"The woman who interviewed me. She called me Mark, like you did." 
"Well, that's your name. It's how I've always known you." 

"It's obviously not." 

"But it is." 


"Okay. Okay. Umm ... Oh, right! The even weirder thing. The 
weirder thing was that she called herself Mark, too." 


Doug appears pleasantly surprised. He switches back and forth 
between intense thought and almost opening his mouth. 


individual residing there and force the human's body through an 
apparent portal via its chest cavity, where the subject will remain for 
approximately four (4) hours before emerging. After this, SCP-957-1 
will be missing its eyes as well as exhibiting drastic changes to its 
memory. These individuals will believe that they have been blind all 
of their life and possess knowledge of Braille and living without sight. 
Additionally, they will believe that SCP-957 is a close family 
member, a dear friend, or a partner in an intimate relationship that 
had been severely burned all over its body. As such, they show 
affection for the entity but refuse to touch it. 


Once every month, SCP-957-1 will go into crowded areas and feign 
distress due to its blindness. It appears to do this in order to deceive 
people into helping it back to its house’. Once SCP-957-1 has 
successfully lured a human subject into the building, it will lock the 
doors, shout, walk to the dining room and sit down until SCP-957 
addresses it after dealing with the human. At this point, SCP-957 will 
approach the human, and a black spherical barrier will surround the 
two subjects. This obstruction is composed of an unknown 
substance and is apparently impenetrable. This structure usually 
remains in place for approximately five (5) hours; however, it has 
been noted to demanifest as early as thirty (30) minutes after 
manifestation and as late as twenty-seven (27) hours after 
manifestation. The human normally appears to have undergone 
extreme physical alteration during this time2. In 30% of observed 
cases, the human is reduced to piles of organs seemingly organized 
by their respective biological system. SCP-957 usually then uses 
these remains to prepare a meal for SCP-957-1. The other 70% are 
taken to the fireplace of the house and burned. 


Addendum-957-Gamma: On 16/10/2006, SCP-957 was noted to 
approach a retrieved human during the normal monthly event. The 
opaque barrier normally surrounding the subjects manifested as 
usual; however, it was noted to randomly become transparent, yet 
still present, during this event. Personnel reported that the view from 
the area showed a scene with a group of entities resembling 
SCP-957 gathered around a conical object that was mostly 
obscured by the figures. However, it appeared that the captured 
human was within the construct and that the entities were 
[REDACTED], which continued for approximately five (5) hours. At 


"Doug, do you know something | don't?" 


"Well, not much more than you. At least with this. But | think we 
might have something here." 


"What do you mean?" 


"Think hard. Did you overhear anything else about the infection? 
Like, did it have a name?" 


"They called it ... a meme." 

"Oh. Then that changes a lot of things." 
"Yeah, but what is a meme?" 

"Weren't you testing a website with a meme?" 


"Yeah, but | never really bothered to ask questions. | just assumed 
they meant images like the ones the kids look at on the internet ... 
Wait, hold on a sec. Why does this even matter? | should have the 
thing cured by now anyway." 


"Mark. You have so much to learn." 


"Doug. | don't understand you. All these weeks, you've been 
insisting that this isn't a focus group. That we're been stuck here 
without our free will. And only recently you've been calling me Mark, 
and not Jon." 


"Take a good look around you. Does this look like a room fitted for a 
focus group?" 


The room is a small space fitted with two mattresses on either side, 
a malfunctioning toilet, a rusted sink, and a creaky table. 


"Oh god. Oh my god. How long has it been like this?" 
"Since the day you walked in, Mark." 


| look down at our attire. We both sport gray jumpsuits, with our 
number designation stamped on the back. Doug's has a small 


grease stain, while mine has a tear on the arm cuff. 
"But ..." 

Doug is almost on the verge of tears. 

"Finally. You've seen it." 

"So does this mean what you've been saying is true?" 


"Well, most of it. But first, do you have any idea how liberating this 
is? To finally have someone to see what you've been seeing?" 


"Sure. But let's get back on track. Let's figure out what happened to 
me." 


And let's learn about what a meme is. 


Thirteen members sat in a semi-circle inside a well-lit room. The air 
is tense, and several of the members are talking to one another. 


In recent weeks, the members have monitored the progress of a 
growing anomaly. The newly designated SCP-2150 was unlike any 
memetic anomaly seen before. It spreads fast, far, and there is no 
way to know if someone is infected without getting infected yourself. 
The former O5 member is on the run. Naturally, nobody knows the 
real name of this man, barring one person. 


A man in a gray suit and hat stands up to break the chatter. 
"The results are in." 


The other twelve members look at the man, the newest member of 
the O5. 


"| have been keeping the closest eye on the spread of SCP-2150. 
This has been the largest scale memetic test to date. And so far, 
we've failed. Let's pray that an anomaly like this never strikes, for 
the Foundation we be over as we know it. 


So let this be a wake-up call, Council. That our greatest weakness 


right now is memetics. The current methods we use to combat them 
aren't enough to slow them down. I've seen it with my own eyes. It's 
costing us money, but it's clearly gonna cost lives, too. 


| will send someone to deal with the anomaly, since | am partially 
responsible for it. The man you are looking for is Jonathan Bicks. 
That is his real name, non memetic. He was the one chosen for the 
test and he has worked wonders with the anomaly. The paperwork 
is handled, as well as alternative documentation for lower 
clearances should they decide to snoop around. This also includes 
faking Level 5 clearance documents. 


Now as for the results, our first step is to find a suitable replacement 
for Class-F amnestics. As a short term solution, they are effective. 
But long term use doesn't work, as seen with our subject, D-93731 


"Okay, So amnestics are ..." 


"Basically amnesia drugs. It makes you forget things. It's how they 
keep us here." 


"And you know this because ..." 


"I've been here long enough to know how things operate. You 
overhear things." 


"Right. But if that's the case, how come you and | are the only ones 
who are awake here?" 


"I've thought about that too. But I've learned that it's because we're 
lucky. We're lucky because we're immune to them." 


"Immune ... to the drugs?" 


"Yes. Like any drug, repeated use leads to tolerance. And with 
enough tolerance comes ..." 


"Immunity." 


"Bingo. But we've got to keep this immunity a secret. If word gets out 


that we're immune, we'll be goners." 

"Like what happened to that guy at the far end?" 
"See, now you're thinking!" Doug laughs. 

"Okay, so returning to the meme." 


"Yeah, the meme. If what you told me is right, then there's a good 
chance the meme might still be residing with you." 


"The meme being?" 


My roommate again switches between intense thought and almost 
speaking before giving an answer. 


"Your name." 

"The name Mark." 

"That's the one. Hot damn, do you know what this means?" 
"What?" 

"You have the power to bring down this entire site. Or better yet." 
Doug's eyes light up. 

"We can escape." 

My mouth is agape. Escape the site? How? 


"Wait, but you're infected too, Doug. In fact, you were the first 
person to even call me Mark. My name is Jon Bicks." 


"Well, regardless if I'm infected or not, we're still getting out of here. 
But assuming if | am, it's best that we use the name you just said." 


"Mark." 


"Jon. It's a perfect cover. If we use that, no one will know either of us 
are infected." 


"It's kind of scary, Knowing all | have to do is speak my name and 
someone gets infected." 


"Yeah. But it's important we use it to escape, and nothing else." 


The echo of footsteps and jingling keys can be heard down the 
hallway. 


"How are we gonna do it?" 
"Don't worry, we'll find a way. And they won't even know." 


Doug and | shake hands and smile, as we begin to plan our escape 
from Site-132. 


Doug and | glare at one another, as | begin to plan my escape out of 
the room. How could he do this to me? 


After becoming a member of the O5 Council, | learned of the 
Foundation: an organization dedicated to keeping the world safe 
from the anomalous. It's hard to imagine how only months ago my 
world was limited to a focus group. But above knowledge, the one 
thing | want more than anything else is freedom. And now Doug, the 
one man who granted freedom, vows to take it away from me. 


"Jon. | Know what you're thinking. You think you want freedom, 
which you do. But unfortunately, | can't let you have that. You'll use 
the meme you have to convince the world that anomalies do not 
exist. It'll leave everyone exposed to the true horrors of this world, 
while at the same time stealing the identity of everyone. Everybody 
will become a nobody. And that's 7.4 billion nobodies too many." 


"What are you talking about? First of all, my name is not Jon. It's 
always been Mark. And second of all, Doug, that won't happen. How 
are you always so certain of what's gonna happen, huh? What other 
shit do you know that I'm not aware of, Mr. Backstabber?" 


"Oh, the infection is getting nasty on you, Jon. |am so sorry you 
were subjected to this. But if you wanna know, I'll tell you. Because 
right after this, you will go back to being a D-Class at Site-132." 


| race towards the door, but to my dismay, the doorknob has 
disappeared. 


"lam not Doug. In fact, Doug has never even existed, as you know 
him." 


"No. I'm looking at him right now. A lil' fat and balding man. That's 
how | know." 


"Look again, Jon." 


Upon closer inspection, | am staring at a man in a gray suit and hat. 
| can't tell if he's fat, or slim, nor can | tell how much hair he has. 
Who is he? 


"Who are you?" 


"I'm a representative of the O5 Council, and we have been 
monitoring your usage of the SCP-2150 meme." 


"What? But | escaped the site with you. We both did." 


"It does not matter. Jon, in a matter of moments, you will return to 
Site-132. You have been a great test subject. In fact, the greatest D- 
Class that I, and the Council have seen." 


| feel another pain in my arm, and soon | go numb. As | fade into 
black, the man speaks once more. 


"Farewell, Jonathan Bicks." 


It's about 3 weeks into my focus group. A few more months and I'll 
be out of here a free man. My experience at the site is decent so far. 
| have a nice room with two beds, an enclosed toilet, a sink, anda 
table. | have a roommate, Doug, who is slightly overweight and 
balding. He is quite a friendly guy, and pretty knowledgeable on 
what goes on around here. Sometimes | feel that he knows 
something | don't. It ticks me off. 


But hey, free money. 


The Executions of Doctor Bright 


Bright knew it had gone wrong when the trucks eased into position 
on either side of his van. "48vsJ! 4j}>" was spraypainted on the 
sides. He knew he was in big trouble when he saw the men in the 
beds of the trucks point rifles at him. He gritted his teeth, but slowed 
down as a pick-up truck swung in ahead of them. He thought about 
stopping and trying to give them the slip that way, but there was a 
fourth coming up from behind, boxing them in. 


"Can we fight our way past?" asked Brunwick. The stocky biologist 
held the rifle almost as though he knew what he was doing. 


"Not unless you've just become bulletproof," Bright said. He turned 
to his six passengers. "Okay, we're caught. | don't know who by yet. 
If it's the government, they're going to be pissed, but they'll probably 
hold us long enough for the Foundation to try getting us out." 


Advani was on his cell phone, letting their contact know that they'd 
been compromised. He was riding shotgun, as he and Bright were 
the least-conspicuous people in the group. Especially Bright, 
wearing an Egyptian body. 


"What if they're terrorists?" asked Sandler. His bushy eyebrows 
would have reached to a younger man's hairline. 


"They are," said Jacobs. He was the senior of the two agents in the 
vehicle. "If this were the government, they'd have armored vehicles. 
They'd have a show of force. They wouldn't just hem us in like this." 


"Will we be okay?" squeaked Lopez. The young researcher looked 
barely out of her teens. 


Bright almost said no, they almost certainly weren't, but something 
in her face made him go for the comforting lie. "They're probably just 
interested in ransom," Bright said. "They probably don't know who 
we really are. It's probably bad luck. They saw some Westerners, 


and they want to make a scene. We stay calm, we wait for someone 
to come get us. Everyone put down your weapons. If it's at all 
possible, I'll figure out a way to get us through this." He actually had 
a half-formed plan in mind, but it depended on how greedy their 
captors were, and how perceptive they were. It was a pity he didn't 
speak more Arabic. 


The trucks guided them off the main road and southeast. A few 
miles out, the trucks stopped, and men with rifles jumped out. They 
stormed onboard, yelling in Arabic, grabbing at them, pulling them 
out and then hitting them as they threw them to the ground. Bright 
let them, knowing better than to fight back. He heard Brunwick try to 
take a swing at one of the guards, and heard the shot, wincing. He 
could hear Sandler and Lopez crying out. Jacobs and Advani didn't 
say a word. 


They were searched thoroughly, their phones taken away. Even the 
beacon hidden in his shoe was found and crushed. That made 
things a little more complicated. He'd been hoping for a quick 
rescue. The Foundation might take a little longer now. 


Bags were placed over their heads and their hands were cuffed 
behind them as they were loaded into one of the trucks. He heard 
Brunwick's groaning, so apparently they hadn't killed him yet. Oddly, 
no one touched the amulet. 


"You do not move!" one of them yelled in his ear. "You understand? 
You move, | shoot you!" 


Occasionally, one of the others would move, and he'd hear them cry 
out after they were corrected. He held still. He had a lot of 
experience being a captive. He even recognized some of the 
techniques the guards were using to intimidate them. It helped, a 
little. Not much. 


They were pushed out of the truck and herded indoors. It smelled 
like livestock inside. They were pushed down, and they heard the 
door shut. 


"Are-" Advani began, but Bright shushed him. 


"lesus!" a man shouted. "!S9Suay5 gsc" 


Bright didn't know much Arabic, but he understood "kalashnikov" 
well enough. 


After a few hours, a man came in and removed the hoods. He wore 
a military fatigues with a sword hanging at his side. A scarf covered 
his face. Several other men were behind him holding AK-47s at the 
group. One man was operating a camera. "You are prisoners of 
Hezb Alkhalifah. We know about your Foundation. You spit in the 
face of Allah." 


Son-of-a-bitch, Bright thought. Someone sold them out. He 
wondered who. 


"You, with the necklace. You are Doctor Bright. We know all about 
you." The man reached out to touch the amulet, but his hands were 
covered with leather gloves. "This is you. This is your soul. You are 
an abomination. We will show the world we stand against such 
things."