Chains 


It was Agent Johnson’s first day on the field. He was given patrol 
duty, nothing dangerous, but he was still extremely nervous about 
the entire affair. What if he wasn’t ready, he asked the commander, 
what if he screws things up? Commander said he shouldn’t worry, 
that they’re putting him under the supervision of one of their best. 


“You Johnson?” A voice came from a shiny black Dodge Charger 
that parked next to the bench Johnson was sitting on. Johnson 
nodded. 


“Hop in.” 

The driver was a middle aged, solidly built man in a wrinkled grey 
suit and a terrible green tie. Johnson didn’t know what he was 
expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. 

“Agent Cohen, | presume?” 

“The one and only. So, you’re the rookie they want me to babysit? 
No, don’t answer that, of course you are. Is this your first time on the 
streets?” 

“Yeah, sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry about, we all got to start somewhere, eh? Be a 
good kid and hand me a cigarette from that pack in the glove 
compartment. Take one for yourself, too.” 

“No thanks, | don’t smoke.” 


Cohen gave him an incredulous look. “A field agent not smoking? 
That’s a first. Well, to each his own, | suppose.” 


For some reason, Johnson felt the need to explain himself. “It’s just 
that, the wife doesn’t like me smoking, she says it stinks up the 
house.” He didn’t add that he didn't much care for the smell himself. 


Cohen nodded, giving him an empathic grin. “Women. Can't live with 
them.” 


“Can't live without them?” 


Cohen started the engine, and the Charger grumbled to life. “Your 
words, not mine.” 


Agent Johnson didn’t know what to make of this scruffy man, and 
Cohen didn’t seem to be the type to start a conversation. So, 
Johnston decided to take the initiative. “Say, Cohen, how did you 
start your career here?" He said, just trying to make conversation, 
"They recruited me straight out of the academy.” Johnson was proud 
of that; he was first in his class. 


“Argentina, 1955.” 


Johnson blinked. “Wait, twenty years ago, Argentina-” He suddenly 
went pale. “Your first case was the Maker of Chains!? Jesus Christ, 
Cohen!” 


Cohen just kept on driving, making several questionably legal 
maneuverings to get ahead in traffic. “Funny thing is, | wasn’t even a 
part of the Foundation back then. | just happened to come across 
the Maker while | was handling my own business.” 


“What business?” 
“Hunting.” 
“| didn’t know Argentina was a popular hunting ground.” 


“Not for animals, it wasn’t. C’mon kid, you look bright enough, do the 
math. | was a young, Jewish man hunting in Argentina in the 50’s. 
What do you think | was hunting?” 


“Oh. Were you in- Oh. I’m so sorry.” 


“Yeah, so am I. | was the only one left of my family. From a town of 
almost a thousand, less than fifty survived. | had nothing left in the 
world. Nothing but vengeance. | spent the first ten years after the 

war making life miserable for the monsters that took my family from 


” 


me. 


"You are being awfully open about this, Cohen. Doing what you did 
wasn't exactly legal." 


Cohen narrowed his eyes. "You think | care? I'd launch a fucking 
parade declaring | did it if | could, and to hell the consequences. 
Some people might tell you revenge is an empty emotion, that you 
get no satisfaction from it. Those people obviously never did what | 
did. Revenge is fucking fantastic." 


Seeing the expression on his face, Johnson knew it would be 
unwise to pursue this line of conversation any further. “So, you were 
in Argentina hunting...” he continued. 


The older man seemed to relax a bit. “Henrich Krause. He was a 
small fry, a petty piece of scum compared to some of the others | 
got. He used to command the confiscation of Jewish property in 
some parts of Hungary. A death clerk. | didn’t care. | wanted to end 
him, slowly and painfully. The Maker got to him first.” 


“Can you tell me what happened there? They wouldn't tell us much 
at orientation, just that it was nasty.” 


“Krause was living in a small village about an hour's drive from 
Buenos Aires. My sources told me he started a new life there, living 
under a pseudonym. He even had a new family to replace the one 
he left in Germany when he fled. A real piece of work, that guy was. 
It was late at night when | got to Fin del Camino de la Aldea. It 
wasn't hard telling which house was his- it was the only one with a 
welcome sign in German. The bastard must have thought he was 
completely safe. How wrong he was.” 


Cohen parked the car in front of a greasy spoon diner, but made no 
move to exit the car. He took another smoke, fumbling with the car 
lighter. Nearly burning himself, he finally managed to get it lit, and 
took a long draw. He went on: 


“| could tell something was wrong the moment | stepped on his 
perfect front lawn. The door was open, but there were no lights 
inside. | thought someone could have gotten to him first, maybe 


some of those Mossad boys I’ve been hearing about, but for some 
reason | didn’t think that was the case. Something was rotten here. 
Drawing my gun, | got in. Krause must have had some obsession 
with clocks, because the place was full of them- cuckoo clocks, big 
grandfather clocks, you name it, he had it.” 


“And the Maker of Chains?” 


“Hold your horses, I’m getting to it. | scanned the entire house, and 
found nothing except more damn clocks. Only place left was the tool 
shed outside. | saw signs of struggle in the back yard, but not many. 
Whatever got Krause overwhelmed him pretty quickly. There was a 
trail leading to the shed, and a few drops of blood too. | kicked open 
the door.” 


Cohen stopped, and abruptly got up and stepped out of the car. 
Johnson hurried after him. 


“And what? What did you see?” 


Cohen sighed. “Kid, we're about to have lunch, and talking about 
what | saw in that shed is a sure-fire way to spoil my appetite. 
Suffice to say there were chains, and blood. The Maker wasn’t done 
with its meal, | caught him right in the middle of Krause’s wife. 
Krause himself was knocked out cold, but unharmed. His little girl, 
however...” 


Cohen gave Johnson a sour look. “See, now you’ve done it. | was 
looking forward to lunch, and you spoiled it. Might as well get on with 
the patrol, get back in the car.” 


Johnson complied, and Cohen took the Charger out to the road 
again. He opened the window and spat. 


“| was too late to save her. The Maker, it... already devoured her, 
transformed her. Made her its own. | don’t care if her father was 
what he was, no kid deserves that. She was still alive, in a manner, 
but even as inexperience as | was back then, | knew she was gone. 
The chains were everywhere- around her hands and legs, through 
her skin, her mouth, her eyes. | nearly wet myself, but | still had 
enough good sense in me to run for it. The Maker, not wanting to 


SCP will never appear under direct observation. If all possessions of 
the owner are being monitored, the SCP will disappear and not 
reappear until either the owner dies or some personal possessions 
of the owner are unobserved. In the former case, the SCP will 
materialize in whatever unmonitored location is closest to its original 
vanishing point. Each time the owner observes the SCP, they will 
momentarily stiffen. Observation shows that the owner will, over 
time, become more and more accustomed to the SCP regardless of 
whether or not they have seen it, and eventually will begin carrying it 
with them (usually after 4-5 months of 'owning' the item). Once they 
begin carrying the item, the owner will usually forget its presence 
and express a desire while holding it. At this point, they cease 
‘owning’ the SCP, and will usually forget about it completely. If 
SCP-810 is ‘attuned’ to multiple people, then whoever is currently 
closest to the SCP is considered the 'owner’. 


Addendum SCP-810-01: This SCP was recovered in a small Indian 
village, after reports of the village being terrorized by a 'haunted 
lamp’. During its retrieval, Agent was affected by the SCP, 
having expressed a desire for sleep while holding it. Agent died 
two weeks later due to sleep deprivation. Further, Agent 

became the ‘owner of the item shortly thereafter, leading to 
confusion for approximately a month before the unexpected death of 
Agent in Incident permitted further testing. 


Addendum SCP-810-02: Interviews with class-D personnel 
involved in experiments with SCP-810 have shown that the person 
involved will frequently be surprised by the change in their own 
psyche. Standard psychiatric techniques have proven ineffective at 
reversing the effects of SCP-810, and administration of class-A 
amnestics have not readjusted subjects’ psyches, although subjects 
have expressed confusion at their adjustment. 


« SCP-809 | SCP-810 | SCP-811 » 


leave a meal behind, sent the child after me. As | ran | could hear 
the clinking of her chains, the sound of them dragging through the 
dirt. | have no idea how she-it managed to catch up to me, but it did. 
| turned around just in time to watch it-her lunge at me. You have to 
understand, | didn't have a choice. “ 


“You shot her?” 


Cohen looked away from Johnson, pretending to adjust the side 
mirror. 


“Got her right between the eyes. The poor thing never stood a 
chance. Even though | was scared shitless, | couldn't just leave her 
like that. | don’t know what | was thinking, but | picked her up and 
brought her inside, to what | guessed was her room. | laid her amidst 
her toys and dolls, locked the door behind me, and sat there next to 
her with my gun pointed at the door. | could hear Krause screaming 
from the shed, for what seemed like hours. Despite myself, | 
eventually fell asleep, and when | woke up it was morning. | heard 
voices coming from the back yard, and saw men standing there, 
inspecting the shed. One of them noticed me and called me to come 
down, said that | had nothing to worry about, that they took care of 
everything. They were lying, of course, the Maker simply escaped 
during the night. It took us five more years to catch it, and plenty of 
sweat and blood. ” 


“And then?” 


“Their commander asked who | was, and for some reason, | told him 
the truth. | told him why | came there, told everything | saw the night 
before, and what | did. He just listened. When | was done, he said | 
had two choices: either | could come with him and get a job 
defending people from things like the creature | saw, or he could put 
a bullet through my head.” 


Johnson blinked. “That seems...harsh.” 


Cohen just shrugged. “They didn’t have those fancy amnesiacs back 
then, and recruitment was a lot more, well, straightforward at times- 
the Foundation was still hurting pretty bad from the war, you see. 
Naturally, | took the job. | don't regret it either." 


"Why do you think the commander recruited you?" 


"Besides my charm and good looks? Because | was a man with 
nothing to lose, with nothing tying him to the world. That's a useful 
quality to have in an agent- means nobody can't get much leverage 
on him," Suddenly, Cohen's expression changed, and for the first 
time Johnson could see real warmth on the man's face. "It didn't 
quite worked out the way they planned, though. | met my wife 
working for the Foundation. | still have no idea what a smart woman 
like her ever found in a moron like me, but I'm not complaining, 
that's for sure." Cohen looked back at Johnson and smiled. "My 
eldest can't be much younger than you." 


"| have some again." 


The hours passed, leisurely flowing with the rhythm of the Chargers’ 
engine, until finally it was time to call it a day. Cohen gave Johnson 
a lift home. As Johnson was stepping out of the car, he turned back 
and asked: "How do you deal with all of that? Not just the Maker, 
everything you've been through? How could you move on, keep on 
going? How could anyone?" 


Cohen gave him a strange look. "Who said | ever moved on? Ina 
way, it will always be 1955 for me. Like it will always be 1942. When 
you've been broken the way | was, you don't ever get whole again. 
You just have to try and glue what's left of you as best you can. " 


"Then how do you do it? Why?" 


"| do it because someone has to. And because | need to, for my own 
sanity. No one can protect humanity from itself, so the least we can 
do is protect it from everything else. Remember our words, son." 


"Secure, Contain, Protect." 


"Sometimes it can be easy to forget that last one. But really, it's the 
only one that counts. We took those chains on ourselves by choice. 
You remember that." With that, he drove away. 


As Johnson watched the Charger turn a corner and disappear, he 
knew he would. 


Challenge Accepted! 


The sound of shrieking klaxons could be heard over the muffled 
shouts and dull thumps coming through the door. The interior of the 
chamber was still, the long rows of shelves filled with metal boxes 
and lockers remaining undisturbed by the chaos outside. The sound 
of thumps was getting louder however, as whatever was causing it 
grew nearer. 


Then one of the walls caved inwards. 


Through the dust and debris burst a large reptile, its head swinging 
left and right looking for any danger or people to eat. Finding 
nothing, it climbed over the pile of what was formerly a wall to check 
the room for any routes to the surface. 


The sound of gunfire from the other side of hole in the wall caused 
its head to snap upwards. It let out a deafening bellow as several 
bullets bit into its side. After the first few shots, its skin gained a 
metallic hue and the bullets began to ricochet off into the walls. 


"DISGUSTING FLESHBAGS, | SHALL FEAST UPON THE 
INNARDS OF YOUR REVOLTING SPAWN BEFORE SUCKING 
THE MARROW FROM YOUR BONES!" 


The reptile ran towards the opposite wall, knocking over shelves in 
its wake and sending their contents scattering. The wall ahead of it 
crumbled as it barreled through. 


A team of heavily armed men and women walked through the wall 
the reptile had entered from, advancing cautiously towards the other 
side of the room. 


"682 has entered Hallway B6-17, headed towards Research Labs, 
we are in pursuit. Prepare for ambush at intersection B6-17-103." 


The heavy boots of the squad crunched over broken masonry, glass 


and metal as they passed through to the other side of the room and 
the hole the beast had left through. After scouting the other side to 
ensure it wasn't lying in wait, the rest of the team left the room to 
pursue its quarry. 


The sound of roaring and gunshots became fainter again as the 
battle moved away. The dust in the chamber began to settle on the 
wreckage left in the wake of the carnage. 


The room was still. 


A quiet sound began, at first so faint it might not have even been 
there. If anyone had been there to hear it, they might have thought 
they heard a soft beeping coming from one of the safes that had 
been knocked to the floor. It was lying on its side, and one half of the 
door had been twisted from its hinges. 


"SELF-PRESERVATION MODE ACTIVATED. DO NOT DAMAGE 
ROBO-DUDE. DAMAGING ROBO-DUDE VOIDS THE DR. 
WONDERTAINMENT WARRANTY. ANY ATTEMPT TO OPERATE 
ROBO-DUDE OTHER THAN IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE 
PRODUCT INSTRUCTIONS, INCLUDING ANY ATTEMPT TO 
OPEN OR SERVICE ROBO-DUDE, IS LIKELY TO RESULT IN 
UNPREDICTABLE BEHAVIOR. DR. WONDERTAINMENT IS NOT 
LIABLE FOR ANY DAMAGE OR DESTRUCTION TO PERSONS 
OR PROPERTY RESULTING FROM IMPROPER HANDLING OF 
ROBO-DUDE. GREETINGS, ROBO-PAL." 


The remaining hinge on the safe began to sizzle until, sufficiently 
weakened by the acid that had been applied, the weight of the 
mangled door caused it to break free.