She was still wrestling with the Things That Were Not when she 
turned twenty two, and twenty three, and twenty five, and fifty, and 
seventy, and nine hundred, and twenty thousand, and four billion, 
and finally when time itself had ceased to hold meaning for her and 
a year was about as significant to her as the blink of an eye. 


lt was only as the last proton in the universe decayed, and nothing 
existed any more but an endless expanse of nothingness, that 
Sigurrés Stefansdottir finally reached the end of her searching and 
felt at peace. 


It was both the next instant and an endless number of eternities later 
that Sigurrés Stefansdottir got bored. What was the point of knowing 
everything and nothing if there was nothing to do with it any more? 


She searched around the infinite nothingness until she found a place 
that was a little less nothing than everything else. Here, she 
decided, she would start creating new everythings and new nothings 
to experience and learn about. 


She clapped her nonexistent hands, and brought reality back into 
existence. Time, which had long since stood still like a stopped 
clock, began once more. Symmetry was broken, dividing what had 
been Pure Balance into What Is and What Is Not for a second-third- 
millionth-infinitive time. 


She closed her metaphorical eyes and opened them after a trillion 
aeons, plus one year, to find herself being pulled from warmth and 
darkness into a world of cold light. 


And that was how Sigurrés Stefansdottir spent her first birthday. 


Putting a Ghost in the Machine 


Wind howled through the city streets as two solemn figures entered 
into the shelter of an alleyway. Their collars turned up to the rain, it 
was impossible to perceive their identities even in the glare of the 
neon signs marking a seedy hole in the wall. They trudged on 
through deep puddles towards light spilling out of an open door. A 
third figure stood in the doorway, waiting for them. Once they 
entered, he pulled the door shut and slid two heavy deadbolts into 
place. This part of the hospital seemed relatively whole, unlike the 
burned out facade facing the street. 


“So, um, Mister Sloane, do you mind telling me why you brought me 
here?” asked one of the two men. The other arrival remained quiet, 
his hat pulled low over his face. 


“Yes yes yes, most certainly,” their host squeaked. “I found 
something most interesting that | thought you might be interested in. 
I’ve got an offer on it from Marshall’s folks, but you get priority for old 
time’s sake.” 


“Thank you, uh, Mister Sloane. Do you mind showing it to me?” 


Sloane led the way down a flight of stairs, with the more vocal guest 
following close behind. Neither looked back to see the quiet man 
slide the deadbolts back and push the door slightly open before 
following. The staircase took them into the middle of a long hallway 
lined with heavy iron doors. 


Various signs hung from the ceiling, the words illegible under a thick 
layer of dust and grime. Nevertheless, Sloan looked up and 
examined them before starting off suddenly towards the right. 
Anderson had to quicken his pace to catch up with the shorter man, 
who strode with purpose towards a set of less imposing doors at the 
end of the hall. The third man allowed himself to fall behind, opening 
a few of the doors along the way to examine the empty rooms 
within. 


“So, Mister Anderson, | remember you telling me about the ol’ Saker 
project and the issue that came up, what with moving minds into 
machines,” the host said as they drew near the double doors. 


“You can call me Vincent. And yes, um, that little issue forced us to 
abandon the original goal of the project. It was quite, uh, quite a 
shame.” 


Sloane threw his arms wide as they entered a large space arranged 
like a surgery. “Voila!” 


The walls and floor bore the scars of a fire long since passed, but 
the equipment was pristine. Anderson walked over to a gurney and 
ran his gloved hand over the smooth faux leather, scraping off a 
thick layer of dust. It was impossible to read emotions through the 
silver mask, but the slump of his shoulders testified to his 
disappointment. He had not travelled so far to see an old disused 
medical facility, as odd and hidden as this one might be. 


“Tell me, Mister Sloane, is this what you wanted to show me? | find 
myself, uh, underwhelmed,” he said as he scanned the room a 
second time over. “I do hope you are not wasting my time.” 


“Oh heavens no!” the short man said, picking up on the hostile 
undercurrent of his guest's statement. He scurried over to a large 
piece of equipment mounted on the ceiling. A thick dustcloth was 
draped over it, and cables ran out from underneath and along the 
ceiling and walls to a large console bolted in place near the door. “I 
haven't shown you the best part of this facility yet!” 


With a flourish, he removed the dustcloth to reveal a large 
mechanical arm, more akin to those Anderson had in his assembly 
room than to hospital equipment. A menacing claw adorned the end 
of it, with a rubber hose running from the center along the length of 
the arm and then over to the console, where it fed into some sort of 
strange device. 


Anderson couldn’t help but admire the finely crafted piece of 
machinery, although he could only guess at its purpose. Whatever it 
might be, it bore the same wounds of fire as the room it was housed 
in. 


incredible complexity) while its organic component is a living human 
brain that claims to be Randolph T. Metzger. SCP-748-4's voice is 
often distorted and marred by static - it remains unknown how it is 
able to speak and hear. 


+ SCP-748-4: Interviews 


SCP-748-4's brain vat. 


Interview 01 


Interviewed: SCP-748-4/"Randolph T. 
Metzger" 


Interviewer: Dr. Emerson 


Foreword: First official interview with 
SCP-748-4. 


<Begin Log> 
Dr. Emerson: Please state your name. 


SCP-748-4: | am Randolph Thaddeus 
Metzger. Has the Investor sent you? Does he 
finally wish to parlay after all these years? 


Dr. Emerson: No. | wasn't sent by the 
"Investor". Tell me - how did you come to be in 
your current state? 


SCP-748-4: Do you think yourself my equal? 
Humble your tone and lower your head. | 
demand answers. Satisfy my desire and 
perhaps I'll indulge your curiosity. 


Dr. Emerson: Very well, Mr. Metzger. Ask 
your questions. 


SCP-748-4: If you are not one of his 
sycophants then who are you? 


“This, Vincent, is a one of a kind device that | bet you have never 
encountered before. It took a bit of study and experimentation, but | 
have finally derived its use.” Sloane’s smile beamed from across the 
room. 


“Yes, um, but what is its use?” Anderson inquired, his patience 
beginning to desert him. “It looks like a fancy arm for lifting patients.” 


Sloane inflated a bit more. “This device is capable of removing the 
consciousness, the very soul, from a human and storing it in a jar. 
Then, you can place it in another body, be it the original or a 
different one. | might hazard a guess and say that it could do what 
you couldn’t and fulfill the Saker project.” 


Anderson walked over to the machine and ran his hand along the 
smooth metal with a fondness only seen between lovers. Slowly but 
surely, he examined every piston and bolt of the machine, searching 
for any flaw and finding none. It was a masterwork of machinery. 


“Mister Sloane, how exactly did you, um, discern this machine’s 
purpose. | do hope you didn’t go experimenting.” 


“No sir, not me. | read the manual!” 


Anderson’s attention turned back to the short man. “And do you 
have the copy of this manual to go with the machine?” 


“Of course, of course, it’s in a safe place. Once we finalize this sale, 
| can fetch it for you. | was thinking, maybe, seven hundred 
thousand pounds ought to cover it.” 


“Thank you, Mister Sloane, for showing me this. If you'll allow my 
associate a few moments to write up the check, we'll be, um, 
golden.” 


The third man withdrew a thick checkbook from within his coat and 
began writing. Sloane’s smile began to fade as he watched. He had 
been hoping to get the payment in cash, but he had already 
highballed Anderson way above his estimated profit and didn’t want 
to push. After all, he had correctly gauged the entrepreneurs interest 
in such a device, and how much acquiring it would be worth to him. 


The silent man tore out the check and handed it to Anderson, who 
signed his name with a flourish and in turn handed it to Sloane. For 
his part, the short man kept a handle on his face even as he jumped 
for joy inside. “And you’re sure | won't have any trouble cashing this 
check?” 


Anderson snickered. “No trouble at all, Mister Sloane. I’ve got an 
arrangement with, uh, with the bank. They know to expect things like 
this.” 


“Thank you very much, Vincent. I'll go fetch that manual snap-quick 
and be back before you know it!” And, true to his word, Sloane 
nearly ran back into the hallway, not noticing the small silver orb that 
latched onto the edge of his coat as he brushed past Anderson’s 
associate. 


“Six-two?” Anderson called, once he was sure their host had left 
earshot. The silent man looked up at his master. “Tell Seven-six to 
follow Benny and Mister Sloane and acquire the manual. And, uh, to 
make sure we hold onto these new trade secrets. Authorization 
kappa-dash-one-three-seven-six and clean up afterwards.” 


The Saker unit nodded, already relaying the orders to the third unit 
up above in the streets of the city. Anderson turned away, running 
his hand back along the metal arm. “And tell, um, tell Phineas to get 
excited. We finally have what we need for the Saker project to 
blossom.” 


Special Agent Rikhart wiped sweat off of his brow as the elevator 
descended into the depths of Anderson’s facility. He had only been 
here a few times, and never before without an invitation. The man 
next to him stared blankly at the wall. Or was it another one of 
Anderson’s robots? He could never tell which was which. 


After what felt like an eternity, the compartment ground to a halt and 
the doors creaked open. A plain lobby appeared on the other side, 
complete with a bored looking receptionist and several dying shrubs 
in metallic pots arranged around the room. Rikhart stepped out of 
the elevator and turned back, expecting his companion to join him. 
When the man didn’t, he shrugged and headed over to the 


receptionist’s desk. 


“May | help you?” the slim girl asked, barely glancing up from her 
computer screen. Her hand moved the mouse in a pattern that 
Rikhart had come to recognize as online solitaire, a trademark of 
bored office peons everywhere. This one was human, at least. 


“Yes, | was hoping to speak to Vincent about some urgent matters. 
Is he in, or should | come back at another time?” 


The girl shifted her gaze to piece of paper taped next to the screen. 
“Mister Anderson is currently in a meeting, but if you would like to 
wait for him, it should be over soon. You can sit over there.” A nod 
towards a row of chairs across the room felt more like a command 
than a suggestion, and he took a seat close to the door to the stairs. 


As time dragged on, Rikhart became more and more aware of the 
awkward feeling of an empty holster in the small of his back. The 
guards up at the surface entrance had been very thorough, catching 
all of his holdouts, even the thumb knife he had up his sleeve. The 
last few times he had been here, they hadn't bothered with that, but 
there was always a difference between an invited guest and a 
visitor. 


Several people came and went through the lobby while the agent 
waited. Some were obviously guests, as evidenced by their cautious 
manner and the glances the receptionist gave them. Others strode 
confidently past her desk and through one of a number of doors 
behind her. About an hour into his wait, a trio of men exited the 
largest of these doors, accompanied by none other than Anderson 
himself. He walked with them to the elevator, where Rikhart could 
just barely pick up their conversation. 


“| understand the, uh, need for an answer soon, Mister Marshall. But 
some new developments have, um, have come up, and | need time 
to reconsider your offer,” Anderson said to the tallest of the three 
men. The agent perked up at the name, racking his memory for 
where he had heard it before. 


“That’s all well and good, Mister Anderson, but if you wait too long 
we may turn to other prospects, and this isn’t an offer you discard 


out of hand.” With that, the tall man entered the elevator flanked by 
his two companions. The doors closed, leaving Anderson standing 
alone. He turned and scanned the reception, his mask glimmering in 
the harsh fluorescent lighting. After a few moments, his eyes settled 
on Rikhart. 


“Oh, Agent Rikhart, it’s a, uh, a pleasure to see you.” The 
businessman moved over to the chairs before the agent could shake 
himself out of his thoughts and stand. Anderson offered a gloved 
hand, which Rikhart awkwardly shook. He always found the mask 
unnerving, and the lighting made it even more so than usual. 


"Likewise, Vincent. | was wondering if you and | could have a word 
about some stuff that's come across my desk regarding your little 
operation in the past few days." 


"Of course we can. Please follow me back to my, um, office." 


He led the uneasy agent back through the door he had emerged 
from moments earlier and down a long hallway to a nondescript 
door. Inside was a similarly nondescript office. The spartan decor 
gave no hint that its inhabitant was the founder of such an unusual 
company. 


Anderson moved behind the desk but remained standing, while 
Rikhart chose to edge himself into a chair. The two stared at each 
other for a few seconds before Rikhart realized he should probably 
start talking. 


"Vincent, | got a report that a known associate of yours, one Daniel 
Sloane, has gone missing some time in the past few days. We had a 
sting going to track down his inventory, and a team ready to bring 
him in, and now the whole investigation is high and dry." 


"A failed investigation sounds par for the, uh, course for the Unusual 
Incidents Unit, Agent Rikhart. Although it sounds like your people 
were getting close to accomplishing something. Congratulations." 


Rikhart fought the urge to cringe at the backhanded compliment. 
Anderson must not be in a good mood, or else he didn't realize how 
crass his words sounded. "I'll pass that along to them, | guess. But 


what worries me is a report | got that you've got your hands on some 
serious equipment. Look, Vincent, | know that you're looking to 
expand your business, but | can only run so much interference. 
There's a new head shed and he's already looking to stir things up." 


"What does that mean?" 


"Well, you see, he's been cracking down on some of our more 
unsuccessful operations, and he doesn't seem satisfied with just 
keeping tabs on operations like yours. If you push too much, | can't 
keep you out of his crosshair." 


"Are you saying you won't be able to, uh, uphold your end of the 
agreement?" It was impossible to read any emotion from Anderson, 
but the agent swore that the temperature in the room had dropped a 
few degrees all of a sudden. He squirmed slightly in his seat. 


"Not exactly. You see, I...| haven't been on any other cases since 
I'm still the head of the investigation into you and your business, 
being the only one still on it at all. So | don't have a lot of chips on 
the table. As long as you don't do anything big, | can cover you. But 
if not..." Rikhart trailed off as Anderson moved around the table to 
stand next to him.