He carefully swept around the edges of the devil's circle. The thing 
inside the circle hurt Jerry's eyes to look at. It sometimes whispered 
things, but Jerry was never able to quite understand it. He was glad 
for that. The others said it made the most terrible promises. 


Finally, he was near the end of the hallway. 


"You! Boy!" A pair of haunted eyes stared from over a long, broken 
nose. 


"Sir?" Jerry said politely. He always tried to be nice to the other 
subjects. He didn't have any other friends. 


"Send for help! CHICANEROUS GANGSTER CONSPIRACY! The 
Dracula men from Venus are a constant threat, and we must be 
warned!" 


"| tried, Mr. Decray," Jerry said. "I tried calling the police. They all 
left, and | got put in the time-out box." That was when the phone in 
the guard's break room was removed. 


"Not the police, this is too big! CHICANEROUS GANGSTER 
CONSPIRACY FASCISTS! Call 555-727-7560! Press five, and say 
bixby actual to save the world. Bixby actual!" 


"| don't have a phone," Jerry said. He really wished Mr. Decray 
would stop shouting. It was better when things were quiet (or as 
quiet as they could be with the screaming man). People didn't get 
angry. Sometimes they wouldn't even take anyone upstairs for a 
while. 


"Then you need to find one. A phone. 555-727-7560! Five and bixby 
actual!" The man tried to grab at Jerry, but was just a few inches too 
far. 


"I'll remember," Jerry said, taking a few more steps back. It was 
better to humor him. He couldn't get out, but he could yell, and one 
man screaming was enough. Besides, it wasn't Mr. Decray's fault he 
was like that. 


"I'm not crazy! 555-727-7560! 555—" The man's voice cut off toa 
sputter as a spray of water hit him in the face. 


"That's enough," one of the guards said, putting down the hose. 
"Don't make me put you in the box." 


The man gibbered a bit, but then choked off the words, and huddled 
back in the cell. Jerry felt bad for him. He'd been almost normal 
when the guards first brought him in, but after a few sessions with 
Mr. Greenberg, this was one of his better days. 


Jerry finished the sweeping, and one of the guards took the broom. 
As Jerry walked back to his own cell, he heard a defiant voice 
whisper "7560! Five and bixby actual." 


SCP-710: Disappearance 


Item #: SCP-710 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-710 is to be cordoned off 
by a perimeter fence with constant patrols and all roads leading in to 
the site must be guarded with armed checkpoints. All airspace 
above SCP-710 is considered a no-fly zone, which must be 
constantly monitored and enforced. Any violations of these security 
measures by unauthorized intruders can be resolved with the use of 
lethal force if necessary. 


It is forbidden for any Foundation personnel to enter SCP-710 
without Level 4 clearance. Only D-class personnel and unmanned 
reconnaissance vehicles may enter SCP-710 for research purposes. 
Should containment of SCP-710 fail, immediate airstrike of SCP-710 
and the surrounding area in a five mile radius is authorized. 


Description: SCP-710 is an abandoned suburban housing 
development located in . However, any and all organic life 
that enters SCP-710 will eventually disappear without a trace. 
Exactly how or why this phenomenon occurs is currently unknown, 
but video recordings of test subjects have revealed several distinct 
stages. 


Initial Stage (Exposure time: none): Subjects show no outward sign 
of anything wrong. However, there is noticeable anxiety and stress 
related to a sudden shift to a new environment, as well as the 
naturally foreboding atmosphere SCP-710 produces due to its 
abandoned state. Subjects still respond to external stimuli normally. 


Middle Stage (Exposure time: 7-8 days): Subjects begin to establish 
a daily routine through a combination of self-interest, boredom, and 
orders from Foundation staff. At this point, early symptoms of 
exposure to SCP-710 appear. Subjects become much more 


Jerry sat down on his bunkbed. He had the bottom bunk. Duncan 
had the top bunk. Duncan was sometimes a cat, but was currently a 
man. "How's the gang?" he asked. 


"They're fine,” Jerry said. "Mr. Quiet gave me a cookie.” 

"He's good people,” Duncan said. 

"Do you have any problems for me?" Jerry asked. 

"Hmm. Get out the paper," Duncan said. 

Jerry pulled out some sheets and a pencil from under the bed. 
"51 times 14. 714 divided by 6. Aaaaand... The square root of 
1156." There was a shifting, and then Duncan was a cat, jumping 
down to watch Jerry. 


These were hard, but they passed the time. 


The door opened, and a tall, burly man looked in. He grimaced, 
showing off triangular, shark-like teeth. It was Rodriguez, the head 
of security. "Break room, now," he growled. 


Jerry quickly got to his feet. Duncan would make sure the papers 
were put away. He didn't want to make Mr. Rodriguez mad (though, 
Mr. Rodriguez was usually mad anyway). 


He followed the guard to the breakroom. Someone had spilled a pot 
of coffee. Jerry went and grabbed the mop and bucket. He began 
working. 


"Fuck," Rodriguez said. "I'm needed in the office. This better be 
cleaned by the time | get back, you little shit.” 


It didn't take long. As Jerry put the mop and bucket away, he noticed 
someone had left their phone on the table. 


He hesitated a moment, then picked it up, and dialed the number 
Mr. Decray had said. 


"Sal's Calzones and Pizzas," said a man on the other end. "This is 


Sal." 
Jerry's heart sank. Mr. Decray was crazy after all. 
"Hello?" Sal asked. "Anybody there?" 


Jerry decided he wanted to be able to at least tell Mr. Decray he'd 
done what he'd asked. It might make him happy. So, he pressed 
five, and whispered, "Bixby. Actual." He closed the phone and was 
putting it back when a hand grabbed him by the collar and slammed 
him into the table. 


"Who'd you call, you little fucker? Who'd you call?" Rodriguez 
squeezed his arm so hard that tears started to fall down Jerry's 
cheeks. 


"Nobody," Jerry said, trying to keep on his feet as his arm was 
wrenched around. "I was just..." 


"Don't lie to me! You want to be put in the box? You want that?" 
Rodriguez picked up the phone with his other hand, and pressed 
some buttons, before listening. He closed it again. "You were trying 
to order a fucking pizza?" he asked, contempt heavy in his voice. 
"You little shit. Get back to your cell." 


Jerry was lifted to his feet and shoved back into the hallway. He ran 
back to the cell. He made a tent from his blanket, and Duncan sat 
down and told him stories until he felt better. 


"We've got a call. It's a front known to Decray, but we're 90% sure it 
wasn't Decray on the other end of the line." 


"Trace it." 


It was testing day, and Jerry was pulled roughly from the cell. He 
didn't struggle. It never made anything better. 


Rodriguez hauled him up the stairs, and to Mr. Greenberg's 
laboratory. There was glassware everywhere, though Jerry had 
never seen Mr. Greenberg do anything with it. The Bunsen burner 


had seen some use, though. 


"Mr. Rodriguez." Mr. Greenberg sat at his desk, wearing his lab 

coat, stroking his greasy brown goatee. "You are late. You know 
how much store | put in punctuation, and yet you cannot rub two 
neutrons together in your head and make it on time." 


"Sorry, Dr. Greenberg,” Rodriguez said. His eyes had the glassy 
look most people had when they talked to Mr. Greenberg. 


Jerry wondered about that, sometimes. Everyone else, even the 
other test subjects, had trouble saying anything against Mr. 
Greenberg or doing things he didn't want to. They weren't scared to, 
they just couldn't. It didn't work on Jerry. He wondered if it was 
because he just didn't know better. 


"You cannot imagine my exacerbation right now," Greenberg 
continued. "The Greenberg Anomaly Group is at the forefront of 
human endeavor, and you can't keep to a simple timetable. 
Sometimes | wonder why | pulled you back from the circle." 


Rodriguez's fingers tensed. He always got nervous if you mentioned 
the devil. 


Jerry got nervous when Mr. Rodriguez got nervous. The guard hada 
tendency to take it out on anyone smaller than him. 


"Now, Dash Five, what is to be done with you? Speak up, now." 


"Nothing, sir," Jerry said. He just wanted to be back in his cell. But 
he knew that they wouldn't let him, not until they'd done something 
to him, some sort of test. Hopefully it would be quick. Sometimes it 
hardly took any time at all, and he could leave. Though, that almost 
made it worse, because he never knew how long it was going to 
take. It was a terrible thing to have hope, sometimes. 


"Nothing? But we must do something. Do you not realize that you 
are a threat to humanity? A danger to the very realities of nature? 
You must be studied, and we must learn your secrets. You area 

nigma, and | will decipher you." 


Jerry didn't say anything. He just looked down at the floor and 


waited for Mr. Greenberg to decide what to do with him today. 


"Now let's start with a simple test. Let's test your regenerative 
propensities, shall we?" Mr. Greenberg pulled out a scalpel. "Hold 
his arm out, Mr. Rodriguez." 


Jerry struggled in the heavy-set man's grip, but he was no match for 
the adult. 


"Now, a simple incision... like so." The knife bit down into Jerry's 
arm, opening another cut. "Now we watch." 


Jerry bit down on his lip as he watched the blood flowing down his 
arm. He focused on the bowl they used to catch it. He hoped this 
was all they did to him. It hurt, but that's all it did. 


"Sir, how long are we going to keep doing this?" Rodriguez asked. 
"You been at this for years. He'll bleed, and then he'll have a cut, 
just like all the other times." It wasn't, Jerry felt sure, that Rodriguez 
cared about the pain. But the guard constantly complained about 
having to haul "test subjects" up and down the stairs. 


"Mr. Rodriguez! Are you critiquing my technique? Perhaps you 
would like another playdate with the class four devibolic entity!" Mr. 
Greenberg's eyes glowed. They did that, sometimes, when he got 
upset. 


"No, no, Dr. Greenberg. I'll be good." Jerry couldn't see the guard's 
face, but he took a quiet satisfaction in his fear. Rodriguez nervous 
was cruel, but Rodriguez scared was too busy cringing to lash out. 
He probably wouldn't ask again for weeks. 


"Now, it appears that nothing is happening, but when we wipe away 
the blood, we find... that nothing is happening. Why are you 
frustrating my efforts, Dash Five? We know you are anomalous, but 
you refuse to cooperate." 


"I'm sorry," Jerry said. He wished he could do something that Mr. 
Greenberg wanted. Then maybe he'd stop hurting him and just 
leave him in the cell. The others got tested hardly at all. 


"Not sorry enough. Next test, we shall determine how the subject 


responds to simulated respiracy arrest via drowning. Mr. Rodriguez, 
get him strapped to the gurney, and I'll ready the hose. Then we can 
proceed to some cognitive tests." 


Tears streamed down Jerry's face, but he didn't protest. He knew 
from hard experience it wouldn't help. 


Iris felt like sinking down as low in her chair as possible. She didn't 
feel ready. But after two months of training, Adams had given her 
the thumbs up, and that was good enough for the Council. Back in 
the old days, she could just shrink back, let others get the details 
down, and do whatever they told her. Now she was supposed to run 
the mission personally. She sat up a little straighter, and tried to look 
professional. 


An intelligence agent stood at the front of the room, a clicker in their 
hand as they flashed through PowerPoint slides. "The building is 
three stories. Greenberg lives on the top floor and his people live in 
the other two. We believe that Doctor Decray is being held 
underground, along with the one who made the call." 


"What do we know about that call?" asked Director Light. 


"We believe it was a child. Teens at the oldest, younger if it was a 
male. There's not enough to tell anything else." 


"Do we have a layout for the building?" asked one of the agents. 
"Blueprints would have been filed, surely." 


"When Greenberg acquired the property, it was one story tall. A 
farmhouse. As there are no records of it being expanded or 
renovated, we believe it was altered by Greenberg's abilities." 


"So we have no idea what's down there," Light said flatly. 


"That's correct, ma'am. We could try seismic readings, but frankly, 
that has a good chance of tipping them off. Besides, we don't even 
know if this is a creation or an active manifestation." 


"What?" Iris asked. She immediately flushed as people turned to 
look at her. "That is, can you explain the difference, please?" 


The intel agent nodded. "Sorry, ma'am. Jargon. A creation is a 
rearrangement of matter. Think of it like a hole. The Type Green just 
moves dirt out of the way, and there's a hole. They don't need to do 
anything more with it, and when they stop working with it, there's still 
a hole." 


"And an active manifestation?" 


"An active manifestation would be more like... They don't actually 
move any dirt, they just project new space where they want the hole. 
It lasts as long as they keep working at it. If you dug in from the side 
of where it should be, you'd go right through without ever 
encountering the hole." 


"Oh," she said. Her eyebrows furrowed. "That sounds like a lot more 
work. Why don't they just do creations?" 


"Some don't know they can." The agent was comfortable with the 
question, as though it came up a lot. "Others find that it's easier to 
make changes to a manifestation rather than going through the 
creation each time." 


A thought occurred to her. "What happens to the hole if the bender 
dies?" 


The intel agent winced. "If it's a creation, nothing. If it's an active 
manifestation... Don't be in the hole when that happens. You could 
end up standing next to the hole, you could end up buried where the 
hole should have been, or you may end up nowhere at all." 


"That could be a problem if we're going to have to go into the hole to 
find Greenberg," said one of the other agents. 


"He leaves the grounds once a week to ‘liaise with local 
governmental authorities,’ which consists of a closed-door 
conference with the mayor and members of the city council, followed 
by a meeting with a local chemist. Your op will take place while he's 
out. We'll shut down cell and phone service on the grounds while 
you go in and take the property, removing all persons and items of 
interest from the property. You'll confront Greenberg as he returns." 


"Makes sense," Iris said. She was glad they'd be tackling Greenberg 
separately from his guards and prisoners. It made the job seem 
more manageable. "How will we get there?" 


"You'll go over the fence. They have guard towers, but they don't 
seem to have enough personnel to actually keep them manned. We 
don't anticipate strong resistance, but keep your guard up." 


There were more details. Comms frequencies, contingencies, but in 
the end, intel's plan was fairly solid. 


The day before the op, Iris felt like she was going to throw up. She'd 
done things like this before, but she'd never been in charge. It had 
always been someone else. Sometimes him, sometimes their 
handler. But now she was the one who was going to be making the 
Calls. 


"Nervous?" Adams asked. She was wearing the suit again, although 
she'd pulled out some of the glowing light bits and put a matte 
coating over the previously semi-gloss surface. Neither modification 
seemed to affect the suit's performance at all. 


"Does it show?" Iris asked.