Alanna Ellis, Dr. three times over, is old, but not old enough to have 
the same twitching hands as the rest of her compatriots: her work 
hasn't had the same amount of time to eat into her myelin sheathes 
as it has for the rest of the former personnel, and so she's still at 
least left this small shred of dignity. As the executioner looks her 
over, she can't help but think she still looks regal even as she sits 
out the last moments of her life: the suicide queen smiling for the 
photo on the card. "It's a mutual split, Darcie," she says, with a not- 
insincere smile. "| suggested it would be best for the team if | went 
along with the rest of the Class of '03: Five agreed, and when Five 
says ‘jump' you jump, whether that's off a cliff or not." 


"Mutual's one way of putting it," the woman murmurs, checking and 
double-checking the indicators on her pistol: are the crystals dulled? 
are the petals withered? is the gasket sealed? All of this 
maintenance is kid's stuff in theory, the kind of thing they let you 
know about six months beforehand and give you a fully 
workshopped course on, but it's always harder in person and she 
finds her own fingers faltering as she struggles to power the damn 


SCP-828: I'm giving you the stories | do 
remember. There were always children. They 
didn't always look the same. Many looked 
much like you [indicates at LeChatlier] as your 
people grew. Your people were the only ones | 
saw, for a time. The only ones | saw. [Trails 
off, saddened] 


Rosenthal: | think that's enough for today. 
We'll resume at our next, scheduled 
appointment. 


<End Log> 


Footnotes 

. See Disciplinary Document 117-138 

. For a full list see SCP-828-1: Nutrition and Wellness 
. Bladderlock Kelp 

. Sculpin 

. Traditional Inuit child-carrying parka. 

Is Not 

. Shaman 

. Baffin Island 


ONooORWDY 


« SCP-827 | SCP-828 | SCP-829 » 


thing on. 


"Hey now, a'yes' is a 'yes', especially from an Overseer. If they'd 
have said 'no', Lord knows what they'd do when they found out what 
we're doing here." 


"They'd bring you back, is that what you're saying?" She secures the 
restraints on Alanna's hands: even if her ears are filtered, her eyes 
still have to be wide open just to aim: they're prime targets for the 
kind of semantic weaponry Alanna could unleash through sign- 
language. 


Not that she seems like she's going to put up any resistance to this: 
"That's why we're here, aren't we? The be-all end-all of a peaceful 
journey to wherever's next, no?" 


"That's what I'm hoping," the woman murmurs. 


"Hoping? | checked the calculations myself, thank you very much," 
Alanna cackles, wriggling her fingers inside the confines of the 
clasps they've been placed in: the black cube of gelatinous material 
gives no sign of movement from the outside. "Now, are you going to 
get this over with or are you giving me one last look-over like old 
times?" 


"Don't." She swallows. "Don't- just don't bring that up right now." 


"What are you so sad about? Worried I'm not going to leave a pretty 
corpse?" Alanna grins. "| mean, if this fucks up, you still get to see 
me: won't be physical or anything, but edits to a bunch of documents 
are good enough, right?" 


"Lanna." The woman places gloved fingers underneath Alanna's 
jaw: traces the bone, pushes her head up. "I said don't." 


"Right, right," Alanna grumbles. "Old dead woman needs her 
laughs... got any rites you want to read us, or is the bullet the only 
sanctification you need?" 


"I'm not part of Theology,” the woman answers, tight-lipped. 
"Though if we're really lucky, maybe the ECRG might pay us a visit: 
surely they've got a couple exorcism machines lying around, if that's 


what you're worried about." 


Alanna bursts out in more laughter. "Why would they bother with the 
corpses of a bunch of randoms? Think they're going to really waste 
the last auto-priest machines they've got on what could just be a 
weird cult of oldies?" 


"Right." The hesitation in her voice is just covered by the murmur of 
conversation from the rest of the group, and it's quickly forgotten 
when she places one last kiss on Alanna's cheek. "Best of luck 
wherever you, um, end up then." She swallows, straightens up, and 
returns to her ministrations on the rest of the group. 


Once she's satisfied that the rest of the occupants in the conference 
room are properly secured, she backs up, lines up her shot one last 

time and smiles weakly at the assembled crowd of memeticists long- 
passed. 


"Here's to the black void of the afterlife," Alanna calls from her spot 
at the center of the row of chairs. 


The rest of the retirees get to "Chee-" by the time the un-bullets find 
their mark in their foreheads. 


It acts fast: when the anticoncepts hit, the doctors’ ontological 
presences unspool like a loose thread's being pulled, and when it's 
all said and done Darcie lets the gun drop from her hands because 
she's got no idea why she's here: is that an anticoncept stabiliser 
strapped to the Beretta she was toting just a second ago? Who are 
these people she's standing in front of, and oh God are those bullet 
holes in their heads, has she just— 


She panics, because she doesn't know anything. And then she 
calms, because she doesn't know anything. 


| Am Not There, | Did Not Die 


| promise he won't feel anything. 


I've done this tens of times before. Worst-case scenario, what 
happens to him today would've happened to him in six months. 
Definitely less painful for him this way, but if you were doing it for his 
sake you'd take him to Switzerland and let Dignitas take care of that, 
not me. 


They wouldn't let you talk to him after he's dead, though. 


Do you have everything you'll need for that, by the way? Cheek 
scrapes, blood samples... 


That's good. You're a lot more committed than a lot of my clients; 
most of them don't realise what kind of person they have to be to 
keep their loved ones stuck on this planet for the rest of eternity. 


It doesn't have to be, but | mean it as one. Trust me on that. 


Not a problem. You're not paying me fifty grand for poor customer 
service. 


You're paying me fifty grand for a mugging gone wrong. 


There are two parts to keeping someone on this earth: making them 
restless in the first place and making sure they can't undo that 
before you're ready for them to. It's not going to be hard to keep 
myself anonymous if | get it over and done with quickly, and an 
armed robbery? Easily violent enough. Both parts taken care of in 
one fell swoop. 


You said he likes jogging in Centennial Park, so that's where I'm 
going to do it. 


Nice place. Going to be a pretty place to haunt, at least. 


What do you think'll happen if | get found out? 


Sure. Australia doesn't have capital punishment, so the state won't 
get me for mass murder. But everyone I've taken care of this way — 
all fourty-seven of them — will have plenty of time to find out who | 
am, and what | had to do with them being the way they are now. 


And unless | can break out, there's quite literally no way in Hell I'm 
going to be able to run from them. 


But it's one you can trust. I'm not making you pay any extra, and it's 
going to last for a lot longer than a year. 


Now, any last questions? 


Don't tell your son you love him. He'll figure out you're lying soon 
enough. 


Another Boring Night 


Note Bene: It would behoove you to read Unusual 
Happenings before looking at this tale. 


Quinn MacAllister felt like a stereotypical cop, eating a doughnut 
while sitting in an unmarked vehicle, waiting for something to come 
along and happen. Her partner was with her this time, fiddling with 
the radio, which had NPR playing on it. 


In contrast to Quinn's slender, white, blonde form, Darnell Christman 
was a rather large black man. He reminded Quinn of a slightly fatter 
Samuel L. Jackson circa... whatever year Pulp Fiction came out, 
sans afro and mustache, but that was only because he had shaved 
off the latter; FBI policy to make field agents seem less intimidating. 


"Four hours," Quinn said. 


"And counting," Darnell sighed. "Face it. He's not coming. Skippers 
most likely picked him up already." 


"Head of the biggest Spirit Dust ring this side of the Pacific, and the 
Skippers got him." Quinn sighed. "Of fucking course." 


"Sometimes it's better to let them handle stuff. You nearly got killed 
by that giant anaconda thing in Zanesville." 


"Don't remind me of that," Quinn said, shivering softly. "They had to 
fucking cut me out. It was humiliating." She rubbed her face and 
sighed, leaning against the seat. "All right, try another on me." 


"All right..." Darnell screwed up his eyes. "Case File 1939-23." 


"...first recorded instance of a werewolf encounter by the UIU. Said 
werewolf was killed when a knife was thrown over his head." 


"Not killed," Darnell corrected her. "Turned back to normal. Back 
then, that actually worked on werewolves." 


"Fuck." Quinn rubbed her face. "My turn. Case File... 1981-42." 


"Too easy. Codename: White Hat. Murders carried out with a Bowie 
Knife in Texas. Knife would always vanish from evidence, only to 
appear at the next crime scene. Victims were related to people who 
participated in the Battle of the Alamo. " 


"Evidence of Existence?" 


"Several pictures of the knife, all taken with a Polaroid camera, used 
by Special Agent Jack Miller, who-" 


"Was not the inspiration for Fox Mulder. | refuse to believe that." 
"Why?" 


"Because 1) Miller was gay, 2) he was more handsome than 
Duchovny, and 3) there is no way the Skippers would let that 
happen." She sighed. "Hand me another nacho." 


"Nacho it is." Darnell handed her a bowl of the corn chips. Quinn 
took one, and munched on it, looking melancholy. "Quinn?" 


"Yeah?" 

"Why do you always act like this?" 

"Like what?" 

"Like you feel like you're competing with the Skippers?" 


She snorted. "You've asked this question about 100 times now. The 
answer's always the same: fuck the Skippers, that's why." 


He sighed, picking at a spot on his arm. "You act like you think that 
they're worse than Hitler." 


"They really any different?" Quinn said, a bitter tone in her voice. 
"They've got a secret police, they round up people who they deem 
different and undesirable into places where they can be contained, 
they've deluded themselves into thinking they're a force for good..." 
She sighed. "Only difference is that their swastikas are just in the 


shape of the letters "SCP". 


"Cripes, Mac." Darnell sighed, changing the channel to a classic 
rock station. "What's your beef with them, anyway?" 


She sighed heavily. "You know how | never talk about my home 
town?" 


"Yeah..." 


"That's because | literally can't." She rubbed at her throat, coughing 
slightly. "Remember the secrecy agreement we signed? Back when 
we got the job?" 


"Yeah... the one the Gawkers made up. 'UN Resolution 256-A' or 
something." He frowned. "Why?" 


"It... did something to me. | can't talk about what we do on this job to 
anyone but Skippers, or the Director, or you." 


"Yeah, | know." Darnell pinched the bridge of his nose. "I felt like | 
was choking when | tried to tell my brother about the job. You work 
around it, after a bit. Learn to lie." 


"...it wasn't the first time I'd signed something like that." She 
swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat, right where her larynx was. 
"That's all | can say, | think." 


Darnell stared at Quinn. "Mac... what did you do before you got 
involved with this?" 


"...who ever said there was a before?" She looked out the 
windshield and sighed. "Another hour, then we check in with 
command and say this was a bust." 


"Right." Darnell looked out the windshield and fiddled with the radio. 
"...say, uh, Danielle's back in town. Maybe you could get Harley and 
we could do a... double date or something?" 


"Don't see why not," Quinn said, drumming her fingers on the 
steering wheel. 


The headline on the morning newspaper was that the leader of a 
drug ring had been shot dead by a beat cop. The fact that it probably 
wasn't true rubbed even more salt in the wound. 


«Unusual Happenings|Hub|Taproots» 


Recovered Documents (Translated into English from 
Russian) 


Doc-491-1: Fragments from the personal diary of Mayor Piotr 
Lazarev. 


[...] lights had been circling the village for nearly a week. 
Captain Trubaiev claimed, then, that they were airplanes, 
but he didn't believe those words. Whether he actually 
knew what they were is a different matter. It seems that 
he'd only just learned what would happen, right before he 


[...] 
[ILLEGIBLE] 


[...] had acted sooner, we would only have lost our 
village instead of the rest of the world. Though he insists 
that | have authority over the village, the fact remains 
that he is in command of the men with weapons while 
the rest of us are defenseless. Until Captain Trubaiev 
conclusively shows that he is no threat, | will continue to 
withold my trust of him. He has kept a very large secret 
from us before, after all. 


We have to begin considering how to ration our supplies. 
We are fortunate that this happened in autumn, allowing 
us to work with [...] 


[ILLEGIBLE MATERIAL FOLLOWED BY A MINIMUM 
OF EIGHT DESTROYED PAGES] 


[...] brutal than that were the actions of the Captain when 
he learned of it. | would not call it a trial. Only the Captain 
spoke, listing off every one of the soldier's faults. He was 
then left tied in the central square for four hours until the 
Captain returned with the rest of his men and personally 
executed him with his own sidearm. His words will never 


leave me: 


"Stand up! Even if you've never lived like a man, at least 
die like one! Stand up and look me in the eyes!" 


Could such a ruthless man be trusted to protect the 
village? Even if it was for the Jewish girl, it may not stop 
with one death. What will happen if one of us commits a 
crime against one of the soldiers? Will he demand that 
they be disposed of in the same way? With all of the 
armed men under his control, we could do [...] 


[BETWEEN TEN AND THIRTEEN DAMAGED OR 
ILLEGIBLE PAGES] 


[...] dare call me the tyrant! Do they even understand 
that this was for their own well being? Without my militia, 
only the Captain wields true power. And, while we 
continue to consolidate our position, we have to follow 
the same example that the Captain had made of that 
traitor of his. It is the only way that we can avoid 
arousing his suspicion. 


And now people are leaving with the Uzbek. The punk 
and the hippies won't be missed. We can even make do 
without a few of the families. But, with no engineer, we 
won't be able to keep the generator [...] 


[FOLLOWING PAGE] 


[...] is well. The militia came back with Tibor. He won't be 
able to use his right hand again. But he'll still be able to 
maintain the generator, so long as one hand is still 
working. 


[ILLEGIBLE TEXT] 


[...] and the punk managed to escape. The boy probably 
won't survive if the militia did what they said they did to 
him. And the Uzbek is too old to cause any further 
trouble. It's ironic that we have our own secrets to keep 


SCP-829: Bloodthirsty Nail Polish 


Item #: SCP-829 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-829 is to be stored ina 
secured room at Sector-19, in a standard nail polish bottle that is 
kept locked in a transparent Level-2 Security container. This room 
must be guarded by at least two Level-2 Security personnel at all 
times. Security personnel and a spare bottle will accompany 
SCP-829 whenever it is removed from its containment room. 


All personnel must undergo psychological examinations before they 
are allowed to interact with subjects of SCP-829. Any persons who 

show signs of excessively compliant behavior must immediately be 

removed from the presence of subjects of SCP-829.