Much like our grandparents could tell you what they were doing on 9/11/2001, or what their parents were doing during the Kennedy assassination, our entire generation could tell you with perfect clarity where they were when Laser Butt Disease ended modern civilization.
We had known about LBD for about 30 years, an unusual bacterium that sat in the colon and occasionally discharged low-power laser fire. It made headlines for months, and the late night hosts beat it to death, but there really wasn't much to it. Occasionally you'd buy a new pair of underwear, a handful of fires around the world a year. Once in a blue moon, someone would have a particularly potent variant; a Z-Pack from the doctor would clear that up in a few days.
It was summertime of 2074 that Methicillin-resistant Laser Butt Disease became the scare of the year. Years and years of throwing antibiotics at the problem kickstarted the evolution of it, and it went from a jokey part of the human condition to something far more serious. The wattage increased significantly; what was originally a joke product called "Lord Explosion's Laser Butthole Ointment" became a staple product for most that could afford it. Gramps called it "the new Red Ring of Death," whatever that meant. He thought that old line was hilarious.
It was on April 1st, 2076 at the G11 summit that laser butt terrorists assassinated heads of state for 11 of the world's superpowers, including President Rothschild IV and the robotic brain of Vladimir Lenin. Dirty laser butt disease bombs were dropped and pathogens released into the jet stream. Before civilization collapsed by way of laser butt genocide, a small terroristic art collective claimed responsibility on national television. Home grown, right here in the States. They made a truly insane statement that still echoes in the memories of the survivors.
"We have been cool for long enough. You know what's cooler than being cool? Being on fire."
What was incredible was just how destructive the new strain could be. Stomach cramping was about the only warning you had that you were probably about to have your last few minutes on this earth. The lasers were anywhere from 200KW to 2TW, the latter of which was literally like farting a small hydrogen bomb. Worse was that with the increased wattage, our old friend Isaac Newton came by to visit. People would get literally launched into their ceilings by laser butt disease. The roofers made good money, for a while. Then too many cases came, and too many roofers were afflicted themselves. Gas stations were, one by one, blown up in huge laser butt conflagrations. Oil refineries. Factories all over the world. Data centers with lasers clean through a whole row of racks, the destroyed capacitors catching fire. The science labs, our only hope for stability and a cure, were slowly destroyed and abandoned. Then the prison breakouts started.
There were emergency centers erected at most community pools. You felt the blast coming on, you headed to the pool and aimed your ass to the sky. When it came, you got launched into the pool. It worked well until a bad case showed up and inevitably cracked the bottom of the pool, the force of impact with the water ripping the flesh off their bones.
The government slowly collapsed, trying to run the country from bunkers. Even as they slowly died off in their isolation, there was nobody in a position to carry out their orders on the ground. Some few dedicated cops and soldiers tried to uphold order; most resorted to looting or hiding with their families.
TV stations, one by one, went dark. Only a handful of radio stations stayed around, alternating between music to try and keep spirits up, reporting on eyewitness news, and hawking home remedies. One memorable host went off right in the middle of pitching urine enemas as the cure. "I've been doing it for years and aaarrrghghhhPEWPEW"
I think we all knew the end of the world was a foregone conclusion when animals started exhibiting laser butt disease. The picture of the cow embedded in the Statue of Liberty was our generation's Iwo Jima. It was all ending.
We tried to do our job at the Foundation as well as we could, given the circumstances. We'd lost most of our network infrastructure, and had gone to a paper-only setup for the first time in over 100 years. It was boggling how much paperwork we accumulated. There were files on skips we wouldn't even contain for another five years, just sitting there in the pile. Containment breaches were commonplace, and the business of resecuring the skips became much harder when half your task force "had to go pew pew" on one retrieval mission. We filled 173's storage unit with fast-setting concrete and called it a day. We lost the lizard about 6 months back, nobody knows where the hell he is now. Best case, he's firing butt lasers in hell.
noooononononoPEWPEW
Judging by the klaxons, I'd say something big and mean just got out through a man-shaped hole in the wall. I'll be back.


Does our God love us? He does not love us. But we don't mind.
We are humble, we are unclean, we are unworthy of His love. But He had mercy on us. He lit our path.
He taught us the meaning of the world, and he told us he was the only greatness. He told us that gears and coils began the universe, and mechanical steel is the gospel of all things.
He forgave our filthy forms, and gave us a chance to be reborn from these misplaced parts, to let us pay tribute to Him, to know His holiness and sublime glory.
We have to worship a god of metal with our flesh and blood, like a lamb sacrificed to the wolf. The sheep do not know their lowliness, but we know. We are humble flesh worms, and His salvation is the only path to glory. We are His servants, the ones who spread His Broken speech. He is all, He is the highest order, neither good nor evil, the mechanical operation of the gods, until the end of everything.
So I was baptized in the holy oil, I listened to His gospel, I saw Him dance. We pray that we will become His hands, and that we may complete His greatest work. I knew I would achieve ascension.
Our God is broken. We want to fix Him.
I recalled the teachings of the Book of Movements, I know His heart is placed at the bottom of the Seven Seas; I know that His body was given to unknown heresy; I know His voice is limited to the wild beasts; I know His eyes were abandoned in the mountains; I know his face was sent to His greatest enemy; I know His thoughts are sown into the most humble of livestock.
But I know He will be complete.
When the first gear is set in place, all of this will be set in motion, the quiet rhythm of mechanical fate, our goal achieved. God will reproduce His glory, so that all may humbly tremble and lie prostrate at His feet.
But some people do not understand. They use their own corrupt intent and rotting flesh to prevent the rebirth of God. They do not understand. God's machine is not their machine. God is the life and soul of the machine.
They came, they tried to stop our great initiative, and they do not know their own insignificance. I hate them, but we can only run, and plan for the future. For Him.
But I can not leave. I want to stay. This is our church, this is His church. I am here with Him. I was with Him.
This place must not fall into the hands of those abominable beasts, they must not trample the miracles. So I spread His blood here, the flame will light the holy oil, and bring destruction and ashes. Only the metal will not perish.
I know I'm going to die. I would like to obtain His grace, and die without regrets.
I looked at the reflective metal, knowing it is His misplaced parts. We are all His misplaced parts.
I embraced Him.
Oozing blood, icy cold
Ah ah ah pain
Bone
Sublimation
The flesh discarded
More
Combine
Pierced the bone marrow
I know
Metal teeth
His beauty, his greatness
I am not in pain
I am but a gear
Closed teeth
Not a wound
Purification
I pray
I listen to his songs
Ultimate
Endless
His rage
His glory
Dance
I depart
I have seen the world
His kingdom
Incident Report CotBG-████ [Excerpt]:
Upon arrival of Foundation Agents at the stronghold of the Church of the Broken God, it was discovered that the entire building was on fire. It is suspected that this was intentional, allowing for the withdrawal of the Church members in advance. No contact occurred.
The fire was extinguished without incident, and a lack of valuable documents and survivors was noted. A charred body was discovered in the center hall, and autopsy revealed it as [DATA EXPUNGED] of A████ T█████. His body was found in ██ pieces on a rotating gear, presumably a form of ritual sacrifice.


My name is The Administrator. I don't know who I was before all this… happened? Or changed? Or whichever adjective you want to use, it all means the same thing. History itself has been changed, if that's possible. We tried to go back, edit this whole mess out of history, but it didn't work. Maybe that's how it spread back there, there's no way to be sure. Hell, how could we be sure?
It all started with… him. I don't know what we would call it, although at one point it was a human being. We brought him into Site-19 and classified him with all that pomp. A Keter, if I recall correctly. There was a lot of concern about the research team heading it up, that they weren't ready for the project… I was one of them. But, we were pacified and reassured. They were being supervised, everything was going to be peachy and lovely.
Two weeks after he came into the site, things… changed. It started small at first, like they all do. A small chink in the armor, and then you pick and pick and pick so you end up with a gaping hole. All it takes is one touch to shatter our world, after that. In the end it was the butterfly kid who broke things. Snapped the spine of reality neatly over his knee.
It was a big bang, then a big shush. You'd look out a window, and not a soul was out there. They were out cold, then, and didn't remember a thing about what was out there. Wiped the chalkboard of our world clean, with all of its gambits and strategies. I don't know why I can still see the lines, when nobody else can. Maybe I deserve it?
I can't leave the office anymore. My body… well, it's not what it used to be. I'm a shriveled infantile husk, with deep pits that occasionally bubble up some goo. My ears are twisted and broke off, but I still have my limbs. Crossed over my black, flaking chest, they hold my shoulders together, while my legs have curled into a spiral. I'm held aloft by my coat, with smooth metal and soft green. Sometimes, it lets me crawl, but most days I just wait. The staff run this place now.
When they leave Site-19, some rules of reality return to its vacant halls. The lockers droop and sag, while the tiles slowly crack and disintegrate. Occasionally, Dr. Gears walks through the hallway that faces me with his servant, Iceberg, and the halls suddenly leap back to virility and strength. Their discussion always passes through to another hall, though, and when their voices drift, so does the condition of the site.
Everywhere, corridors corrode and ceilings collapse. But, as these pantheons of reality pass through, they will be swept back into place as had been remembered, by them. Not always the same, but as long as the vague shape of their memory was preserved, it satisfied most tastes. The non-senior staffers, too, were chained to this ruse. As they were remembered, they popped back into existence, busying around the staffers and going to half-recalled research projects.
When they left, few remained to populate the halls. Decrepit and crammed with rot, some sections might lay in utter decay for decades while decadence and disarray destroyed the already disrupted universe. So it went, so it would always be.
Outside, Clef and Kondraki endlessly drove some anomalous car, the road collecting itself in their path, the pavement happy to be seen and given a reason to exist, before sighing and settling back into ashes. It was content, its purpose fulfilled, before it remembered it was not supposed to think and slumped once more into nothingness.
Going further, out in the city. Another wondrous city day. God, how long has it been? How long has the world been broken? I've probably lived more lifetimes than anyone could ever deserve, even for someone who helped the Foundation. But we all help the Foundation. Those lovable scamps.
They took the fear out of people. The shadows have mixed with the light, and created a shifting mix of grey. A universal twilight without beginning or end. It's so much better than before, we can have both without having to think about it.
We still see them, sometimes. When they walk down a street, we the pavement rise to greet them, and the people try to adore them. They love constant praise and attention to keep their worldview intact, and boy do we give it to them in spades!
The lights dim when they leave the towns. Street signs, once saying something like REDACTEDville, now blank out and fade away. People cease their fawning, and return to their daily routines. Maybe their office was now a demolished pile of rubble from the six-eight-two breach back in '76, and their local factory had been bombed in case it was The Factory, but the local business still went on as usual.
Some things were a little different. Without the staff in town, the sky grew a little darker, and the streets cracked a little deeper. Maybe Site-19 didn't always look like the grey building it had once been. Sometimes it might be a castle, or a tower, or a broken down rubble that may have once been a building. But that was daily business for them.
Mothers sent their children to roofless schools, where they learned in rain, snow, or shine, and often all three at once. The bubble of reality around Konny and Clef finally shrunk away for good, and all was right, all was just.
Sometimes… they change me too. I remember things the way they did. I can't remember how they used to be, and I know they can't remember either. It's all a big flaky crust slowly collapsing, as more memories homogenize and are dismembered, then becoming fact. But, we keep it up. So that others may live in an insane, abnormal world.
We secure. We contain. We protect.

« | HUB | »


Personnel File
SCP Info
Collected Accounts
About the Author
Additional Documentation

Science and Research

Name: Doctor Ronald Stimson
Security Clearance: Level 2 (In Cases of SCP-███, Level 5 Access is Permitted)
Location: Site-19
Assignment: SCP-███, Containment and Study
Status: Missing.

Profile: Doctor Stimson's history makes him a target for both the GOC and MC&D. Under no circumstances is he to be assigned to any site in contested territory. Additionally, Doctor Stimson's background makes him largely useful as a consult on areas of interest, including the psychological effects money or wealth have on cognitive decisions and cognitive perceptions of 'worth.'
History: Ronald Stimson completed his PhDs in Neurochemistry and Economics at Cornell University, followed by a brief stint working in criminal intelligence for the French government. He was originally brought "into the know" by GOC operative █████ "Silvermane" █████████. The GOC deemed him unfit for service after his unwillingness to execute a Class-Green reality bender, and Dr. Stimson was slated for mind-wipe and removal. After fleeing the area, Dr. Stimson was located by Marshall, Carter, and Dark, who agreed to help him in exchange for his services.
After learning more about the 'hidden world' behind things, Dr. Stimson quietly made an effort to contact The Foundation, the only group with a similar set of goals to his—the preservation of life. Dr. Stimson managed to defect thanks to Agent ███████, and after thorough screening, was assigned to minor work at Site-32. Following his promotion, Doctor Stimson was given exclusive access to SCP-███.

Note: Doctor Stimson should not be given any chocolate. He is deathly allergic.

Recovered SCPs:

SCP-1134 - Memetic Demons
SCP-1365 - The Reckoning
SCP-694 - From Hell
SCP-1486 - The Mountain of Madness
SCP-1998 - The Broken Arcana
SCP-1857 - The Eternal Fanzine
SCP-1554 - You don't know what's happening.
SCP-H31P - I don't know where I am. Something is wrong.
SCP-1846 - The Signal

Other SCPs of Interest:

SCP-986 - Contributed Images
SCP-435 - Helped with Editing
SCP-113 - Rewritten
SCP-882 - Wrote Original Version
SCP-002 - Contributed Images

Documented Accounts:

The Dregs of Society - A tale about the last remaining members of the GOC in a time after the fall of man.
The Lost Farm - A tale about where the hell am I I don't feel anything who is there in the harvest season of his final year.
Finding Silvermane - Silvermane is at it again, trying to track down Stimson and end his involvement.
The Clerical Error - I don't understand this. What is this? Is this an effect of SCP-███?
You're Not Even Real - This isn't how it's supposed to be. What is this? Why does it feel like this?
Someone Please Help Me - This can't be it. This can't be all of it.
Metaphrasis - Learning a harsh lesson, Stimson is dragged back to MC&D kicking and screaming.

This Information is Classified Level 5
Notes on the Disappearance of Ronald Stimson:

Ronald Stimson vanished sometime the afternoon of 23 October 2011. He was last seen entering his office with SCP-███. Dr. Stimson's current assignment is believed to have triggered an event which removed him from our reality.1
Over time, it has come to the attention of the O5 Council that many of Dr. Stimson's previous assignments have gone missing.2 For some reason, these files have simply gone missing at the root directory.3 Other reports have gone missing as well.
The entire collection of legacy information concerning GOC Operative "Silvermane"4 and the MC&D information which Dr. Stimson recovered for us has also been removed. Currently, we suspect several different aggressors, MC&D and the GOC among them. Currently, though, no information is known.5
Currently, it is believed that Dr. Stimson's consciousness exists in some way6, but the current level of information we have7 is extremely limited.8
Additional operatives are being assigned to determine the full extent of the "unexistance" of Dr. Stimson's information9, but it appears10 that even now, more and more people are forgetting that Dr. Stimson even existed.11
It is theorized that, eventually, even this file will cease to exist and all record of Ronald Stimson will be removed.12

File Closed.

Moving for deletion at -10…

Footnotes
1. That isn't right. That isn't right at all…
2. No. No, I know them. I remember it all. Why doesn't anyone understand? I have all the information.
3. They… They were… deleted.
4. I told you that his name was Daniel Croft
5. You don't understand. They didn't like it. They just… decided that it didn't happen. They didn't like it, and now, it's not there anymore!
6. I'M TRYING TO TELL YOU!
7. I'M RIGHT HERE! RIGHT HERE!
8. I'm a fucking PhD. They told me that I wasn't being scientific… They wouldn't know science if it bit them in the ass…
9. They did something. They downvoted it, then they went in and… I created so much.
10. They said I didn't age well…
11. What?
12. No…


It was always these moments in the car that David hated so much. These last few moments. They drove around so much, him and Tim, getting what work they could get, hiding as often as they needed to, and it was hard for David to pinpoint exactly what part of this life he hated the most. There were so many shitty strip clubs, so many bedbug-ridden hotel rooms. David didn't give a shit about the helping people, not anymore, and he sure as hell didn't give a shit about Tim anymore. The only thing he lived for anymore was the beer. Same as Tim gave a shit about the meals. In a world with literal gods, the little pleasures were the only ones either of them could give a shit about.
"Okay, Dave, are we gonna do this, or what?"
Tim's voice jarred David back to reality. God dammit, how much I wish I could kill him, he thought. Or that anything could kill any of us.
"Yeah. Listen, Tim, I really don't wanna fucking do this, but I feel I need to," David started. "The same way I feel I need to do this every time."
Tim rolled his eyes. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Again with this shit? Worse than my fucking mom." He reached into what would appear to an outsider to be a jacket breast pocket and pulled out what would appear to an outsider to be a Marlboro Special Blend. "Every goddamn time. 'Tim, we made a deal with 'em.' 'Tim, they said no, let's get out of here.' 'Tim, stop cutting her.' Every goddamn time." Tim held his hand as though there were a lighter in it and flicked his thumb down; a flame emerged and lit the cigarette. "Don't even know why you fuckin' care. Never heard of a halfassed demigod before. If you're so fuckin'…so fuckin' noble, why do you even ask for payment?"
David could not possibly hate Tim more than at these moments, the Confrontation Moments which are specific experiences that serve as distinct subsets of the general experience of the Car Moments. "Yes, Tim, you're right. I am a filthy, disgusting hypocrite, and a nagging bitch, and why do I even bother running the fucking Outland with you, and why shouldn't I just take this piece of shit right up to the doorstep of 19 and let Clef and Bright turn me into dust or feed me to the lizard or stick me on a relativistic treadmill or whatever those psychos will dream up that will make humble hardworking sociopaths such as ourselves look like the rankest of amateurs."
David took a deep breath. "Now, with all of these particulars established, allow me to repeat myself. We are going to have a conversation with the Hochschild family today. This conversation is going to include a request on their part that we grant them a very particular variety of assistance, one which we are uniquely positioned to provide. This conversation will subsequently include each of us explaining the price which this assistance will cost the Hochschild family. I can accept the horrific ethical ramifications of this because of the vagarious nature of free market economics; the family may accept or reject our terms freely, and the choice of what happens is entirely theirs. You can accept them because you wouldn't know a horrific ethical ramification from a fucking Shiba Inu. But it would make me remarkably more comfortable if you would be so kind as to pretend that you do. Just for the next half-hour or so. And, if all goes well, you get a little bit more of the last creature comfort that means anything to you at all, as do I."
Tim had finished his cigarette. "Is that all?"
David sighed and reached for his seat belt. "I hope that's all I need."
Tim opened the car door. "Whatever."
The house was nice enough, David supposed; ranch-style, situated on a few acres of land, well-stocked fishing pond out front, sporadic landscaping throughout the property. Upper-middle class. Not as nice as some of the celestial mansions that you found occasionally near the area of Site 19, the ones the staff occasionally made for themselves or some of the civilians they were smiling on that day. But these houses, this property? It was real. It wasn't some capricious illusion made reality at the hands of a fake "doctor" who won the anomalous magic lottery one day. David could respect that. Tim, as usual, could give a shit less.
In one corner of the lot next to the road, David saw a very specific sort of hole. Just a few feet wide at most. But David could feel the tear in reality, its physical manifestation, went a lot deeper than that. The family had planted some cherry trees around it and called it a day.
David knocked on the back door and smoothed his hair back. Tim finished another illusory cigarette (he thought the smoking looked cool), standing parallel to the door a few feet behind David in what he thought was a classic tough-guy apathetic stance. An older woman came to the door. "Hello? Can I help you?"
"Mrs. Hochschild? I'm David Eskobar. We spoke on the phone? This is my associate, Timothy Hyne. We're here about your daughter?"
Just for the briefest moment, the look of sheer relief and joy that came over the Hochschild matriarch made David flash back to when this job was enjoyable on its own merits. Back when it had all the genuine pleasure of helping people, combined with the little thrill of knowing he was helping to clean up the side effects that the Clefs and Kondrakis back at 19 didn't know they were leaving behind. Mrs. Hochschild stepped back and let David and Tim in.
Mr. Hochschild was unconscious in the living room, half-empty bottle of Bacardi Gold rising and falling along with his chest. The top was screwed back on it, presumably the handiwork of his wife. Presumably not the first time in the last few months. They walked past him to a bedroom near the back of the house. A bizarre, vaguely speech-like sound grew louder as they approached. David knew the basics of what he was about to see.
The girl was ten, maybe eleven years old. Bookish sort, judging from the glasses and the shelves on two walls. The third wall had — goddammit, of course it did — three Foundation posters on the wall. One a manga-artwork version of Kondraki riding the lizard, one a poster from Shenanigans '09, one from the TV show. Tim got the shit-taste look on his face and was about to say something; David gave him a look and Tim just crossed his eyes.
The girl was next to her bed. She turned and walked past the edge of the bed, turned toward the door, and took a step. She said "Mom, I told you, he's just a —" and disappeared. Right as the words began to come out of her mouth, she was gone. She was standing back by her bed, walking to the edge, turning toward the door, speaking, and disappearing.
"She's…" her mother said, "she's been like this for two months now." Mrs. Hochschild broke down in tears.
"It's to be expected, ma'am," David said. "Tim and I, this is a problem we run into pretty commonly. Temporal loop, small scale, affixed to her personally. If we had the exact date and time, I bet it would correlate with a major shift at one of the big Foundation sites."
"Oh, Sarah loved the Foundation stories so much!" Mrs. Hochschild said. "I mean, we all did, of course, we took her to see Senior Staff Shenanigans back a few years ago, we all had such a great time —"
"Oh, fucking enough, goddammit," Tim said. "Suck Strelnikov dick on your own time, when I don't have to hear it."
Mrs. Hochschild gasped. "I would deeply prefer it, sir, if you avoided that sort of filthy language in this household."
David slapped Tim on the chest. "Sorry, whatever," Tim said.
"This is very fixable," David said. "Tim and I, we're, uh, we're actually former employees of the Foundation. We're very familiar with these sorts of things. They happen when Senior Staff conduct large-scale reality shifts. Sort of a blowback, a recoil type of thing. The fabric of reality can only handle so much."
"But…that can't be right," Mrs. Hochschild said. "They're…they're all so smart! So wise! They have God locked in a cell, for goodness' sake! Why would they let this happen?"
"They ain't that bright," Tim snarled. "They…we lucked out, that's it."
"The Senior Staff do what they do for their own sake," David said. "You can't…you can't really feel it, exactly? But there's a, a sort of spell on you. On everyone. It makes you all love them, love what they do, see it as glamorous. It's called a memetic felicification agent, and they're broadcasting it from Site 19. As part of our service, we'll need to inoculate your family against it. It's part of getting your daughter free."
David had made that part up a few years earlier. The family's belief in the Senior Staff's pseudo-divinity had nothing to do with their ability to be wrecked by them. But one of the few things David and Tim could agree on was that anything that took those people down a peg was good for the world. And most of that rationale was bullshit too, just words from the old Foundation that helped to explain the inexplicable.
Stunned, Mrs. Hochschild tried to speak. "Are…are you sure about all this?"
"Quite sure, Mrs. Hochschild," David said. "It's for the best."
"Let's get to those payment negotiations you mentioned, shall we?" Tim said.
"Oh, we have money," Mrs. Hochschild said. "That certainly won't be a problem. We'll pay anything to save our daughter."
Tim's mouth spread in a predator's grin. "That's what we're very much hoping."
"Ah…about payment," David said. "We don't actually accept cash. No real use for it for our types. There are only a few things that we can't make for ourselves. Certain…well, let's just say we need volunteers."
"Well, technically —" Tim began.
"We need volunteers to, erm, source our materials in an ethical fashion. A process that some of us —" David glared at Tim at that " — consider important."
"I…I'm very confused, I'm afraid. What is it exactly you want?"
"Well, I actually happen to be something of an amateur brewer," David said. "Beer fan. I try to find what I can, experiment with new stuff."
"We don't have anything like that around here," Mrs. Hochschild said. "We're a religious family. Senior Staff has told us that 343 frowns on the consumption of spirits."
Tim snickered. David said, "Oh, you don't have any actual alcohol I'm interested in. I'm more looking for ingredients. Do you have anything consecrated?"
Mrs. Hochschild took a step back. "Eh—excuse me?"
"Relics? Artifacts? Old Bibles, maybe? Any religion will do. They have a certain symbolic power that embeds itself in the beer. Very unique, very subtle. Can't be replicated with anything artificial. It has to be something that others have believed in, put faith in. You can taste it."
"You're…" Mrs. Hochschild took a step back. "You're insane! And you!" she said, pointing at Tim. "What…what horrible thing do you want?"
"Ah, yes," Tim said. "About that."

A few more sprinkles of oregano floated into the pot. "Mmmm," Tim said. "Do you even fucking smell that shit? This is beautiful, man. This is art. How's your thing?"
David took a sip of the wort. "Eh. Not bad." He took another sip. "Wish they'd had something other than just Christian shit. I mean, the Bible was at least, hm," he said, sniffing closely, "at least eighty years old. Just wish I could get something different."
"I feel that. You wanna go someplace overseas? Get some weird shit? Gypsies? Maybe some African shaman shit? I'm up for going global with this." He stirred the stew a bit more, brought the spoon up to his lips. "God damn, man. You sure you don't wanna try this?"
"I'm good, man," he said. "And listen, sorry about the thing before. I can't judge your shit too much, I guess. And at least you gave her the prosthesis this time."
"Aw shit," Tim said. "And the mama still kept bitching. I'm like, 'bitch, we're gonna save your daughter's shit, and you're getting almost all of her back, whaddya want?' and she's all crying and shit. And I was just like "fine, how about one of those metal blade things they give cripples that makes them all fast and shit', and she just nodded and kept crying or whatever, and that's consent, right?"
David shrugged. "Sounded good to me." He turned back and looked at his brewing equipment. "It'll take a couple of weeks to get this properly aged. That ought to take another half hour or so, hard as I'm dilating time around it." David gave it some thought. He looked at Tim.
A broad smile broke over Tim's face. "Aw, shit, man. I can hook you up." He ladled some of the stew into a bowl. "I put some Italian spices in it this time. It's all kinds of special." He slid the bowl over to where David was.
"Is there an occasion I don't know about?"
"Shit, dude. Who knows how many years ago today? Think back, man. This is Der Tag."
David took a sip of the broth and thought back. "Holy shit, this seriously is amazing. Um. February 11th. Lemme th —" David stopped. "Ohhhhh. The day all…all this happened. Bender's Day."
"You're the only one who doesn't think that's a cartoon reference, dude," Tim said, taking another bite of the stew. "Get some of that meat, dude. I think it'll make you smarter. She came off as pretty smart, except for the bullshit Clef fetish."
"Eh. All the kids have that nowadays. Anyway, as much shit as I gotta see out there," David said, "I dunno if I wanna be smarter." He shrugged, looked back at the bowl, and took a bite.

« | HUB | »


The mischievous trickster and master plotter Icarus Sharpe walked in and shot Alto Clef right in his stupid face. He—deciding to be Matthew now—grinned broadly as the blood spattered from the exit wound, spraying over the wall behind Clef. Matthew laughed with glee just before he heard the voice to his left.
“Sucker.”
He turned just in time to see the sneer on Clef's face, and then, the shotgun exploded and took his head off.

The mischievous trickster and master plotter Icarus Sharpe walked in—ignoring the decoy duplicate this time—twisting and firing to the left, putting a set up bullets right up the wall. His eyes went wide as the butt of the shotgun came over his temple, sending him sprawling down.
He looked up, rolling over and staring upward. Clef was on the right this time.
“Sucker.”
The shotgun took his head clean off again.

The mischievous trickster and master plotter Icarus Sharpe kicked the door open, hurling the grenade in and then ducking to the left. The explosion ripped through the office, and the sound of cursing came from inside instantly. Matthew gathered his feet under him, lurching forward and quickly checking the entrance and exit points, ignoring the charred corpse at the desk. Obviously a decoy.
Suddenly, the corpse's hand popped up, putting a bullet into his knee. A moment later, the corpse fell to the side, and Clef stood up, aiming the shotgun.
Matthew sighed. “God damni—“ The shotgun. His head. Simple math now, really.

Sharpe got the machine gun ready. He pulled the pin out of the grenade, kicking the door open, then throwing it in. The explosion hit, followed by the cursing. He nodded. It felt like it was coming together, finally.
He spun into the room, spraying the bullets everywhere, peppering the walls, desk, charred corpse, filing cabinet—fucking filing cabinet—and the large, stained glass window.
Stained glass window?
He looked more carefully into the room. This… This wasn't Clef's office. This wasn't Clef's office at all.
“Sucker,” said the voice.
He turned, managing to raise his hand and half-extend his middle finger before the shotgun went off.

He made sure that it was the right office, verifying it a half dozen ways. He placed the explosives carefully, then headed back down the hall. He quietly slipped into the side room, then moved into the air ducts, working his way up into them.
Once he got to the vent directly down the hall from Clef's office, he pulled his rifle into position, then pressed the button, detonating the explosives.
A few minutes later, Clef stumbled from his office, hacking loudly. He looked like his arm was bleeding. Sharpe zeroed in on his head, then pulled the trigger.
Clef's head exploded. Matthew grinned broadly.
There. There we go. This one.
He ran it three or four more times. Each time, success. He felt… giddy.

The mischievous trickster and master plotter Icarus Sharpe slipped into the world, putting on Matthew's face and setting the explosives, walking down the hall and into the side room. Matthew shuffled into position, then got his rifle shouldered. He took a deep breath, then pressed the button.
Matthew was taken in a ball of fire as the explosives detonated right below him, burning his flesh and hurling him through the top of the duct.
He flew up through the next floor, then crashed into the ceiling, at which point, he started falling again. He fell through the hole, down the next two floors, through the space where the duct had been, and onto a conveyor belt.
The belt started as he leaned up, looking around in time for the separator bar to clock him in the head, knocking him backwards and laying him out just as the boiling hot oil managed to scorch his back, bringing a scream to his lips that was quickly quelled as the chocolate sauce poured over him. A moment later, the sprinkles were scattered over his body. Then the quick blast of hot air to dry it.
He winced and groaned as the conveyor came to a stop. He leaned up, rolling off of it and looking around as the click of hundreds of guns suddenly echoed through the room.
“That was fucking stupid, man,” said Clef, walking through the assembled security staff of Site19. “Did you really think the doughnut dispensary was the best way to enter the site undetected?”
His last thought, before the tragically non-bullet proof frosting and sprinkles was riddled with lead, was to wonder exactly how Clef had managed to plant the explosives immediately under him. How he managed to set up that explosion. The doughnut machine. All these people here.
How. How in God's name?
But before the irony could hit him, the bullets did, and he was dead.

« | HUB | »


Agent Whitaker woke up, groaning. He felt like he had one hell of a hangover; there was a noise in his head that sounded like that annoying National Weather Service "braaaaaak" noise, and his face felt… oily. He blinked, and suddenly realized that he was standing up in the middle of a street, and not lying down in bed. What the hell was happening?
He looked at a nearby window, and saw his reflection: his face was painted like a clown, and he was wearing a cowboy hat for some reason. And… was that a sports commentary he could hear? What the hell was going on? Last thing he remembered, he and his team were trying to get into… somewhere…
"Hey, buddy. You're up." He was pushed out of the alleyway by an unseen force, and stepped before a… the best word to describe it was a "dragon" but surely a dragon wouldn't have looked this wrong. Its skin was a combination of scales and rotting flesh, it had at least six eyes, and an opening in its stomach that looked almost like a second mouth. And the stench… It looked angry, and he could see why. On top of it, there was someone that appeared to be trying to ride it, holding on to bits of rotting flesh like a set of reins.
Whitaker ran for it. He was in a city, all right, but… the city didn't make sense. Streets dead-ended into diagonal brick walls. A skyscraper stood right next to a warehouse. Part of what he thought was a school jutted out into the middle of the street. He ran into this last one, hoping for cover from… whatever it was.
A horrible, inhuman voice bellowed "DISGUSTING!" The entire building shook as Whitaker cowered under a desk. He nearly let out a squeak of fear… but no sound escaped his lips. He tried saying the word "apple". Nothing. "barley". Nothing. He couldn't talk.
That was inconsequential. He heard a loud crashing noise; the lizard-thing had broken through the school. He ran out the back. He heard another voice, booming and loud, the same sports commentary he had heard before; something about "rodeo clowns"? Was this some kind of sick joke? And that damn noise in his head wouldn't stop. What the fuck was going on?
The lizard broke through the school, but Whitaker was a block away by then. He looked up, and stopped in his tracks suddenly. There he was, on a jumbotron bigger than entire buildings, showing him running away from the lizard. Below that were spectators, several thousand of them, sitting in a giant grandstand. The jumbotron briefly displayed the words:

682 RODEO
BROUGHT TO YOU BY
PEPSI

Whitaker didn't have time to even think what the actual shit before the jumbotron switched back to him, showing the lizard, presumably 682, right behind him. Its jaws were open… and then they snapped shut on his leg.
The last experience Whitaker felt in his life was indescribable pain.

"So then my dad shot her," intoned Kain. "It was weird."
"What an amazing story, Professor Crow! Let's see how Kondraki is doing!" Clef checked the timer. "Holy 343! Konny's been riding 682 for 3 hours now! 3 hours riding the magic dragon! Someone give this man a Foundation star!"
"It's a pity about the rodeo clowns, though, don't you think?"
"They're just GOC agents, Crow. Nobody will care."
"…remind me what the official purpose of this test is?"
"To test how 682 reacts to urban environments. Didn't you read the brief?"
"Did we have to use an actual city, though?"
"It'll be fine, Kain. Don't be such a worrywart."
Just then, 682 started climbing the Empire State Building. Kondraki still clung on to it as it dove in and out of the building, trying to buck him off. All the while, the two of them could be heard cursing. 682's speech went something along the lines of "Get off me you filthy human!", while Kondraki simply laughed from exhilaration and cursed as he tried to dodge flying glass.
Finally, 682 reached the top of the building, and with a swing of its head, shook Kondraki off. Within 2 minutes, the man was a puddle of red mist on the pavement below.
"And Kondraki clocks in at 3 hours, 10 minutes! Not bad!" Clef looked at Kain. "Have someone scrape him off the pavement, will you?"
Kain grumbled a bit, before speaking into the mic, "The 682 Rodeo is brought to you by Taco Bell. Live Mas. Coming up: the tie-down, and more bareback 682 riding! But first, these messages."

« | HUB | »


Agent Green opened his eyes.
“Agent Green.”
An unfamiliar, suited figure sat across the desk from him. Green became uncomfortably aware that he was still wearing a hoodie and sweatpants.
“Where am I?”
“In my office. We've never met, and after this conversation, we'll likely never meet again.”
“Who are you?”
The figure strummed a chord on a ukulele he seemingly pulled from nowhere. Green's eyes widened, his palms felt suddenly sweaty. Clef chuckled to himself, appreciating the reaction.
“Don't worry. You're not in trouble. What's the last thing that you remember?”
“Sir, uh… I was at an Artist exhibition, I remember that… and then something made a loud noise. Like, a really loud honk. Nothing after that.”
“Great. Well, first things first, you've just finished voluntarily dosing yourself with a targeted amnestic.”
Green noticed the still-dripping syringe on the floor next to him.
“You did this because you observed a severe containment breach concerning SCP-447, during which you were temporarily briefed on its effects to aid with re-containment. You still have insufficient clearance to know the effect of 447, though, so that takes care of that. You also did this because you really, really did not want to remember what happened last night.”
Green massaged his temples. He'd read the 447 file hundreds of times, constantly wondering what the minty goo actually did to necrotic flesh. Perhaps it wasn't worth knowing after all.
“A delivery vehicle loaded with SCP-447-2 left this site yesterday morning. When it arrived at its destination, late last night, the vehicle was completely empty. We don't yet know how it got from the vehicle to the ‘exhibition', as our satellite imaging doesn't show any interference. The good news, at least, is that all 447-2 has been accounted for.”
“So, wait, what exactly happened?”
“Like I said, you've not got the clearance for me to tell you some of the finer details. You performed extremely well considering how little information you had; I'll be looking into getting you a commendation for it, even if you've no idea what you did. Only twenty seven fatalities, all civilians. It could have been a lot worse if you weren't there. The breach was caused by someone you referred to in your report as ‘The Snipper'.”
“My report?”
“Yes, the one you handed to me just before stabbing yourself with that needle.”
Clef held up a manila folder.
“Of course, I can't give this back to you just yet. Need to black out a few things.”

Standard Incident Report Form
Document Reference Number: SCP-447-BSC-4039
Condensed Summary Of Relevant Events
1700: Arrived at ███████ by car. Walked around west courtyard.
1705: Walked from west courtyard to central courtyard.
1707: Discovered pile of dead bodies.
1708: Sampled fingerprints and hair from two bodies.
1710: Walked to car via west courtyard.
1713: Returned to car. Ran samples through database, no results. (sample analysis available on Foundation intranet)
1715: Walked to north courtyard via west and central courtyards. Noted marble structure had been constructed in west courtyard since 1710.
1716: Rendezvous with Agent Tangerine.
1719: ████████████████████.
1720: ████████████████████████████████.
1725: Returned to central courtyard.
1727: Honk event occurs.
1728: Pre-recorded message, later positively identified as person of interest 'The Snipper', starts to play.
1729: Balloon filled with SCP-447-2 is dropped onto pile of dead bodies.
1730: Balloon bursts. In under two seconds from impact, a tall humanoid wearing a gas mask and black trenchcoat, henceforth referred to as 'Trenchcoat' for brevity, █████████████████████████.
1731: Trenchcoat ████████████████████████████████████████. Agent Green opens fire on ██████████████████████. Two civilians ████████████████, later found dead via ████████████████████████████████.
1732: Most dead bodies have ████████████████████████; Trenchcoat ████████████████████████. Three plainclothes Agents, as well as two Artists, attempt to ██████████████████ ██████████████████████, which proves unsuccessful, instead ███████████████. Mass panic ensues due to a combination of ██████████████████ and gunfire, most civilians and Artists attempting to evacuate the area. ████████████████████, ███████████████████; ████████████████████████████████████, destroying seven anomalous art installations and killing two civilians.
1733: Trenchcoat continues to ████████████████████████████████████████, greatly reducing ███████████████████████ of SCP-447-2. Agent Green contacts Site-██ and reports SCP-447 containment breach, requesting as much support as possible. Deploying █████████ is recommended against due to positioning near a major civilian centre, as well as potentially affecting containment procedures for SCP-████, as well as ████████████████████.
1734: Two Artists, later identified as persons of interest Overgang Dood and Joseph Tamlin, attempt to ██████████████████████████████████ in support of Trenchcoat. Trenchcoat continues to ████████████████████████████████, using anomalous items from within its coat to ████████████████████, ████████████████████████████████. After triple-confirming identity and proving urgent requirement of such information, Agent Green is briefed on the primary, █████████████████ effects of SCP-447-2 remotely.
1735: The Artist known as ██████ attempts to aid civilians to safety, by using paint and stencils to ████████████████████████, creating an anomalous evacuation point leading to a nearby carpark. ██████ continues to create further evacuation points over the course of the next three minutes. Joseph Tamlin uses █████████████████████████ in conjunction with █████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████. ███████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████. Trenchcoat continues ████████████████████. Agent Green resumes fire on █████████████████████████████, ███████████████████████████. ████████████████████████ results in the death of a further five civilians.
1736: ██████████████████, Trenchcoat ████████████████████████████████████████. Agent Green ███████████████. Overgang Dood aids Joseph Tamlin in ███████████████████████████ by ████████████████████████████, ████████████████████████████████████. SCP-447-2 ██████████████████████ five deceased civilians, causing further ████████████████████, ████████████████████████ and impeding civilian evacuation.
1737: Joseph Tamlin makes a phone call to an unknown number while Overgang Dood ███████ ███████████████████████████████████████. ██████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████, ██████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████. SCP-447-2 ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████.
1738: ██████, still in the process of creating additional evacuation points, is attacked by person of interest 'The Sculptor', who opens fire. ██████ is shot once in the shoulder before painting a ███████████, which ████████████████████████. The Sculptor notices █████████████████████, yelling "WHAT THE FUCK, SNIPPER?" and beginning █████████████████████████████████. ███████████████████ continued exponentially, but ██████████████████████████████████████████. Trenchcoat completes ██████████████, begins ████████████████ █████████████████████████████ bifurcation.
1739: SCP-447-2 ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████, █████████████████████ further casualties and increased levels of ██████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ reduced capacity for ███████████████. Agent Green ████████████████████████████████ but is unable to prevent seven further casualties via █████████████████████. Casualties are promptly ███████████, ██████████████████████████████████████████ Trenchcoat.
1740: ████████████████████████████████████ SCP-447-2 ███████████████████████████ Trenchcoat, ████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████. ██████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████, Agent Green ███████████████ civilian safety. Agent Tangerine arrives at central courtyard, aids ███████████████████ using an anomalous ███████████████████████████████ requisitioned from local artist. (later contained and assigned as SCP-█████)
1741: Artist, later identified as person of interest 'Melanoma', approaches █████████████████████████████████████, appearing to be a modified █████████████, henceforth referred to as an 'art bomb'. Art bomb is used to ████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████; ████████████████, screaming into phone "FUCKING BLOW IT!". Art bomb █████████████ expanding ██████████████████████████████████████████ unexpected interaction with SCP-447-2 █████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████ causing two previous casualties to ██████████████████ █████████████████████ after contact. SCP-447-2 █████████████ ████████████████████████████████ near-critical mass; however, Trenchcoat ██████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████.
1742: ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████, however, are not in fact organic, but anomalous duplicates primarily composed of clay. As such, exposure to SCP-447-2 does not result in ████████████████████████████████. Original █████████████████████, identified as members of anomalous musician group "Futanari Titwhore Fiasco", ███████████████████████ █████████████████████. Agents Green and Tangerine continue █████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████. Art bomb ███████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████ SCP-447-2 ██████████. The Sculptor continues to ██████████. ████████████████████████████ Joseph Tamlin and Overgang Dood ██████████████████████████████. ██████████████████████████████ one civilian casualty.
1743: Persons of interest 'The Painter' and 'The Builder' █████████████████████████████████████████████. ████████████ but are unable to synchronise ████████████████████████ ████████ █████████████████████████████████, attempting ████████████████████████ instead. ███████████ ████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████. ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████, ██████████. ███████████ ██████████; ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████, █████████.
1744: ██████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████. ████████████████████████████████████; █████████████ ██████████████████. ██████████████████ ████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████ ██████████████████. ████████████████████████████████████
██████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████ ████████████.
1745: Foundation Agents requested at 1733 arrive █████████████████████. ████████████████████████████████████, ████████████████████████████████████ ████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████; ███████/███████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████ ██████ ████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████.
1746: █████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████ █████████.
1747: ██████████████ ███████████████████████████████████; █████████████████████. Trenchcoat ███████████████████████████████████. Joseph Tamlin and Overgang Dood ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████.
1748: █████████████████████████, later identified as Artist Rita Summers, █████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████. █████████████████████████; █████████████████████ ████████████████████████████. █████████████████████. Agents Green and Tangerine █████████████████████ ████████████████████████████ █████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ ████████████████████ ██████████████████ ███████. █████████████████████. ████████████████████ ███████████████████████████.
1750: ████████████████████████████ ████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████. █████████ ███████████████████████████████████, ██████████, ████████████, ████████████ ██; ███████████████. ██████████████████████ █████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████████████, █████████████████████████████.
1755: ███████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████; ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████. ███████████████ ████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ ██████████ ███████████████████████████████ ███████ █████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███ ████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████ █████████████ ██████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ █████████████████████ ███████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████ █████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████ ████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████ ██████████████.
1756: ██████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ ██████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████ ██████ ████████████████ ████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████ ████████ █████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████ ██████ ████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████ ████ █████████████████ █████ ██████████ ████████████ █████████████████████████████████████ ███████████ ██████████████████████ █████████████ ███████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████ ██████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████ ████████████████████ ███████████████████ █████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████ █████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████ ████████ ████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████ ███████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████ █████████████.
1808: ██████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████ ███████████████ ██████████████████████████████ ██████ ██████████████████████ ███████████ ██████████████████████████████ █████████████████████ ██████████████ ███████████████████ █████████████ ███████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ █████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████ ███████ █████████████ ████████████ ████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████ ████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ███████ ████████████ █████████████████ █████████████████████████ █████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████ █████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ █████████████████████████ █████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████ ████████████████████ ███████████ ██████████████████████ ████████████ ███████████ ██████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████ ████████████████ █████████████████████ ██████████████ ██████████ ████████████████ ████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ █████████ ████████ █████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████ ████████ ████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████ ██████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ ███ ██████████████████ ████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████
1811: ████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████ ██████████████████████ ██████████ ██████████████████████ ███████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████ ██████████ ███████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████ ████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████ ████████████ █████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████ █████ ████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ ███████████████ ██████████████ ████████████████████████████████████ ███████ ████████████████████ ████████████ █████████████ ██████████████ ████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████ ███████████████████████ ███████████ ██████████████████████████ ██████████ ███████████ ███████████ ███████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████ █████████████████████████ ██████ ███████ ██████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████ ████████████████████████ ██████████████████████ ██████████████ ███████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ██████ █████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████
1827: ████████████████████ ███████████████. Anomalous walrus contained. █████████████████████. ██████████████████████████ ███████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████ █████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████ ███████████████████████████ █████████████████ ███████████ █████████████████████████████ ████████████████ █████████████ ██████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████ █████████████████████████ ████████ ██████████████████ ████████████████████████████
1828: Anomalous walrus escapes containment. ███████ ██████████████. ███████████████████████████████████████████ █████ ████████████████████ █████████████████████ ████████████████████ █████████████ ████████████ ████████████████████ ██████████████ ████████████████ ███████████ ███████████ ████████████████████ █████████████████ ███████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ ████████████████████ ███████████████████ ██████████ ██████████████████ ███████████████████████ ███████████ ████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████
1837: ███████████████████████████████ ███████████ ████████ ██████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ ███████████████████ ███████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████ ███████████████████████ ██████████████ ███████████████████ ██████████████████████ ███████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████ █████████████████████████
1838: ████████████████████ █████████████████████████ ███████████████████ ████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████ █████████████████ █████████████████ The Sculptor is believed to have been detained, however, is later found to be an anomalous duplicate composed of clay. Current location of The Sculptor is unknown at time of writing. ███████████████████████████████ ██████████████ █████████████████ █████████████████████████████ █████████████ ██████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████ ███████████████████████ ████████ ██████████████████████████████ ████████████ █████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████ ███████████████ █████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ ███████████████████████████████ ██████████████ ██████████████████ ██████████████████ ███ ████████████ █████ █████████ █████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████
1845: ███████████████████████ ████████████ ████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████ █████████ ███████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████ ███████████████████ ███████████████████ █████████████████████████████ ████████████████████ █████████████████ █████████████████ ██████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████
1849: ████████████████████████████ ████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████ ████████████████████ ████████████████ ████████████████████ ████████████████████████ ███ ███████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████ █████████ █████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████ ███████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ ██████ ████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████ █████████████████████████████ █████████████████ █████████████████ ████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████
1854: █████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████ ███████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████ █████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████ ████████████ ██████████████████ ███████████████████████████ The Painter and The Builder detained for questioning. ██████ ███████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████ ███████ █████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████ ████████████████████████ █████████████████████ ███████████████████ ██████████████████████ ██████████████ ███████████████████ ███ ████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████ ██████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████
1900: Foundation Agents attempt to detain Trenchcoat; █████████████████████████████████████ █████████ █████████. █████████ █████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ ██████████████████ █████████. Current location unknown at time of writing. ██████████████████ ███████████████████ ██████████████████ ████████████████████ █████████████, ████████████████████████████ ████████████ ██████████████████ █████████.
1913: ████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████ █████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████ █████████████ ███████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████ █████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ ██████████████ ██████████████████ ███████████████████████████████ █████████████████████ ████████████████ █████████████████ █████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████ █████████████████████████ ████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████
1917: The Painter and The Builder attempt to escape containment by ████████████████████████████████████. Attempt unsuccessful, both are sedated and detained. All previously detained artists sedated, operating procedure altered to sedate all detained persons. Rita Summers detained and sedated. ███████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████ ███████████████████████ ████████████ █████████████████ █████████████████████ ████████████████ ████████████████████ ████████████ ████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████ █████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████
1943: █████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████, returned fire. Anomalous walrus re-contained. ████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████ ██████ ██████████████████████████████ ██████████████ ███████████████████████ ██████████████ ████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████ ██████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ █████████████
1945: Anomalous walrus ██████████████████, escaping containment. █████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ ███████████████████ ████████ ████████████████████████████████ █████████ █████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████ ██████████████████ █████ ████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ █████████████████████████████ ██████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████
1947: Two members of Futanari Titwhore Fiasco are sedated and contained, current location of third member unknown at time of writing. █████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ ████████████████ ████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████ ███████████████████ ███████████████ ████████████████ ███████████████████████████ █████████ █████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████ ██████████████
1959: █████████████ █████████████████████ ██████████████████████ █████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████ ████████████████████████████ ███████████████████ ████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ ████████████ █████████ █████████████████████████████ █████████████████ ████████████████████████ ████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████ ███████████
2000: ██████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████ ███████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████ Overgang Dood sedated and detained.
2004: Joseph Tamlin sedated and detained. ████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████ ███████ ██████████████████████████████████████ ████████████ █████████████████
2013: █████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████ █████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ ████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██ █████████████████████████████████ ██████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████ █████████████ ████████████████████████ ████████████ █████████████ ████████████████████ ███████████████████████ ███████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████ █████████████████████████ Melanoma sedated and detained.
2022: ████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████ █████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████ █████████████████ Authorised personnel provided with gas masks.
2029: Airborne amnestic sweep ████████████████████████████████████████████████████████.
2032: ████████████████████ ██████████████ ██████████████████ ███████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████ ██████████ ██████████████ ██████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ ███████████ █████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████ ███████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████ ███████████ ██████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████ ███████████████ ██████████████████████ █████████ █████████████████████ █████████ ███████████████████████████████ ███████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████
2037: ████████████████████████████ ███████████ ██████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████████ ███████ ██████████████████ ███████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████ █ ████████████████████████ ██████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████ ███████████ ████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████ ████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████ ██████████████
2046: █████████████████████████████ ██████████ ██████████████ █████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████ ██████████
2054: ███████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████ ███████████████ ███████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ ██████████████ ██████████████ ███████████████
2103: ███████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████ ███████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████ ███████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████ ███████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████ ██████████ █████████████████████████ ████████ ███████████████████████████ ████████████ ███████████████ ████████████ █████████████ ████████████ ██████████████ ██████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████ ███████ ████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████ ██████████████ █████████ ███████ █████████████████████████████ ████████ ██████████████ ███████████████████████ █████████████████████████████ ████████ █████████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████████████ ██████████ ████████████████████████████████ ████████████ ████ ███████ █████████████████ ██████ ████████████ ███████████████ ███████████ █████████ █████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ ████████████████████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████ █████████████████ █████████████████████████████████████████ █████████ ██████████████████████████ ████████████ ███████████████████ ████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████ ███████████████████████.
2107: Agent Green escorted from ███████ to Site-███ by Foundation agents.
Original Copy Do Not Bend
Office Use:
SCP - 447
BSC - 4039
EVX - X
BRT - X
GOI - ART
ML/EX/J XK/XKP/TK/BG
DOCUMENT NOT TO BE COPIED UNTIL ORIGINAL IS VERIFIED BY AN AUTHORISED JUSTICE OF THE PEACE
JP: Dr. Alto Clef

"Well, you were certainly thorough about it."
"You know how we operate, Agent Green. We are always thorough."
"What now, then?"
"You've got some Artists to deal with, Agent Green."
"Thank you, sir. Apologies for the inconvenience."
"Not at all, glad you caught me. I'll leave this to you then, I've a plane to catch. A bit of a 'sabbatical' in Brazil."
"Ah, well, I hope you enjoy your holiday, sir."
Clef pulled a pair of sunglasses, flicking them open and resting them on his nose.
"Not likely."

I Love The Smell Of [DATA EXPUNGED] In The Morning
« The Friday Exhibition | Hub | Nobody Dies »


A heap of papers falls onto the desk. The shift begins. God, the headache. The pen… where's the pen? Where's the goddamn pen? Ah… here it is. Time to calm down. Hand's shaking again. Harder than usual. Must be those pills? Did I take too many? At least I don't feel guilty for that girl. How old was she, again? I don't… I don't remember. Does anyone care?
So… The papers? Ah, yes, the work. Hard to concentrate… I must have overdone it with those pills. Well, now.

Requesting a Class D subject, eunuch. The Foundation does not possess a Class D subject conforming to given parameters. Permit forced castration? Yes/No

What for, I wonder? They won't tell me anyway, my access level is not high enough. The Committee has a hierarchy of its own.

Requesting permission to use three (3) class D employees for testing with SCP-081. Grant permission? Yes/No

They forgot to mention what this SCP of theirs does. A bureaucratic formality. If they tell me my access level is not high enough, I'll forward them upwards. Let them try their luck there.

Requesting permission to conduct an experiment with Ethics Committee employees and one (1) light bulb. Grant permission? Yes/No

Another idiotic joke. I wonder who is it this time? Looks like the science guys. Arrogant pricks.

Requesting permission to use animals in an experiment with a memetically dangerous object. Grant permission? Yes/No

Plainly laughable. Who cares about these animals?

Requesting permission to forcibly euthanize a Class D subject. Grant permission? Yes/No

Is it still common practice to ask about things like that? Odd thing is, they keep describing the same thing differently in different requests. How stupid can they be? We've made a unified system for this, why can't they just maintain order? Anyway, it shouldn't be my concern. I should be concerned about my job.

Requesting permission to vivisect a Class D subject in order to extract his liver which has mutated into a sentient and multiplying organism. Grant permission? Yes/No

I don't even want to know what happens where these guys are at. I just don't want to know…

Requesting permission to terminate a Doctor for divulging classified information to an outsider (daughter). See attached file EPI-14x for details.

Grant permission? Yes/No

Tired. But maybe a respectable man's life depends on my decision.

+ EPI-14x.

- EPI-14x.

Insufficient access level.

Grant permission? Yes/No

I'm afraid I was lying when I said I can forward them above. I didn't exactly lie, but the consequences… Who am I? I'm so tired. Yesterday I sent a twelve-ye… That's it, she was twelve. What's next?

Requesting permission for use of a chil…

No. Just no. I'll throw this fucking piece of paper away. Tell them I never received it. When it comes here the second time, I'll have to sign it. What can I do?

Oh, it's thawing. The heap of requests is thawing. I'm looking at the last request. Moral principles are worn so thin here. What am I thinking? Settle your mind, Greg. The last request. Yes, yes.

Requesting permission to vivisect a Class D subject…

…

Yes/No

The end. The shift is over. Maybe someday I'll become a chairperson. I'm good at my job. A mechanism finely tuned. Foundation ethics, right. Now I must sleep. Maybe take some of those pills? I used to be morally sound. That was the term written in my psychological profile. Probably.

A heap of papers falls onto the desk. Oh how I want to delegate this responsibility to someone else. Where's the pen? In my pocket, right. Have to clean the suit. Hand's not shaking. Guess that decision not to take any pills has paid off. Hmm… whom did I kill yesterday? A mutant liver? Fair enough. Who cares. Real decisions are made by chairmen and their assistant. I have a small-time, quiet but tiresome piece of a job. So, what's the agenda for today?

Requesting permission for use of a chil…

Breathe in deep, breathe out. Don't get nervous. Don't read it through. What if I say "no"? What if I don't? Will my conscience haunt me if I never know what I'm dooming a child to? So frightful. And the day was starting just fine.

Yes/No

Hand's shaking again. Eyelid is trembling for some reason. Maybe I'm having a neurotic disorder, or whatever it's called. Stay on topic, Greg, you can't escape this. You just can't. What ethics is in it?

Yes/No

Come on. Just highlight the goddamn word. I have a daughter too…

Yes/No

I don't give a fuck. I just… I just don't give a fuck about those scumbags that send children to the s… The phone is calling. Yes? Stalling? A Keter? Yes, excuse me. I understand. Please excuse me, this won't happen again.

Yes/No

Damn you, damn you all. I did not want to… Did not want to. Where are my pills? At home… Home… No! There's a shitload of requests here! I hate, just how I hate it all. They turned me into a simple data processing mechanism. And I wanted to be a judge. Dear Lord, if you do exist, please forgive those who take up this burden. How do they say? Amen?
Whew! A break!