Do not edit other writers' sandboxes without permission.
Idea Number 1:
Item#: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures:SPC-XXXX is to be stored inside a standard 10X10X10 foot cement cell within a steel footlocker which has a 16 digit electronic lock.
As of 06-17-2012, access to SCP-XXXX requires written approval from two (2) Level 4 personnel, 24 hours in advance. A double blind check by Level 3 personnel must be conducted for all security footage from the time SCP-XXXX was last accessed. A count of all remaining items within the footlocker must be checked against the existing list before and and after testing. A SCP-XXXX Level 4 supervisor must be present for the count and must sign both tally's.
All personnel, regardless of clearance level, must submit to a search upon leaving the cell.
Description: SCP-XXXX are currently tallied as 33 silver coins housed within the wooden box they were found in. Each coin has independently been dated to 450 BC, weighing approximately 0.63 kilograms each and are approximately the size of a standard United States nickel. Due to the worn nature of each coin their origin have not yet been confirmed, though historical minting records indicate a Mediterranean origin.
The wooden box, SCP-XXXX-2, has been dated to the 1940's. It appears to be handcrafted and [DATA EXPUNGED].
Placing a SCP-XXXX in the mouth of a human corpse has a verified 100% success rate of resurrecting the subject. It is important to note that the body need be homo sapiens and must have an intact upper and lower jaw for SCP-XXXX to have any physical effect on the subject.
The state of decomposition and manner of death do not impede the ability of SCP-XXXX to resurrect a body. Visible repair to the body takes place over the course of exactly 23 hours, 27 seconds before vital signs resume. Upon resuscitation subjects are lucid and have shown to be in excellent ongoing health.
All subjects have reported seeing a nude, elderly man with a long beard and grey skin moments before revival. Dr. Fort [DATA EXPUNGED].
[DATA EXPUNGED].
Each SCP-XXXX coin used to resurrect a body disappears upon revival of the subject. Attempts to monitor SCP-XXXX coins have thus far offered no suggestion as to the manner of their disappearance.
As of 06-14-2012, SCP-XXXX has proven to emit an electrical pulse similar to the neurological functions of a human brain in a constant vegetative state. Upcoming tests [DATA EXPUNGED] until further notice.
Addendum XXXX-1: Case History
SCP-XXXX was found within the basement of 120 Addams Ave. W, Des Moines, Iowa. At the time of it's retrieval, SCP-XXXX consisted of 37 silver coins within a plain wooden box.
The owner of the residency Mr. Dylan Morgan, age 72, and his wife Samantha, age 76, were the victims of a fatal car wreck 3 kilometers away from their home.
An autopsy report listed both of them as being in excellent health at the time of their death.
A coin was found on each person at the time of their death. Mr. Dylan Morgan had a coin hidden in his shoe while Mrs. Samantha Morgan had a coin hidden inside a concealed pocket within her blouse. In addition to the 37 coins found within the box, SCP-XXXX arrived at site XX as a total of 39 coins.
Addendum XXXX-2: Experiment History
Test 1: Subject XXXX-1; 27 year old Caucasian male. Cause of death: strangulation. Dead:15 hours
Result: Reversal of necrosis, collapsed trachea repaired. Resuscitation at 23 hrs, 27 secs.
Test 2: Subject XXXX-2; 31 year old Caucasian male. Cause of death: Stomach cancer. Dead: 6 days
Result: Reversal of necrosis, damage to stomach from cancerous growth repaired. Resuscitation at 23 hrs, 27 secs.
Test 3: Subject XXXX-3; 3 year old chimpanzee. Cause of death: arsenic poisoning. Dead: 2 days.
Result: No resuscitation.
Test 4: Subject XXXX-4; 7 year old Hispanic girl, cause of death: blunt force trauma. Dead: 372 days.
Result: Reversal of necrosis, fractured skull repaired, tissue regrowth. Resuscitation at 23 hrs, 27 secs.
Test 5: Subject XXXX-5; 94 year old Caucasian woman. Cause of death: heart failure. Dead: 22 days.
Result: Reversal of necrosis, tissue repair. Resuscitation at 23 hrs, 27 secs.
-Note: Medical examination shows subject to be as healthy as a woman of 65 years of age. Subject confirmed that a surgical scar from 11 years prior has vanished. A scar subject recieved from the lid of a can 30 years earlier remains.
Test 6: Subject XXXX-6; skull of 22 year old Caucasian male. Cause of death: Unknown. Dead: 320 years.
-Note: Coin was placed between teeth and jaw was wired shut.
Result: Total tissue regrowth. Resuscitation at 23 hrs, 27 secs.
Test 7: Subject XXXX-7, skull of 20 year old homo neanderthalensis. Cause of death: Unknown. Dead: 40,000 years
Result: No resuscitation.
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| SCP-XXXX-A prior to recovery |
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Item#: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is to be stored in a secured storage locker at Site-19, Storage Bay-03.
As of ██-██-████, access to SCP-XXXX requires written approval from two (2) Level 4 personnel, 24 hours in advance. All personnel, regardless of clearance level, must submit to inspection upon leaving the cell.
Subjects of SCP-XXXX-2 are to be kept in a standard humanoid living cell. Subjects may have access to a book from the approved reading list once a week. All subjects are to have thorough medical examinations every week.
Description: SCP-XXXX-1 appears to be a hinged wooden box with an ivy design across the lid, initially measuring 18 by 14 by 7.5 centimeters and weighing of 2.4 kg. SCP-XXXX-2 appear to be metal disks with a diameter of 36 mm and weigh 31 gm. SCP-XXXX-1 generates nine (9) instances of SCP-XXXX-2 when opened. SCP-XXXX-1 resets in this way without deviation or documented limit upon being closed, regardless of having previously been emptied or if other objects are deposited within. SCP-XXXX-2 become brittle and break apart after 17 days from removal of SCP-XXXX-1, unless otherwise activated. SCP-XXXX has demonstrated an ability to resuscitate human corpses. The materials comprising SCP-XXXX have not been identified.
SCP-XXXX-1 gains 0.5 grams/day in weight for each subject revived by SCP-XXXX-2. This weight gain continues until 1000 grams (1 kg) has been added, at which point the physical dimensions of SCP-XXXX-1 increase by 787.5 cubic centimeters. Instances of dimensional gain in SCP-XXXX-1 are followed by it emitting, what Foundation researchers have determined, to be a type of electronic data transmission, lasting for 11 minutes. SCP-XXXX-1 then returns to its initial mass, with the process starting over. Current rate of weight gain suggests that there may be six (6) unknown subjects which are not in Foundation custody.
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| Documentation of two (2) instances of SCP-XXXX-2 upon arrival at Site-19 |
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Dormant SCP-XXXX-2 emit an electric pulse similar to a human brain in a constant vegetative state. Active SCP-XXXX-2 generate a constant electrical current while subjects are conscious, returning to dormant state electrical activity while unconscious. Further to this, active SCP-XXXX-2 emit strong radio signals once every 24 hours. This signal lasts for 11 minutes. SCP-XXXX-2 become active upon contact with a human corpse, passing through the body by unknown means and into the cranial cavity. Necrosis and other damage is repaired or purged as SCP-XXXX-2 integrates into the brain stem, rewiring pathways. Neural pathways affected appear to be mutated in such a way as to have enlarged axons twice their typical size. The nervous system then hardens into a substance identified as that comprising SCP-XXXX-2. This entire process lasts less than 36 hours, resulting in a subject's resuscitation.
Subjects of SCP-XXXX enter a catatonic state every 24 hours, being unresponsive to all stimuli. Subjects later report not remembering the event. All catatonic episodes are noted to coincide with the individual times of a subject's revival. Each episode of catatonia lasts the 11 minutes coinciding with the radio signal broadcast by SCP-XXXX-2. Beyond this, subjects have shown to be in ongoing good physical health. All subjects have affirmed knowing that they had been deceased, but deny knowing the cause of their revival or having any memories from the period. Every subject of SCP-XXXX has exhibited disinterest in their own death and resurrection.
SCP-XXXX subjects continue to exhibit unusual behavior. No subject has inquired unprompted as to the well being or status of relatives and friends. The only requests subjects have made pertain to being released from Foundation custody and being given access to the internet, newspapers and other such requests. Subjects deprived of such stimuli complain of ever increasing headaches. These headaches increase in intensity over the course of 17 days, resulting in a subjects death. Autopsies have shown SCP-XXXX-2 and the subject's nervous system to have broken apart. These symptoms are currently able to be kept at bay by providing subjects with books from the approved reading list.
There are currently three (3) subjects in Foundation custody, Subject XXXX-1, Subject XXXX-8 and Subject XXXX-9.
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| X-Ray of Subject XXXX-1 nervous system |
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SCP-XXXX was found in the possession of Mr. █████ ██████1 when the Foundation was alerted to an incident at █████ █████ Hospital regarding the anomalous nature of his nervous system. Records indicate that Subject XXXX-1 as being born in 1922, despite appearing to be middle aged.
Incident ██-██-████-01
Dr. ████ was discovered to have [REDACTED]. Dr. ████ terminated and ██████ ████2 has been taken into Foundation custody.
Addendum XXXX-1
Attention: Due to the events of [REDACTED], all staff will now be subject to inspection upon leaving the SCP-XXXX cell. -Dr. ███████ ██████
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| SCP-XXXX-1 prior to recovery |
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Item#: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is to be stored in a secured storage locker at Site-19, Storage Bay-03.
As of ██-██-████, access to SCP-XXXX requires written approval from a Level 4 supervisor, 24 hours in advance. All personnel who have had contact with SCP-XXXX, regardless of clearance level, must submit to inspection upon leaving the storage bay and testing site.
Subjects of SCP-XXXX are to be kept in a standard humanoid living cell. Subjects may have access to a book from the approved reading list once a week. All subjects are to have thorough medical examinations every week.
Description: SCP-XXXX-1 is a hinged wooden box which generates SCP-XXXX-2. SCP-XXXX-1 measures 18 by 14 by 7.5 cm, weighing 2.4 kg. SCP-XXXX-2 have a diameter of 36 mm. SCP-XXXX-1 contains nine (9) instances of SCP-XXXX-2 when opened, generating additional disks if any have been removed. SCP-XXXX-2 become brittle and break apart after 17 days from removal of SCP-XXXX-1, unless activated. The materials comprising SCP-XXXX have not been identified.
SCP-XXXX-2 activate upon contact with a human corpse. SCP-XXXX-2 pass into the corpse by unknown means, moving through the body and into the cranial cavity before integrating into the brain stem. Necrosis and other damage to the corpse repair or are purged as neural pathways are rewired.3 The nervous system then hardens into a substance identified as that comprising SCP-XXXX-2. This entire process lasts less than 36 hours, resulting in a subject's reanimation.
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| X-Ray of Subject XXXX-1 nervous system |
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| Documentation of two (2) instances of SCP-XXXX-2 upon arrival at Site-19 |
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SCP-XXXX-1 gains additional mass in relation to the number of active subjects. This weight is gained at a rate of 0.5 grams/day for each subject, continuing until 1000 grams (1 kg) has been added. SCP-XXXX-1 then emits what researchers have determined to be an electronic data transmission. This signal lasts for 11 minutes. SCP-XXXX-1 then returns to its initial mass, with the process starting over. Current rate of weight gain suggests that there may be six (6) unknown subjects which are not in Foundation custody.
Subjects of SCP-XXXX enter a catatonic state for the 11 minutes coinciding with the data transmission of SCP-XXXX-1, during which SCP-XXXX-2 emits a strong radio signal. Beyond this, subjects have shown to be in good ongoing physical health.
All subjects have affirmed knowing that they had been deceased, but deny knowing the cause of their revival or having any memories from the period. Every subject of SCP-XXXX has exhibited disinterest in their own death and revival. No subject has inquired, unprompted, as to the well being or status of relatives and friends. Requests by subjects pertain to being released from Foundation custody and being given access to the internet, newspapers and other similar items. Subjects deprived of such stimuli complain of worsening headaches which increase in intensity over the course of 17 days, resulting in death. Autopsies have shown SCP-XXXX-2 and the subject's nervous system to have broken apart. Such symptoms have not been documented in subjects provided with reading material from the approved reading list.
There are currently three (3) subjects in Foundation custody, Subject XXXX-1, Subject XXXX-8 and Subject XXXX-9.
SCP-XXXX was found in the possession of Mr. █████ ██████4 when the Foundation was alerted to an incident at █████ █████ Hospital regarding the anomalous nature of his nervous system. Records indicate that Subject XXXX-1 as being born in 1922, despite appearing to be middle aged.
Incident ██-██-████-01
Dr. ████ was discovered to have [REDACTED]. Dr. ████ terminated and ██████ ████5 has been taken into Foundation custody.
Addendum XXXX-1
Attention: Due to the events of [REDACTED], all staff will now be subject to inspection after any interaction with SCP-XXXX cell. -Dr. ███████ ██████
Idea 2
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| SCP-XXXX |
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Item#: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX currently housed within a standard poster tube, measuring 45 centimeters long with a diameter of ten (10) centimeters. The poster tube is kept within locker 6-A in Site-19's storage bay. All staff interacting with SCP-XXXX must wear proper safety gloves at all times, even if still contained with the poster tube.
Any staff member who has accidental contact with SCP-XXXX will be monitored for the proceeding 72 hours in the medical ward. Mandatory counseling sessions will be scheduled for a minimum of six (6) months in all instances. Staff members will not be permitted to leave the site until cleared by the medical team.
Description: SCP-XXXX is a wall poster with a photographic image of a young woman, measuring 40 centimeters by 61 centimeters printed upon gloss printer paper. The poster shows signs of having suffered nominal damage including some small tearing and water damage. Despite this apparent damage, SCP-XXXX is resistant to all attempts to rip, burn and crease. While SCP-XXXX is able to be rolled up or crumpled, it will unfurl if left alone and return to a completely flat state. Written on the back in blue pen, in the lower right hand corner, are the words 'XXOO Love, Jenny'.
Those who have touched the poster immediately have an onrush of false memories. Subjects of this effect wholly believe these memories to be true. While the specifics of these memories are unique to each individual, a consistent pattern of having a long emotional relationship with the girl on the poster, 'Jenny', is maintained. Commonalities include; growing up with Jenny as the girl from next door, going to prom with Jenny, losing their virginity to Jenny, proposing and marrying Jenny. In every instance there are recent memories of Jenny having tragically died, either from a long drawn out disease or through a violent accident. In each case, the subject remembers being present at Jenny's death, holding her as she passed away. This psychosis is permanent.
The false memories inconstantly remove or overwrite conflicting memories. In some cases, subjects remember both their marriage to their real spouse and marrying Jenny, while in other cases the subject has completely forgotten their previous relationships. In either case, subjects are unable to explain any discrepancies and have reacted with both disbelief and violence to the suggestion that 'Jenny' is not real. Research has shown that SCP-XXXX does not force a subject to acknowledged the false memories as reality, rather the memories are so convincing that subjects are unable to initially differentiate reality from SCP-XXXX generated memories. While these memories do not 'go away', they are subject to the natural degradation of details that any memory suffers.
Ongoing medication and therapy for a psychotic break have proven to help subjects differentiate and accept reality from SCP-XXXX memories.
Idea 3
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| SCP-XXXX, photo taken ██-██-██, photo taken from a distance of 48 meters. |
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Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: With the cooperation of the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Archbishop of Rupert's Land, the parish's 'Priest in Charge' is an embedded SCP agent, who will initiate containment scenario Charlie-Beta if need be.
During hours of SCP-XXXX activity, agents will remain 50 60 meters offsite undercover as security guards. At no time are personnel to be onsite, during restricted hours, alone. Unauthorized individuals attempting to gain access to the site during restricted hours are to be detained and questioned. A Class-B amnestic may be administered if necessary.
Due to the ██-██-████ migratory event, Site XXXX-A is to remain open and functional as a place of worship.
Description: SCP-XXXX is an entity which manifests periodically within 35 43 meters of Site XXXX-A, ███ ███████ ██ ███ ███ in ███████, ████████. It is active within 65 minutes following sunset and 65 minutes preceding sunrise. The entity appears to have two (2) luminescent eyes, which reach a height of eight (8) feet from the ground while stationary and, more commonly, four (4) feet from the ground while in motion.
The entity stalks solitary individuals for an indeterminate time before attacking. It has been shown to abandon this behavior and engage groups of individuals in an attempt to isolate a single person. Interview subjects have described SCP-XXXX as engaging in 'playful' actions, bobbing out from behind trees or quickly rounding the corners of the main building. This is believed to be a lulling tactic. It is thought that SCP-XXXX attacks by enveloping it's mass around a suitably isolated target before disappearing. Trace amounts of blood and, on three occasions, bone fragments from victims have been found in Site XXXX-A, discovered from several weeks to decades after initial disappearances. Most samples have been collected from within the crawl space of SCP XXXX-A or the accompanying graveyard. New samples are periodically discovered in previously searched areas. Following an attack, SCP-XXXX will remain dormant and not manifest for a period of 40 days.
SCP-XXXX is responsible for the disappearance of ██ individuals and suspected in an additional ███ cases dating back to 1849.
It is possible to observe SCP-XXXX from outside of the 35 43 meter range it remains within. Witnessing individuals have reported abnormal dreams in the weeks following observation. Feelings of dread, images of large iron wrought gates of Site XXXX-A's graveyard rattling and a mild desire to return to Site XXXX-A upon awaking are common themes reported. Note: The grave yard does not have, nor has it ever had, large iron wrought gates. The cause or significance of these dreams are undetermined.
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| Site XXXX-A viewed from the front driveway. Note the sign in the lower right hand side of the picture, added by the parish before SCP intervention. |
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Addendum:
Incident 06-16-03-01: Agent ██████ reports that the entity has begun exceeding the previous range limit of 35 meters. Agent reports SCP-XXXX at a distance of 36.2 meters from the main building. Further review needed.
Incident 04-22-08-01: Agent ████████ is MIA. It is assumed that SCP-XXXX is responsible for the disappearance. Agent ████████ had been setting up photographic equipment at a distance of 39 meters from the main building.
SCP Protocol Review: In the years prior to containment, the territory around the church within which SCP-XXXX manifests appears to have remained constant, approximately 35 meters. It now seems that this radius is expanding. The entity has been observed as far as 40 meters away from the main building. During initial containment, SCP-XXXX would only manifest once every 8-12 days. It currently manifests every night. The assumption is that because containment has greatly decreased the number of victims SCP-XXXX has been able to attack, it's frequency is increasing while it's radius is expanding. Site personnel describe SCP-XXXX's movements as 'predatory'. Proposals DSac-XXXX and Charlie-Beta are under Level-5 comity consideration. -Dr. Carrob, 02-01-09
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| SCP-XXXX, at time of retrieval. |
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Item #: SCP-XXXX
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is stored at Site-19 within the High Security Storage Vault on storage level 3 in locker 3133. Scheduled inspections will occur twice every 24 hour period. Any missing instances from SCP-XXXX are to be reported to Dr. Erennes Dr. Baclaire and should be checked against any upcoming scheduled tests. All occurrences of missing instances must be included in Site Director ████'s daily briefing. Instances of SCP-XXXX-A and inert instances of SCP-XXXX have been documented and cataloged in Safe Storage Archive 4-μ.
Ongoing research material is held within Dr. Erennes' Dr. Baclaire's office safe.
Cosmic Microwave Background spikes in disk shaped patterns will be monitered by imbedded agents in ████'s ██████ ████████ ████████ (████) satellite team and checked against any suspected use of SCP-XXXX.
Following incident XXXX-SE9 all testing has been suspended by Site Director ████ pending review. As of ██-██-████, access to SCP-XXXX is restricted to Level 4 personnel with Special Clearance Privilege Green Phi Three.
Description: At time of retrieval SCP-XXXX consisted of a sheet of 48 1940 2¢ James A. McNeill Whistler postal stamps. SCP-XXXX shows signs of age and damage consistent with non anomalous examples of 1940 2¢ Whistler stamps that have received moderate care.
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| SCP-XXXX-5 upon retrieval from an instance of SCP-XXXX-A. |
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SCP-XXXX is unable to send mailpieces back prior to September 5, 1940.8 Instances of SCP-XXXX-A appear unable to be sent forward in time beyond any point from which an instance of SCP-XXXX-A was sent back in time from9
When an instance of SCP-XXXX-A appears at a time before which it was sent, the corresponding individual stamp will disappear from the SCP-XXXX sheet.10
Instances from SCP-XXXX appear to lose all anomalous properties after use and are defaced in a manner consistent with having been processed by the postal service.
The SCP-XXXX sheet is currently comprised of 25 stamps. There are currently three (3) unused instances of SCP-XXXX seperated from the sheet and nineteen (19) instances of SCP-XXXX-A also in containment.
SCP-XXXX was retrieved by MTF Alpha-4 en route from the office of Dr. Elliot Newsmith of the MIT Department of Physics following his suicide. Dr. Newsmith had attempted to mail11 SCP-XXXX to a known GOC member under Foundation surveillance.12
As of ██-██-████ all testing has been suspended.
Testing Log:
Level 3 Clearance Required
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| To: SD19-All CSS, CC: SS19-All-CES RE: I know why we can't send it forward, ██-██-████ |
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Locked Pending Review
Addendum: Following incident XXXX-SE9, Dr. Erennes has been placed on medical leave. Dr. Baclaire will now be supervising the SCP-XXXX research team, which has been tasked to analyze existing data only.
There will be a memorial service for Dr. Gnoles in the rear garden on the 16th at 1300 and at 2000, attendance at one of the services is mandatory.
-Site Director ████
██-██-████
Due to the unaccounted for dissapearance of SCP-XXXX-14, access to SCP-XXXX is now restricted to personnel with Special Clearance Privilege Green Phi Three until further review.
-O5-6
Memo:
To: Site-19-XXXX Staff
From: Site Director ████
Re: Recent activity of the GOCRecent intelligence suggests that the Global Occult Coalition has assembled an Assessment Team which has begun making probes into the death of Dr. Newsmith. The time frame of this GOC activity corresponds with the disappearance of SCP-XXXX-14. Regen Morgan, a known GOC member we intercepted SCP-XXXX in transit to, has subsequently been terminated by GOC operatives. Currently, there is currently no cause for alarm but it is believed that the GOC assume or know that the Foundation intercepted a package intended for delivery to them. All information regarding this GOC Assessment Team will be forwarded to Dr. Baclaire for inclusion in the ongoing documentation of associated research material.
The steady drum of Poe tapping his fingers against the desk bounced off the walls while he waited. Behind the desk stretched the rows upon rows of shelving stacks that made up the Requisition office. A quick glance down at his watch showed Poe that he had been waiting for an entire three minutes. From where he stood, Poe had a poor view of the L shaped office. Only a small open doorway showed the back storage space. Directly across from him was a calender with a calico kitten wishing him to have a 'Happy Easter'. Occasionally he could catch wafts of conversation coming from beyond the stacks in the back room.
"Twelve gallons…third time…-aid supply…"
Incensed, Poe drummed his fingers louder. It wasn't boredom which caused the impatient tapping of his fingers, rather an attempt to get the clerk's attention. Poe imagined each tap his fingers made against the desk as being the ring of a desk bell, crying out to be attended to. There actually was a small bell at the desk. It was broken. Next to the desk bell was a helpful sign explaining that if you ring the bell, you should be helped shortly. Checking his watch again, Poe reeled at the knowledge that he had now been waiting for an entire four and a half minutes. Deciding that four and a half minutes was four minutes in excess of what was acceptable, Poe called out.
"Hello?"
A head poked out from behind the stacks, looking to the desk.
"Just a minute buddy." it said. And then it was gone. Back to the conversation.
The next few minutes crawled by on broken glass for Poe. Drum, drum, drum. Shift weight. Drum, drum, drum. Check watch. Drum, drum. Check watch again. Sigh loudly in a passive aggressive attempt to attract the clerk's attention. Drum, drum, drum. And so on. Tired of being mocked by a kitty cat with Easter cheer, Poe turned his back to the office and tried to occupy himself with the surroundings of the hall. The office stood at the cross section of a T junction hallway. The walls were bare and there was very little traffic walking by. As a child, Poe had spent many a summer hour looking for shapes in clouds, and now found himself unconsciously looking for shapes in the patterned green linoleum covering the floor.
'That one kind of looks like a turtle holding a butcher's knife.' Poe reasoned to himself.
Mercifully, Poe heard the click of a phone being placed upon its receiver.
'Thank God!' he thought. Rather, he thought for a moment. Soon, Poe had an entirely different series of thoughts. With the realization that the end of the phone conversation did not immediately herald the arrival of the desk clerk, Poe began to have a great many thoughts, most of them pertaining to the damning of God. These streamed unfiltered through Poe's mind for a few short moments, broken only by the sudden appearance of the clerk walking out from behind the stacks, head down and scrawling something across a clip board. The clerk walked right up to the desk and stopped right in front of Poe. And promptly continued to ignore him as he finished his paperwork. Irritated as he already was, Poe grew more so. He Gritted his teeth so as to avoid saying something rude. After all, Poe's mother had always said 'If you can't say something nice, then shut the hell up, sweety'. The clerk finished writing abruptly, looking up.
"What can I do for you?" He asked.
"Finished writing the novel?" Poe was fond of sarcasm. He wasn't very good at it, however.
"What? That? That's paperwork. I finished the novel last week."
Poe quickly made a quick decision to just cut to the chase. "This the requisition office?" He asked, letting the clerk's comment go.
"Yep. What can I do for you?" The clerk asked.
"I just got stationed here as security and I need some gear."
"Level 3, eh?" The clerk snapped his fingers as an expression of realization spread across his face. "You're that guy. The new guy. Heard you did some crazy shit in…Guam? Some kind of super spy soldier stuff, huh?"
A tug on his uniform shirt was the only allowance of smug satisfaction Poe permitted himself to show. 'My reputation precedes me', he thought.
"Word of advice?" the clerk began, "This whole place is filled with people who've done some crazy stuff. Try not to walk around like 'King Shit', eh?"
"W-what!?"
"Fill this out." The clap of a clipboard hitting the counter top interrupted Poe from his stunned, open mouthed silence. Without waiting for a reply, the clerk turned and again disappeared behind the stacks.
Poe stood at the desk for a while and, in the truest sense of the words, dumbly gaped at where the clerk had been standing not ten seconds earlier. 'That little jerk'. Fuming, Poe picked up the pen and hunkered over the form. Filling in the tiny boxes was little comfort to his newly chaffed ego. 'Who the hell does he think he is? Loser req. clerk. Can't even do any…thing. Stupid…stupid.' Poe's thoughts devolved from there, continuing along that path for a while. Inch upon inch his frustration grew as he filled out the short form. And then the long form. Followed by the triplicate form. And the back up requisition copy. And his 'employee backup redundancy affidavit'. As Poe signed the bottom of the twelfth and final form the clerk returned with box in hand.
"Here you go." he said, placing the box upon the counter. Poe began going through the box's contents, positive that something would be missing. 'Probably forgot my toothpaste or something.' He was disappointed to find that not only was everything he had asked for in the box, but that the toothpaste was also his preferred brand. 'What a jerk! Giving me my brand. Who does he think he his?' The thought wasn't very rational, but Poe didn't have much of a problem hating the clerk unreasonably. Quickly mumbling his thanks, Poe turned to leave, sliding the box off the desk into his arms.
"Uh…you sure you don't need anything else?"
Turning back to the desk, Poe saw that the clerk had lifted up the clipboard and was shaking the forms he had filled out upside down, as if trying to jar something loose.
"Else?"
"Yeah, you know…"
It took a moment for Poe to realize the clerk had finished speaking.
"I know what?"
The clerk sighed. "Hopeless. Here, move." Motioning Poe aside, the clerk jutted his jaw forward and let a shrill whistle loose. A passing technician stopped and turned.
Having caught the technician's attention, the clerk asked "Need anything Paul?"
Paul the technician looked as dumbfounded as Poe felt. All at once, however, it seemed as if the technician was in on some type of secret code with the clerk. Walking up to the desk with his hands in his coat pockets, the technician nodded. "Uh, yeah. I could use a bottle. It's my dad's birthday next week."
"Jack? Thought he died?"
"No, his name w-oh, right. Uh, yeah. But still."
"Sure. Fifty"
If the conversation between the two of them was supposed to clarify things for Poe's benefit, it wasn't doing its job very well. Poe stood by, feeling more and more awkward as the technician brought out his wallet and removed a $50 bill, sliding it over to the clerk.
"Thanks Mike." The technician turned and resumed his walk down the hallway, leaving behind a happy clerk and a very confused Poe standing together at the desk.
"Get it?" The clerk, Mike, asked. Poe silently shook his head back and forth, honest and earnest in his inability to comprehend the situation.
"You know. Creature comforts?"
Poe didn't get it.
"Life's little pleasures?"
Poe still didn't get it.
Mike the clerk groaned. "Really?"
Poe nodded, confirming for Mike that he did not, in fact, get it.
"You know… requisitioning a castle bravo." He said, clarifying nothing at all for Poe.
The look Mike the clerk received from Poe made it clear that the point had not been made yet. Looking around, the clerk huddled in close to Poe. "C.B?" He whispered.
"What's a sea bee?" He asked.
Mike took a moment to look around again. Seeing nothing that would stop him from continuing, "Contraband."
It took a moment for Poe to filter all the recent goings on that had just occurred at the desk through this new information. Mike must have seen the realization spreading across Poe's face, because he began to smile like a teenager who'd just told a dirty joke.
"That's against regulations." Poe blurted. Mike the clerk stopped smiling. Poe began looking around, afraid. To say that he didn't take the suggestion well would be doing Poe's reaction injustice. "You're breaking rules!" He almost shouted. In truth, he barely raised his voice, but to the two of them it seemed a shout.
"Shhh. No, shshsh!" Mike began waving Poe in, trying to get him to calm down.
"That could get you terminated!" Poe exclaimed. His mind raced, 'I have to report him. Do I have to report myself? Oh my God, I have to report myself?'
Mike began speaking in the familiar tone of an angry high school teacher. "Shush! Listen! There's regulations…then there's regulations. Get it? No? Okay. We're in the middle of nowhere. We live on site. How do we entertain ourselves?"
Poe thought for a moment. "There's Foosball." He offered.
For a moment, Poe thought the clerk was going to choke on his tongue. Clearly, Foosball had not been the suggestion Mike the clerk had been looking for.
Before Mike could continue, a guard walked up to the desk. Looking from Mike to Poe, the guard gave a shrug and asked "Need more staples in security office four."
Mike's hand dipped below the desk for a moment, returning with a box of staples and a form. The guard scrawled his name across the bottom and pocketed the box of staples. The guard stood for a moment, again looking from Mike to Poe. Awkwardly, he continued. "And, uh…my…other…thing?" The he asked Mike the clerk, glancing sideways to the unfamiliar Poe.
"Oh, right. Got it right here." Mike the clerk turned to a shelf next to the desk and pulled a water bottle filled with purple liquid out from under a stack of linen sheets. Mike stepped back to the desk, giving the bottle over to a now very happy guard.
"Wow. It's really cold." the guard observed.
"Yeah. I had to change it though." Mike said.
A worried look crossed the guards face. He didn't like the idea of Mike the clerk's change. "What? Why? To what?"
Mike's eyes closed in a confidant head shake. "No worries. I changed it to 'Something that will give me orgasms that isn't addictive and won't kill me'."
The guard's shoulders slacked as he visibly relaxed. "Cool. Thanks." He studied the bottle's contents for a moment. "How much do you think-"
"Start small." Mike interrupted. "Like, tea spoon small. Thimble small. Play it safe, eh?"
Slipping the bottle into his pants pocket, the guard smiled and gave a quick glance down the hallways. "Thanks Mike. I'll let you know how it goes." the guard said, walking off.
"Yeah…maybe keep that to yourself?" Mike called after the guard, but he was already around the corner and out of sight.
Poe thought deep thoughts on what he'd just witnessed. Not long and not hard. But deep. He couldn't make much sense of what had just transpired. He understood all the words well enough, it was just the order and way that they'd been used that confused him so. After a beat, Poe came upon the truth of the matter and knew what he had to do.
"I'm reporting you." He told Mike.
"Good luck. That was your supervisor. I think. Might be Jim." Mike thought a moment on the matter. "Hey, if Jim's your supervisor, could you take something to him? I just got his delivery."
If steam could have poured from Poe's ears, it would have. It would have also been very impressive. But steam couldn't poor from Poe's ears, so instead he just turned a colour of deep red and fumed. Poe's mouth opened and closed a number of times as he started and stopped, searching for the perfect words needed to express himself completely. Something eloquent and profound. Something that would make Mike the clerk see the error of his ways and report himself for misconduct. Something that would ring with truth and honesty no man could deny. He eventually came up with something decidedly less poetic.
"YOU'LL GET IN TROUBLE!" He shouted at last. Poe realized, as his face returned to its proper colour, that Mike the clerk looked less than impressed with the entire display.
"Yeah, I don't think so."
"Someone'll find out. You'll get caught and you'll get in trouble. I'll detain you." Even as Poe said the words, he realized how much the petulant child he sounded. Slightly embarrassed, the office phone began to ring, saving Poe the need to continue on with the hopeless conversation that, he realized, he had lost.
"Yeah. I gotta get that." Mike the clerk spun on the heels of his feet and slipped off into the back. Poe began to gather his gear, using the time to try and decide who to tell this whole affair to. From somewhere inside the requisition office, he could make out the beginnings of a new conversation.
"Requisition?" Mike said casually, almost bored. From his place at the desk Poe could almost hear Mike snap to attention. "Yes sir!" Mike said, all traces of boredom having fled to some other clerk, a clerk not on the phone with a superior. Interested, Poe suddenly found that putting his gear together would take much longer than normally necessary. "No sir! No sir! Absolutely not sir!" Mike spoke, his voice beginning to quiver.
'Did he get turned in already?' Poe wondered. 'I might get to see him get taken in!' If Poe were not so reserved he may have broken into a celebratory dance. Seeing the clerk get what he deserved was just the kind of thing Poe would like to see.
"No sir! N-… sir, are you screwing with me sir?" Mike asked. Poe suddenly didn't feel like dancing anymore.
The stacks began to echo with Mike's laughter, a tittering thing not totally unlike a little child's. "You almost had me. I have to change my shorts, that's what I think. Yes sir, it was a good one. Really? You sent him? Hang on a second, sir." Mike's head poked out from behind the stacks, looking to the desk.
"This isn't about you." He said to Poe.
"What? Wait, what? Are you talking about me?"
Mike shook his head" No. But go away." And then he was gone. Back to the conversation.
Poe gathered his gear, not quite as happy has he had been earlier in the day. As he walked down the hall away from the requisition office, wafts of this new conversation drifted over to him from beyond the stacks.
"Sure, I do bets…I don't know…maybe 5-1…just injured…30-1 if SCP…get's him…yes sir…cash up front…you're good for it…"
"Sit." said the Chief Officer.
The young guard sat without word.
"I've received some concerning reports these past few days," The Chief Officer began, opening the manila file which lay upon his desk. "Muttering to yourself, late for shifts, forgetting to book off. Two days ago you worked three hours longer than you were scheduled for. It says here in the shift report that you 'didn't realize it was so late'." The Chief Officer lifts the corner of the top page, glancing at the next. "Were you crying in the elevator this morning?"
Shifting in his seat, the guard shrugged. Leaning back into his chair, he continues. "You're gonna need to give me more than that." The Chief Officer closed the folder upon his desk and waited for a proper answer.
Again the guard shrugged. "I don't know." He said, looking away from the Chief Officer.
"Something happen here? One of the SCP's? Having a problem with someone?" The guard does not reply. "How about at home, everything fine at home?"
The young guard sobbed, not realizing that he had done so.
The Chief Officer leaned forward, gently resting his interlaced hands upon the desk before him. "If something happened we can give you the time off to take care of it."
"No, it's not okay." The guard starts. "It just … fuck-." The guard's composure abandons him all at once. Burying his face in his hands, muffled sobs escape from behind his fingers.
The Chief Officer gives the guard a moment. "Someone pass?" he asks, "A parent?"
Rubbing a knuckle into his right eye to clear some tears away, the guard answers. "No, it's Jenny."
With controlled movements the Chief Officer brings his right hand to his face, resting his chin carefully in his palm. "Jenny?" He asks, interested.
Jenny.
The young guard stiffens.
"Jenny. My wife, sir."
The Chief Officer sits with the guard through an awkward silence. Clearing his throat the Chief Officer proceeds, speaking in a softer tone of voice than before.
"I can …" the Chief pauses a moment, picking his words with care. "We all need someone to talk to. What happened?"
When they were seven years old, he and Jenny had gone hiking through the woods behind their houses, he in his Boy Scouts of America uniform and Jenny in a summer dress. They had stumbled across a small lake which they had not known lay only mile from their doorsteps. Jenny had looked out across the water and gasped at the wonder of finding something so unexpected. Then she had looked to Ben and told him that she could not wait to see the rest of the world. He had fallen in love with her at that moment.
The Chief Officer raises his voice a little, trying to regain the young guard's attention. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"She…" the young guard stops abruptly, his jaw jutting out as if attempting to spit out the words.
"Did she pass away?" offered the Chief Officer.
The word brings the guard to the edge of crying again. He looks away from the Chief Officer, nodding as he brushes away more tears. When the guard returns his attention to the Chief Officer, he has an open notebook atop the manila folder and a pen in his hand.
"Go on."
After the lake it had changed. Skipping stones together at their lake had turned into holding hands. Their first date when they were 14. It had been to the movies and had been chaperoned by her older brother. Their second date. Their first kiss. Prom. Their first time together. Memories. Snippets. Love. Jenny. Love.
The Chief Officer raises his voice again. "Jenny passed away? Please go on." He clicks the end of his pen, pushing the ballpoint out.
"She…she, uh…" The guard tries, but finds himself failing. Closing his eyes, he pushes forward. "She died two weeks ago, sir."
"Two weeks!?" The Chief Officer asks, surprise creeping into his tone of voice. "Since Jenny died, have you spoken with anyone about this?"
The guard shrugged and shakes his head. "I'm new…and I didn't really know anybody."
The Chief Officer jots down a series of notes before looking up. "Please, continue."
The military. After graduation he had joined the military.What had Jenny done? She wrote him everyday. From college. College. Jenny. After the military it was Boston. Where Jenny was living. Love. They had gotten engaged the day after he arrived in town. They were married eight months later.
"She was driving…" The guard took several deep breaths before speaking again. "…and she got hit…"
He drove by the car wreck on the way to the hospital.
"…the, uh, car rolled over into a ditch."
Jenny. She looked beautiful. Even laying in the hospital bed, she looked beautiful.
"When I got to the hospital they told me she didn't have too long." The guard focuses his attention on the Chief Officer again before continuing. "She looked okay. She was kinda sleepy and had some bandages on her stomach, but honest to God she looked okay. I thought that…"
The last time she had opened her eyes Jenny had asked him what was wrong. He had told her that nothing was wrong. Jenny had smiled and closed her eyes for the last time and spoke to him her last words.
"She said, 'We should go on a trip somewhere. There's a whole lotta world we still haven't seen.'"
And then she was gone.
"And then she was gone." The young guard's voice breaks and he begins to cry again. Hiding his face in the crook of his arm, the guard begins to sob anew.
The Chief Officer puts his pen down and gives the guard time to compose himself.
"Go down to medical." He begins, "They're gonna give you a Valium. You're gonna take it and get some sleep. When you wake up, things'll start getting better." The Chief leaned towards Ben, as if letting him in on a secret. "We take care of our own. The thing you need to know is that you aren't gonna have to go through this alone. Got me?"
The guard nods, hardly hearing the Chief Officer. "Thank you sir."
"Sure. A couple of guys'll make sure you get down to medical okay."
On tired arms Ben pushes himself to his feet and leaves the room.
…
"Right here. You can see that it touches one of the hairs on his wrist not covered by the gloves."
The doctor offers the printed still from the security camera to the Chief Officer.
"It can infect by touching hair?" asked the Chief Officer.
"Seems so. You're going to need to amend the containment procedures so this won't happen again."
The Chief takes a deep breath before continuing the discussion. "That's all well and good, Carl, but what are you going to do about my fucking guard? When's he get fixed?"
Dr. Brando smiles quietly in response to the question. "That's a very good question. I wish I had a very good answer to go along with it."
"This thing went on for two weeks, Carl, and you didn't pick up on this. You people are supposed to screen for this type of crap. Seeing as you didn't do your job then, tell me you can do it now and get my man back to me in tip top." says the Chief Officer
Embarrassed, the doctor continues. "Um, yes…well, regarding Mr. Caddle, there's not much we can do. Medically, he's had a psychotic break. That's what it does. There's no antidote for this. Just treatment."
Grinding his teeth, the Chief Officer's voice becomes strained from anger. "I don't like the sound of that. How long is this treatment going to take?"
Growing frustrated, the doctor tries to explain. "This isn't cancer, Chief. You don't shoot it with chemo until it goes away, because it doesn't go away. He's going to be in therapy for years and on anti psychotics forever. He's schizophrenic. That means he's not coming back to work. Like, ever."
"Fucking great." The Chief Officer drops the security print out onto the metal table before them. "You have any idea how much of a pain in the ass that is? We got a lot of stuff to go over because of this and now we get to find a replacement to boot. It takes months to find a guy and vet him. This fucks me for a good long while." The Chief turns away from the doctor, choosing instead to look out through the two way mirror which takes up the length of one wall.
"Inconvenient, is this? My staff just got the fun new job of convincing a guy that his wife doesn't exist and is a figment of his imagination, put there by a 30 year old poster of a woman he accidentally touched. And it doesn't get to end in a couple of months. We're lucky enough to do this job forever. So please, continue. Tell me how much your day's been screwed up, because hearing about it is going to make mine so much better."
"Look, I'm sorry. It just-"
The doctor cuts him off. "No, seriously. Go on. I'd love to hear more about how this has wrinkled your day up into a little ball of problems."
The two men stand in silence together for a moment. The doctor cleans his glasses while the Chief Officer continues to look through the mirror.
"He gonna be okay?"
The doctor joins the Chief Officer in looking through the two way mirror. On the other side is the young guard, having recently awaken from his sleep.
"Eventually. But it'll never go away. Those memories are there forever. We just gotta make sure he accepts that they're false and keeps up with his medication. This is a lifetime of memories we're dealing with, a lot of them more real than the real ones."
Long seconds stretched out into long minutes as the two men stare through the mirror.
The Chief Officer breaks the silence. "I got some paperwork to do. You okay here?"
"Yeah. You'll have my medical report tomorrow. We should be able to do the incident report before the review board by weeks end." The doctor glances over to the Chief Officer. "Have you notified his next of kin?"
"Not yet. We're still putting a cover story in place before we notify his wife."
The Chief turns to leave.
"We deal with some bullshit here. But this is just sick." The Chief Officer observes.
"The SCP? Jenny in the Poster?" asks the doctor.
The Chief Officer nods.
The doctor returns his attention to the young guard sitting on the other side of the mirror. "It's one of the worst."
With nothing left to say to each other, the Chief Officer exits the observation room.
For the next five minutes the doctor stands facing the two way mirror, watching the young guard sitting calmly on the cot, waiting for someone to come speak to him as was promised.
The doctor picks up his clip board and moves to the door separating the two rooms.
Ben looks up as the doctor enters the room.
"Hi Ben, I'm Doctor Brando. If you're feeling up to it, I'd like to speak to you about Jenny."
Jenny.
He lay in the bath tub, toes gently splashing along the water line in an absent minded way. The hot water comforted him as he reflected on the evening prior.
"Do tell?" An innocuous little thing of a question, to be sure. An afternoon at the club, as most days, had been a quiet affair. The exclusivity of Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. did not lend itself to idle talk. A leather chair to sit in and a small beverage to accompany him as he passed the time with a book from the club's library. Solitude in the company of peers, the unspoken social rule of the club; You do not chit chat.
"How are you today?" An odd question to have been asked by an old regular of the club. He had seen the gentlemen about, at various functions. They each worked within separate industries, so little reason to interact had ever arisen. The question had been out of place. Useless. Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. was many things, but a sanctuary for uselessness it was not. The gentlemen accepted a short, curt, answer and that had been that. He returned to his book, glancing up from the page occasionally, on the look out for other things out of their place. Gooseflesh crept along his spine, settling into the back of his neck.
"Anything new?" Another question from another member. Another thing out of place. A lump had begun to well up in his throat. A grunted response turned away the fellow.
His tub, as with his membership, had been inherited. Sitting in it, he used his toe to turn on the hot water. He thought back to all the times through the years that he had turned the hot water on with his toe. The steady stream of the tap keeping the tub a comfortable temperature had become a lifelong routine for him. Forty years prior he had lain in this same exact spot watching the water crest to the over flow drain, listening to the gargle of the water being drunk back down. It was a simple memory of a common practice of his. One he had taken for granted, much like the membership.
"How are you feeling today?" One odd inquiry could be an anomaly. The numerous questions he received throughout the evening were a pattern. A message. Talk occurred at the club, most certainly. Business was frequently discussed. Privacy was seldom intruded for the sake of friendly banter, however. There were other places than the club for things of that sort.
Places he frequented. On occasion.
"Do tell?" An insignificant little thing of a question, he had thought at the time. An opportunity to brag, perhaps. But places outside of the club are rarely outside of the reach of the club. The two concepts were mutually exclusive from each other.
He thought of the note he had written as way of apology, sitting on his desk in the study. He suspected it would not still be there come morning.
"Your bill, sir?" The hostess, too, came to him with a question not often heard. Membership, of course, carried obligations, monetary and otherwise. There were fundraisers, investments, tips for the staff. Members gave freely of themselves, in return the club gave freely of itself. Charges for drinks, like a common pub? Hardly. Only guests paid their way, not full members. She had placed the small leather bound pad on the arm of his chair. It had taken him a moment to register the action, so off guard was he. Opening it revealed a single slip of paper, with a hand written bill for his drink. Everyone had been looking at him.
"I'm sorry?" He had asked. The waitress had smiled in reply. That is to say, her lips turned up, but there was no warmth in the action. The imitation of a smile, too, was a message.
On the rim of the tub lay a small folded white towel, atop which lay his grandfather's straight razor. It had a beautiful pearl handle, one he had admired many times while watching his father shave and many more times while he had shaved with it. He reached out to it, a trembling finger brushing against the handle. The touch of it made him start and he pulled away, returning his hand to his submerged lap.
"No reason to be sorry, sir." She had said to him, leaning in close. "You'll do the right thing, I'm sure." And then she had left him, to attend to her other duties. Around him, business deals resumed, gentlemen began reading their books and papers again. A woman ordered another beverage. He hadn't realized how quiet it had gotten until the muted routine of the club resumed. The hostess' statement was as much an answer as he was likely to get. You do not chit chat. Membership carried obligations. Broken obligations carried penalties. Marshall, Carter and Dark's penalties were rather … severe.
He would do the right thing. If he was lucky, he would only have to do it the once. If he was very, very lucky, the earth would not be salted out of spite. He made himself look over to the towel again, and the razor upon it. He reached over and picked it up, unfolding the blade.
"Do tell?" An inconsequential little thing of a question, no longer. For him, it was the most important question of his life. Perhaps it was pride in having what others did not. But he had - told, that is.
He felt cold, no longer comforted by the hot embrace of his bath. He turned the hot water off, stopping the flow from the tap. He thought of all the times since his childhood that he had lain in this very tub, turning the water on and off with his toe. He thought of all the times that he would not get to do it.
For a solitary, blissful moment, not a thought passed through his mind. His eyes unfocused as he stared intently at nothing. The moment passed silently.
Taking in a breath, he lay back into the tub submerging himself. In his hand, below the surface, was still the razor. Holding it gave him a strange sort of comfort all at once. Things could always be worse.
He did the right thing.
The nearest street light lay 20 meters up the cobble from where he stood. The bulb inside it had long ago died. It was a forgotten little light in a forgotten little pocket of the city. And being twice forgotten it had never been fixed.
Abandoned by light, Robert strained his vision to see the address written upon the paper scrap he had been handed two nights earlier by his friend. And by friend he in no way meant friend. More "friend", in the sense that the gentleman had called himself one. Coming into money and title he had never suspected of having familial connection to now left Robert suspicious of new "friends".
The address looked correct. It had taken him to the East End of London, near enough to the Thames that he could appreciate it's unique summer smell. Robert found himself standing before a cement factory which seemed to have fallen upon hard times of late. He would have winced at the pathetic pun had it been spoken aloud. He was better than such obviousness. The club would assuredly expect better of him.
Preoccupation with club opinion was funny to Robert, though he would never again laugh at the idea. He used to scoffed at those who came from money, titles and club memberships, having himself had to work hard for everything in life. They had never been the things he had aspired to.
Marshall, Carter and Dark felt different to Robert. It was not the collection of self aggrandizing socialites other institutions seemed. It felt like the barracuda swimming in beach water. Robert took them very seriously, never laughing passed the one time he had. It was a quick lesson learned that Marshall, Carter and Dark would not suffer being made jest of.
Robert returned the slip of paper to his pocket in a crumpled ball. It, along with Robert, would have turned and left in that moment but for the Rolls Royce limousine that approached the darkened curb just then. From the front of the shapely vehicle slipped the driver and then, from the back door he held open, slipped a smartly dressed man and women. Robert took this to mean that he did, in fact, have the correct address.
An old cement factory was an odd place for a sporting event. They had described it vaguely as a series of boxing matches, though the way in which everyone chuckled at the suggestion made clear that it was most likely a euphemism.
'Bishop of Graves style rules, m'boy' Sir William had chuckled, hand on belly. 'Never been a finer way to loose a few pounds in wager.'
Robert followed the couple, though was careful to keep his distance lest he be suspected a robber out to pilfer their pocket books. Even in darkness there are shadows and from those stretching out of the perimeter wall a very large man in a formal suit and tie moved forward.
"Private gathering, you'll have to leave n-, oh, excuse me Mr. McCullough." The man interrupted himself and halted his approach. It was unnerving for Robert to be recognized with such ease. Unnerving as many other recent events had been. They were things Robert needed to acclimatize himself with, as it was entirely possible it would occur with greater frequency in coming days.
"This is a members only function, sir." The suited man explained in an apologetic way. "Do you have a guide for the evening?"
Robert explained that he did and handed over Sir Williams' invitation. It, unlike the crumpled address forgotten in his pants pocket, had been kept smooth and pristine in an envelope inside his jacket. Robert understood what the invitation represented and had treated it as he would a saint's relic.
The suited man guarding the entryway took the invitation and read it over before bringing his wrist close to his lips and whispered. After a moment the man nodded and lowered his hand before returning full attention to Robert.
"Please move to the striped door ahead and wait for Sir Harcourt to retrieve you." Robert agreed to do just that and accepted the invitation being offered back. Finding the white door with it's muted red stripes was easy enough. Another large, be-suited gentleman stood nearby but said not a word and moved not an inch at Robert's approach. The two waited in patient silence.
"Robert, you're late. The final match is nearly underway." Robert turned to be greeted by Sir Harcourt Williams standing in the open doorway. The man, as always, stood tall and firm despite the grey and wrinkles that made up his features. Beckoned inwards, Robert followed as Sir Williams led the way though a series of twisting halls and stairs running deep beneath the factory.
Sir Williams gushed over Robert's arrival, saying how good it was to see young blood take an interest in club gatherings, how the sports were a privilege to see and how it was a shame Robert had not been about for them in the 60's when they had been held every month in Chelsae. Robert heard little of what Sir Williams said, and instead focused more on the hollow echoes of cheers and chatter skipping down from the halls ahead.
They finally neared another door, this one dark and green and very, very old. The cheers coming from the other side became very loud all at once, mixed with boos now and the pained screaming of what sounded like a young boy. Robert wished he had not come. But, as ever, Robert was demure. One did flee the barracuda, after all. You slip away unnoticed when the moment is opportune.
Sir Williams opened the door and preceded Robert into the very large room beyond. Cigarette and cigar smoke hazed his view making it hard to see despite the brightness with which the room was lit. Rows of wooden folding chairs and a small rise of bleachers along one wall circled a table at the center of the cream bricked room. The seats were filled with the rich and powerful, many of them which made up the members of Marshall, Carter and Dark Ltd. They drank expensive drinks and smoked expensive tobaccos. Robert suspected most of them spoke expensive words.
From the table at the center of it all was led a man, cradling a boy of perhaps twelve, through a door opposite the room from where Robert and Sir Williams entered. It looked to be the boy who had screamed out a moment prior. Two staff members approached the center table with buckets and scrub pads and began cleansing from the surrounding floor the a surprising amount of blood.
"This way, young Robert. Join me." Sir Williams called from over his shoulder. Robert followed in a stiff and cautious manner, moving as if surrounded by thorn bushes. He slid forward through the crowd, afraid to be snared up by the wealthy or terrible the comprised the crowd. All the while he made his way Robert was carefully self conscious of just how under dressed he appeared, even in comparison to the staff. Ahead, Sir Williams came to stop at what seemed an intimate group of friends, the couple from outside among them.
"What's more fashionable than being late?" The woman laughed, finishing a joke Robert had not heard. "Ah, Harcourt! Is this the prospect you've been gushing over, then?" She asked, paying little attention to Robert directly.
"It is is indeed, my dear Victoria. Lord Hine's nephew. Bright boy, a bit of the older generation in him. Which is to say he knows how to roll up his sleeves and put real work into things." The group smiled, for lack of a better description of what the did, at Robert in unison then. They smiled with their teeth instead of their lips or their eyes. It was a cold smile, a predatory smile. They where the smiles of sharks beholding a sea of guppies.
"Pleasant weather of late, hmm?" The young man among them asked of Robert. The others laughed in a way which implied an obscene joke had been made. Robert took no notice of the bait offered to him. He would not produce some vapid or useless comment that would only serve to validate preconceived notions of him. Instead he commented on the weather of the room, likening it to an opium den filled with lions by being more lethal than lethargic. It was a good enough sort of joke for being spontaneous. It generated a few genuine smiles in the group, Victoria and her husband not among them.
The group prattled on about a great many things, mostly business gossip. Robert, not having been party to what made the gossip worth while, instead eyed the room. The staff had finished cleaning the table and left through the door across the room. At the end of the room another staff member finished scrawling upon a large chalk board mounted high on the wall.
'Mathews (daughter) 3-1 vs Helms (spouse) 1-1', it read.
"Here they come!" Sir William tugged Robert down into his chair. Two men with the look of laborers about them strode into the room, accompanied each by a woman at his side. The first, a large middle aged man with a woman of equal years claimed the stool to the right of the table, perfectly in front of Robert. The woman stood opposite the narrow table from the seated man. The other man, younger and in good shape but bad clothes, sat opposite the first while a scared teen aged girl stood behind the first man. A staff member walked over and began fitting a pair of plain black gloves onto the first man's hands.
Robert looked over to Sir William, ready to inquire upon the proceedings but found his guide ready to answer before being asked.
"They're Bishop Gloves, y'see?" Sir Williams asked.
Roberts said that he didn't 'see'.
"Bishop? The knife game?" He held out a hand and made a stabbing motion with his other. The motion did little to clarify anything for Robert.
"Just watch." Sir Williams motioned towards the table.
Gloves firmly fitted to all four hands at the table the men took up knives in one hand while laying the other flat to the table. The announcer standing nearby called out that Helms had won the coin toss backstage and had opted to go first, explaining that they would go up to 7 timed variances. A hit counted as a point against. As it was the main event five points against constituted a loss. The announcer ended by saying that betting would close in one minute. Robert understood absolutely nothing about it all.
"Ever bet on sports, Robert? Boxing or the races? Football?" Sir Williams asked. Robert shook his head, he had never had enough of anything to bet with until recently.
"Make a bet with the house. Make it a good sized bet and I'll cover you if you lose. You'll never experience anything like it."
Sir William called out a marker for one hundred on Matthews and a booker hurried over with pad in hand, tearing off a slip and handing it over.
The slip had too many zeroes to be only a hundred pounds. After a stern look from Sir Williams Robert bet ten on Matthews. A slip for ten thousand pounds was pressed into his hand as betting ended. Sir Williams gave an approving nod.
"Couldn't dress up for us, Robert?" the woman, Victoria, asked. "Didn't even shave, tsk. There's really no excuse for something like that. I know for a fact your uncle left you a nice razor."
She and her husband laughed at their not so private joke. Robert appreciated it when no one else joined in. He turned to her and apologized for his appearance and then leaned in and quietly asked for the face shaving secrets she used. Her face darkened.
All eyes returned to the table as the second man, Mathews, placed his left hand flat on the table, fingers spread. Where a moment prior the chatter had been a constant stream of racket, a babbling brook if you will, the only sound now was the heavy breathing of Helms, knife in hand. He reached over and briskly stabbed the table five times between Mathews' fingers. Five loud thunks called out to the room that the blade had made contact with wood instead of flesh. Every odd stab returned passed the thumb and every even stab between fingers, moving inwards along the hand back towards the thumb. The announcer, stop watch raised close to his eye, nodded.
Half the room went off into cheers, the half that had undoubtedly bet on Helms. Next, Helms spread a hand and Mathews stabbed between his fingers in similar fashion. When done the announcer eyed the stop watch and shook his head. A series of boos hailed from the room. Mathews tried again, moving the knife quicker. This second time the announcer nodded. Half the room cheered.
"You have to go quick, otherwise you do it over again. You keep going until you either make time or score a point." Sir Williams offered.
Helms stabbed several times between Mathews fingers again and then Mathews to Helms. Robert began to wonder aloud why each man knifed between their opponent's hand when the young Ms. Mathews let out a scream. Mathews' blade had sunk deep into Helms' gloved hand to the center of the table. The room erupted into a series of cheers and boos.
Before Robert sat two men. One, a knife embedded in his hand and a smile on his face the other having embedded said knife into the hand, grimacing. The young daughter of Mathews bent over clutching her hand under her arm, a red stain spreading out to the floor from there.
"Ah, there you go. Nothing like the underclass bleeding for your money." Sir Williams laughed.
Mathews withdrew the knife to another shriek from his daughter. He said something to the girl from across the table but the crowd was too loud for Robert to hear. Helms and Mathews resumed their dance, a sharp ballet playing out between their fingers for the crowd's amusement. He looked down at the note in his hand and then to Sir Williams, cheering on his man Mathews. Robert suspected he would be sick. He was relieved when he was not.
"You look a little pale, Robert? Not up for a little sport?" Victoria asked him, the enjoyment of Robert's discomfort clear in her voice.
"Perhaps it is savage of us. If you think it so wrong to have a little fun you could always tell on us. Pop off to the police and shut this down."
Robert suggested such obviousness was below even an hourly prostitute and that it should be beneath her to act in such way. Victoria hissed through her teeth while the crowd erupted again. Robert looked over as the Mathews child screamed out once more.
"Such like little girls to cry out at the first little prick, eh Robert?" Victoria bit into the olive pulled from her drink. Robert asked without looking what she had meant by that particular comment.
"Just teasing. You look pale and made a girls bet, is all. Only ten? Tut tut."
Through gritted teeth Robert suggested a side wager of fifty, that Helms would score the next point.
"We'll make a man out of you yet?" she teased.
Each man was stabbing nine times between each others fingers now. They went back and forth three times before Mrs. Helms let out a pained cry and fell to her knees. The crowd erupted at the site of blood again. A satisfied grin spread along Robert's lips and he slowly looked over to Victoria.
Someone exclaimed that the poor woman had lost the tip of her finger. As it transpired the caller was correct. A crying Helms tried apologizing to his wife but the next round was quick to continue and he was unable to see to her.
The rounds continued, as did Victoria's goading of Robert. Knives jumped between fingers in a blur, punctuated by screams, cheers and boos. As the match neared it's end the score became tied at 4-4 while Robert had lost two additional side bets to Victoria. His inheritance could take the loss but the amount he had gambled away was staggering in his mind. He had decided that he hated Victoria. He offered another bet over the gentle protests of Sir Williams.
"I don't want your money." She told him. "But I'll wager the one twenty five against something else." she offered. Robert asked what. Her response left him cold. He looked to Sir Williams.
"Don't look to me, I'm not your mummy." he exclaimed gruffly.
The harsh rebuke came as a surprise. He had to remind himself that these were not his friends, not even Sir Williams, who had been kindly showing him club etiquette and connections. Barracudas. In that moment he hated them all, those who had been kind to him included. He refused to walk out a loser to people he hated. Robert nodded his agreement to Victoria.
The final round commenced. Both men, crying, took turns moving the knife around the space created from their opponents spread hand. Each man's loved one stood within their line of sight, pale from the loss of blood suffered upon them thus far. Each man took turns again and again, neither scoring a point. Sweating, Robert looked over at a relaxed Victoria, leaning back and fanning herself with a betting slip. She had not been watching the match, instead enjoying the site of Robert's stressing over the match. Robert tried to ignore her and returned his gaze to the table.
The match wen on, back and forth. At first he prayed for Helm's to slip up. As the round continued he eventually gave up on own desired outcome and instead prayed any end at all, so long as it stopped the torture of waiting without knowing.
Robert's hands clenched into the fabric at his knees. Panic began to spread through him. He could not afford to lose the bet. The opportunities that would forever be out of his reach danced in his vision. Geers and cat calls from the crowd pierced the overall motley exchange of cheers and boos. Victoria's husband ordered them both drinks. The first leg up he'd been given by life now thrown away. Someone let out a shrill whistle. Victoria laughed at something whispered from her husband, holding up her betting slip to hide her smile. Gambling with the rest of his life. Laughing somewhere off to the right. Victoria shifting in her seat, being goaded into being stupid, a man behind him booing Helms, Victoria's drinks arriving, throwing away opportunities, Sir Williams cheering for Helms, the perfume from the stupid woman he hated, a shriek.
Before them all the knife sank deep into the plain black glove and the hand within it. A woman's voice rose above all the rest, a pained howl piercing the cacophony of the pale brick room. Mrs. Helms doubled over in pain, a new stream of blood flowing from her hand.
Robert's face was red and he had a headache all at once. It took him a moment to realize that among the cheers and yelling he was loudest among them, screaming out in relief and joy with fists thrust above his head. He cheered for his man Mathews pulling through as the four competitors were led to the back room. He cheered for the thrill of winning a bet. He cheered for having beat that annoying socialite. At last Robert sunk back into his chair, exhausted.
"What'd I tell you, son? Nothing like it, eh?" Sir Williams asked. Robert answered only by way of a smile, broad along the whole breadth of his face. Looking over to Victoria he found her smiling. No teeth in this smile did he find, instead there was a warmth in her eyes unlike before.
"We'll officially endorse you at the next meeting." she said with outstretched hand. "Welcome to Marshall, Carter and Dark."
All in a moment Robert forgot that he had ever hated her. Around him people tore up tickets, laughed and drank while beginning to drift away from the sporting event.
Robert looked from his smiling associates to the ticket in his hand to the table and bloodied floor before him.
"Wait 'till you're a member and you can attend an official dinner. Some of them put this to shame." Sir Williams patted Robert on the shoulder and made his way passed.
Robert believed him and looked forward to it.
