".../t's gotten a lot harder. Taking care of the homeless is already 
difficult enough, and in recent years, so many more people are 
forced to live that life. We've been doing our best to take care of as 
many as we Can, and we'll keep doing so, but... it's hard, you know? 
Every day when | walk into work | can feel the weight of those 


people who depend on me, who depend on us. And | feel like this is 
my place in the world, this is where | belong. I'm just grateful that so 
many people are still happy to donate their money to us, to help 
however they can." 


As she spoke, her bullshit was punctuated by Preston's perfectly- 
timed expressions of sympathy and approval. Joyce sighed. She'd 
have to make a phone call to get her census entry expunged. 


"You mentioned you used to have a more hands-on role?" 


"In the soup kitchen. | burned my hands, so | don't work there 
anymore." 


Preston nodded solemnly, and began to stand up. "Well, thank you 
for your time, Miss Michaels, | have more than enough to be working 
with, and a good many other people to get to today!" 


"That's no problem. Have a nice evening, Ms. Preston." 

"You too, Miss Michaels. Make sure you visit your dad soon." 
"Hey, dad." 

"Hello, have we met?" 


It was the same conversation every time they saw each other. Every 
time, it was torture. In some ways, though, it was a blessing — it had 
been over a year since Joyce had visited her father, and her guilt 
was suppressed by the knowledge that he didn't even remember 
who she was. 


"| have a New Year's present for you." 


She held out a small box — one that had once held a wedding ring. 
The same box that he had given to Joyce's mother so many years 
ago. She'd found it, by pure chance, a few months ago. She was 
hoping that he'd remember it, that feeling its blue velvet cover would 
bring something back. The best she could hope for was a fond tear 
in his eye. 


Her dad might not even remember what New Year's is, but he knew 


what a gift was. He took the box slowly. His hands, weak and 
covered with dark veins, shook gently as he struggled to open it. 


Joyce reached forward and opened for him. The box opened slowly, 
its internal spring trying to hold itself closed, until it popped open 
with a mufflied click. 


Inside was a single pill. 

"What's this?" he barked, his voice gruff and coarse. 

"It's... medicine," she told him, "it'll make the pain go away." 
"I'm not in any pain." 

/ am. "It'll stop you from forgetting things." 

"| haven't forgotten anything." 

"Dad, you don't even know who | am." 


"Of course | do," he said, and for the first time since Joyce had 
arrived he looked up and made eye contact with her. 


Joyce had forgotten what that felt like. Her dad's gaze, sharp and 
intelligent, boring down into her. He smiled, not with his mouth, but 
with the friendly wrinkles around his eyes. It all came flooding back, 
all the precious memories she'd hidden away and locked up tight: 
how he'd taught her to cook, all those long cycling trips, the 
conversations they'd had together. It felt like her dad was back, and 
for a moment, she dared to hope that he finally remembered his 
daughter. 


"You're my nurse," he finished. 
Of course. Her dad was long gone. 


Joyce looked down at the pill in the ring box. She was putting her job 
on the line to bring her father some peace. 


Perhaps if he understood just what this was, how hard it had been 
for Joyce to get. 


"You know, Dad," she began, "this pill was very hard to find. It's 
made by a company called Marshall, Carter and Dark, and they call 
this little pill 'Hypnotraline’. It's very expensive." Far, far more 
expensive than | could ever hope to afford. 


She moved a little closer, her father's eyes watching intently. "I 
actually stole this. We — the Foundation, that's where | work — 
intercepted a shipment of hundreds of these pills, and by pure luck | 
managed to steal one just for you." 


She moved her father's hand onto the pill, Keen not to touch it 
herself, just in case. "It's really important that you... | want you to 
take this, Dad. It's for your own good." 


She didn't tell him that the pill was the result of a collaboration 
between MC&D and Prometheus Laboratories, as far as the 
Foundation could tell, and the two corporations had swapped 
research as and when was it was profitable for both. There was no 
telling what Prometheus Labs had gotten out of the deal, as only 
MC&D had a product to show for it. 


Perhaps if her father knew all of this, then he'd take the pill. 
Perhaps, if he knew it was a sleeping pill that put you into a sleep so 
deep you'd never wake up, then he'd take it. 


He didn't, and Joyce was no monster. 
You are old. You are sick. Perhaps you're simply tired. 
Tired of life. But we all know that there's no end in sight. 


But who needs an end, when we can have a fresh 
beginning? 


Why be you, when you can be new? 
Prometheus Laboratories. Make the change, today. 


The advertisement had finished ten minutes ago, but its message 
still echoed in Joyce's mind. Prometheus Labs were literally offering 
the ability to swap your entire body with another — and somehow, 
not a single person in the Foundation had been aware of it before 


the official announcement. 110-Montauk hadn't left any casualties, 
but the clean-up had taken up a lot of resources. 


Joyce had been tasked with writing the report on what Prometheus 
were doing and how they'd managed to fly beneath the radar for so 
long. Her work was slow, though — not only was there very limited 
information to research (most of which came directly from 
Prometheus’ advertising), but she was concerned that is was too 
late — that by the time they had any semblance of a plan to oppose 
the company, people would already be flocking to get their surgery 
done. 


Before long, the news might even reveal that the surgery actually 
worked, and by then, it would be way out of the Foundation's hands. 


Three sharp knocks on her office door diverted her attention. 
"Come in," she called. 

The door opened and Ardal Rogers, captain of one of the Site's 
security teams — Joyce couldn't remember which one exactly — 


partially stepped into the room. 


"Dr. Michaels. Sorry to disturb you, but an interrogee is requesting 
your presence." 


"An interrogee?" 


"Yes, ma'am. We found her trying to access a classified document 
— the file for 3984, in fact." 


"| haven't touched that for years. No-one has. Why would she want 
that?" 


"We don't know, ma'am. We're hoping she'll be a little more open if 
she's allowed to talk to you." 


Joyce nodded. "Very well. Take me to her." 


She wasn't being kept in squalor, with each wrist strung to a wall 
and blood dripping from her mouth from being beaten by guards. 


Instead, she was sat in a wooden chair, handcuffed to a metal ring 
on the left side of a table. She looked fairly healthy, if you ignored 
the scars around her neck and the red stain on her shirt. 


Her head was bowed slightly, but she kept strict eye contact as 
Joyce entered the interrogation chamber. She took a seat on the 
opposite side of the table. Neither said a word for a long moment. 


She smiled, his eyes wide and empty. "You're looking old." 


"| was told that you attempted to access the documentation for 
SCP-3984." 


"| did." 

"And that you specifically requested my presence." 

"| did." 

"Why?" 

The woman leaned forward a little. "Do you remember me?" 
"No." 

"It's been a long time. Sixteen years?" 

"You're older than sixteen. | could see you being fifty." 

"Sixteen years since you stitched my head back onto my body." 


It all came back. 3984, every D-Class who Young got her hands on, 
the fates that befell them. They were all still alive. One had come 
back. 


"She beheaded you." 
Her smile grew wider. "You remember me." 


"I'm sorry." Joyce started. Words came back to her, words that she'd 
been planning to say to her but had never been given the chance. 
"I'm so sorry you had to go through that. Eight years in a freezer—I, 
I'm—_" 


'This Source of Ideas, every Man has wholly in himself ... 
And though it be not Sense, as having nothing to do with 
external Objects; yet it is very like it, and might properly 
enough be called internal Sense.’ 


Note: The goal of this test was communicating with 
SCP-914 and discovering if it's self-aware. Let's...write 
that one up as ‘inconclusive’. ~ Dr. Veritas. 


Name: Dr. Kowalski 

Date: 2/9/2017 

Total Items: Three (3) copies of the February 9, 2017, 
edition of The New York Times 


Input: One (1) item mentioned above 

Setting: 1:1 

Output: One (1) copy of the February 9, 2017, edition of 
the Cleveland, Ohio Plain Dealer. Cross-checking with 
another copy of this issue reveals the contents are 
identical. 


Input: One (1) item mentioned above 

Setting: Fine 

Output: One (1) copy of the February 9, 2017, edition of 
The New York Times. Cross-checking with another copy 
of the issue reveals numerous differences in the text. 
These mainly consist of the correction of factual errors, 
as well as the markup of stylistic errors in a manner 
resembling that of a red pen. 


Note: The film critic's column completely contradicts the 
original. — Dr. Kowalski 


Input: One (1) item mentioned above 

Setting: Very Fine 

Output: One (1) copy of the February 10, 2017 edition of 
The New York Times. Cursory examination of the result 
reveals large blank sections; the final four pages are 
completely devoid of any content. Contents of text and 
advertisements are in constant flux: articles about 


She nodded, but too quickly — it was more like a nervous tic. "It 
changes you. But you survive." 


"D-11424. That was your designation. What was your name?" 


A look of confusion passed over her face, like she didn't know the 
word, or perhaps the answer, but it was gone in an instant. "li 
doesn't matter." 


"Why did you want to talk to me specifically?" 


"Young was trying to hide something. | knew it, | know it, | found the 
evidence." 


Of course she was trying to hide something. She killed handfuls of 
D-Class, real living people who had to take the torture she inflicted 
and carry with them forever. "If you've read the file, you know as well 
as me that she tried to—" 


"Do you know what Project Dammerung is, doctor?" 
"What?" 
"Project Dammerung. Does it ring a bell?" 


Joyce thought back. The word did ring a bell, though she couldn't 
remember where from. "| don't recognise the name." 


"It existed. | know it. There's a link, a link to it in SCP-3984. A 
reference. But | couldn't get through it." 


"| was the lead researcher for 3984 for years, | would know if there 
were something like that there." 


"Of course you wouldn't be able to see it. It was buried! Hidden, 
deep beneath. Level 5 access only. Young, Young put it there." 


She spoke too quickly, spit forming around her mouth. She reached 
her free right hand up to wipe it away. 


Joyce knew that she could be right. If there were such a link, it was 
very possible that it could have been hidden from her. 


Joyce turned towards the door. "| think we're done here." 


"No, no!" she cried, stretching forward with her free hand, panicked 
eyes staring up at Joyce. "Tell me then, doctor, tell me why research 
into omega-kay was forbidden." 


"Because there's no point." But there was no point in any of the tests 
we did for 3984. A guard's voice echoed through the door, barking 
some command. 


"Promise me you'll look into it.” 
"No." / will. 


The door swung open and Joyce was pushed aside. A guard 
grabbed the old D-11424 and forced her into her seat. Another 
grabbed Joyce, more gently, and led her outside the chamber. The 
door swung shut behind her with a metallic clang. 


Ardal Rogers placed his hand on Joyce's shoulder. "I'm sorry you 
had to go through that, ma'am. Forget what she said. We'll take care 
of her." 


"It's no problem," Joyce replied, but her voice was distant. D-11424 
could be right. 


Before she could look into that, though, she had a report on 
Prometheus Labs to finish. 


SCP-3984 
End of Death 


SURGICAL IDENTITY PERPETUATION 


On Seabirds And Sleep 


We keep the exhibition space open for anyone who 
wants to use it. We never take anything down: the only 
person allowed to remove a piece is the one who put it 
there. 


Many pieces stay up forever. There's nobody to take 
them down. 


We Don't Know Where We Left The Birds 
(T. N. Kumar, 1987, Crayon on Corrugated Iron) 
DCAT-E1058 


the sunset here is that weird palette 
of a huge golden circle on the horizon 
and then the regal blue of tired clouds 
with spatterings of black inky seabirds 


they crawled out of the desert 
(this is odd for seabirds, yes) 
and screamed pentathol notes 


we took one from the sky by plucking it in midair 
it started leaking when we cut it and the pitch 
dribbled out of the incision and coated us all in 
a deep darkness which despite all soap and fire 
never got free of our cloth or knife or skin. 


Oh, yeah. | remember Kumar. Decent enough chap. | 
was always confused about the crows, though - | mean, 
he calls them seabirds right at the beginning. | guess he 
just thought that since the crows were next to the sea, 
they were seabirds? Whenever | asked him about it, he 
just shook his head, you know, kind of grimaced a little 
and walked away. 


Last | saw him was '92. Did he kill himself? | mean, that's 
just what | heard, anyway. You'd know better than | 
would, right? 


the pitch stuck to us, an odd 
combination of resonance and 
resignation caused and caustic 
meant it was not ever going to 
leave our hands. we had killed 
a seabird and you should not 

kill anything which flies if you 

cannot do the trick yourself 


it rung in our minds as we bravely leapt into unconsciousness 
but when we closed our eyes and opened our minds all that we 
saw was that huge golden circle and regal blue and countless 
black seabirds being pulled by us down through huge pipes like 
we were fracking the skies and driving these living thinking 
beautiful things down into the dirt and caging them in the most 
horrible of prisons and forcing them into those human simulacra 


we did not get 
as much sleep 
as we should 
have preferred 
but none of us 
thought to ever 
say a word. 


Man, that guy was a ghost. He'd kind of... | dunno, 
"shimmer", | guess you'd call it? He shimmered a bit 
when the light hit him just right. 


| mean, obviously the birds were probably metaphors for 
something, but I'm not sure what. 


we could not keep our pupils dilated 
because the sun was always at the 

edge of our vision and so we tended 
to have to squint even in the night 

for the glare was not quite blinding 


but it made the corners of our eyes 
itch like they were being salted by 
malicious things which hated us for 
perfectly understandable reasons 


corvids make me uncomfortable but 
not because we killed so many it was 
actually in my childhood when | saw 
a crow ram into the side of the wall 
of my grandfather's old shed which 
is actually what | am writing this on 
since he died in august of last year 
so | tore down the shed and the 
bump that the crow left is almost 
impossible to see but | can tell 


the crow wriggled and it made me 
sad to see a thing which used to 
be animate slowly but surely fall 
out of its own mind and into that 
hypothetical great beyond which 
even now | don't think | can quite 
bring myself to believe in because 
when that crow died there was 
no soul spirited from the body 


when the light left its panicked 
eyes | knew that it did not go 
anywhere because a candle flame 
snuffed out does not go to the 
source of all heat and fire. 


It didn't quite constitute an information leak. Out of 
context, you couldn't deduce anything of a sensitive 
nature. So no, it wasn't punishable. And as far as I'm