Claire Hennessy and Tristan Bailey shared a chocolate milkshake 
mixed with rum in the Black Garden pub in Sloth's Pit. Tristan had 
elected to just have some chips (in the British sense), while Claire 
had a burger with chips (in the American sense). They looked at 
each other through the haze of alcohol, chocolate flavoring, and fat. 


"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Claire asked, stealing one of 
Tristan's chips. 


"I've given it up for Lent,” Tristan nodded. "But | can't say the same 
for handcuffs." A grin that only formed on the face of people who 
were going to ruin someone else's night formed on his face. 


Shadow of a Doubt 


Technician Palmer yawned. 


It was 0520, only 40 minutes until the end of his 6-hour shift. A shift 
spent in Monitoring Station Delta of Foundation Area-12, a shift that 
consisted of keeping watch over CCTV and audio feeds, checking 
monitors to ensure functional operation of vital systems, and 
occasionally serving as tech support for hapless researchers. So far, 
the past few hours had been relatively uneventful. The CCTV feeds 
showed contained SCP-objects behaving nominally, the audio feeds 
brought the sounds of late-night researchers soldiering on, and the 
monitors' data showed that all systems were functioning normally. It 
had been boring, certainly, but Goethe's Faust helped to alleviate 
the doldrum of it all. That is, when Palmer could sneak in a page or 
two. He knew reading on the job was highly improper, especially 
when such dangerous objects were under watch. But hell, it helped 
keep the eyes open better than the standard-issue caffeine pills 
could. And being awake and doing a bit of light reading was better 
than being asleep and fotally unobservant. 


He had just finished the first dialogue between The Lord and 
Mephistopheles when a red light began blinking on one of the 
monitors. Palmer looked up from the book and squinted at the 
screen. According to the data, a lighting unit had failed in a 
containment cell. When prompted, additional data appeared on the 
screen: 


WARNING: SYSTEM MALFUNCTION 

LOCATION: CONTAINMENT WING BETA, CELL 017 
OBJECT CLASS: K 

THREAT GRADE: ALPHA 

CONTACT SUPERVISOR IMMEDIATELY. 


Palmer's heart skipped a beat. Object Class K. Keter-Class. Those 
were the dangerous objects, the Alpha-priority entities. Area-12 had 
multiple such entities contained within it, but this was the first time 


he had seen a malfunction trigger an Alpha threat-grade. Prior to 
being stationed at Area-12, Palmer had worked as a Senior 
Technician at Sector-28, a low-threat containment facility on 
Vancouver Island. His reassignment to Area-12 had been a 
necessity, after an incident at Area-12 left several personnel... 
unable to continue in their duties. Palmer wasn't used to such a high 
degree of danger. Threat-Grade Alpha was terrifying. What Threat- 
Grade Alpha meant was that a system malfunction posed a real and 
present threat to the containment of an SCP-object, and that breach 
of said containment itself posed a significant threat to the facility or 
its personnel. Personnel that included himself. 


Palmer wasted no time in contacting his supervisor. When the line 
connected, he was greeted with a tired voice. 


"Sanders here, go ahead." 


Palmer's voice shook as he spoke into the intercom. "Uh, sir, we 
have a system malfunction in Containment Wing Beta, Cell zero- 
one-seven. Appears to be a lighting unit failure." 


Sanders’ voice sounded slightly shaky as well. "Zero-one-seven? 
Keter-Class object?" 


Palmer swallowed hard. "Affirmative." 
There was a second of silence. 


"Fuck. Alright, set THREATCON in Wing Beta to Omega and 
standby to initiate both lockdown and Protocol 305-Utah if 
necessary. I'm contacting the Response Team now. Good work, 
Palmer." 


Palmer only hoped that his work would be worth it. He hit the button 
to put Wing Beta on THREATCON Omega and entered his access 
code to arm Protocol 305-Utah. Over the facility's loudspeakers, a 
klaxon sounded and an automated voice spoke a message. 


"Warning. THREATCON in Containment Wing Beta has been set to 
Omega. All non-essential personnel please evacuate the area. This 
is not a drill. Repeat, THREATCON in Containment Wing Beta has 


been set to Omega. All non-essential personnel..." 


Palmer prayed that the Response Team would be quick. 


In a hall of Containment Wing Beta, Response Team Echo began 
setting up to deal with the crisis in Cell-017. A red warning light spun 
overhead, letting any and all personnel know that this area was on 
high alert. Armed guards kept watch at the entrances and exits to 
the hall, as well as by the doors of other containment cells. Several 
researchers and staff passed through, one swiping her card ona 
door's reader and going into a cell with a trolley filled with meat. 
Although it was essential to secure the area in the event of a 
containment breach, of equal importance was the proper 
containment of other objects in the vicinity. What utter irony it would 
be, for one containment breach to occur because the efforts of 
preventing a breach interfered with another object's containment! It 
was for this reason that Response Team Echo operated with 
optimum efficiency, maintaining the least presence necessary to 
complete their duties. 


At present, Maintenance Technician Swinburne was in the process 
of suiting up, pulling a reflective bodysuit up his torso. A real live 
technician was required for this task; usually, lighting fixtures could 
be replaced from the back or sides, but SCP-017's containment cell 
was bordered on multiple sides by other SCP objects whose 
containment procedures left no available space for even a crawl- 
area. Standing by were backup technicians in the event that 
Swinburne was unable to complete the task appointed him. On the 
ground was a very large high-intensity arc lamp bulb, with three 
others in their packaging nearby. Also on site was a portable 
generator, to which were hooked up several standing lamps of 
nearly the same intensity as their cousins on the floor. These were 
positioned such that, in complement with the overhead lighting (set 
to maximum brightness) the area was wholly illuminated, each 
person barely casting any shadow. 


Next to Swinburne was Dr. Martell, lead researcher assigned to 
SCP-017. As Swinburne struggled with the suit, Martell gave a last- 
minute briefing. 


"No cupping your hands; no walking with your legs too close 
together; remember to keep your fingers loose and apart." 


"Uh-huh." Swinburne pulled his right arm into the sleeve of the suit. 


"Walk in a shuffling motion. At no point should you raise your feet— 
even with the room as bright as it is, a foot even a centimeter above 
the ground is likely to cast a minute shadow." 


"Roger." The left arm went next. 


"Carry the package away from your body, at chest level. The lamps 
are designed to be incredibly easy to replace. Pop out the recessed 
trim on the spotlight, unscrew the old bulb, and screw the new one 
in. After installation, the new unit will return to full brightness in just 
under a second. The bulbs are hot, but you shouldn't have to worry 
—your suit is insulated well enough, and we keep that room frosty to 
prevent other bulbs from overheating.” 


"Got it." 


"And most importantly, be aware of your body movements. There 
are lamps recessed into the floor of the containment room, with just 
enough spacing to move through without blocking them. Slow, 
deliberate movements are key here. The suit is reflective enough 
that a slight interference with the lamps' beams should be relatively 
safe, but we're obviously not in the business to take those chances." 


"You don't need to tell me that." Swinburne zippered shut the mask 
to the neck portion, noting that even the zipper and slider were 
coated with ultra-reflective chromium. He adjusted the mask so that 
the eye pieces lined up perfectly. The eyepieces were made of 
highly tinted, very dark lenses that appeared contiguous with the 
rest of the suit. He pushed his earpiece deeper into his ear, a piece 
connected to a radio with a voice-activated switch, which completely 
eliminated the need to touch anything. With that, he was done. Fully 
suited-up. Ready to go in. 


Martell gave him one last look-over, and nodded. "Alright. There's 
nothing else to say except get in, get out, and-good luck." 


The two shook hands, and Swinburne carefully picked up the 
replacement bulb. Martell went to the door to 017 and began the 
process of opening it; a primary swipe-access card, followed by a 
biometric palm scanner, a retina scan, and a voice-recognition 
system. If any of these failed, access would be denied unless 
overridden by one of the facility's Deputy Directors or higher. 


After a moment, the light over the door blinked green. Access 
granted. 


Dr. Martell pulled open the door and nodded one last time. 
Swinburne stepped into the cell, which was actually an elevator—the 
real containment area was below. Martell closed the door, the 
hermetic seal making a hiss sound as it closed up. And then 
Swinburne was moving down. 


Swinburne, like most Level-2 Technicians, knew he was 
replaceable. It came with the territory. Though obviously not as 
knowledgeable about the SCP-objects contained at Area-12 as 
other personnel, he knew two things-how to perform necessary 
maintenance on a variety of the containment zones at Area-12, and 
how to keep his mouth shut. Prior to employment by the Foundation, 
he had served as a combat engineer in the Army. He was used to 
the chain of command, taking orders, and especially the impending 
sense of danger. He'd served two tours in Afghanistan, earning an 
Army Commendation Medal and a Purple Heart; the leg still hurt like 
a bitch sometimes. This was, of course, before he had been 
selected as a ‘special candidate’ for something called the 
‘Foundation'—back then, he'd had no idea what that word would 
come to mean. But he'd passed the evals and qualifications, ending 
up one among only three other such individuals. Of course the 
Foundation had had to reveal some of its nature before signing on 
potential valuable personnel; a Level-2 Tech was a far greater asset 
to the Foundation than a handful of Level-0 service personnel, and 
especially more valuable than a Class-D (although they were useful 
in their own right.) So when Swinburne had heard of anomalous 
materials, special containment procedures, and the need to secure, 
contain, and protect; he'd been intrigued. Not particularly religious, 
he still possessed a mite of wonderment about things; the world was 
interesting, and a chance to be a part of an organization that 


revealed just how interesting was not an opportunity he was willing 
to pass up. That and, refusal of the Foundation's offer came under 
penalty of amnestics and total relocation. So he'd accepted. 


As it so happened, nothing could really have prepared him for the 
reality of the Foundation. He had seen things that he wouldn't have 
believed possible, things that no person could ever have dreamed 
of. Of course, he knew, it was better that way. To disrupt the status 
quo of the outside world with knowledge it was not prepared for 
would be disastrous. Although some of the things the Foundation 
kept contained were disastrous to begin with. 


For instance, this object, SCP-017. Swinburne had read the file on it 
—a being composed seemingly of smoke or shadow that could 
completely eradicate anything that cast a shadow upon it. Things 
like that were horrifying in fiction, but to know that they actually 
existed and were being kept under lock-and-key by some 
paragovernmental agency? It was almost too much to comprehend. 
No wonder the Foundation scheduled so many regular psychological 
checkups. 


The lift reached the bottom of the shaft. In front of Swinburne 
stretched a small corridor, with high-powered lamps set into the 
floor, ceiling, and walls. Even with the thick insulated suit on, 
Swinburne was cold. Martell hadn't been lying when he said they 
kept it frosty: it must have been -6 Centigrade. Though that was 
probably a good thing; so many lights operating round-the-clock 
were likely prone to overheating and potential failure. The 
Foundation always did everything possible to prevent such a thing 
from occurring. 


At the end of the corridor was a glass door with a glass handle, the 
kind of doors you see in supermarkets. Swinburne took a deep 
breath, swallowed hard, then used his knee to push open the door 
into the main containment chamber for SCP-017. 


The entire room was bathed in brilliant, white light, emanating from 
every possible surface. There must have been hundreds of high- 
powered incandescent bulbs in the six-meter-cubed area. 
Swinburne thought it a Godsend that the Foundation had the 
resources to keep these sorts of facilities operating. He looked up 


and saw the clear plastic suspension chamber in the center of the 
room that contained 017 itself; a small Perspex box, maybe the size 
of a safe. Huddled against one of the transparent walls was a 
childlike figure, a perfect dark blot against the blinding light in the 
rest of the chamber. It was completely immobile and looked, for all 
intents and purposes, harmless. Though anyone who had clearance 
to perform maintenance on Cell 017 knew better. Inside the suit, and 
despite the cold, a bead of sweat rolled down Swinburne's forehead. 
He forced himself to maintain composure. The slightest misstep or 
error would cost him his life. He had seen combat before, in the 
Army, but that was under different terms; a man shooting a bullet 
into your body is natural, acceptable. This...this was anomalous. 


Swinburne squinted, scanning the bright room to locate the blown- 
out bulb. It was on the opposite side on the room at about waist- 
height. Thank God it hadn't been one of the bulbs in the ceiling. 
Slowly, being careful not to step in front of any lights unnecessarily, 
he made his way across the room. Despite his training, his Army 
experience, every terror he had ever experienced, this really took 
the cake. Swinburne could feel his heart hammering in his chest, his 
body break out in a sweat, and his mouth wither like an African 
drought. Each step he took closer to his destination was one step 
closer to potential oblivion at the hands of the thing suspended 
above him. He wanted to look up, make sure that it wasn't moving or 
reacting, but he forced himself to keep moving ahead, bulb held out 
in his hands in front of him, every motion calculated so as not to 
create any shadow. 


"What's your status, Swinburne?" 


Martell's voice in his ear gave him a start. He kept steady hands on 
the bulb and took the final few steps to the blown-out bulb. 


"I'm at the blow-out now,” he said, speaking aloud into the receiver. 
"Everything's optimal so far. No activity on zero-one-seven." 


"Good. You know what to do if there's any change in the situation." 
"Roger." 


The line went silent. Swinburne knew that to change the blow-out, 


Heavy sedation of all SCP-939 is required before any interaction, 
including transfer between cells and experimentation, may take 
place. See Document #939-TE4 for transfer and experimentation 
protocol. 


Level C Hazmat gear is to be worn by personnel during interactions 
with SCP-939 specimens and in any areas which SCP-939 have 
been known to inhabit. Afterward, standard decontamination 
procedures are to be observed by all personnel involved to ensure 
no secondary spread of amnestic agents occurs.