The person formerly known as Dr. Amanda Richards walked across her little secluded section of the beach, allowing her feet to feel every inch of the sand, letting it seep in between her toes. She breathed in the sweet and fresh Hawaiian air. It was nice to be up and about for a change. It was closest she had felt to being alive in a long time — ever since The End.
The End.
She stopped for a moment to look at the ocean. Light reflected across it from the sun, which was setting across the horizon. She remembered back to when it didn't rise the next morning. Back when things were 'normal'. Back before The End.
It had been 2,312 days since The End. 2,312 days since the demons disappeared. 2,312 since 'normal' disappeared. 2,312 days since the Foundation was dissolved and everything was supposed to be 'normal' but they weren't 'normal'. Not for Amanda.
She tried pushing the thoughts out of her mind. They were bad thoughts — and weren't those thoughts the reason she was here in the first place?
She continued walking, attempting to think of 'normal' things. Think of the footprints she was leaving behind. Think of the beautiful trees and cute animals and fresh hair. Think of the socio-political implications of increasing taxes, of the increasing tensions between Russia and the United States, fuck, anything aside from the obvious.
But those thoughts just kept coming back to her.
She thought of that day.
The day The End (as she liked to call it) began.

She was in the cafeteria that morning — reading some shitty James Patterson novel, she recalled — when The Announcement began.
The Announcement was straight-and-to-the-point, as her father liked to say. It was delivered by a board Site Director, probably thinking of some alone time with his readheaded assistant. She remembered those words that stopped everyone in their tracks.
"Staff of Site-43. I have a special announcement to make. Yesterday, over 95% of all anomalies within the Foundation's possession disappeared without any trace. What few were left lost all their anomalous properties. Today, at 1100 military standard time, the O5 council have, after interactions with other Groups of Interest like the Global Occult Coalition, Marshall Carter and Dark, and the GRU-"P", come to the conclusion that all anomalous activity has ceased. Over the next couple of days, you may experience many changes, but do not worry, the O5 council are handling any and all — "
She blanked out after that message. Was…was everything gone? Was it true? Was — was everything really 'normal' again?
She looked over at her fellow staff members — all with similarly shocked expressions on their faces. Dr. Kirk, the former PL scientist, had gagged on his Big Mac. Dr. Kennedy's beady eyes were bulging out of his skull. Dr. Carol had her hand covering his mouth, attempting to hide her gaping mouth. Dr. Henderson was, well, still Dr. Henderson. The old man could barely see, let alone hear.
Then someone yelled.
"It's over! It's finally fuckin' over!"
More yells, and cries, and eventually singing as the entire cafeteria — and by extension the entire Site began cheering in unison.
As for Amanda, she remembered her face permanently cast into a smile for the rest of the day. She smiled so hard it began hurting, but she didn't care. Something in her — some part of her brain that was responsible for detecting bullshit — told her that, yes, this was true. And she felt relieved. Relieved and happy.

Amanda kept walking along the beach, occasionally side-stepping some broken glass and underwear left behind by some couple trying to pitch a tent.
She remembered the parties after The End. It was a happy time — a time before fully comprehending a world without the anomalous. She drank for the first time since her college days — and it was a fine bottle of whiskey she drank. She couldn't remember the brand, only that it was fan-fucking-tastic.
She cracked a small smile. She looked up at the trees — palm trees. They swayed back and forth in the wind. She stopped to look at it, letting the swaying of the trees send her mind at ease.
She walked towards it, laid herself beneath the trees. She felt cool here. She felt at peace here, like some guru achieving internal harmony and peace. She knew this wouldn't last, but that didn't mind. It felt good nonetheless.
wouldn't last
Those two words echoed across her mind. It stung every part of her mind — stung the same way lemonade stings your open wound.
She should have known that this victory wouldn't have lasted. She shouldn't have hoped — hope got her into this situation in the first place.
"Thought everything would finally be fine for ya, wouldn't it?" she said under her breath, laughing at nothing in particular.

Dr. Amanda Richards — former biologist for Site-43 — was now a general clerk for the retirement division of what's left of the Foundation. The division has to deal with tens of thousands of people all clamoring for retirement checks and benefits for their loyalty to the Foundation. Some of them had worked for the Foundation for decades — and in certain cases centuries, if you counted the robot ones.
She looks over a file. Young man, late 20s early 30s. Got to Level 3 status within 4 years of employment. That was a rarity — it usually took one that long to get to Level 2. She glanced over his record. Various awards for scientific progress within the Foundation. Then she looked at his human rights record, and refused to read anything further.
It was there that she learned that the Foundation was more than an organization for protecting humanity. It was a mad house for the sick fucks of the world to have their outlet in a productive manner.
It was working here that she learned of the 'post-foundation-depression' — a phrase to describe those who finally understood the full ramifications of the situation. Everything they had fought for — every death, every test subject, every piece of goddamn work they all had fought tooth and nail to getting, every person who died for the 'greater good' — was all for nothing.
She tried not to think about it. She was good at that — her years of work taught her that. But as time went on, that ability began to wore off. As if, without those everyday monsters, they weakened.
She was heading for a crash, and she knew it.

Amanda was at a bar near the beach now. She dug her feet into the sand, feeling the cool sand bury her feet. She would have been okay if she just dug her entire body beneath the sand of the beach and just slept. She wouldn't have minded sleeping there forever. Till the end of time itself, in fact.
She shook her drink around in her hand — a Bud Light. She grinned, realizing that it was the same way her father used to do it when she saw him drink. He used to drink a lot of it back then. It was shitty beer, but it was cheap and plentiful. He was the nice drunk of her family — he'd never yell when drunk, unlike his sober self. It was her mother that served the angry drunk archetype, even if she rarely drank.
She took another drink of her beer, savoring the bitter taste. She remembered her father — a large, tall man with a permanent 5 o'clock shadow on his face. An electrician by trade and part time coach for the local football team, he was a loud man with large hands. He worked hard, and drank even harder. Her mother was a factory worker with stocky shoulders and thin as a rail, and it only hit Amanada then how strange it must have been to see that short, thin woman work large scale industrial machinery. She smiled a bit.
They're dead now. Both died in a car wreck two years ago. On the anniversary of The End, in fact. Life's strange, ain't it?
Their deaths didn't matter anyhow. There was no use crying for them — they died, and she was alive. The world moved on. It didn't acknowledge them.
the world moved on
Amanda shuddered again, feeling that tingle up her spine. It was uncomfortable.

The young man across from her fidgets in his wheelchair — a survivor of a monster. It was strange how after The End, 'skip' no longer entered into normal Foundation lexicon anymore — they weren't skips anymore, but monsters. Monsters didn't exist. Skips no longer existed.
Amanda looks through his file. Kariuki Zuberi. African, 6'2'', dark blue eyes, married. Just adopted. Former Agent of Site-19. Survivor of The Breach of 89', just when containment of 682 was being fine tuned.
"Do you know when I will get my first retirement check? I — I haven't been able to find another job — not a lot of demand for crippled sharpshooter ya know?"
Amanda typed into the office computer in front of her. She was lucky that the bosses hadn't sold the retirement division's computers yet. All non-essential assets were being liquidated. Before, she would have shuddered at the thought of 'liquidation'. Now, it was just another fancy word for 'selling things' — which didn't include people, thank god.
"You'll receive your first check on the 1st of April, Mr. Zuberi."
He sat for a moment, his eyes widening as he remembered the order of months — something he regularly forgot about.
"B-But that's four months from now! You gotta listen ma'am, I need that check. My wife, she's also looking for a job, but is also having bad luck. Please, is there any way I cou —"
"No sir, I'm afraid I can't do that. There's only so much money we can send out at a time."
The man looked down, his hand up to his face.
"This…this is the thanks I get, huh?"
He put his hand down, and she saw his face. She could see water swelling up in his tear ducts.
"I killed people. I burned down entire villages — to protect humanity. I kidnapped children from their parents — and parents from their children. I hurt people," he stopped, putting his face back into his hand in an attempt to stop crying. "I hurt people. I lost my leg trying to stop that oversized fucking lizard from killing everyone — from destroying the whole site. And this — this is what I get?"
"I'm truly sorry sir, but I ca—"
"Fuck off. Just fuck off."
He backed out of the office in his wheelchair, with the same finesse as a Olympic gymnast.
She sighed, mentally counting the event. It was the fifteenth time this day.

She left the bar — she needed to get away from drinking for a while. She walked along the water now, letting the cool water brush up to her feet. It felt cooler now than the sand. She hated how the sand would stick to her skin after stepping into the water for a moment. It itched and it was generally annoying.
She remembered the first time she went to the beach. It was a paid vacation by — what else? — the Foundation. She had been shot in the neck by an Insurgent during a raid on Site-42 — Site-43's sister site — and left her bed bedridden for a month after that, and another month of counseling due to the event. She didn't need it, but saw it as a good exploit for a vacation.
She mostly stayed locked up in her room, eating and watching TV and occasionally doing something productive like attempting to get laid or binge watch some terrible Netflix show she'd forget in a week.
As she walked, she saw a man. The man was walking with a small dog — probably a pug or something similar to that. It had a leash, less walking than being dragged along for a ride it really didn't want. It seemed tired and probably wanted a nap.
being dragged along
Again she shuddered and looked into the dogs eyes. She saw his boredom, but beyond that she saw something more important — fear. Fear of what, she did not know.

"You are Mrs. Amanda Richards, yes?"
She looked around the room uncomfortably, attempting to focus her eyes on something beyond the tiny little man before her.
"Y-Yes sir, I-I am."
"And you have been working for the Foundation how many years now?"
"Thirteen. Thirteen years," she stammered out, feeling some sort of pride in that fact. Then she cringed, feeling shame at having admitted that. Why was she proud of that? It was like being proud of being a member of the Westboro Baptist Church or Nazi or a jaywalker. It wasn't something admitted outloud.
"And you have been working in the retirement department for how long?"
"Three. Three years," again she stammered out, feeling some sort of pride swell up in her, and again that shame.
"What were you before the retirement department?"
"I was," she said, then stopped. It took her a moment to recall what she was. The days and weeks and years all seemed to mix together, to the point where she couldn't really keep track of the days anymore. There were only two days on her calendar — work days and rest days.
"Says here you were a biologist for Site-43. Experimented with SCP-3036."
"Y-Yes, yes I did. Sorry, I-I don't know how I could have forgotten that."
"It occurs. At any rate, I was requested to give you these — " the man stopped, handing Amanda a pile of folders.
"What are they?"
"Opportunities. For after everything is said and done."

when everything is said and done
She continued to look at the dog, continuing to be dragged along by its owner. Eventually, the owner stopped and picked the dog up.

"Everything is said and done?"
"When everything is gone. When the Foundation stops," he said, stopping halfway through the sentence, expecting Amanda to speak the other half. But she did not.
"When the Foundation stops what?" Her questions were less directed at the man than at herself.
"Stops existing."
On a very superficial level, she understood the Foundation didn't need to continue existing. If monsters didn't exist, what need was there for a monster hunter? But for some reason, she could not register it on a deeper, more fundamental level.
The Foundation not existing? How was that possible? The Foundation always existed, continues to exist, and will always exist. It was as ridiculous as saying the Catholic Church would stop existing, it just didn't make any sense."
"The selections have been chosen based on previous work experience and credentials. I suggest you chose wisely."
The man left her.

Amanda tracked her eyes from the dog to the man in front of her. She tried her best to not scream.

The Foundation? Not existing?
Again, she thought about that. It was like some strange, aberrant thoughts that one has on drunk Friday nights, like the asking 'what would happen if I stuck my cock in a blender?'.
But the more she thought about it, the more she considered the possibility, the more true it became. The Foundation wasn't eternal — it wasn't something that existed since the beginning of time. It had a strict beginning and end. Maybe this was the true End — not the end of anomalies, but of the Foundation.
It made her sick. She felt like she could throw up. But she didn't know why — shouldn't she be glad? Happy? Thrilled even?
Maybe I don't wanna leave.
That thought stopped everything in her body cold. That thought — that terrible, terrible thought — made her mind stop to a grinding halt.
It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. This organization — this horrible, evil thing — killed hundreds of people, enslaved entire populations, used children as test subjects, installed third world dictators to help them, rigged elections for democratically elected countries — all for their horrible, evil agenda.
But they were her evil organization. They had paid for her college, they had given her an apartment, they had given her a job and, most importantly, friends.
She remembered Dr. Kirk — his assholish behavior never ceased to amuse her. Dr. Carol and the terrible sweaters she used to make for her (she remembered the sweaters for the Christmas Eve Party, and how much it made her laugh). Dr. Henderson, for his incompetence but general niceness but always made things worse for them all. The Director, who always cared for his employees, even if it was only so he could get a promotion.
She remembered them all. She remembered, and it hurt.
You'll never see them again.
She tried pushing it away.
You'll never see them. You'll forget about them, they'll fade. Dr. Henderson will probably be the first to die — he's old, been around since the 40s. Then there's Carol. She's soft, and probably won't last two months without her friends. She'll probably off herself. As for Kirk, he'll join some crime organization to try and fill the void. And you? You'll blow your brains out. And no one will remember you.
The world moves on, you know?
After a moment, she realized she was tearing up. She tried to stop herself from crying.
They'll forget you. And you'll forget them.
She couldn't stop herself.

The man walked away from Amanda, freaked out at the woman. The psycho bitch just screamed of the blue and started balling like a baby. Some people were trying to enjoy their vacation, you know?
But Amanda, well, she saw something in him. She saw everyone there.
She saw Kirk. She saw Carol. She saw Henderson. She saw the director. And there she saw the janitor, the psychologists, Vincent Anderson, Robert Bumaro, Dr. Clef, Dr. Bright, 682, 173, 3036, Meme, the 3155 instances, Dr. Kain, 076, Money, everyone. They all flashed on his face, all at once.
And she missed them. She missed them all.
She wanted to be with them so much.
Every dream and memory and thought all wrapped together. She just wanted to be with them.
She loved them as much as she hated them.
She didn't want to forget them.
Please, god, don't let her forget.


There clinging amongst the towering green
Where humming the birds had gifted their seed
Clad in rainbow hues of effortless bloom
There our prize did shine forth beneath the moon
From far had we come to the rumored tree
To win for ourselves its glorious fruit
Tales had we heard of this sovereign fruit
Hidden so deep in the depths of the green
Drawing its power from light of the moon
Perfumes of Eden the breath of its bloom
For this was our quest to gather its seed
And to the world bring the gift of the tree
So then we stood at the base of the tree
Pondering how we could gather its fruit
So high up within the tangles of green
As well it might be as far as the moon
Then plans and then schemes in our minds did bloom
As coveted it we in root branch and seed
But that was not all that had taken seed
For creepers and vines surrounded the tree
And twined and wound all the way to the fruit
And so up we clambered into the green
To seize our prize in the light of the moon
We drank deeply the scent of Eden's bloom
And there in our breasts did desire bloom
Where a longing so strong had taken seed
And shot forth a bright shoot of hunger green
And so we devoured the blessed fruit
Took part in the sacrament of the tree
And were baptized in the light of the moon
So heard we the word beneath the bright moon
We all were apostles not yet in bloom
But we had been given the sacred seed
Would now carry forth the word of the tree
And from land to land spread the holy fruit
Impose on the world the will of the green
Then left we the green biding next full moon
When the gifted seed in our hearts will bloom
In the name of the tree shall we bear fruit


Document 2217-#4532
Foreword: The following advertisement was aired on several television channels on ██/██/████. None of the channel managers could explain the presence of this advertisement.

VIDEO TRANSCRIPT

<Begin Log>
Black and white view of a beach, with a family1 playing in the sand. Family appears to be despondent.
Narrator: Hey you! Are you tired of old, boring beaches? Is the sand getting in between your toes and getting to your head?
Family looks towards the screen and nods.
Narrator: Well, come on down to the Clocktree Beach!
Scene does a star transition to a color scene of another beach. Beach appears to be SCP-2217.
Narrator: Clocktree Beach is the ultimate vacation spot for your family! Come on down and meet our devoted team of staff!
Six automatons consistent with SCP-2217-A march onto screen.
Narrator: Our attractions include:
Star transition to an SCP-2217-A instance cutting open the woman's back, and removing internal organs. Organs are then discarded by the instance.
Narrator: 24/7 back massages!
Star transition to the man being forced into a pool of lava by SCP-2217-A instances.
Narrator: Our world famous spas!
Star transition to an SCP-2217-A instance throwing the boy off of the cliff in SCP-2217-A.
Narrator: Exciting cliff diving!
Star transition to the girl running away from lightning strikes. Lightning creates SCP-2217-A instances that pursue the girl.
Narrator: Authentic natural experiences!
Star transition to the entire family, unharmed, being escorted by a group of SCP-2217-A instances to SCP-2217-A1. Family appears to be suffering from oxygen deprivation.
Narrator: And expand your world by coming on down to our amazing cultural sites!
Star transition to the family in a jail cell. SCP-2217-A stands guard outside.
Narrator: And in between, you can come on down to our five-star hotels!
Star transition to a pan shot of the beach. An adult male in a tuxedo walks in, but his head is not visible in the way that the camera is used. A link to SCP-2030 has been hypothesized.
Narrator: And don't take our word for it! Listen to these world-famous celebrities!
Star transition to a room containing a red chair. SCP-2337 is sitting in the chair. A bar at the bottom of the screen reads "Dr. Spanko - Certified Stranglefruit Expert."Star transition to the same room. In SCP-2337's place, SCP-1679-1 is lying in the chair. The camera focuses on SCP-1679-1. Silence for ten seconds. The bar at the bottom reads "Basil McMaster - Mayor of Belleview, [DATA REDACTED]"
Star transition to the same room. Harold Holt is now sitting in the chair. Biological Grafts allow it to be identified as SCP-3477-1. Bar reads "Harold Holt - Prime Minister of Australia".
SCP-3477-1: Hello there. I, Harold Holt, enjoyed Clocktree Beach. The ocean was quite the commotion, and the staff were the most friendly folk you'll ever meet.
Star transition to the same room. SCP-3477-2 is now being interviewed. Bar reads "Harold Holt - Prime Minister of Australia".
SCP-3477-2: Hello there. I, Harold Holt, enjoyed Clocktree Beach. There were many unsuspecting guests I could make friends with, and the staff were the most friendly folk you'll ever meet.
The remaining 75 instances of SCP-3477 feature in the commercial. Extraneous information removed.
Star transition to the family from earlier, still in the cage. Several SCP-2217-A instances are in the cage, removing parts of the family's bodies and replacing them with machine parts. Similarities to initiation rituals preformed by GoI-004 ("Church of the Broken God") have been noted.
Narrator: I can personally promise you that Clocktree Beach will be the best family vacation you've ever had. Clocktree Beach: Come on down. Come on down to Clocktree Beach. Clocktree Beach is the ultimate resort to come on down to. Come on down. We'll all be waiting here. Come on down to Clocktree Beach. It's the only thing to do. Come on down and free us.
Star transition to a black screen. The text "COME ON DOWN" has been printed on the screen. Commercial runs for three minutes and two seconds more. The family's screams are audible during this time.
<End Log>

Note: It is unknown how the producers of this commercial acquired the anomalies that made appearances in the video.

More by notgull

More by notgull

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Document recovered from a Parallel Universe

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Your Guard

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Dead Reckoning

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Three Feet Under III

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Down Through

Hyperfine

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Other

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Incident Report ████/████

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SCP-093-J Blue Test

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See my Author Page for more information. If you like reading my stuff, consider checking out my YouTube Channel for SCP-inspired animations, among other things.

Footnotes
1. A man, a woman, and two children; one boy and one girl. The members of this family do not match any existing people.


"Let us be in agreement then. Our organization will be the foundation for humanity's survival in the coming century, and will be named as such."

O5-1 took a sip of his drink. Orange juice — it was a somewhat childish choice, but the taste buds liked what they liked. He leaned back in his chair, looking out at the blue moon reflecting off the black waters. A golden palm tree fluttered and warped in the breeze, and the silver sand of the beach spread out before him on his balcony.
This place was called the Night Beach. It was a small strip of land, the appearance of which had been swapped with that of its equivalent in an alternate universe. The moment you stepped on it, everything seemed…different. More colourful, more alive. Technically, it should be classified as an SCP, but O5-1 felt he deserved his indulgences. Didn't he? It wasn't like the beach actually did anything, apart from looking interesting. Buying the land it was on seemed containment enough.
O5-1 sighed. He'd grown selfish in his old age. A hundred years prior, he wouldn't have even considered exposing himself to an anomalous object. None of the Council would have — apart from the means they used to extend their lives, of course. The hypocrisy started early on, in that case. Nearly from the beginning. Had they not been the ones to form the Foundation, the O5 Council would most likely be in containment chambers themselves. Perhaps one day they would be anyway.
What year had he been born in? Sometimes he remembered a snippet of his own speech, speaking about guarding humanity in the next century. Which century was that? There were so many. He didn't even remember. His body may not have decayed, but he was sure his mind had. A human being was built to handle only so many memories, the way he saw it. There was only so much space.
He'd had grandchildren once, he knew that. Children, for that matter. What had happened to them? He had…not memories, but a vague framework of them, about children — his children — playing on a beach. Watching them and smiling and knowing that all was right with the world. That must have been before the Foundation, then, if it actually ever happened. Thirteen people, coming together to protect the world from what it didn't understand. How noble a goal. How many people had his noble hands killed? He couldn't remember that either — and worse, he didn't especially care. Was that another effect of his long, long life, or had he always been a monster?
He'd had a name once. What had happened to it? They'd taken the O5 titles as code-names, to protect their true identities, but those identities had faded over time. In his head, he called himself O5-1. People weren't meant to live like this — and if they did, they weren't people anymore. Simply extensions of the Foundation itself.
In the universe the Night Beach came from…was there a grave with O5-1's name on it? His actual name? Had he lived and died in the way a human being should, had he passed in the company of loved ones? The grandchildren he was sure he had once had? That man would be more real, O5-1 reflected, than the one with a number for a name.
He and the Night Beach were the same. They didn't belong, and yet they insisted themselves into the world. No, they intruded. Like a cigarette against a photograph. Maybe that was why O5-1 was so drawn to this place. Or perhaps he was simply old, and enjoyed the sound of waves.
"Sir?" said CM, walking up quietly behind him. O5-1's personal Attendant was holding a phone out to him. "News from Site 16. Containment breach of 4392. Fifty-six dead. Your orders?"
O5-1 put his drink down and got up. "4392's too potent a cognitohazard for us to allow it to slip through the cracks. We need to eliminate all witnesses to prevent the concept spreading further. Inform security on-site."
CM walked off to order the deaths of countless people. After a moment, O5-1 went to follow him. He stood up on thin, spindly legs, his too-pale and too-soft skin reflecting the moonlight just as easily as the water. He tried to close his eyes for a moment, to soak in the Night Beach while he had the chance, but his eyelids weren't quite big enough for that. They hadn't been for a while.
Oh, well. There were sacrifices that had to be made for mankind as a whole. Besides, O5-1 hadn't felt human for years.
He walked away. The Night Beach was left behind, and its colours were quickly replaced with those of the reality O5-1 lived in. It was a reality he'd made for himself, really. He had no choice but to lie in it.

The other members of the council clapped. "The Foundation, then," said O5-13. "That is alright with you, [DATA EXPUNGED]?"
The man named O5-1 nodded, and eternity began.


July 5th, 2017
Independence Day, in Sloth's Pit, was a cause for confusion, and often mourning. The courthouse had caught fire once again, and nobody could enter town hall due to the volume of The Star-Spangled Banner playing within its halls causing hearing damage. Several dozen homes had seemingly impenetrable concrete walls around them, only for members of the town to discover they could easily be climbed under. The single firework burst that had been shot off would be visible until the start of autumn, Dr. Harold West almost lost his right hand when the coffee machine dispensed gunpowder instead of a cappuccino, and two members of Sigma-10 lost the ability to see any colors except for red, white, and blue until 2018.
All in all, it was one of the less-catastrophic July 4ths Sloth's Pit had suffered in the past decade. But along with it came a new quirk of the town, one which Dr. Keith Partridge had been dragged along to investigate, along with several Investigative Agents and Dr. Quentin Harrison of the Department of Gastronomy.
Next to the shell of the Vegan Buffet (shut down due to the fact that the proprietor thought selling human flesh counted as "Vegan") a new building had popped up, wedging between it and the guitar shop next door. Its architecture perfectly matched the rest of the rustic buildings on Main Street, but the facade of it was painted a bright, garish blue, and had steel drum music playing from the speakers mounted on its exterior, under a green awning. On the windows, pictures of palm trees and tiki masks and beach balls were painted on in meticulous detail; Partridge, leaning close to it, could see the the gloss on the one of the balls reflecting the child throwing it. The signage on the window read: "Volcanic Glacier Smoothie Co."
"I don't like this," Harrison frowned, finishing off his energy bar. Partridge thought that he would need it; with the girth the red-headed man had, he was a perfect fit for gastronomy. Bunch of self-important food critics, Partridge thought. Even so, he had to agree. A brand new smoothie shop popping up right after the 4th of July in Sloth's Pit was disconcerting.
Clive Kim, head of the investigative team put on his sunglasses and entered the door, flanked by Partridge, Harrison, and his partner, Michelle Kola. Partridge tapped Quentin on the shoulder. "Remind me why I'm here?"
"You're the best expert we have on anomalous tropical plant life. I want you to see if there's anything on the menu that would cause concern."
"Harrison, the fact that we are standing in a building that wasn't here yesterday is concern —" Partridge stopped as he smelled the sea breeze. He looked back at the door, then around him. Where the wall of the Sick Rifft guitar store should be was, instead, a vast expanse of beach, overlooking clear, blue ocean. There were customers seated at the smoothie bar, seemingly unfazed by the fact that they were seeing the ocean in the middle of Wisconsin — then again, it was Sloth's Pit. This was probably a welcome change of pace from the Green Well gastropub, with its burnt, watermelon-flavored chicken nuggets.
Serving the townies was a bronze-skinned woman with flowers in her hair, and a T-Shirt advertising the smoothie bar itself. She gave the agents a grin, and waved them over. Partridge suddenly realized that his shoes had vanished when he came in the door, and he was standing on soft, white sand.
Partridge looked back towards the door, seeing both it and the window facing the street still there. He was somewhat relieved that the trip wasn't one-way, but at the same time, his reaction matched what everyone else was thinking. "Fuck."

The black spectacles Agent Kim was wearing weren't just for show. They had thermographic sensors to detect increases in body temperature, a state-of-the-art heart-rate detector, built-in 30x magnification, and a sensor that could detect salt content in the air. Some people at S & C Plastics termed them "Lieglasses".
Partridge termed all who used that word 'uncreative'. 'Anti-Shady Shades' was a superior appellation for them. Regardless, the salinity sensors were useless here, in the salty sea air. The heat sensors might also have been thwarted by the fact that, while Kim was grilling the woman, the woman was grilling a sandwich. "Ma'am, we're with Douglas County health and safety, and… we have concerns about this… operation."
One of Kim's subordinates, Michelle Kola, nodded in agreement. "For one thing, having an extradimensional space on main street violates town zoning laws. And studies have shown that pocket dimensions can have detrimental effects on the quality and safety of food."
"You've just defeated yourself," the woman chuckled. "Why would health and safety care about zoning laws?"
Partridge rubbed his face and looked at the menu above her head; the ingredients in the smoothies were mostly non-anomalous, if exotic. Options included dragonfruit, starfruit, pawpaw, (Partridge had to wipe some saliva from his mouth at the idea of a pawpaw smoothie; it had been years since he had had one of those) sugar apple. There were also the standard smoothie affair— apple, strawberry banana, watermelon, orange. The "strawberry banana" option drew Partridge's attention, however.
"Can't hurt to ask," he thought, looking at Harrison and handing him a vial. "Can you go down to the ocean and collect a sample? If there's any phytoplankton in the water, it could help identify where we are."
"Good idea." Harrison nodded, taking the vial and starting to waddle down to the water.
Partridge leaned against the bar, and looked at the 'strawberry banana'. "Is all your fruit fresh?"
"Of course!"
"Well, as an actual member of health and safety, I'd like to inspect the produce. Particularly the strawberry banana."
The woman gave him an odd look. "'Inspect the produce'? That line is the exact reason why we no longer offer melon on the menu. But…" she turned around and reached into a fridge behind the counter, pulling out what looked like a pink fruit from a plant of the Musa genus.
Partridge took it up and inspected it, sniffing at the fruit, before peeling it, and looking at the meat of the fruit; it had the coloration of a ripe strawberry, but when he touched it, it had the texture of a banana. The seeds within the meat seemed to be some combination of banana seed and strawberry pips. "Huh." He frowned, turning to Kim as he tried and failed to get the woman's name. "Did you know that bananas are actually herbs?"
"Fascinating," Kim lied, shaking his head. "Look, lady, this place doesn't have a permit."
"Are you positive?" the woman asked, taking the fruit from Partridge's hands and stuffing it into a blender with ice and milk. "I filed for a business license back in December of last year. It's hanging back there." She nodded at a certificate behind her, under the menu and over the sandwich press, which bore the Seal of Wisconsin, and the signature of someone high up in the county's bureaucracy.
Kola tried climbing over the bar to inspect the license, setting her Anti-Shady Shades to a filter that could detect the presence or absence of watermarks in official documentation such as this. She frowned. "Well, I'll be damned. It seems legit."
The woman behind the bar just gave Kola a very disapproving look, before wiping down the counter. As the blender finished blending, she poured the contents into a glass, and handed it to Partridge. "On the house," she winked.
Partridge frowned as he took up the smoothie. Grimm Countenance protocols dictated that he shouldn't consume food or drink in an extra-dimensional or otherwise anomalous space. Instead, he took the contents of the cup and poured them into a large sample jar he produced from his pack. "For later," he assured her, handing back the glass.
"Drink it soon," she said, some chiding in her voice. "Or it'll get warm and go bad."
Harrison came up from behind Partridge and tapped him on the shoulder, handing him the vial full of seawater. "Here," he said.
Partridge placed the sample in his bag, and looked at the agents. "Not sure we'll get anything else, here. I think we best leave."
"Come back soon," the woman behind the counter beamed as they made their way to the door.
When they exited onto the blazing, summer street, there was a stream of curses pouring out of their mouths; the pavement was burning, and whatever anomaly had removed their shoes had neglected to return them.

A tub of ice around the feet later, Partridge sat in his lab, analyzing the seawater sample, notes scribbled by him. By all accounts, what he was observing were non-anomalous dinoflagelletes, of a species native to the ocean around Hawaii. Harrison still hadn't gotten the sample of smoothie back to him so he could analyze what, exactly, the strawberry banana was. It had been almost four hours; how long could it take to run an analysis on something like that?
He sighed, and turned away from the microscope, picking up his phone. After unlocking three different lock screens, he arrived at the Site-87 employee phonebook, and from there, scrolled to the H's. "Hargrave, Harkness… Harrison." His finger hovered over the number, before he remembered how narrative logic worked. Now that he was about to call…
Dr. Partridge's phone rang to the tune of an instrumental version of Mean Green Mother From Outer Space. Almost nobody recognized the tune, which was a mercy for him; the less people knew about his taste in musicals, the better. Partridge picked it up. "Yello."
"Keith?" Harrison was on the other end, sounding out of breath. "There's… something wrong with that smoothie. You need to c-come down to Sublevel 6."
Partridge stood and made his out of the lab, and to the elevator, which was mercifully empty. He kept talking. "What the hell's happened, Quentin?"
"Y-You'll see."
Partridge hit the button for Sublevel 6 repeatedly. When the doors opened, sand and saltwater flowed into the elevator. In the hallway, he saw Malcolm Guillard trying to remove a lobster from his office, only for it to climb onto him, the weight forcing him into the water.
Keith Partridge stepped out of the elevator, ducking as the drop ceiling caved in and the top of a palm tree appeared, nearly depositing a coconut onto his skull. From the fronds of this tree, an owl with brown feathers and unusually prominent legs looked down at him, before flying off the tree and down the corridor. Dr Jacob Kola— Michelle Kola's uncle and part of the parazoology department— sprinted past Partridge, giving chase and yelling into his walkie-talkie something about a 'stilt-owl'.
As Partridge walked on, he saw more trees bursting from the ceiling, and Partridge yet again wondered how Site-87 still stood; with all of the structural damage it had taken over the years, from the giant clump of mistletoe that had devoured an entire floor on Christmas 2008 to the damage caused by the same conifer that had turned him into a pear tree in 2014 to the firecrackers that were still found in air vents, the site should have caved in years ago. Then again, a site collapsing on itself wouldn't make for a compelling narrative.
Quentin Harrison's lab was occupied not only by him, but by a very unhappy-looking, very wet Director Nina Weiss. The cause of her sogginess was obvious— there was a waterfall in the ceiling that seemed to follow her around wherever she walked. On the table by her and Harrison was the sample jar containing the smoothie, whose pinkish structure had turned a slight shade of sea-watery green.
"Partridge," Weiss sighed. "What is this?"
"It's a smoothie from the place that popped up in town."
"I mean this!" Weiss pointed to the area around her, as well as out the door, where some poor computational containment intern ran past, guarding his laptop from a swell of seawater. A scream of utter anguish was heard down the hall as the wave crashed on his back, followed by the sparking of a dying computer. "What the hell's causing this?"
"I don't know! I— the woman at the bar told me to drink the smoothie, but Grimm Countenance protocols dictated I shouldn't."
"And you followed protocol perfectly, so points for that. On the other hand, Sublevel 7 is right below us, and we've not prepared the servers down there for the flood that's going to inevitably happen when the floor drains get backed up by sand or plant life."
"Can't you just… dispose of it?" Partridge asked.
"We've tried," Harrison explained, picking up the jar and emptying it onto the floor— or attempting to. At some point, the smoothie stopped flowing, and returned to the jar. The waterfall over Weiss's head increased in output.
"How many times have you tried pouring that out?" Partridge asked, taking the jar back from him.
"Five or six," Harrison admitted.
"And has there been any correlation with this —" Partridge waved an arm around him — "and the amount of times you've tried that?"
"…ah." Harrison chewed his lip, and looked at the director apologetically. "Oh."
"We'll discuss this later," Weiss shook her head. "Partridge, drink the damn thing."
Partridge uncorked the jar, bringing the smoothie to his lips, and taking a sip. Despite what the woman had warned him about, the drink was cold, painfully so. When the liquid hit the back molar, he gasped, and dropped the jar, smoothie and all. "NO!" He called as the current from the water carried the jar out of the room.
"Partridge!" Weiss groaned.
"I have teeth that are sensitive to cold. Shit!" He ran out of the room and flipped on the intercom as he saw the current carry the smoothie around the corner. "Attention all personnel on Sublevel 6: if you see a jar full of a strawberry-banana smoothie, for the love of god, pick it up, get on the intercom, and tell me where it is."
Partridge had failed to realize that he had broadcast this Site-wide; above him, several confused looks were exchanged between members of the department of theology. One of them, Father Richard Plum, looked at his own creamsicle smoothie he had on his desk and scooted away from it, giving it a suspicious stare.

Day Fourteen: We've run low on food. Carl has had to kill a lobster with his own boot. It's going to rot in a day, and Patricia is allergic to shellfish. She gets the rest of my rations; a buxxom lass like her needs meat on—

"What the hell are you doing, Hastings?"
Christopher Hastings looked up from his notepad, where Dr. Partridge stood, shirtless, wearing a set of swim trunks he had somehow acquired. He had been reading what Hastings had been writing for the past several minutes. "I'm taking a writing course," Hastings shrugged. "Survival in a jungle seemed like a good idea for a story."
"…'buxom' has one 'X'."
"Oh. Well, I never said I was a good writer."
Partridge rubbed his face. "You said you had the smoothie?"
"Yeah." Hastings adjusted himself on the trunk of the mangrove tree that had sprouted in front of one of the biosaftey labs, and reached under the roots, pulling out the sample jar and handing it to Partridge. As the older scientist took it, Hastings looked around. "So I take it the new smoothie place in town isn't getting a good Yelp review from us?"
"What do you think?" Partridge scowled at the joke, downing the rest of the smoothie. He winced as his teeth reacted to the cold again, but managed to keep the jar in his hands until he drained it. He savored the taste, blinking. The Strawberry Banana, true to its name, had the texture of a banana, the tartness of a strawberry, and the complex sweetness of both. There was also an undercurrent of orange and… something else. Something slightly unsavory.
Something… pear-flavored.
Partridge sneezed, and a large pear fruit came out of his nose, landing on Hastings's lap. He stared between the empty sample jar, himself, and the pear.
"Son of a bitch," Partridge groaned. "Not again."

Several hours later, Keith Partridge was back in the Volcanic Glacier Smoothie Co., watching the sole employee brew another drink. She claimed this one would counteract the barking on his skin, as well as stop him from sneezing pears. She looked at him pitifully. "I told you to drink it before it got warm."
Partridge looked across the beach; tiki torches were lit up, and people were down by the water, playing in the fish-free ocean, clad in swim suits. He sighed, and rubbed his face. "Why did you manifest here of all places?"
"Because this town is one of the few areas in the country where I can set up a franchise that's visited by semi-normal people. I tried setting up shop in Three Portlands, BackDoorSoHo, Hastily Made Cleveland Backdoor— those are all full of freaks."
"This is coming from the woman brewing magic smoothies," Partridge snorted.
"Goddess," the woman corrected, in a tone that made Partridge sit up straighter— those this may have simply been his spine turning to wood. She handed him the smoothie. "That'll be $6.21."
"The last one was free."
"Yes, well, I'm paying for the repairs to your little operation up on the hill. So…"
Partridge grumbled, reaching for his wallet with wooden fingers and pulling out a $10 bill. "Keep the damn change," he huffed. "What goddess are you, exactly?"
"The kind of goddess that knows that you'll like a pawpaw smoothie better than anything else on the menu."
Partridge raised a brow, and took a sip at his drink. He lost the straw, and instead drank it straight from the glass, the bark of his skin fading away as the sweet, creamy taste of pawpaw came through the ice and the milk of the smoothie, bringing a grin to his face.

Excerpt from the Sloth's Pit Tourist's Guide, 2018 Edition:

Volcanic Glacier Smoothie Co.:
A relatively new establishment, renowned for its tropical atmosphere, real fruit smoothies, and tasty grilled paninis. Clean indoor pool and beach for those hot summer days. Ask for the "Wisconsin Tropical Special"— a combination of strawberry banana and pawpaw. Live music on Fridays.
Food Atmosphere Fun Overall Rating: ★★★★


Charles Panthe looked over the Site-78 proposal one more time. All the paperwork was in order. It had all the right signatures (except for his). Hell, the proposal almost made it sound stupid that the Foundation hadn't built this thing years ago. But it still felt so… so wrong.
“You're serious about this?” Panthe asked the man sitting in front of his desk.
“Does Oh-Four's signature look like a joke?” Dr. Hedler replied.
“No, but… a site on the beach?”
“A Foundation site for aquatic anomalies, specifically those that require large amount of—”
“Of sea water yeah, I read it. Aren't the Canary Islands a prime tourist trap?”
“Actually, not on all of the islands. Lobos is largely uninhabited, and we have good relations with Spain so we will have little trouble building it.”
“And you've got a portion of the budget dedicated to ‘leisure'!”
“While I agree it isn't the most descriptive term, that budget generally gets used for the break room, as well as psychological and emotional habilitation. Like the dogs that we rent on Wednesdays to improve D-Class morale, and stress relief for staff. I believe it's part of your Site-17 budget.”
“Um… why yes I suppose it is…” Pathe hadn't actually read the full budget for his site in ages. He just checked that the R&D, security, and emergency funds were reasonable, and then signed. Kind of assumed the accountants had worked everything else out. He had also forgotten about the dogs. He quickly added the event to his calendar.
“But this will be a regular site like any other. Just in a more pleasant climate than most.”
“Ok… I mean Oh-Four already signed off. This is really just a formality at this point.”
And Charles Panthe signed off on the document.

597 Days Later
“But shouldn't that have been accounted for in the construction of the habitat?”
“We thought we had, but it turns out SCP-4591's corrosive properties were stronger than we anticipated. It might've been aided by the salt in the water as well.”
“That doesn't excuse the fact that currently, there are at least a hundred acid sardines swimming around the Mediterranean, and we have no clue where they are. Not to mention the air shark that got relocated there, and like fourteen other anomalies that those concrete walls were holding in.”
“Actually, the sardines have probably reached the Atlantic by now.”
“You're not helping your case.”
“Right, right.” It hadn't even been two years, and Site-78 opened, and the funding was already being pulled. Everything had been running smoothly, until a group of anomalous sardines destroyed the reinforced concrete walls used throughout Site-78. The holes had formed in their chamber a month into containment, before testing was complete.
“And now you're asking for extra budget not just for repairs, but also for underwater robots to survey the site for destruction?”
“Well we considered giving personnel diving training and equipment, but realized that aquatic drones would be more cost eff—“
“Just stop it, Hedler. You're a smart guy, you gave this a real shot. But it's time to face the facts. Your containment beach had a containment breach. I'm not signing for additional budget when we can just build oversized fish tanks like we always have.”
"I, um… ok. I understand. Thank you for your time." Dr. Hedler picked up his new proposal and started toward the door.
Panthe stood up and shouted after him, "Hey, it's Wednesday! The dogs should still be outside."


I laid down on my comfortable mattress with an incurable headache and a need for sleep. Yes, I may have slept for seventeen hours, but that doesn't matter. I still have a need for sleep.
I'm tired.
I got these drugs from the local pharmacy. I didn't want to go to the doctor, so I just went on WebMD. I decided I needed some antidepressants or a boost of vitamins. It would make me feel better. Almost anything would make me feel better.
I looked over at the nightstand. On top of it laid my lamp which I've owned for three years now. It broke a couple weeks ago, and so it didn't display any source of light. But that's okay. I'm used to the darkness, anyway.
Beneath the lamp were the tablets. They came in an aesthetically pleasing casing, labeled Bahamas.
I hesitated but then I sat up, moving my legs to dangle off of the side of the bed so I could face my nightstand. I took the pack in my hands, opening the packaging delicately.
There were twelve in plastic packaging. The light hurt my eyes a little bit. I guess it had been a while since I went outside. I wasn't used to it.
I opened the packaging and held one of the capsules in my hand, examining it. It was beautiful. And number one went in.

I woke up on the second day feeling energetic. I looked to the alarm clock: 5:43 A.M., it read in a digital font. I went to open the blinds and realized that there wasn't any light outside. It was alright, though! I was sure to gain some sunlight today.
I went over to my laptop, opening up Google and typing in plane tickets to the Bahamas.
A vacation is what I needed, right? It would make me feel better. Plus, I'd never been. New experiences are always good.
I ended up seeing an absolute steal of a deal regarding plane tickets, so I clicked it without hesitation.
I got up from my office desk, walking downstairs. The walls were so bland. They could use some decorating rather than being painted this dull gray. I needed something to make my abode more appealing in a visual sense.
I poured myself some cereal. I decided I wanted it dry today, and I could simply go with a side of OJ.
I hopped in the shower after that and got ready for today. It was the start of my paid vacation, so I was going to make it count!
I watched Saturday morning cartoons until it was about eight, and then I went outside to greet everyone.
"Hello, Mr. Walker!" I shouted from the opposite side of the street.
Mr. Walker looked over, a puzzled expression on his face. "Oh! Good morning, Mr. Jameson!"
I started to walk over, noticing the beautiful way he had decorated his front yard garden. "I like the decorations," I said as I stepped onto his porch. He was sitting in a wonderfully constructed, green lawn chair, with another one which remained vacant next to him. "Mind if I take a seat?"
"Why, of course! Make yourself at home out here."
"Again, Mr. Walker, your decorations are absolutely amazing."
"Thank you. I certainly took my time with them."
"I can tell. It's stunning. I love the coloration."
"Again, thank you."
He invited me for dinner that day. I went, and it was wonderful! Delicious turkey with sides of anything you could ever imagine. It could be mistaken that they were preparing for Thanksgiving.
But, I had to leave a bit early. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day. I needed to catch a plane in the morning. I thanked Mr. Walker and walked to my house.
I packed my things and placed them all in a suitcase, as to which I left in my room. Once I was done, I laid down on my bed with a smile I couldn't get off.
And number two went in.

The plane ride was quite the experience. The flight attendants were so kind! I couldn't wait to get to my hotel.
About four hours later, I arrived at the Sunny Skies Hotel, which was absolutely appraised by locals for being the best five-star hotel around.
That ocean scent. It was wonderful, and it filled the open air. My nostrils were wide open, able to comprehend and enjoy every particle of ocean breeze that gracefully entered and exited my lungs.
I got to my hotel room. 555, the sign outside it read. Hah, not today, Devil! The sun's too kind for me to rent 666!
I unpacked my stuff and laid down on the comfortable bed. I thought I should order some room service, so I enjoyed an absolutely amazing yet standard meal of bacon and eggs. What a wonderful meal.
Alas, after the meal, my stomach had started burning. Perhaps my stomach wasn't in the mood for the "Wakey Wakey, Eggs And Bac-y" special they had offered that today. It's alright, though. I was going to the beach soon, and I wouldn't get any burns there!
Before I left, number three went in.
I arrived at the beach with assistance from a Lyft driver who was quite the gentleman, if I did say so myself. I set up my beach chair and laid back, my sunglasses and hat on. A nice woman walked by and offered me a flower necklace. It would have been rude to refuse, so of course, I accepted! What a beautiful woman. She was nice, too. I hope she was as happy as I was.
I was laying down, and I realized that I was really thirsty. Like, really thirsty. I got up and walked to a convenience stand and ordered a water. I chugged it down, but I was still thirsty. And God, it got hot. My stomach was still burning and I started to sweat profusely. I got back in the car and drove to the hotel, going to my room 555. It was so nice to be at home.
I laid down, turning down the thermostat to a solid sixty. It was still so hot.
Oh, God, it burned. My sides. My stomach. They both burned. I needed to lay down.
And so I did. But, before I did, number four went in.

And now I'm here, stuck in 555's bathroom, puking my brains out into the toilet bowl. It's too bright. And the light is off. What can I do?
I can close my eyes.
No, no. The darkness is scary.
Pills! More pills, yes! I need more, seriously. The darkness is too much, and I can't handle going outside.
I need more.
And five goes in.
…
What?
It all stopped?
The pills. They worked. But, now, I smell that ocean scent. God, it's strong.
It's a bit too strong.
Fuck, that's bright. Did it get hot in here?
Yeah, it did. I need to lay down.
Goodnight, Bahamas.

The Foundation agents stood in room 555, looking at the tablets on the nightstand. The lamp was on, and the package of capsules glowed profusely.
"Hot damn," Agent Salla said as he looked down at the capsules. He picked them up, turning them around to read the warning inscribed on the back.

"Moodiness, flaccid skin, looking dull, tendency to depression? Obviously you are in lack of sunshine! Our range of supplements restores the vitality you need. Sunset Laboratories offer a wide range of solar radiation, from Borabora to the Maldives, Haiti and the Bahamas. Just ask your pharmacist. Read the instructions carefully. Do not exceed the recommended daily dose. These Solar supplements are not intended to be a substitute to natural exposure. Avoid abusive use."

"Poor bastard. As least he was able to enjoy that sweet ocean scent before he went."


Date was… Dunno, January, '05. Location's some nowhere town's edge in New York. Time around 6 o'clock A.M.
Officer was writing up a ticket for the sixth illegally parked car in a row when they noticed a lotta footprints in the snow leading under a nearby bridge. Decided to take a look, found six kids. All of 'em just limp along the slope down to the river.
Backup arrived. Investigation started, a rookie detective happened to brush a kid. Witnesses report a snap, then down went the dick. Died instantly, snapped vertebrae.
Picked up the radio activity, called it in and drove over. Told 'em I was with the FBI, everyone needed to evacuate the scene. Backup arrived shortly. Scooped up each object into a containment box.
Standard procedure. Kids reported missing, detective KIA in a shooting accident, amnestics for the cops. Objects cataloged and shoved in storage.
Day after, got a letter on my desk. Opened it.
Told me they were the killer.
Told me how they lured every kid under that bridge before snapping their necks.
"Like candies."
Closed it.
Tossed it in my shredder. Nothin' since.
I clean messes up. I don't fuckin' solve 'em.


The site security teams stand side-by-side another in a straight line near the front gates of Site 87, the scorching sun reflecting off their helmets. Randal, the Chief of Security at Site 87, exits from Site 87 and gives a suspicious glance at the row of soldiers. His large figure and intimidating gaze was unnerving for some of the rookies among the crowd. Some thought of him as cool due to him getting a supposed scar from SCP-682 or whatever other Keter a rumor claims. Others just saw him as a force not to reckon with.
"Alright, I have a real simple question and I want real simple answers. As you all may know, hopefully, you were called here in regards to an incident." His eyes dart side to side dramatically. "Who killed Head Researcher Jamison?"
The row of soldiers look at one another nervously. Randall moves slightly closer to the group and continues to speak.
"Last night, Jamison was shot repeatedly and his arm was cut off during a staff party. Who did it?" He says as his scowl intensifies. "There are no anomalies contained on-site and definitely nothing breached into the facility."
"He did, sir!" exclaims a guard at the end of the row pointing at the opposite end. Randall and the guards turn their heads to see a mass of tentacles and blinking eyes whose body crudely fits into a guard uniform and happily wave a severed arm and pistol. Randall looks back towards the guard who spoke and says, "Son, that's just Richie. Also, he is barely of legal age to attend staff parties."
"What? S-sir, he is holding a severed arm-"
"Shut up" interrupts Randall, "I will not tolerate this intolerance. Come here." The guard walks up to Randall who delivers a mighty punch to the guard's stomach. "Now back to the subject."
The guard now lies on the floor in pain as a tentacle slithers around his ankle, dragging him towards the approaching eldritch mass of eyes and tentacles.
"Who did it?" Randall says once more while behind him Richie is tearing the guard's leg and shooting him. The other guards stare on at the scene, but are snapped back by Randall. "God dammit. Someone fucking killed Jamison and I will find out…" Randall says as he ignores the splattering of blood on him along with the screams.
"…One way or another."