Matthew watched her eyes dew up slightly, then heard a sniffle. "I'm 
ready, Matty. Whenever you are. Just go slow, okay?" 


"Okay," Matthew said, and let his hips fall towards hers more. He 
pulled back after a second, and then let them fall again until they 
touched hers. He watched her gasp now, feeling all of him inside of 
her; and his eyes crossed slightly, feeling so much of her around 
him, and all he could hear was blood rushing through his ears, and 


the sound of a key slipping into a lock behind him. 


The door to the apartment opened, and two women stepped inside. 
Matthew was simultaneously too freaked out to know exactly how to 
respond and too courteous to jump off of Pamela, so he turned his 
upper body toward the door while still inside of her. "What the hell 


"Sorry about this," the woman said. She strode carelessly to the 
closet and yanked it open to find a scruffy-bearded man, his pants 
down around his ankles, midway through the action of trying to push 
himself back behind the clothes in the closet for cover. 


"Oh, shit!" the bearded said. "This is, uh..." 


"| don't even want to know." The woman jammed a needle in the 
man's neck. She pushed the plunger down with a force that was 
probably unnecessary. "The clock never stops, never stops, never 
waits,", Maria Jones said angrily. 


"She's growing old, it's getting late," Noah replied immediately. 
"Name, auth, and rank, Agent!" 


"Noah Shepherd Chase, Sigma-38225-Eta-Nu, Junior Operative," 
he said, pulling slightly away from the needle. 


Maria twisted it out of pure spite, then pulled it out. "Do you know 
where you are?" 


"No, ma'am. This looks like... maybe a cheap apartment of some 
kind? There's screaming naked people on the bed, and I'm — " He 
looked down in horror the visible tent in his boxer briefs. "Ma'am, | 
don't think | want to know how the fuck | got here. Was this Pete 
again? He said he owed me one after the thing with the water hose 


Maria slapped Agent Chase across the face. "Pull your fucking 
pants up, Noah. We've got work to do." She gave the terrified young 
couple a friendly smile. "Sorry about this," she said politely, dragging 
the still-confused Agent out of the apartment. 


1620 CDT 


There is a sign in Bea Andrew's spare bedroom, the one she had 
converted into a home gym, the one with the weight bench and the 
treadmill and the punching bag and the sign and absolutely no other 
adornment whatsoever. The sign is a metal flow chart. 


SHOULD YOU BE WORKING OUT? YES/NO 
From "YES", an arrow leads to: 
DO YOU FEEL LIKE WORKING OUT? YES/NO 


From "YES", an arrow goes to "WORK OUT". From "NO", an arrow 
goes to "TAKE SHOWER." The arrow from this leads to: 


DO YOU FEEL LIKE WORKING OUT? YES/NO 
Both arrows led back to the box reading "WORK OUT". 


Bea Andrew allowed herself five minutes under hot water to 
motivate herself to maintain her physical shape. After that, she was 
going to maintain that shape whether she liked it or not. She found 
that removing personal free will from the equation helped 
dramatically. 


She had also found that working out helped suppress the profound 
anger that she felt, and this helped her take care of her daughter 
without letting all of the anger and frustration out on her. Bea did not 
believe in physical violence against living creatures. 


Her daughter asleep in the bedroom down the hall, Bea undressed 
in preparation for yet another workout. She paused, at her chest, at 
what could have been either a woman's small breasts or a man's 
prominent pectoral muscles. Her forefinger and thumb dug into the 
skin of her toned stomach, pinching deep, almost into muscle. You 
are not a man, she thought, twisting. You are a woman, she thought, 
leaving another dark-purple bruise to add to the constellation beside 
it. 


She slid out of her jeans and panties and stood in the bedroom, 


looking into the full-length mirror across from the treadmill. She 
looked at the area between her legs for just a glimpse, then looked 
away. You are not a man, she thought, pinching now at the other 
constellation on her right thigh. There is no penis there. That means 
you are a woman, she thought, twisting. 


Bea had complete solitude in this room, but she still put on full- 
length workout pants and a hoodie that, in this case, hid the /ack of 
curves. Bea was very used to hiding. She pushed earbuds into her 
ears, turned on an episode of Welcome to Night Vale, and began 
zoning out into another world while the numbers on the treadmill 
flashed by. 


One set of arms grabbed her from behind, pulling her backwards. A 
needle. Some cursing as Cecil's voice was pulled out of her head. 
"We danced and smiled and paddled hard beneath it," a woman's 
voice said. 


"I've got you to thank for this," Bea said, and vanished... 


The body tremored, nearly seizing, for just a moment, then the eyes 
closed again. Maria laid them down on the floor and backed up 
against the wall, hands in the air. 


"What are you doing?” Alex asked. 


"You don't know Effy," Maria replied. "You don't want her to perceive 
you as a targe — " 


The person on the floor erupted upwards into a jiu-jitsu stance, 
panting, sweating, pissed. "Who the FUCK!?" 


"Effy, please," Maria said, hands raised and empty. "It's me, Effy." 


Cold eyes ran over Maria's hands, feet, face, and arms. Maria was 
well aware that Effy had just devised four ways to kill her, three 
ways to put her into a coma, six ways to cripple her, and eleven 
ways to knock her out, all in one glance. "Effy," she said cautiously. 
"| need you to tell me your name, rank and auth." 


Effy relaxed. "Fatimah Workwise, Delta-38344-Delta-Epsilon. 
Formerly of MTF Omega-7. Recently retired from the Foundation. 


Well, | say that," Effy said, then brought their wrist up to their ear 
and rotated it, listening to the cracks. "I'd say about ten years now? 
This is almost completely healed." 


"Close," Maria said. "Nine years. We need you back, Effy. If you're 
up for it." 


Effy looked down at the baggy outfit, was naked in two fluid motions, 
stepped in front of the mirror and looked up and down. Paused at 
the stomach and thigh bruises. "The fuck is this? Are these se/f- 
inflicted?" 


"I'm afraid so," Maria said. 


"What the fuck kind of false identity did you stick me with?" Effy 
rubbed at the freshest bruises. "And who told them they could fuck 
up the upholstery?" 


"I told you, that's not how this amnestic therapy works,” Maria said. 
"We give you the initial injection, you come to, we tell you your 
name, and that's it. Your mind makes up most of the rest of the 
personality on its own. Helps it maintain self-integrity and 
consistency. A week's worth of monitoring, and we let you go free- 
range to invent a life for yourself.” 


"So...what kind of personality did my subconscious come up with, 
exactly?" Effy was bouncing, shifting the weight of their perfectly 
athletic form back and forth, smiling. 


Maria coughed. "From the outside, it seemed like a healthy enough 
deviation from your baseline. Seemed like the sort of thing that 
would help you blend in with civilian life a bit easier." 


"Doc," Effy said, no longer smiling. 


Maria took a deep breath. "Your new identity, uh... thought they 
were a conventional, XX-chromosomal woman who had 
experienced some sort of poorly-remembered accident." 


Effy stood stock still, staring coldly. Maria tried to take another step 
backwards and found that she was already up against the wall, with 
no course of retreat. 


After a moment, Effy burst into laughter, head rolling back slightly. 
"Oh, shit, doc," Effy said. "If | were her, I'd butcher your entire family 
for that travesty. | mean, a massacre. God made this shit perfectly. 
Have you seen this fucking body, doc?" They began doing yoga 
stretches, isolating one group of lean muscle after another. 


Maria sighed. "Effy, everyone who's ever been around you for more 
than fifteen minutes has seen that. You're fairly determined to 
demonstrate your lack of body modesty. Would you mind getting 
dressed, please? We still have one more operative to unretire, and 
there's not that much daylight left." 


"Sure thing, doc." Effy threw their workout clothes back on. 


As Effy was turning the corner, a door at the other end of the 
hallway opened. 


"Mommy?" a three-year-old said, rubbing her eyes to get the 
naptime out. 


Effy stopped, turned to Maria. "Who's the kid?" 


"You were babysitting,” Maria said matter-of-factly. "Nothing to worry 
about. We'll get her taken care of." 


Effy shrugged and continued out of the house. 


The three-year-old paused, yawned. "Mommy?" she said, slightly 
louder but without any real distress. 


"Shhh, shhh, it's okay," Maria said. "I'm a doctor. We need to just 
talk to your mommy for a minute by ourselves, okay?" 


The three-year-old's face scrunched up for a second, looked at 
Maria, then the floor, then back at Maria. "Trains?" 


Maria looked past the little girl and saw some Thomas and Friends 
train track sets on the floor of her bedroom. "Yes, darling, you can 
play with the trains," she said. "Mommy will be in to play with you in 
just a few minutes, 'kay? Make her something big, 'kay?" 


The three-year-old shook her head for a second, yawned again, and 


nodded. "Trains," she said, decisively, and turned around to go back 
into her room. 


Maria watched her go inside and closed the bedroom door behind 
the young girl. 


"Dr. Jones?" Alex was frowning. 


"Hang on," Maria said, pulling out a phone. She typed a seventeen- 
digit number in the "To:" box, tapped in the input, and handed it to 
Alex. "Type 'PROC 932-Montauk', ampersat, and whatever this 
address is," Maria said. 


Alexandra tapped. "Montauk?" she asked absently. 


"Containment procedures involving minors," Maria said. 


2011 CDT 


Alex had heard of some excellent restaurants that can be found in 
larger cities if you know which alleyways have them, as opposed to 
the alleyways that have mostly diseased murderers. The jury was 
still out on this particular alley. 


"Dr. Jones?" she asked nervously. "Is there a reason we're racing to 
this...whatever this building is supposed to be?" 


"Attitude," Maria said. "Have to project a certain attitude. | don't 
know what your experience is with this sort of nightclub, but you'll 
get eaten alive in here if they smell prey.” 


"So walking fast gives you more...attitude?" Alexandra asked. 


Maria paused for a second, blushed. "It...yes, dammit! That's part of 
it!" 


Alex shrugged. "If you say so, Dr. Jones." 


Maria walked directly up to the bouncer at the door and projected all 
of the "attitude" that five feet and eight inches of lvy League- 


educated Chicana recordkeeper could bring to the table. "We're 
here for Rasputin,” she said, in a tone that Alexandra assumed was 
intended to be "fierce", but was more accurately considered 
“chirping”. 


The bouncer looked Maria up and down, then Alexandra as well. 
"You got the password?" 


Maria reached into her jacket and removed a stack of hundred-dollar 
bills, wrapped in a metal clip. "I think one of them knows it," Maria 
said in a tone that Alexandra assumed was intended to be "purring", 
and what was more accurately considered "whispering." 


The bouncer took the clip, flipped through the bills to make sure they 
were actually hundreds, shrugged, and stepped aside. "The show 
hasn't started yet," he said. "You'll need to buy a ticket if you want to 
stay for the real thing." 


"We won't be staying," Maria said, pushing past. Alexandra followed 
as best she could, weaving her way inexpertly around the chairs and 
tables. "Remember," Maria continued, "Billy's built like a tank. That 
double-dose of mnestic you're holding isn't an accident. If something 
goes wrong, he's more than capable of snapping you like a twig. 
We're going to have to make sure he's really distracted before..." 


"You spend too much time behind a desk, Maria," a basso profundo 
voice boomed in the darkness. 


Alex jumped, almost dropped the syringe in her hand. Maria froze, 
eyes wide like a rabbit facing a wolf. "Billy," she said. 


A sound of two enormous hands clapping together, and the stage 
lights came on. Alexandra finally got to see the legendary Agent 
William Abrams in the flesh. He was six feet ten inches of jet black, 
sinewy muscle, the kind of body NFL linebackers wished they could 
have when they grew up. He was impressive enough seated in what 
looked like a wrought-iron throne in center stage, but as he stood, 
Alexandra was even more impressed at how gracefully he handled 
his eight-inch stiletto heels. 


The spotlights came on. Alexandra covered her eyes for a second, 


looking back as they adjusted. The words "LEGENDS NEVER DIE" 
were emblazoned in faux-Cyrillic neon tubes above Billy's head. Billy 
walked with a cheetah's perfect grace across stage left to steps that 
led down to the main floor. Putting one foot on the first step down, 
he turned back towards his throne and barked something in what 
Alexandra presumed to be Russian. 


The "wrought-iron" throne dissolved into six men, stark naked 
except for thongs and slate-grey body paint from head to toe. The 
six men went backstage, closing the door behind them. 


The three of them, Maria, Alexandra, and Billy, were alone. 


"Where's the needle?" Billy asked. His voice was low and 
mellifluous, a voice for late-night radio and old jazz records. 


"| don't know what you're ta —" 


"| do not have time for your bullshit equivocations, bitch," Billy 
snapped, hand on one hip, one perfectly manicured finger in the air 
in protest. "This queen is fucking busy. You never thought | was 
ignorant before; do not develop some kind of misconception now." 


Maria could only sputter. "How...how did you bypass the amnestic 
block?" 


Billy chuckled humorlessly. "Your drugs are fucking weak, bitch. A 
few interesting experiences with ayahuasca, DMT, and amy! nitrate, 
and my brain put itself back together. | remember everything, even 
without you crooning soft piano rock in my ear." 


"That's impossible," Maria said. 


"You told us that shit was experimental, right? Prototype amnestic 
technology? Guess what, Maria? Your tech needs work." 


Maria was shaking from what Alexandra presumed to be some 
combination of fear and anger. "You...you should have told us, 
Billy," Maria said. "You could have been in danger. You could have 
revealed classified information." 


Billy came toe-to-toe with Maria. This close, he was like some kind 


SCP-706: Daddy, please stop— 


Mr. : (slurred) —and all your goddamn girly bullshit 
can go to fucking hell. 


Mrs. : Honey, please— 


(camera is knocked over as the sound of a struggle 
ensue, no further video is recorded) 


Mrs. : Well, what more do you want? (sobbing) You 
know | can't have— 


(sounds of an altercation) 


SCP-706: Mommy, daddy, please! 


Mr. : (slurred) Oh, is that it, huh? You're finally 
gonna do it, is that it? 

Mrs. : (sobbing) Please... please stop... 

Mr. : (slurred) You can't give me a fucking son and 


you're going to pull a fucking gun on me, is that it? 


Mrs. : (sobbing) Please, just go away! 
Mr. : (slurred) Well do it! Pull the fucking trigger! 
(sounds of struggling) 


(two gunshots are heard) 

SCP-706: (screaming) [indecipherable] 
(single gunshot) 

SCP-706: (more screaming, sobbing) 
(end of recording) 


Addendum 706-2: Interview Transcript 


of Greek god: a Greek god in white lace and high heels. "Danger?" 
he rumbled. "Me?" 


Maria broke eye contact first. 


"So why the little well-check after all this time, hmm?" Billy asked, 
turning his back on the two women. "You just assumed | was still off 
being — what was his name? 'Damarcus Franklin’? Never letting 
you name a black man again, that's a goddamn fact."