Dr. Bridge attempts to say goodbye to SCP-948, but is 
ignored. After some hesitation, Dr. Bridge leaves the 
lecture hall without SCP-948 seeming to notice. 


Notes: Follow-up investigation by American branches of the 
Foundation show that McBride was fired from his job in John 
Hopkins Hospital following a diagnosis of HIV/AIDS in December 
1982. McBride died of pneumonia in June 1984, leaving a large part 
of his estate to SCP-948. Based on average delivery speeds 
between Baltimore and Dublin at the time, it is estimated SCP-948 
would have received news of McBride's death and its inheritance 
between the 21st and 28th of June, one to two weeks before 
beginning his lecture. 


LOG, 9/12/2017, 21:03 - 21:55 
Dr. Bridge: Dr. O Tuathail, could | interrupt for a bit? 
SCP-948: Seamus, dear. Call me Seamus. 


Dr. Bridge: | - Seamus - Could | ask you about 
something personal? 


SCP-948: Some medical ailment, Eleanor? You're 
usually rather healthy, at least to my knowledge. 


Dr. Bridge: It's sort of a health thing, | guess. | wouldn't 
ask like this normally, but I'm just, I'm fed up of dealing 
with it myself. 


SCP-948: Feel free to share. I'm not under oath, but | 
promise not to pass it on. Not a soul will hear what you 
say here, | swear it! 


Dr. Bridge: You do know we're recorded here, right? 


SCP-948: Ah, well, I'd forgotten, but yes. Does rather 
take the wind out of my sails. Regardless, Eleanor, I'd be 


really only seemed tired. 
Silence. 


"We know it was you, Andrews. We found your car, we found the 
hatchet, and the hairs. Took us a while. You did a good job cleaning 
after yourself, gotta admit." 


"Just not good enough," said the mustached one, positively bristling 
with zeal. A real blood hound, that one, Matthew mused. The kind 
that digs around and sniffs, crawling through the underbrush after 
the fox, into dark tunnels. Even if that meant getting stuck where one 
really shouldn't. It was hard to tell with this particular brand of dog, 
he thought, if they chased for their master or for their own blood-lust. 
A point to consider. 


"-Gone all glassy-eyed. Hey buddy, I'm talking to you here!" 


Ah, so easy to lose oneself to idle musings. Of his many faults, this 
one was surely the most profound. Though others might disagree. 

"I'm sorry, Detective, but | was advised not to say anything without 
my legal advocate." 


Behind him, a door opened. A grey-suited man, immaculate despite 
the late hour and what was probably a very long drive, entered the 
room. The mustached detective, reluctant to shift his attention away 
from Matthew, begrudgingly turned to the man. The hound finds 
something... unexpected in the tunnel. But it can't let go, now can it? 
Not when its eyes finally catch that elusive glimpse of red. Gotta dig 
deeper, ever deeper. Right into the ground. 


"Hey buddy, there's an ongoing investigation going on here. Take a 
hike." 


The grey-suited man ignored him, instead leaning to whisper 
something at the bald detective's ear. Matthew watched the color 
drain from the man's face. Without saying a word, the detective rose 
from his seat, fumbled with his belt and produced a key, which he 
used to release Matthew's cuffs. This didn't seem to sit well with his 
partner. 


"Harry, what the hell is going on here?" The tunnel winds and 
narrows, and suddenly the hound finds itself stuck. And the tunnel... 


The bald detective just shook his head, and sank back into his seat, 
his hands covering his face. The grey-suited man, seemingly taking 
great care not to look at Matthew, gestured towards the door. 
Rubbing his arms, Matthew turned to look at the mustached 
detective, who was now quietly arguing with his partner, an 
argument he was clearly losing. The poor man looked positively 
deflated. Matthew winked at him, and stepped out of the room, 
leaving the cuffs behind him. 


Well, that was the thing about digging, he thought, as he followed 
the grey-suited man down the dreary corridor of the sheriff's office 
out to the parking lot, where a black SUV awaited, its engine still on. 
If you go on digging, you never quite know what you'll find. 


"-Before this committee gives its final verdict, do you have anything 
to say for yourself?" 


A rather odd question to ask, Lieutenant Matthew Andrews thought, 
when the men asking it clearly already made up their minds. 
Disingenuous, insulting even. No, he wouldn't dignify them with a 
response, those grey-faced hypocrites. So he didn't. Instead, he 
simply shrugged, and returned his attention to the table he was 
seated in front of, placed low before the raised dais that dominated 
the room. Say what you will about the Ethics Committee, they had a 
fine taste in furniture. Rich, dark wood, cool to the touch, spread 
beneath his fingers, a polished smooth plain. Gorgeous, clean of 
any imperfections. If they could just see it as he did, they would 
have understood what he did. 


"Very well. Lieutenant Matthew Andrews, due to your crimes against 
the Foundation's charter and its behavioral code, and indeed against 
common decency, we hereby strip you of your rank and status. Your 
name will be stricken from your unit's records, your uniform burned, 
your pension discontinued-" Amusing bit of irony, that. "-and your 
person released from your control, given to the Foundation to do 
with as it sees fit. Do you understand?" 


He did. It meant that he was their slave now, no different from the D- 
class they marched daily to the grinder. He supposed that he should 
have been surprised by that last clause of his punishment, 
frightened even, but instead he found himself intrigued. He had seen 
men stripped of their rank before for various crimes committed 
during their civilian lives, but this? This was new. 


"Now, for the last order of business. Your former unit members have 
requested to see you." The committee member whispered 
something into a speaker embedded in the dais, and through a side 
entrance they came, all in full dress uniform. His old commander, a 
man he served under for more than ten years, addressed the 
committee, ignoring Matthew entirely. 


"May we proceed?" 


"You may, as long as you... contain yourself. As per our 
agreement." There was a hint of grim satisfaction about that last 
comment. 


"Of course, sir. We're all about restraint, aren't we, lads?" A shaking 
of heads. A cracking of knuckles. 


Oh. So that's how things are now, Matthew thought, as the first fist 
slammed into the side of his head, knocking him off his chair, 
sending him sprawling. A second landed beneath his left eye. A 
third, this one carrying the weight and bite of a brass knuckle, 
slammed into his nose, and he could feel fragile bone shattering. 
Kicks rained down, smashing into his ribs like jackhammers. Looked 
like the training regiment he put the men through worked, he 
thought, they were in fine shape. He tried and failed to curl into a 
ball, but the men pulled him straight once more. This continued for a 
while, until a command was barked, and the beating finally slowed to 
a stop. Through the haze of his pain, Matthew felt a faint breath 
touching the pulpy mess that was his ear. 


"Was it worth it, you bastard?" 
Heh. Heheh. Heheheh. 


Matthew looked up through swollen eyelids, but not at the captain, 


who stood just above him, rubbing his bruised knuckles, nor at the 
other men, who were now shuffling out of the room, muttering to 
themselves, frustrated by the lack of response from him no doubt. 
No, he had no need to look at them. No, all he had eyes for was the 
table, which must have tumbled to the floor during the beating. Its 
surface was still gleaming, still deep beyond understanding, still... 
perfect. 


"Of course it was." 


Face distorted with sudden rage, the captain picked Matthew by the 
collar of his shirt, and slammed him, face first, at the side of the 
table. He felt his lips slice open, watched crimson spill on the warm 
wooden surface. No. 


Distorting it, defiling it. 
No. 


Its perfection tarnished. Order, erased. All that was once clean... 
naught but filth. Filth, all the way down. 


NO! 


He bit into the captain's hand. Hard. Warm blood filled his mouth as 
the captain shrieked. Matthew felt the man hit the side of his head 
with his other hand, but he wouldn't let go. Not after what he done. 
Not ever. Not ever. Only problem was, his vision began to fade, 
black spots everywhere. Numbness. 


A voice, distant, barely penetrating the gloomy haze the world 
seemed to swim through all of a sudden. "That's enough, Captain. | 
think you made your point. We need him functional." Not the 
committee member, Matthew thought, finding himself once again on 
the floor, the taste of iron on his tongue. How...odd. 


Then nothing. 
A sudden brightness, a sudden flash of pain. The brightness slowly 


faded away as his eyes recognized the pale fluorescent quietly 
buzzing above his head. The pain did not. 


"Hey, he's up." An unfamiliar voice, soft baritone. 
"About damn time." Another, this one female. 


"He's a spy, a spy! One of them. Can't trust him, | tell you, just can't. 
He has shifty eyes." A third, squeaky and seemingly on the verge of 
panic. 


"Nah, that's just the swelling, I'd wager. See those red and black 
lumps all over? Fucker looks like he dived face first into a biker 
convention." 


"What the hell kind of metaphor is that?" 

"S'not a metaphor, Upcard, s'experience." 

"You're doing that thing with your S's again. | hate that." 
"S'not a thing, it's how | talk." 

"Hah! You forgot to do it this time! | knew it!" 


The sound of a door opening. Matthew struggled to turn his head 
towards it, but something held his neck in place. Feeling around it 
with a bandaged hand, he felt plastic. Looked like the captain didn't 
stop when he was told. 


"| wouldn't try and move too much, boy. You're more likely than not 
to pass out again, and that'll kinda defeat the point of us coming 
here." A fourth voice, probably belonging to whoever just came in. 
Southern, sounded like an old man. 


"Immff mmmpf. Mmmf?" 


The light above him was obscured, replaced by a face. Bald head, 
lined, rough features, white stubble. An expression Matthew could 
only describe as something between amusement and boredom. 


"Yeah, wouldn't do none of that either. They had to close your jaw 
shut with wire, see." 


"Mmmph." 


"Should thank your lucky stars you're alive at all, honestly. Guess 
someone in the Ethics Committee had something in for you." 


"| hardly blame them, Prosper." A second face joined the first. A 
woman, dark-skinned, elegant brows arched in distaste. "This guy is 
a damn freak, even by our standards." 


"Wait, lemme see." A third face loomed over Matthew. Chubby, 
orange beard, beady, sparking little eyes. "Hrm. Dunno if | see it. 
Just looks like a normal guy to me. Bit more metal though." 


"It's a trap, | tell you! They sent him! They want to frame me, again!" 
Improbably, a fourth face squeezed itself into the now extremely 
crowded space above Matthew, completely blocking what little light 
the florescent bulb provided. From what Matthew could see, this last 
face belonged to a thin, haggard-looking young man. 


"Who's trying to frame you now, Hale?" asked the older man, with an 
aura of one who asked this same question many a time before and 
didn't really care what the answer would be. 


"It's Marshall, Carter and Dark, Prosper! They have it in for me, | tell 
you. It's them who got me in this mess in the first place, | know it!" 
the young man replied. 


"So you're saying it's Marshall, Carter and Dark who broke into your 
neighbor's house, beat the ever loving hell out of him, tied him up, 
robbed him, pissed all over his furniture and kidnapped his dog?" 


"No, don't be silly. Marshall, Carter and Dark would never do that." 
"So it wasn't them?" 


"Of course not. Marshall and Carter did the breaking in, the robbing, 
the beating and all. Dark just came in for the tying and pissing. He's 
into that, | tell you." 


"And the dog?" 


"Dog was all me. Bastard never treated it right. Damn disgraceful it 
was." 


"Mmmfp! Gdmnng mff." 


"| think he wants something, Prosper," said the woman, turning to 
the old man. 


"You people are upsetting him, Upcard. Calling him a freak, saying 
he works for a bunch of dog pissers, poor man must be exhausted. 
Why don't you give him some time for himself before we wheel him 
out, eh? You can have our formal introductions later." 


With that, three of the four faces withdrew, the orange-bearded man 
pausing briefly to pilfer Matthew's lunch from the plastic tray hanging 
nearby. After a moment, Matthew could hear the door closing again. 
Prosper, however, didn't show any sign that he was about to leave. 


"Mmmf. Hmmarmh angmmh?" 


"Oh, don't you mind me. I'm just assessing the situation. | have to 
know what I'm working with here, you see." 


"Wmmph?" 


"Suffice to say, we're about to spend a lot of time together, you and 
|. Whether you like it or not. See, for all of the high-and-mighty 
nonsense you might hear from the Ethics Committee, there's only 
one thing the Foundation really hates, and that's losing on its 
investments. And, to our collective regret, you are one." 


"Hmmrh." 


"So someone up top thought, instead of wasting years of specialized 
training to the D-class program or, God forbid, the civilian 
penitentiary system, why don't we make use of you? And so, here 
we are." 


"Hw?" 


The face withdrew, then the sound of footsteps and the rustling of a 
newspaper. A sipping. A sigh. 


"Congratulations, kid. You finally made it big. Welcome to 
Permanent Expungement Crews." 


Surprise! Happy Birthday! Listen closely, now... 


.. Ahh... and so you've returned yet again. 


It's been a little while, hasn’t it? Well, maybe more than a 
little. It doesn’t matter though, what matters is you’ve 
returned. Again and again. We knew you would - I’m 
happy to see you. 


Do you crave them still? Stories, all those stories. There 
are always more stories out there. How about the one 
about the child with the little friend, the friend who stayed 
behind when the child went away? Or what about the 
one of the cat, the wrong cat? And there’s so many more 
out there. The spider who wove a lie, the window inside 
of a house, the music above the lake... 


Don’t answer. We know the answer, don’t we? You 
always want more stories, don’t you, Gears? 


And they want you. 


Untitled1.txt by Bright 


untitled -txt 


| Always Follow by Dexanote 


| follow her from afar, her beauty staining through the 
months like ink through a paper. It’s as if the world 
kneels to her; when she’s there everything is brighter 
and more full of life. As if all nature wells up to celebrate 
and sing to her. She’s somebody who gives all of herself 
and has more to spare. A sublime artist. 


It begins with cold, ugly white, a pale nothing, an easel 
she could work with. She prepares, first a sketch of black 
and grey, charcoal thin lines grasping every which way. 
Starkness, to begin. Something she could adorn and 
cover with her true vision. 


And in time her vision came to bloom. Shade and colour, 
a million lines spread wide like arms. | grew closer, and it 
was like her very life became a sweeping, boundless 
work of art. Stark paleness grew into a gorgeous 
rainbow, her confidence and artistry boundless. 


Every year is different, but it was in April that she first 
found passion. Everything seemed so much more... full 
of colour then. More alive. Her most tender caress, 
coaxing the most delicate of her favourites to stand so 
tall... How lucky are they to know her touch. 


Do you hear it? In the night, the softness of her breath, 
carried on the wind... | envy the wind, | admit. To be so 
close to her, and for so long.