He sighed and turned the page, reading about how Site-11 would— 
once again—be taking home the intersite softball championship. It 
was, of course, because O5-3 had money on Site-11 and got all the 
best players transferred there, but everyone thought that -3 was 
crazy, so he got away with it. He wasn’t really crazy. None of them 
were. But that didn’t stop the impression from reaching Clef as well. 


He stood up, stretching and staring into the toilet. He nodded once 
in approval and flushed, folding the paper and putting it under his 
arm as he walked out into his quarters. It was a mess, of course. His 
most recent assistant wasn’t as proficient as the last one. He sighed, 
throwing the paper in the trash and pawing through piles of clothes 
until he found a pair of underwear that looked mostly clean, and 
pulling them on. 


He went to his closet, getting out an older pair of slacks, sitting down 
on the bed to get them on, and then adding a sweat stained white 
shirt and lab coat to the mix. He sighed, pushing himself up from the 
bed and trundling out of the room, pushing his hair back from his 
forehead. ‘I’m going to get a haircut today,’ he thought, going to the 
door and opening it into the quiet corridor. 


Seniority had its advantages, and one of them was calling your own 
projects. Clef had been without one for almost eight months, but no 
one said anything. Years of service were generally rewarded with 
placidity in the Foundation, until the shit hit the fan. Then, all the new 
kids would be running to him, to Gears, to Crow, all begging and 
pleading, telling them what stupid idea they tried and what moronic 
consequences it had. 


He rounded the corner just in time to see his assistant cleaning dirt 
out from under her fingernails with a nail file. He’d chosen her for the 
massive tits she sported, but now... They just seemed like wasted 
space. He stared at them nonetheless. 


“Morning, sir,” she said passively, pressing her breasts together 
slightly and raising them, believing that they—rather than boredom 
—were the source of his apathy toward her performance. 


He stared for a few minutes more, going on past her, heading 
toward the site barber. It was the middle of the work day, so the 
room was mostly empty. “Hey, Ernie,” he said. 


“Hey, Bert,” the barber replied. It was an old, tired joke—the kind 
that people still laughed at politely because the man was old and 
amicable. Clef did his duty, emitting a dry chuckle, and sat ina 
creaking chair off to the side. In a moment, the young agent in the 
chair stood, thanked the barber, and passed him a ten. He accepted 
it, smiled, and waved the young man on his way. 


As Clef got up and headed to the chair, he cocked his eyebrow. 
“New kid doesn’t know not to pay you yet?” he asked, shifting 
himself into it. 


“They never do,” Ernie replied. 


Clef’s thinning hair made the job quick, and as the barber combed it, 
he said as much. Clef shrugged. “I’m getting old enough for it,” he 
said. 


Ernie knocked the stray hair from the man’s shoulders, undoing the 
barber’s cape, and then holding out his hand. Clef smirked and 
shook his head, laughing genuinely as he left the room, his stomach 
rumbling slightly. 


He made his way to the mess, entering it to no cheer or pomp, only 
to the occasional glance and nod from a friend or coworker. Those 
were both few. He entered the line, taking a roast beef sandwich 
and a bag of potato chips, as well as an extra pudding cup. It moved 
forward slowly, a couple of shuffling steps at a time. He yawned as 
he showed the woman his meal card; she nodded; and he headed to 


a quiet table. 


He sat alone, eating the pudding cups first, then staring at the 
sandwich. He noted how dry the beef was as he bit into it, frowning 
slightly and realizing that he’d have to go through the whole line 
again to get a damned cola. He sat there instead, chewing, eating a 
dry sandwich and wishing—longing—for a containment breach, an 
assassination attempt, a god damned green. Anything, really. 


But it never came. And as he finished chewing, he got up, threw his 
plate in the garbage, and headed back to his quarters for his bottle 
of scotch. Another exciting day ending at noon. 


He passed Gears on the way out, nodding to him and the younger 
agent—who was hanging onto his every word, laughing and trying to 
joke unsuccessfully with the bald doctor—and decided for the tenth 
time to fire his assistant. But she really did have such lovely tits. 


A Day Of Infamy - A short story of SCP-705 


The field marshal peered through his binoculars at the soon-to-be 
battlefield laid out before him. His epaulets gleamed in the warm 
light, a soft breeze tickling his well groomed moustache as he 
surveyed the advance of two infantry companies below him. His 
scouting teams had chosen an ideal location, so perfectly situated 
that he could observe the men creeping towards their rally points, 
the armor waiting behind them for the breakthrough, and the artillery 
regiments prepping their tubes for firing. He had waited a lifetime for 
this exact moment, had been born for it, had lived and wanted it 
every waking minute of his life. This was the sole purpose of his 
existence, and he was destined to fulfill it. 


Each man, from the marshal to the lowliest private, knew his own 
role in the grand show to come, operating like a well-trained 
orchestra about to perform a musical masterpiece for the first time. 
With the marshal’s simple nod to a nearby lieutenant, radios 
summoned the fire of dozens of heavy guns, pulverizing today’s 
target with deadly precision, raining untold destruction upon the 
unfortunate inhabitants. The muzzles roared and belched great 
tongues of fire, heaving the earth and splitting the air like thunder on 
this cloudless day, signaling the beginning of their beautiful, deadly 
performance. 


The din of the heavy guns soon subsided, and was replaced by the 
guttural screams of his infantry companies surging from their rally 
points, giving battle to the enemy. They ran headlong, bayonets 
fixed against an already broken foe, screaming their curses and 
battle cries as they reached the first defensive lines and tore into the 
enemy defenders. The ramparts ran awash with blood of the fallen, 
shining in the light and adding a surreal kind of beauty to the 
carnage. One by one the defenders collapsed to the weight of the 
attack, and at last victory was theirs. A tear crept from the marshal’s 
eye as his men erected a green clay flag atop the brewer, having 
finally wrested the coffee machine from enemy hands. Mr. Coffee 


would taunt them no longer. 


Their moment of glory was not to last, however. A great shadow 
abruptly swept over them, sparking fears of an air attack in the 
Marshal’s subconscious, but he soon realized it was far worse than 
that: their plans had been compromised-some defeatist traitor had 
leaked his intentions to the overlords and now they had come for 
retribution. He barked at his lieutenant to raise the company 
commanders, but communications were severed when a giant fist 
left the hastily established forward CP as nothing more than a sorry 
green smear across the desk. Their only chance at salvation was in 
a swift and desperate counterattack. Mechanized behemoths (to 
them, at least) creaked into action, their guns spitting forth a torrent 
of green fire and smoke that lifted morale until the shells bounced 
harmlessly from the giantess’s white armor plate. Her gaze turned 
with annoyance to the advancing armored columns, followed by a 
cruel backhand that sent men and machine careening to a linoleum 
deathbed far below. 


Their spirits shattered, his men began a frantic withdrawal from the 
coffee pot, abandoning defensive lines they had just seized no more 
than ten minutes ago. Some threw down their weapons in a futile 
attempt to surrender to this unholy queen of the battlefield, only to 
be flattened like pancakes beneath her clipboard. His binoculars 
trembled in horror as she deftly plucked the green flag from atop the 
coffee machine and flicked it nonchalantly into the fleeing mass of 
soldiers, laughing as their resistance melted before her. The terrified 
screaming of what was formerly a proud army reached his ears as 
he lowered himself to the ground and wept. 


A Diminished Thing 


Deep breaths. 

Deeeeep breaths. 

Focus. Gotta focus. Gotta stay calm. 
You've been trained in memetics, Harry. 
You can do this. 

You can break through. 

You just have to concentrate. 


The cell is six feet tall with a square meter of floorspace and a tree 
in the middle. Barely enough room to stand, but not enough room to 
lie down comfortably. Especially with the tree. | do push-ups against 
the wall to get myself pumped up for the big moment. Today I'm 
getting out of here. | have to get out of here. 


| hear a soft hydraulic hiss from the soeakers—the telltale sound of 
someone entering the containment antechamber. The hairs on the 
back of my neck prickle. The mics are on. For the next few minutes, 
I'll be able to talk to them. | have to make it count. 


A panel in the wall is pulled back and | see Valente smiling at me 
through reinforced glass. His beard is noticeably longer than before. 


Deep breaths. Deep fucking breaths. 
"Good morning," Valente says. "Good to see you up and active." 


| don't reply. The opening formalities are almost never transcribed. 
Better to save myself for the real thing. 


Valente's eyes shift downward and his arms shuffle slightly. | can 


only see him from the chest up, but | know he's looking at a 
prepared interview outline, if not an outright script. If | pull this off, 
he's going to need to improvise. 


"Please state your name for the record." 
Moment of truth. 


"Hello," | begin. It's familiar. Universal. Makes it easier to hear 
through whatever preterlinguistic bullshit I'm dealing with. "My name 
is Doctor Heerad Sangha. | am designated SCP two-three-three- 
seven, as you told me previously." 


| hold my breath. 


Valente's expression hasn't changed. | feel my heart drop to the 
floor. 


"Fuck!" 
"Listen, SCP two-three-three-seven—" 
"I'm Harry fucking Sangha, Val!" 


"—you seem to have a pre-established relationship of sorts with 
several of the more dangerous creatures in our custody." 


| pound my fists on the glass. Valente has no reaction. | scream. 
"Fuck!" 
"Yes. Please elaborate on the exact nature of this relationship." 


"Oh, I'll fucking elaborate, Val! | played the game of cosmic fucking 
Russian roulette, just like you, except there was a bullet in my 
chamber. | poked at one too many soft points in reality and someday 
you will too, my friend. That's probably where it all fucking comes 
from, over and over, we all just keep ending up on the other side of 
the glass. Fuck!" 


Valente looks confused and slightly annoyed. My hands are sore 
from pounding on the glass. I'm breathing heavily now. So much for 


calm. So much for focus. 
| have to get out of here. 
| have to get— 


"Please repeat that statement in the dialect used by the 
Foundation." 


"Go to hell, Val!" 


The floor rushes up to meet me. I'm on my knees, sobbing, forehead 
pressing into the base of the tree. All the months I'd been here I'd 
kept it cool. And here | am, grown-ass man with a PhD, crying his 
fucking eyes out into the last stupid fucking tree he'll see until the 
day he dies. 


"Please discontinue yodeling." 


| wipe my eyes on my naked arms to clear off the tears and snot. 
The fluids mix with the bits of bark and grit on my face, and | begin 
to seriously regret my meltdown. 


"I'm not making any sense to you, am |?" 


"We need you to cooperate and explain your answer in a coherent 
way." 


"What's the fucking point? I've tried everything | can and nothing 
gets through! You can ask anything you want, it's pointless!" 


| turn to face him. He's got that look of a long-suffering scientist who 
spent decades of his life earning degrees. A man who left every 
relationship he had to join a shadow organization, only to end up 
bored, frustrated, and confused. | had that look once. | envy it. 


"You're not hearing me, are you?" he asks me. 
"No, you're not fucking hearing me, asshole. Fuck you!" 


He stares at me blankly for a second, and | swear | see him roll his 
fucking eyes. 


Interview Log 769-43 


Because of you, because of what you have done, | know now. 


| am told that | was a murderer. | do not remember my victims 
anymore. | am told that | was a proud father of two children before | 
was incarcerated. | have been shown pictures of them; they have 
the faces of strangers. | am like this because | was escorted into a 
room and told to drink from a cup. | am like this because | know 
now. 


You ask me questions about weaponry, propulsion, metallurgy. | 
cannot tell you these things. | can only tell you of the culture that 
made them, and you have no use for that information. | could speak 
to you for days about the Exarchs, their histories, the long wars they 
fought, the sacrifices they made in the name of a greater good than 
their people could ever know. My words would fall on deaf ears. 


You will destroy yourselves. | know this. | can see the fear in your 
eyes, fear of things beyond your comprehension. The Exarchs knew 
such fear, and it led them to burn their cities, kill their people, and 
salt the ashes. They were better men than you, and their enemies 
were no less terrible. 


| wonder now, if someday, there will be another like me, recounting 
-your- history. Trying in vain to explain to —his- captors that they too 
will fall. | wonder how far that is from here, how much time will pass 
before you too are desperate enough to try and save your history, 
your failures and triumphs. 


It amazes me how foolish you are, searching for weapons. The 
society which made this history, the society which | now know, 
prized their culture above all else. If they had weaponry, it did not 
help them against what was to come, and neither will yours. You 
refuse to acknowledge this of course. It is beneath you to even 
ponder my words. Your arrogance will not permit it. 


"... cack?" he says. He's looking at me the way a teenage babysitter 
looks at a toddler that just shat its pants. 


| slam the glass again. In the distance, | hear laughter. 
"Is that what | fucking sound like?! Motherfucking shit fuck fuck!" 


Valente heaves a big, weary sigh. He tucks his hands in at his sides 
and makes this shiteating, condescending, motherfucking face. My 
hands shake. Everything disappears except his fucking face and 
that fucking, fucking laughter. 


"Snackutations Doctor Spanko, cack!" he squeaks. "You am 
authoritater? Explainerate." 


Time seems to stand still and move in fast forward all at once. I'm 
beating against the glass with a thick branch | don't remember 
breaking off. Valente is alarmed. He's reacting. | beat at the glass 
with everything | have, barely registering the spots of blood flying off 
my hands. 


The glass cracks. It shouldn't be possible. None of this should be 
possible. None of this should be happening. The laughter is so loud | 
can hardly see. 


The glass breaks. 


Valente covers his eyes to shield them from errant shards. The 
branch in my hands is different. It is my hands. Glass is growing 
from the end of it. Why not? | smile my first genuine smile in months. 
None of this should be happening to me. None of it is going to 
happen to you, Val. 


He's on the floor. | reach into the antechamber. There's a sting on 
my ass. 


The laughter fades. 


The world goes dark. 


A Discussion with L. E. T.