And since | have three of you guys flagged for wanting to play hero, 
I'm going to make this very clear to everyone: don't be James 
Goddamned Bond. You're Intelligence, dammit, and running in to 
capture a skip on your own is going to get your ass killed. Leave it to 
Retrieval and Containment agents. Let them get their asses killed. 
Nah, if R&C teams get killed, you didn't give them enough shit to go 
on. See these names on my arm? Three men died because | failed 
to give them enough information for a clean retrieval. | don't plan on 
adding any more. I'm not sure if you guys know this, but tattoos? 
They hurt! 


Actually, here's a teaching moment: don't get tattoos. Ink identifies 


you, and your job as an Intelligence Agent is not to be fucking 
identified. | Know what you're thinking: "Why is Bibs allowed to get 
one, and I'm not?" First off, I'm better at being an IA than you. 
Secondly, I've been here longer than you, and I'm granted wider 
latitude. Thirdly, | was the one who discovered an anomalous brand 
of ink that vanishes when you mentally will it to. 


Okay, it's mostly the third one, but the first two still apply. And no, 
you don't get the special ink. | found it, and it was the one 
anomalous item | got to take possession of this year. 


Shit, I'm digressing again. Anyway, back to being an IA. When 
you're done with getting all your shit together, get out of there 
without making a fuss. On your way home, write up your reports. 
When you reach your home Site, you'll be formally debriefed. The 
shit you provide will be filed and processed, into a form that R&Cs 
won't even bother reading, because it's all about how to get to their 
goal without shooting everything in sight. I'm kidding. Sort of. 


Oh, and one last thing before | dismiss you guys: being an 
Intelligence Agent isn't just about getting into places. It's also about 
getting out of places. While we've been talking, this entire room has 
been moved and deposited into a one of our larger Containment 
Cells. Quite a few exits head back to the facility, and each one seals 
off after one person uses it. You're being timed. 


Okay, this is bullshit. | told the techs that | wanted the lights to go out 
when | said "You're being timed". | thought it would be badass. New 
lesson: never trust Bill. That motherfucker always thinks it's funny to 
ruin the one moment | get to look all bad-ass to newbies. You know 
what, you guys are dismissed, I'm going to... 


Oh, there they go. Christ, | forgot how dark it gets. So yeah, forget 
that stuff about Bill. Find your way out, and have fun with it! I'll be 
here, taking a nap. 


Leeway 


| had parents, once. They were fighting over something with me 
frequently... | can't remember what it was we ever fought over, but | 
can always feel the dread from them. Nice to think they were 
probably fighting with themselves, and | got roped into it. Maybe if | 
at least thought like that, part of the blame wouldn't be on me. 
Ridding myself of that responsibility makes everything afterwards 
easier to cope with, right? 


One night, | ran away. | had to back them into a corner with a knife 
just to escape from it, but | ran. Something was different about that 
night, that much I'm sure of. My parents could feel it too. | watched 
them as much as | could while getting out of the house, and they 
never looked me in the eyes during it all. Not once did | look back as 
| sprinted away. For a few years after, | managed to live with some 
kind of peace. | changed my name, got a new job, made friends, 
found a place to live with my aunt for a while before having my own 
space... 


There were oddities in spite of all that. | was still carrying that weight 
of my experiences around, but something else latched onto that. A 
sense of dread and fear, | think? It's hard to put into words but it was 
something more than that. Even with my friends, I'd approach all 
interactions with some kind of caution, as if I'd have to run away 
from them as well. Being a landscape contractor helped distract me 
from that, but as time went by, the way | went about things felt... 
well, have you ever had something loom over you, threaten to 
overwhelm your senses? It just took its sweet time with it. 


Nights eventually started to get worse for me. My dreams gradually 
drifted towards one single recurring one. When they started, it'd 
probably be at the tail-end of the dream, or maybe just involving one 
element. I've always been frightened regardless. And for the past 
however many months it's been, it's always been the same. 


I'm back at my house again. Everyone is sleeping. My parents, 


siblings, even the pet dog (though | can't remember if we had one 
anymore). | never start out in different places, though. Always, 
without fail. The same place. Right in the main hallway on the 
second floor, with only two places to go. The bedroom, or forward. 
But | can never go in my bedroom. Either the door is locked (did the 
door ever have a lock? | can't see why), or | just can't get through 
the open passageway. So there's only forward. 


And forward is the ladder to the attic. 


The attic always creeped me out up until the time | left the house. | 
could never get near the ladder without being a bit repulsed by it, 
and as far as | knew, no one ever stored anything up there. But it's 
different this time. There's more to it. A sense of loathing (from 
myself?), and hate (from... somewhere?), and fear, and... well, 
there's no accurate words. | don't think it's something someone 
would ever experience in their lives. It's another kind of emotion 
altogether. 


For the first time ever, | climb up the ladder, my feet feeling heavier 
and harder to lift. | can feel my stomach twist and my head pulse 
erratically. | don't want to go up there, yet | have no choice but to go 
up there. | never have the choice to turn back. It's always forward. 
The ladder is only twelve rungs (I've been counting for a couple 
years now), yet the flow of time seems to get slower and slower with 
each rung until it nearly stops altogether at the top. 


Finally, | make it and | look in. | see the attic. 


The other thing that keeps repeating in these dreams is that | never 
can see what's in there, or remember. | see something, but | don't 
know what that something is, or if it's anything at all. There's a force, 
but there's no force to really sense in there. It's empty in there. 
That's what | hope for. That every time | go up into the attic, there's 
nothing there. Despite that, there's always something about it that 
fills me with worry and terror. | can't help but stare into the attic, 
looking around to see what's brought me there. 


And | realize | never climbed up it at all. There's only forward to go. 
So I'm forced to go back up. Maybe this time, | catch a glimpse of 
my parents, sleeping with their heads buried into the wall, lights 


obscuring them from my vision completely. | still can't go into there 
to talk to them. There's only the ladder, the attic, and whatever is 
waiting for me in there. And for the first time ever, | climb up into the 
attic, feet feeling heavier and harder to lift, stomach twisting, head 
pulsing... 


Eventually, | wake up, having never climbed the ladder at all. Of 
course | know | climbed the ladder, yet | can't ever get up there. 
Though | know | did. Nothing's waiting for me. That's the ideal, but | 
can feel it, something | must have left behind. Occasionally, I'll even 
dream about my parents trying to climb it. My mom did, once. I'm 
afraid to know what she saw. 


I've had the urge for a while now to go back home and visit my 
parents. In one of my more final and relatively normal dreams, | 
think, | went back there. It was Christmas, and | wanted to at least 
see my parents one more time, to clear the air up and make things 
better for all of us. | snagged a few gifts for my parents and siblings 
on the way, and it took me almost half a day of driving to get there. 
Home wasn't like | remembered it, though. Everyone had acted like 
I'd never existed to begin with. They remembered me wistfully, as if | 
never had a full life with them to begin with. The attic is still there, 
too. 


| felt myself stepping towards the attic, going to climb the ladder. 


Legally a Falcon (For Tax Purposes) 


Leah Mauldin stood in front of the door, butterflies in her stomach. In 
her 9 years as Chief Financial Officer of Site-101, she had 
experienced many a challenge. Everything from a cat-turtle that ate 
all the dollar bills in the site vault, to a sentient computer virus 
hacking the site bank account, had happened under her watch. She 
thought she could handle anything. But all her training, all her 
experience, could not prepare her for her today. 


For today was the day O5 command had assigned Dr. Clef as the 
new Site Director. Yes, Dr. Alto Clef, the man as infamous within to 
the Foundation as Satan himself, and believed by some to actually 
be Satan, was now her boss. He who nearly destroyed Site-19 and 
terminated numerous SCP objects all while carrying a ukulele, was 
now in charge of the place she had called a second home for the 
better part of a decade. 


After taking a moment to prepare herself, she swiped her security 
card through the slot. 


Beep! 


She stood in anticipation for a few moments. Then a feminine voice 
was heard from a speaker in the card slot. “Come in please,” it said. 


Leah stood confused for a moment. She wondered if someone else 
was in the room with him, then slowly opened the door. “Am | 
interrupting anything?” she asked sheepishly as she peeked inside. 
Sitting at the desk was a dark haired woman wearing a fedora, with 
a mandolin hung around her shoulders. The woman typed at her 
computer. 


After a moment, the woman looked up. “Have a seat right there. 
You're Miss... uh Mauldin, right?” 


“Um... | think this might be the wro...” 


“Don't worry, contrary to what you've heard, | won’t bite. Well, not 
unless you want me to. Now, you had a report to give me?” 


Leah cautiously entered the office. She stared for a moment at the 
chair the woman had been pointing to, then sat down and placed her 
folder down on the desk. As the woman opened the folder and 
began to skim through it, Leah glanced at the name tag on the desk. 


It read “Dr. Alto Clef”. 


“So, pleasure to meet you, Miss Mauldin, I’m sure you know who | 
am,” the woman said, gesturing to the name tag, “According to this, 
Site-101 being investigated for... tax evasion?” 


“Yes, that’s what appears to be happening. Um, if you don’t mind me 
asking though, | thought you were...” 


“Taller?” Clef cut her off, “Yeah, | get that a lot. Anyways, Leah... Is 
it OK if | call you Leah?” 


“Um, no, not at all. Do you mind if | call you...” she hesitated for a 
moment, “...Alto?” 


“That’s fine by me,” Clef continued, “Well, in regards to what we 
came here for; | think this whole thing should be easy to fix.” 


“Oh, err, yes,” Leah sputtered out, “This isn’t the first time this has 
happened. It’s usually just a clerical error. All we need to do is...” 


“Right, let’s hitch a ride on the next flight to Area-55!” 


With that, Dr, Alto Clef hurried out of the room, leaving Leah 
dumbfounded. A few moments later, she doubled back. 


“You know you’re coming with me, right? That’s a Director’s order.” 
The chopping sound of the helicopter’s blades was giving Leah a 
migraine. 


“So, | just want to be clear on this,” Leah said as she rubbed her 
temples, “You think we can resolve this situation by legally 


registering Site-101 as a falcon?” 


“Yup, a Grey Falcon to be exact. Since it’s officially a vulnerable 
species, we should be able to get a tax credit that way.” 


“And you plan on doing this by bringing a highly aggressive SCP, an 
avian SCP, to Site-101, by helicopter?” 


“Exactly, the tax guys will need some proof.” 
“And you don’t think that’s a little risky?” 


“Well, you’re right, the Grey Falcon isn’t endemic to the United 
States, but | don’t think that will be too much of a problem.” 


“Actually | was referring to... never mind.” 


If anything, Leah had no remaining doubts that the other woman 
was indeed Dr. Clef. 


“Um, OK, Alto, | was wondering something about your, uh, your...” 
“My eyes?” she said quickly, “Oh, yeah, my eyes aren’t really two 
different colors, it’s just that one of my pupils has been stuck closed 
since | was a kid, so that eye looks lighter than the other.” 


“That wasn’t what I... wait, really?” 


“Yeah, it’s sort of like David Bowie’s eyes. Man, | still can’t get over 
him.” 


“Heh, yeah.” Leah remarked, holding her head. 


“Still, Blackstar was a great aloum.” Clef suddenly smiled widely, 
“Hey speaking of that, do you think some music will help with that 
headache of yours?” 


“Um, | don’t...” 
Clef was already strumming her mandolin. 


“In the villa of Ormen... in the villa of Ormen... stands a solitary 
candle...” 


In an aircraft hanger at Area-55, several Class-D’s were working to 
secure hooks around a giant bird. Containment Specialist Nick 
Magnus stood outside, talking to the two people who were 
responsible for the operation. 


“So you both want to move SCP-1387 to Site-101 because you're 
being investigated for tax fraud?” 


“Look,” Leah was quick to add, “It’s her idea.” 


“Right,” Dr. Clef added, “I want to make Site-101 legally a falcon, for 
tax purposes.” 


“Yeah boy, he said the thing!” a Class-D yelled from inside the 
hanger. 


Nick turned around and gave an annoyed look, then looked back at 
Leah and Clef. 


“Look, I’ve been working with that damn bird for years, and in my 
opinion, this is a dumb idea.” 


Leah sighed loudly. “Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying all day! It’s 
impractically dangerous.” 


“Oh, | agree,” Nick continued, “You want to register the site as a 
falcon, but 1387 is a giant seagull.” 


Leah’s jaw dropped. 


“That’s fine,” Clef responded, “These are tax collectors, not 
ornithologists. | don’t think it’s going to be an issue.” 


Leah’s jaw fell even lower. 


A scream was heard from within the hanger followed by a splat, and 
then another scream. 


“Hold on,” Nick said as he turned around and walked back into the 
building. 


patient? 


SCP-890: [DATA EXPUNGED], complaining of 
weakness and a feeling of unease. 


Dr. : And what about [REDACTED]? 


SCP-890: You mean the mass of flesh 
surrounding my patient? It certainly made the 
procedure a bit more tedious, but was 
otherwise unremarkable. I've seen many such 
cases, in fact. 


Dr. : But you killed him. 


SCP-890: | did nothing of the sort! My patient 
not only survived, but recovered quite nicely. If 
you're referring to the mass surrounding the 
patient, | left it in place at the patient's request; 
| suggested it be removed, but the patient was 
adamant it be left in place. 


[END LOG] 
« SCP-889 | SCP-890 | SCP-891 » 


“Hun, close your mouth before a bug flies in,” Clef teased. 


Leah took a moment to regain her composure. She cleared her 
throat before speaking. 


“Right, um, Alto, in all seriousness, there’s something I’ve been 
wondering about all day.” 


“Hmm? What is it?” 


“Well, | know this might be a bit awkward for me to inquire about, 
but...” Leah gestured to Clef’s chest, “How exactly did that happen?” 


“Oh!” Clef said emphatically, “That’s what you’ve been so confused 
about!” 


“Yes, I've been wondering about it all day!” 


“Well, since you're so curious, | bought this shirt at this really nice 
store in Baltimore.” 


Leah’s mouth dropped again, wider than ever before. 


“They give you a discount for coming in with a musical instrument, 
so | got it for a bargain too.” 


Leah said nothing as Nick walked back outside.