Some people simply cannot handle themselves in a crisis, he 
thought, and punched the man square in the throat. He left him 
gasping on the floor and moved on. 


He arrived at his Little Monster’s cell without further incident. The 
wall and the door were rubble. Without her malign presence, the 
place was no longer a vast, dark cave, but a holding cell not much 
larger than his. The candles remained in their circle save for one, 
lying on its side, and all were extinguished. The room adjacent was 
also blown apart. It was clearly an observation room for keeping an 
eye on her and avoiding her terrible stare. Flames flickered here and 
there, and while he assumed a facility such as this would have some 
sort of fire suppression system, it clearly hadn’t shown up to the 
party. In the center of the room was a desk ringed by three piles of 
bones. It had avoided most of the damage, though a chunk of 
concrete sat in its middle like the world’s most excessive 
paperweight. He pushed it aside and scanned the papers scattered 
over the desk's surface. 


Howard believed himself fairly intelligent, but most of what he saw 
was completely beyond him. Finally, he came upon a document 
labeled, “Restricted to Level 3 Access Only.” Promising. He broke 
the seal of the document and flipped through the pages. 


Once, long before the Bank Caper, he had purchased a book shelf 
from Ikea. After reading the assembly instructions three times, he 
had unceremoniously dumped the fifty or so pieces in his basement 
for his future self to contend with. For all he knew, it was still there. 
This document was three times as long and five times more 
confusing. What the hell is a Keter? He leafed through Testing Logs 
and Addendum with a growing sense of frustration. He took a breath 
and started over. Finally, he found what he was looking for. 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-3108-1 is to be 
housed in a standard Humanoid Containment Unit. At all 
times, SCP-3108-1 must be encircled by ten lit instances 
of SCP-3108-2. If at any time an instance of SCP-3108-2 


is removed or extinguished, failsafe protocol Epsilon-48a 
must immediately be enacted. 


Failsafe, my ass, Howard thought. 


He gathered up an armful of loose papers and rolled them into a 
makeshift torch. In the far corner of the room, a table that once held 
testing supplies of some kind had gone from smoldering to merrily 
burning, letting out an increasingly problematic plume of acrid 
smoke. He hurried over, lit his torch and dashed into his Little 
Demon’s private quarters. 


In his hurry, he almost went ass over tea kettle when he stepped on 
a femur. He skidded along and managed to keep his balance. The 
pile of bones was beside the fallen candle. Perhaps she had 
convinced someone to knock it over. Or maybe the poor bastard had 
flubbed his one line. He righted the candle and lit it. 


The response was immediate. An inhuman screech filled the room, 
drowning out the constant alarm completely. He felt her racing 
towards him. He scrambled around the circle and had all but one lit 
when she flew into the doorway. 


She was almost to bright too look at, but he met her red gaze 
regardless. Had he thought it fuming? Now it was blazing, two twin 
suns straight from hell burning into the core of him. His head flooded 
with obsenities, flesh and flame and disease and death. A red tendril 
ripped out from her, filling his vision. He dropped to his belly and 
watched it fly over his shoulder and bend back to wrap him in its 
killing light. He thrust his sputtering torch towards the last candle 
and knew he was dead. 


He lay there a moment before he realized death hadn’t come. The 
candle was lit. His Little Demon floated again in the center of the 
circle, her usually dead face a snarl of hate. She hammered at him 
with images. His mother ravaged by unspeakable creatures. His 
father a mass of tumors yet still somehow alive, writhing in agony. 
His own corpse squirming with maggots the size of severed fingers. 
Death. Rot. Despair. 


Mewling like a wounded animal, he fled from her on all fours. Once 


he rounded the corner, free from her otherworldly sight, the pictures 
stopped, but his mind felt like it had been wrung by clawed hands 
and soaked in pus. His nose was a river of blood and the sobs that 
wrenched out of him were harsh and painful. When the weeping 
subsided, he leaned back against the wall, exhausted. He sat there 
for what felt like a very long time. 


Perhaps he dozed. Maybe his mind just let him escape for a bit. 
Either way, the three guards, armed with guns that looked like they 
might destroy a building with a single shot, scared a little scream out 
of him when they suddenly appeared standing over him, their faces 
hidden behind the black glass of their helmets. One looked in the 
room, and gave a little nod. He stepped a distance away and began 
talking quickly into the headset in his helmet. 


“What happened?” demanded the nearest guard. His weapon wasn’t 
trained on Howard, but his posture was still of one in a combat 
situation. Howard weakly raised his hands and stood on legs that 
made no promise of holding him up for long. 


“|...” he began, and then coughed a bit. The guard stood watching 
him, inscrutable behind his helmet. Howard took a deep breath and 
began again. 


“| lit the candles. | went into that room and found that report. I'll show 
you.” 


They let him stumble into the observation room to the desk. He 
leaned against it for support. He picked up the document, and held it 
out to the guard. The guard glanced at it briefly before snapping it 
shut. 


6666 


You read the report?” The voice was distorted, digitally amplified, 
and cold. 


“Yes,” he turned and glanced towards the wall between him and his 
Little Demon. It was mostly holes and through it he could see her. 
She was staring into his eyes, and for the first time since their first 
encounter, she was smiling. With lips that felt numb he said, “I had 
to figure...” 


« SCP-838 | SCP-839 | SCP-840 » 


And that is when they shot him. 


Exhibitionist Fantasising 


In the place with colourless walls, there is light again. | am inside the 
place with colourless walls. Fellow Unmoving Ones are inside the 
place with colourless walls. 


A part of one of the colourless walls moved, and the Moving Ones 
move into the place with colourless walls. Those are the signs to 
denote another cycle. The Moving Ones move about, looking at 
each of the Unmoving Ones. They look at me too, stopping to look 
at me. | like that. 


But the Moving Ones will eventually move away from me. They will 
look at other Unmoving Ones, sometimes stopping longer than They 
did for me. | do not understand. | see the other Unmoving Ones 
eternally; either attached to the colourless walls or be Unmoving in 
front of the Moving Ones. There is nothing special of the other 
Unmoving Ones. 


The Moving Ones should look at me more. 


As always, the cycle has ended and there is darkness in the place 
with colourless walls. Only one Moving One moves in the darkness, 
holding a thing that makes the small coloured patches on the floor 
disappear. Where do those small coloured patches come from? The 
Moving Ones during each cycle? Me? The other Unmoving Ones? It 
does not really matter. 


What matters is why that Moving One only looks at me for so short 
of a time. That Moving One always looks at the floor. There should 
be at least one Moving One to look at me while the other Moving 
One holds that thing that disappears small coloured patches. | would 
like that. 


Many cycles later, two Moving Ones move me away from the place 


with colourless walls. To be allowed to move like They can, | am 
honoured that They bestow upon me such honour. This is a sign. 
The Moving Ones clearly favour me more than the other Unmoving 
Ones. 


The Moving Ones move me into another place with walls. Instead of 
colourless, the new walls are lined and coloured. They are much 
smaller than the colourless walls. Around me, there are only lined 
coloured walls. There are no other Unmoving Ones inside, and it is 
too small for even the smallest Moving Ones to move in. There is 
only darker darkness inside this place with lined coloured walls. 


Why am | inside this place with walls? How will the Moving Ones 
look at me? | want to produce vibrations from the cracks on me, but | 
cannot. Only the Moving Ones can do that. 


Eventually, unknown cycles later, | am finally moved away from the 
place with lined coloured walls by the Moving Ones. They bring me 
to a new place with colourless walls. It feels slightly smaller from the 
other place with colourless walls, but definitely bigger than the place 
with lined coloured walls. It still reminds me more of the other place 
with colourless walls, so | am sure that there should be cycles in this 
new place with colourless walls. 


Yes. Even if | cannot produce vibrations, the Moving Ones know my 
wish. 


And there are indeed cycles again. Like usual, the Moving Ones 
move toward me and look at me. But in the end, They will still 
eventually move away from me and move away from the place with 
colourless walls. At least in the past, they will still be in the same 
place with walls, but not always looking at me. Now, they will leave 
the place with walls entirely. | do not like that. | would like the 
Moving Ones to keep looking at me. 


| may not be able to actually move like the Moving Ones, but | can at 
least imagine that | can move like the Moving Ones. To make sure 
that They will look at me always. | will not move needlessly. | will be 
Unmoving when They look at me. After all, They like to look at an 


Unmoving One and moving needlessly might make Them look away 
from me. | would like Them to look at me always. 


Wait. Not always. | need to identify cycles. It was horrible when | 
was inside the place with lined coloured walls, after all. How many 
cycles was that equal to? Were there even cycles inside the place 
with lined coloured walls? There has to be cycles, and the Moving 
Ones need to be moving in and out. 


And while They are inside, all the Moving Ones will look at me. 
Except for the Moving One who holds the thing that makes small 
coloured patches on the floor disappear. That strange Moving One 
knows nothing of what is worth looking at. Normal Moving Ones can 
be looking at me instead while that strange Moving One makes the 
small coloured patches on the floor disappear. There, me and They 
will like that. 


And there will only be me and the Moving Ones in the place with 
walls. The other Unmoving Ones can have their own place with 
walls. There will be many many places with walls in existence, each 
holding an Unmoving One. | will be inside one of those places with 
walls, just me and the Moving Ones who will look at me. 


Yes. | like that very much. That is how | would like to imagine things 
to be. 


Existential Crisis 


One could not say that that Lucas Johann was a hard-working 
individual. In fact, one could not even make the statement that 
Lucas Johann was fit for enrollment at the University of Chicago. It 
would be a stretch to go as far as to say that he could succeed as a 
creamsicle salesman, and yet, it was hyperbole if you said that he 
would fail in life. The enigma that was, is, and will be Lucas Johann 
was a bothersome tale indeed for the admissions office, who slaved 
for long hours trying to figure out exactly why they had admitted this 
boy. (And, by hours, of course, | hyperbolize. It was more akin to 
minutes, or perhaps a cursory glance.) No, the admissions office did 
not truly toil over his acceptance, although his testing scores were 
an anomaly to the rest - perfect SAT and ACT scores, every last 
mark. And yet, his studentship skills were far from honed. 


So, one was really led to wonder about Lucas Johann. Then again, 
after October the twenty-seventh, doing so was quite the task in 
itself, if not impossible. However, this is far from where the story 
stands, and as such, | digress to begin. 


Lucas was no more than the ordinary student, at first glance, 
second, third, fourth, fifteenth, and last. His closet consisted heavily 
of plaid flannels and generic collegewear - too informal to be written 
off as "preppy", yet too formal to be flung into the pile of "casuals". In 
the early months of his freshman year of college, Lucas did not 
embed himself in any one circle or social ring. 


Indeed, it seemed that he held a scarcely mentionable presence in 
almost every conversational group, but it was just that. A scarce 
mention, an offhand reference. Yet, nonetheless, he was a constant 
factor that kept his nature in a sort of suspense. It was nothing 
particularly noteworthy, though, and most never even realized that 
they were doing it. Most people would realize, eventually, that they 
had never spoken to Lucas. So, what indeed were they talking 
about, if not what he has stated of himself? 


The nature of his identity was ambient. People were aware of it, and 
it needn’t be stated. There were a rare few that were able to 
truthfully say that they had spoken to him, but even those few could 
not clearly recall what he had said in conversation. All people could 
recall was a low, thrumming voice; it was enthralling, yes, but by no 
means was it ever considered ‘attractive’. It was possible, though, 
that it was just a part of the effect. 


Lucas grabbed at his coffee, his fingers sliding around the 
Styrofoam a few times in a vice grip, feeling the surface slide under 
his digits. The cup slid towards him as he lifted it, looking down into 
the liquid and feeling it steam up into his face haughtily. The warmth 
emanating from the container allowed his hand a little more 
movement as the strange cold front settled into the area, bringing 
forth a few other thoughts. He pushed them aside, sipping the coffee 
and placing it aside, as well. He would truly never recover from the 
sensation of coffee. It felt alien, almost, to him: such a thing he had 
never experienced before now, and yet, so very present in his daily 
life now. 


Lucas glanced down at the paper. He had just lost his train of 
thought, setting aside his pencil, and leaning back. His eyes drifted 
upward as he gathered his things, packing them away and standing. 
He had to move from the spot, he could feel the rain coming on. 
Well, smell. Sort of. It was a strange sensation to describe. Maybe it 
was olfactory, but, again, the thought was lost to him as he packed 
the finished paper, the words there and back again without his 
notice. 


He would turn it in tomorrow, after reading the strange letter for a 
majority of the night, without a second thought as to how the paper 
had been finished. After all, he had written it. 


It did not take long to find his way to the student center, dismounting 
from his bike and folding the scooter, packing it in his backpack, 
grabbing the bike lock to right it to the side of the building. Lucas 
stowed a pencil in his pocket, palm already wrapped on the 
doorknob. It turned, without retort, and he was inside the student 
center with a quick hop, the warmth almost joltingly present. He 
pulled the pen from his pocket, out of habit, and began to roll the 
pencil between his index and middle finger. 


“Lucas!” 


Lucas halted, immediately. His eyes were wide. His head creaked in 
the direction of the voice, the name piercingly present in the air. 
Everyone in the room almost looked up, almost, as if aware of how 
strange it was to hear the name. Then again, it was a common 
name — but it was attributed to this one Lucas in particular, which set 
the bizarrely placed word.