The last day was spent polishing and sharpening the sword, and by 
the time the sun set at the end of the week, Ara had the blade of her 
sword wrapped in a silk blanket to carry back to the world. 


She lay on her cot, looking up at the thatched roof that last night, as 
Guggenheim turned over in his bed, and asked, with a bit of 
trepidation, "Heinrich?" 


"Yeah?" 
"That first time we met. You mentioned Brisingamen." 
"Yeah," Guggenheim said. 


"Freyja offered gold and silver to the dwarves who made that 
necklace. But in the end, she paid them by spending one night with 
each of them." 


There was silence. 


Guggenheim turned over in his bed and snorted derisively. "Go to 
sleep, girl," he growled. 


"Yes, sir," Ara said. 


She pulled the blanket up over her shoulders and stared at the wall 
for a good, long time. 


"The point of that story," Guggenheim said, after a few minutes, 
"isn't that Freyja slept with the dwarves. The point is that there are 
some things in life you'd give anything to have... and sometimes, 
you pay too much to get them." 


"It was still an unfair thing to ask for in payment," Ara said. 


"Sorry about that. In case you haven't figured it out already, I'm nota 
very nice man." Guggenheim yawned. "Anyway, a shitty sword like 
this... you'd be overpaying me." 


Ara chuckled a bit and, after a few more minutes, finally drifted off to 
sleep. 


"Glass," the woman in the leather apron said. 


"Are you sure? Maybe pewter would work better,” the professor said 
dubiously. 


"Glass," the woman repeated firmly. "It has to be glass, and it has to 
have a silver stand. You want it to have as many feminine attributes 
as possible. Silver evokes the moon, glass evokes water. Glass and 
silver is the best choice." 


"I'm not sure that we have time for her to learn both glassblowing 
and silversmithing," the Professor pointed out. "We're coming up on 
the end of that year and a day." 


"She doesn't have to," the woman said. "She had to make the 
sword, because it represents a part of herself that's being taken 
away. But the chalice needs to be made by another, because it 
represents a new aspect of herself being added on." 


"| guess that makes some sense," the Professor said dubiously. "But 
on the other hand, there's also a strong resonance in having her 
make the chalice herself." 


"Why don't we ask her what she thinks?" the woman in the leather 
apron said, and they both turned to face Ara, who was sitting ona 
ratty old chair listening to the entire conversation. 


"Me?" 


"The chalice will be an integral part of your own transformation. It 
needs to have resonance to you," the Professor pointed out. 


Ara scratched her head and looked across the workshop at the 
apprentices and workers hammering out silver and tin over small 
anvils and stakes. "... actually," she said, "I think | might have a 
different idea." 


"So what exactly is this," Lydia asked, when Ara had returned from 
her dorm room. She held the cheap-looking glass tumbler up to the 
light. "Romancing the Future? What the hell does that mean?" 


"... it's a prom glass," Ara said softly. 
Lydia and the Professor fell silent. 


"... my father didn't approve of my nature,” Ara said. "He... was 
angry all the time. Emotionally abusive, even. Only the fact that he 
didn't want it getting out that his son was a ‘freak’ kept him from 
sending me off to some kind of camp or something. Maybe my 
mother would have understood better, but she died when | was 
young... and he was always afraid that he'd screwed up on raising 
me. Their only son. Because | wasn't happy with being a son. 
Because | wanted to be a daughter, like my older sisters. He used to 
scream at them so much. Blamed them for me being what | was. It 
wasn't their fault. It wasn't anyone's fault." 


She had to sit down to steady herself... the memories were flowing 
faster and harsher than she'd thought they would. "| had a couple of 
high school friends who... were sympathetic to me. They helped me 
to plan it out. One of them, a girl... she was my date. She came over 
and | wore my tux and we left the house together. Then we went to 
her house, where she had the dress we'd picked out ready. She 
helped me put it on. Did my hair. Did my makeup. Put in the shapers 
and the bra and did my jewelry. And then we went to prom 
together." 


Ara smiled bitterly as the memories came back. "A few of my old 


friends clapped when they saw me in my dress. Some others turned 
away. There were a few angry mutters, some weirded out looks. But 
there were a lot of happy smiles, too. | danced all night, and Shelly 
and |, we went out onto the beach with a bunch of our friends, and 
we sat on the sand and watched the sun rise, and one of my friends, 
a boy whom I'd had a crush on, told me he liked me no matter what | 
was, and he held my hand and kissed me." 


"It was the best night of my life, but when | got home, after changing 
back into my tux and leaving my dress at Shelly's house, my father 
was up. Someone at the prom, | never found out who, called him 
and told him what I'd done. He screamed at me for hours, and hit 
me a lot with a rolled up newspaper. As if | were a dog. And he 
threw my prom glass at the wall and smashed it to bits." 


"This is Shelly's," Ara said, running a finger along the rim of the 
cheap drinking glass that Lydia held. "She gave it to me after she 
heard what my father had done. So I'd have something to remember 
that night by." She gave the Professor and Lydia a sick smile. "She's 
one of the few people | regret leaving behind when | came to 
ICSUT." 


There was a long moment of silence, and Ara realized the entire 
workshop had halted their work. Everyone was watching her, their 
hammers and snips stopped by her story. 


"... yeah," Lydia said thoughtfully, holding the bowl-shaped glass up 
to the light. "I think if we put a silver base on this, it should do just 
fine." 

"How do you feel?" the Professor asked. 


"Tired. Hungry. Excited. Exhausted." Ara laughed nervously as she 
swung her feet back and forth. "Scared." 


"Understandable," the Professor said. "Let's go over the particulars 
of the Working." 


He went over the various particulars of the systems and spells and 
elements that would be used in the Working. Ara barely heard him. 


They'd gone over this many times before. But this would be the last 
time that they would talk each other through the procedure. 


"... are you certain that you wish to continue with the procedure?" 
the Professor asked. 


"Yes," Ara said firmly. 
"Then please sign here." 


He passed her what seemed like dozens of clipboards, each one 
with a neat "X" written near the bottom in blue ink, and Ara signed, 
in dozens of places, various documents relating to the fact that she 
knew what she was getting into and would not sue anyone ever if 
anything went wrong. 


She signed her name with a flourish on the final sheet, and the 
Professor stood up to go into the next room. A very nice young lady 
with short hair came by next and led Ara into the next room. It 
looked like bride's room at a church, with a couple of couches, a 
table, a mirror, and a closet. 


"You can change into the gown here," she said. "We'll let you know 
when it's time to begin." 


The lady then walked over to the other door in the room, opened it, 
and stood in the open doorway for a moment. Ara could see that it 
led outside, to a cool spring day in Massachusetts. 


The door closed behind her, and Ara was left alone in the room. 


This was insane. She was about to undergo an extremely 
dangerous magical working that could backlash and kill a bunch of 
people. She was about to alter the very fabric of the universe itself. 


And why? Because she couldn't bear to live another day without a 
vag? What kind of logic was that? 


She should leave. She should go. She should pick up her bag and 
walk right out that other door and just run across the campus as fast 
as she could and leave this whole thing behind. 


Her head spun, her vision blurred, her heart pounded. She was 
clenching her fists so hard she could feel her fingernails dig into her 
palm. 


She took another deep breath. 


She took off her clothes, put them in the duffel bag she'd brought 
along with her, and stood in front of the mirror, looking into the eyes 
of the stranger she saw there. 


His sad eyes looked back. 
She reached a hand out to him, and touched his fingertips with hers. 


She walked back to the closet, flung open the doors. It felt right to 
don the thin white garment by swirling it through the air, like the skirt 
of some magical fairy princess. 


She cinched the belt of the robe around her waist. Precisely ten 
seconds later, the doors opened, and the Professor walked in. 


"Were you watching me?" she asked. 

"Through COLLICULUS," the Professor admitted. 

"What would you have done if | walked out that door?" 
"Watched you leave. And looked for another test subject." 


He closed the door behind him and looked seriously into Ara's eyes. 
"| have one last request for you," he said. "| need your truename." 


She'd known this was coming for a while. She nodded to him and 
cleared her throat nervously. It felt a bit closed and dry, so she 
swallowed before going on. "Arachne." 


"Arachne. The Spider... if memory serves, she was a weaver. One 
of the greatest. So great, in fact, that the goddess Artemis 
challenged her to a contest. Artemis wove images of the Gods ruling 
humanity and defeating them time and time again... and Arachne 
responded by weaving images of the many abuses the Gods had 
heaped upon mankind. And when Artemis tore her weaving to 


pieces, she hanged herself." 


"It was Athena, not Artemis,” Ara said. "And she was angry because 
Arachne wouldn't admit that some of her talent might have come 
from the Goddess of Weaving." 


"My mistake," the Professor said. "And how do you feel, Spider? Are 
you a plaything of the Gods, abused and mistreated? Or are you the 
rebellious, prideful child who refuses to acknowledge their gifts?" 


"... | think," Ara said, smiling nervously, "that I'm a young woman 
about to undergo a huge change in my life, who's feeling freaking 
terrified right now and just want it to be over with." 


"A good answer," the Professor said. "Come." 


He opened the other door and led her into the next room: a massive 
cave, cool and damp, with a broad, flat floor of polished stone. A 
small army of masons had spent many days carving a precise shape 
into the granite floor: it hurt her eyes to look at, consisting as it did of 
circles within circles within loops and angles. It had to be nearly 
twenty meters in diameter. 


Guggenheim stood at the edge of the circle, holding a small anvil 
under one arm as if it were a basketball. He wore his belt of tools 
around his waist, including the heavy hammer she remembered so 
well. Lydia stood next to him, holding the silver-and-glass chalice in 
her hands: it looked beautiful, the expertly crafted ivy and vines in 
pure silver wrapping around and embracing the cheap glass. There 
was a small parade of other assistants here too, carrying a ewer of 
water, a small basin, and a tray of small knives and other tools. 


All of them were dressed in black robes with red cords around their 
waist. And as she watched, two assistants stepped forward with a 
set of robes for the Professor as well. He held out his arms as they 
helped him into the heavy black garments and tied the red cincture 
around his waist. One of them passed him a staff: it looked odd, 
carved in a strange shape, and she realized that it had been crafted 
from the stock of an old rifle, reshaped to form the upper half of an 
ornately decorated staff. 


The Professor turned to the other end of the room, where a number 
of persons stood around a set of complicated equipment. Another 
small group sat on folding chairs in the shadows. "The Working," he 
said, "will take place in three phases. The first is medical. The 
subject will be examined medically, and some final preparations will 
be made. The second is symbolic. A series of rituals will be carried 
out symbolic of the change, in order to set the lines of the working in 
the minds of the participants. The final stage of the Working is the 
precise application of several bursts of carefully targeted Aspect 
Radiation. For the safety of all observers and participants, we 
request that you remain behind the yellow line marked on the floor. 
Any attempt to cross the yellow line will result in immediate physical 
restraint." 


He turned to a couple of white-coated doctors and nodded to them. 
Ara was led behind a curtain, where a couple of doctors performed 
one last physical check, took one last blood sample, patted her on 

the shoulder and wished her luck. 


Then someone handed her the sword, wrapped in silk cloth, and 
stood her in line just in front of the Professor, and the entire 
procession walked in very slowly, at a measured pace. 


She would never again be able to remember exactly how it 
happened. It was taped, of course, and she would later be able to 
watch from an outsider's perspective exactly how it all took place. 
But personally... she didn't remember much of anything. 


There was a slow procession around the entire circle, seven times 
clockwise. Water was poured into a basin and poured over her 
head. The sword was waved over her body in a series of precise 
movements. She was given the sword back and told to press it to 
her forehead and chest while the Professor said a lot of things in 
Latin. The staff was pressed against her back and someone said 
something very loudly in Greek before striking her once, sharply, 
across the shoulders. 


There was a black cat, the Professor's familiar, wno walked between 
her feet seven times, halting at the left foot. The sword was taken 
from her, and Guggenheim broke it over his anvil with one powerful 


death with extreme accuracy. In order to make a prediction, 
SCP-657 requires physical contact with the individual. This contact 
need not be prolonged or invasive, a handshake is sufficient. The 
precision of SCP-657's predictions seems largely dependent upon 
how imminent the death is. When exposed to D-class personnel 
scheduled for termination the following day, SCP-657 was able to 
accurately predict time of death down to the minute without access 
to scheduling information. When exposed to individuals for whom 
SCP-657 does not predict death for more than a decade, SCP-657 
is generally unable to provide more than the year of death. SCP-657 
claims to be unable to determine any other information about the 
cause or circumstances of an individual's death. To date, all of 
SCP-657's predictions have proven accurate. 


For unknown reasons, SCP-657 claims his abilities simply do not 
work on a small number of individuals, including Agent , Dr. 

,and Dr. —_. Polygraph testing supports these claims. No 
common link between these individuals has been established 
beyond their connection with the Foundation. 


Individuals exposed to SCP-657 often report finding him disquieting, 
unpleasant, or simply "creepy", regardless of whether or not they are 
aware of his abilities. Individuals who are aware of SCP-657's ability 
to predict death often attribute their discomfort to finding this aspect 
of him unsettling. Those who are unaware are usually unable to 
articulate a specific reason for disliking SCP-657. 


Addendum: Notes on Recovery