**Item #: SCP-682**
**Object Class:** Keter
**Special Containment Procedures:** SCP-682 must be destroyed as soon as possible. At present, SCP teams have not succeeded, though they've inflicted severe physical damage. SCP-682 is to be kept in a 5x5x5-meter reinforced steel chamber, lined with 25cm of acid-resistant plating. The chamber must be filled with hydrochloric acid to fully submerge and incapacitate SCP-682.
If it attempts to move, speak, or breach containment, staff must respond with full force and zero hesitation.
To prevent agitating SCP-682, personnel are forbidden to talk to it. Anyone attempting unauthorized communication will be restrained and removed.
Due to the frequency of breaches, the difficulty in containing it, and the threat of public exposure, SCP-682 is held at [DATA EXPUNGED]. The Foundation enforces a 50-kilometer no-human zone around the site.
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Anyway... as I was saying earlier, SCP-682 is a man-eating, unkillable lizard from hell. Word is, this thing's breached containment more times than I've had hot meals in here.
But the freakiest part? I had *just* been thinking about it… and boom—**containment breach.**
**Coincidence?** I don't buy it.
So naturally, I side-eyed D-87465. Could *he* have some kind of hidden ability like me? Is he one of those mysterious lucky bastards? If it's just dumb luck, then it's *way* too dumb.
"D-2333 and D-87465, you two come with me!" the doctor barked, his face souring as alarms still blared in the background.
We were escorted by a team of guards to a secure room—nothing fancy, just some metal walls and a stale smell of death. I had a feeling the doctor deliberately isolated us. Knowing the Foundation, they probably armed the rest of the D-Class and sent them to try and slow 682 down with shovels and bad decisions.
I glanced over at D-87465. This guy was **so** calm he looked like he was about to take a nap. Bro—682 just broke out! Aren't you even a little scared?
"Hey," I asked, lowering my voice. "Aren't you worried? 682 just busted out again."
He blinked lazily. "Ah? Brother, believe me—people die. Whether it's sooner or later, you die. You die and go to heaven. That's life. If you die, you die. So why bother stressing about when?"
...
I had no words.
**Is this what they mean by 'facing death like an old friend?'** I felt actual respect.
I grabbed his hand and stared deep into his eyes. "You… are the bravest man I've ever met."
He stared back with a look that said *respect* (disgust), *brotherhood* (disgust), and *bro, please back up*. Then he frowned and said:
"I'm not into that, brother."
"…"
Okay. That got awkward fast. Still, I had to say it.
"You're the bravest man I've ever met," I repeated solemnly.
"D-2333, shut up! You want to be SCP-682's next meal?" the guard snapped.
"Hey! This guy's brave enough to talk back to a Russian? I once beat a bear with a wooden stick, y'know!"
The guard pulled out a baton and smacked it in his hand.
"Uh… I mean, you're right, boss. I'll shut up now."
Guard: "…"
*Hmph. Show off just 'cause you have weapons.* If it weren't for all these guards around, I'd turn into my Russian Bear Mode and rearrange your face.
But as the old saying goes: if you can't endure, you won't survive. Every hero has a thick skin—and mine's polar bear level. I can let this one slide… for survival.
Eventually, the alarms stopped. After who-knows-how-long, 682 was recontained.
Just as I was wondering if the doc was still planning to toss us into its chamber, he sighed and waved us off.
"You two, back to your rooms."
Guess a lot of people died this time. One breath from that lizard is more dangerous than a nuke.
Still… I'm Russian. I don't fear death. What I *do* fear is running out of vodka or not having a bear to punch. And right now? No vodka. No bear. No joy in life.
I started feeling lightheaded.
"Brother!" I called out to the guard. "I don't feel so good…"
"Don't call me 'brother.' Don't get friendly. Name's Mondo."
*Wow… Mondo. Sounds like a guy who has a brother named Mundo that yells 'BIG!' every five seconds.*
"Okay okay, Boss Mondo, I'm seriously not well…"
"What now?" he groaned.
"I… I feel dizzy…"
He eyed me suspiciously. I could tell—he actually noticed something was off. My skin was pale, I was trembling a little. Real Oscar-worthy performance.
"…Fine," he muttered. "I'll take you to the infirmary."
"No no, wait—Boss Mondo! I'm Russian… I haven't had vodka in half a month. You understand my pain?"
**Kind eyes.**
**A tear might've been shed.**
**My soul wept.**
Seriously, why?! I just time-traveled! I didn't ask for this life! No vodka, no bear, and no human rights? What kind of punishment is this?
Mondo's response?
He hurled me back into my cell without a care in the world.
I laid there, feeling hollowed out. Like the world had abandoned me.
But then I remembered—D-87465 was still next door. He was the only one who didn't look like a half-dead zombie. Maybe he could cheer me up. I got up and shuffled to the small barred window.
"Yo! Brother!"
D-87465 looked over, surprised. "What now?"
"Let's be friends! After all these death experiments, we're basically comrades-in-arms. Everyone else looks like the walking dead. We can't end up like them!"
"…Friend…" he echoed, eyes distant.
He thought for a moment. He'd always been lucky—survived a car crash that killed everyone else, walked away from a plane crash that wiped out his entire family. And maybe… that luck came at the cost of those around him.
He sighed. In the end, maybe dying wasn't so bad. And maybe making a friend before that wouldn't hurt either.
"Just call me Henry," he said. "What about you? You've got an accent."
"Oh! My name's Gaia Mildonovich Stanleyn Belavsky."
Pause.
"And I'm a good guy."
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