Emma tapped a few figures into her tablet. "No, it's not SCP-1841, 
that's a travel guide or something." 


"Can't be. It had to do with mass hysteria carried by Franz Liszt, if | 
remember correctly. Died with him." 


"Wait... 1969 got reused, right? How about... Aha! Here it is. 
SCP-1841-EX. Your 1841's explained and in the database." 


"Explained? When did that happen? Read it to me." 


Emma looked at Roger in disbelief from his request, but shook her 
head and went through the record with him, including the addenda. 
Stopping for a moment afterward, she mused, "This doesn't help this 
case a bit." 


Roger scowled. "So Wertham pulled a full-RAISA on the article. 
"What do you mean?" 


"Well, you know how stuff is redacted or expunged or behind an 
access code wall when we're not supposed to know about 
something, right? Well, that little redacted sign lets us know that 
something is in fact there, we're just not supposed to see it. But 
sometimes, someone pulls strings and makes sure we aren't 
allowed to know that there's hidden information. What do those 
addenda say? It tells us that they completely changed the article, 
made it look complete. That way, we walk away thinking that it's 
Neutralized last century, when it's still active." 


Emma sighed. "I'm more concerned that if 1841 is Explained, then 
1969 suddenly can't be mass hysteria. Suddenly, it's not explained." 


Roger hardened his jaw and swallowed. "So Paul really did die." 


Emma jumped up and paced. "No, we know he didn't die. The only 
way this makes sense is if we know he died, then know he didn't die. 
Which is it?" 


Roger laughed. "Maybe both." 
"What?" 


"Listen, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, Paul never died. 
Everyone went a little crazy one fall, saw stuff that wasn't there, and 
then we all wised up. But the Beta-6 involvement, Campbell, the Rita 
call, none of that would have gone down that way if we didn't have 
conclusive knowledge that Paul did die on November 9, 1966. So, 
maybe he was dead. And now he isn't. Stranger things have 
happened, you know." 


Emma stopped pacing and leaned forward against the desk. A knot 
started forming in her stomach. "What are we talking about, 
resurrection? They were ‘bigger than Jesus,’ right?" 


"More popular than Jesus," Roger corrected. Realization passed 
over his face. "Oh. Oh, Rita. Listen, have you got the Twelve 
documentation? Show me the full record. I'm still cleared for it, no 
amnesiacs, remember?" 


Emma passed her tablet to Roger. He squinted to read the screen, 
but got through the short documentation quickly. "Where's the rest of 
it?" 

"That's it." 


"No, this is all kinds of inaccurate." 


"Really?" Emma took the tablet back and looked it over again. "I 
know, I've been wanting to update it with some of the most recent 
results, but..." 


"You're still suspending it from the ceiling in its own room so people 
can't look at it, right?” 


"Yes...2" 


"The way this reads, it's not Euclid, it's Safe. You stick it in a locker 
and forget about it. You don't go through all the trouble of its own 
room and leave it where someone has any chance to see it at some 
weird angle." 


The knot tightened further in her stomach. She felt her insides grow 
cold. 


Roger continued, "And how many pages is the music now? We had 
five when | stopped working with it. How many now?" 


"Um... We... uh... A hundred and seventeen." 


"A hundred and Seventeen. All in blood? Even when ink is 
provided?" 


Emma didn't like where this was going. Getting words out was 
getting harder. "Yes." 


"And do all the pages carry the cog haz?" 

Emma blushed and shrunk. "N-no. Just ten of them." 
"Don't you think this is all important documentation?" 
"Y-yes, sir." 


"And what's this about a 'recent storm'? Do the 1966 Florence floods 
seem recent to you? Or just a storm?" 


Emma was at the verge of tears. "No." 
"Miss Stark, this documentation is inaccurate and misleading." 
In a small voice, she responded, "I'll fix it. | want to fix it." 


Roger stopped, realizing what he was doing. He swallowed and took 
a deep breath. Damn you, Twelve. He softened his tone. "No, it's not 


your fault. What I'm saying is that Twelve is receiving the full RAISA, 
like 1841." 


Emma's encroaching dread dissolved. "What? Are you sure?" 


Roger fixed Emma with a steely gaze. "Yes. Read the journal again. 
Sandoval was affected and had to find Twelve before he knew about 
it. You know you can't just stick it in a locker. You know it's Euclid." 


Emma, confused, replied, "Couldn't we put it in a locker?" 


"For a bit, but people know about it. And when they know about it, 
they want to do more with it. They'd pull it back out. You were ready 
to change things to say more about it. Heck, | was almost shouting 
at you just now. How many people have read that? How many have 
loved it? Does it deserve that love? Does that document deserve so 
much attention? And how many want nothing more than to rewrite 
it? They know how to fix it. They know how to complete it. And yet, 
they cannot." 


Emma's eyes widened. "Oh my god. Is that why we keep testing 
with it? Is that why we can't put it away? We're all affected by it? We 
want to display it?" 


Roger nodded. "! bet so. It's not a strong effect. It can be resisted. 
But it's... alluring. It's sexy. Even when presented with some crappy 
inaccurate documentation, something about it sings in your soul. 
You just know how powerful it is. How compelling. You want to work 
with it. That's why it's Euclid." 


"And... someone doesn't want anyone to know this." 


Emma started wondering. She's been working with this item for 
nearly a year now. Who is hiding the truth from her? From the 
Foundation? Who is trying to make sure no one knows anything 
more about it? Why? What is this scrap of music capable of? 
"Wertham?" 


"Wertham's dead. No, it's got to be someone else." 


"Then who?" 


"No clue. But you need a chance to meet with some other old- 
timers. Someone's got to know something. And Twelve being 
Twelve, someone's just dying to spill his guts about it. | got an invite 
to Dr. Califano's retirement party next week. Come with me. We'll 
get some answers." 


Emma straightened. "Okay. Yes. |... gotta get back to work. But 
what about 1969 and all that?" 


"It's a crap shoot. But I'm betting on Twelve." 


A Convincing Lyre 


« Bigger Than Jesus | Hub | An Impenitent Thief » 


The concert hall was silent, expectant. 


Emma looked out, dazzled by the stage lights. If there was an 
audience out there, it was shrouded in the blackness beyond. 
Blackness like the mouth of a deep pit, like an open throat ready 
Oye: 


The soft rustle of her silk dress brought Emma back. She felt herself 
take a performer's stance - feet shoulder-width, knees slightly bent, 
shoulders relaxed. There was no music stand in front of her, no 
score - she didn't need it. In front of the darkened hall, Emma was 
ready. 


She stole a glance to her left. From here, the conductor's face was a 
blur in her peripheral vision, but she could make out his black 
tailsuit, and the sharp tip of his baton. It motioned in rapid circles, 
and Emma could feel the unseen orchestra beyond as it stretched 
itself and then coiled, ready to spring. The baton seemed to sense it 
too, snapping to a quivering pause like a hare at full alert, sensing 
an unseen threat. 


The moment stretched endlessly - the bright stage, the enveloping 
dark, all on a razor's edge. Emma felt a prickling at the nape of her 
neck. 


And suddenly they were off - the baton's leaping upbeat, and the 
orchestra giving chase in a sharp Scherzo. In her focus, the music 
seemed to flow around Emma without reaching her, leaving only the 
sounds of its creation. The blowing of air into woodwinds, the scrape 
of bowing, the shuffling of fingers on valves and keys and strings, a 
tide of shadowy noises swept past without the sounds it formed. 
Emma could feel the music - its drive, its urgency, its sinuous 


scuttling - but she could not hear it. 


Her cue was coming. The intensity of the orchestra was rising in a 
frenzied rush. From the corner of her eye, Emma saw the conductor 
half-turn, and breathed deeply. The baton flashed down at her like a 
lightning strike, and Emma opened her mouth to sing. 


No sound came out. Emma's hand sprang reflexively to her throat, 
and her eyes widened. The skeletal sounds of the orchestra, the 
music she could not hear, pressed onward heedlessly. Emma could 
see the baton crash down towards her again and again, and felt the 
weight of the cavernous darkness beyond the stage pressing upon 
her. Her fingers clutched her voicebox as if to squeeze out her 
trapped voice. Nothing. 


Panicked, Emma clawed at her throat, her nails gouging the soft 
flesh around her larynx. Her breathing was ragged, and she gagged 
as she gripped harder, pulling with slick fingers. Blood ran down her 
neck both inside and out, the taste of it acrid at the back of her 
mouth. The spotlights blazed, the orchestra plunged onwards. The 
baton fell at her a final time, and Emma clenched her hand and 
ripped it away from her throat, feeling the cartilage tear and seeing 
pink ribbons trail wetly behind. As the silent maelstrom behind her 
reached a climax, she held her bloodied, mangled larynx aloft, 
dripping flesh and gore. It pulsed in her hand. 


And Emma heard it scream. 


She woke to the sound of a soft high-pitched buzzing, and the sight 
of a middle-aged man leaning down with a concerned expression. 


"Don't try to get up. Waking you with Tone K can leave you a little 
unsteady. Can you tell me your name?" 


The man flicked a switch on a device he was holding, and the 
buzzing stopped. The device, which looked like a cross between a 
pistol and a miniature bullhorn, slid back into its holster on the man's 
belt, and Emma noticed his uniform. A Mobile Task Force officer. 


"Junior Researcher Emma Stark. Who are you?" 


"Commander Samuel Richards, ma'am, Task Force Eta-11." 


"We have an Eta-11? Are you related to See No Ev-" Emma trailed 
off as she saw the man's jaw stiffen, grey stubble sharp against his 
skin. She looked away, and noticed the dimly-lit room beyond for the 
first time. The remnants of the retirement party were obscured by 
site security officers and a few other MTF agents helping dazed- 
looking researchers to their feet. "What happened?" 


"You tell us." A woman's voice answered, and Emma turned to see 
another MTF agent, a slim Asian woman with thick streaks of grey 
hair at her temples. "Thirty researchers fall asleep simultaneously - 
was this the most boring party ever?" 


Emma shook her head slowly. "I'm sorry, | don't remember. | was 
here with Roger, and then | was - | had an awful nightmare." 


"Most likely someone spiked the punch," said Commander Richards. 
"It's lucky you weren't all lying here for hours - we have Hennessy to 
thank for that." He indicated another MTF agent across the room, a 
stocky older man who waved back in acknowledgement. 


Emma felt bewildered - Hennessy looked in his late sixties, far too 
old to be in a task force - but she managed a weak "Thank you." 


"He can't hear you." Commander Richards was curt. "He's been 
deaf for thirty years." 


"But he's a good lip-reader," added the woman, gently helping 
Emma to her feet, "and deafness can be an advantage in this job." 


"I'm not sure | understand - what job?" 


"Mobile Task Force Eta-11. Specialists in auditory, sonic and 
musical anomalies." Commander Richards sounded proud, Emma 
thought, but also a little defensive. 


"Musical? Because my nightmare - no wait, can | ask you about -" 


Emma gasped as she was Cut off by a sudden shout from across the 
room. One of the site security officers was spinning around like he'd 
been stung. 


"What the hell! Who did that?" 


Richards took two strides forward. "Officer! Remain calm. What did 
you see?" 


"Sir, | didn't see anything, but | ran into something, | swear it." 
"No-one move. Are you sure, officer?" 


The security officer nodded, eyes wide. "There's something in here 
with us, sir." 


The room fell silent. Emma turned her head frantically, searching in 
the half-light for a threat. There was nothing. Her breathing 
quickened, and she felt the Asian woman's hand on her shoulder. 


Another MTF agent, a wiry, buzz-cut woman in her forties, chimed 
in. "Sir, | think he's right. | felt something earlier, but wasn't sure." 


"Thank you, Agent Dee." Richards looked sharply back at Emma. 
"You said nightmares. Are you still afraid?” 


Emma could hardly speak. Suddenly Richards’ eyes focussed in the 
corner behind her, and he pulled the device from his belt and aimed 
it past her shoulder, pulling the trigger. 


The sound was like being inside a bell. Emma felt her head vibrating 
with the shock of the noise, and then all she could hear was the 
high-pitched whine of silence. She staggered and turned away, and 
in the darkened corner behind her she saw it. 


It was splayed on all fours like a lizard, skinny limbs almost blue- 
white. Its head was up-turned in challenge, but where its face should 
be was just a blank sheet of skin. The creature swayed sinuously, as 
if looking for an escape. 


Emma half-heard shouts from behind her. Site security officers 
rushed past her with tasers lit, and Emma felt the Asian woman pull 
her back. The ringing in her ears started to clear as she looked up at 
Commander Richards, who was barking instructions to the room. 


"SCP-932. Invisible until the soundwaves hit them. Hennessy, Dee, 


you know the drill - set your resonators to 510 Hertz, around a 
hundred deebs. Switch visual to sonar - if you spot anything less 
than five feet tall, light it up. Take the officers - they can bag 'em for 
recontainment." Richards looked down at the Asian agent with 
Emma. "Zhao, take her back to quarters. She's too scared to stay 
here - those things feed on fear. Right: you three, with me." 


As the Commander strode away, Agent Zhao smiled down at 
Emma. "It's going to be fine, honey. Here, put these in. | always 
keep a spare pair." 


Emma looked at the ear-plugs in her hand, green LEDs winking on 
one end. She pressed them into her ears, and looked quizzically at 
Zhao - her hearing didn't feel muffled. The agent had pulled on her 
goggles and was scanning the room, sound gun raised. 


"Come on," she said. "Let's get out of here." 


The corridors felt interminable as Agent Zhao stepped slowly ahead 
of her, scanning each intersection carefully and waving the security 
officers onwards. Emma couldn't bear any more silence. 


"I'm sorry if I'm an imposition,” she ventured. 


"Not at all," said Zhao without turning. "Don't let the Commander 
give you the wrong impression. He's just a little highly strung, and 
you weren't to know how he feels about Eta-10." 


"See No Evil? | just thought -" 


"| know, honey. But it's been a long time since we were in that 
league." Zhao held up a hand, checked a room to the side, then 
continued. "They get all the press, the manpower, the budget, but 
what can you do? Memetics gets custody of most of the musical 
memes, and auditory skips just don't get as much attention. The 
Commander knows it - Eta-11 is slowly fading out." She sighed 
softly. 


"But what about tonight? Without you, they would never catch those, 
those things." 


personnel who have seen the object be terminated immediately on 
any lapse in observation. 


Addendum: Those with Level 2 Security Clearance should see 
document #689-B 


Document #689-B: Proposed experiment with SCP-682