Agent Jarle was bored out of his mind. Yet another 
boring day of a boring, boring week of a boring, boring, 
boring month... Usually at this time there should be at 
least twenty people shuffling around back and forward, 
down the corridor he saw through his glass walls. Now it 
was quiet. Silent. Maybe a national holiday or something 
along those lines was happening, maybe something else 
but the fact remained - nothing was happening. He 
couldn't watch the people pass by and guess what they 
were doing - just associate faces with things he got from 
Foundation files and then connect that with what he 
knew about building planning, which wasn't much, but 
was enough. 


Or maybe a meeting of some sorts was happening? But 
then, where is Amanda from secretary office? He could 
see her partner, Jo... Joanna? Josie? Joy? Jody? 
Something like this. Either way, Jo usually had night 
shifts, so why was she here now? It was unlikely 
something happened to Amanda. 


He took a sheet of paper from a printer, ripped a part off 
of it so it was resembling a square, and started to fold it, 
but then some armed guys passed by, their blue helmets 
easily attracting his attention. They weren't guards, those 
didn't parade with those things on heads for starters and 
their gear was much heavier than the usual one he saw. 
He kept on folding the paper, movements memorized as 
he looked around, looking for any trace of any 
newcomer. 


Well, something was happening. Sadly, checking it out 
was outside his usual duties. Maybe Agent Is-, no, now 
she was Officer Claudia Nielsen - maybe she will find out 
what is going on. Not like Jarle would actually get the 
memo about what was happening but it was still nice to 
acknowledge that the Foundation will know what was 
going on. 


He stared at tiny turtle in his hand. GOC logo was still 
visible on one of his paws so he took a pen and started 
to colour them, carefully, to not damage the paper - if he 
used one of those kinds of thick papers official 
documents from UN were printed on, the turtle would 
look better and last a bit longer. Or the one used on files, 
those that weren't supposed to be destroyed but those 
on which copies of documentations were kept under his 
Site. It was a thick paper, printed on with some sort of 
high-quality ink so it wouldn't fade and then kept in 
absolute darkness. Lorck told him a lot about that. She 
spent quite some time in those dark places where papers 
were kept, she- 


The small turtle in his hand started to move. 
No, he didn't imagine that. 


Its small paws were moving. Slowly and rather weakly 
but it was fucking moving. 


Jarle placed it on desk in front of him. He tried his best 
not to panic, tried to be as ineffectual about it as those 


wackos from research or containment. Breathe in. Out. 
Now, try to analyze the situation. 


He had a small origami turtle on his desk. It was white, 
with the exception of paws that were covered in blue pen 
and head that had small pair of blue eyes, also made 
with pen. It was making small movements, as if was 
trying to move. 


And that was it. But how? How the hell had that 
happened? Jarle just took paper from the printer and did 
his usual office origami routine. A random, mini cactus 
he made for Alexia, tiny swans he sometimes put on his 
monitor before those thin LCD things replaced the one 
he had before? None of them ever moved... right? No, 
probably not. 


He nudged it with his pen and it moved a bit faster. So, it 
reacts to stimuli. 


Maybe one of those magic specialists made some sort of 
a joke? He knew those guys were there, sometimes 
throwing paperwork at his desk, but that was all. He 
never annoyed anyone during his long years at GOC, so 
what was the point? 


He carefully reached out and stroked the turtle on its 
head, carefully, to not poke its eyes. The head moved a 
tiny bit, as far as the paper allowed it to. 


Jarle delicately took the turtle and put it near his monitor, 
so it was hidden behind stack of papers from anyone 
who could possibly come in. The turtle's behavior was 
beyond him and maybe he'll visit thaumaturgists' bureau 
later. If there is anywhere he could seek advice, it would 
be there. 


The angel 


The angel made of metal, towering over masses walking 


by it, passing under the shadows of its wings. None 
would pay attention. He knew perfectly well what 
purpose sculptures had in the cities. Placeholders. Just 
that. And maybe the higher-ups will proudly say on 
television how they support higher forms of art, how they 
care, how cultured they are. 


His angel was still fragmented, each part carefully 
created out of scrap metal he got for whatever he found 
in his wallet. It took him a long while, begging his friends 
for supplies, selling himself out to get what he wanted 
and needed. But there, she is done and made, waiting 
for completion on the streets. He regretted he couldn't 
see her whole now, but well, he could use that for his 
own purposes too. 


The angel was a piece of glass, multicoloured, with no 
pattern, no sense in how colours were mixed on its 
surface. With each day, he added more colours to the 
glass surface, with each modification to the metal 
surface. 


She was beautiful. He wanted to make everybody look 
up at her, no matter what. 


Early in the morning he carefully installed her. Some 
other guys from local anartist community helped him out 
a bit but mostly they watched his struggles, their eyes on 
his huddled form over one of angel's heads, feet barely 
keeping the balance. They watched as he carefully 
welded the form into completeness, "Disgusting", 
whispered one, "Beautiful", said the other. 


Each piece added meant another crack in the glass. 


The angel would stand above the people that walked 
underneath it. One head's hateful stare turned would be 
turned towards direction of the heavens, one finger 
accusingly pointing at the clouds. The other head would 
stare curiously at the human beings beneath it but hands 
would cover his eyes, both belonging to something else, 


hands attached as if appearing out of thin air, clear 
plastic giving way to metal. 


It took him much more time than he predicted to weld 
hidden steel wires with rest of the sculpture. 


The crown remained, for the third head, the one with a 
blank stare. The last piece. Finally. He wanted to see her 
in her glory and, frankly, he was tired and lanterns in the 
city were turned off a few minutes ago. A few anartists 
from underneath the sculpture sat down on the cold 
pavement, some checking somethings on phones. 


All heads went up as one when he fell. 


He didn't slip. Some anartists caught him at the last 
second before he hit the ground, strangely lifeless and 
unmoving. One blacksmith screamed when she felt 
blood on her hands from his shoulder. The ladder he was 
on hit the asphalt. 


His body was carefully put on the ground, some anartists 
who dealt with corpses in their work coming closer to 
check the body, whispering in excited and surprised 
hushes. One of inkers cut his clothes open with an x- 
acto, one of non-artists pressed his hands against his 
neck to check his pulse - and sighed in relief. He was 
alive. A designer and another sculptor started to check 
the wounds, snatching the knife from the inker to dig 
deeper into them, making the half-conscious man groan 
in pain. 


The rest watched as the designer put bloodied shards of 
multicoloured glass on pavement. 


He couldn't move. 


Not a single finger. 


He was stuck. 


He could only observe in mute panic as webs wrapped all around him, 
all the delicate lines stronger than steel, stronger than anything, holding 
him in place. 


He didn't notice when that happened. When his finger started to move 
more sluggishly, when he couldn't even reach the phone that sat just 
few meters away from him, ringing again and again and again. 


The screen of a phone yet again went black when the shrilling sound of 
default ringtone yet again cut off. He managed to glance at the time. 
Seven pm. Yet again. 


Once again, uselessly, he tried to move but webs were wrapped too 
tightly around him. He was hungry, he could barely breathe with webs 
tight around his ribs and throat, he already soiled himself a few times. 
At least he could sleep but even when he did, he dreamt around those 
most beautiful lines around him. 


He still ached to finish them, he still needed to end what he started. 


The opened document file on the laptop in front of him burned into the 
surface of his eyes, lighting up thin white lines hanging in the air. 


Black letters weren't correct. 


He needed to change them. He could do that. He could just rearrange 
a structure here and there, play with the way accents sound in that one 
sentence. 


Maybe he'd even manage to free his throat, destroy that most beautiful 
pattern just to take a deeper breath. 


He pulled and webs dug into his skin, red and irritated skin for few 
seconds turning white. 


He tried trashing, writhing, anything. 


Now it was just hopeful tugs that maybe his movements would make 
the confining lines at least a tiny bit looser, just to touch the keyboard. 
Anything. 


He took a careful deep breath and winced when he felt something akin 
to needles dig into his skin. He didn't knew if he bled. He couldn't look 
down anyway. He'd swallow, but his throat was too dry, tongue sticking 
to the roof of his mouth. He cried before, but he stopped. 


He cried because he didn't finish what he started. 


Now he couldn't think straight because of hunger and thirst and all that 
was left was feeling of a detached sadness, caused by the white 
screen in front of him. 


He died thinking about his unfinished story. 


The trap 


Blindfold. Not that big of an obstacle. Chains. He moved 
his hands experimentally, hearing their jingle. Metal was 
solid, not a single link weak. Glass. Not a plastic but solid 
and heavy glass. Cold water, flowing into his shoes. 
Uncomfortable. He moved again. A blade. Just above his 
torso, ready to fall when the water covers him whole. It's 
either drowning or getting a blade in his guts. Fun stuff. 


Not to mention the fact that he was thoroughly drunk 
when he suggested the trap, laying out plans to his 
friends yesterday evening. All five of them had already 
managed to take in a deadly mix of beer, wine, whiskey, 
shots and some stuff Marcin had hidden under the sink 
in unlabeled bottles. 


The biggest obstacles here and now were his pounding 
headache and guts ready to rebel at any given moment. 
There, normally he would be in no rush to get away from 
this trap which, really, was designed to be a challenge, 
but he had enough experience in escaping all sorts of 
people. 


Except whenever he got caught by Suits or Insurgents to 
cover the asses of anartists that couldn't run fast enough 
he wasn't suffering through The Mother of All Hangovers. 
And this cursed goddess had coupled with good ol' Saint 
of Alcohol Poisoning, to ensure he died a rather painful 
and embarrassing death. 


He felt his stomach cramp violently and that was, 
comparatively, a much better motivator than a gun to the 
head or the sight of pliers being way too close to any part 
of his body. A gag in his mouth would be deadly if he 


were to choke on his own vomit, and he almost lay on his 
back. Water was reaching to his thighs. 


He inhaled. Exhaled. It was quiet. 


He inhaled and exhaled. Trickling of water, moving from 
open tap into the box he was in. Ambient sound of 
someone watching television in the distance, maybe 
upstairs. He couldn't say, with this amount of alcohol in 
his blood he had trouble determining what is up and what 
is down anymore. All the sounds were distant and the 
headache prevented him from focusing. 


He inhaled and exhaled. Time slowed down. Between 
each pulse of pain in his head he had enough time to 
listen. Sounds came to him this much slower, like in slow 
motion. The noise in the distance was that much lower 
but he was used to it. He knew how things sounded 
when you made them slow enough. 


(When he was a kid, he recorded whatever he could on 
his phone. Memory on it was limited to few precious 
minutes. Later he got to know how to transfer those 
sounds to his computer and slow them down and so he 
relistened to everything he had recorded in slow motion. 
Perception of reality was subjective, he learned much 
later on. He dwelled in low frequencies like fish in sped 
up sound in water.) 


He inhaled and exhaled. He searched in the myriad of 
noises for those responsible for his trap. He moved as 
much as possible without his body protesting too much 
and he listened. Rumble of chains. Trickling of water and 
slow dissolution of oxygen as it fell from bigger height, 
bubbles burying themselves under the surface. Slide of 
rope that held the blade above his chest. 


He inhaled. Sounds flooded him and he mixed and 
matched them in his head. It was all about finding the 
weakest link, the silence in between the sounds and the 
more the time stretched, the easier it was. 


investigate anomalous data and the study results were first 
doctored, then sealed. 


As of 20 there had not been a male birth in in over four 
hundred years. The residents of instead made use of 
SCP-642-1's unique properties. Immersion of a sexually mature 
female mammal in SCP-642-1's waters induces thelytokous 
reproduction- that is to say, fusion of two unfertilized mature ova or 
polar bodies present in pre-ovulatory follicles to produce a diploid 
zygote genetically identical to its lone parent. The chemical and 
biological properties of SCP-642-1 result in rapid early development 
of the zygote, usually at a rate two to four times faster than normal 
for the species. 


Agent 's accidental immersion in SCP-642-1 revealed that 
SCP-642-1's properties are not sex-linked and will in fact induce 
fusion of any mature gametes in the body and subsequent rapid 
zygotic development regardless of cytoplasmic composition of the 
cells in question. In humans mature ova are mostly produced one at 
a time, but mature male gametes — sperm cells — number in the 
millions at any given time. As Agent initially discounted the 
inflammation as being due to SCP-642-1's elevated temperatures, 
no medical measures were taken. By the time his situation was 
recognized, tissue damage had [DATA EXPUNGED]. Agent 's 
autopsy was conducted under BSL-3 protocols in Sector 7 medical 
lab, with the extracted [DATA EXPUNGED)]; the results are available 
to level 4 security clearance personnel as document #CH-2462. 


Further discussion with residents after Agent 's death 
led to the discovery of SCP-642-2 six kilometers away. Considerably 
different in chemical composition and inhabited by several 
previously unknown thermophilic microbial species, SCP-642-2 was 
cited as a sort of counter-agent to SCP-642-1. Immersion in 
SCP-642-2 is generally easier, as its temperatures are on average 
five to ten degrees C lower than those of SCP-642-1. Within five 
minutes of immersion, all cellular development and division of 
blastocystic cells- the outer layer of a developing zygote that has not 
yet implanted- ceases and the cells begin to disintegrate, resulting in 
the death and expulsion of the unimplanted embryo. Examination of 
animal corpses in the vicinity of SCP-642-2 indicates that the 


He exhaled and slipped through the silence, the trap 
unraveling around him, soundwaves rumbling and 
making the room tremble. The water was always tricky, 
the ripples on its surface making it that much more 
difficult to predict how the sound sped up in the water. 
The blade kept on reverbating, glass trembled, throwing 
more noise into soundscape. 


The difficulties kept piling up. The blade started to swing 
back and forth. He inhaled.