She stood and stretched her arms. “You're lookin’ at the Chaos 
Insurgency’s finest used-to-be-human bioweapon, designed to inflict 
suffering and terror onto the citizens of the third world.” The words 
were sardonically bitter. “With none of the flaws and side-effects of 
the previous version.” 


“The- Chaos Insurgency?” 


She made a contemptuous noise. “Yeah. Guys who use anomalies 
for their own personal gain. They’re assholes and you shouldn’t 
sympathize with them.” 


“Duly noted.” Dictator nodded again. Another moment of silence. 
“So, uh, by the way, | don’t really have any friends here. Do you 
think we could... y’know, just maybe... be friends?” 


There was a pause from inside the cell. Then Daniela shrugged. 
“Sure, | guess. Why not?” 


Eli smiled from behind Dictator and closed his eyes as the 
homunculus excitedly chattered on with their new friend. 


Every SCP - Part 5 - The Clock 


Previous Part | Next Part 


Unbeknownst to Eli and Dictator, something was happening to 
SCP-1032. 


The clock’s hands spun their lazy way around its face, as usual. The 
fifth sped ahead of its brethren, as usual, and the fourth (to 
everyone's great relief) was very nearly stationary, as usual. One of 
the hands struck midnight and as it did a diner closed its doors for 
the final time. This was all perfectly expected. 


The hand that struck midnight began moving once again, but this 
time the label had changed to “Dr. ’s Plan,” with the space after “Dr.” 
left blank. Nobody would notice this until later. It ticked onwards until 
“Dr. ’s Plan” caught up with “The Universe” and “The SCP 
Foundation.” 


The three hands began moving in conjunction, and sped up as they 
did. 


“So, who’s the lucky guy?” 


Eli stopped in his tracks when Dictator moved in front of him, arms 
crossed over their chest. He stopped more out of shock rather than 
not wanting to run into Dictator, as he did not particularly care 
whether he ran into them or not. 


“The hell you on about?” Eli squinted at them. Dictator waggled an 
eyebrow and smiled. 


They had to be in some kind of mood if they were acting like this. 
Maybe | shouldn't have let them talk to 2715... 


“You came in later than you usually do this morning,” Dictator replied 


simply. “So, again, who’s the lucky guy? | would’ve thought you 
would tell me if you were dating someone.” 


“We’re not dating. It’s just- talking.” Eli narrowed his eyes at Dictator. 
“Who told you?” 


“No one,” Dictator laughed. “I was bullshitting you. Pretty good, 
right?” 


It didn’t register until about a second later. “Gimme a break,” Eli 
hissed. “You’re real insufferable, you know.” 


He was preparing to grab Dictator by the shoulders and start 
shaking them, when he noticed something in his periphery: some 
new kid with a round face and clad in a dwarfing labcoat coming in 
their direction. He was slightly out of breath. Dictator stepped back 
as he approached Eli. 


“Dr. Jones?” 
Eli glanced at Dictator. “That’s me.” 


“Uh. I’m here on order of Dean Elwood, you know him. He wants 
you in 1032’s containment unit stat.” 


“What? Why?” Eli asked, motioning for Dictator to stay behind him. 
“It's- you just need to see it. I’m not at liberty to discuss it here.” 


Eli and Dictator exchanged a look, and then Eli turned back to look 
at the other doctor. “Alright. Let’s go then.” 


They arrived at 1032’s containment area within five minutes. Dictator 
had to practically run to keep up with Eli, and they were panting by 
the time they came to the containment area. They leaned over, 
putting their hands on their knees for a moment as Eli made his way 
over to the crowd of doctors forming around the object. 


“What’s going on?” Eli hissed, keeping his voice low. 


“There was a midnight event- you know about that, right?” 
“Yes!” 


“Twelfth one- well, it changed. They’re not letting people see it, but 
they've got pictures. It says something about a doctor, but it doesn’t 
specify which one. Then it caught up with the twenty-first and fourth, 
and now everybody’s losing their shit.” 


“Which ones were those again?” 


“Eli!” Dictator’s frightened voice rose above the din of the other 
doctors’ voices. “Eli, look!” They were standing beside one of the 
screens, trained on the object with a camera attached to a 
microscope. Turning his head towards Dictator, he finally managed 
to catch a glimpse of the screen through a gap in the crowd. 


When he saw the labels on the hands, all moving together as one, 
he inhaled. 


The end of the Foundation, the Universe, and Dr. ’s Plan. 


Eli stared at the screen like it was some eldritch being. Al/ three at 
once. He watched them go one microscopic distance to the left. 


He didn’t realize he was tipping over until his head hit the ground 
and everything went dark. 


Every Breathing Minute of Every Waking Hour 


Today is April 5th, 2017. 


The hour is 0100. 


It is Agent Terrance Shaw's thirty-first birthday, and 
marks five years of employment with MTF Lambda-12. 
His life was as much of a joke as his task force was, but 
in the swirling mix of light and booze and sweat and lust, 
he finds he does not care. As his body falls apart after 
weeks of interacting with his lover, he feels a flicker of 
panic. His heart palpitates and his brow furrows. His 
hands shake and his hair stands on end. Getting to this 
point was a mistake. A flaw in containment procedures, 
nothing more. He could still be saved. The site medical 
personnel would find a way. They always could. They 
always could. 


Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17 


Affected: Agent Terrance Shaw, MTF 
Lambda-12 


Most Recently Assigned: SCP-071 (2 years) 


Cause of Death: Long-term adverse health 
effects following accidental exposure to both 
SCP-071 and SCP-2708, respectively. 


Notes: Body used for on-site cadaver training 
and research, as per the affected's wishes 
noted in hiring paperwork. 


The hour is 0300. 


Kilometers upon kilometers away from all that is known, 
a human being is tasked with interfering with that which 
should not be intruded upon. They do not wish to do this, 
but choice means nothing when research must be 
conducted. Their fear builds into anger, and their anger 
builds into acceptance. As they watch an unknown 
shadow emerge from the corner of the airtight space, cut 
off from everything they'd ever known, they realize that 
there is nothing more invigorating than perceiving the 
last moment of one's life in one final burst of emotion. 
They resist, but they soon realize it is nothing more than 
the last of their mind fading out to let their soul take its 
place; when they are finished speaking, they find solace 
in the crisp embrace of pain, and their soul passes. 


Loss of Personnel Report: / /20 
Affected: D-82111 
Most Recently Assigned: SCP-2222 


Cause of Death: Total epidermal eversion, 
with second-degree burns present on all 
dermal layers. Euthanized immediately after 
retrieval. 


Notes: Body incinerated. 


The hour is 0400. 


The moon is bright over the Arizona desert, but it does 
not bring the heat and light so desperately and dearly 
needed to the land on which it radiates. Two offsite 
response agents of Site-19 are crossing the expanses of 
sand and red dirt and poison as lights flash blindingly 
behind them. One looks to the other with fear in his eyes. 
85. 83. 81. 79. They won't make it. Their radar detector 
screeches out a deafening whine before humming and 


shutting off completely. When their car stops, they 
stumble out and are shot to the ground. It was merciful 
this time, comparatively; two clean shots through the 
chest of each, and the still-twitching bodies dissolved on 
the roadside in acidic leakage from the hands and fluids 
of the protector itself. When daybreak comes, the sun 
rises onto swirling dust and bubbling blood. 


Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17 


Affected: Agents and of Site-19 
Offsite Response Vehicle K4 


Most Recently Assigned: SCP- /Site-19 (2 
years) 


Cause of Death: Speeding in the vicinity of 
SCP-973's area of effect during unprotected 
hours. Two gunshot wounds to the chest each, 
as well as unknown biological failures inflicted 
by SCP-973-2. 


Notes: N/A 


The hour is 0700. 
"So, do you hate it as much as you think?" 


"No." Mr. Roland Smithson doesn't have a title other than 
the standard prefix. He has no doctorate or Foundation- 
issued field agent certification or any of that. He has a 
placard on his desk with his name and his position: 
Roland Smithson, Coroners' Records Management. 


"Just let me know if you need a coffee or anything in 
here." 


"I'll be fine. There are fewer records than one may think." 


In Mr. Smithson's seventy years of life, he began to 


notice as he aged that death is often too common in 
society to be looked upon as anything more than a short 
grievance and a large inconvenience. In his forty years of 
employment with the Foundation, he in turn realized that 
the rampancy of death in the outside world is challenged 
only by its gravity in the Foundation's world. 


"Mr. Smithson?" 

"Yes?" 

"Site-81's records just loaded. Did it go to your inbox?" 
"| didn't see it. Ask them to send it again." 


The secretary nods and walks out. Mr. Smithson opens 
his file folders for the day. There are only ten new 
submissions thus far. Field agents, as usual. One D- 
class. It must be a fluke; he had told management long 
ago to stop sending him those, on account of the fact 
that doing so would quadruple his daily workload with 
nonsensical and unimportant information. No, his job is 
for the deaths that matter. Not them. And there were 
fewer than one would think. 


The hour is 1000. 


The planet below its surface is a treacherous place. 
Agent has to watch where her feet fall. She is looking 
at her watch every several seconds. Its LED backlighting 
brings her back to her senses when her feet fail her. Her 
headlamp is dying; her radio is dead. With every glance 
at the time, the minutes fall backward. 10:75. She could 
be out in the sunlight if things were different. 10:73. Had 
she crossed this path before? 70:72. The air is wet and 
heavy. She is losing oxygen. She has lost her 
equipment. 70:10. She can't breathe. Her own voice 
guides her deeper into the depths. 70:09. She is happy 
here. 10:08. 10:07. 10:06. There is no greater pain than 
that of the suffocating warmth. There is no greater 


embrace than that of the fire. 
Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17 


Affected: Agent of Site-81 Light 
Reconnaissance Team C3 


Most Recently Assigned: SCP-2951/Site-81 
(1 year) 


Cause of Death: Unknown psychological 
influence leading to multiple coronary failures. 
Possible suffocation. 


Notes: Body not recovered from location of 
death. 


The hour is 1200. 


"Nope, still no coffee. Remind me in thirty minutes and 
we'll get lunch." 


"Sure thing, Mr. Smithson." 


In the Foundation, death is and always will be just a 
number, and a grievance only in logistics. Deaths signify 
the loss of resources, and there is no greater resource 
than a thinking, feeling human being dedicated to a 
cause. A death is a problem. It's a loss of necessary 
benefits. Mr. Smithson isn't spending the last living days 
of his existence as a records manager; he's a /oss 
prevention officer, clearly. If only he could do something 
about the ‘preventing’ aspects, he thinks, and stands up 
from his desk. 


"Yes, | think | am ready for lunch," he says after several 
heartfelt moments of staring into blank space. He clears 
his throat and picks up his cane from its resting place by 
the door. As he walks out, he hears the notification 
sound for three new records received. They ring in his 


dram units, or 25-dram and 2-dram units. It cannot be divided into 
two 25-dram units. 


When a prime factor is produced, further pieces separated produce 
one-dram units, without apparent loss of mass to the prime unit. 
One-dram units can theoretically be produced indefinitely, but 
disappear when combined with any other unit. Attempts to remove 
pieces smaller than one dram always result in a one-dram unit being 
produced. 


The Foundation currently has two two-dram units, three three-dram 
units, two five-dram units, one seven-dram unit, and one eleven- 
dram unit. When separated, these quantities weigh 41 drams, or 
approximately 73 grams. When combined, the entire quantity weighs 
207,900 drams, or 368 kilograms. 


Due to its anomalous properties, SCP-837 cannot undergo normal 
chemical analysis. However, spectrometry shows results consistent 
with normal river clay. 


SCP-837 was found by urban explorers in an otherwise empty 
warehouse in Munich, Germany, in a cardboard box with the number 
6 stenciled on the side. The owners of the warehouse were unaware 
of anything being stored there. 


Addendum 837-01: Any future samples of SCP-837 recovered 
must be stored at a separate site, barring O5 approval. 


« SCP-836 | SCP-837 | SCP-838 » 


ears. His stomach aches. He'll get to them later. 


The hour is 1400. 


and are out on a field excursion together. Their 
names do not matter. They never do. They only need to 
go 300 meters in this time. It's only a routine patrol, done 
every year. This will be no different. Thirty minutes, tops. 
The walls are grimy and absorb sound. Speaking yields 
nothing but soft silence in return. When the two agents 
notice movement, they find themselves genuinely 
surprised; widens her eyes and readies his gun. 
Each shot hammers into their eardrums before the sticky 
walls suck in all the waves of sound until there are none 
left. When the creatures shriek and scamper, the walls 
take that in, too. 's hand meets flesh as she stops one 
of the beings from rushing her, but it claws at her chest 
and face and in a split second her vision is of blood and 
tears and meat. As she lays herself down on the wet 
floor, chest and gut wide open, a tendril slaps her face 
and wriggles its way down her throat. Her last thought is 
of another mind overlapping and replacing hers as her 
pulse fades. When screams in disgust, the walls 
decline to absorb the unholy sound, and instead send it 
screeching down endless tunnels, toward the end. 


Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17 
Affected: Field Operatives and 


Most Recently Assigned: SCP-610/Site-A 
(<1 year) 


Cause of Death: Routine maintenance of Site- 
A Tunnels led to an unforeseen attack by 
infected persons. Presumed blunt force trauma 
and excessive blood loss from lacerations. 


Notes: Bodies not recovered from location of 
death. 


The hour is 1700. 


In a sunlit room in an inexplicably cold office building, a 
man is filing paperwork. He reads words most minds 
cannot comprehend. Each word penetrates his psyche 
with more and more force as he processes each 
paragraph, until he is shaken. He looks at his clock. He 
watches the hands move with nervous breaths. Thirty 
seconds. He dreads the clock striking the next minute. 
It's a building fear that latches onto every fiber of his 
lungs and heartstrings until his eyes glaze over and he 
finds that he is barely conscious. When the seconds 
hand passes twelve, he is collapsed on his desk, 
surrounded by blackboxes and redactions and test 
results he wishes he could forget. It is another two hours 
before the medical personnel arrive. When they do, his 
body is as cold as his heart was and as blue as the halls 
outside always will be. He is not missed, but he is not 
forgotten. 


Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17 
Affected: Dr. Gene West, Level 4 Researcher 


Most Recently Assigned: SCP-231/Site- (7 
years) 


Cause of Death: Stroke 


Notes: Body sent to family members Max 
West and their two children as per request 
filed by Gene West upon hiring date. 


The hour is 2100. 
"Do you know why | do it?” 


"... You're good at it, sir?"