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}From: Brennan Sanders (ten.pics|ysp.srednastb#ten.pics|ysp.srednastb)
To: Alba Holloway (ten.pics|612d.yawolloha#ten.pics|612d.yawolloha)
Subject: You're allowed to take a break
Time: 17:15 03/09/25
Alba, I don't really have anything else to say. I'm aware you're the Site Director now, and that you're drowning in a sea of ink, but you really need to go home. You've been pulling all-nighters and many staff members have seen you nodding off. Even if you don't care about your health, please take into account that this has an effect on your work - Your last report had a lot of typos, according to Manson, and your last email to me had quite a bit as well.
On a side note, I brought in a new coffee machine. It's in the break area across from the fridge. I already did the paperwork for that one, and the file should be attached. Use it as much as you need to, refills for the grounds are in the cabinet below.
Please remember, I'm always available if you need me.
Secure, Contain, Protect,
Brennan Sanders
Site-216 Counselor
Item#: 9288
Level2
Containment Class:
safe
Secondary Class:
class_here
Disruption Class:
dark
Risk Class:
notice
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-9288's door is to be fitted with a deadbolt fitted with a six-digit digital combination lock, the code of which is to be rotated twice daily at 06:00 and 18:00. A camera has been installed in the first floor corridor of the Holloway Estate for the express purpose of monitoring SCP-9288. A secure perimeter is to be established around the area.
Description: SCP-9288 refers to the second door from the right on the first floor corridor of the Holloway Estate at 51██ █████████ Drive in Houston Texas, as well as the space behind it and the connected subrealities (SCP-9288-1 and -2 respectively).
SCP-9288-1 is a 1.9x1.08 meter door composed of pine wood that serves as the entrance to SCP-9288-2 but remains impervious to all attempts to damage it. Any attempt to access SCP-9288-2 without passing through SCP-9288-1 will instead result in accessing the first floor office. Its temperature consistently remains at 24,5°C. The door cannot be seen in the original house schematics. Behind the door is a series of tunnels that branch off and to SCP-9288-2 instances. These secondary, branching tunnels vary greatly in length and size, with tunnels ranging from lengths of three centimeters to dozens of kilometers in length, with many possessing smaller, tertiary tunnels embedded into their walls. Tunnel length and size varies based on the difference in revisions of the drafts of the unpublished novel "███ █████ ██ ███████" by James Holloway. However, demonstration of this is impossible (see Addendum 9288.03). Due to the varying size and count of SCP-9288-2 instances (with the smallest recorded tunnel being 2 microns), a vast majority of secondary and tertiary tunnels are completely inaccessible. There are 182,704 216,061 an estimated 200,000+ secondary tunnels and tertiary tunnels in total.
SCP-9288-2 refers to the subrealities located at the ends of the secondary and tertiary tunnels of SCP-9288-1, varying in size and setting. The size of these subrealities is directly proportional to the dimensions of the tunnel, with SCP-9288-3 confirming a 1:10 word count:meter ratio.
The atmosphere and settings vary drastically, but will generally follow the story of ███ █████ ██ ███████, with the following constants:
- An sapient instance of an individual who identifies himself as Henry Weber will always be present, appearing as a Caucasian man in his late twenties. He will have been recently fired from his job at an accounting firm, and will, during the progression of SCP-9288-2, take up a job at an editorial company.
- An instance of an individual who identifies herself as Beryl Moore will always be present, appearing as a Caucasian woman in her late twenties. She will, during the progression of SCP-9288-2, submit an unnamed manuscript to the editorial company Weber works at, leading to their first encounter.
Their relationship will develop over a 1-6 month period, creating a fixed loop mimicking ███ █████ ██ ███████'s storyline per the revision. Damaging objects inside the loop will have no effect on the outcome, and attempts to halt or alter the course of the story have failed repeatedly.
After the performance of all of the actions written in the draft version corresponding to the SCP-9288-2 instance, the instance will reset, ejecting all foreign objects as well as recalling all objects taken out of SCP-9288-2. SCP-9288-2 instances appear to run on an accelerated time frame, varying from instance to instance.
SCP-9288-2 will occasionally contain unrendered terrain and objects taking on the texture of visual snow without any discernable edges or boundaries. This phenomenon has been identified by SCP-9288-3 as applying to objects or entities of little relevance in ███ █████ ██ ███████. Personnel authorized to enter any SCP-9288-2 instances are advised to avoid these unrendered areas, as depth perception of objects in the affected areas will be nonexistent.
SCP-9288-3 refers to an imprint of James Holloway, a 32 year old Caucasian man, residing in an instance of SCP-9288-2-BR. While sapient and sentient, all memories retained by SCP-9288-3 will be lost at the end of SCP-9288-2-BR's progression.
Addendum 9288.1: Discovery
SCP-9288 was discovered on 09/21/25 at 21:32 by a video call from Site-216 Director Alba Holloway's work number to Senior Researcher Mark Whitman during a visit to the Holloway Estate. The call was preceded by several messages from Dir. Holloway's private number to SR Whitman's work account, which were blocked by the scip.net firewall.
– hide block
Call Transcript
Time: 21:32:16 - 21:37:49 CST
Dir. Holloway is visibly disheveled, her video feed shaking. SR Whitman's webcam shows him sitting at his desk, the trash can behind him overflowing with paper.
SR Whitman: Wh-
Dir. Holloway: Mark, I don't know who the hell else to call after this, so don't ask questions. You've been in me and James' house before, how many doors are there on the first floor corridor?
Visible confusion on SR Whitman's face.
SR Whitman: Alba, I'm working overtime so you can take a break. Can you not finally crack it when I'm on shift?
Dir. Holloway: Just answer the question.
SR Whitman sighs.
SR Whitman: Two, to the office and the bathroom. Honestly, what's this about? Go take a bloody nap.
Dir. Holloway switches her video feed to the rear-facing camera. Pictured are three doors of identical make and even spacing.
Dir. Holloway: Why in hell's bells are there three?
SR Whitman: Wait, go closer. Three?
SR Whitman leans towards his screen, causing his face to go out of frame. Dir. Holloway attempts to open the door, failing to notice the doorstopper and tripping on it. The phone presumably flies out of Dir. Holloway's hand, and SR Whitman visibly recoils.
Dir. Holloway: Son of a-
SR Whitman: Easy, now. Calm it, take a breath. You good?
Dir. Holloway: Yeah, sorry. Startled me a bit. What the hell is that?
Dir. Holloway picks up the phone, taking notice of SCP-9288-2. A secondary tunnel is visible, with the SCP-9288-2 instance at the end (SCP-9288-2-AA) obscured from direct view.
SR Whitman: Holy hell.
Dir. Holloway: That is not supposed to be there.
Silence for ten seconds. Dir. Holloway kicks the door open, revealing the full tunnel.
Dir. Holloway: Oh my God.
SR Whitman: Hold on for a second. I'm gonna get Owen or Leona. Take a screenshot, and don't panic.
SR Whitman leaves the frame for a period of around one minute. Dir. Holloway attempts to take a screenshot before vacating the house and locking the door twice. Sr. Whitman returns with RAISA Representative Leona Graves.
SR Whitman: Alba, the door?
Dir. Holloway: You crazy? I'm not going back in there.
SR Whitman: Fair. The screenshot?
Dir. Holloway: SCiP doesn't let you do that.
Rep. Graves: It's fine. Mark, move aside for a minute.
Rep. Graves leans in and takes the mouse from Sr. Whitman, opening the screen capture system on his computer.
Rep. Graves: Good news, RAISA is always watching. Don't go back in.
Dir. Holloway: I already said that, Mark. Just show her the, er, thing. Gods… Wait, what?
SR Whitman works with Rep. Graves in the background, with Graves presumably opening the screen capture system. After two minutes, SR Whitman disconnects his headset, to which the desktop switches to speaker audio. The recording of Dir. Holloway's discovery of SCP-9288-1 is played on the second monitor.
Rep. Graves: Oh hell.
SR Whitman: Yeah. That's putting it a little light.
Dir. Holloway: Who do I contact for this? And don't say Site Command, I'm Site Command, and I'm not driving back to the Woodlands this late. I don't even know why you two and Owen are still there. And answer the question, Graves, what the bloody hell do you mean?
SR Whitman: He clocked out a little while ago, so I went for Leona. I'm still filing docs for those knives.
Rep. Graves: Alba, with all due respect, normal corps do this. It's the worst-kept secret of the Foundation.
Rep. Graves opens her phone.
Rep. Graves: I'll get somebody from another Site up. Uh, Mark, send me that file.
SR Whitman: Yep, doing it. Hold on a sec.
SR Whitman is seen typing, before flashing a "thumbs-up" at Rep. Graves. Rep. Graves nods and leaves the frame. Dir. Holloway sighs.
Dir. Holloway: I'm going for dinner at the Popeyes down Scott, you know where. Just call me when whatever it is happens.
Dir. Holloway hangs up.
[END TRANSCRIPT]
– hide block
No prior record exists of the third door. RAISA Representative Leona Graves was not reprimanded for unauthorized access to RAISA's screen capture system. A missing persons report was filed for James Holloway.
Addendum 9288.2: Exploration Log
Following the call, RAISA Representative Leona Graves forwarded the screen recording to her supervisor. After further investigation and the discovery of SCP-9288-1's secondary and tertiary tunnels, the Foundation deemed it appropriate to map the location. Initially, drones were used to survey the tunnels, however, following a disconnect after entering a SCP-9288-2 instance, the Foundation deployed Mobile Task Force Epsilon-13 "Manifest Destiny".
– hide block
VIDEO LOG
DATE: 10/21/25
Note: MTF Epsilon-13 was cleared for deployment approximately twenty hours after Dir. Holloway's call. The exploration covered the sweepings of SCP-9288-1 and SCP-9288-2-AA.
Assigned Personnel:
Epsilon-13:
• ε-13 "Mod" (Olivier Simmons), Expedition Head
• ε-13 "Clayman" (Carol Voss)
• ε-13 "Greene" (Jenson Haller)
• ε-13 "Laker" (Paul Neumann)
• ε-13 "Mage" (Alina Sokolov)
Site-216 Command:
• "Command" (Site-216 Director Alba Holloway, Archivist Owen Manson)
[BEGIN LOG]
18:13:14: Log starts. Epsilon-13 prepares to enter SCP-9288-2.
Mod: Mic check. Y'all check yours too. Your mic dies, and we assume you're dead.
Laker: Check.
Greene: Check.
Mage: Check.
Clayman: Check.
Mod waves a hand in front of the camera, triggering the motion sensor.
Mod: That's working. Okay. Command, do you read?
Command (Holloway): We read. You're clear to enter.
Mod turns the front door key, and enters the house. The rest of Epsilon-13 follows suit, sweeping per CQB standards, with Mage as breacher.
Mage: Clear.
Clayman: Tile? Really?
Command (Holloway): It's my house. Stop shit-talking it.
[TRIMMED 17 MINUTES AND 27 SECONDS: Holloway Estate clear of hostiles. Notably. James Holloway alongside his laptop and shoes were not present. Epsilon-13 circles back to SCP-9288-1's entrance.]
Mod: Command, house is clear. This is where the fun starts.
Mod kicks the door open. A cold thud, which echoes several times. The light from SCP-9288-2-AA flashes repeatedly, and faint flashes from other instances can be seen.
Mage: That's the one.
Laker: The thing's got branches. Are we going for all of them?
Command (Holloway): We'll get to that when it comes to it. Eyes on the prize.
Mod: Copy.
Epsilon-13 approaches the secondary tunnel SCP-9288-2-AA. The camera picks up the tunnel, length is estimated to be 2.71 kilometers.
Clayman: That is fucking bright. How far even is that?
Greene: There's more down the hall. Urgh.
Silence for two minutes as the team advances towards the opening.
Greene: Most of us are ex-mil, right? How did you guys get your callsigns?
Mod: This is being both monitored by Site Command and recorded. I can guarantee nobody wants these stories heard by anybody who isn't going to be dead in the next few seconds.
Greene: Fair.
Mod: Skyrim.
Greene: What?
Mod does not respond. The flashing gets brighter and brighter, with most of Epsilon-13 using visors. Mage notes small, sporadic protrusions in the tunnel. The camera captures several tertiary tunnels. At around 12 minutes and 13 seconds in, they reach the source of brightness, a wall on the right side. Greene notes that the material feels rough to the touch.
Laker: That's divine light if I've ever seen it.
Clayman: Just keep your head down.
Greene: The wall should be scorching hot. The air should be, too, but it's the same cold on the thermometer.
Laker: 'nother one of this place's many mysteries.
Silence for three minutes.
Greene: Alright, finally. The door even looks the same. Ah, hey there, little guy!
Greene retrieves the Foundation drone from the entrance.
Clayman: Huh. What's it doing out here?
Greene: Batteries are completely dead. Even the auxilaries, Christ. Shouldn't these things have enough battery power for two weeks?
Mod: Leave it outside. Command, should we at least try to take a sample on the tunnel?
Command (Manson): Do it on the return trip. If all's clear, we'll send in the chem heads.
Mod: One way to find out for sure. Command, preparing for entry. Comms may go offline.
Command (Manson): Clear. Godspeed.
Mod enters SCP-9288-3-AA, emerging in a location later identified as the entrance to Marina Bay Sands, a mall in Singapore. Greene, Laker, Mage, and Clayman follow suit.
Laker: This is a boardwalk.
Mage: No shit. Way we came?
Mod checks behind him. The door is still present. A male passerby walks through it as if it doesn't exist. His hair is blank.
Clayman: You see that guy's hair? And that girl over there, too!
Camera pans to more passerbys. Some possess blank faces and static hair, but all act in a fashion resembling tourists or mall-goers. The sound of casual chatter is audible.
Greene: That couple's got color. Er, don't you guys think we should be more cautious?
Mod: We're their suicide squad. They'll find out pretty damn quick if something goes wrong… Fuck, clocks are messed up. GPS went out as expected, but trackers are still clear. Laker, try exiting for a little.
Laker: Yep. See you.
Laker steps back through the door. As soon as Laker crosses the threshold completely, his image slows down greatly, and his tracker goes offline.
Greene: Holy shit.
Mage: That is something. Okay. Time works weirder here, that's for sure. Mod, please put in a word at the close about moving me elsewhere.
Mod: You and me both.
[TRIMMED 17 MINUTES AND 13 SECONDS: Idle banter. Clayman comments on the location's accuracy twice. Passerbys ignore Epsilon-13 completely.]
Laker re-enters.
Greene: Rundown, time moves faster in here. Mage, how many times faster?
Mage: How long were you out there?
Laker: Eleven seconds, probably closer to twelve.
Mage: Around 90 times faster. Holy fuck.
Greene: Means there's still daylight when we get back.
Clayman: Or that they'll find us crumbled in two hours.
Silence. Epsilon-13 marks the door's location, before entering the mall. The area is static-coded.
Mage: Holy fuck!
Mod: Jesus. Mage, I take it that the basement shouldn't be white.
Mage: No, no it isn't. There's supposed to be a, er, food court. Some kids' light show thing too. Hey, that couple is down there.
Mod: I see them, yeah. Leave em be, we'll view the lovebirds later.
[TRIMMED 93 MINUTES AND 10 SECONDS: Epsilon-13 sweeps the mall. The few parts that remain static-free are the escalator leading to the overlook, the overlook, the lotus ponds, the ArtScience museum, and the gardens. Notably, the Helix Bridge is not present, pointed out by Mage. After walking a distance of 32 kilometers into the static, Epsilon-13 opts to return. Clayman walks off of a short ledge on the return and twists an ankle, leaning on Mage for the return trip. The couple is not seen again.]
Greene: We gotta go back here again, don't we? Those two aren't anywhere.
Mage: Chances are, they're in the hotel. That hallucigenia, or whatever the name for it was, looking thing. Marina Bay Sands Resort. It's massive, and unless you want to spend another two, no, make it five hours here and wait for nightfall and whatever the hell comes with it-
Clayman: No. That place is fucking huge. Assuming we can even find the elevator, then we still need to track their room, which would take us hours.
Mod: I concur. Let's get out of here.
Epsilon-13 exits SCP-9288-2-AA. Mod does a headcount.
Mod: Command, do you copy?
Command (Holloway): It's only been two minutes. The hell?
Clayman: Timey-wimey stuff. Shit, hey, stop leaning!
Mage: My bad. You're gonna be out of commission for at least a month… Yeesh. Lucky you.
Mod: Clayman is injured. Nothing hostile, and the terrain is physically fine, but the appearance is… Odd.
An audible sigh from Command.
Command (Holloway): Alright, then. Extract will be there in fifteen. Don't break my furniture, sit wherever you want. Should still be ginger ale in the fridge, James hates it. Clayman, ice the leg with the crap inside of it.
Mod coughs.
Mod: I'm fairly sure that we're not allowed to do that. The, er, ginger ale part.
Clayman: I'll take the ice.
Command (Holloway): Just get out, and sit tight. Close the door behind you. When you get out, routine scans. Memetic screening and interviews, you know it. God, I suck at this. Was Director Aldritch any better?
Command (Manson): She was kind of busy dealing with all the shit 216 had before the incident, usually another Senior Researcher was in charge of doing this. You were a bit busy. Still are, but, well.
A sigh is audible.
Command (Holloway): Hear that, folks? I'm here all night. Go get yourself rested, take that ginger ale if you want, it's my house, goddamnit, and I'll see you whenever. Sure beats paperwork.
Command (Manson): I'll get the transcript done. Go take a nap, Director.
Silence for twenty one minutes, before the team exits SCP-9288-2. Mage and Clayman disappear into the kitchen. Mod reaches for his bodycam and deactivates it.
[END LOG]
– hide block
Addendum 9288.3: Discovery of SCP-9288-3
During the initial exploration of SCP-9288-2 instances, Epsilon-13 discovered a sentient construct inside of SCP-9288-2-BR. During the routine cognitohazard scan, the construct was identified as being identical to James Holloway.
– hide block
VIDEO LOG
DATE: 11/17/25
Note: This transcript is to be kept from Site-216 Director Alba Holloway for the sake of her mental health.
Assigned Personnel:
Epsilon-13:
• ε-13 "Mod" (Olivier Simmons), Expedition Head
• ε-13 "Bluejay" (Cameron Miller)
• ε-13 "Greene" (Jenson Haller)
• ε-13 "Laker" (Paul Neumann)
• ε-13 "Mage" (Alina Sokolov)
Site-216 Command:
• "Command" (Senior Researcher Mark Whitman)
Mod: Mic check.
Greene: Check.
Mage: Check.
Laker: Check.
Bluejay: Check.
Mod: Recording's started, Command.
Command: Hearing you loud and clear. Last mission for the lot of you here. How's it feel?
Epsilon-13 shares an awkward laugh.
Mage: It's only going down after this little job is done.
Bluejay: I'm waiting for that transfer.
Mod: I think you know how it's gonna go. Regardless, we need to finish this up.
Epsilon-13 passes through SCP-9288-1's threshold. Visible are bands of fishing lines tied tied together, with an indicator bearing each tunnel's code.
Greene: Don't you say it.
Laker: It's gotten stale, shut up about it already.
Mage laughs.
Greene: Fuck you.
Mod: That's enough. Greene, cool your head. Mage, shut up. It was funny the first two times, but you repeat it every time we go in. Next time, if there is a next time, you volunteer to lay the damn rope.
Muttered sighs of relief. Silence for twenty two minutes. The crew turns left, at the first right, at the fourth left, at the second right, and then at the first right. Noticeably, the hallways should intersect demonstrate properties typical of non-Euclidean space i.e. straight hallways longer than should be possible without intersecting.
Mod: Command, eyes on BR. Looks dark. Rain, maybe. Some parts are lighter. Bluejay, camera.
Bluejay sets up the camera rig, before tossing a coin into the threshold. Silence for a brief period. Mage checks her rifle twice.
Bluejay: Started.
Laker: Mhm.
Laker kicks the coin back in. After a period of approximately two minutes, the coin reappears.
Bluejay: The hell?
Mod: What?
Bluejay: Normally this drivel takes thirty. This one's supposed to be the longest, right?
Mod: Breaking old trends. Command, forwarding the video and entering, comms going dark as usual. Bluejay, stay back. If we aren't back in twenty, leave.
Command: Don't let your guard down.
Epsilon-13 crosses the threshold, emerging in a brick hallway leading to a park.
Laker: This is the same place as last time. Same atmosphere and everything.
Mod: Offshoot is awfully long for something so similar.
Laker: Yeah, that's a bit odd.
Mod: Eyes on the couple over by the… Pagoda? Same location. Others, same woman passing by, same guy, same books. Lapto-
Mod begins running towards an individual. During the post-operation memetic screening, he stated that the individual in question actively reacted to Epsilon-13's presence, which is beyond the capabilities of a construct generated by SCP-9288-2.
Mage: What the hell is going on?
Mod: Don't fucking question it, get the-
Mage stops, before giving chase as well. Her testimony during the post-operation memetic screening lines up with the claim made by Mod.
The remainder of Epsilon-13 give chase, eventually catching SCP-9288-3 near the top of the Garden Mount.
SCP-9288-3: Who the hell are you people?
Mod: Military. Don't ask questions, we'll be the ones asking them. Who the hell are you?
Mod raises his comm unit and begins a broadcast.
Mod: Unidentified individual, sentient. I have him at the hill.
SCP-9288-3: Stammering: James Holloway, holy fuck you can let up on that gun aimed-
Mod: Why are you the only fucking person here who can react to anything?
Silence. Mod lowers his gun, exchanging it for a taser. Mage appears over the ridge of bushes, but does not comment. SCP-9288-3 remains silent, before its eyes widen.
SCP-9288-3: Oh hell.
[Incomplete.]
– hide block
"That's it?"
Holloway stands up, her hands shaking. "That's all? Nothing else?"
Whitman shakes his head. "Nothing else. Over a hundred hours of footage, and nothing at all." He slumps in his seat. "Honestly, if there was anything remotely hostile, more paperwork would be needed."
Holloway let's out a tired chuckle as she flips through the folders, each tagged with two letters: AA, AB, AC, to the end. All are neatly filed and coded, a sharp contrast to the state of the woman who organized them. "Huh. Not wrong. Thanks, Mark." She flips through the tabs, counting- BF, BG, BH… She stops. "Owen."
Archivist Manson looks up, similarly tired. "Yeah?"
"Where's the log for BR?"
The color drains from his face, and his wakefulness returns in full. "Should be in that fourth stack." Behind him, he types on his phone, sending a message to Whitman: "get out of here."
Whitman is all to happy to oblige. "I'm heading out for some more coffee."
"Me too." Manson stands up a bit too fast, walking to the door a bit too quickly. Holloway doesn't notice, doesn't care to- she's too tired to register that she's been sipping from an empty cup, much less that two of her staff are running away. "Get some for me while you're at it."
They don't come back.
As of 11/20/25, Site-216 Director Alba Holloway is to be forbidden from accessing Transcript SCP-9288-2-BR. Work on this transcript and log is to be assigned to Archivist Owen Manson.
From: Alba Holloway (ten.pics|612d.yawolloha#ten.pics|612d.yawolloha)
To: Brennan Sanders (ten.pics|ysp.srednastb#ten.pics|ysp.srednastb), Mark Whitman (ten.pics|612namtihwkram#ten.pics|612namtihwkram), Owen Manson (ten.pics|cra.nosnamnewo#ten.pics|cra.nosnamnewo)
Subject: We need to talk about BR
Time: 09:10 11/22/25
Mark, Owen, Brennan, please meet me in the lounge during our next break. If one of you is missing, then I will meet the odd man (or men) out in my office. Bring the BR file. Don't think I didn't notice that you've been tiptoeing around the topic.
Secure, Contain, Protect.
Alba Holloway
Site-216 Director
Addendum 9288.4: Incident Report
During the organization of SCP-9288's files, Archivist Owen Manson and Senior Researcher Mark Whitman intentionally withheld the transcripts and footage of Exploration Log 9288-BR from Site Director Alba Holloway, resulting in a disciplinary meeting including the involved parties and Site Counselor Brennan Sanders.
"Oh."
Alba sets down the file, her expression blank. "I see. This doesn't-" she swallows, "excuse you in the slightest, but I can understand your reasoning. Just leave. I'll figure out what to do with you lot later." She waves them out, head in hands. The door repeatedly slams open and shut as the three others file out.
She stares numbly at the photo of her and her brother on her desk. It's them at a barbeque restaurant, after church. It was taken before she was employed by the Foundation, obviously.
Then, she laughs. "This is so, so stupid. No way."
A choke, and the waterworks come running. "No way."
Following the incident, Director Holloway subsequently submitted requests for a week of leave assigned by the Site Counselor, as well as access to the Holloway estate, of which only the former was granted. During this period, approximately thirty break-in attempts occurred at the location of SCP-9288. The intruder could not be identified, but is suspected to be ███████ based on the accounts of SCP-9288-3.
…
"I know it's hard to believe sometimes, but I love you. I really do."
The words are have been spoken, and nothing can take them back. Henry looks at her for a long, agonizing minute. Did I say something wrong?
Then, he drops the umbrella and embraces her, laughing. "You idiot. That's all you needed to say from the start!" He carries her, whooping, echoing through the empty streets. Henry's smiling without a care in the world, as if it was just them outside of a warm café
Beryl hugs him back, laughing herself, glad, for once, at the rain. It tells her, this is not a dream.
No cold could hold back the warmth she felt.
79
After returning from leave, Director Holloway completed the transcript of Exploration Log 9288-BR-1, as can be seen below. After a mandatory mental health inspection, she was deemed for for work.
– hide block
VIDEO LOG
DATE: 17/11/25
Assigned Personnel:
Epsilon-13:
• ε-13 "Mod" (Olivier Simmons), Expedition Head
• ε-13 "Bluejay" (Cameron Miller)
• ε-13 "Greene" (Jenson Haller)
• ε-13 "Laker" (Paul Neumann)
• ε-13 "Mage" (Alina Sokolov)
Site-216 Command:
• "Command" (Senior Researcher Mark Whitman)
[EXTRANEOUS INFORMATION REMOVED]
SCP-9288-3: Oh hell.
Mod: You know this guy?
Both SCP-9288-3 and Mage shake their heads.
SCP-9288-3: Why is the military here?
Mod: Explain where "here" is and maybe we'll pay it back.
SCP-9288-3: Uh, long story. So, █ ███ ████ ████████ ███- █ █████ █████. Uh, there was this contract, NDA-
Mage: You have a gun to your head. NDAs only go so far.
SCP-9288-3: A nervous laugh. Fair enough. It was a █████████ ██████ ███ ████ █████ ███████. Never met 'em in person. Gods, it was really sketchy, but it paid really [EXPLETIVE] good. It took upwards of a week or so, because he insisted on sending me a laptop instead of using mine. Probably was something illegal.
The remainder of Epsilon-13 save for Bluejay appear on the spiral ramp, but quickly go out-of-frame.
SCP-9288-3: Either way. Took me the better part of a week to get it set up. When it was done, they told me to keep the laptop. Then they sent me a message about my novel, the, uh, draft. Why are there more people?
Mage: Keep talking.
SCP-9288-3: Either way. I was pretty [EXPLETIVE]. Asked em how he even knew about it, never answered, just said that they wanted the thing done, and kept offing my questions and changing the subject. After I finished the job, he told me to keep the laptop as a bonus. After that, the [EXPLETIVE] door showed up, and there were already four tunnels. I had the laptop checked out, and there wasn't a single thing off about it, s-
Mod: Where is it, then?
SCP-9288-3 points at the rest.
SCP-9288-3: They told me to use it as I saw fit. Laptop and the door.
Mod: I see.
[TRIMMED 34 MINUTES AND 24 SECONDS: Epsilon-13 interrogates SCP-9288-3 regarding less important information pertaining to SCP-9288-3's profession, failing to reveal any useful information. Following debate, Epsilon-13 decides to leave to report their findings.]
Laker: Hold up. During the coin test, he was already there, right?
Bluejay: Probably.
A moment of silence.
Bluejay: Oh [EXPLETIVE]
Laker: Yeah. How is he still in there?
Silence for thirteen minutes as Epsilon-13 packs equipment and leaves the tunnel. Command is briefed about the encounter.
Command: We'll deal with that guy. No static?
Mod: None. We didn't go far, but we couldn't see any from the hill.
Command: Alright. Get out of there and we'll figure out what to do.
Mage: muttering Amen to that.
[TRIMMED 10 MINUTES AND 9 SECONDS: Epsilon-13 leaves SCP-9288-1 and extracts without issue.]
[END LOG]
– hide block
The following day, Director Holloway authorized further expeditions into SCP-9288-2-BR.
"Phew." She hits "send" on an email: authorizing the transfer of Olivier Simmons, Alina Sokolov and Jenson Haller. Then, she sends off a final one, a simple "enter."
Four people are currently situated in SCP-9288-1, right outside of the entrance to good ol' BR, ready to enter and talk to her brother. Her dead brother.
No, that's not necessarily right. He isn't dead. Can't be.
"Owen," she calls to the passing man, "see if you can nab me a coffee while you're at it."
He gives a thumbs up, and disappears through the doorway. Alba checks her inbox. Three videos, all interview logs already screened by Memetics. She frowns. That fast?
She opens the first one. It's a thirty minute video of James and Mark sitting in the little gazebo off to the left of the entrance. She skips around. Nothing of import. Mainly catch-up. Casual chatter. Apparently, James had a girlfriend. She sighs. The things I miss in the line of duty….
Second video. James and… What's her name again, Claire? Claire, yeah. Claire. Him and her on the stonewalls, the small pavilion off to the side with benches and the stones. Casual chatter.
James doesn't remember his conversation with Mark.
No, that's fine. Probably too caught up. She didn't ask him about any earlier conversations.
Third video, Brennan. Alba told him to and Mark to work the damn thing out with her brother and she'll think about their verdict later. This one's on the Garden Mount. The bodycam is overlooking the whole park, with the fountain pool visible. Brennan is holding an umbrella, as is James.
She spoons a serving of cup noodles into her mouth while watching it play out. Just like an old home movie.
"…James, how's your relationship with Alba?"
James makes a motion with his hands, reaching for his pockets for a pen to throw. "Generally, or recently?" He comes up with nothing and sighs, drumming on the railing with his free hand. "Generally, great. She's… Well. Stereotypical older sister. She's smart, but you know that already. Great person. And I mean that genuinely." He stops. "She's been pulling back recently, though. Mark, too." He sighs deeply, fingers drumming on the rail. "I don't think you know Mark. Ignore it."
Alba can almost see Brennan's calm smile. "He's a work acquaintance. They… Well, really, really long story." He chuckles. James lets out a muted laugh.
"Mhm, well. I haven't really heard from either of them in a long time. They show up for birthdays and Christmas and shite, but they don't really talk. Or text. Alba hasn't shown up to the house in a while, actually. She always looks so tired."
James stops. "You're a licensed therapist, right? You opened with that one."
Brennan presumably nods. James sighs. "She knows, then."
Brennan stops. "About what?"
"A who, not what. June."
"The month?"
James' expression falters. "Oh, hell."
"A knock, before the door opens. It's Owen, two cups of coffee in tow. "Hey, sorry, uh, the coffee machine had to be cleaned out, and I…" His voice trails off. "Alba?"
The chair is empty. The computer is still on. James is on screen, still talking to Brennan.
"Well, it started with this little novel I wanted to write…"
Director Holloway left Site-216 at 8:17 PM on December 12th, arriving at the location of SCP-9288 after the departure of the interviewers. Notably, all cameras at the location died suddenly and simultaneously. The cause was identified as a local power outage.
Alba walks through the tunnels, winding her way through the black halls. Left. Right. Right. Left. Second branch. Left. Right. Right. Right.
Straight.
She barrels down the halls, not caring about the length.
By the time she reaches the Gardens, she's leaning on the wall. She goes to take a seat at the benches, before a familiar voice calls out to her.
"Alba?"
James.
She whips her head around to her bewildered brother.
"What the-" he swallows. The gears of his mind turn, and he stops. "Huh. Hell of a coincidence."
She holds up a finger, catching her breath before slumping onto a bench. "Yeah. " A long, extended groan, the groan of somebody far too winded to move. "Well, I thought I was losing my marbles when I saw that extra door. Sleep deprivation. Or…" She stumbles on her words, before remembering the reason she came. "James, who's June?"
He looks like a kicked puppy. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. I don't know anything. Busy."
He sighs. "Right. Let me spin you a story."
You probably remember when you got really busy. That's around where it started. I, er, I wanted to write a novel. You probably know about the, uh, thing, so I had some experience from-
What?
You don't? Okay, then. So-
No, no, I want to hear about that now. What kind of debauchery did you do?
No. That's not something I share, even with my sister. And it isn't even debauchery. Just really, really embarrassing.
Pfft. That bad?
Tease me all the hell you want. You wanna hear the story or not?
Fine, fine.
So. I wanted to a- oh, thanks. I wanted to write a novel. I figured it would be a bit of a break from the software hell. One screen is work, other one's the document. It was a pretty nice arrangement. I had Mark alpha read, along with a few friends. It wasn't anything good, but it wasn't bland. Didn't mind it.
Was it worse or better than Fifty Shades?
Never read that.
Neither have I. Send me the draft, I want to read it over.
With your schedule, you'll be done when Hell freezes over.
Pfft. Fair enough. Er, we're getting off topic a bit.
Ah, my bad. Novel… Contract. Okay, so, I had this contract last year in November. Big one. It was the strangest thing, too. Sent me a laptop and everything to do it on instead of the normal computer. Black market shit. Had its own connection to somewhere, too. It was agony. It wasn't even difficult. Just, something around thirty-thousand rows of Excel. Fucking Excel.
Fuck Excel, thirty thousand items? Jesus Christ.
Yeah. It's not the weirdest thing I've gotten freelancing, but it was unusual. Definitely doable with the deadline they gave. The thing is, it fucked with me. Sometimes I'd be looking at an object to put in from the file base, and I'd wake up an hour or so later with the taste of mint in my mouth, or on the crapper. After a while, I couldn't see straight lines, everything looked a little off.
…like Aldritch.
Who?
Nothing. Go on.
Anyways. I finished the thing in late January, day before my birthday. Did 300 something a day, and with the other contracts on the side, I got paid really, really good. They just told me to keep the laptop, and that I'd see a bonus soon. Laptop wiped itself and it worked almost normal. The tunnels.
The tunnels. The door was the bonus?
Yeah. I thought I was hallucinating or something when I opened it for the first time and-
Navidson's basement.
Yeah, like that one book. Black. 'cept for the little light. That's when I found out the thing did whatever it does.
James, did you tell anyone else about this?
Nobody would believe me if I tried, hell no. Anyways, back to the story. I dated a girl near the end of the 30K. June Hatterson. I think you met her at Christmas? That was June.
That was your girlfriend?
Yeah.
I thought she was a friend of yours, not literally-
Shut up for a hot sec, Alba, please?
S-sorry. Carry on.
She broke up with me in July. Ironic.
(A long pause.)
Oh.
Yeah.
(Silence, save for the rain.)
I don't know what to say to that. I don't have a, uh, witty comment. I don't know. Haven't any experience with one of those.
Neither did I, really.
But you're fine, right? Well, not fine, but better.
Well, no. Actually.
What's that supposed to mean?
I…
(Silence.)
I wrote myself into the story.
What?
Entered. Wrote myself in, laptop and all, all of it. Just a little while ago. I never planned on leaving, Alba. Not ever. I wanted to be happy. After all that has happened, well, it's…
…beyond stupid. You-
Yeah. I'm…
I'm sorry.
From Director Holloway's personal explorations, it was discovered that data written by SCP-9288-3 or engraved onto a flash drive belonging to its laptop will remain unaffected by a reset of SCP-9288-2. SCP-9288-3 demonstrated an inability to leave the confines of SCP-9288-BR. The individual mentioned by SCP-9288-3 was identified, but was deemed unimportant to the study of SCP-9288 and amnesticized.
The terrible thing about bad days is that they start the same as any other. Until life, with a hoodie pulled down and a knife in hand, tells you to hand over your money. For Henry, "life" was some publishing agent somewhere, and its messenger was also the person being mugged.
"Listen, I'm sorry. I know the system's a bitch." Henry swallows, before continuing. "I know it sucks, but we really, genuinely cannot do anything about publishers. At all."
Beryl sits across from him, stone-faced. "You're telling me, after eight months of being rejected, I'm denied again."
Suddenly, Henry wishes he was one of the other people sitting in the cafe, watching something happen to someone else. But he isn't, so he tries again. "Yeah. I have a contact in another one, actually, maybe he-"
"Bullshit!" Beryl stands, the anger visible. "This entire time, I've been paying fees to an editorial, to you, and you think fast-tracking will do shit?" Her voice rises beyond "dangerous" to "coal burner." She struggles with the next sentence, before finally spitting it out. "You told me that it was guaranteed. It sure as hell wasn't, but I thought, that was fine. But you keep, fucking, promising, for the fifth time now, on something you aren't guaranteed about!" She throws her hands up in the air. "How the fuck am I supposed to trust somebody like that? I don't-" A choke, "-even know if you're just keeping me here so you can get paid."
With that, she picks up her things and leaves.
In the coming weeks, he'd look back on the moment, and regret not saying anything, formulating responses in the shower, in bed, stabbing at himself with each imagined word, because he knows, knows all too well, that the time has passed, and that's that, and she's gone.
She's gone.
189
She pushes back on the rolling chair, a surprisingly casual gesture from the Site Director. "I guess it isn't bad. Cheesy, much." She looks through the camera footage. Nobody's there. It's a beautiful Sunday afternoon in the Woodlands, and she's spending it inside. She looks over to a notification on her computer, a personal email. A reminder to arrange James' funeral.
She stands up, closing the laptop and looking towards the stack of paperwork waiting for her.
Everything's fine.
Sign this. Read over this cost report. Print out a copy of this file over here. Type out emails. With each keystroke, the excitement she had bled slowly into full gloom. Once or twice, she goes up to check on the knives in containment, checking over the registry to make sure nothing is missing, that nothing is broken, that everything is ready for use when tomorrow comes. Say hello to Maintenance, replace the coffee machine's filter, pour herself cup after cup until the can overflows.
Passing through the empty halls, she resists the urge to go down to the basement, to open the door to the half-filled-in crater that was formerly Testing Chamber 03, resisting the urge to see what happened, even if she knows it'll only twist the knife further and further in.
Somewhere in those concrete halls, there are gouges nobody can see scratched into the walls.
Somewhere in those concrete halls, there are knives that wait to find themselves buried in someone's gut.
Sometime in those concrete halls, there was somebody who could actually manage this train wreck.
Today, in these concrete halls, Alba Holloway weeps for her brother.
In Alba's inbox, buried beneath digital mountains, lies the last-ever email of one Kylie Aldritch, former Director of Site-216. Alba's opened it exactly thrice and groaned each time, first with grief, second with exasperation, third with grief, for someone else. It's far too flippant, too Aldritch-esque to have ever been written by anybody other than Aldritch.
"Alba, I'm dead. Wish I was joking this time around, somebody's typing these words into here for me, after being filtered through enough memetic screenings to off a pandemic. Scared that the thing I got might get to them." She could hear the smile through the screen. Maybe a smirk. Probably a smirk, with how much of a witty shit Aldritch was. More than likely, RAISA took a knife to the email beforehand, sparing her the terrible eye jokes.
"Anyways. Your dear old boss wants to tell you that those three days off saved your life. I don't hold it against you. Your dear old boss also wants to say that you get a promotion." If it was a video, Aldritch, or, at least, the wasted remains of what used to be her, would be beaming. "It's a bit early, but it doesn't matter. Lague got his earlier. O5s had pity on me and told me the result of their little discussion about who gets to fix this fucking mess, and that's you!
"Con-fucking-grats. I don't want to hear you reprimand me for language again, I know you're about to, even if you're reading this. Do me a favor and nevermind, I'll just tell them later. What was it? Ah, right. Don't come to my funeral, if you do, wear something outlandishly stupid, please.
"Here's a how-to. Most of everything in the Site is insured, but don't try breaking anything. I'm obligated to say that one. [MEMETIC HAZARD REMOVED]. If cleanup hasn't torched that thing for you, order the thing sent to Hell itself. Make sure that coffee machine stays full and clean at all times. Make sure you get competent staff, and I don't mean staff that only say "yes", staff that only knows book smarts. Get people who can catch you when you do something dumb, who can do the shit you can't, which will be a lot of shit. And please, holy Hell, listen to them."
The Director's tone shifts. Even in email form, she's still lecturing Alba. "Listen. Or read, I guess. This kind of thing happens more than people like to think. Even me, of all people. I thought I was going to die from a cut I didn't notice one day, not from the- off topic. Life is short. Really short, if you're in this field. I have no doubt that you aren't expecting an afterlife or angels to be there when you kick it, so, enjoy it while you can, even if I shoved the motherload of all paperwork onto you. Thanks. And sorry.
"Oh, yeah. You can have the mug. And the coffee machine. And the knife, unless the highers decide they want to burn it or something. Bye."
Kylie Aldritch.
She stares at it, numbly. Being the ninetieth-something email she's seen today, combined with the fact that she's still grieving, she's too numb to do anything but stare at what's in front of her while running on autopilot.
She does, however see the knife. The one with Aldritch's name on it in more ways than one. Though it looks spotless, she's still not entirely sure if it's completely clean of blood.
She takes it, seizing it in a vice grip before stabbing the nearest pile of papers and overturning the next. "Fuck you," for putting me into a job I can't quit, because people think I'm good at it, fuck you, for taking away my normal life, "Fuck you," and your unseriousness, "Fuck you," for leaving me a smoking crater of a Site!
"Actually, she left you the knife and a coffee mug."
Alba whips around, finding Brennan standing there, wincing. "Might want to… Ah, fuck it." He picks up some paper, still seemingly intact, before placing it back and ordering it, with a somewhat befuddled Alba watching. One by one, the mess dies down to bleeding ink and the Director's mind.
Brennan very casually removes Aldritch's knife from the papers. No gouge, as expected. He gingerly sets it aside, before turning. "Alba."
That one word is enough. She buckles, and Brennan catches her, setting her on her chair. "There you are."
When Alba finally speaks, it's with grudging acceptance. "I need a break."
Brennan laughs a little. "Yeah, you definitely do."
Director Holloway immediately relinquished the data procured from her journeys into SCP-9288 and submitted a request for three week of combined bereavement and paid leave. The agreement was settled on a week of both, provided that the Foundation would supply a fake body to be buried and assist with funeral arrangements.
"He was an idiot. The best kind, a sincere…" Whitman swallows. "A sincere man who, even when he fell short, laughed, and strove for more. And he always got there. Always." Whitman steps down, uncorking a bottle of wine. "He was the kind of person who'd want his funeral at a barbeque. That says more about him than I can say in the time we have."
The last comment elicits some laughs. Whitman pours it out on his grave, the red liquid sinking into the dirt like water on a land that hasn't been rained on for years. "See ya, man."
He goes to sit down, looking through the crowd. Brennan is sitting in the back corner of the arrangement. Three of the MTF assigned to explore SCP-9288 are here, as is Manson. The only person who's not in their seat is…
"Hey. So."
He looks up. Alba.
She begins to speak.
James was a man of contradiction. He was brilliant, but a complete ditz. I can't remember the amount of times I've had to tell him that he wasn't supposed to use plastic in a microwave, or remind him that his computer was unplugged. It's like he had a focus window the size of a laser pointer's… Well, laser.
Laughter from the crowd.
Regardless, he was a good man, loyal man. Hard to come by nowadays, like that old verse from Proverbs. Even if he couldn't remember his personal details and duties for the life of him, he would always, always call to say "Happy Birthday" for each one of us who didn't know that we didn't deserve him. I…
I regret not being able to talk to him as much as I should have. That when I grew up, I stretched the bond between us instead of letting it guide me alongside him.
A laugh from Alba, and she wipes away tears.
Mark was right. He really, really would've hated that we stood around in suits and moped, and he would've hated it that we spent a thousand bucks on a bottle of wine in this economy. And he would've yelled at me if he knew I was forcing people to sit still and listen to someone talk.
Laughter. Alba smiles.
That's that, I suppose. Goodbye, James. I'll see you around, little brother. Take care.
"You good?"
"Yeah." She's smiling. First time in days. "They're called "celebrations for the departed" for a reason. A mournful expression quickly overtakes the smile, as if it sank into quicksand. "I wonder how many times Director Aldritch attended funerals."
He coughs. "Probably a lot. Don't think about that."
"Mark." She turns to him. "Do you think it's worth it?"
Whitman remains silent, lost in thought.
Three more speeches. Eulogies, for a body in a coffin that doesn't exist.
Director Holloway requistioned access to the property housing SCP-9288 on the eve of December 12th, 2025. As the anomaly is now incapable of expansion without the use of the laptop connected to it, sustained explorations into SCP-9288-2 serve no function.
The winding corridors feel familiar now. Not quite black, no, fading into the familiar brick of the entrance arch. There, she sees the very person she was looking for.
"James."
The man, SCP-9288-3, the imprint of James Holloway, turns around "Huh?"
Alba hugs him in the tunnel.
"…." James, with hesitation, hugs her back. "How are you here?" The gears… No. James' face shifts from confusion to shock to regret to confusion again. "Why're you dressed like you're going to a funeral?"
"Don't ask that question." She breaks away. "Your novel's missing the last part, I think. The one you had Mark read over?"
"Ah, actually, it's already done." He chuckles nervously. "I haven't sent it to any of them yet, though. It's the one in this little bubble, actually. Look. They're over there."
Sure enough, there's somebody waiting, standing on the hill, the Garden Mount. He's pacing, fidgeting with his umbrella, twirling it in his hands. The raindrops whirl off of it, falling into the grass and stone.
Behind him, a woman smiles.
"The Wheel of Fortune" makes it sound like a tacky romance show with Steve Harvey, or whoever hosts it.
I'm distinctly aware, but I kind of chose it for a reason.
And what would that be, eh?
Tarot cards. The Wheel of Fortune symbolizes a turn of events, of luck, but tells you that…
Go on.
That those shitty events are needed to feel the highs. Even if I've been feeling a bit more of the lows. Especially.
You're a fucking idiot.
I know.
We had a funeral.
Oh. Explains the getup. Who died?
You, apparently.
What?
You're not leaving this place, anyways.
How do you know about-
(A deep sigh.)
…fair enough.
Due to the minimal threat posed by SCP-9288 to the Veil as well as the precautions placed, the lockdown on the property housing SCP-9288 was removed, though the rights to the property were transferred to the Foundation. Director Holloway was compensated appropriately. Renovations designed to hide SCP-9288 are in progress.
Henry sighs and stares out the rain, the cold drizzle a rhythmic patter against the tile and grass. It was not supposed to go this way. He wondered, would she even show up?
Then, a tap on his shoulder. "Hey, where are you looking at?"
It's her. Smiling. Waving. Happy, for the time in weeks.
A man smiles, content.
Henry reaches out his hand hesitantly, and she takes it, before hugging him full-on. She smiles, teary eyed. "You didn't think I would show up, did you?" She laughs, letting go.
"To be honest, no, I didn't." He chuckles, an awkward noise. Gods, he missed that smile, the noise of her laugh. "But you're here anyways."
"Astute observation, Holmes." A laugh. "Anyways! You wanted to go over my draft again, right? No way it's gonna be on this soggy hill. C'mon, let's go find somewhere dry to sit." She grabs him by the hand, leading him down the spiral path to shelter. Somewhere with a nice coffee and books, where they can break the ice again, make crappy jokes about the next denial.
Another day passes.
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