SCP-809 was discovered by Foundation personnel in the attic of an 
abandoned building in _, France. Investigation confirms that the 
building was used as a field hospital from 1915 to 1917. 


SCP-809 is activated by a subject donning both boots and closing 
his or her eyes for five to ten seconds. Upon activation, subjects 
experience a vision from the point of view of a French Corporal in 
battle. Drs. | and_, both amateur military historians, have 
identified the setting as one of the innumerable trenches dug along 
the French/German border during the War. For the duration, the 
vision is perceived as reality. 


Note that the subject need not be willing or conscious - activation 
may be achieved under sedation, as long as the subject's eyes are 
closed. 


While minor details differ through separate tests, the general outline 


given who it was from (or maybe, if some of the hypotheses she had 
read were to be believed, who the bowl was emulating), she 
certainly didn’t believe that the bow! would manifest one for her. 


But there it was, plain as day, in faded blue letters. It was in English, 
which made sense enough to her. He did know Mandarin, but he 
preferred his first language when speaking with her, as she and her 
mother had always poked fun at his frequent Chinese 
malapropisms. She thought it might have even been his own neat 
handwriting that she was looking at, but it was hard to tell through 
her rapidly blurring vision. 


"| haven't forgotten you Alison." 


Alison Chao wept silent tears, each one dropping down into the bowl 
and settling around the bottom. This was what she had wanted. 
Something to surprise her. Something that caught her off guard. She 
wouldn't have regretted it had it been something that told her he had 
forgotten her. However devastating it might have been, it was 
infinitely better than not knowing for sure. But he did remember her. 
He still thought about her. Still might have even loved her. 


Alison breathed deep, and composed herself. She realized that her 
trembling lips had curled into a smile. She wiped away her tears, 
brought her middle and index finger to her lips, kissed them softly, 
and pressed them against the message. 


She was just putting the bowl back in the cupboard, when she 
realized something else that she hadn’t been expecting. Despite 
how unimpressive the soup had been, she still felt like it would be 
nice enough to have with dinner. And maybe tomorrow's lunch, too. 


She’d only been planning on keeping the bowl for a day or two, but 
she was sure that a week or so without it wouldn't drive anyone at 
the Foundation to drastic action. Nothing that she couldn't handle, in 
any event. They could make all the fuss they liked; she was going to 
spend Father's Day weekend with her dad. 


ALERT NOTICE: YELLOW 
On 06/22/2015, at 1330 hours, SCP-348 was found to be 
returned to its containment locker. Attached to the front 


of the locker was a handwritten letter addressed to a 
member of Senior Staff. Security personnel are currently 
searching for evidence that will lead to the apprehension 
the Black Queen or any associates of this individual, 
though nothing of significance has yet been found. 


Alert-level has been lowered to Condition Yellow, and 
security protocols have been adjusted accordingly. 


Director Tilda D. Moose 


Catch Your Death 


"So, let me get this straight," said Agent Shields, flipping through the 
folder he had been pondering over. "You commissioned a mass 
murder of D-Class personnel by firing squad, set up a series of 
unnecessarily elaborate traps, and cost the Foundation around a 
dozen researchers... all so you could catch the Grim Reaper?" 


Doctor Sheridan grinned broadly as he took the SCP report back 
from Shields. "Sure did, boy. And don't call my traps elaborate. 
Those things were child's play to make and set up." 


"Sir, you're dodging the real issue here. | just want to know, along 
with everyone else, why you did it." 


Sheridan's brow furrowed significantly. He had never been one for 
dealing with those who couldn't understand his brilliance, and 
Shields had always pestered him with those petty questions, details 
that in the vast scheme of things didn't matter. Still, he felt obliged to 
answer, if only to suffer one less fool. 


"Why? Well, why not? You might not be the brightest, Shields, but 
surely you've been paying attention to your surroundings. Catching 
the bastard's been the best thing to happen to the Foundation since 
its creation! Due to the dampening effect we've put around his cell, 
Death doesn't have any powers. We also stripped him of everything 
on his person, and posted a dozen guards outside the main cell 
alone. Ergo, we've got him locked up so tight that nobody can ever 
die again!" He stood up with his arms spread wide at this last 
sentence. 


A silence fell over the room as Shields stared down at Spencer 
Sheridan. He too had a strong hatred for the other man, though in 
his case it was due to a lack of patience for those absorbed in 
themselves. There was the temptation to finish the mission right 
then and there, but he needed to keep things going for now. 


"Sir... | don't think you see the implications of what you've done. By 
rendering a good deal of the SCPs harmless, you've put 
unknowable amounts of people out of work, and..." 


Sheridan put a finger to his lips and shushed Shields. "You hit the 
nail on the head there, boyo. The SCPs are harmless. The whole 
point of this place is to Secure, Contain, and Protect. Now tell me, is 
that not better accomplished if none of these creatures and objects 
pose a threat?" Shields continued to stand stock still, not moving a 
muscle, so Sheridan sighed and continued. "Just look at what this 
has done for us! We're making huge strides towards dismantling 173 
now that it's not willing to attack us!" 


"Yes, but..." said Shields, thinking of the fifty men incapacitated for 
life before the statue stopped attacking. 


"Or how, since we can survive the tortures it inflicts, 212 has given 
us dozens of super agents?" And dozens more sent into permanent 
comas. "Try and tell me that isn't a good thing!" Shields made 
another move to speak, but Sheridan was on a roll. "Or how we're 
able to safely study 008 to our heart's content?" Sixteen men 
chopped into pieces. "Or the massive profit from 447?" Untellable 
damage from exposure to previous dead bodies. "Hell, 590's more 
effective than it's ever been!" Shields clenched his fists. "Point is, 
boy, I've solved every single problem the Foundation could 
foreseeably have. | don't understand why you'd ask such a silly 
question as - why do you have your weapon out?" 


While the Researcher had been blathering off into space, the Agent 
had slowly unholstered his gun, and was now pointing it squarely at 
his face. "Christ, | can't stand listening to you. Now please listen, 
sir," he sneered, "and listen good. Nobody cares how many great 
things you've done with this whole 'Catching Death' business. The 
point is that the evils you've wrought far outweigh the good. We can't 
stand for that around here." 


Spencer Sheridan went pale in the face as he tried to look for a way 
out of his predicament. An Agent, one of the most worthless 
positions in his mind, was threatening him, and he couldn't run. 
What to do? 


At length, color returned and a smile played over his face. "Now, 
now, Shields," he chuckled, "you know you can't do this. I've got the 
bloody Grim Reaper in containment! So shoot me all you like, 
because | cannot...!" 


A bullet flew from the chamber of the gun, and slammed square into 
the Researcher's chest. He stumbled for a moment, his mouth 
flapping uselessly, before he hit the ground with a low thud. Pulling 
himself onto his hands and knees, Sheridan gasped for breath, and 
grunted, "You... you can't kill me Shields... you can't kill me... we're 
all immortal..." 


"Not anymore," said Shields, staring down at the man before him in 
disgust. "Or at least, not for very much longer. We're releasing the 
Grim Reaper in an hour or two, so everything you've done will have 
been for naught. Of course, we've rounded up all the SCPs and 
worked hard to minimize the damage, so you don't need to worry 
about that." Sheridan tried to speak, but he could already feel 
himself fading. "What I'd worry about, if | were you, is the fact that 
you'll be in some pretty bloody bad pain before expiring." 


The Researcher tried to make one last protest to the Agent, one last 
attempt to buy his way back to life. But his lungs had failed him, and 
Shields was already on his way out, establishing contact with 
someone over the radio. "Hello? Yes, | did what you asked. Mission 
accomplished. Anything else you'd like done with him before you get 
here?" 


Catharsis 


"In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering 
how in the world she was to get out again." 


Detective Jason Fritz took a final puff from his cigarette before 
tossing it into the river before him, watching as it vanished beneath 
the crashing tides. The irritation in his lungs kept him alert and 
focused on nights like these, where the hours seemed to compound 
and shifts dragged into the morning hours. There were many other, 
much more private reasons he continued to smoke even after the 
diagnosis, but he had managed to convince himself being alert 
made everything worth it. 


"Really gotta quit that shit, man." 


The voice of that 20 year old fucker chief had stuck with him - 
Roger, he thought his name was - forced its way into his ears like a 
knife. Jason rose to his feet and about-faced, coming within feet of 
his partner. 


"Thanks, doc." 

The boy scoffed. "Just looking out for you, old timer." 
"You know I'm 35, right?" 

"Yeah, what's your point?" 


Jason rifled through his pockets in search of another cigarette. 
"Nevermind." He turned sharply, gazing at a blue tarp gently flapping 
in the wind. "What's your theory?" 


"My theory?" The boy shook his head. "Seems like a pretty cut and 
dry suicide to me." 


"Why here, though?" 


"What do you mean?" 
"Why do it here?" 


The boy shrugged. "Maybe it was convenient. Maybe he didn't have 
a gun. | dunno. Point is, we don't have anything suggesting foul 
play." A finger rose towards the bridge. "Part of the railing is out. 
Probably forced his way through it on the way down." 


"Forced his way through it?" Jason gestured towards the body. 
"Guy's a chubby egghead. Worked for some pharmaceutical 
company a couple miles from here. Don't you think it's a little 
strange that he somehow pushed through solid metal?" 


"Stranger things have happened, detective." 


"Yeah." Jason exhaled a cloud of tobacco smoke before inserting 
his hand into the dead man's coat pocket. He fished around 
aimlessly for several seconds before finding a solid object - plastic, 
maybe. Removing his hand, Jason gazed upon an identification 
card, still slightly bent from being printed. 


"Antonio Rodriguez." He mumbled, putting on a slight Latino accent. 
"Started working there three days ago. | looked him up on 
Facebook. Tony here married his childhood sweetheart only a few 
weeks back." 


The boy inhaled in irritation. "What are you suggesting, detective?" 


"What I'm suggesting is that you're wrong." He looked up at the 
bridge, broken pieces of metal still swaying in the wind. "Why would 
a guy happily in love with a brand new job do this?" 


The boy began to speak, but Jason silenced him. 


"It's rhetorical." Jason glared at him. "Let's take a look around. See if 
there's anything worth our time." 


The two men joined each other and began walking into the night, a 
cold breeze jolting their ties. 


"You believe in ghosts, kid?" 


He sneered. "Not really, why?" 


His eyes darted away from the boy and fell to what remained of his 
smoke. "No reason. Don't worry about it." 


Jason flicked the cigarette to his side and watched as it slowly 
burned out, leaving nothing but a dry, cracked husk of paper and 
ash next to the body of Antonio Rodriguez. 


The person you are trying to reach is not able to take your call 
at this time. At the tone, please record your message. When 
you are finished recording, hang up or use the keypad to select 
more options. 


Lisa, it's me. | don't have a lot of time to talk, so | need you to listen 
carefully and call me back as soon as you can. | am so sorry for 
what is happening. | never meant for any of this to happen. All | 
wanted was to keep you safe. | just wanted a second chance. 
They're not going to leave me alone. | just called Mark and told him 
to give you the stuff inside of my safe. One of those things is a note. 
Do not read it. Keep it in a safe place and do not tell anyone that you 
have it. If you ever open it, they will find and come for you. Please, 
for God's sake, don't open it. 


| love you so much that words cannot begin to describe it. | am so 
sorry for what is about to happen. I'm so sorry. | love you. 


"See? | told you. Cut and dry." 


The boy motioned towards the broken railing, blood still glistening in 
the summer moonlight. Jason reached for his smokes and grimaced 
in frustration when he realized they were finally gone. 


"Still sticking to that theory, yeah?" 


"What other explanations are there?" He chuckled. "You think he 
charged through it like a fucking linebacker?" 


"Show some goddamn respect." Jason's voice was firm, yet not 
hostile. The boy's smile gradually receded into a submissive scowl 


while his superior analyzed the area, looking for any evidence of 
Rodriguez. He ultimately found some dangling from a piece of metal 
nearly 200 feet off the ground. 


"You see that?" 

"Yeah. Looks like ash." 

"Because it is." The detective gritted his teeth. "| can smell it, too." 
"Smell what?" 


Jason rose to his feet. "He didn't charge through this at all. 
Somebody burned through it with thermite." An air of discomfort 
washed over the men. "If this was a suicide, he planned for it very 
well." 


"You saying he was murdered?" 


"No, not necessarily. It's just unusual." He exhaled and fell to a 
knee, leaning closer to the ash. "Reminds me of something. You 
ever heard of something called the Chaos Insurgency?" 


"Can't say | have." 


"Don't blame you. If it weren't for bits and pieces I've picked up over 
the years, | wouldn't either. Hearing about them is already difficult, 
and finding them is even harder." Jason let out a wheezy exhale. 
"Back when | was a beat cop in New York, we got a two-eleven. 
Nothing unusual about that of course, so | walked over to the bank. | 
was Close to it at the time, so | actually beat the patrol guys." 


The boy listened intently, crossing his arms and falling into a relaxed 
stance. 


"Three guys, all of them armed with AK's. They were using thermite 
to cut into the vault. You could smell it from blocks away. Smelled 
like a goddamn warzone." 


"Did you get them?" 


"That's the thing." Jason turned away and stared intently at the ash. 


"Before any of our guys moved in, they were already dead. Nobody 
else was in the bank at the time, and they had shot out of all the 
cameras. Nobody had any clue what happened until they did the 
autopsies. All we knew was what the security cameras captured - a 
few conversations about some doctor at a research facility and an 
insurgency." 


The boy crossed his arms in confusion. "So how'd they die?” 


Without turning towards him, Jason replied, "Self inflicted gunshot 
wounds to the temple." 


And, in a moment, Jason felt his pace quicken as his mind finally put 
the pieces together. 

Yeah, hello? 

Hey, Mark. 

Tony? 

Yeah. 

Christ, man. Do you know what fucking time it is? 

Sorry, | just - you know, | just needed to talk to someone. 

At three o'clock in the goddamn morning? 

You know | wouldn't call you if it wasn't serious.