"| can't believe we're doing this, | can't believe we're 
doing this, God, why are we doing this? Ok, get a hold of 
yourself, we're almost there. All we're doing is turning a 
valve. That is all we are doing. Ok, | can do this." 
"Schwarz, you all right?” 

The younger of the two nearly jumps out of his own 
Armor, but quickly recovers and says, "Yeah, Krause, |'m 
fine." 


"The way you jumped is telling me otherwise. So is your 
Armor." 


"I'm fine." 


The elder stops, and holds his arm in front of the 
younger. They face each other. 


"What's your deal, Krause? | said I'm fine." 


"No. You're not." 


"What makes you so sure?" 

"| Know you're not fine because I'm not fine. We both 
know what we're doing. Quit pretending you're not 
nervous. Quit pretending you're not having doubts." 
"What the fuck are we supposed to do, then?" 


"Talk about it." 


"What for? We both know what we're about to do. What's 
there to talk about?" 


"| don't know." 


They walk for a long while, nearing their goal, when the 
younger feels the need to speak up again. 


"It just isn't right, you know?" 
"Yeah, | know. But what choice do we have?" 


"We can still fight! Instead we're, what, just giving up? 
What kind of shit is that?!" 


"| can't pretend to know why this is so much better than 
gearing everyone up and fighting, Schwarz, but | can tell 
you this: when the enemy reaches a bunker they — " 


"They take no prisoners, yeah. But why the hell did it 
have to be us, man? Why do we have to do this?" 


"| don't know, but we do. Come on. We're almost there." 


A turning of a valve, manual deactivation of several 
safety backups, and the deed is done. But the young 
warriors have no time to consider the consequences of 
their actions; they're needed elsewhere. 


Berlin Bunker #1, August 21, 1975: 


An old Colonel, one of the last unarmored soldiers in all 
of Europe, is addressing his troops for the final time. The 
wolves are at their door, and it is only a matter of time 
before the door breaks. As he stands on a small stage at 
the front of the large, well-lit briefing hall, he can't help 
but think that his soldiers appear ghastly, that their 
Armored countenances are horrifying caricatures of true 
warriors. 


"Gentlemen, all of your lives, you have lived under the 
threat of war. You have lived preparing for war. Now, the 
time for preparation is over. Our lifelong enemies, the US 
Army, are within shelling range of our surface defenses. 
Our allies are still several weeks away. We are on our 
own. We have no choice now but to fight. 


"It is not with a light heart that | ask of you these things, 
but, if the honor and dignity our people once held is to be 
remembered, if hope for the German people and for our 
socialist ideals is to continue, all of us must fight. We 
must fight to our last breath. Not a single bullet may be 
left unfired, not a single soldier left standing, so long as 
Our enemies are on the march towards our city. All of you 
have proven courage and strength beyond measure. 
Now, we must put this courage to its test. We WILL show 
them what Berlin is made of!" 


The cacophony that fills the briefing hall is not of men 
shouting and cheering, but of radio static. Not a single 
Armored soldier there can still shout; no modern soldier 
can. 


Following the speech, the Colonel calls his highest 
ranking officers to a much smaller conference room, to 
hold a final Staff meeting. They stand, huddled around a 
central conference table, papers and maps before them. 


SCP-991: A Syringe 


Item #: SCP-991 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-991-1 is to be kept ina 
sealed container at Site-19. SCP-991-1 may not be stored if there is 
SCP-991-2 present. Access to SCP-991-1 for testing or use in 
interrogation/re-education requires the approval of a class-4 
personnel. 


Description: SCP-991-1 is a 19 cm long syringe. While the plunger 
is made of steel, the barrel and needle appear to be composed of 
previously unknown materials. When inserted into the blood vessel 
of a human and drawn, SCP-991-1 fills with an unknown black fluid, 
given the designation SCP-991-2. Once drawn from an individual 
(henceforth known as the donor), the plunger of the syringe cannot 
be pressed unless the needle of SCP-991-1 has been inserted into 
another human. Visual analysis of SCP-991-2 has shown it to have 
a significantly lower viscosity than blood, but direct analysis has 
proven impossible, due to the nature of SCP-991-1. Attempts to 
draw SCP-991-2 from a vein using a normal needle immediately 
after it was injected with SCP-991-1 have met with failure; 
apparently SCP-991 -2 either disperses the instant it is injected or 
becomes immaterial. 


When injected with SCP-991-2, the individual (henceforth known as 
the recipient) will instantly take on the thoughts, emotions, and 
memories at the forefront of the donor's mind during SCP-991-2 
extraction. The further back the plunger is drawn (i.e. the more 
SCP-991-2 present), the more potent and permanent these ideas 
will be. Because it is the thoughts most prevalent in the donor's mind 
that determine which are transferred, some level of control can be 
achieved. The process is imperfect, however, as unwanted ideas 
usually manifest in the recipient alongside the desired ones. 
Whether this is an aspect of SCP-991 or a lack of focus on the part 


"And you say we have how much ammunition for every 
soldier?" 


"Two-hundred rounds, sir." 


"That will not be enough. What about rations? Water, or 
water filters?" 


"We have enough food to last us until the Red Army's 
22nd Infantry Division reaches us in three weeks, but the 
US Army will be through our automated defenses well 
before then. We can send more soldiers to defend the 
surface —" 


"No. We need to bolster our automated defenses 
however we can, but we need to recall everyone we 
have on the surface. They'll be slaughtered out there." 


"Sir, they may be the only chance we have." 


"A few hundred men against half a division? No. 
Everyone out-of-doors needs to be recalled now. More 
than that, the army marching towards us is well-fed, well- 
equipped, and well-reinforced. Gentlemen, we have to 
admit defeat." 


"Sir, are you asking that we surrender?" 


"No. | am not. | need all of you to select your most faithful 
men, your most experienced soldiers, so that we can 
give them their true orders. We're also going to need to 
summon our Technicians. The rest can use the plan 
outlined in the briefing to buy us time." 


The ruins of Berlin, August 22, 1975: 


Automated defenses, ranging from self-planting 
minefields to automatic 80-millimeter mortars, are raining 


hell upon an invading army. They march on, regardless. 
Several hundred meters below, all able-bodied males are 
arming themselves, the unarmored and youngest 
soldiers among them donning gas masks. Even deeper, 
the women, the girls, and a select few of the boys, the 
only hope this city has for its future, are lying peacefully, 
untroubled by the war that rages above. A squad of 
defenders who ignored orders are paying dearly for their 
insubordination. The youngest among them is the only 
one unwounded and conscious following a mortar 
barrage. He stands in the center of the small area his 
squad had occupied, shellshocked, calling for his 
comrades. 


"Sarge? Wolf? Doc?! Anybody?!" 
"Berg, get over here and shut the fuck up." 
"Holy shit, Lange, your leg!" 


"Shut the fuck up. They're close. You need to get back 
inside and warn the others that they've already gotten 
through the automatic defenses. Maybe they can figure 
something out." 


"We need to get you to a doctor, Lange." 


"Berg, fucking leave me! I'm dead! The whole fucking 
squad is dead but you! You need to get back inside, all 
right?" 


"I'm not leaving you, man!" 


It has been said by many that soldiers do not fight for 
any ideologies, or for king and country, or for memories 
of home, but for each other, that the reason they 
continue to fight when all seems lost is because they 
want to see their brothers-in-arms continue living. 
Perhaps it was this that motivated the young private’s 
next actions. Perhaps it was fear of being alone during 


his retreat, or of being accused of cowardice. It isn't very 
clear. What is clear is that the private's next actions were 
to grab his wounded elder and begin carrying him. 


"Berg, you stupid waste of Armor! Put me the fuck 
down!" 


The younger says nothing as he begins to run down the 
ruined, rubble-covered street to the entrance of the city's 
central bunker. The elder quickly changes tactics and 
begins laying down covering fire behind them as he sees 
enemies approaching. It soon stops mattering when a 
sniper fires a shot that makes the running soldier's chest 
explode, removing the wounded soldier's unoccupied 
arm in the process. The dead soldier falls, landing on top 
of his wounded cargo. 


"Berg, you stupid fuck! You could have made it!" The 
approaching enemy combatants can feel the pain in the 
intercepted messages. They quickly tune them out; in 
combat, there is no room for sympathy with the enemy. 
"Why did you have to try to carry me, man?! You could 
have made it!" As his enemies slowly close in, the soldier 
redirects his attention to them. "Die, you filthy fucking 
pigs, die!" His shots do not find their targets. The sniper 
that had killed the other takes aim again, and fires. His 
round finds its mark with ease. 


Berlin Bunker #1, August 22, 1975: 


The two young warriors are running through the bunker's 
cold, grey, concrete hallways now. The enemy has 
breached one of the gates, and every defender available 
is needed . 


"Come on, Schwarz! We're almost there!" 


"| Know, | know, | was just turning the safeties on my 
weapons off!" 


"Shit, you're right." The elder stops and turns his 
attention to his own weapons. "What are you carrying? 
Need any ammo?" 


"Uh... Low-yield explosives on my left, standard machine 
gun on my right. And | could use another belt of 12.7 by 
108, if you have it." 

"Nope, sorry. Quartermaster was being stingy when | 
was gearing up. You don't have extra explosive rounds, 
or any flechettes, do you?" 

"| don't." 

"That's all right, we have what we need." 

An explosion elsewhere in the city rocks the hall the two 
are standing in. The younger accidentally fires a short 
burst, sending ricochets throughout the small space. 


"Jesus, Schwarz! Get a handle on it and save some for 
the enemy!" 


"Fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Were you hit?" 


"No, I'm fine. Let's just go." 


Berlin Bunker #1, August 21, 1975: 


A platoon of Armored soldiers, all combat veterans, 

many recently recalled from the surface, are standing in 
line in a dark, cluttered hallway in an administrative level 
of the bunker, waiting to be called upon. 


"Corporal Krause! Private Schwarz! In my office!" 


The two say their "Yes Sir"s almost simultaneously and 
briskly walk into the Captain's office. 


"Now, gentlemen. You remember your parts in the 
debriefing, yes? Where you were going to be placed, and 
all of that?" 


Another pair of "Yes Sir's follows. 


"Well, forget it. That's just the Colonel's cover-up. The 
information I'm about to share with you is vital to the 
defense of the city, so | need to know that you can carry 
out orders. If either of you speaks a single word of this to 
anyone else, | will see to it personally that you'll be 
executed. Do | make myself clear?" 


The fear in their well-established response is apparent, 
and made more so by their hesitation. 


"Now, have either of you two ever heard of the Samson 
Protocol? No? Good, this means secrecy hasn't been 
compromised. I'll give you the full overview before we get 
started, but, tonight, everyone out there waiting and 
everyone I've spoken to since the briefing is going to be 
on the first night watch. We'll have a small contingent 
monitoring the radios and automatic sensors, but the 
majority of us are going to be spending tonight laying 
explosives in every major corridor, ensuring their 
collapse. A select few of the people I've already spoken 
to are going to be given Armor-controlled detonators 
running on dead-man's switches. They'll be our last line 
of defense. When they go, the whole city goes. But for 
you two, | have something much more important in mind. 


"The Colonel has become convinced that the city is 
already lost. He feels that our best option is not to 
surrender, or to try to wait for our reinforcements from 
the East, but to ensure that our civilians are never 


exposed to combat, to the enemy. He somehow feels 
that it would be better if, tonight, the air line running from 
the surface to the civilian levels of the bunker were cut 
off so that they all die in their sleep. So I'm tasking you 
two with that. Sergeant Becker tells me that both of you 
have performed very well under stressful circumstances, 
and that you've both followed orders even when the end 
goal isn't clear. I'm going to need that from you tonight." 


The younger had visibly flinched when the Captain's 
purposes in summoning them had been made clear, and, 
now that he sees an opportunity to speak, leaps upon it. 
"Sir, what the hell are you saying? We can't do that! Our 
job is to defend this city, not beat the enemy to the 
chase!" 


"Do you think | don't know that?! You mind your place, 
Private! We have no right to question orders, someone in 
your position doubly so! If | can't trust you to do this, I'll 
have to have you taken out and shot. Now, | need to 
know, are you with me?" 


The elder is the only one who speaks; the younger is far 
too angry and far too hurt to do so. "Yes, sir. We 
understand, and we'll be ready to do whatever you need 
us to do tonight." 


"Good. Meet with the rest of us at Elevator #2 tonight at 
2345. You're both dismissed." 


The elder grabs onto the younger and pulls him through 
the door. As they walk away, the younger speaks, as 
quietly as he can given the limitations of the Armor. 


"It's not right, man. It's not fucking fair." 


"| Know, but it's what we have to do. Come on, if we 
hurry, we might be able to grab something to eat." 


Back in his office, the Captain sits at his desk, holding 
his head in his hands. He wishes that the small confines 
of his office allowed him to scream, that his Armor 
allowed him to drink alcohol, that he had any sort of 
option at all. But he's needed for this, Berlin's final hours. 
He stands up, walks to the door, and calls the next group 
of soldiers into his office. 


Berlin Bunker #1, August 22, 1975: 


The two young soldiers have reached the breach point. 
Only a corner and a few meters of grey corridor 
separates them from the fight. They've switched to 
encrypted broadcasts on a personal channel to prevent 
enemy detection. 


"Schwarz, I'm gonna lay down covering fire, you get to 
the first piece of cover you can reach, got it?" 


"Got it. On three?" 
"On three. One... Two... Three GO!" 


The elder sticks his left arm (bearing a large, 
multipurpose shotgun) around the corner, peeking out 
only enough to allow himself to aim his weapon. The 
majority of the enemy appears to be in cover, with 
several wounded and dead from both sides littering the 
floor. A friendly medic is working frenetically from within 
cover on a soldier who appears to have lost much of his 
right arm. A single enemy appears to be advancing on 
the medic's position. As the elder of our two heroes 
prepares to fire, the younger lays down a burst of 12.7 * 
108 millimeter rounds, sending the enemy to the floor. 
The younger rushes to the medic's position. The elder 
follows shortly thereafter. 


"How many are out there? Do you know?" The elder's 
question seems stern, but it is asked with good 
intentions. 


"No, | don't. I've just been trying to keep these guys all 
together."