Delilah made some kind of gesture but between her halo of wind- 
blown scarves and the dim light of the crescent moon Sam couldn't 
tell if it was a yea or nay. Tang evidently had no such problems and 
shoved Sam toward the rope. "Go on up; we're ready." 


Sam felt himself climbing, felt his face turn from unease to grim, 
bloody, determination. He looked out at the moonlight glinting off the 
oil-black harbor. It occurred to him that he could die doing this thing 
that he never got a solid reason for doing. Growing up Sam had 
been terrified of heights, the fall from the second-story roof after a 
close encounter with a wayward bat had seen to that. Intellectually 
he knew he should be afraid but the flight response refused to kick 


in. Why did he want to do this? 


At the top of the tower Delilah had already begun. Tiny LEDs had 
been scattered around the floor, giving the impression that stars had 
fallen here. She'd pulled out a can of spray-paint and was busily 
tagging the ceiling of the dilapidated tower with symbols Sam faintly 
recognized from one of her books. She caught him staring. "It's so 
others can find a Way, Sam." 


He nodded, feigning understanding. 


Below them Tang had eagerly begun to scrawl "Fuck Security" on 
the side of the tower, complete with a "no" circle around a crude 
drawing of a camera. "Yeah! your Panopticon is full of holes you 
barmy gits!" was shouted at nobody in particular. 


"She's doing it again eh?" came the chipper voice of Dr. Nelson. 


"Yeah," Delilah said as if his sudden, unannounced appearance at 
the top of an old, abandoned, industrial tower was entirely normal. 
"Let her have her fun." 


"How the hell did you get up here!" Sam shouted. 
"Did you get the words, Nelson?" Delilah didn't miss a beat. 


"Yes," Nelson put his hand on Sam's shoulder and stared into his 
eyes. Before Sam had a chance to push him away Nelson barked, 
"There's no gain from struggle!" 


The last thing Sam heard was a rebel yell from Tang. 


+ show block 


Sam found himself in a medieval house out in Lower Bitchfield, a 
quaint English nowhere. Delilah was there, Nelson was there. They 
asked him questions. How did he feel? What did he want? Who was 
he? And Sam, for the first time in a long time didn't feel his body 
answer for him. He didn't know how to answer. 


Delilah had given him a sad look and hugged him. She said that was 
sadly normal for people like him. "Nelson is right too often. He could 
tell from the moment he met you. He never gave that talk in 
Glasgow, he had to cancel last minute, had a graduate student 
cover for him. It was a test, Sam." 


"Excuse me?" 


Tang had done the investigation. Sam had never been admitted to 
the hospital, nor was it terribly likely that Sam was actually Sam 
Weatherby since Mr. Weatherby had been dead for several weeks. 
Sam had never really been at all. 


"Basically you're a living chatbot, built to seek out certain logos and 
phrases," Nelson had said. "To hunt down information on The 
Movement and forward it to people who would do us harm. It's quite 
ingenious in a existential horror sort of way. The best kind of spy is a 
spy who does not know they are a spy. One you can turn off with a 
simple phrase when you need to." 


"If by ingenious you mean terrible,” Delilah retorted. "What kind of 
monsters would make other people into walking, agency-free 
drones?" 


"You know exactly who. But that doesn't matter now." Nelson gave 
Sam a look. "What matters is what Sam here is going to do now that 
he's aware again." 


"What do | want to do?" Sam queried his mental congress, found it 
full of rage and existential dread, found it full of vague dispossessed 
sadness, found the mechanical calls and responses that had been 
his face to the world. Sam knew. Sam was his own man. 


He placed the manilla folder on top of the third garbage bin behind 
"Anand's Indian Tastebud”. There was a light mist in the air, making 
London into a washed up graphic tee. Sam turned and left, not 
looking back. Across the street Delilah and Nelson waited in the van. 
He hopped in the back. They waited. 


After about 40 minutes of silent anticipation they had their bite. A 
clean-cut man in a dour, black suit emerged from a nearby 


apartment and made a bee-line for the garbage cans. He stuffed the 
folder in his coat and purposely walked away. 


Nelson kicked the engine into gear and drove away, tension rapidly 
decreasing as the van ambled further and further away from 
Anand's Indian Tastebud. 


"How do you feel, Sam?" Delilah asked, placing a hand on his 
shoulder. 


It felt right. He felt right. 


And that was how Sam Weatherby became a double agent. 


Stolen, Gilded, Stolen, Saved 


| had been beautiful once... | suppose I’m beautiful still. But by the 
time | woke up they had already covered me in jewels and gold and 
ivory, put me on a steel rack and polished me to an unnatural gleam. 
Obviously | wasn’t beautiful enough for them. Encrusted with gaudy 
rocks and metal, | watched the crowd as | was wheeled out, the 
auctioneer telling my ‘story’. He upsold me as being fitted with ‘the 
most precious gemstones and genuine ivory, carved by the finest 
craftsmen alive’, and that | would be ‘the beautiful, perfectly unique 
centrepiece of any collection’. | remember the crowd murmuring in 
shadows, the air of excess filling the room like a stinking fog. The 
bidding soon began - one hundred, hundred fifty, two, three, five, 
seven - soon the auctioneer went silent, simply pointing at numbers 
in the crowd. I’m not sure how much | was ‘worth’. | don’t want to 
know. 


| spent the rest of the night stored off to the side, among paintings 
and sculpture and God knows what else. Even after the auction itself 
ended, as | sat in the dark under a sheet, | could hear the after-party 
down the hall. Hollow laughter and quiet music and muted chatter, 
pretentious to the nth degree. They sounded so confident in 
themselves. It was horribly intimidating. 


Later some men came in, wrapped me up tight, put me to a crate, 
and wheeled me away somewhere else. The movers weren't gentle 
with me. There was movement and talking, some dusty rays of light 
peeking through the spaces between the boards - and then it all 
went dark, muffled. It was claustrophobic in there, like | was put ina 
coffin too early; | felt like screaming, but nobody would hear. 


I’m not sure how long | was in transit, but eventually | was unloaded 
and unwrapped, set in front of the one who bought me. He was old 
and sharp looking, with leering eyes like a vulture and the coldest 
hands I’ve ever, ever felt. His very presence was terrifying and 
inhumanly cruel as he inspected the precious ivory and gemstones 


D-713-054 appeared in its place, standing on the ground in a neutral 
position. Subject expressed agitation and confusion, stating that her 
arm felt "wrong". Cursory medical examination revealed that her left 
radius had disappeared completely, leaving all other associated 
structures intact. Upon further questioning, she stated that she was 
aware that time had passed since Incident 713-03 but that she could 
remember very little: 


Dr. : Please describe what you experienced inside 
SCP-713. 


D-713-054: |... Uh... It was really weird. Like | was 
dreaming or something. 


Dr. :Can you recall any details at all? 
D-713-054: Do | have to? 
Dr. : Recalcitrance will be noted. 


D-713-054: Okay... It was like... Like | was being broken 
up into pieces. It didn't hurt, really, but it was... (Subject 
pauses for several seconds.) Scary. Like a nightmare. 


Dr. : How many pieces, and how big? 


D-713-054: How am | supposed to know that? It wasn't 
one of those dreams that make sense. 


Note: Subsequent interviews with "Trashed" D-class (see Tests 34- 
) corroborate these results. Personnel dragged out of the Recycle 
Bin are consistently unable to give any detailed description of the 
experience. Some lie, some generate false memories, and some 
simply state lack of knowledge. Every test to date has resulted in 
one or more small body parts disappearing upon reconstitution. 


Test 83 

Date: / /20 

Subject: "Trash" function, standard digital video camera 
Procedure: Camera set to record and dragged into the Recycle Bin. 
SCP-713 left to run uninterrupted for 60 minutes. Camera-containing 


that adorned me, his breath somehow both careless and greedy as 
he laughed with the men that took me from the box. His ‘morbid 
antiquity’ was what he called me. | was chilled down to my bones. 


Soon he decided that he had better things to do, and had me set in 
a corner in the frigid room, among his gallery of expensive things 
that deserved better. | remember a painting of a rowboat ona 
riverbank, with two children, a boy and a girl, walking along the other 
shore. For some reason that stuck with me - it makes me want to 
cry, to think something so innocent was owned by that man. The 
entire gallery was like a crypt, a hideous chamber packed with 
things that would be better off dead and buried. It was the darkest 
place I’ve ever been in, and at the same time it was lit with the most 
tasteful fluorescent lighting I’d ever seen. 


Time passed and | was moved to a big, vaulted room with 
chandeliers and tables, put up in front of a stage and podium. That 
night the man had invited dozens of ‘his associates’ to wine and dine 
on a whim. | remember the man was complimented on his taste in 
decor by a nasty, witchy looking woman in a red dress. She looked 
right at me. She knew | heard. | hated her. 


| hated everyone in that room. 


After that horrid ordeal he had me put back in that corner of his 
gallery, where | stayed for God knows how long. | was there for too 
long. More than a few days, maybe weeks. After a long while | could 
hear voices echoing down the hallway. | recognized the man’s voice 
instantly, it made me nauseous to hear - but there was also a 
woman. She seemed warmer, almost familiar to me. If it wasn’t for 
the man’s voice | would have almost felt relief; by the time they 
finally turned on the lights | was shaking hard enough to rattle the 
stand. 


She seemed so familiar. | couldn’t place her face, but | knew her. | 
definitely knew her from before this horrible time. She looked 
heartbroken when she saw what had become of me, and got right to 
work at unhooking my spine and ribs and arms from the stand. She 
helped me shake off the jewellery and took the rubies out of my eye 
sockets, and the crown from my skull. If | had skin it would probably 
be bruised from the weight of it all. | still have marks on my bones. 


| can’t really remember what happened after that. | remember 
holding the woman’s hand and being led at a dead run down a 
hallway. | was led down some stairs and outside and then | was in 
the Library. 


My saviour stayed with me for a long while. She’s something like my 
guardian angel; she got me clothes and helped me find a place for 
myself, and helped me learn to take care of myself after what I’d 
been through. She introduced me to the Hand, and her allies there 
who helped her find me and break me out. | owe everything to them, 
really; the Hand saved my life. 


And now, I’m going to try and save yours. 


Birdseed 


Twitter. Tweet. Chirp. Cheep. Glarblegurglewurblebruuuupslurp. 


There are many words for the sounds of birds, Sylvain Ailier thinks 
to himself. But it’s hard to get the sounds of the words right. 


Slllsslsllggglglgllsllsggg. 


A hummingbird, he guesses. He’s heard that strange combination of 
gurgling and slurping before, and usually the sound is accompanied 
by the sight of a deceptively innocent-looking tiny bird. Sylvain 
yawns and hops out of the almost cradle-like circle of weeping 
willow branches he’d picked out as a sleeping spot the night before. 


Stretching out his arms and rotating his neck, the bird mage glances 
at the coat he’d been using as a blanket. Rummaging in the pockets, 
he withdraws a small cloth bag of birdseed. Smiling to himself, he 
pulls aside the hanging leaves of the weeping willow and walks out 
into the crisp morning air. 


His wandering journeys had taken him to many picturesque places, 
and the mountain lake he’d stumbled upon while following a swallow 
was no exception. He enjoys this carefree, never-tied-down life, 
learning a little spellcasting here, some new words there. Whistling 
cheerfully, Sylvain pours a liberal amount of birdseed into his open 
hand. He considers the amount, then sprinkles some of the seeds 
on his shoulders and sits down. His trusty spirit staff, a keepsake of 
his first mentor, rests on the ground in front of him. 


First a small songbird wings its way towards him, perching on his 
shoulder and pecking at the bird seed. An oriole stops by for a brief 
moment to sit on his hand and look at him, and soon Sylvain is 
surrounded by bright eyes and feathers. 


He looks up when a shadow passes over and something with a 
wingspan the length of fifty little birds lands in front of him. 


A Legendary Crow, Sylvain recognizes as the figure approaches on 
silent feet. Traditional clothes, avian and human features (arms, 
legs, wings), Japanese Tengu, perhaps. Whatever it is, it seems to 
be eying the still-open bag of birdseed lying on the ground. Sylvain 
waits patiently for the birds swarming around him to fly off into the 
trees, and wordlessly picks up the bag of birdseed and hands it to 
the crow-man, who rasps a word of thanks. 


“Honored brother, what brings you to me?” 


The crow-man pauses in his inspection of the birdseed, pulling his 
beak out of the bag. He folds his wings neatly, rummages in a 
traveler's pack slung over his back, and withdraws a small paper- 
wrapped box. Sylvain takes the proffered item and the crow goes 
back to pecking at the bag of birdseed. 


Puzzling out the scrawled characters in black ink on the paper 
wrapping, Sylvain figures out that he is to make a delivery, to 
someone who lives deep in these mountains. Very deep. At least 
half the day’s journey, plus time for stopping to ask directions many 
times. Sylvain glances at his spirit staff, glad for the many birds that 
live in the area. 


Remembering his manners, the bird mage bows to the Tengu, 
tucking the box into a pocket of his coat. “Consider it done,” Sylvain 
says, and is rewarded with a friendly squawk from the crow-man 
before he takes off into the sky again. 


Sylvain is halfway to his destination and thoroughly lost when he 
realizes that the Tengu never gave back the birdseed. 


Shiritori Zakuro looks up from the elegant spray of leaves she is 
carving on the wooden handle of what will soon be a demon 
priestess’s comb. “Come in,” she calls over her shoulder, as she 
shifts in her seat and leaves her workspace. Her cotton robe trails a 
bit on the ground as she creeps on four red exoskeleton feet toward 
the entryway of her home, but it is the layers upon layers of folded 
paper decorations that she wears that weigh her down more. Paper 
birds and delicate kusudama tied with thin silk cord are woven into 


her long hair, and rustle with every move she makes. 


When he first meets her, Sylvain wonders if Master Shiritori 
considers herself a fire hazard, what with all the paper she wears. 
He does not bring up this point at any time he converses with her.