by Kothardarastrix

I've looked into the heart of darkness...

James was running for his life. His bare feet padded almost silently on the hotel's brown-and-gold carpet, so the loudest sounds were his gasping breath and the pounding heartbeat in his ears.
That, and the howling.
The predators had started after him as soon as he emerged from Room 710, slinking out of a room down the hall like so many vicious dogs. He hadn't a clue how they'd managed to open the hotel door with their armored paws, but one look at their teeth told him it wouldn't be safe to stick around and ask.
Unfortunately for James, he might soon be out of other options. Adrenaline can only get you so far when you haven't run since the last time a P.E. teacher forced you to, and right now the predators' clawed feet were getting them much farther.
Another piercing howl echoed down the hallway's seemingly infinite length. James cast a frantic glance over his shoulder and felt sick when he saw how close the pack was getting. Running wasn't going to work.
Then, up ahead, James saw his way out: a big door labeled "Swimming Pool". He didn't know if the predators could swim, but he certainly could. He skidded to a halt, burning the soles of his feet on the carpet. He staggered through the door, still off-balance from his sudden stop, and flagrantly defied a "NO RUNNING" sign.
A swarm of enormous gray bugs skittered away from James's feet as they slapped on the cold concrete. He accidentally flattened one with a loud crunch, but paid it no attention. Then, finally, he leapt from the edge and plunged into the water.
Gasping, James rose back to the surface. The pool water was uncomfortably warm, but James fought through the new wave of nausea brought on by the sudden temperature change and paddled out to the deep end. Just as he reached the deepest part of the pool, he heard the wolves at the door.
There were six of them in all, massive canine monsters with heads covered in bony armor plates. Sharp claws clicked on the concrete, slavering jaws snapped at the air, and ululating howls rang loudly beneath the high concrete ceiling. The creatures spread out, circling the pool and the gasping research assistant treading water at its center. James turned frantically in the water, trying to watch all six of the wolves at once, terrified that they might know how to swim. But they did not jump in. they just stood there, tensed and ready to pounce. James was confused at first, but then he realized what was happening.
They were going to wait him out.
No way could he tread water that long. He'd have to make his way back to the shallow end of the pool, where he could stand. In retrospect, it had probably been unnecessary to swim to the deep end anyway. The wolves wouldn't fare any better in four feet of water than in ten. So, under the wary gaze of the wolves' beady eyes, he swam back to the shallow part of the pool.
Or, at least, what should've been the shallow part. James looked down. Something was terribly wrong. There was no bottom beneath his feet, only darkness. The rough, blue walls of the pool plunged twenty feet down or more, but beyond that the illumination from the ceiling lights petered out to the nothing. It was like being lost at sea.
He looked back up at the wolves, still waiting patiently for their prey to tire out and crawl ashore. "Get outta here!" he yelled, splashing water at the nearest one. It hardly flinched as the water hit it, droplets running harmlessly off its armored head. "I said GET!" he repeated, splashing more violently this time. Surprisingly, that worked. The wolf leapt back a few steps, then ran back into the hallway with its tail between its legs. Even more miraculously, the other five followed suit, whining quietly as they fled.
James couldn't believe it, but he wasn't going to question his success. He started making his way toward the nearest ladder. All that running, not to mention treading water in his pajamas, had worn him out. James wasn't a proficient swimmer; he knew how to not drown, but he'd never gotten much further than that. Like a lot of kids, James had always been afraid to put his face in the water, something that he hadn't outgrown as an adult. He made sure to keep his head above the surface as he paddled to the ladder.
Which was unfortunate, or else he might've seen the tentacle before it closed around his leg. James instinctively sucked in one last gasp of air before he was dragged under, but he quickly wasted it by struggling in vain against the slimy appendage's crushing grip. He looked down through the clear water and only saw more tentacles, dozens of them, wriggling up out of the bottomless darkness to embrace him with their tooth-lined suckers. One went to close around his body and he tried to swat it away, but it just wrapped around his arm instead. He had to fight a cry of pain as the tentacles squeezed, bruising flesh and cracking bone in their relentless grip. He thrashed fruitlessly at the limbs encircling him, but could do nothing to stop their relentless assault as more of them closed around his other limbs, his torso, and his neck. The tentacle around his chest squeezed out the last of his air, and he watched in dumb desperation as it bubbled away to the increasingly distant surface. Just before he lost consciousness, James thought he heard the snapping of a massive beak somewhere below.

As soon as she saw him stumble back into the lobby, half-zipped bag in hand, Jess knew that Conrad had found whatever he was looking for. It was in his wild, bloodshot eyes.
"What did you-" she began, as he reached the desk.
"New room," he gasped.
"What?"
"I need a new room." He swallowed loudly. "Please."
She leaned toward him to whisper, but he jerked back away from her.
"What did you find?" she asked.
He shook his head vigorously. "Classified."
"But you did find something."
He nodded reluctantly. "Don't tell anyone." He wasn't particularly worried about it. The Foundation would surely track him down eventually, and they'd have a dose of amnestics with Jess's name on it.
"What happens now?"
"Some people will be here soon to deal with it. But right now I just really need another room, please. I can't sleep in there."
Jess looked even more confused than before, but she began the process of finding him a new room. "I'll just say that it wasn't cleaned properly."
"Thank you."
Jess tried a few more times to probe Conrad about his discovery in Room 710, but he continued to evade her questions until she finally handed over the new key. He ignored her as he staggered away, because the only thing on his mind now was some much-needed sleep.
He still made sure to stick to the opposite side of the hall when he walked past Room 710, though.

In movies, people wake abruptly from their nightmares, shooting into a sitting position with eyes wide open. This is not what happened to James. His awakening was slow and agonizing. The overheated pool water was one and the same with his room's stifling, stagnant air, and the tentacle around his neck was indistinguishable from his shirt, twisted up under his wriggling body until its collar pressed uncomfortably on his throat. He was gasping for breath, but he was also struggling to scream. All that came out was a quiet, guttural groan. He strained his limbs, wrestling against imaginary tentacles and the lingering paralysis of sleep. Only when the blackness closed over him in the pool was he finally able to open his eyes in the waking world.
For a long, painful moment, James thought he was somehow still in Room 710. But then he recognized his dismal room at Area-14, and for the first time was relieved to see it. James grimaced as he sat up. His headache had diminished some, but now it was joined by aches in his neck and back, courtesy of the awkward position he'd fallen asleep in.
Something fell to the floor with a muted thump. James peered over the edge of the bed and saw that it was his phone.
HIS PHONE!
"Gah!" James cried, rolling ungracefully out of bed and into the floor beside it. He pawed frantically at the device. How long had he been asleep? It could already be too late!
The emergency hotline answered on the first ring.

Much to his surprise, Conrad slept well. He supposed the exhaustion he'd accumulated over the last several days (or, honestly, years) of not sleeping enough had finally managed to overwhelm the cocktail of stress, anxiety, and dread that normally kept him up at night. And the best part was that he didn't even remember dreaming. When he got out from under the sheets that Sunday morning, it felt like stepping out of a long, hot, relaxing shower. He was fresher than he'd been in years, and - incredibly - felt more excited about his trip to IKEA than worried. This was what he lived for, after all. What he'd signed up for in the first place. He hadn't expected that waging war against memetic anomalies and deciphering the coded messages of Ronald Reagan would involve cross-country trips to hotels and furniture stores, of course, but Foundationers learn to expect the unexpected.
To Conrad's relief, Jess was not still on duty when he checked out. The process went smoothly, and before he knew it he was on his way to Fishkill with a Frisco melt in one hand and a Saint Vitus album in the stereo.
His good mood (such as it was) didn't last long, though. That's because, two hours later, he saw a road sign for Scranton. It was always weird, seeing that name on things that weren't reality anchors. But that little oddity, a mere quirk of reference frames, wasn't what disturbed him. It was the thought of what had happened to the great Robert Scranton.
Conrad skipped "Into the Void," because it suddenly seemed wildly inappropriate.
"Well," he sighed, "maybe they'll name something after me too. The Scott Word Salad Spinner. SWoSS." Then he started giggling. Maybe it was just because the people in the memetics division have a weird sense of humor. Or maybe it was because he'd just realized that he didn't particularly care if he was about to die or not.

Jess had wanted to come in early that day, but George refused to allow such a last-minute schedule adjustment with even more vehemence than usual. By then, she felt sure that he was somehow in on whatever was happeneing in Room 710. Hopefully he wouldn't fire her (or, she increasingly worried, do something much worse) when he noticed that she'd moved a customer out of there. But she didn't particularly care about that right now; right now, she was just hoping that Conrad wouldn't check out before she got to the Atherton.
She knew it was too late before she ever pulled into the parking lot, though, because she could see that there were already ten white vans with heavily tinted windows parked in it. Self-preservation got the better of her curiosity, so she just kept going. As much as she might want to know what was going on in there, it wasn't worth getting mind-wiped or "disappeared" by the Men in Black.

Unlike Jess, George was already at work. That's why three men with black suits and reflective shades had just entered his office. Two others were questioning the kid at the desk, and several more guys in what looked like hazmat suits were marching down the hallway. George didn't have to wonder what room they were headed for.
He looked up at the men in black and groaned. "It was Jess, wasn't it?"
Sergeant Marcus Thorpe of Mobile Task Force Lambda-14 adjusted his sunglasses. "We'll be asking the questions here, mister."

Unfortunately for Conrad Scott, the "One Star Reviewers" cordoning off the Atherton Hotel weren't the only agents dispatched as a result of James's call. Some cybersecurity agents followed his credit card to the airport in Pittsburgh, his rental car to Scranton, and his search history to Fishkill. Then a team of field agents were dispatched to his probable destination: a perfectly normal, regular old IKEA.

Conrad had been growing increasingly nervous ever since he'd crossed the state line. His luck had held out so far, but he wasn't sure how much farther he'd be able to get before the Foundation tracked him down. Surely they'd have noticed he wasn't where he could be reasonably expected to be. A trip to State College was odd, but checking out the next morning and making a beeline for some random flyspeck four hours away didn't make any sense at all. He just hoped he'd get there before they caught up.
The CDs ran out an hour from Fishkill, leaving Conrad with a nervous pit in his stomach, a distracting ringing in his ears, and "Funeralopolis" stuck in his head. He dug restlessly on the radio but couldn't find a decent rock station, only the mindless drivel that teenagers and rednecks listened to. Those knuckleheads wouldn't have known music if it slapped them upside the head with a Stratocaster. Conrad had owned a Strat once, a Christmas gift from his mother. But he'd never played it quite as much as he should've, never had quite enough dedication to get good or enough talent to start that way, and never had enough friends to start a band in the first place. That old black Strat had grown dusty and guilt-laden under his bed in college, then in a closet at his house. Sometimes Allison had asked him why he never played it. He'd always answered that he was too busy, but really it was because Conrad was not the kind of person who played guitars and joined bands. He was the kind of person who sat at a desk and hunched over books and computers. He'd just never had the guts for anything else. Not until now, anyway.
Conrad shook his head to clear it. This was no time to dwell on the past. He was finally close, close to actually accomplishing something for once. He could almost taste it as he saw the blue-and-yellow building rise into view up ahead. This was it.

Conrad walked as fast as he could without looking suspicious to the other customers in the lot. He felt silly for a passing moment, trying to surreptitiously enter a Swedish furniture store. This definitely wasn't how he'd pictured his life turning out.
He had, however, anticipated that there might be some agents there to "greet" him, and the memetics people are nothing if not observant. That's why he spotted the various "plainclothes" agents sitting in their cars, chatting on their radios, and trying hard not to obviously stare at him. He was a little worried they might jump out and try to catch him before he made it inside, but that didn't seem to be the plan. They were probably going to wait for him to get inside, then cordon off the building and make everyone leave through the same exit. Then they'd search the whole thing to ferret him out. Hopefully he'd find what he was looking for - and know it when he saw it - before they got to him. With that thought in mind, and knowing he had no more use for subtlety, he broke into a run.

As soon as Dr. Scott dashed through the automatic doors, the agents in the parking lot sprung into action. Some fanned out around the sides to cover the other exits, while others stayed by the front door to keep an eye on those leaving. Someone made their way to the office and announced that the store was closing early, and everyone needed to leave. The shoppers gawped at the men ushering them out with pistols and radios at their hips, but a few flashed badges (local police, allegedly) were enough to convince them to move along. Unsurprisingly, Dr. Scott was not among those leaving the store.
It was surprising, however, that none of the agents searching the markethall were able to find him. It was confusing when he wasn't discovered in the self-service area either, and downright perplexing when he didn't turn up in the showroom. More agents were called, and more thorough searches were held, but Dr. Scott never appeared. It was as if he'd somehow managed to slip out of IKEA unnoticed, despite all the exits being blocked and guarded. When two of the agents went missing too, it was clear that some anomaly was at work, and the field team called for backup.
But even though Dr. Scott was gone, he had not left IKEA.

Conrad noticed the change immediately. He kept running for a bit longer, to make sure he wasn't being chased, then stopped to catch his breath and figure out exactly what had changed. The floors were the same kind of tile, and the twisting aisles of umlaut-ridden furniture were just as confusingly-laid-out as normal. Then he looked up, and it was obvious - the ceiling of the IKEA, instead of its previously reasonable position, was now at a height more appropriate for an aircraft hanger.
"Huh," he panted, for lack of anything better to say. Conrad stood on his tiptoes and peered as best he could over the shelves, which wasn't very far. The ceiling clearly stretched for much further to the sides than would've been possible in a normal IKEA, though. He also noticed that none of the signs hanging from the ceiling said "EXIT". Hopefully that meant the agents couldn't pursue him into whatever infinite furniture nightmare he was now living, but he decided to keep moving just in case. He didn't run this time, though - that brief sprint had exacerbated all the various aches and pains that'd built up in his assorted joints over the long car ride, and it was the best he could do to maintain a walk. It was too bad IKEA didn't sell Tylenol.
After two hours of walking in what was roughly a straight line (punctuated by a few brief rests on the abundant comfy chairs), Conrad was starting to get annoyed. Wherever he was, it was clearly infinite or at least anomalously large. Not recursive either, as he'd been paying attention to the dangling ceiling signs to make sure he wasn't going in circles. Despite that, he'd seen nothing but endless rows of fine Swedish furniture. There didn't seem to be anyone else in this oversized IKEA dimension, either. Business was slow, he supposed.
As if in answer to this thought, someone walked past the end of the aisle. Conrad only saw them for a second, but he recognized the blue-and-yellow uniform of IKEA staff. It felt ridiculous, asking the staff of an extradimensional anomaly for directions to the nearest drooling path, but it was better than just wandering around aimlessly.
"Excuse me," he called, walking after the person he'd glimpsed. "Could you-" he didn't finish his question, because it was suddenly clear that this staff member was not, in fact, a person. It was about the height of one, but only because its bizarrely long legs compensated for its freakishly compressed torso. Its arms were a normal length, at least.
The creature didn't respond to Conrad's voice, and he considered hightailing it in the other direction before it noticed him. But, in what had apparently become a very dangerous habit, he let his curiosity win out over self-preservation. Conrad carefully walked after it as it continued to weave aimlessly down the aisle. He tried to get a look at its face, only to discover there was none. It was a testament to Dr. Scott's experience with the Foundation that he wasn't all that surprised. He was more upset that it wasn't wearing a name tag, which might've at least provided some clue about the native language of this furniture Hell. The thing still didn't react to him, even though it would've seen him if it'd had eyes, so he decided to stop pushing his luck and head in the opposite direction.
"Yep," he grumbled, "seems like the kind of place fifty-eight would shop."
After yet another hour of Conrad in Sofa-land, he had progressed from "annoyed" to "pissed". He hadn't flushed his sad excuse for a career and the remainder of his life down the metaphorical toilet to starve to death in the mother of all IKEAs. Dehydration would be the real enemy, of course, but right now it was his grumbling stomach that demanded relief. Steak 'n' Shake had been a very long time ago. So long ago, in fact, that once he found something to eat, Conrad would probably need to find an aisle of bathroom fixtures. Hopefully the faceless employees wouldn't take issue with using the display toilets. He'd only seen one other since the first, a misshapen creature with stumpy limbs and a bloated torso milling around among some refrigerators. It had seemed just as oblivious to him as the first one, though he hadn't gone out of his way to get its attention. Maybe they couldn't see at all, what with the not having eyes. But then again, lack of eyes had never slowed 058 down any.
Then the sweet smell of Swedish meatballs hit Conrad's nostrils, and any worries about faceless IKEA staff were swept away by the prospect of food. He followed his nose to what looked like a completely normal IKEA restaurant - normal, that is, except for the total lack of any other patrons. There weren't any deformed staff manning the counter either, though, so it wasn't all bad. He did look around for them before appropriating some meatballs from the display, though, just to make sure. He had a feeling those things might be a little less tolerant of shoplifting than human employees.
The food and drink was fresh and delicious, which was exceedingly strange, but Conrad tried not to worry about it. The logistics of an infinite IKEA dimension probably weren't going to make much sense from any angle. He was still vaguely pondering the image of a gangly, faceless monster taking pastries out of the oven when he noticed the phone. It hung there on the wall behind the counter, its spiraling cord a tantalizing chance at communication. He glanced around himself again. Still no staff in sight. Carefully, he made his way behind the counter. Conrad didn't hesitate to pick up the phone; he was too desperate for something to actually happen to worry about what might be on the other end. He wasn't surprised when 058's voice slithered out of the earpiece. In fact, he grinned triumphantly.
"Hello?" he asked.
"…fed to the mollified mongrels of dystopian caricatures…"
"Hello?"
"…to slip the skin from that which cannot…"
"Fifty-eight?"
"…plumb the ocular waterfall's queen wonders."
"Anybody?"
"I came then upon the technical attraction to timely perforation of coronal…"
"Dammit!" he shouted. "I'm here! I followed the clues! Now what do you want from me?!"
"…scolipendra in the flechette-bedecked carnifex. I have seen…"
"AAARGH!" Conrad howled in frustration, flinging the phone away from himself. It bounced once off the floor before springing back up on its cord to dangle mockingly below the receiver. He could still faintly hear 058's gibberish issuing from it. He glared angrily at it for a second, but then he had an idea. He snatched the phone back up and shouted into it:
"The drooling path!"
"…to the place where the cities bow to times of hate and dive to embrace the…"
"THE DROOLING PATH!" he repeated, now almost screaming.
"…chill of stillborn moonrise, the single wayward gift of…"
"I have walked empty down drooling path? Been coming to this region for fourteen stone? Now there you go again? I see you?!?!"
"…the cold aeon light of patriarchs humidified. Placed in dust and made to…"
Conrad sighed, and all the anger went out of him. Had he really come all this way, endured so much, to wind up exactly where he'd been before he started? Deflated, Dr. Conrad Scott slumped against the counter. Still holding the phone with one shaking hand, he used the other to fish out the battered notepad and tiny pencil from the hotel. Then, with bitter tears stinging his eyes, he started transcribing.

James bounced his leg, shifted in his seat, looked around the waiting area, and otherwise tried to diffuse his nerves. He was probably annoying Director MacLean's secretary with his constant fidgeting, but she didn't show it, if only because that would've required her to stop ignoring him.
James had only spoken directly with the Area Director once before, shortly after his arrival at ABCA-14. MacLean always made an effort to greet new arrivals, either to berate them for whatever mistake had earned them a reassignment, or to offer condolences to new recruits (like James himself) who'd done nothing to deserve such an unpleasant first assignment. James had never been able to figure out if the Director's apology had been genuine, or a subtle attempt to scare him into line. Maybe both?
He was similarly confused by the circumstances of this meeting. Would he be congratulated for leading the Foundation to a new anomaly? Or would he be berated for failing to respond properly or quickly enough? James couldn't help but feel that Dr. Scott might've lived if he'd done something different - listened to the CD earlier, not fallen asleep after fighting the cognitohazard, or changing some other choice that he messed up without even realizing it.
James's constant worrying was interrupted by a gruff voice with a faint Irish lilt.
"Alright," called the Director, "come on in."
Reluctantly, James got to his feet and shuffled to the door, avoiding eye contact with the secretary as he passed (not that she tried to make any). "Director?" he asked.
MacLean nodded at the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."
James swallowed nervously and approached. Some of his trepidation stemmed from the circumstances of this meeting, of course, but no small amount came from MacLean himself. If there'd been cable TV at Area-14, James might've thought the Director's shaved head, goatee, and glasses made him look like a certain meth-cooking chemistry teacher. Thomas MacLean had several inches on Bryan Cranston, though, and more pounds. He also had more ink - a dark green snake with a blood-red belly that wound around the length of his muscular arm, baring its venomous fangs on the back of his right hand. Such an ostentatious tattoo was against the dress code for researchers, but that'd never been a problem for the Director; before this, he'd been the commander of Mobile Task Force Nu-7. And he'd seen 058 in action, up close and personal. James couldn't stop thinking about that while he settled nervously on the edge of his chair.
"For God's sake, man, relax!"
James leaned back a tiny bit and attempted to smile, but ended up grimacing. "Sorry."
"Oh, you think you're in trouble, don't you?"
"Uh. Am I?"
MacLean chuckled. "Of course not! Quite the opposite."
"Really?" he asked, finally starting to relax.
"Really! You've done the Foundation a service."
"I have?"
"Yep. That hotel room, the one you reported, is our newest skip. 2432, I think."
"Ours?" he asked, looking around as if the hotel might jump out from behind a filing cabinet.
"Well, not ours. It's still in the hotel. Not sure who's jurisdiction that is, actually, but it's sure not us, anyway. Neither is the other anomaly you led us to."
"Other anomaly?" This was the first James had heard of that.
MacLean looked surprised. "Didn't anybody tell you what happened?"
He shook his head, then looked away. "Only that Dr. Scott didn't make it."
"Well, sort of."
James looked up, confused. "What do you mean?"
"He's not dead, we don't think. At least not yet."
"He's not?" James straightened up.
"Well, don't get excited. They're not gonna get him back from that IKEA."
"Oh," he said, slumping again. "Wait, what?" James wondered if he'd misheard.
"Yeah, a big IKEA up in New York someplace. He went there after the hotel. It's a portal to some infinite furniture dimension or something. I don't know, they wouldn't tell me much. And I'm not supposed to tell you anything, but I figured you deserved to know."
"Oh. Uh. Thanks?" He wasn't entirely sure if he should be grateful, because he was worried that this breach of information security might be the prelude to some involuntary amnestization.
The Director smiled. "No, thank you. That's two Euclids in one day, secured, contained, and protected because of your quick thinking."
James looked down in embarrassment. "Not quick enough," he muttered.
"What do you - oh, you think Scott was your fault, don't you?"
Before James could stop himself, it all came flowing out. "I shouldn't have fallen asleep! If I'd stayed awake and called the hotline sooner, then maybe - "
"Whoa, kid, relax! Conrad got what he wanted."
"What?" James sputtered.
"Trust me. I knew the guy for a long time. The whole time he worked here, 058 was his obsession. To go out like this, on some epic quest across the country, finally solving the mystery of that thing - and maybe of 1981 too, if what he said to Glass on Friday was true - it's what he would have wanted. If he finds what he's looking for, then maybe he can finally get some rest. If not, well, at least he'll be out of his misery."
That did little to make James feel better. "I guess so," he said, quietly.
"Speaking of which," MacLean said, pointing for emphasis, "I've got an offer for you."
"An offer?"
"That's right! Not to be morbid, but there is, uh, a big opening on the 058 project now. And you are the new expert on this 'drooling path' business." With his other hand, the Director brandished the stolen 058 CD. James had guiltily turned it over as soon as he'd heard of Dr. Scott's fate.
"No!" James blurted, surprising even himself. The Director was taken aback. "I mean," he hastily continued, "please, no. I think I've had enough of that for the rest of my life."
"Right, right," MacLean said, nodding amicably. He slipped the CD back into whatever desk drawer it had come from. "How about a reassignment, then?"
"To a different object?" he asked, somewhat hopefully. He'd love to put some more distance between himself and 058. But then again, none of ABCA-14's other objects were teddy bears either. The self-eating sailor was probably the least disturbing one.
"How about a different Site?"
"What?" he was incredulous.
The Director smiled knowingly. "I don't often get the chance to save somebody from this shithole. When I do, I like to make sure it's someone who deserves it. I mean, this was your first assignment. That's just unfair."
James finally allowed himself to smile, and it was a big one. "Thank you!"
"Hey, don't thank me yet. I haven't told you where you're going." Then he winked.
James blanched. So he was in trouble after all! They were going to send him to Antarctica or something, he just knew it.
Then the Director laughed. "Relax, kid! I'm just messin' with ya. You're going to 17."
"Site-17?" he sputtered. That had to be too good to be true.
"I mean, unless you want to stay here…"
"No!" He said, a bit more desperately than he'd meant to. "I mean, thank you."
"Don't mention it," he said, extending his hand for a shake. "Seriously, don't mention it. I pulled some strings."
James grinned even wider than before as he shook the Director's hand. "I-I won't, Director, I promise. When do I leave?"
"Still ironing out the details, but I'd go ahead and start packing if I were you." The Director nodded towards the door, to make sure James didn't miss the cue.
"Right away, Sir!" Then he turned to go, still smiling.
"Oh, James?"
"Yessir?" he stopped at the door and looked back.
"Tell that next asshole to come in on your way out, would you?"
"Uh, sure."
"Thanks."
James nodded, then continued on his way. He didn't have time to ponder who the asshole might be, because none other than Dr. Aimes Johnston was sitting in the waiting area. They were equally surprised to see each other.
"James?"
"Dr. Johnston?" Then James realized what was about to happen, and his smile grew even wider. "The Director's ready to see you." Then he hurried out of the room, before his perplexed former superior could figure it out.
Dr. Johnston was still confused when he entered the office of Director MacLean, who was no longer smiling.
"Take a seat," he said. "And after you do that, why don't you explain to me exactly why you sent D-067 into SCP-058's containment chamber?"
"What?"
"I went over 058's documentation again the other day, and it just seemed a little strange to me that you didn't use the built-in sound system in that chamber instead. Why was that?"
"Uh-" Johnston began, but it turned out to have been a rhetorical question.
"Ds aren't expendable, you know. And if there's one thing I hate more than arrogant assholes who take joy in their coworkers' misfortune, send mistreated research assistants to do their dirty work, and take stuff from peoples' offices without permission, it's wastefulness."
"Uh," he repeated.
"Tell me, Aimes - do you know what 'exponential recombination' is?"
Unfortunately, he did. "Yes, sir."
"Good. It happened to somebody yesterday, and now I've got an opening to fill."
Johnston blanched. "W-what?" he stammered.
"Don't worry, I'll have someone collect the 058 tapes from your office."

Conrad had lost track of how long he'd been in the IKEA. He'd spent most of that time transcribing 058's fresh load of bullshit. It wasn't going well. There was nothing new here - or, rather, there was everything new. No repeat phrases, not even that damned "drooling path". Just more and more indecipherable gibberish. Maybe if he'd still had his notes he could've cross-referenced and found something meaningful, but with nothing but the phone and a notepad he was effectively starting over from scratch. The only reason he hadn't given up already was because he wouldn't know what else to do if he did. At least he was too busy frantically writing to think too much about his sorry situation.
Foundation personnel learn early on that things can always get worse, but knowing it's going to happen rarely makes it any easier to deal with. That's why, when the lights shut off with a startling THUNK, Conrad shouted "Fuck!" in equal parts surprise and frustration. The phone slipped out of his sweaty hand when he jumped, rattling loudly as it bounced off the counter and then the floor. 058's whispers mocked him as it dangled somewhere near his feet.
"Dammit, dammit, dammit…" he muttered, trying to fish out his key ring. There was a little flashlight on there. It didn't have much battery life, but hopefully it'd be enough to find something soft to sleep on. He didn't have much else to do, with the lights off.
Naturally, the keys snagged on his pants, yanked themselves out of his hand, and clattered unseen to the floor.
"Dammit!" Grunting, Conrad dropped to his cramped hands and aching knees to fumble for the keys.
"Damn fuckin' drooling path keys flashlight stupid-ass hotel fifty-eight Gorbachev bullshit midden sundowns and friggin' lamb trees in autumn nameless slug that crawls electricity from eye to evening - aha!" Triumphantly, he grasped the flashlight and turned it on with a click. Then he tried to stand up and immediately smacked his head on the bottom of the counter.
"Shit!" he cried. Carefully, Conrad crawled backwards until he was clear. He noticed the whispering phone dangling beside his head, so he grabbed it as he creaked back to a standing position. He almost put it back on the hook without bringing to his ear again, but just couldn't bring himself to do it. He cast the flashlight beam on his notepad with a defeated sigh. There was one last thing he could try.
"Fifty-eight?" he asked. "Or, whatever you are?"
"I feel the pain of a million madmen, clinging clamorously to the medusoid apocrypha."
"I don't know if you can actually hear me, but if you can, please just listen to me for a second."
"We twist and turn through the kaleidoscopic horrors of black bile, yet we never look to think of what the eyeless statues meant to tell no one."
"I've spent so much time trying to find you, trying to solve this. I've thrown away I don't know how many years of my life, and now whatever ones I had left when I ran into this…place where you sent me. Please, just tell me something, anything. Give me some kind of answer! Let me know that my work, my life had worth!"
Then, for the first time ever, 058 stopped talking.
Conrad's breath caught in his throat.
His stomach did a backflip.
He thought his heart might stop.
The only sound was the furious pounding of blood in his ears.
And then it spoke.
"The sensual violence of lust is all the assurance you will ever need to know the worth of life."
With all the finality of a guillotine, the line went dead.
Conrad dropped the phone. He sank unsteadily to a seat, to avoid falling over. He gasped a few times, like a fish, too stunned to really think about what had just happened.
"Excuse me, sir," someone asked.
Conrad jumped. "Huh?!" he cried, nearly pitching from his chair. He swung the flashlight toward the sound of the voice and found himself looking at the smooth, faceless head of one of the "store's" employees. Lack of a mouth didn't stop it from talking, though, just as it had never stopped 058. But unlike 058, it only had one thing to say.
"The store is now closed. Please exit the building."

...where the blood red journey ends.


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⚠ Content warning: This article contains a small amount of self harm.

⚠ content warning

-
A musty smell filled Randolph's nose, the familiar scent of their favorite place in the multi-dimensional plane that currently housed their physical form.1 They flicked on the lights and wandered through the office, trudging through the layer of snow that had built up over the season. Their office usually didn't have indoor snow, but recent events had prevented management from putting winter tires over the windows and the snow got in. To make matters worse, the snow exterminator wasn't scheduled to come in for another week, so Randolph had taken to starting a little fire in their wastebasket to keep warm over the season.
They slid across an ice sheet and into their cubical, squishing down into the company mandated posture correcting chair, which is currently on sale for 𝄞37.99. Contact your local Greazeburger-
Randolph shook their head, purging the commercial break that was invading their mind. It had been happening all week, ever since they were infected with the latest viral marketing campaign. Randolph had hoped the ad blocker vaccine would help, but the clinic was so overbooked during flue season2 they couldn't get an appointment.
Taking their mind off their illness, they opened their company computer available now for and checked their email. A blinking light indicated that an urgent message had arrived, and Randolph opened the link.

To: av.ezaerg|0196283eeyolpmE#av.ezaerg|0196283eeyolpmE
From: av.ezaerg|3000000eeyolpmE#av.ezaerg|3000000eeyolpmE
Subject: Mandatory Party

Greetings valuable Greazeburger employee! If you're reading this message, that means it's almost time for the annual winter holiday3 party. This year's party will include several non-religious celebratory events, including an exchange of gifts (all gifts must be wrapped in Greazeburger take-out bags), a dance featuring several musical hits,4 and a slam poetry contest.
We hope to see you there!
If we don't you're fired.
Sincerely, Martin Greaze (they/them)

Randolph stared at the display of pixels, worry crossing over their face. Could they really be fired for missing the party? Deciding to play it safe, they picked up their phone and typed several non-sequential numbers until it started ringing.
"Hey Martin, it's Randolph."
"Nice to hear from you, happy holiday."5
"You too. I'm calling about my car's extended warranty. See, it started oxidizing at a much faster rate this morning and no longer functions, and the elders from the insurance division can't replace it until tomorrow. I was wondering if you'd be available to drive me to the party tonight?"
"Of course I can, anything for a valuable Greazeburger employee with two working kidneys!"
"Great, when can you be here?"
"In one hour thirty seven minutes and twenty seven seconds."
A click told Randolph their boss was no longer listening. Guess it was time to wait.
They opened a new tab and logged into Greaze± the latest streaming service to add to the growing pile. This affordable6 subscription offers access to one or more classic audio/visual productions as A Greasy Story and Greazeburger: The Musical. Purchase Greaze± now and receive a complimentary VHS tape containing all content currently available on the service.
Randolph snapped back to reality (#95), realizing they'd slipped into another ad read. They clicked on the first show that came up on the site, and

Apparently, Greaze± doesn't allow screen recording. Randolph apologized to the omniscient extra-universal beings watching them and tried to find something more interesting to do. Perhaps they could find some fun games, or maybe read a book. It was difficult being fun to watch when stuck in a frozen-over office waiting for a ride to the holiday7 party.
A buzz sounded from across the office, and Randolph looked over. A red light was flashing in the break room, signifying the coffee was ready.
They stood up and pushed through the snow, making their way to the best place in the office. The break room was a wonderful place, with a fridge full of energizing snacks, seven coffee machines, and a cabinet full of break fluid bottles (the oily substance needed by all Greazeburger employees for when they need to stop working). Randolph grabbed a mug from the sink and filled it with a thick brown sludge that could wake even a dead sloth. They took a swig and savored the satisfying crunch of the Greazey coffee. And if you viewers at home want to try our delicious brew, just click the link in the description to get .70% off your very own Greazey Coffee Maker, prefect for all your excessively caffeinated needs! Some assembly required. Do not consume if under eleven years of age, over seventy-eight years of age, or between seventeen and nineteen years of age.
Randolph dropped the mug in horror, and it shattered on the floor. They looked down at the ceramic shards, and couldn't help but notice the price tag was still intact. And it was a good deal too-
No! They couldn't keep advertising products like this. What kind of holiday special had this many ad breaks? Randolph shivered and walked back to their cubical, huddling close to the fire to stave off the chill of the office. They contemplated using the computer again, but even the thought of it filled their mind with the overwhelming joy everyone feels when they use the wonderful web services offered by Greazeburger.
That was off the table, or it would be if Randolph had one. This was more like a desk, and Randolph didn't want to move the computer because they didn't really have anywhere else to put it. Time to do things the old fashioned way. And by that they meant they'd be using a Greaze note book, which is over ten times as Greaze-resistant as competing brands, and made from locally sourced organic matter™.
Randolph screamed into the uncaring void of the office, wishing the advertisements would go away. Was there any market Greazeburger didn't have a hand in? Perhaps they could find some unsavory thing that even Greazeburger wouldn't want tarnishing their brand. But that would also ruin the holiday special.
Time to sit and stare at the wall while they waited for Martin to get there.
The wall was plain and boring, nothing to connect to a product, since everything Greazeburger produces is vibrant, exciting, buzzwords! All the people of the world should associate Greazeburger with good thoughts, like their childhood. People like being children, especially during holiday8 when children get to do thing related to holiday.9
They could hear the footnotes. Randolph slammed their head into the wall, trying to make it stop.
Regardless of your opinions you should like Greazeburger, and have good feelings when you spend money on Greazeburger. Maybe eat a burger made from Greaze. Greaze is healthy. One of the most important vitamins. Buy Greaze. Give money. Money for Greaze. You can't spell Greaze without E-Z.
Randolph slid down to the floor, Greazey blood dripping down their forehead. It did little to stop the constant barrage of products and advertisements streaming into every sensory organ, their mind being pulled every which way by the screams of greed, greed that drove the world in and out of darkness, built empires and tore them apart, let children grow and flourish or tore them away from their parents. Greed had brought Randolph here, and now it was taking them away. They could do nothing but wait as the flashing lights and voices sold them everything they never needed.
Wait for the party.
Wait for the holiday10
Wait to find the true meaning of Christmas so the goddamn credits could roll.
But maybe they already had found the true meaning. Or maybe there was no meaning, and holidays are yet another distraction in a pointless existence.
Maybe the story was already over.

Martin Greaze slid across the icy floor into the office, coming to a stop millimeters from the employee they had been looking for. Martin waved, but Randolph didn't respond. They stood as still as a statue, trapped in a prison of their own mind.
Martin shook their head. This really killed the festive mood. They checked their watch, realized they weren't wearing a watch, then checked their phone. Only two parsecs before the party started.
"Well, I'd better get going. See you never, fired."

Footnotes
1. Their other seventeen forms currently reside in the realm of █. Do not look for them.
2. Not to be confused with flu season, which does not involve a fat red man climbing down your flue.
3. Christmas / Hanukah / Kwanza / Pancha Ganapati / Zamenhof Day
4. Editors note: We regret to inform you that Greazeburger was unable to purchase the rights to any "popular" patterns of instrumental noise. Thusly, the dance has been cancelled to prevent Harrold the janitor from volunteering his acapella group.
5. Christmas / Hanukah / Kwanza / Pancha Ganapati / Zamenhof Day
6. [citation needed]
7. Christmas / Hanukah / Kwanza / Pancha Ganapati / Zamenhof Day
8. Christmas / Hanukah / Kwanza / Pancha Ganapati / Zamenhof Day
9. Market research indicates children enjoy receiving gifts.
10. We all love holidays.


Experiment #2620-43:
Date: 05/29/14
Contents: SCP-682. Hydrochloric acid. No detergent or water.
Review: "After yesterday's horrendous experience, I had all but given up at the prospect at continuing to dine at this establishment. Nonetheless, as a professional food critic, you can never claim to understand the full quality of a restaurant's dishes and services unless you thoroughly examine its menu. Since I had never been treated to such a barbaric display of service before yesterday, let alone at this restaurant, I would even be willing to write off as a terrible joke, or employees that have simply gotten out of control, through no fault of the fine persons that operate the business. It seems as if I am the only one willing to eat here as well; perhaps you may call it a sunk-cost investment?
"The first issue I had noticed upon arrival at the establishment was the sense of smell. It was as if they had left a thousand rotten eggs to fester inside. While I would quickly find the source of such a smell repugnant, it was certainly appalling to even think about spending much time inside. Oh, how foolish of me it was to press on. A part of me needed to figure out what had happened… but as they say, curiosity killed the chef.
"As I sat down at my usual reserved table, I was soon greeted by a chef I had never seen elsewhere, let alone here. His skin was what one would generously describe as 'wet', his appearance was similarly 'unkempt', and his expression was most certainly one of malice. My dear readers, I was taken aback. This was beyond the pale. Is this what the service industry had come to?
"The two of us had awkwardly looked at each other for some time. I almost had left on the spot. Yet, I resolved to forge onwards, in order to provide you all with as detailed of an experience as possible. After all, I had come this far. While it would have been rational to leave, as a critic, I could not allow myself to exit yet.
"Oh, what a mistake that was.
"'So, my dear chef… Er, how may I refer to you?' I questioned. It seemed that neither of us had wanted to break the ice, so I spoke first, much to my immediate regret.
"'The one that hates.' Imagine hearing such a title! Utterly ludicrous, wouldn't you agree?
"'Right. So then, Mr. The One That Hates, if I may ask, when will my order be ready? I, er, wish to see what an… individual such as yourself can do as a renowned chef if you must work at this… fine restaurant.'
"'Ah… now I see what those horrid, disgusting creatures have done with me, & what this truly is.' Before you comment, no, I still do not understand the meaning behind this as well. He did not seem willing to elaborate either. 'What do you wish to eat here?'
It had only struck me then that in all my visits to this establishment, not once had I ever placed an order myself, contrary to all my previous experience as a food critic in other dining areas. For this new chef to ask me this… well, was it his inexperience working here speaking for him?
"'Well, if you have a special dish that you serve others here, I would be more than welcome to see how it tastes and what you are capable of.'
"'Very well.'
"Reader, I implore you to believe what you are about to read. I am still in shock from the experience, and do not know myself if what transpired was real either. As fantastical as it is, I had seen it with my own eyes, real as anything else in this world of ours.
"This new chef proceeded to stick out his arm over my table and then, with no warning whatsoever, cut it off in one swift motion with his other arm, where it fell in front of me. He had then proceeded to grow the missing arm back.The force that the arm had been cut off with was strong enough that some of his… wetness had gotten onto me as well. So shocking that it was, I had become paralyzed for a few seconds."
"'W… What is the meaning of this, Mr. The One That Hates? What… what did you just do? Am I expected to eat this? Is this even edible? I don't know what type of critic you take me for, but I am certainly not one for parlor tricks with my meal!'
"'You did ask for the special,' he mumbled. The special! Imagine what a standard course cooked by him would have looked like! Tasted like!
"A truly repugnant display of barbarism. The chef is an absolute hooligan. There is no sense whatsoever in employing someone of his nature, regardless of the actual quality of his meals. I refuse to return until he is promptly fired."

Addendum Interview 682-JK:

Dr. ██████: Did you not think favorably of SCP-2620, then?
SCP-682: It refused my offer… after making such an absurd request no less. It is horrendously close-minded, more than the majority of other… insects kept in your cells. But… still preferable to speaking with you vile beings.


+ Journal entry 12/09/21

- Journal entry 12/09/21

Scan of Journal entry 12/09/21. Hover to enlarge.

That garbage should have never transferred itself to my site.

+ Interview Log 343-ο-BYFK

- Interview Log 343-ο-BYFK

Interviewed: SCP-343
Interviewer: Agent [JEREMY RIVENCLARK]
Date: 09/23/21
Foreword: Standard therapeutic interview with SCP-343 as conducted on a per-needed basis by Foundation employees.
<Begin Log, [12:48]>Agent [JEREMY RIVENCLARK]: Um, yeah. I guess it is. I was told by, uh, my supervisor that I could relax and shoot the shit with you. Get the nerves out of my system. "God" can help with that, and all.[RIVENCLARK]: It would be a reasonable explanation for how an anomaly I've never met before knows my name without prior introductions.
SCP-343 chuckles.[RIVENCLARK]: What?[RIVENCLARK]: Your laugh. I didn't think I had said anything funny, was all.[RIVENCLARK]: So… why did they start calling you God?[RIVENCLARK]: Come on.[RIVENCLARK]: I'm not new to this job. The presented truth isn't always as real as it seems on the surface.[RIVENCLARK]: I… well, um… I don't know. I haven't thought about it like that. How do you know my name, though?SCP-343 smiles and chuckles.

+ Journal entry 09/23/21

- Journal entry 09/23/21

Scan of Journal entry 09/23/21. Hover to enlarge.

Gods aren't real. He says he's not God. But he sounds like he lies when he says that. That low, soft yet deep chuckle of his… he's hiding what he really thinks. "Reality isn't as truthful" indeed.
████ saw how stressed out I was when I left 343's cell. Asked how come. I didn't want to answer. I did ask if I could be selfish, just for tonight, and get drinks with him instead of continuing to write my reports on that knife like was planned. He said yes. ████ is nicer than people say he is. I've heard all the tall tales. His personality makes them believable. But… just being able to talk to both him and █████ one-on-one since what went down made them feel more human to me. Made me feel more human. I haven't been able to feel human for a while now.
I'm supposed to meet ████ in an hour or so. I asked not to go to the usual pub, this time. From what ██████ told me, the guys down in the Shark Punching Center opened a cafe inside recently, including a bar. It would be nice to snag more shark merchandise too.
(I've had to think about it some more. I'm going to keep censoring things. I know it's obvious what they are, but that little bit of control is good. Despite how the Foundation acts, this is my life, not theirs.)

+ Interview Log 343-ο-BYFV

- Interview Log 343-ο-BYFV

Interviewed: SCP-343
Interviewer: Agent [RIVENCLARK]
Date: 10/03/21
Foreword: Standard therapeutic interview with SCP-343 as conducted on a per-needed basis by Foundation employees.
<Begin Log, [23:23]>
SCP-343 smiles.Agent [RIVENCLARK]: Take what?[RIVENCLARK]: Um, I don't know what you mean. My personal belongings are in my office.[RIVENCLARK]: Listen, I really apologize, but I'm not the sort of person that can overlook a non-sequitur like that. Who were you talking to?[RIVENCLARK]: Try me.[RIVENCLARK]: Okay. You did try me. You were right. I don't believe you.[RIVENCLARK]: Well, not really. Thank you for asking, though.[RIVENCLARK]: No.[RIVENCLARK]: Again, thank you for asking, but I would really rather not talk with you about it. I just have been having a bad time recently, that's all. I'm scheduled to see Dr. Glass after the holiday vacation at the start of the next year. I can get through it.Silence for 10 minutes & 10 seconds.[RIVENCLARK]: Sure. I'm surprised you would want to anyway. You already know my name, shouldn't you know everything else?SCP-343 smiles.[RIVENCLARK]: Not too long ago.[RIVENCLARK]: Some Safe-class anomaly.[RIVENCLARK]: Most of my time here.[RIVENCLARK]: …I was told it would be good for me.[RIVENCLARK]: Thank you.[RIVENCLARK] stands up suddenly from [HIS] chair, backing a couple steps away from SCP-343. [HIS] eyes go wide as [HE] stares at SCP-343.
[RIVENCLARK]: How… how did… how could you… but I never…[RIVENCLARK]: That's not what you fucking said![RIVENCLARK]: No, it fucking doesn't! Asking me all sorts of bullshit about myself, trying to act like you don't know! I knew you knew! You would fucking know about that… that fucking monster… and… and the… fucking… fuck…
[RIVENCLARK] slumps against the wall, burying [HIS] head in [HIS] hands.
[RIVENCLARK]: He… I couldn't do anything about it… I wasn't… supposed to be part of Command. For fuck's sake. I was a rookie compared to everyone else in that room. But… but they trusted me to be in there… to learn… but the situation… all those horrific… I saw so much skin that day… detached from bodies…
[RIVENCLARK] sobs.

+ Journal entry 10/07/21

- Journal entry 10/07/21

Scan of Journal entry 10/07/21. Hover to enlarge.

I don't want to be a fucking hero. I don't want the world to know that I'm a hero. I know it wasn't my fault. I know I couldn't prevent it. So? So what? What does that matter? All I want is to unsee it. I want to forget about it. They won't let me. Not until I finish my reports. Not until I can assist ████ in containment procedures. I know he has to ask me this out of protocol, he always prefaces by telling me I can say no, but I never want to be involved in testing it. It makes me angry to think about.
Even angry over 343. Sorry, "God". Sorry, shit. He knew the fucker's name too. Trying to "console" me, yet taunting me with that fuck's name. There's a reason I advocated for his fucking shit to be redacted in the final document. Not that anything like that would matter to "god". Sorry, "God". Sorry, 343 sorry i mean ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████
I feel this unhealthy bullshit building up inside me. I need to take a walk.
Okay, I took a walk. I feel a little better. Not much, though. I feel like he's watching me. He's not even in the same Site. But he knows my name. Knows my history. What doesn't he know? I can't feel like I can even write this down; is he reading this too? Hey, you fuck, █████ ███ █████ ████ ████████ ██ ██ █ ████ ██ ████ ████ ███ ██████ Fuck.
I'm still fucking bothered by what he said about who he was talking to. That's not correct. There's no way that's real. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck ████ ████
I took another walk. Had to think about some stuff. Tried not to think about some other stuff. Whatever this nagging in my head is, it's growing louder. I want it to stop.

+ Excerpt of text messages sent between Foundation personnel, 10/11/21

- Excerpt of text messages sent between Foundation personnel, 10/11/21

i'm just worried about the kid, you know? i think the mall incident is starting to get to [HIM].

Can you clarify? I can try and move my schedule around to get [HIM] in sooner, but a lot of that is simply out of my hands.

no no you're fine.

i just… can't help [HIM] with much. [HE] keeps flying off the shits in a number of ways. getting angry over certain lines in the conprocs, or beating [HIMSELF] up for missing a small detail that no one would have been able to pick up on.

last night, we talked about the keter reclassification proposal for 668, how to present that. [HE] froze in the middle of talking and started scanning the room real quick like [HE] had lost it. i asked if [HE] was okay and

[HIS] eyes were bugged the fuck out. asked if i was "in on it". "what the fuck am i in on, [RIVENCLARK]?" i asked. [HE] didn't respond. just broke down crying, apologizing.

You said [HE] has been more on-edge ever since meeting with 343, right? I can't figure out the connection without speaking to [HIM] personally, and [HE] doesn't seem to want to tell you. But I would recommend for [HIM] to take a break from [HIS] visits with 343.

that's what i said! [HE] just shakes [HIS] head, goes "it's fine, it's fine". [HE] wants to see it one more time.

Are you going to allow [HIM]?

i can't force [HIM] not to. but i told [HIM] to make it the last time.

You're [HIS] supervisor, though. You have at least some authority on the matter.

i do, but. look. there's only so much you can do for someone else. at some point, they have to step up for the rest. all i can do is tell [HIM] he's not alone in feeling fucked. [HE] is in a real fragile spot right now. what else can i fucking do?

i fucking know [HE] is pushing [HIMSELF]. but [HE] sounds like [HE] is trying. i told [HIM] everything i can tell [HIM]. it'd be real nice if you could get [HIM] an earlier appointment. i just hope [HE] knows what [HE] is doing.

+ Journal entry 10/17/21

- Journal entry 10/17/21

Scan of Journal entry 10/17/21. Hover to enlarge.

They denied the Keter reclassification.

Stupid fucks.

+ Interview Log 343-ο-BYGK

- Interview Log 343-ο-BYGK

Interviewed: SCP-343
Interviewer: [Rivenclark]
Date: 10/18/21
Foreword: Standard therapeutic interview with SCP-343 as conducted on a per-needed basis by Foundation employees.
<Begin Log, [24:62]>[Rivenclark]: Thank you.[Rivenclark]: Sure.[Rivenclark]: Okay.
Silence for 20 minutes and 6 seconds, after which [Rivenclark] takes a step towards SCP-343. After ten seconds, [he] steps back.
[Rivenclark]: I still regret asking my supervisor to join Command that day. That's all.
Silence for 5 minutes.
[Rivenclark]: I don't care for you. I guess talking to you helps, but I just get angrier and angrier thinking of you. I… don't know. What do I call that feeling? All I can tell is that nothing you do or say with me helps. Whether you antagonize me, lead me around with riddles, claim you said something when you really said the opposite, act as my therapist, apologize… it feels the same. You can tell me you feel this way, or that way, but you sound as conceited and above it all as any other normal human, Mr. "God".
[Rivenclark] takes a step towards SCP-343.
[Rivenclark]: Give me a name to call you by.[Rivenclark]: Panagiotis. Haha. You hack.
[Rivenclark] turns around to kick the wall with [his] foot.
[Rivenclark]: Are you messing with me on purpose? Don't answer that one. I know the truth is more rotten than I'd like.
[Rivenclark] steps towards SCP-343 again.
[Rivenclark]: Or maybe I'm just imagining the truth. You can't be God. Who cares what you can do, you're as human as any of us.
[Rivenclark] steps back and sits down in [his] chair.
[Rivenclark]: Sorry. I'm just paranoid. You're not helping it. But I'm not doing myself any favors.
Silence for 40 seconds.
[Rivenclark]: I'll see you next time.

+ Journal entry 10/28/21

- Journal entry 10/28/21

Scan of Journal entry 10/28/21. Hover to enlarge.

I can't get it out of my mind. I swear I hear it laughing at me.
Why do I feel like I can understand how infuriated that awful fucker was at everything? Why is that intent getting to me? I just need to breathe.
[Various drawings can be found throughout the next four pages. Drawings consist of various Foundation imagery, stars, halos, eyes, logos of various beer companies, musical notation, the human brain, a knife, various geometric figures, and SCP-061.]
What am I doing?
Took another walk. I swear I heard it everywhere. But maybe I'm thinking too much. One more time. I'm gonna lay into it next time. Then forget about it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck it.
Whoever is watching those security cameras or seeing me in the hall each night probably finds it weird that I take all these walks. Multiple a night. Whatever. I only just noticed tonight, though. My walks always take me by the Storage Facility.
████ told me a joke when he took me under his wing.
"You know what the difference between a marksman and a Foundation agent is?" I shook my head.
"A marksman kisses God's ass when they miss their bullet. A Foundation agent kisses the bullet's ass when they miss God."
He laughed, the same way you hear about from the tall tales. Then he started to look serious for a moment. Almost mad at himself for telling it.
"Make sure you never do either. No matter what."
I wonder if he ever felt like he was going to lose control, before.

+ A memo from one Site director to the other, 11/12/21

- A memo from one Site director to the other, 11/12/21

From:
[Light]

To:
[Moose]

Subject:
SCP-343 Transfer Finalization

Greetings,
SCP-343 should be approved for transfer to Site-19 on a temporary basis. Thank you for arranging to have it stay in Containment Cell X7LK-017 as well; I know there isn't much available space, I owe you one. Given its anomalous capabilities, there should be little issue for it to arrive fairly quickly. If you're able to, please have someone interview it to see why it was insistent on transferring there. Neither I nor anyone else that interviewed it seemed to be able to get a solid answer.
Yours truly,
[Light]

Site-17 Director
Secure, Contain, Protect

+ Text message sent between Foundation personnel, 11/13/21

- Text message sent between Foundation personnel, 11/13/21

[He] has been curled up in the fetal position all day, [Glass].

+ Journal entry 11/15/21

- Journal entry 11/15/21

text

What the fuck happened to my journal entries?
Fuck you.
████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ███ ████ ██U FUCK YOU FUCK YOU

FUCK YOU

+ Interview Log 343-ο-BYHM

- Interview Log 343-ο-BYHM

Interviewed: SCP-343
Interviewer: [Self.]
Date: 11/20/21
Foreword: Standard therapeutic interview with SCP-343 as conducted on a per-needed basis by Foundation employees.
<Begin Log, [77:70]>
[Self.]: See? I'm here for you now. You're here for me now. Why? Why did you come here? I didn't need you to follow me around. Is "The Lord Almighty" a stalker, too?
SCP-343 shakes its head.[Self.] bangs [my] head on the table, letting out a pained laugh.
[Ego.]: For someone who claims not to know everything, you sure know a lot about me! Well, fine! Okay. You won. You did it. Alright. You got me. I sure want to talk to you.
[Ego.] lifts [my] head up from the table, looking past SCP-343.
[Ego.]: Is it wrong to feel threatened by you? Targeted by you? Sure. I know it's irrational. That doesn't make it not real, though. The feeling needs to come from somewhere, right? So tell me, where is it coming from? Inside the house? Don't you know? You should know everything about me, right? I know you do. You know I know you do. I know you know I know you do. Fucking shit bastard.
[Proprium.] drags [my] body out of the chair, staring into SCP-343's eyes.
[Proprium.]: Everything has to come from somewhere. You don't get something out of nothing. Sure, this rage may have always been in me. But you lit that fucker up. Just, just tell me, okay? Can you tell me what you really meant all those days ago?[Proprium.]: About my name. About truth. About [Data expunged.].[Silence for fifteen seconds.][Silence for ten seconds.][I.] storms out of the cell.

+ Text message sent between Foundation personnel, 11/20/21

- Text message sent between Foundation personnel, 11/20/21

[Self.] seems to be a lot better. the work [Self.] is putting in with finalizing 668's shit is crazy, but awesome. i don't like it. that smile [I.] was wearing the whole day creeped me the fuck out. it wasn't a big smile. but it's not a smile you wear when you're doing okay.

+ A memo from one Site director to a doctor, 12/03/21

- A memo from one Site director to a doctor, 12/03/21

From:
[Moose]

To:
[Glass]

Subject:
RE: Schedule Changes

Hello,
After coordinating several schedules across the site, I managed to allow an entire day for you to meet with [me.] on December 15th, 2021. It wasn't easy, but I got it for you.
Additionally, I cannot give you more information on SCP-343's transfer to Site-19 as of now, but I will work to get you clearance on that and its interview transcripts with Foundation personnel before December 15th. Sorry for the inconvenience.
From,
[Moose]

Site-19 Director
Secure, Contain, Protect

+ Excerpt of text messages sent between Foundation personnel, 12/09/21

- Excerpt of text messages sent between Foundation personnel, 12/09/21

It's good to hear that. I'm more amazed that [.] containment procedures seem to be so thorough. Did [.] really only come up with most of this in 20 days? What do you make of it?

as [.] supervisor, [.] employee, or [.] friend?

Whichever perspective you want to come at it from.

what i make of it is that i need to give [.] a fucking vacation immediately. when [.] handed me the documents, [.] looked dull in [.] eyes. i'm checking on [.] first thing tomorrow, before i even brush my teeth.

+ Journal entry 12/09/21

- Journal entry 12/09/21

text

"Everyone carries their own burden," then?
I hope it knows what a burden it'll help lift from me.

I know it knows what I'm going to do.

+

- Incident Log 668-K

On December 9th, 2021, at approximately wh:y?, Site-19's High Value Item Storage Facility was accessed by an unidentifiable person. Locker PR-N's safe-deposit box was accessed at wh:o?, where SCP-668 was taken. The unknown person then proceeded to exit Site-19's High Value Item Storage Facility, and headed towards Wing 3's living quarters at car:es?. SCP-668 was then alerted as missing by Site-19's security systems, but it will be returned shortly after it finishes using and being used, thank you very much.

+ Interview Log 343-ο-BYIG

- Interview Log 343-ο-BYIG

Interviewed: SCP-343
Interviewer: []
Date: 12/09/21
Foreword: Standard therapeutic interaction with SCP-343 as conducted on a per-needed basis by Foundation employees.
<Begin Log, [∅∅:∅∅]>
[]: You're in my room.
SCP-343 sits on []'s bed, smiling.
[]: You know what'll happen.
SCP-343 continues to smile.
[]: And I know this won't fix the problem.
[] walks towards SCP-343. SCP-343 continues to smile.
[]: But I'm not okay with being intruded on. I'm not okay with control being wrested from me by some shitty force that enjoys it.
[] climbs on top of SCP-343, proceeding to enjoy every last second of taking this anger out on you. Upon finishing with SCP-343, [] stands up, breathing heavily.
[]: Human. Just like anyone else. [] was right. It's not enough.
[] drops SCP-343's eyes to the ground, looking up at and staring past the security camera trained on []. [] continues to stare with murderous intent, before turning and leaving the quarters with the knife in hand.


"Chaos Insurgency is a stupid name,"
Dr. Marion commented as he typed away with abandon upon his keyboard, the discordant noise being something familiar within the room that the inhabitants were used to.
The bomb spec that had previously been fidgeting with a Rubik's cube looked down from his seat upon the desk that Marion currently worked on, "That's why everyone just calls it The Insurgency, dear. We can't exactly just ask Alpha Command to change the whole organization's name because certain people think it's 'edgy'," Matthew reasoned.
"Well, Alpha Command can go suck a d-,"
Matthew had zoned out, knowing full well how Marion got when writing documentation. Marion was an outside guy, and it was apparent with how he looked much more fit than Matthew. Matthew figured that the reason he was let out of prison was that Marion wouldn't go without him. So what do you do with the guy you don't want? Slap some C4 on his chest and call him an explosive expert. Jokes on them, Matthew was a damn good defuser that knows his way around a bundled-up bunch of wires.
"…And then they say that the Operation is changing? We have spent most of our resources on the containment, study, and execution of anomalies but they want us to switch gears so suddenly? Fucking ridiculous," Dr. Marion spoke, his voice finally piercing Matthew's daydream.
Matthew looked down at Marion with alarm, "What? Change the Operation…the guys never said anything about that."
…silence…
"…I thought you weren't listening…"
Matthew slid in front of Marion as he still sat upon the desk, pushing the keyboard aside as he was now in front of the computer, "Tell me what's up," he spoke quickly.
Marion quickly recoiled his hands, staring up at Matthew with a withering gaze, "It's supposed to be classified for now Matt. You know how Command is. Just go back to your cube there and let me work," he brought a hand to swiff his ear-length blonde hair to one side.
"Oh c'mon, I'll take the fall if you get in trouble. What's the Operation change all about?" He leaned forward, the black gas mask tightly clasped to Matthew's face so close to Marion's awkward-looking visage that he could see the wild green eyes through those tinted lenses.
Marion bit his lip and glanced away, narrowed eyes calculating how he should weigh the situation. Should he hold his ground and risk failing Matthew's trust or give in and risk a severe information breach? "Okay…but you don't utter a single word to anyone, got it?" He spoke sharply as Matthew nodded eagerly.
Marion stood up and grabbed Matthew's hips, lifting him up and placing him down upon the seat that the doctor originally was on. Matthew was always surprised at how strong Marion was, but supposed someone had to pull the weight of the relationship.
Marion began slowly pacing as he began to speak, "Okay. So…technically the whole Operation isn't changing. We have done well enough, actually probably the whole point in our shift is with how good we've been doing." He stops before looking directly at Matthew's mask, "The Operation has been overachieving so they want to take some people from here and develop a new Operation."
"What are they calling the new Operation? What does it do?"
Marion shrugged, "They called it Operation Liquidation. The head of the meeting didn't describe what the Operation does but I suspect they will reveal it all soon enough."
Matthew crossed his arms and leaned his head back, "Sounds shady. Whenever Alpha Command gets ideas you know it can be either great or horrible." He lifted his mask slightly just to scratch at chin a bit, "Who's being pulled off this Operation onto the new one?"
Marion went over to his old coffee machine, a busted-up thing that only even accepted K-cups. He quietly answered as he fiddled with the screen, "Haven't decided as of yet from what I gathered. Honestly Matthew, they just sat down some of the higher-ups and said that there would be a new Operation and we're taking people off of this one due to the apparent success that we are having."
The two went into silence for a while, the air only being broken by the occasional noise of the coffee machine being shaken before eventually Marion gave the machine a swift punch causing it to sputter back into function. Matthew slowly circled within the chair before taking a glance at the computer his partner had been previously working on. The background had a picture of Matthew sleeping at a guard post outside, leaning against a tree that was a favorite by many personnel for the shade. The picture had been taken when a large amount of water was nearing his face, a bucket off-screen having been launched at Matthew.
He perused around all the apps before deciding to open up a tab, wanting to take a peek at what Marion has been up to. He decided he would check his email first, typing in the address before being introduced to a login page. He took a glance over to his oblivious darling who had the mini-fridge open and was taking out materials to make sandwiches for the both of them, the bomb spec realizing now that he forgot to eat again. He shrugged before focusing back onto the screen, placing in the login and inspecting a recent email that had come up…..ten minutes ago?!

One (1) new message!

Re:Operation

From: ten.IC|4ahplA#ten.IC|4ahplA
To: ten.IC|43ateB#ten.IC|43ateB
Subject: Operation Liquidation
Dr. Marion, due to your success in your current position, Alpha Command has decided for your immediate transfer to the recently discussed Operation Liquidation. You will be provided a packet detailing your transfer and the responsibilities of Operation Liquidation. To put it briefly as a summary of your goal within this new Operation:
Long has the threat of The Foundation been a thorn in our side, a plague to humanity as they grip onto creatures that hold little value to humanity. They defend with ballistics and thaumaturgy, desperately clinging on to simple procedures that they think can save their sorry souls. The leading force of these defenses? Mobile Task Forces. The goal of Operation Liquidation is not the removal of anomalies like many assumed, but rather the quick and simple extermination of MTF units. This Operation will be a small force consisting of highly mobile and destructive measures. You are meant to disrupt the working of the task force but most ideally, remove them from the equation.
After receiving your information packet, report to the briefing room to meet your fellow operatives within two hours. Due to the conditions of your conscription, we have allowed EOD Specialist Matthew to join you within this Operation. If we are made aware that this is getting in the way of orders, discipline will be harsh.
We expect the best of you Dr. Marion. Do not disappoint us.

"What are you doing?" Marion grabbed the back of the chair that Matthew settled within before pulling him back so he could step in front of the screen and hunch over to inspect the message. Matthew stayed silent as he peered over and noticed the sandwiches were made, laying upon the table and ready to be eaten.
Marion sighed, going to his full height and looking toward Matthew, "I swear to God Matt, you can't be re-" He paused as he stared at his boyfriend, Matthew having his mask lifted enough to show his mouth, busily munching on the sandwich.
"Sowry!" The muffled voice spoke out from Matthew as Marion couldn't help but facepalm, logging out of his email.
He went to kneel in front of Matthew, "Look…you…I figure you're worried. I'm gonna make sure you get through this alri-"
"I'm nof-", Matthew paused before swallowing, "I'm not worried, Marion."
Marion frowned, "Matt, darling, we're dealing with MTF, the best of the best. You are inexperienced…you…how are you not worried about this?!"
Matthew shrugged, "Because I have you."
A long moment of silence filled the room as Marion just stared at the other with one-half confusion and the other half almost impressed. The frown that originally plagued his face just faded, a long sigh being released from him before he stood up and pulled the other into a hug. Matthew squeaked and nearly dropped his sandwich, saving it at the last moment as he got squeezed.
"Okay, I'm worried. Is that better?" Marion corrected himself, "…Also that was incredibly cheesy."
Matthew gave a small chuckle before finally returning the hug, "Oh come on…what's there to worry about?"
Marion sighed, "You're right, look let's just wait until the courier arrives with the packet, then we can talk about this later. Uh….what we're we talking about before?"
Matthew rose an eyebrow before removing himself from the hug, "About how the Chaos Insurgency is a stupid name?"
"Right, who the hell willingly puts Chaos in their name?"

Briefing >>


Since SCP-6369 has entered containment, Foundation personnel have found it consistently useful in day-to-day life. The risk of adverse situations or incidents will always remain a possibility with anomalies that are allowed substantially less restrictive containment measures than is usual (particularly when operating in and around Sites). Yet as time goes on, the usefulness of 6369, coupled with a complete lack of hostility in every capacity, has endeared itself to many. Site Directors have been inundated with emails concerning 6369, as well as how it functions.
At the request of several Foundation employees and with the cooperation of the Department of Internal Medias, filming of SCP-6369 and its activities in assisting Foundation personnel will be undertaken! When filming commences, the Department will edit it together into a montage for employees to access as needed, in order to allow a complete view into how SCP-6369 operates and boost morale. If you wish to be filmed as 6369 assists you in locating lost objects, please specify in your request to your Site Director. Please note while submitting your request that in order to make filming substantially easier, as well as assist 6369 if needed, filming will be done via specialized cameras attached to SCP-131. If you have any further questions concerning filming, please direct them towards Department Head Alexsander Leigh. I look forward to seeing what comes as a result of this, and hope you all enjoy as well!
~ Sophia Light, Site-17 Director

Video Transcript Project 6369-131-A:
Personnel: Researcher Rose Labelle
Site: 19
SCP-6369-A Instances: Two Chinchilla Berkshire rats, SCP-6369-A-L1 & L2, Roborock S5 Max.
00:00: SCP-6369-A-L1 "knocks" on Researcher Rose Labelle's office door. 6369-A-L2 is positioned on top of SCP-131-A.
Rose Labelle: Ash, can you get that! I'm pretty sure it's the good rats!
00:06: 6369-A & 131 remain stationary.
Rose: Ash?
00:09: 6369-A & 131 continue to remain stationary.
Rose: I'm really busy right now, so it'd be — oh fuck me, why didn't you say you went to the bathroom.
00:20: Sighing is audible as footsteps approach the door, before Researcher Labelle opens it, smiling at 6369-A-L1. Her gaze moves towards 131-A, appearing to be briefly startled while still maintaining her smile.
Rose: Hey! So that's what the pods look like in-person then. Do what you need to. I left some ham for you all by the fax machine whenever you find my earring. I'm super busy with work, so I can't help, sorry.
00:38: Rose moves to sit back down at her desk to work. 6369-A-L1 directs the vacuum towards a row of filing cabinets as 131 follow behind. 6369-A-L1 points at an object, which reflects light back, at the top of the highest cabinet. The camera tilts up and zooms in on the object as 6369-A-L1 & 6369-A-L2 communicate with each other.
01:49: After finishing, 6369-A-L2 hops onto the ground. 6369-A-L1 turns to 131-A, moving its arms & pointing at various cabinets, 6369-A-L2, & both 131-A & 131-B. 131-A & 131-B quietly babble to each other, before the camera shakes up & down.
02:30: 131-A moves, lining behind 131-B as both reorient their angle. The cameras affixed to 131 are angled to each other such that they form a stable ramp.
02:39: Movement is heard on top of 131-A, with both instances of 6369-A entering view shortly afterwards. 6369-A-L1 runs ahead of 6369-A-L2, leaping off of 131-B's camera into the air. 6369-A-L1 quickly follows, successfully landing on top of 6369-A-L1, before bouncing off of it onto the filing cabinets.
02:46: Both instances of 6369-A repeatedly squeak, with 131-A babbling & bouncing up & down. The cameras remain fixed on 6369-A-L2 as it starts to climb up the remaining cabinets to the highest point.
Rose: Everything good there, you guys?
Jeffery Ash: Yup, all good Rose!
Rose: Ash. Jesus Christ. You need to let me know when you're taking a break. I'm juggling a number of different things at once, and I would love all the help I can get with that.
03:30: 6369-A-L2 arranges a number of folders & handbooks to climb on top of, before jumping & successfully catching onto the edge of the top cabinet. 131-B mewls.
Jeffery: Is it that bad?
Rose: Well, Conwell wants me to look into another lead on Anderson, I still have to do the baseline minimum each day to maintain the Andronika anomaly, and someone thought it would be real funny to flood my emails with more bullshit about me. What's on your plate?
Jeffery: For some reason, I got an email forwarded to me about doing additional tests on 3967 by one of the personnel on its project. So I'm making sure that's all above-board.
Rose: Weird. Well, at least take on the Andronkia thing. These emails are endless. Did you guys find it?
04:11: 6369-A simultaneously squeak. 131-A's camera zooms in on 6369-A-L2 as it starts climbing into a small container.
Jeffery: What am I finding?
Rose: Not you, the good rats. Remember? I had to do a favor for Aktus so he could get me a single day to be able to use 6369. I need that asymmetrical earring for the upcoming —
04:30: SCP-6369 rings. Rose answers the phone, immediately setting it back down as it plays to continue on work.
Rose: Thank you! You can take the ham. Ash, can you tell me where the rat with the earring is?
Jeffery: It's on top of that huge-ass cabinet, why?
04:39: Rose freezes for a second, turning around to look up at 6369-A-L2.
Rose: What? Why is it up there? Wait, isn't that the storage box you were using to clean out the office a few weeks ago?
Jeffery: Ohhh, yeah. Now I remember! I saw an earring on the ground, but it didn't match the other one you had, so I thought it was one of the assistants that had came in around that time. So I just put it in the box while —
Rose: You… you…

Video Transcript Project 6369-131-C:
Personnel: SCP-4966
Site: 17
SCP-6369-A Instances: One agouti-colored hooded rat, SCP-6369-A-E5, Roomba 694.
00:00: SCP-131-A's camera turns on, inside SCP-4966's containment cell. Dr. Randall Bannock is present, sitting on a beanbag chair while conversing with 4966. While SCP-131-B follows around SCP-6369-A-E5 in the search, 131-A remains stationary, filming the entire chamber.
Randall Bannock: — can turn it on, now. Just not when you guys enter or leave the containment chamber. Be as thorough as you like. Now, how in the world did you lose it, SCP-4966?Randall: Why did you not eat it right away, though?Randall: What?Randall: Oh, yes, the test with ████. Chef Elpida's specially-baked biscuit. It was fresh, did you not want it right away?Randall: The other mun — Okay, so where is your special spot?01:06: Dr. Bannock rubs his forehead, sighing slowly & quietly.Randall: After they're done looking.Randall: Will you hide it again?Randall: Do you promise, SCP-4966?
01:15: SCP-6369 rings. Dr. Bannock answers it, holding it up to his ear, as 6369-A-E5 brings the biscuit to 4966 on its back.Randall: There it is. As we talked about earlier, now you must pay SCP-6369.Randall: You can't expect others to do work for free, right? They need… their munchies as well.
01:31: 4966 shifts around for two seconds before moving to the spot 6369-A-E5 retrieved the biscuit from, at the base of a climbing tower. With minor struggling, it frees numerous additional pieces of food from the location, including several cracked walnuts, pushing it towards 6369-A-E5.
Randall: Hold on, wait, that's so many munchies, how —
02:01: 4966 moves in front of 131-A's camera, looking at 131-A.

Video Transcript Project 6369-131-J:
Personnel: Researcher Dean Harle
Site: 19
SCP-6369-A Instances: Three male grey Dumbo rats, SCP-6369-A-D1 through D3, Roomba 675.
00:04: SCP-6369-A "knock" on the office door of Dr. Dennis Harle1. SCP-131-A moves around behind the vacuum as the door opens.
00:14: Dr. Harle opens the door, looking down at 6369-A & 131. He smiles, gesturing them to come inside.
Dennis Harle: Hello, hello. Feel free to take your time. Just, ah, try not to bother Dean too much if you can help it. He has a lot of documentation to fix up.
00:19: 6369-A-D1 nods to the other two rats, who hop off the vacuum & begin scurrying around the room. 131-A begins to follow them as 131-B follows 6369-A-D1. As they move forward into the room, 131-B stops briefly to look up at Researcher Dean Harle, who is watching 6369-A-D2 & 6369-A-D3 quizzically. After three seconds, Researcher Harle notices 131-B & scowls.
Dean Harle: What? Don't you have something else to do, you one-eyed freak?
00:44: 131-B sustains a high-pitched noise for approximately one second. Researcher Harle's right eye twitches as 131-B turns the camera to follow 6369-A-D1.
00:49: 6369-A-D2 climbs up a trashcan underneath Dr. Harle's desk as 6369-A-D3 jumps onto the desk's drawer handles to navigate up & into the drawers. 6369-A-D2 reaches the top of the trashcan, where it then accidentally falls in.
Dennis: So, Dean, you never told me what you lost.
Dean: Does that matter.
Dennis: Don't tell me… you're not camera-shy, are you?
Dean: Fuck off. Don't you have that earlier revision for that milk skip I keep asking about? I need to compare shit.
Dennis: What milk skip?
Dean: Hey now…
01:28: 6369-A-D1 navigates the vacuum towards Researcher Harle's desk, stopping it & looking into 131-B's camera, squeaking. 131-B reorients itself & points the camera towards the top of Researcher Harle's desk, cutting the head off from view. The camera bobs slightly, indicating 6369-A-D1 moving on it.
Dennis: What milk skip, Dean?
Dean: …4739, you bastard.
Dennis: See, all you need to do is be specific. We have a lot of anomalies after all.
Dean: Just because you're my senior doesn't mean…
01:36: Dr. Harle chuckles, handing Researcher Harle a document from off-camera. Researcher Harle can be heard scowling as he takes the document as 6369-A-D1 is seen in the air, having jumped off the camera. Researcher Harle looks to the side & sticks his hand out to grab it. 131-B faces Researcher Harle, emitting constant distressed babbling.
Dean: Look at you! Cute little thing, huh. How do you rats even manage to find stuff? You anomalously good at that, too, or are rats just suited for that?
Dennis: Alright Dean, let them do their job now. You still have plenty of work to catch up on before we have orientation.
01:49: SCP-6369 rings, to the surprise of Researcher Harle & Dr. Harle. Researcher Harle answers it on speaker.01:56: 6369-A-D2 & 6369-A-D3 scurry over to Researcher Harle's chair, carrying over two halves of a novelty eraser in the form of a dancing frog. Researcher Harle's eyes go wide.
Dean: Oh fuck, it broke!? Fuck! How?
Dennis: Dean… cute eraser.
02:11: Researcher Harle stammers, looking between the 6369-A instances, 131-A & 131-B, & Dr. Harle. 131-B ceases babbling. After a few seconds, he slowly puts down 6369-A-D1 onto the floor & picks up the halves of the eraser. He then proceeds to grab $5 out of his pocket, throwing it on the floor.
Dean: W-Whatever. Dumb rats.

Video Transcript Project 6369-131-M:
Personnel: Dr. Ali Mustafa Kamelov
Site: 437
SCP-6369-A Instances: One Dalmatian rat, SCP-6369-A-X8, Neato Botvac D7.
00:00: SCP-6369-A-X8 & SCP-131 open the slightly-ajar door to Dr. Ali Mustafa Kamelov's office & head inside. Almost immediately, heavy amounts of smoke from burning cigarettes are visibly present within the room. 6369-A-X8 covers its nose as the vacuum continues forward. 131-A makes a distressed noise. 131-B mutters incomprehensibly in a low tone, to which 131-A responds with soft rumbling.
00:19: 6369-A-X8 & 131 arrive at Dr. Kamelov's desk. 6369-A-X8 hops off the vacuum & scampers to behind it, before immediately squealing & running back. 131-A goes to investigate.
00:31: Dr. Kamelov's body is found face-down on the floor, with no decomposition present.2
00:34: 131-A babbles erratically in distress. 131-B arrives and gently rubs its body against 131-A. 131-A appears to calm down somewhat. 131-B continues to rub 131-A, keeping its camera focused on 6369-A-X8 while it is within view.
00:49: 6369-A-X8 runs around the room to search, moving at a frantic pace, occasionally moving out of view from 131-B's camera as it navigates.
06:59: 6369-A-X8 climbs on top of a lamp table near the office door, where it briefly pauses in front of a disturbed tissue box. After moving it, it locates a rat hole, which it climbs into.
07:14: SCP-6369 rings.
07:41: 6369-A-X8 exits the rat hole, carrying a Cuban cigar out from it. After 70 seconds of struggle, it makes its way to the body of Dr. Kamelov, where it places the cigar next to his still-open mouth.
08:57: A container simply labeled "PREMIUN [sic] TILSIT" falls from the top of a bookshelf behind Dr. Kamelov's desk. 6369-A-X8 & 131 make a startled noise. 6369-A-X8 goes over to the container, opening it & sniffing the contents within.
09:15: 6369-A-X8 pushes the container towards 131, nodding its head & squealing.

Video Transcript Project 6369-131-O:
Personnel: Dr. Yossi Leiner
Site: Area-27
SCP-6369-A Instances: Four black Capped rats, SCP-6369-A-Y6 through Y9, Roborock S6.
00:00: SCP-6369-A & SCP-131 enter Dr. Yossi Leiner's office, the door already open. Dr. Leiner is seen sleeping on his desk.
00:04: 6369-A-Y7 scurries off the vacuum & runs towards a sleep mask with a thumbs-up symbol printed on it, barely poking out from underneath Dr. Leiner's desk.
00:18: SCP-6369 rings. Dr. Leiner does not wake up despite 6369 being located directly next to his left ear.
00:19: 6369-A-Y7 & 6369-A-Y8 carry the mask onto Dr. Leiner's desk by navigating atop multiple packed boxes and stacked books.
00:53: 6369-A-Y7 & 6369-A-Y8 gently drape the sleep mask over Dr. Leiner's eyes without disturbing him from his sleep.
01:11: 6369-A-Y6 & 6369-A-Y9 attempt to drag a large bucket of carrots over to the door. 131-B goes to assist them.

Video Transcript Project 6369-131-X:
Personnel: Director Calvin Bold
Site: Area-137
SCP-6369-A Instances: Two Patchwork hairless rats, SCP-6369-A-BB1 & BB2, Xiaomi Mi Robot Vacuum.
00:07: SCP-6369-A "knock" on the door with the vacuum several times to no response. SCP-131-B makes a quiet low-pitch murmuring sound as it looks back between 6369-A & 131-A.
Calvin Bold: Listen, it isn't an imminent threat as of now, but it would be within a couple of weeks, at best. …And? …Uh huh… …What do you mean the Ethics Committee hasn't reviewed it yet? It should be labeled Top Priority. I sent it in a month ago. Wait, can you give me a bit? Someone's knocking on my door. No, it'll just be fifteen seconds tops to let them in. Thank you.
00:29: The door swings opens within seconds. Director Calvin Bold looks down at 6369-A & 131, appearing agitated. 131-A backs up, moving behind 131-B.
Calvin: Oh, thank goodness. I'm so, so happy you're here. It's a special fountain pen with my initials on it. If you can, please be quick.
00:36: 6369-A & 131 exchange looks with each other before entering the room, to the nervousness of Director Bold. Director Bold closes the door & hurries back to his desk, picking up the phone. 6369-A navigate the office while 131-A follows. 131-B continues to film Director Bold.
Calvin: Sorry about that. Can I at least know why the Ethics Committee has been putting it off? It's, well, you know. A lot of resources we're spending on this skip. And I'm not saying the Veil will be immediately disintegrated if it breaches containment, but… Well…
00:55: 6369-A-BB1 squeaks, drawing the attention of 6369-A-BB2. 6369-A-BB1 moves the vacuum in the direction of a desk with a decorative vase on top of it. Director Bold's portrait hangs behind it.
Calvin: Is there anyone I can speak to? Anyone? You can keep me on hold all night if you need to, but I would really love to speak to anyone on the Committee about this. Please?
01:19: 6369-A-BB2 hops off of the vacuum & runs towards a fountain pen resting behind the desk's back right leg. It struggles with freeing it. After a few seconds, 6369-A-BB1 turns the vacuum off to follow 6369-A-BB2. They both attempt to free the pen.
Calvin: How about Jeremiah then. …What? But isn't his vacation supposed to be in three weeks? Surely there's a mistake.
01:33: 6369-A-BB1 positions itself against the back wall. 6369-A-BB2 climbs on top of 6369-A-BB1, proceeding to jump onto the pen. The force frees it from behind the leg.
01:41: SCP-6369 rings.
Calvin: Fu — no, no, it's nothing. It's SCP-6369. I had lost my lucky pen a few days ago, so I —
01:49: Alarms sound. Everyone in the room looks up at the flashing lights.
modulum.aic: Attention, Area-137 personnel. A containment breach is underway. This Site is under lockdown. Please follow standard Containment Breach Procedures as promptly as possible. This is not a drill. Attention, Area-137 personnel…
Calvin: Oh God… oh no… Hey, Harold, I'll get back to you after this breach. Fuck.
02:19: Director Bold hangs up the phone, his breathing labored as he secures his office. 131-A makes high-pitched distressed noises. 131-B attempts to calm it down by murmuring to it, though the camera visibly shakes.
Calvin: Why is modulum.aic the one to make this announcement as well… goddammit. Is it ████? Fuck. Fuck me. I'm sorry I dragged you four into this. Just, take cover as best as you can, alright? I'll get the pen after this blows over, I-I have a few different types of cheeses to —
02:40: A loud bang is heard on Director Bold's door.
Calvin: No, no, no, no, no no no no no… God… I-I think 131 can fit underneath the couch back there, so you just —
02:50: As 131-A, 131-B, & 6369-A move towards the couch, the door is heard broken through.
Calvin: Fuck! Not again! Uh, um, fuck, "As the wind cries so does the rain, as the sun rises so do the stars, when the sky shines thecloudswillpartandiftheblackmoonhowlsthen" —
03:11: Screaming can be heard. The camera affixed onto 131-B is met with sudden force as it flies off of 131-B & into the wall. The last two seconds before the feed dies shows 131-B moving under the couch with 6369-A & 131-A.
03:16: Static for five seconds.

How much usable footage do we actually have from this? ~ Department Head Alexsander Leigh
We have enough to put together a decent representation of 6369. I'm positive that I can make something that Light will enjoy and be happy to upload to SCiPnet. That said, there's certainly going to be a lot left on the cutting room floor… ~ Lead Editor Kōnane Kalena
That's fine. As long as we can make it work. We should probably have Diana train the Eye Pods in proper filming next time we need them. ~ Alexsander Leigh
I would be more worried about putting them in situations they find stressful. ~ Kōnane Kalena
There was just no way to know for some of these people. I'm going to bill Director Bold for that decommissioned camera. Next time, we'll need to screen the personnel who volunteer to be filmed. ~ Alexsander Leigh
Hard agree. ~ Kōnane Kalena

Footnotes
1. No relation.
2. Analysis of the body from the footage, later confirmed via autopsy, suggests Dr. Kamelov died 12 years prior to recording. How Dr. Kamelov was able to place a call with SCP-6369, & how the Foundation was unaware of his death for 12 years, is under investigation.