Yes. Though | was born with a blood and 
abilities of the demon fox, | think | am a human. 
This is different from wanting to be a human, as | 
know | am a human being already. And | love 
the humaneness | can have through being a 
human. | love the fact that | can feel the sublime 
of possibility of other humans. That's my view of 
life. It's also why | beat up anyone calls me fox. 
Sorry, not sorry. 


s H.(12 


Doubt 


1. Are the Jailers jailing the Vixen 
effectively? Can we believe them? 


¢ She has escaped and been 
recaptured six times already, each 
time causing a bloodbath. However, 
the Jailer's efforts to contain the 
Vixen haven't changed drastically 
since the second half of 2000s. 

* If the Jailers keep jailing her so well 
that she can be permanently 
contained, then we will be pleased. 
However, their ability to successfully 


"contain" her is questionable. 

¢ We need to discuss the necessity of 
our intervention in case she 
escapes again. 


5. If we intervene should the Vixen escape 
from the Jailors, what level should we take 
in that intervention? 


* This is linked to the Hand's 
perennial philosophical argument 
about malicious intelligent entities. 

* Currently, H. is stoutly asserting that 
we must aim for complete 
termination of the Vixen. 


8. Isn't there any other surviving demon fox 
except for the Vixen and our Captain? 


¢ We are running searching program 
for newborn demon foxes. However, 
there is no advance as far. 
As states above, the manifestation 
agent is a recessive trait on the X 
sex chromosome. There should be 
many carriers and other instances of 
demon fox babies born between 
them in Eastern Asia. However, 
there have been no reports of other 
demon foxes that were sighted in 
modern times, except for H. and the 
Vixen. 
¢ We have a few hypothesis about 
this issue. The most reasonable of 
them is that there are newborn 
demon foxes out in the world, but 
they do not know their true identity 
and live as human. The searching 
program is an attempt to verify this 
hypothesis. And if this is true, what 
should we behave? 


* H. is highly skeptical of this 
program. But she does not oppose it 
strongly as for now.(13 


1. Fuck, | never expected that "two hundred" would be 
"five hundred" in that time. —H. 

2. i.e. the genotype of demon fox is identical with red fox. 
See a treatise published inJournal of Korean Magical 
StudiesNo. 23 for a detailed process of reproductive cells 
of demon fox and human can be combined together. It is 
a result of co-research between Korena Hand and a 
personnels of American Hand who formerly belong to 
Prometheus Labs. 

3. The fact that there is no male demon fox suggests that 
this recessive inheritance is not determined by dominant/ 
recessive between X chromosomes, but by dominant/ 
recessive between fox chromosomes and human 
chromosomes. 

4. The Bookburners misunderstand this and they think 
that demon foxes need to pull out their ear and tail to 
exhibit ability. 

5. This reminds me a tonsillolith. —M. 

6. How glad that | am a cap of yours. —H. 

7. 1499-1568+. Elder Jeon is prominent figure in Korean 
magical history, and the most famous illusionist of his 
time. He is best known for the incident of 1532, when he 
jumped over a palace wall and threatened king to give 
him three golden beams. "Featherman" (34) was his 
his nom de plume. 

8. Serpent's Hand in Korean peninsular got recognized 
as Korean Lodge and was granted entry into the Library 
in 1955. However, we count our history retroactivity 
before 1955 and regard Elder Jeon as our spiritual 
founder. 

9. If you have any other questions about her, contact me 
—M. 

10. Contact her only if you long to be beaten to death by 
me. —H. 

11. 1489-1546+. Being contemporary of Elder Jeon, 


Master Gyeong-deok Seo (444% 564) was not a Taoist, 
but a Confucianist. Usually Confucianists were hostile 
against Taoists. But Master Seo was an oddity who was 
a close friend of many Taoists. He is better known as his 
nom de plume, "Flowery Fond." 

12.H.is the current leader of the Hand in Korean 
peninsular. 

13. The demon fox is extremely malevolent race. | am 
very exceptive. They were typically bloody psychopaths 
and sexual predators (literal). Isn't it right to keep their 
secret and just keep ther humane lives, if there are any 
newborn demon foxes? —H. 


Note: We could use SCP-713 to punish uncooperative D-class. We 
erase someone's face, save the file, then threaten to open it if he 
won't jump when we say... —Research Assistant 


Denied. Other methods work just as well for less security risk. —Dr. 


[DATA REDACTED] 


Test 48 

Date: / /20 

Subject: File operations 

Procedure: Cursor clicked on 10x10x10 cm aluminum cube. Cube 
held in cursor; Ctrl+C (Copy) entered. Cube released. Ctrl+V (Paste) 
entered. 

Results: Duplicate cube, apparently similar in composition to 
SCP-713's cursor, appears at tip of cursor. All efforts to interact with 
duplicate unsuccessful except those using the cursor. 


Test 49 

Date: / /20 

Subject: File operations 

Procedure: Cursor moved outside screen. Ctrl+A (Select All) 
entered. Del (Delete) key pressed. 

Results: [DATA EXPUNGED] 


[DATA REDACTED] 


Test 82 

Date: / /20 

Subject: "Trash" function, D-713-054 

Procedure: Recycle Bin icon double-clicked. File labeled " 

" (D-713-054's former name) located and dragged onto the 
Desktop. File dragged offscreen and over an empty area of the lab 
floor. Left mouse button released. 

Results: Cursor changed into "hourglass" icon for 2 minutes 8 
seconds. The" "file icon then disappeared, and 


Sam 


"Give me a red-eye." 


The crowd shifted as the counter cleared, pushing him to the front. 
He'd forgotten why he came in here, where the compulsion to buy 
coffee came from. The steamy, high-pitched whine of the elaborate 
espresso device reminded him of his headache. He ordered a flat 
white, paid with a card. 


The barista caught his wrist and gave it a concerned look. 


"| hope you recover soon," she said with English, deliberate 
politeness. 


His eyes drifted to his wrist, where a hospital band dangled. "Just 
discharged actually. Bit of head trouble..." 


Sam drifted, the headache and lingering aftermath of the concussion 
pushing his thoughts aside. The barista stared at him with her green 
eyes, sent him a look of concern and delivered his order. "Thanks," 
Sam cooed. 


Outside on the park bench, nursing his coffee, Sam waited for 
something, anything to steer his listless mind. What he needed, he 
decided, was something more to write about, something to force his 
neurons to make new connections to replace those lost. He'd been 
working on a novella before the accident. When Sam woke up in 
Great Ormond, among the beeps and pneumatic gasps of life 
support machines, he had found a manuscript on his bedside table. 
In it Wanderer, the eponymous character, journeyed through misty 
halls looking for a way to his home, a great library. It sounded 
nothing like him. Or maybe it sounded like a version of him before 
the accident. It didn't matter, the unsettling closeness was the same. 


Another sip of coffee. A logo caught his eye. It was a heavily stylized 
tree that looked a like a crawling snake set on a green, canvas 


shopping bag carried by a blond, weedy man in a garish orange 
shirt. Delilah's Rare and Second-Hand Books, read the cheerful 
print. A wave of nostalgic, irrational joy crashed over Sam. 


"Excuse me?" Sam felt himself compelled to say. "Have we met 
before?" 


The man shot him a confused, appraising look. "No, | don't believe 
so. If you're a student of mine you'll have to visit me during office 
hours like everyone else. They're listed on the syllabus." 


"I'm not a student." Sam wondered if he looked young, whether he 
should be complimented or offended. "I'm an author. | wrote ‘The 
Cunning Folk' anthology," 


"Oh really?" The man paused, re-appraised him with another look. "I 
rather liked that anthology. Especially the way you married Celtic 
poetic forms with folk mysticism. | particularly enjoyed... what was 
it... the short story about the wise woman trying to save her 
daughter that the Romans crucified..." 


"Oh, Thunderstone?" 


"That's the ticket!" The weedy man slapped his forehead. "Where 
are my manners? I'm Dr. Nelson Pennywise, and | already know 
who you are, Mr. Weatherby," 


"Just call me Sam, please." Sam's brain throbbed a migranous 
throb. "I think | remember where | know you from, Dr. Nelson. Did 
you give a talk in Glasgow about the absorption of Celtic ritualism 
into Catholic practices?" He could feel his face grinning in fan- 
idolizing giddiness but couldn't feel anything. He knew he wanted to 
smile, wanted to talk to this Dr. Nelson, strange and familiar, but... 
something felt strange. A side effect of the migraine, perhaps... 


"Why yes | did. What a strange coincidence eh, two admirers 
meeting like this. Earth gets smaller every day." Dr. Nelson shifted 
the weight of the bag. "I'm actually about to take my lunch, would 
you like to join me?" 


"I'd like that very much." 


+ show block 


"The thing you really start to notice," Delilah said in between puffs 
on a cigarette, "with the monks of this period, is this knee-jerk 
reaction to their own nostalgia." 


She pointed with her latex-gloved fingers at a section of a 
manuscript which had the dubious provenance of being a Tallaght 
Monastary original. "You can see it here... oh I'm sorry Sam, I'm 
used to showing Nelson these things." 


"Oh it's no trouble." Sam tried to be polite, standing well away from 
the dubiously ancient manuscript, carrying three Bean-Space 
disposable cups tucked into a 4-way cardboard sleeve. He watched 
as Delilah made antiques appraisal into some kind of exotic, 
absurdist performance art, complete with arcane tools and enigmatic 
gestures. He was sure that if this kept up she'd begin dancing with 
the thing in a ring of standing stones so as to divine the providence 
of the book. 


"Nah, it's rude of me." More puffing on the cigarette, the books 
frowning in silent judgement at her smoke. "I'll paraphrase. "Though 
they were not afraid of sword, nor storm, nor wild beasts, for death 
was impermanent and the laws of the land were theirs to mediate, 
they feared the coming of the one true god.” 


"You can see it with the saints." Dr. Nelson's muffled chuckle came 
from somewhere in the stacks. "Some of the monks are trying their 
damndest to canonize Lugh." 


Sam had since sat down across from Delilah. He flipped through a 
pulp noir, Heimes's A// Shot Up, the smell of library wafting from 
each page. He remembered the rush of excitement when he went to 
a library, being paralyzed by all the things he could know but he 
didn't feel it. Why did his face look interested in the words he read? 
Why this book? Why did he want to come with Nelson to Delilah's? 
More sips of coffee. 


"Should | be this close, Delilah?" Sam asked, realizing that he and 
three coffees were probably not the safest things to keep around an 


eighth century manuscript. 


"Wha?" she said, crumbs cascading out from her abortive attack on 
a ham sandwich. "No no, it's fine. Thing's a fake. No way any 
original manuscripts survived the collapse of Tallaghut. The forgers 
got the sentiments right but didn't think to do much beyond the 'tea- 
stained’ pages trick to age the thing." 


She whipped her gloves off with the quick, practiced movements of 
a surgeon, and tossed them into a wastebasket. Her arms stretched 
and twisted in a tai chi-like post-appraisal ritual. "What do you two 
say to grabbing a bite after | let the pensioner in the other room 
know that yard sales don't stock genuine illuminated manuscripts?" 


Sam smiled his hollow smile, knowing his face belied how numb he 
felt. When Dr. Nelson suggested meeting Delilah a few days back, 
he'd thought that his heart would explode from the rush of life he felt. 
Now that he was here, with her, with them, surrounded by books, 
the only thing he felt was nothing. This was what you wanted, right? 


+ show block 


In a room that wasn't a room, where the tiles felt like fresh-cut grass 
and the air smelled of overripe bananas, Sam waited to hear what 
he wanted to do today. Soon he'd walk right through that lemony 
door and tell himself what he wanted. He saw himself approaching, 
saw his favorite lab coat and his scarred assistant friend. Sam liked 
to think that the scarred assistant was the part of him that favored 
direct violent action. Sometimes when Sam wanted something 
different than Lab Sam did, Scarred Sam would force Sam onto the 
table. Sam hated going onto the table but sometimes he just couldn't 
argue with himself. 


Today, Sam, we're going to make sure you understand the words 
No gain from struggle 


Happiness in work 


Poverty is desired 


Sam's sweaty forehead left a residue on the type writer. Vertigo. 
Nausea. The lonely futon on the bare floor had been shifted out of 
the corner of the unfurnished, spartan, studio apartment by his 
thrashing in the night. A document sat freshly composed on the 
desk. Sam crushed it into a ball and tossed it in the wastebasket. 


+ show block 


"Remind me why we're doing this again?" Sam stage-whispered to a 
crampon and ‘ninja glove’ bedecked Delilah who was rapidly 
ascending the side of the abandoned hydraulic accumulator tower at 
the end of Brambly-Moore Dock. 


Delilah would never get a chance to answer. 


"Because, you dozy duffer, we're making a statement for the 
Movement!" screeched another woman pulling herself onto the roof. 
"Delilah, | thought you said this bloke was down with the 
Movement." 


"Oh for Christ's sake Tang," Delilah shouted over a gust of ocean 
wind. "The man's recovering from a trauma! Let him have all the 
second thoughts he wants!" 


Tang, a round-faced Chinese woman in her twenties inspected Sam 
through her glasses like she'd just caught a silverfish. "Wait. He's 
that bloke?" 


"What bloke?" Sam said nervously, fingering the rope Delilah had 
pressed into his hands with orders against dropping it. He looked to 
Delilah, who had returned to climbing. He felt helpless on the inside, 
knew he looked confused on the outside. 


"You! You're the addled bloke that Delilah and Nelson adopted off 
the streets like a little lost sex kitten." 


"Excuse me?" Sam doesn't think that means what she thinks it does 


"It's okay Sam," Delilah said from higher up the wall. "Everybody 
knows you're recovering from an accident." 


"| don't want everybody to know I'm recovering from an accident! 
Jesus, Mary and Tap-dancing Joseph, people are going to treat me 
like some kind of nutter or something too fragile to bump the wrong 
way!" Sam could feel his vocal cords tighten in calculated outrage. 
Sam wants to be seen as normal. 


Tang cackled. "You are a nutter. Look where you are boyo! We're 
climbing up an old tower that hasn't been maintained in years! If D 
over here had any qualms about your stability she'd have left you 

back with Nelson." 


"What did happen to Nelson?" Sam had realized that the good 
doctor had simply walked away from them while Tang and Delilah 
debated what color spray paint to use. 


Delilah, all the way up the tower and halfway to revealing that she 
was, as Sam was beginning to suspect, part squirrel, could not be 
reached for comment. 


"| dunno. The Doc's always been a bit gormless. Sometimes he'll 
just wander down paths nobody else can see. He'll be gone weeks 
at a time, royal pain for the students too since the man acts like he 
hasn't been gone at all." Tang expertly secured the end of the rope 
to a mostly intact chimney. "Anyway Delilah's all done up there, 
AIN'T YOU NOW LOVE?"