"You will enter the room, and open the door on the western wall. 
You will see two other personnel who are identical to the two of you. 
Until one entire set of personnel has been terminated, the door will 
not open. Use whatever means necessary to terminate the other set 
of personnel," the researcher read off of his paper. "Got it? Good." 


The door was swung open, and Vanki and | were roughly shoved in. 
| glanced around the room, looking for anything that we could use as 
weapons. 


| spied a bottle of beer in the fridge. Grabbing it by the neck, | 
smashed the end. An impromptu knife was better than nothing. 


SCP-926: Guqin 


Item #: SCP-926 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: When not in use, SCP-926 is to 
be unstrung and stored in the temperature- and humidity-controlled 
case constructed for that purpose, and locked in Research Chamber 
5688-A. Only personnel who submit a formal request and receive 
approval from site command may operate SCP-926. Before 
research access to SCP-926 is permitted, counterpart personnel at 
Site 366 in Xi'an, China are to be alerted. Testing of SCP-926 is 
suspended pending confirmation of the excavation and recovery of 
all responsive statues. See test log below. 


Description: SCP-926 is a gugin, or seven-stringed Chinese zither, 
dated to the 2nd or 3rd century BCE. The top of the sound chamber 
is constructed of the wood of an ancient, and now extinct, cultivar of 
the Firmiana simplex tree; the base is composed of wood from 
Catalpa ovata. The exterior of the instrument is coated with a 
lacquer of unknown composition, with surface duanwen, or crack 
patterns, that superficially resemble archaic Chinese logographs. 
The back of the instrument bears a calligraphic inscription in archaic 
Chinese reading "The King of Qin commands". The instrument was 
unstrung when collected by the Foundation, but its case included a 
leather pouch containing a quantity of instrument strings of twisted 
silk. 


The instrument was recovered by local farmers from a funerary site 
in Lintong District, Shaanxi Province, China in 1974. After the gugin 
was unearthed, cleaned and re-strung, a local traditional musician 
strummed a few notes on the instrument. The consequent 
subterranean disturbance led to the discovery of thousands of 
terracotta human and animal statues that had been buried ina 
hitherto undiscovered imperial necropolis in the vicinity of the site of 
the guqin's discovery. 


Vanki picked up another bottle as well. 


We stood in front of the marked door on the western wall. | glanced 
at Vanki, who looked back at me. 


"When we open that door, roll up both of your sleeves, so we know 
who's who. Otherwise, we could kill each other by accident," Vanki 
told me. | nodded at him. 


For another moment, we simply stared at the foreboding door. 
"You ready?" He asked. 
| sighed. "Yeah. Let's do this." 


Vanki nodded, and he threw open the door. While doing so, we both 
rolled up both of our sleeves quickly. 


Looking across the gap at us were two identical copies of us, also 
holding smashed bottles. They had kept their sleeves long. For a 
surreal moment, both sets of us simply stared at each other in pure 
shock. 


Then, Vanki broke the silence by screaming and lunging at his twin. 


| snapped out of the momentary pause, and dodged to the side as 
my twin came at me with a jab. | slashed at him with my bottle, but 
he ducked underneath it. Suddenly, he came at me with a tackle. 


| fell to the ground with a heavy "oof" as the air was driven out of my 
lungs. The bottle came out of my hand as | did so, falling to the 
ground and shattering. | rolled over, putting my twin on the bottom. 
As | began to punch my twin, | heard a scream of pain. 


Glancing over in distraction, | saw that Vanki had stabbed his twin in 
the stomach. The wounded twin was lying on the ground, grimacing. 
Vanki kicked him in the face. 


That moment of distraction proved enough for my twin to throw me 
off. Before | could react, he drove his fist through my stomach. | 
doubled over, falling to the ground. My twin jumped on me, and 
wrapped his hands around my neck. 


"I'm sorry, man. | gotta do this. We have a family to get back to, you 
know," my twin grimaced, as he tightened his grip. 


| flailed around, trying to throw his grip. My twin seemed to know 
what he was doing though, and he only tightened the pressure. | 
tried to gasp for air, but | got nothing. | was starting to see spots in 
my vision, and everything began to turn blurry. 


Then, the pressure vanished. | gasped for air, and saw Vanki 
throwing my twin off. They rolled through, over into the other room. 
As they scrabbled for better positioning, | saw Vanki gain the upper 
hand, as he smashed my twin's head against the corner of the table 
several times, and then finish it off with a stomp on his head. 


The battered body of my twin slumped, as the blood began to pool. 
Vanki was breathing raggedly, and he unsteadily stood up. As | got 
up, | tried to move over to him. | was too late to warn him when his 
twin came up. 


"Vanki! Watch out!" | cried, a moment too late. His eyes widened in 
alarm, as he began to turn around. 


Vanki's twin grabbed Vanki, and slit his throat with the smashed 
bottle. Gurgling, Vanki hit the ground, as his blood began gushing 
out of the severed arteries. 


| screamed, and ran forward, tackling Vanki's twin. | grabbed a 
shard of broken glass, and ripped it sideways across the twin's 
throat. 


When | left the room, the guards took me back to the facility. | went 
back to my cell, alone. 


| curled up into a ball on my bed. 


Tears began to stream down my face. Everyone was gone. | was all 
alone. 


10 more days. | only needed to survive for ten more days. 


Right? 


“Congratulations for your service. You have officially served for a 
month, and are free to go. Just one thing though," the researcher 
said to me. 


"What the hell do you assholes want? Haven't | done enough for 
you?" | shot back, bitterly remembering what | had seen over the 
course of this month. 


"Relax. We just need to do one more physical, in order to examine 
the lasting effects of the objects that you've been exposed to. Take 
this pill, it's for the PET scan." The doctor handed me a small blue 


pill. 


| popped it in my mouth, and swigged it down with a gulp of water. 
As | jumped up onto the examination table, | began to think of my 
family. 


It had been so long since | had seen them. Emily would be...5 now? 
And Tim would be just entering third grade. God, | missed them so 
much. 


| was going to see them soon. 


| was going to se- 


“Sign the form on lines 3, 5, 18, and 23. This last statement is 
finalizing the agreement that in return for a month of service in 
scientific testing for the Foundation, you will be released from your 
death row sentencing. Remember that the work that you're doing 
here will benefit the world,” the dry, bored looking, yet somehow 
familiar legal assistant stated, as he droned off a piece of paper. 


| signed the form. What did | have to lose? As | stood up, | grabbed 
the legal assistant's hand and shook it. It seemed like the right thing 
to do. 


“| just want to thank you for this opportunity that you’re giving me.” | 
said, earnestly thanking him. 


He only looked away in response. “I hope that we have a mutually 
profitable relationship, sir.” 


As the guards led me to a waiting van, | began to quietly think to 
myself. 


It was only a month. 30 days wasn't much. | could see my family 
soon. 


Right? 


Rights’ Birthday Party 


One learns very quickly that any quiet day at Site 19 is not a good 
day. Inevitably, something like a containment breach of something 
horrible and terrifying happens, or there’s chowder in the cafeteria, 
or Bright dies. One also learns quickly that any attempts to break the 
silence usually ends horribly as well. So today, being a quiet day at 
Site 19, everyone was on edge. 


It... did not help that Rights was not happy. 


Rights stormed into the break room first thing in the morning, her 
hair and makeup a mess and her clothes not nearly as neat as they 
usually are. One poor staff member was at the coffee machine, 
getting his usual fix. Rights glared menacingly at the poor man until 
he turned around, the hair on his neck rising, like he were faced with 
the face in 087. Rights growled menacingly, “MOVE.” She then got 
her green tea with vast quantities of honey post haste and glared 
down the rest of the staff as she stalked away to frighten more lower 
leveled staff. 


Once she was out of earshot, the man she terrified, a scrawny, pale 
young man, asked, “Jeez, what’s HER problem?” 


Dr. Gears, having sat by with his morning cup of water, said calmly, 
“It would seem that Dr. Rights is upset by something, most likely that 
it is her birthday and no one has yet to wish her to make it 
enjoyable, or perhaps that her baby was as she puts it a ‘fussbutt’ 
this morning.” 


“Well, why don’t you go and wish her a happy birthday?” 


“That course of action would not be wise. If | were to wish her a 
happy birthday, she would most likely injure me in some way or 
another. | propose that we stay out of her way.” 


The scrawny man scoffed and replied, “Well, | don’t know about you, 


but I'd rather not have to put up with that bitch today. I’m going to go 
wish her a happy fucking birthday.” With a huff and an overly 
dramatic turn, the scrawny man chased Rights. The group in the 
break room waited expectantly as they heard the conversation in the 
silent site. 


“Hey! Dr. Rights!” the scrawny man called. 
“WHAT DO YOU WANT.” Rights growled. 
“|... [wanted to wish you a happy birthday!” 
“... oh. Thank you. ... where is my cake?” 
“... cake?” 


“You don’t know? If you wish someone at Site 19 a happy birthday, 
you must give them cake. If you don’t, bad things will happen.” 


“|... did not know this.” 
“Can you make cake happen now?” 
rica NO 


“Okay. I’m going to go put bleach in your car’s oil.” Rights walked 
away, whistling a tune as the scrawny man was left dumbfounded. 


Later that day, with the eerie silence only broken by the occasional 
scream as well as a screech from Rights, most of the staff had 
decided that it would be better to hide in the break room than to be 
out in the halls where Rights could rip off their heads for looking at 
her wrong. Finally, Dr. Gears realized that this was absolute 
madness and it needed to stop. He rallied the few willing staff and 
found a most delicious looking cake with coconut frosting and 
decided to throw her a small party. A surprise party, even. He 
approached Rights carefully and said, “Dr. Rights, | need your 
assistance.” 


Rights turned slowly to Gears and asked menacingly, “With what?” 


“It is a private matter. | cannot discuss it.” 


“... oh really?” 


“Yes. I'd like you to come with me to the break room where we can 
discuss this matter in private.” 


“I’d never think you so brave, Gears.” 
“I’m afraid | do not quite understand what you’re implying.” 


“You know,” Rights imitated Gears’ monotone as best she could, “1 
need your assistance in the break room, Dr. Rights. We will be alone 
and in private.” She laughed and said, “As if | don’t know what you 
want.” 


“If you Know, then is coconut alright with you?” 
“Coconut? Really? | didn’t know you liked it like that!” 


“lam not fond of coconut, actually. However, it is the only kind | 
could find.” 


“Ah, that’s okay. Come on, let’s go ‘discuss this matter.” With that, 
the two walked to the break room. 


As they entered, Gears turned on the light switch. The room had 
been decorated with various streamers and a banner reading 
‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY RIGHTS’ and the cake was on the center table. 
The group of willing staff jumped out from various hiding places and 
shouted, “SURPRISE!!” 


Rights blinked, then stared at Gears. Someone had placed a party 
hat on his head while she was not looking. Rights’ baffled look 
slowly turned into joy as she said, “You're a tricky bastard, Gears.” 


R.LP. 


His name was Albert Smith, and he was the Spirit of Peace. So, | 
killed him. 


Well, that’s what he claimed anyways. Called himself Brother Earth, 
and said the hippies were his children, his idea. I’m not sure why 
anyone would want to claim that, so I’ve never really doubted him. 


| was still an agent then, back in the Sixties. They called me the best 
of the best, though | like to think | didn’t have a swelled head. Like 
my Father before me, | fought against a horde of self-named terrors, 
people and creatures who had come into some modicum of power 
through freak accident, or sometimes, hard work, and sought to use 
those powers to subjugate the human race. It was before my 
younger brother died, but after we’d had to lock up the youngest. 


It was an... interesting time. The Foundation had stopped trying to 
make deals, or live alongside these monstrosities, and started 
putting them away for good. No more seeing what we could use, 
now was the time to put things away, and put them away hard. If we 
couldn’t contain them, they had to go, for the safety of mankind. 


| can remember some of them, when | stop and think about it. The 
ones that they sent me to... finish. | was the Foundation’s hired gun, 
their executioner, walking up and down in the world, and meting out 
justice to those who deserved it. The names of the dead read like a 
list of late night horror matinees. The Shrieking Sister. Crawling 
Mentality. Danny Devious, the Deadly Diva. The Winter Wolf. All of 
them had been powers and principalities in their own right. All of 
them brought low under the barrel of my gun. 


| had a gimmick. | hate to admit it now, in a time when we strive to 
not stand out. When one agent needs to be as bland and 
unobservable as any other. Some days, | regret the need for it, the 
need to iron out the strident personalities, but it helps, you know? If 
it feels like you're facing down a monolith of uniformity, you start 


feeling burnt out quicker, and find it harder to keep fighting. | 
understand why the Council did, but sometimes, | miss the quirky 
ones. Hell. They'll take my hat from me when they pry it from my 
cold, dead hands, no matter how much they whine that it doesn't fit 
the theme. 


My gimmick was a whole southern theme. A long slow drawl, a 
tendency to slur my speech, and, of course, the proper 
accouterments. My deed name was known to show up in the most 
unusual of places, and very few people linked the Southerner who 
could wear a suit to the Foundation's terror. | could blend in damn 
near anywhere, and immediately make friends. Even if | had to kill 
them. 


| got the order to take out Brother Peace on a day like any other. If | 
recall correctly, | was relaxing at the ranch, a hard won break after 
dismantling the Scarlet Ghoulade. | remember, | was surprised that | 
was being offered the mission by Six. Usually, | got orders from a 
handler, or occasionally, my father. Six was the second member of 
the Council | had met, and he didn’t impress. 


Six was a big man. Fat. The kind of fat you get by never doing 
anything. He was dressed in a silk black suit, and sweating in the 
heat before the choppers rotors had even stopped moving. If it had 
been a normal agent, or my usual handler, | would have given him 
shit for landing so close to the cattle pens, scaring my stock, but one 
look at this guy was more than enough to tell he had no sense of 
humor. 


“Agent Vivid?” he asked, like he would’ve disembarked without 
knowing exactly who | was. | nodded my assent. 


“That's one of the names they call me. Can | help you mistah...” 
Letting my voice trail off, for him to fill in the blank.