it 
down the hall, twisting around a corner and glancing over my 
shoulder. 


| didn't see the guy, which bothered me, since | expect people who 
are trying to kill me to be more serious about it. A quick glance up 
told me why. Security camera. 


Whoever it was had a little bit of sense it looked like. Maybe not 
enough for their own good, though. | know for sure | didn't, since | 
was already working back down the hall, trying to keep quiet. 


| heard one more shot, but | didn't hear it hit the wall, machine, or 
me. Particular thankful for that last one. | stepped out from cover 
quietly, gun raised, and looked around. 


Only thing there was an empty hallway and a nice, dead body. Grey 
jumpsuit. Site janitor. 


| went ahead slow, taking my time and checking places | could take 
a bullet from, until | got a little closer. | grabbed my radio and called 
it into site security—attempted murder, janitorial staff, corridor, and 
my serial number. And | made a special request, while | was at it. 


| was holding my notepad, sketching the scene out with stickmen for 
my memory, when he started yelling at me. "Why for the hell you 
drag me out HERE?" 


The big Russian was an angry guy. Damn angry. | was fairly 
convinced that | was only allowed to interview angry people today, 
and this guy was no exception. 


Dmitri Arkadeyevich Strelnikov. The Strelnikov. | made it a point to 


smile. He made it a point to curse loudly. 


"The fuck is Head of Department doing here with failed murder?! 
You are detective! You solve own failed murder!"