"| know. We have plenty of time. | promised I’d show your sister 
something, thought you'd want to come along. | mean, | might be 
breaking a few rules doing this, but the place has been abandoned 
for some time now." 

"Wait, Joyce flew out here?" 

Young nodded slowly. "It’s important enough for the airfare." 

"Well, | guess we do have time." 


"Great." Emily started punching in the address. Eric pulled out of the 
parking lot and made a left onto a one-way street. 


"Where are we going anyways?" 
"To see your brother." 


Eric shot Emily a confused look as he pulled up to a stop light, “You 
know his grave is like two states over, right?” 


"I’m not talking about the grave, Eric. I’m talking about the body." 


Eric froze. He let the words sink in for a few moments. Then the 


questions came flooding in: Why is the body here? What’s there to 
see? What happened to Tony? 


He decided that maybe, he didn't want to know. But Young wasn't 
giving him a choice. 


"You know, the light’s green." 


"Oh, right." Eric pressed the pedal to the floor, and the car raced 
towards Site-2718. 


With The Reaper On Retirement 
End of Death 


SCP-3448 


The Frail 


Let me tell you about my life, just a short while ago. 


There's a point in time in everyone's life where they are 
not free. Whether through fault of their own or not, they 
endure being dependent on another, becoming a burden. 
The host and their burden. The host can be sympathetic 
and the host can be cruel and arbitrary. It's a fine art, 
however. Too much and the burden will break free, 
finding support in the arms of others, and the host will 
fall to the strong arm of the law. 


Up until a short while ago, I lived with my sister. She 
was the host, and I was the burden. And she hated it. 
She hated me because she loved me, and you cannot 

hate something you do not care about. 


My sister is smarter than me. She is clever, sharp, and 
brutally efficient. My sister, my host, kept me hostage. 


I had a job, low-paying. No way I could afford to live on 
my own. For about an hour or two each day, I'd have 
her place to myself. For an hour or two I had peace and 
tranquility and safety. When she came, what did she 
have to say? 

"Hi, honey! How was your day?" 

"Enjoying yourself, idiot?" 

"Get the fuck over here and get your 
fucking shoes off of my fucking rug" 


"You know how much I love you, Rhiannon, 


right?" 
"Don't even talk to me." 


The answer is all of them. All and none. If it were just 
abuse and torment, maybe, maybe, maybe you'd be able 
to endure. Adapt, expect it, prepare yourself 
accordingly. You can never prepare yourself with this 
Host. There was no pattern, no way to gird yourself. 


On good days, it's obvious right away. "You stupid 


ignorant fuck!" tt begins. On bad days, you have 
to look hard for it. 


You can't let yourself be seen, whilst you spy on your 
own sister, watching how she moves and touches things. 
Are her hands shakin'? Is her jaw taut? Is she hissin' and 
sighin'? Is she slammin' doors just a pinch too hard? Do 
her footsteps stomp on the wood floor just a bit too 
loud? 


Then, at the very least, you've got enough "intel" to 
prepare yourself accordingly. Make sure you've got a 
good reason to not be near her. Television's in the main 
room, no luck there! Lock on your bedroom is a joke; 
anyone with a strong grip can twist the knob and pop 
open the door in a jiffy. "Why the fuck are you 
sitting in here playing games? Get the fuck up 
and help me." 


Then comes the dance. You have to do it just right, if 
you don't want your head bitten off. Don't you dare be 
as profane as she, that'll get her dander up. You can't say 
nothin' to her, that infuriates her worse-in' than cursin’. 


Too sweet? She'll eat you by your own light. 

Too sassy? She'll disembowel you with her dagger-like 
tongue. 

Too sunny? She'll bury you. 


Too somber? She'll cook you and eat you and vomit you 
back out. 


"Hello, sister of mine. I will help you as you wish." 


"Who the fuck you think you're talking to, 
you smart-ass fucking cunt? You think 
you're cute talking like a fucking retard? 
You want me to treat you like a fucking 
retard?" 


Then comes supper. God help you there; it's the same 
song and dance, but this time she's armed. 


No conversation? "Great company you've been." 
Cold, venomous snark. 


Complain about your day? "What do you even do? 
You barely fucking work as it is, and you're 
bitching to me because your boss kindly 
reminds you how to do your job better 
without fucking it all up and down like you 
used to do?" 


Rave about your day? "That's so sweet; / had to put 
up with the stresses and pressures of a real job. 
How's it feel knowing you get paid to sit in a chair 
and do shit-all on a computer for five hours a day?" 


Weather's been nice, hasn't it? "You'd fucking 
know, you'd never set foot out of the house 
if not for your joke of a job." 


Sometimes a tongue-lashin' is all you get. Sometimes 
she'll scoop up her plate and slam it against a wall. 
Sometimes she'll snatch up your plate and slam it on a 
wall. The poor plates suffer regardless; she dumps them 


in the sink and lets drop the utensils. Such a clatter, 
you'd think she was practicin' for a band audition. There 
ain't a dish in the house that isn't chipped, cracked, 
dirtied or uglied in some way. 


By the end of the day, you've got sanctuary; she spends a 
good hour or two workin’. Then its time to sit in bed and 
watch TV until the day's fatigue takes hold and she 
passes out. She's a light sleeper. Damn you if your tiny 
little footsteps make the floor creak and you wake her 


up. 


How do you escape? Get her while she's vulnerable? "We 
need to talk." Words are exchanged. She's calm, pleasant 
even. She breaks down and cries. 


"You can't leave, Rhiannon. Momma told me, just before she 
died; momma made me promise to keep you safe. 'Look after 
your sister, always. Always keep her safe. Never let her go.' I 
will keep you safe." 


How do you turn down the tears of your skin and bone 
and flesh and blood? You give in and think, maybe this 
time. Maybe this time... what? 


Maybe she'll change? Maybe it'll be different? 


You're smarter than that. You know it. The real reason is 
you can't afford not to. The mental and emotional 
degradations are a luxury next to physical deprivation 
that awaits you, pretty little girl livin' on the streets. 


How did this cycle of torment and abuse end? 


I found you. You, who came to me. You, who listened. 
You, who decided that I mattered and that I should be 
kept safe, not because of an obligation forced upon you 
by blood or oath, but because of a unifying belief in the 
goodness of mankind and the richness of a world in 
which all men and women of all types and stripes, races, 
sexes, ethnicities, religions, decide that they all matter. 
Not because of an obligation forced upon them by 


species, but because they choose to accept all as family. 


"You fucking believe this? | can't fucking believe this." Priscilla Locke 
kept the page steady, not wanting to tear it up in a petty show of 
emotion. That didn't stop her hand from trembling. 


"It might not be her words" Sharpe offered, "But it's definitely her 
style..." 


"You think she has some kind of point? That any of the fucking... 
that anything written here is fucking true?" 


Sharpe's eyes darted over to the wall, where a wet smear marked 
where Locke had flung a tray of food in rage. They were standing 
just beside the porch leading up to the entrance of the school. Locke 
caught her gaze, jaw clenching. 


"Say it." 
Sharpe shrugged, "You did just slam your tray of food on a wall." 
"You're fucking saying —" 


Sharpe put her hand on Priss's head, pressing to keep her back 
while trying to disarm her with a smile, "I'm saying you've got a bit of 
an anger problem, and it's just like a dirtball like her to exploit 
someone's flaws for a hit-job like this." 


Priss's nostrils flared as she turned away, running her hands 
through her hair to calm herself, "It's true, though." 


"Hmm?" 


"You know how she is. She never lies for the sake of lying. 
Everything she says and does has some manner of truth mixed into 
it. And when she's out to get you, she digs her claws into you and 
doesn't stop until she's clutching two heaping handfuls of meat. | 
should have taken the rest of her teeth when | had the chance." 


"Dude, she's your sister." 


SCP-960: Inspiration 


Item #: SCP-960 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-960 must be kept ina 

10 cm-thick seamless, steel cubic container measuring 50 cm x 
50cm x 60cm. Those conducting research upon it are to be the only 
ones given the codes that unlock its room and container. Any 
handling of SCP-960 is to be conducted while the researcher is 
wearing gloves or other protective equipment (except when it is 
being tested upon D-class or other subjects). 


Until he or she has created nine original works, any human who 
comes into contact with SCP-960 by the skin is to be kept in an 
isolation ward and provided with whatever supplies they ask for, 
given that these items are cleared for their use by appropriate 
Officials. Immediately after completion of the ninth opus, however, 
the subject is to be terminated. 


Description: SCP-960 is a sizable fragment of what is speculated to 
be an ancient Greek vase, discovered on the island of __, near the 
site of the ancient Minoan city of . On its surface are depicted 
three Muses; the two identifiable ones are Melpomene, in the 
middle, and Clio, on the left. The one on the right, shown as holding 
a dagger to her own neck, has never been seen in any other piece 
of Greco-Roman art and cannot be identified as appearing in any 
recorded myth. 


A short but variable time after a human touches SCP-960, the 
subject will be struck at ever-closer intervals by a series of original 
ideas. The natures of these inspirations always follow a strict 
progression: 


1. A piece of music (usually classical; occasionally, a fully- 
formed opera) 


Priss turned and glared at Sharpe, hands trembling again, "Wasn't it 
you who said blood doesn't matter a damn? That ‘psychopaths like 
her' exploit family connections to keep people suffering?” 


Sharpe stepped back, "Yeah but like, there's a limit." 
"To what?" 


"To how long you let her keep fucking herself up. You can't keep 
watching her go on while you do nothing. | mean, what about what 
she said about your mom? Was that part true?" 


"Yes." Priss said flatly. 


"Well, like... she's in serious fucking shit now. | mean, you don't 
have to live with her or put up with her or anything, but her life's in 
danger. lf the feds — fuck, if anyone not buying her bullshit finds 
her, they'll fucking kill her and send her head to Tallahassee. Or, 
hell, straight to Washington. She's a terrorist, isn't she now?" 


Priss wanted to smack her. She knew Sharpe was physically 
stronger, and could handle it. Emotionally, she was frail as a kitten. 
Another outburst from Priss directed at her and she'd collapse. 


"Have any agents come to see you?" Sharpe squirmed 
uncomfortably as she spoke, "About her? Feds or... or otherwise?" 


Priss blinked and furrowed her brow, "No. I'd completely forgotten. | 
haven't heard shit from anyone." 


"| have." 
"Really? What'd they ask?" 


Sharpe squirmed uncomfortably, and bit her lower lip, "I'm not 
allowed to discuss it. It's..." 


"Was it anything about me?" Priss regretted the dumb question as 
soon as she asked it. 


"I can't say." Sharpe winced, something in her tone seeming to imply 
that they did indeed discuss Priscilla Locke with her. 


Priss grit her teeth, turned and went back inside. It was early in the 
day, yet the halls were empty. The usual din of noisy children 
emanating from each classroom was replaced by muted, stentorian 
voices, identical from each room, likely from television sets. 


The same firm, steady voice emanated more clearly from a single 
open door. Priss briefly peered inside, seeing people huddled 
around the television set. It was the news. Some manner of horror in 
China. 


Not my problem. She kept walking, down to the cramped basement 
she was increasingly spending her life inside. More voices awaited 
her inside. 


"It's getting worse with her, and honestly if | don't get my transfer 
accepted, I'm just going to stop showing up. I've got enough friends 
around here." 


Priss slithered in, seeing Edgars look her way with a cold fixed glare. 
She smiled nastily, "Want me to turn around so you can keep talking 
shit behind my back?" 


Edgars shook his head, "No, Locke, now that you're here, | can talk 
shit to your face." 


"What the fuck is your problem?" Priss shouted. 


"This right here. Your insane outbursts, constantly yelling at people 
or picking fights with people, like Marlowe. And whatever the fuck 
you did to your sister, now her band of morons is stirring up shit with 
us because you couldn't keep your mouth shut about the Anabasis 
around her. You're nothing but a liability," Edgars turned from her, 
heading over to fetch his gloves, "I'm done." 


Priss blinked, feeling her chest crushing down on her. She could 
hardly breathe, and couldn't think of anything to say in response. A 
hot burst of rage surged through her, and she took a step towards 
him, fingers curling in anticipation, wanting to strangle him. 


Sandy was there — Priss hadn't even noticed her. She was 
blushing, caught in the fray, with the tall, willowy redhead blocking 


the only way out. Priss felt her face redden in shame. Flustered, she 
cried out, "Who you callin’ a liability, liability?" 


Edgars glanced at her as if she'd just violently soiled herself, "What 
does that even mean? Is that some kind of childish comeback like ‘| 
know you are but what am I'?" 


"I... yeah." Priss grit her teeth. 


"Right. I'm out." Edgars moved towards her, and she clumsily moved 
aside, letting him leave. "This isn't a damn daycare," he yelled out 
from the stairwell, voice reverberating as it faded, "I'm not going to 
babysit an overgrown manchild freak." That just left Priss and Sandy 
to stare at each other. 


"What did he mean about my sister?" Priss murmured. 


Sandy bit her lower lip, and stepped over towards Locke. In her 
hands was a crumpled sheet of bright pink paper, the source of her 
conversation with Edgars before Priss came in. Priss tugged the end 
of the paper, prying it open just enough to read. It was the same 
rambling message Sharpe had shown her outside, allegedly from 
Rhiannon Locke. At the bottom was a message in large black 
letters, looking off-center, as if added later: 


INDULGE YOUR SINS BEFORE THE PURGE 
ANABASIS WILL SAVE US ALL 


The bacterium was flying. Soaring through the air. It had multiplied rapidly, and flattened 
itself out, stretching to become bigger and wider. 


It could see now it was red. Everything was red. All of them. 


Heat and light sent them up. Now they were coming down. The air pushed back, but gravity 
would eventually win. It always did. 


Grass was somewhere below. It knew this. All of them did. Grass and dirt and rock and metal 
and life. 


Somehow it knew. It knew all about life. How to find it, how to touch it, how to get inside of 


it and lovingly merge with it. Life was warm, and the bacterium would make it warmer. Life 
would itch and twitch and thrash, as it burned to death from the inside. The bacterium would 
burn too. It knew this. All of them knew. 


The bacteria started to move as one, in the direction of life.