Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, explorer and gentleman, crawled stealthily across High Value Storage Locker Room 23C, leaving a thin trail of slime behind him as he climbed up the table leg. The trip from his pen to the archives had taken hours, and adjusting the security cameras to hide his escape had been a Herculean effort in and of itself. Before long, his quarry was in sight - a small silver bell, carelessly left out of its case by a junior researcher after the completion of today's tests. With all the strength the Englishman's diminutive form could muster, he pushed against the bell and knocked it on its side, producing the distant, but distinct chime of a ringing bell. All was silent in High Value Storage Locker Room 23C for a moment, and Lord Blackwood feared the bell had lost its magic, or he was in the wrong room. But his fears were dispelled when the door to the room - the triple-locked, magnetically sealed door he had bypassed entirely on his daring expedition - effortlessly slid open, and an elderly man in a finely-pressed suit entered and approached the table.
"Good evening, Mr. Blackwood," said the man in a distinguished British accent. "How may I be of service?"
"By Jove, Deeds!" Lord Blackwood cried out, his exuberant aristocratic tones transmitting directly into Mr. Deeds' mind. "You haven't changed a bit! How the Devil are you?"
"Quite well, Mr. Blackwood," replied Mr. Deeds, "and may I say it is most pleasant to find myself in your company once again."
"Smashing!" said Lord Blackwood. "Now listen carefully. We've got to act fast, I don't know how long those buffoons in the guard-house will be deceived by my little trick. Tonight, Deeds, you and I are going to bag the biggest catch since I rounded up that herd of stampeding bunyips back in seventy-two."
"Indeed, Mr. Blackwood?"
"Indubitably, Deeds! Do you recall that blasted Tarasque that eluded me in France? I've learned from one of the researchers here that that same beast is being held in this very facility!"
Mr. Deeds nodded. "Indeed it is, sir. The Foundation refers to it by the name 'SCP-682'. It may also interest you to know that…"
"Dash it all, Deeds, this is no time for a history lesson!" The impatience in Lord Blackwood's voice was palpable. "The clock is ticking, my friend! Now, here's what I need you to do first…"
—-
Lord Blackwood paced, to the extent that a nudibranch can, back and forth along the table. Nearly a half hour had passed since Mr. Deeds had left on his task. Had he been captured? Was the jig up? Was he, after all this time, not as loyal as he had hoped? Footsteps rang out in the hallway, and Lord Blackwood looked around for a hiding place. None were within reach - but his fears were allayed when the door opened and Mr. Deeds entered. His suit was stained and wet, his previously immaculate coiffure a mess, and an offensively strong aroma of mint hanged heavily about him, but just as Lord Blackwood had hoped, he carried in either hand a large jug, filled to the brim with a viscous green liquid.
"As you requested, sir," Mr. Deeds said, gasping for breath, "two Imperial gallons of SCP-447-2."
"Spectacular, Deeds!" exclaimed Lord Blackwood. "The trap is set and the pieces are in play. The time has come for us to make our move. Tell me, do you still have the Bowie knife you won off that Indian in sixty-six?"
"Always, sir."
"Excellent! You and I are going to go to the Tarasque's lair. Once I get its attention, I want you to open both those jugs, pour them all over yourself, and then plunge the knife directly into your heart. Understood?"
Mr. Deeds sighed. "Yes, sir. What shall we do then?"
"Don't you worry about me," Lord Blackwood said. "Once you're dead, I'll take care of the rest. Within the hour, my old friend, the back-country horse-doctors that run this establishment will be patting us on the back and pinning medals on our chests."
"Very good, sir," Mr. Deeds said. "Shall we be on our way?"
Lord Blackwood crawled up Mr. Deeds' sleeve and perched on his shoulder as the trusty valet opened the door and made his way down the hallway. By jingo, the intrepid mollusk thought to himself, that old rascal won't even know what hit him.
