The voice on the other end sounded pleasant, though professional. 
When Larry introduced himself, it turned almost chummy. He 
instructed Larry on where to come for the interview—a formality 
alone—and mentioned just how much he’d heard and how greatly 
he was looking forward to meeting him. 


The interview was in an old office firm, barely three blocks from 
Larry’s family flat, and was carried out by two men in professional 
looking suits. They asked him a series of questions, sounding 
almost bored, while occasionally writing down some notes. After a 
few minutes, they showed Larry out and instructed a dour looking 
secretary to show Larry to Mr. Carter’s office. 


She led him up two flights of stairs, taking him to a wooden door at 
the end of a well lit, cozy feeling hallway. Knocking twice, he heard a 
voice from inside asking him to enter. Walking in, a man, probably in 
his mid-forties, stood and smiled, gesturing for Larry to take a seat. 
He offered a drink, which Larry graciously accepted, and they talked. 


He introduced himself as the current Mr. Carter, mentioning that his 
associates, Messrs. Marshall and Dark, were also anxious for his 


employ. They talked about the work he would be doing, the different 
people he would be working with, and the staff he would be 
assigned. When Mr. Carter noticed that he hadn’t touched his 
scotch, he encouraged a drink, proposing a toast to a new 
association. 


Larry raised his glass, drank deeply, and promptly collapsed to the 
floor unconscious. 


When he awoke, he was extremely groggy. The lights above him— 
far too bright after such a deep sleep—reminded him of the surgical 
table in the hospital from his transplant and, as he tried to raise his 
arm to shield his eyes, he realized they were restrained. A second 
attempt produced the same result. 


A voice at his left drew his attention, and as he looked at the suited 
man smiling down at him, he felt a twist of dread in his stomach. 


“We thank you for accepting our offer of employment, Mr. Robbins. 
We hope you'll be with us for a very long time.” 


As he looked, two doctors came into view on either side of the bed. 


“Gentlemen, start with the same kidney. After that, we'll start testing 
to see what else grows back. Mr. Robbins here is going to be a very 
good investment indeed.” 


The drugs began to pump into his veins again. As his vision blurred, 
his last thought was of his family, less than a mile away, and then 
blackness. 


dreams and your secret fantasies, and embrace that as 
the New You... the third step is to embrace the New 
You. You need to allow the New You to completely 
replace the Old You, so that the Old You is no more." 


« SCP-781 | SCP-782 | SCP-783 » 


An Evening With Bright 


One fine day in the Foundation, Dr. Bright finds the need to clean up 
some small problems. A researcher has been asking questions, and, 
worse, questioning Bright. And so it is that Dr. Jack Bright calls Dr. 
Heiden to his office, for some... discussion. 


Heiden is ushered into the room by an old man, the young doctor is 
clearly incredibly uneasy. "...Dr. Bright, you requested my 
presence?" 


"Heiden." Bright smiles lightly. "Please, take a seat." Gesturing at 
the comfy looking chair across the desk from himself. Heiden takes 
a moment to look around the room uncomfortably before sitting in 
the chair. 


"Hold on just a moment, please." Dr. Bright pulls out a small remote 
from his pocket and begins clicking buttons. The red lights on the 
cameras in the office go off, the door locks shut, and all other 
machines go dead. "There. Much better." 


Heiden gulps nervously before saying "...yes, sir." Bright's actions 
did absolutely nothing to settle Frederick's raging nerves. Somehow 
he suspects that was intentional. 


"Now then, there will be no recordings if you choose to be 
insubordinate. For the record, my cane is in the corner behind you, 
and my hands are empty. | am doing this in an attempt to provide an 
air of open conversation, that seems to be needed." He nods his 
head solemnly, before continuing. "Now, it Seems you may have 
some unresolved issues with me. Shall we discuss these?" 


Heiden's mind races... but once again, honesty remains Frederick's 
policy. He takes a moment to compose himself before speaking. 
"Yes, sir. On my first, ah, incident with the Foundation, | 
encountered SCP-963. It was used to subdue a prisoner, an armed 
android with which | am sure you are familiar." 


Bright nods his head. "Sonia Velamour. She was 29, had no 
siblings, and her parents were deceased. She once loved a man, 
and he turned her into a cyborg. Yes, | am aware of her, go on." 


Heiden stares at Bright, taken aback by the information. "... yes. | 
initially protested this action, but as it was undertaken in the heat of 
a combat situation, it is understandable that my protests were 
ignored. | inquired as to the nature of SCP-963, and was offered 
access to a redacted file containing a briefing on the object. | am an 
ethicist by vocation, Doctor Bright, though my - " 


Bright snorts. "It is a devious and despicable item." 


Heiden seems caught incredibly off-guard by this statement. He 
fumbles for a moment before continuing. " -ah, well. My review of 
the file included sections regarding retaining brainwiped bodies for 
future use - actually, four." 


"That is correct." Bright touches the teardrop tattoo under his eye. "| 
found it wiser to keep bodies on hand, instead of trusting to the 
fickleness of fate to provide me with new ones should an incident 
arise. By keeping these bodies in stasis, | have found myself 
capable of extending their life span." 


"To be frank, sir, this is among the most hideous crimes | have ever 
seen systematically inflicted upon a group of people, D-class or no. | 
have tremendous difficulty justifying it to myself and as a result, | 
may have behaved in a manner inconsistent with the attitude 
expected towards senior staff." Heiden coughs, still nervous about 
sounding off to a superior. "...to cut directly to the heart of the 
matter, sir, what entitles you to their bodies?" 


Bright smiles ...ah... brightly. "Ah, yes, entitlement. You are aware 
that D-class are executed on a monthly basis, yes?" 


Heiden nods. "| am aware. | genuinely believe that death is 
preferable." 


"Well then, let us take a look at my bodies. Do you have any issues 
with my usage of simian bodies?" 


"lam... unnerved by it, | admit, sir." Heiden ponders a moment, and 
his speech lapses into a more informal pattern. "It's not... it's not as 
visceral, though. It doesn't keep me awake at night. It's just another 
mildly disturbing thing that happens at work." 


"Then that takes care of two of the stored bodies." Ticking off two 
fingers on his hand. "Let's move on to this one. Hank Ashton, 42, 
convicted pedophile and child killer. He enjoys strawberry ice cream, 
and the reflection of his knife in a young girl's eyes before he cuts 
her throat." 


Heiden nods. He sees where Jack is going with this. "He deserves 
to be dead. Unless exposure to SCP-963 has been proven to be 
identical to a brain transplant- and considering the nature of 
SCP-963, | doubt proof is forthcoming anytime soon- | do not believe 
use of the object to be justified." 


"It is identical to a brain transplant. The recipient's brain is 
completely wiped clean." 


"I'll not press further after this one question- but how are you 
certain? The device is a twisted, disturbing thing. What happens to 
the 'data' that is wiped?" Heiden just wants to be sure. 


Bright wags a finger at Heiden, hoping to explain. "Think of itas a 
computer. All the files are moved to the trash bin —" he taps 963 — 
"and new files are overwritten. While there may be some small 
indications the files were once there, you have to work to find them. 
Sadly, a poor copy is kept in the trash can. It is why | keep myself 
out of there, as much as possible." 


"|... the consciousness never dies, then. It's just sequestered 
away?" It just sounds so...ugly, to him. 


Bright shakes his head. "The consciousness dies, but the memories 
remain." 


"So... it's as if you piggybacked your consciousness on a corpse." 
Heiden regrets how crude that sounds, but he's trying to fit it in his 
head. 


Bright snaps his fingers. "Exactly. All the functions become mine. 
Even the ones you don't think can be changed. Every body | am in 
beats with the same pulse, breathes in the same manner, walks with 
the same steps." 


Heiden frowns. That's... bizarre. Wait, where does he work again? 
"Acknowledged, sir. My conduct towards you was based on an 
understanding of SCP-963 that was mistaken, and for that | 
apologize." 


"Good. But even were it not mistaken, there is another reason why 
|...deserve... these bodies." 


Heiden tilts his head to the side slightly. "...| don't understand. 
Continue, sir?" 


"lam the Foundation.” Bright stares at Heiden, a slight smile on his 
face. In his eyes... well, you read the report, and the theories, right? 


Heiden got a heavily redacted version of the report, it seems. He 
stares at Bright, feeling more than a little stupid. "You... you are the 
Foundation?" The only theory he's hearing right now is 'crippling 
megalomania’, on the level of 'l am the Law". "Sir, the SCP 
Foundation, while | am aware ...requires the work of minds such as 
yourself, is - as far as | know - a collaborative effort of many. To be 
blunt, | don't understand." 


Bright stands up, and begins to pace, gesturing with his hands. 
"Currently, you are a junior researcher, and | am a Senior Staffer in 
charge of personnel. That means, | pick who comes on board, make 
sure they can handle the rough stuff, and in general, turn them into 
people capable of becoming Senior Staff, whether they know I'm 
doing it or not." 


Bright continues. "In 25 years, you will be a Senior Researcher, 
possibly with your own site to handle, definitely with many new 
researchers, trained by me, under your wing. I, will be the Senior 
Researcher in charge of Personnel." 


"In 50 years, you will, god willing, be ready to retire, and leave your 
work to a trusted researcher, who was brought into the Foundation 


under me. | will still be the Senior Researcher in charge of 
personnel.” Bright focuses his gaze on Heiden, making sure he's 
getting it. 


"In 75 years, if you are still alive, you will be suffering from dementia, 
and other mental deterioration, barely in control of your own bowels. 
|, however, will be in a body as young as they give me, training a 
new generation of Researchers." 


Heiden, with dawning horror, realizes what Dr. Bright is driving at. 


Bright stabs a finger at his desk, to make the point. "In 100 years, 
you will be dead, and the researchers you taught will be nearing 
retirement themselves. | will know who to replace them with." 


Bright's voice remains calm and collected, as if discussing a new 
assignment. He doesn't seem to actually care about any of this, it 
just needs saying. "In 200 years, your name will be known only by 
diligent researchers, one name among many of those who have 
been researchers for the Foundation. I... will still be a senior 
researcher. From time to time, | will sit with a glass of wine and 
remember those who have passed, but the list will be long." 


"1000 years from now, no one but | will remember you existed. 
And... | will still be working with the Foundation to protect humanity. 
Do you understand? | am the Foundation. | shape its future, and | 
keep it on task. I'm needed, despicable as it might be. Do you see?" 


Heiden lets a long silence pass. "Why must it be you? 963 was held 
by someone before you, and in time, it will be held by another. Do 
you want this?" 


Bright shakes his head sadly. "No one held 963 before me. It was 
created for another man, but he failed to make it work. | am its first, 
and only, resident. There is no escape from 963." Jack considers 
the question for a silent moment. "Do | want it? No. But who else am 
| supposed to trust to get it done?" 


Uneasily, Heiden continues. "You don't have to run the Foundation, 
Dr. Bright. You're not Atlas - no human is. Trust that there are 
people who can get the job done. In your time here, you can assure 


many. But it is not one man's responsibility to save the world." 


"What else do | have? If | leave, they will mark me as an SCP, and 
hide 963 away where it will take a long time for someone to find it." 
He knows someone eventually will. Part of the curse. "Do you think | 
can live a normal life? | cannot have children of my own, only those 
of whatever body | wear. Hell, when it comes to sex, do you know 
how hard it is to have something touch you, but never your partner, 
not even for a second? The positions get wild enough | have to pay 
for it. The Foundation is my life. And | will make it wonderful.” Bright 
smiles. It isn't all that reassuring. 


"You... you really can't be rid of it, can you?" Heiden pauses but a 
moment. "I, ah... my condolences to you, sir." Heiden doesn't know 
what to say. He feels like a bastard. 


"Never." Bright lifts the remote. "Are we done?" 
"| believe so, sir." Heiden's head hangs low. 


Bright hits the button, and everything hums back to life. "Dismissed. 
Don't dwell on this too much Heiden. | have big plans for you." 


Heiden rises, his posture straightening as he stares straight ahead. 
"Yes, sir." He turns and walks from the room. 


And Jack Bright watches him walk out the door, his smile widening. 
"Such very big plans." 


An Evergreen Affair 


The Administrator was never one for ceremony. When she had 
founded it all, more than a hundred years ago, she did not ask for 
contracts written in blood under flickering candlelight, or sacred 
oaths sworn with a hand over the bible during a thunderstorm. She 
had simply gotten to work. 

And that was why it all ended in a dreary little park in East London. 
The place meant nothing to either of them, and it was of no 
particular importance to anyone. And that was why she had chosen 
it: because it was meaningless. 


As she sat on the swing, listing back and forth slowly in the gentle 
night’s wind, she wondered if she was being petty. The Governor 
would hate that it ended here, and not in the room where it all began 
in Site-001. 


“It's been a while.” 


She did not turn to look at her. She found herself unable to. “A 
hundred and three years, by my count.” 


The Governor sat on the swing next to her. “The negotiations are 
over. All Foundation assets and anomalies are now under the 
control of the Chaos Insurgency. The O5 Council will shortly be 
liquidated. As for most of your personnel? We'll keep them on in the 
same jobs, for the most part. Maybe we'll even say they still work for 
the Foundation. The fall of the Foundation has affected, at the most, 
a hundred people." 


The Administrator pushed herself pathetically against the ground, 
giving a slight little swing. A family of foxes scampered across the 
grass in front of them. “What’ll you do now?” 


The Governor shrugged. “Same as you, I’d imagine.” 


“So this was all for nothing.” 


“It was for us. For what we had between us. So, yes, it was for 
nothing.” 


The Administrator reached out and ran her hand over the 
Governor's face. One half had grown old and weary and lonely, 
while the other remained as it had the day she was shot. 


“Why?” 


The Administrator did not answer that question for a long time. “Love 
is poison. | would have let the world burn a thousand times over to 
save you. So | made the right choice before | could make the wrong 
one. Everything | had to do after that was so much easier.” 


The Governor held the pistol in her soft, warm hands. “This is the 
same gun, you know.” 


At that, the Administrator simply sighed. “I’m not going to apologize. 
Ever.”