“What roach?” Agent Tai Yang Shen, Foundation field agent and 
Kiryu Labs’s resident man of few words, was sitting at a table in the 
break room, peeling an apple with a pocket knife. 


“Sad Roach.” Riven was perched on the end of the same table, 
gnawing on a slice of toast. 


“| don’t think so. Was ita movie? French or something?” 


“No, the roach you, uh... ran into a few weeks ago. You honestly 
don’t remember?” After picking at the crust, Riven crammed the rest 
of the toast into his mouth. 


“| often dispose of lab roaches. | remember the ones outside more. | 
let them live since they’re food for the bird families.” With an idle flick 
of the knife, Shen tossed a large scrap of apple peel into the nearby 
green waste bin. 


“You really don’t like roaches much, do you.” 
“No.” 


“Okay... well, uh... Mark invited you to write a joke article if you 
want, since it’s the New Year and all, and we figured that we’d try 
and get everyone to socialize more this year? Group solidarity and 


whatnot? And this is something that all the interns and some of the 
joint researchers do during downtime to practice writing and stuff, 
and we have a format for the roaches as a funny thing we do for 
everyone who helps out with the cleaning, and each person has 
their own approach... haha... unintentional pun... | mean...” Riven 
paused in the middle of gesturing wildly, having realized that he was 
gesturing wildly. 


Agent Shen continued to peel his apple. “Sure.” 


SCP-723-J-3 is a Periplaneta Americana (American 
cockroach) believed to be the biological father of 
SCP-723-J. 


SCP-723-J-3's anomaly manifests in its deep 
disappointment with SCP-723-J, and its ability to induce 
feelings of guilt in any intelligent being that encounters it 
and hears the story of how its dreamer of a son failed to 
accomplish anything worthwhile in life. 


SCP-723-J-3 Intake Log Interview 


Dr. : Can’t you forgive your son? Was what 
he did really that deplorable? 


Dad Roach: [silence] 


Dr. : He was just trying his best to make it 
in the world, even if he didn’t follow the path 
you wanted him to take. 


Dad Roach: [silence] 


Dr. : Will you at least speak to him one last 
time? 


Dad Roach: No. 
Mark glanced at Riven, and Riven glanced back at Mark. 


“Rivs, we’re never letting Shen write any more of these. He is 
banned from making jokes. Agreed?” 


Dr. Mercer nodded. “Agreed.” 


The Dad Roach paper was still placed with the other Roach Files, 
for posterity. 


Meanwhile, Agent Tai Yang Shen loaded the last of the green waste 
into the disposal unit outside, pausing as he noticed yet another 
cockroach scuttling around the trash cans nearby. Shen nudged it 
into a clump of weeds bordering the planted areas in the building’s 
courtyard. 


“| assume you're happy to be alive,” the agent muttered 
contemplatively. The roach, undeterred, crawled back out of the 
weeds and sat on the toe of his right boot. 


“Glad Roach, no.” he said pleasantly, shaking his foot and flipping 
the insect back into the planters. The roach wiggled its antennae at 
him and disappeared into the bushes. 


Rocks And Trees Are Not Good Company 


Amongst a grove of pine trees somewhere in the Rocky Mountains 
lay a young woman. Most wouldn’t recognize her as such, since it’s 
hard to correctly imagine a person from just their skeleton, but she 
was most certainly a woman of age thirty-five. She had spent three 
of those years laying in the same place, unperturbed, undisturbed. 
Hikers and madmen who wandered near the grove could hear her 
weep, but then the hikers would blame the wind, and the madmen 
would blame the voices in their head. So the woman's crying went 
unheard. 


She didn't lie in a comfortable position, which she regretted. The 
ground was uneven, and a small rock stuck into her spine. The 
woman used to wish she had lost her sense of touch when she lost 
her life, but she didn't think about it anymore. The woman had 
complained enough for a lifetime. She complained to the trees, to 
the pine needles, to the dirt, to that rock sticking into her spine. 
Everything. 


That's not to say there weren't happy moments. The woman wasn't 
always alone. Occasionally, she’d hear voices and see images. The 
images would bring back memories of that honeymoon. They were 
such wonderful, tainted memories. Luckily, the voices carried no 
nostalgia. They always sounded confused at first, and then scared. 
“Who are you and what are you doing in my head?” was a common 
opening question. 


Ever since she heard the first voice, the woman looked forward to 
those conversations. Whenever she had a visitor, the woman 
jokingly made requests. She knew these voices couldn't help her, 
but they would try their best, asking for directions and details about 
the best way to reach her. 


They were pleasant conversations. The woman grew anxious for 
them. The time she spent alone felt longer and longer between 
visits. After the fifth visit, she couldn't stand the loneliness anymore. 


So, the woman thought of a plan. She waited for the next time she 
had a visitor to come along. So she waited, and waited, and 
waited... 


“What the hell is this?” 


Until her new friend arrived. He arrived with the image of a frozen 
waterfall. She remembered that waterfall. And the trip to the ice 
caves... and then she snapped out of her nostalgia. 


“Oh... uh... Hi!” 

“Who are you and what are you doing in my head?” 
“Haha! You know, | get that a lot.” 

“But like, still....” 


“My name is Rem. | can’t really say much about the second 
question. What’s your name?” 


“D-4505.” 

“That doesn’t sound like much of a name!” 

“Oh, uh... Brad, then?” 

“You don’t sound so sure about that!” Rem giggled a little. 


“No, I’m... I’m definitely Brad. Sorry, it’s been a weird day. I’m used 
to getting chased around by monsters and cleaning up after 
monsters and being bait for monsters. Pretty surprised when my 


79 


assignment for today was just ‘look at this picture’. 


“Well, I’m glad today’s been your lucky day! | finally get to talk to 
someone!” Rem felt more excited than she had been in years. Then 
again, she could say that every time she had a visitor. 


“| guess you're right. Take what you can get.” 
“Hey... uh... Brad... Can you do me a favor?” 


“I, uh, guess so.” 


SCP-927: Contagious House 


Object #: SCP-927 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: The neighbourhood containing 
SCP-927 is to be quarantined; no civilians are to be permitted entry. 
SCP-927 is to be staffed by ten (10) Biological Containment 
Personnel at all times. Flamethrowers are to be kept on location at 
all times and are to be used in the event of nearby properties 
becoming infested. 


Any civilians inquiring about SCP-927's level of security are to be 
informed that the area has been quarantined as a result of a 
radiation leak. In the event of extended inquiry on the part of 
civilians, concerned individuals are to be brought into custody and 
dosed with a Class A amnestic. 


Description: SCP-927 is a dilapidated three-story residence in the 
small town of . Two (2) slightly decomposed corpses are 
present inside SCP-927, one male and one female. The male 
corpse shows signs of blunt trauma to the head and neck, and 
severe lacerations are present on the right leg. The female corpse 
shows signs of strangulation and blunt trauma to the ribs. 


Present on a table within SCP-927's kitchen is a glass of carbonated 
soda, since gone flat. A fruit bowl on the same table contains a 
slightly rotted apple. The leg in the northeast corner of the table has 
snapped and been replaced with an iron pole, crudely attached to 
the table using nails. On the wall of the dining room of SCP-927 is a 
slightly torn portrait of a sunflower. The stairs leading to the second 
floor of SCP-927 are slightly damaged and the third step has 
completely collapsed. Signs of termite infestation are evident inside 
SCP-927. 


The source of SCP-927's anomalous properties are an unidentified 


“Do you think you can get to a place in Idaho for me?” 
“Yeah, totally. Can’t see any reason why not.” 

“Cool! It’s this place called—” 

“Shoshone Indian Ice Caves?” 

“Yeah! How'd you know?” 

“l uh... | don’t actually know... lucky guess?” 

Rem giggled again. He seemed nice. 

“Do you know how to get there?” 


“| do. | think... it's weird because my body is just kind of moving, on 
its own. Like muscle memory.” 


“Oh. Sorry, that happens a lot of the time when people talk to me.” 


“Don’t worry about it. I’ve had stranger things happen to me before. 
In fact, the white coats here seem willing to help me. That's way 
weirder than a voice in my head.” 


The two carried out their conversation for what Rem would forever 
describe as “not long enough”. They exchanged all manner of 
stories. For every tale of wonder Brad told, Rem responded with a 
mundane slice of her life. She missed being called "Rem" as much 
as he missed being called "Brad". Rem thought they made a good 
pair. 


“Rem, I’m at the mouth of the caves. Now what?” 
“Oh! Ok! Um... can you get something sharp? Like a knife?” 
“Ok. Once | get that, I'll go inside the caves.” 


“I'll give you directions, ok?” She wanted to see him. She wanted to 
see another person so badly. Rem instructed Brad to the frozen 
waterfall, even though Brad said he knew where he was going. 


“I’m here, Rem.” 


“| know, | can see you!” Because there he stood. A man wearing an 
orange jumpsuit, who probably hadn’t shaved in at least a week. He 
held a commemorative knife in one hand, which he looked at. 


“Really? | uh... | can’t see you.” 
“Don't worry. You will in a moment. You just have to join me.” 
“Join you?” 


“| mean... you’ve probably been able to guess a few things about 
me by now... and um... I’ve been pretty lonely...” 


“Oh...” Brad raised the knife to his throat, “You want me to join you 
like this?” 


“Um...” Rem swallowed. “Uh... yeah.” 


“Ok. I'll see you s—” Brad was knocked to the ground. The knife flew 
two feet behind him, and was picked up by a man wearing a lab coat 
and round spectacles. 


“Brad!” 

"Damn white coats!" 
"You ok?" 

"Sorry Rem." 

“Nonono don't be sorry!" 


"It was nice talking to y—“ And then she could no longer hear Brad. 
Or see Brad. Rem looked at the cold, uneven ground around her. 
The rock jutting into her back annoyed her more than ever. She 
choked back a sob, and another. Then she started to cry. 


In the year that passed since, Rem had no company. She spent the 
days crying in her grove. She cried to the trees, to the pine needles, 
to the dirt, to that rock sticking into her spine. Everything. Hikers and 
madmen who wandered near the grove could hear her weep, but 
then the hikers would blame the wind, and the madmen would 


blame the voices in their head. So Rem's crying went unheard. 


Roller 


The car sat just outside a warehouse pop-up art house at twilight. 
Windows up. Engine dead. Vents, shut. 


In the driver's seat, a crack as the air heats to plasma, as a spark 
erupts from a finger. Radio bursting to life, static erupting, then 
silence. Then burning vegetative matter. Burning cannabis, 
extinguished next by lacrimal secretions. Another spark, more 
burning, put up to the lips, breathing in deeply. And just... holding it 
there. 


Lungs burning, dying. A lap full of ash. A seat adjacent with once 
three now two pounds worth of cigars, hollowed, refilled. Blistered 
and raw fingers. Tropical smoke so hot it's boiling, so heavy it's 
enveloping. 


And weeping, an exhale, a cough, choking. 
"Time to die," thought the man. "Time to fucking die." 


Outside, ozone, suffocating. Lightning striking twice, thrice, bodies 
electric, a bank of payphones desperately ringing, once, twice, 
eternally, screaming. 


And in the art house, clothes lying, exhibits watching a gallery of 
hollowed suits static clinging to each other, emptied shoes, a 
cacophony of cellulars chiming in sync, deafening, booming through 
the steel enclosure. 


The man, the man. Crying to himself in the car, letting the paper 
crumble to dust in his fingers before reaching over to another blunt. 


Room 401 


“Well then. This is ... awkward.” 
“Indeed. | believe you have the wrong room.” 
“Nah, I’m pretty sure this is one of mine.” 


“No, I’m quite sure it’s mine.” 


“This isn’t going to go anywhere, is it?” 


“Most likely. We'll just end up staring at each other until someone 
gets bored and wanders off.” 


“Just like that time back in Beijing, then.” 
“Among other times.” 


“Oh yeah...there was Beijing, and then there was Rio, and New 
Orleans and... What one came before New Orleans?” 


“Lagos.” 
“Yeah, yeah, Lagos. And that one time in Mongolia...” 
“Ugh...Don’t remind me about Mongolia. Eighty-five hours in a yurt 


that smelled of yak dung. Granted, | think | minded it more than you, 
but that’s just because you're used to eating your own shit.” 


“Hey! Low blow, man, looooo0000w blocococooow.” 
“It’s true.” 
“That doesn’t mean you can just use that sort of attitude with me.” 


“Ah, you’re right, you’re right. | apologize. My snark ran away from 
me. See, it’s over there in the corner.” 


“Wait is that...” 
“Yes. That is a snark. Also, you’re a gullible idiot.” 
“Least | actually did my job properly.” 


“What, you mean Egypt? Yes, you did a fine job in Egypt. Got them 
really believing in that stuff, didn’t you?” 


“Better than you did in Europe.” 


“But did that actually matter? Is it better to be loved or hated? To 
know that there is a sympathetic voice at your bedside as your soul 
leaves, or only to see the impassionate messenger of dead? To be 
the fierce guardian on the banks of the Styx, or the silence in the 
night? Which is the truth, and which is the lie? What is it that they 
say about honeyed tongues and good intentions? 


“You know, every time you walk along the footboard like that | think 
you're going to start singing.” 


“Il can see it.” 

“So...any chance you're going to leave?” 

“Not on your eternal essence, mutt.” 

“Oh ho? This again? Okay, tuna-breath, | can play your game.” 
“| doubt it, Sir |-Roll-In-My-Own-Shit.” 

“Nip-huffer” 


“Flowerpot-biter.” 


“Sociopathic narcolept.” 

“Ass-sniffing son-of-a-bitch.” 

“Lecherous tom.” 

“Chihuahua.” 

“You...you... you hobbesian brigand!” 

“That barely makes sense, you caterwauling canine cretin!” 
"Decorative puffball!" 

“Fetching boy!” 

There was a soft padding as a fat grey tabby quite conspicuously 
missing its rear half walked into the room and, with some difficulty, 


jumped up on the bed. It curled up by the man’s head. The dog and 
the cat looked at it, and then at each other. 


“Eh, you know what, let’s call this a draw,” the dog said. 


“Agreed,” said the cat. 


“Wanna go get, | dunno, a burger or something? For old time’s 
sake?” 


“Might as well. It's been a long time, you old hellhound.” 


Rot 


“How're the hormones treating you?" 
Priss nodded. 


Sharpe gripped her fingers on her thigh, clearly more affected by it 
than Priscilla Locke was, "That's.... She does it in front of other 
people?" 


Priss nodded. They both sat in the waiting room of a doctor's office, 
the room steadily clearing out minute by minute. 


"That's a fucking cunt-move. No offense to you... but that's a fucking 
cunty fuck thing to do. /n front of total strangers." 


Priss shrugged, "It doesn't bother me as much as it seems to bother 
you." 


"It should," Sharpe reached a hand out, as if to touch Priss's face. 
She awkwardly jerked it back, seeing no reaction from the other 
woman, "You should've taken a few more teeth from her." 


"| can't. It's not just..."