Safety Supervisor Thompson just finished explaining Site-19's safety and security protocols to the new recruits. It was the 47th such lecture he had given so he was used to the depressing indifference of the audience. At least he had a fun movie he was saving for the end of his speech. He turned on the TV and lay back in his chair.

20 km south of Site-19 – 17:45
Most Foundation personnel believe that Site-19 has no on-site nuclear warheads. They would argue that planting nukes under a facility housing not only hundreds of partially understood anomalies but nearly a thousand of the world's brightest scientific minds would cross the not-so-thin line between overly cautious and criminally insane.
Then again, the colossal mushroom cloud dominating the scenery flips off their reasoning like a massive middle finger made of radioactive dust. Site-19's astonishing history was ultimately ended by its own self-destruct system. But what led to its demise?

Director Bright's office, Site-19 - 11:55
“I finished the preliminary document for the skip that was delivered this morning.” said Dr. Bright, and handed over a few pages to his secretary. “Could you please make the redactions for the Level 2 version for me? Just go over it and black out everything that looks like something you shouldn't be allowed to know. Then take one of the usual pills.”
“I will finish it right away, don't worry about that. Are you going to the cafeteria?”
“Yes, today they are serving banana muffins. Better grab a few while they're fresh.”

Rec. Center, Site-19 – 12:20
“Hey, what are you doing there?”
“Filling up the pool. Today's the Pool Opening Day.”
“I couldn't help but notice the sign above the tap you connected the hose to.”

Separate tank used by the
Automatic Fire Sprinkler System
Do not open

“Oops, I seriously didn't see that. But it's almost ready so I'm finishing it like that.”
“Whatever, man.”

Containment Sector-32, Site-19 - 14:15
"Hey, Tim. What's going on today?"
"We're collecting a sample from this bad boy. Here's the new doc we got from the Director."
"What's a ██████ suit?"
"Hell if I know, but it says the skip will flip out and enter a ████ █████ if we're not wearing one."
"This must be the one Bob was talking about yesterday. That's gotta be 'hazmat'; he said it gets pissed off if it smells you. By the look of this damn thing, we should probably be wearing one anyway."
"If you're sure on that, you can go in by yourself."

Containment Sector-32, Site-19 - 14:28
“Hello, Timothy. I'm calling to tell you to please be patient with the recovery since we couldn't find a wombat suit for you to wear.”
“Wombat suit, you say.”
“Yes, wombat suit.”
“Well, fuck.”

Research Sector-35, Site-19 - 14:31
“Did you hear that? It sounded like something just broke through a metal door.”
“Don't worry about that, let's just enjoy our break,” said Agent Carter as he sat atop a gasoline barrel someone left at the corridor and he lit a cigarette.
A few seconds later Junior Researcher Timothy Moore ran through the corridor shouting, “The Keter is loose! Run for your life!” So they did run. Fortunately for them, the advance of said Keter-class anomaly was halted by an exploding barrel.

Research Sector-35, Site-19 - 16:40
“Damn, that fire made a mess of this place for sure. How come the sprinklers didn't activate?” asked a janitor from his colleague.
“Do I look like a plumber to you?”
“In fact you do look like one. Anyway, we cleaned up most of the debris, but what should we do about this smoke?”
“Let's just open this entrance. It will be out in no time.”

Outside of Exit-35, Site-19 - 16:45
One of Site-19's emergency exits led to a forest, and it was disguised with a clever little spatial anomaly. It was spread wide open, unveiling the entrance. A group of soldiers was hiding in the nearby bushes. Aside from the yellow ‘Chaos Insurgency' sign in their back, they looked like ninjas from an 80s action flick.
“Chief, that must be the entrance we are looking for.”
“It sure is. Let's get going.”
The CI's men occupied the site surprisingly easily. It wasn't designed to hold back ordinary humans, after all. By the time the security guards realized what was happening, the soldiers had already reached the Administrative Sector.

Director Bright's office, Site-19 - 17:24
“All clear. Intel says the target keeps his security code in his top drawer.”
“Positive. Entering the security system now.”

Username: jackbright
Password: ●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●

“Arming Site-19's nuclear warhead as planned.”

Time until detonation:
0:00:25

“Uhm, Sir, which Site was this again?”
“I think they said it's 61 or something like that.”

0:00:10

“I kind of remember seeing 19 here and there though.”
“Don't be ridiculous, son.”

0:00:01

0:00:00

The End
A movie by Safety Cinema Productions
Directed by ██████ ███████
Starring:

“And that's why we have security protocols,” said Safety Supervisor Thompson as he turned off the TV. "This educational movie concludes today's lecture. Any questions?"


Found in SCP-2118's cell.

Dear Carly,
I saw you in the newspaper. When they were removing all the nondangerous SCPs skips anomalies, the newspapers were there, they took pictures. There's a great one of you, you're in the middle of this big crowd of policemen and military and scientists, and you're looking right at the camera…you look like you're on fire. You look so brave, so strong. You made me feel so proud.
I knew you couldn't be dead. I knew it. Everyone thought I was crazy, but I knew you weren't dead.
I'm trying to get you back, now, but there's so much paperwork I have to get through. Lots of people are. Some people can't come back, they're keeping them there indefinitely…I keep hearing stories about people who've gotten their kids back and they don't remember them. Either the kids, or the parents. I hope more than anything that you remember me. You must have gone through so much. I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you. What you must think of me.
We celebrated your birthday every year, your dad and I did. We kept your room just like it was. You're 15 now, right? Practically a woman. We have a lot of good schools around here, I think you'll find one you like. Or we can homeschool you. Or if they have to keep studying you (god knows why), we'll move near one of those horrible facilities. As long as I can be with you again, I don't care. I only want you home.
I think a lot about how we fought when you were younger. I'm so sorry. I know now that you couldn't control it, you couldn't help sounding like him. I can't lose you, too. We'll figure something out. We'll find a way.
Please write back soon. I will see you as soon as they let me.
I love you.
-Mom

Found in the desk of SCP-682's primary researcher.

dear lizerd
hello. how are you? i am fine. my mom dos not know i am writing to you. i do not think she would like if i did but i can do it.
i seed you on tv. you were very big. i bet you could eat a city. have you ever eat a city? i bet you could. i want to see you do that.
i am writing you in class. miss drucy says to write a letter to your hero, so i am writing you one. i think you are my hero because i bet you can breathe fire.
how old are you? i am seven. other kids think you are scary but i do not think so.
love
benny

Found in the Foundation mailroom's "Do Not Deliver" pile.

Dear Mr. Lennox,
Please let me begin by saying how sorry I am for not communicating earlier. I felt it unwise, at our present points in our respective locations, to speak with you in any formal capacity. Now that Korea has…happened, however, I think the time has come for us to speak again.
And what a shock it was to look in my morning paper and see you looking back at me! Some intrepid reporter is publishing pictures of every living…SCP? That's what they're calling them? Seems a little dramatic, but I suppose you can't change what's done. In any case, he's publishing photos of every alive SCP he can get his lens on, and there you were this morning, this big lump of a bear staring out next to the crossword!
Is Abbie there with you? I remember when they took you, they found me in her records and searched for me as well, but my friends know how to hide from their watchful eye. I've been preoccupied and haven't been able to communicate as well as I would have liked, but official records apparently now state that she died. Of course, you and I both know better than to trust official records. Besides, how could they bury an empty box and call it a funeral? Someone will always know.
In any case, I wanted to let you know that I intend to keep my promise to you and Abbie. I am locating paperwork to have you released at this very moment, and as soon as you're back in my care, I have a place for you to live, out of the public's eye. It's quiet. I think you'll like it.
Did you read that, Foundation? Of course I know you're screening these letters. I can keep him safe. I can keep him secured. I can protect them both. Please let me.
Yours,
Jonathon

Found in a wastepaper basket in Site-06-3.

محترمہ نسیم,
ہم ایک بار پھر آپ کو مل گیا ہے خوش ہیں.
نیک نیتی کی علامت کے طور پر اس خط کو لے جاؤ. ہم آپ کو زندہ ہیں حیران رہ جاتے ہیں. ہم آپ کو اپنے والدین کے ساتھ رہنا جنت میں چلا گیا تھا سوچا. تم زندہ دیکھنے کے لئے ناقابل اعتماد ہے.
تاہم، آپ کو واپس آنا بہت خطرناک ہیں. ہم آپ کے ارد گرد کس طرح محسوس، ہم پسند نہیں کرتے. آپ کہاں ہیں آپ برا سلوک نہیں کر رہے ہیں.
ہم نے تمہیں زندہ رہ سکتے ہیں جانتے ہیں. اللہ پر طاقت میں تلاش کریں اور آپ کو اس کے ذریعے کر دے گا.
تمہاری،
محمد1

Found in the desk of SCP-682's primary researcher.

dear lizerd
my mom found out i wrote to you and got mad. miss drucy told her. she says my hero shouldn't be an unoml anamoln you. she says my hero should be human but that's dumb. she didn't even mail the letter i wrote before. so i stole it.
my mom says its not good to steal but it's also not good to lie and miss drucy said she would mail the letter then she didn't. i think its okay that i stole it. i got stamps out of mom's desk and told frank that he had to mail it right now today.
how big is your mouth? it looked real big on tv. i can fit 4 marshmallows into my mouth. how many can you fit in yours?
frank is the mailman. i told him it was a letter to my hero the lizerd and he didn't like that. he said you give him the fukin heebie jeebies. its okay lizerd, i do like you even if frank dosnt.
do you think i could meet you? i think we would be best frends.
love
benny

Found in the Site-77 mail pile.

DEAR FOUNDATION,
I now know it was you who stole Scarf.
I always thought. I had feelings that it was one of you groups that took them. My coworkers told me it was probably you, they said not to worry, I could make more. Everyone there knows about you. They all think you're cute, you're harmless packrats. I know better.
I couldn't make any more, I couldn't make another Scarf. How could I? I loved Scarf too much. I love Scarf too much.
Is love something you even understand?
I just want Scarf back. Is that so much? How much more from them do you need? They must be so scared, they must be so mistreated in your clinics.
I suppose you think I should be grateful, hm? I should be grateful it was you and not the artists, or the government? But I'm not. I don't understand why you kept them at all. Do you need to know how they work? I can tell you everything I know if you return Scarf to my care.
I'm coming to fetch them, and you cannot stop me. If you've hurt a fiber on Scarf's fringe, I swear, I will…how dare you. How dare you.
Do you need money? I don't have much. But I can give you my savings. I need them back. I need them to know how loved they are. I bet you all don't even hug them, do you? How long has it been since Scarf felt a loving hand?
Tell them I'm coming. Tell everyone I'm coming.
Signature is illegible.

Many copies found in mail trucks over the course of three weeks.

[INSERT FOUNDATION LETTERHEAD HERE]
SCP FOUNDATION
Secure, Contain, Protect
[DATE]
To Whom It May Concern,
After receiving and reviewing your letter, we have elected to not return the person or object of interest into the general populace/your care at this time. This has not been an easy decision to come to, but after reviewing the anomaly's properties, we have deemed them to be too disturbing or dangerous to be released.
Attached is the proper paperwork to fill out in order to receive visitation to your anomaly. Visiting hours are from 1200-1500 on the 26th of the month and take place at the location your anomaly is currently being stored. When you arrive, retrieve a visitor's pass and inform the front desk of your anomaly's designation. Without both the designation and the attached paperwork, you will be turned away.
Your anomaly is [INSERT IDENTIFICATION NUMBER HERE]. It is being stored at [INSERT SITE OR ONSITE CODE] in [INSERT LOCATION].
Thank you for your understanding at this time.
Sincerely,
Dr. Everett Mann
SCP Foundation Researcher

Footnotes
1. Ms. Nasim,
We are happy to have found you again.
Take this letter as a sign of good faith. We are amazed you are alive. We thought you had gone to heaven to be with your parents. Is incredible to see you alive.
However, it is too dangerous to let you come back. We do not like how we feel around you, and where you are you are not mistreated.
We know you can survive. Find strength in God and you will make it through.
Yours,
Mohammad


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“How long do you think he's going to take this time?”
Katsuo scratched his chin and checked his watch. “Who knows. He certainly doesn't seem to be in a rush."
Yuudai Shibata and Katsuo Tanaka sat in their undercover car, parked a safe distance away from a nondescript apartment complex in Fukuoka. Yuudai was fidgeting with his wristband and looking out the car window every so often to glance at the building's doors. Katsuo calmly sat in the car, checking his watch and phone occasionally while keeping a steady eye on the door.
A quiet beeping alerted Katsuo to his phone. Yuudai noticed a similar beeping from his. Both of them looked at each other for a moment before turning to their phones.
“MAJOR NEWS. REPORT TO DESIGNATED SPOT AT 1400 HOURS TOMORROW. -MI”
Katsuo cocked an eyebrow at the message. Minori Iwata herself thought it was a piece of major news? What exactly was happening?
“Look. There he is.” Yuudai pointed as the satchel carrying man that Yuudai had met earlier came out of the apartment complex. Noticeably, however, his satchel was gone. Whistling a pop tune, the man got into his car.
Katsuo quietly started the car, and began to follow the car once more. Yuudai licked his lips, and pulled out the pistol in his pocket, checking that the gun was loaded.
“Put that away. We're going to check where he lives, not kill him.” Katsuo glanced at Yuudai.
“Never hurts to be prepared, right? I'm not ruling anything out.” Yuudai pointed out.
“Put it away. I don't want you trigger happy, especially when you're not going anywhere near the guy. He's already seen you.”
Yuudai grimaced for a moment, but put the gun away. Katsuo couldn't blame him. He would have been worried had he been in Yuudai's shoes too.
Katsuo drove smoothly, but with a somewhat distracted air. What could Iwata possibly want? He wondered if the undercover agents had made any progress. He knew that the Foundation also had people in with the Dojin-kai, but he had no idea who they were or anything they had accomplished.
Maybe he needed to talk to Hisashi again, he thought. See if his contacts with the Dojin-kai knew anything that was going on with that group. Or would that just hurt his cover? Or would it be worse if he didn't do anything at all?
Katsuo shook his head clear of distracting thoughts to focus on the task at hand: following the dealer. Suddenly, the suspect's car turned left, down a smaller road, until it reached a small kendo dojo. The dealer parked the car and exited quietly, glancing around as he did so.
Tanaka stopped the car. This was something new.
A man came out of the dojo, and greeted the dealer, who produced the backpack full of money that Yuudai had given him. The newcomer looked at it, then smiled at the dealer, before taking the offered bag. After a few moments of conversation, the two entered the dojo together.
The detective turned off the car and pulled out his phone. While pretending to look at it, he used the phone's camera to discreetly gaze around at the street surrounding the car.
The whole street was located in one of the more well-to-do districts of the city, lined with fashionable clothing boutiques advertising the latest American styles, and small cafes and shops scattered throughout the area. Across the street from the kendo dojo was a small convenience store. The kendo dojo seemed almost out of place in this upscale neighborhood; a relic of an older time. It certainly seemed a little disused compared to the plastic shine of the rest of the area.
The detective focused on the last thing he saw, and walked into the convenience store. He glanced around. His only company was a bored looking cashier and an older man who was thumbing through some magazines.
Tanaka picked up a small box of candy as he walked to the register, still keeping an eye on the dojo across the street. The cashier mechanically checked out the purchase. Katsuo cleared his throat.
“So, that kendo dojo across the street. Is it any good?”
The cashier flicked his eyes to him for a moment. “I hear it's alright. Mostly younger guys wanting to look tough.”
“Ah, okay. Know anything about the master there?”
“Wouldn't know. Wouldn't care. Here's your candy, sir.”
Katsuo took the box back, and walked out of the store. As he passed between the doors, he casually dropped his hand behind him, sticking a small object next to the door of the convenience store, pointing straight at the dojo.
Tanaka entered the car and slid in smoothly, tossing the box of candy to Yuudai.
“Eat it, I'm not going to.”
Shibata seemed as if had a question, but thought better of it. He opened the box tentatively, but then set it down, staring into the box. After a moment, he looked back up into his mentor's eyes.
“What now?” The young detective asked.
Katsuo scratched his chin. “Looks like we've got a meeting.”

“Holy fucking shit, man. This is one hell of a payload.”
Naoki Koga reclined against his chair, almost wincing at the talk. All of these idiots wanting to look cool. As if watching a couple awful American gangster movies and swearing would boost your reputation.
Naoki ignored it though. Since his crew had started selling Spirit Dust, the money kept flowing in. And if that kept his crew happy and (relatively) quiet, he was okay with that. Even if meant putting up with the idiots. They'd learn eventually, or wash out like the rest.
The backroom of the dojo was filled to the brim with the members of Naoki's individual gang, a collection of 12 shatei that Naoki had hand-selected. They ranged in age from old to young, some dealers, some enforcers, some only foot-soldiers. All faithful yakuza. All handpicked by Naoki himself.
And in the middle of them all was a neatly organized pile of money so large it seemed almost cartoonish. Yoshida hadn't been joking when he talked about the price they were selling spirit dust for. And it had only been rising as they were selling the drug, Koga mused.
“So, after we give the oyabun his cut, what are we going to do with the rest?” The same man who spoke earlier asked. He grinned a toothy smile, all too telling of his youth. “I've got this motorcycle I've been eye-”
“Shut your mouth, you insolent twat.” An old man, covered in tattoos snorted. He shook his head in disgust, earning him some toothless grins from the older members. “Kyodai Koga is the one to decide, not a brat so young he's barely got a tattoo on him.” The old man gestured to his body to make his point.
The youth sprang up from his seat and glared at the old man, his eyes burning. His hands went to his belt. “You looking to start a fight, you pi-”
“Hey.” A single word, full of authority, cut through the air like a razor.
Naoki folded his arms as everyone turned to look at him. “The money goes to the family. We earned this as a family, we keep it as a family. Got it?” He looked around to meet the eyes of each of his gang brothers in turn. They met his gaze, or looked away in shame, in the case of the upstart.
A kyodai's word is law to shatei.
Naoki looked over at one man in particular. “Shiba-san. Count up the money, throw it in the safe, and make a record of it. Nobody's to touch it without me there.”
Shiba bowed deeply, and ran off to find a cart for the money. The youth looked at him, somewhat longingly, Koga noted.
Naoki sat in his chair with perfect poise, and steepled his fingers in front of him. It was a very American gesture that he had picked up, but he enjoyed it. He considered the audience in front of him, and chose his words carefully.
“Your loyalty is unquestionable. Yes?”
A few confused looks, but nods and murmurs of assent in response.
“You are my brothers in arms, and I've helped this crew get to where it is. Yes?”
The shatei looked far more confident now, and nodded vigorously or vocalized their agreement.
“So. Then you all did what I told you to?”
They nodded, this time for sure. The shatei dealers produced small devices from various places, and held them up for Naoki to see. He gestured to the table in front of him, and they placed their devices on the table. The screens on the devices glowed in an indistinct way.
Koga leaned back in his chair, and swept his hair backwards. “Excellent.” He couldn't help but grin at his crew.
Then, he heard a slight beeping from his phone, and froze. It wasn't his normal phone. He slipped into his pocket and pulled out his Foundation issue. On the screen was a single text message.
“MAJOR NEWS. REPORT TO DESIGNATED SPOT AT 1400 HOURS TOMORROW. -MI”
He looked at it, betraying no sign of distress in his face, though his stomach turned. Was it one of the other undercover agents? Iwata couldn't know about his latest moves yet, could she?
Whatever had happened, it wasn't likely to be good.
He looked up from his phone and put it away. He cleared his throat, looking up into the expectant eyes of his crew.
“Let's get to work.”

One hour earlier
Commander Minori Iwata put on her coat, and walked out of the Foundation facility onto the streets of Fukuoka, muttering some goodbyes to the people she passed, who knew better than to engage her in this kind of mood.
There was a light rain, but it didn't bother her too much. Rain was the least of her problems, as she stalked through the streets, head down, and mind full of thoughts.
All of these regional containment teams, and they had accomplished precisely jack shit. The rate at which spirit dust incidents were occurring was quickly growing uncontainable, but none of her teams had anything to report on with regards to investigation.
As far as she knew, spirit dust was a literal demonic substance, as some of the civilians they had amnesticized were saying. Nobody had any leads on where the substance was coming from, aside from the fact that the Dojin-kai yakuza were pushing it around. Where they got it from, nobody had any clue.
She glanced up, looking at the garish signs and ads of downtown Fukuoka, blaring some obnoxious drivel about beauty supplies or new appliances, or something else. She sighed. If only these beautifully deluded idiots knew what had to be done to keep them in their state of idle, ignorant bliss.
Her thoughts wandered back to the day. Her researchers couldn't figure out anything either, besides the fact that it was a plant with something weird about it. What she wouldn't give for an American base right now, with the kind of equipment they had…certainly better than this castoff junk they got when the Americans or Europeans were done with it.
She blinked through the rain, and shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She needed to relax a little. She had already chewed out a few terrified interns and containment team representatives. She didn't need anything else to cloud her mind for the coming days.

By the time she got home, the rain had picked up. Her drab apartment building looked even more drab than usual. She glanced at the potted plants lining the side of her apartment complex. They looked as silly as they usually did, little bushes in pots that had no business being there.
Minori chuckled a little. She really must be going senile. She was getting furious at a potted plant, of all things.
Minori opened the door to her first floor apartment carefully, as she did everyday. Sensing nothing wrong, she flicked the light on and entered her apartment. She closed the door behind her, and then let out a huge sigh, visibly deflating as her shoulders slumped and the coat slipped off of her.
It had been a long day. She was done playing her part for now. Commander Minori Iwata, the fiercely independent Foundation officer, shrugged off her carefully laid mask along with her coat, and simply became Minori Iwata, the very tired middle aged woman.
She strode through her mostly spartan living room, and made her way to the kitchen. She opened the top cabinet on the left, and drew out a bottle of Taiwanese kaoliang liquor. She needed it today.
She poured herself a glass, and settled on her small couch, deciding not to even take the effort to change. Idly, she flicked on the television, sipping her liquor, hoping that it might dull her senses enough to slip into sleep eventually. It burned as it went down, but with each sip, she could feel its magic work on her.
Heh. Who needs Spirit Dust when the regular stuff works just as well?
“…and we bring you more on the death of Councillor Takeda's son. Latest reports from the county coroner's office have revealed an unidentified plant substance within his body that is believed to be some form of narcotic. Sources believe that-”
Minori didn't hear the rest of the newscast. She was already on her phone, furiously texting, the haze of the alcohol already lifting.
“MAJOR NEWS. REPORT TO DESIGNATED SPOT AT 1400 HOURS TOMORROW. -MI”
Then, she put the glass aside, once again put on the mask of Commander Minori Iwata, Regional Containment Commander, and got back to work.
She supposed that the work never really stopped.

« Trip Hammer | Mainline Hub | Conferencing »


Katrina sat on the red bench, her shiny Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunchbox to her left, and Little Miss Dotty Doo tucked under her right arm. The sun felt nice on her face. She absently swung her feet, which almost (but not quite) touched the ground, back and forth.
She hadn't particularly wanted to go to the movies today – not after what had happened. Instead, she had decided to come to the park. It was such a lovely day, and she knew Little Miss Dotty Doo loved the sunshine.
She had packed herself a lunch: one apple, a juice box, and a granola bar. She'd wanted to make a sandwich, but all the lunch meat had spoiled long ago. It didn't really matter, she supposed. She could enjoy the sunshine even if she didn't have her absolute favorite sandwich in the world, as long as she had Little Miss Dotty Doo with her. As long as she loved Little Miss Dotty Doo, and Miss Dotty Doo loved her, everything was okay.
It wasn't that Katrina didn't notice the looks the kids on the street gave her and her lovely house, because she did. She simply didn't care. They were probably just jealous, because Little Miss Dotty Doo didn't love them. Even when some of the big kids were mean, she knew they were just mad. She could tell because sometimes they tried to take Little Miss Dotty Doo away.
But Little Miss Dotty Doo would not tolerate it. She only loved Katrina, and Katrina loved her. And Miss Doo would not allow anyone to separate them.
So everything was okay.
"Hey, weirdo," came a voice from behind her. A mean voice. A big-kid voice.
Katrina stood and turned. She left her shiny Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunchbox on the red bench, but kept Little Miss Dotty Doo tucked under her right arm. It wasn't just a big kid. It was Morgan, the biggest kid of all. The biggest bully in the eighth-grade class. She had her scraped-up arms folded high on her chest and her dirty baseball cap with the brim to the back of her head. Her freckled face was scrunched up it the way it got when she was looking to pick a fight. Katrina thought it made her look like a pig.
"You're supposed to be in school." Katrina shifted her weight from foot to foot and clutched Little Miss Dotty Doo tightly. It always made her uncomfortable when Morgan's face got scrunched up like a pig's. It was kind of scary.
"I got suspended. I hit Peter Charles on the head."
"That's a mean thing to do." Katrina was never sure how to speak with Morgan. She could never tell what the bigger girl with her scraped-up arms would say next.
"No shit, Sherlock." Morgan spat, a great big gross glob. It landed on the red bench, where Katrina had been sitting.
"Please don't curse," Katrina shifted her weight. "Little Miss Dotty Doo doesn't like it when you curse."
"Your doll can't think, dummy." Morgan spat again. This time, it landed on Katrina's shiny Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunchbox. "It's made of plastic. Sorry-not."
"Little Miss Dotty Doo can think," Katrina insisted. "She loves me."
"Jesus, why do you have to be so weird?" Morgan scratched her scraped-up left forearm. Her face scrunched up even more. "Living all alone in that creepy house and not even coming to school, like, ever, and sitting there in that mothy dress while it's hot out, it's weird. No wonder nobody likes you. It's cause you always have that fucking doll, you little psycho."
"Little Miss Dotty Doo loves me. And I love her, too. I don't need more friends. I don't want none."
"You are insane. I saw what you did to Lenny. Man, I don't know what it was but you're a psycho, and everyone knows it. Everyone knows about Lenny, and no one is ever going to be your friend. How do you like that Miss Mothy-Dress?"
Then, Katrina heard a whisper. Little Miss Dotty Doo spoke to her, and told her what to say.
"If I'm so crazy dangerous, you probably shouldn't be talking to me." Katrina's voice was strong and clear, the way it only got when Little Miss Dotty Doo was helping her. "I might make you disappear, too. If you had any brains, you would have realized that by now, Morgan." And she smiled sweetly.
Morgan stood for a moment, stunned. The gears turned in her head, processing Katrina's words. Then, her face scrunched up the tightest Katrina had ever seen it. She rounded the red bench, stomping her booted feet, her hands clenching and unclenching as her breathing grew heavier.
"Give me that, you little BITCH!" Morgan roared, and she tackled the smaller girl to the ground. Katrina held onto Little Miss Dotty Doo as tightly as she could, but of course Morgan was stronger. Little Miss Doo left Katrina's hands and she felt the cloud begin to creep up behind her eyes. The emptiness began filling her, starting in her toes as Morgan began to run, holding Little Miss Dotty Doo under her arm like a football. It grew stronger and stronger as Miss Doo moved farther and farther from her.
But she knew everything would be okay. Little Miss Dotty Doo loved her, and she loved Miss Dotty Doo. She knew Miss Doo had a plan. They only had to be apart for five minutes. Little Miss Dotty Doo would protect herself, like she always did.
Then they would have a new friend.
Katrina huddled her feet underneath her as Morgan crossed the empty street and entered an alley, leaving her line of sight. She rocked back and forth as she waited. The emptiness filled her up but she resisted crying. She had to be strong for Miss Doo.
Then, there came a scream from the alley. Katrina checked quickly to make sure no one else had heard it and would investigate, but the street and the park were deserted.
Katrina stood, retrieving her shiny Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunchbox from the red bench. She walked quickly across the street and into the alley, feeling the emptiness draining from her as she went.
Close to the other end of the alley, she found them. Little Miss Dotty Doo lay flat on the pavement. Next to her sat a beautiful porcelain cup and saucer. They were white with blue patterned designs around the edges.
"Miss Dotty Doo, it's beautiful!" She picked Miss Doo up and cradled her in her right elbow, then retrieved the cup and saucer with her left hand. "We have a new friend. Let's go home."
They would never be separated. Katrina had all the friends she needed at home.
And she loved Little Miss Dotty Doo, and Miss Dotty Doo loved her.
Everything was okay.


Date: 2015-02-15

Time: 17:56

From: Subsite 23-Delta-K6 Lead Research Analyst Dr Marion Kelster

To: Subsite 23-Delta-K6 Chief Security Officer Frank Onegra

Subject: RE: (Ex)Agent Paris - observations and SCP-2982 testing to date

Hi Frank
Tests confirm it. Changing the contact details changes the person. CCTS Golan's 'species' was changed to Patella vulgata - the common limpet - by another test subject.
Golan displayed signs of extreme distress almost immediately. Physiological changes were complete within an hour.
It took a security detail three hours to pry him off the floor using crowbars. The mucus was everywhere. We're currently arranging suitable salt water containment. Sometimes the little things make you smile.
Dr M Kelster

"Real name, date of birth and designation?"
The man blinked under the glare of the lights, not fully comprehending the question. The room was bright, clinical, shadowless; a faint, lingering smell of disinfectant; wipe-clean furnishings; tiled walls and floor. Hygienic and stark. Things happened here, he realised. Things that the sterility of the test chamber could not hide.
The question came again, and this time he answered.  "David Golan.  July the 5th. 1975. D-2982-13."
Somewhere nearby, a pleasantly banal three tone chime sounded softly. A light above the door outside would be changing from green to red.
Test In Progress; Do Not Enter, Do Not Disturb.
"Time is 14:30:01… Stress levels stable at Blue-3… D-2982-13, can you read the first line in green on the display on the wall directly in front of you? Read it out loud, in your own time, and tap your foot as you speak."
Golan squinted, his eyes still adjusting to the test chamber's harsh, unnaturally bright light. "The sun shine… shines… on the beach. Jane is eating an… ice cream."
"You're doing great," said the voice.  A slightly bored, humdrum voice. "Your foot, though? Can you tap your foot, please? In time?"
Golan looked down as he answered. "Look; I'm not super smart but - " He stopped mid sentence. His foot was still. "That's weird. I thought - I mean, I can feel it tapping. God." He looked up at the lights; there were no obvious cameras to direct his question to. "Did you do this? Is this you? What exactly is this a test of?"
"Try not to get ahead of yourself," the voice suggested. "Just focus on the here and now." And then, as an aside to someone else, "Time is 14:31:02. Possible positive. Stress levels rising to Green-7." And back to Golan, "Please describe your physical and emotional condition."
"I don't know," he answered. "Starting to freak out a little here. Tired, thirsty."
"There's water in the hydrating pouches. Fresh in the blue, salt in the red. Feel free."
"Why would anyone want salt water?" he asked himself. Nevertheless he walked over to the alcove and found himself picking up one of the red water bottles. It sloshed with a surprisingly pleasant, soothing sound. He held it close to his cheek before putting the nozzle to his mouth.
"Time is 14:33:42. Stress levels falling back to Green levels," noted the voice, again as an aside; muffled, as if a hand were being held over the microphone. "Second possible positive."
Golan sucked, not quite sure how the salt water would taste.  He expected to have to fight the urge to be sick, but it was a revelation; like nectar, or champagne, or good strong beer. Delicious. He drank the contents of the bottle within seconds and discarded the crumpled plastic husk onto the floor.
He licked his lips. He understood that this sudden taste for brine was unnatural, and no doubt part of whatever test he was being subjected to, but at a deeper level he didn't care; it was delicious.  He picked up the bottle again and sucked harder, eager to get every last drop from it.
Even as he discarded it he was reaching for the others. One, two, three, four… The fifth he poured over his face, relishing the sensation of the water on his skin.
He was vaguely aware of the disembodied voice again. "Time is 14:36:57. Subject D-2982-13 has consumed six litres of salt water in eighty five seconds. Yeah… Likewise. Not this quickly, though. Fascinating. Stress levels falling to Indigo-9."
"You know I can hear you, right?" Golan said. "Shouldn't you be on mute or something?"
"Not important," came the response. "What we're discussing won't affect the validity of the test."
"Really? What if I don't like it? What if I refuse to cooperate?" Golan countered. "What if I clam up?"
Another voice, female, quieter and therefore, Golan guessed, sitting next to the first. "Clam up?" it said, just audible. "Now that is ironic. Best line of the day."
"What does that mean?" asked Golan. "What the hell does that mean?"
"Stress levels rising to Green-Blue-1."
He drew a deep breath, ready to demand that the test be halted, ready to demand to see a lawyer - but stopped suddenly as a new sensation squirmed its way into his awareness.
"You okay in there?"
"I don't know," he answered. "My feet are sticky."
"Sticky?"
Golan didn't answer. Instead, he sat on the single plastic chair and removed his standard assignment slip-ons, fumbling with suddenly unresponsive fingers to remove them.  He flicked the left one off first - strings of thick, slimy gunk splattered outwards as he did so - and without thinking put his foot down on the tiled floor.
"What the - "
As the sole of his foot made contact, it squelched.
What is this? He looked down, fascinated and disgusted, as his foot spread outwards; no mass, no structure, just something with vague, amok toes, adrift like little pink lifeboats in a sea of nonsensical skin and flesh, veins like tiny wriggling scrawls of spaghetti spasming against orphaned bones.
One second, two seconds, three seconds, four.
And then the horror, the reality of what he was witnessing hit home. He tried to stand up, to pull away, his senses in revolt, but his foot was anchored firmly to the floor and he fell backwards, his arms windmilling and his bowels and bladder failing.
"And there's the Anderson Reaction, right there," said the voice. "Stress levels rising to Yellow-5."
"Oh Christ in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name," he whispered. "Oh God our Father, give us this day our daily bread. Hail Mary, full of grace…"
"Time is 14:46:32. Subject D-2982-13 is showing signs consistent with expected test results. Stress levels rising to Yellow-1."
Golan struggled to regain his balance. "You're fucking with my mind," he said.  "Drugs in the fucking water. Christ, this isn't happening. This is not real."
He lurched forwards, the shapeless omelette of his left foot spreading outwards ever further; but the bone, skin and meat of his ankle and shin was also losing its form; his leg an amorphous, pink-grey candle melting from the bottom up and pooling on the floor as it softened.
His hands went out in front of him. His palms scuffed the floor but they too stuck to the tiled surface. He tried to pull his right hand back, and it came away a little, but it was thick with self-made slime that sucked it back down again. He shut his eyes and felt the same gluey mucus behind his eyelids.
Half-crouching he rocked himself backwards and forwards in fear, feeling his hands, wrists and lower arms becoming the same homogenous mass as his legs. He couldn't open his eyes to look - they were shut tight, and either the mucus or some other change was being worked upon them. Golan realised instinctively that he had lost them forever, and in that knowing was born a horror equal to any others. He knew that his fingers were loose and drifting, the flesh of his hands merging and congealing with that of his feet and legs, even if he could no longer see them. Four twitching, flailing, shit-splattered limbs blancmangeing into one.
"Please," he wanted to beg, but the words were mis-shapen in his mouth, his tongue suffering the same misfortune as his limbs, while his jawbone and skull shifted position, moving up, up, up and ignoring the previous rigidity of his anatomy. He hunched down, aware acutely that his spine was hardening and spreading to form a hard plate around the malaise of his flesh. Its progress forced his head down to the floor; he could but comply as his tongue grew large and overtook the confines of his mouth, his teeth finding new purpose and housing along it. The thick muscle rasped against the cold white tiles, tasting mucus, disinfectant and his own bodily waste.
Dear Christ help me dear Christ help me.
And then - almost some kind of crazy relief as his eyesight, after a fashion, came back.
From the observation room, Lead Research Analyst Dr Marion Kelster looked on, contemplating the small wonders of her job. "See that?" she said to herself, "Eye stalks. It has eye stalks now."
"Time is 14:57:34," said the researcher sitting next to her. "Subject D-2982-13 is on all fours, body mass is undergoing significant transition in accordance with expected test results. Transition includes homogenisation and refunctioning of limbs, homogenisation and refunctioning of spine and other bone mass into a single unit, and refunctioning of sensory organs.  All of the above in keeping with the physiology of patella vulgata, as per contact changes on SCP-2982 performed by D-2982-06 at 14:26. Stress levels rising to Orange-4."
"Oh Christ, no," exclaimed Kelster. "This is horrible. Just horrible."
Her colleague turned to her in surprise, taking his gaze off the video feed. On screen, D-2982-13 was trying to reach the door; eye stalks swiveling wildly this way and that, urine and faeces sluicing out from under his newly forming shell as his internal organs shifted and changed to suit their new anatomy. Golan oozed and shuddered and quivered his bulk forwards, desperate for help, for comfort, for any kind of reassuring contact; but the nerves and ligaments and muscles were still reimagining themselves, and they could not be controlled. He felt tears bubbling up inside, felt them manifesting as a thick froth, a skirt of mucus around the base of his shell, and he tried to scream; but his vocal chords were gone now, subsumed into the thick cord of his tongue and the feeding tube therein.
His eyes swiveled up to the hot, bright lights, hoping that someone somewhere would see the lucidity in his eyes and recognise the humanity suffocating with terror behind them.
"Just horrible," Kelster said again, and this time noticed her colleague looking at her.
"The coffee," she said. "It's cold."


The grey little man was gathering his belongings.
Not many of those. A microfiber towelette he used to clean his monitor, a few spare ink cartridges he thought no one would miss, his green stapler, that cheap plastic wizard figurine he got at a garage sale a few years back. Thirty years of service packed in less than half of a cardboard box.
It was just like the HR man said. The grey little man remembered the plastic smile the HR man plastered on when he told him the news.
"Your service record is impeccable," he said, "but your expertise is simply no longer needed nowadays."
A plastic bird with a long neck dipped its head into a small container of water as the HR man explained the conditions of his 'early retirement', as he called it. The walls were plastered with happy and oh so very current Foundation personnel in motivational posters, raising beakers and firearms and documents as they all smiled blankly at the grey little man from their high abodes.
"It's not like we don't appreciate what you do, you understand, but what you do simply isn't done." The HR man seemed to barely pay any attention as he enumerated one by one the reasons for the little grey man's obsolete nature. "You used to be an expert on the Bronze Crusaders, and they're no longer around. Then you transferred to the Prism Program, and we all know how well that went, eh? Then there was that thing with the training, and the less said about that, the better…"
And on and on. The little grey man sat there for what seemed like a small eternity as the HR man droned on and on. He was going to get a pension, of course, quite respectable, and a little bronze plate somewhere on the site to commemorate his contributions to various projects. Maybe even on one of the new benches for the garden, the HR man suggested. They would be happy to provide him with recommendations for any future endeavors he might want to participate in, though those would have to be fabricated in advance, and could he clear his desk by Wednesday? That would be great.
Wednesday has come, and the little grey man was on his way out. Someone left a goodbye card on his desk. The man was touched for a moment, then he noticed they spelled his name wrong. From the common room, he could hear the sound of the farewell party held at his honor. No one noticed he wasn't there, of course. From the sounds of it they were just cutting the cake.
Oh well. He was diabetic anyway.
Lifting his little box, the grey little man left his office for the last time. Maintenance had already removed his name from the door.
He walked through the site that has been his home for the last thirty years, and though some gazes lingered on him briefly, no one called to him. He reached the foyer. The secretary was new and paid him no heed. Box in hand, he shuffled his way to the long wall facing the front entrance. It was covered in little bronze plates, each bearing the name of one retiree or another. Shiny little monuments to lifetimes of world saving labor.
Was it sad that the little grey man could recall none of them?
He did not know.
The secretary did not look out as he left the site for the last time.


In the beginning, there was darkness. All was formless waste and empty void - The quiet nothing without time or place, the gentle sleep that has no waking.
All was still.
Nothing stirred in the darkness.
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Then there was light.
The light separated the Darkness Above from the Darkness Beneath, and there was disparity between them. Between the darkness and the light there was also disparity, and shadows flickered therein.
The light shone in the darkness, and was not overcome. Likewise the darkness was not destroyed, but given form both Above and Below.
From the darkness came the Eldest, the All-Death. He came from the darkness and was of the darkness and was the darkness, and nothing to come might pass beyond him. Vast and mighty was he, that no other might comprehend the reach of his arm, or the length of his gaze.
The Eldest sat by the light and watched it for a time, for he found the light good.
The All-Death was not proud, firstborn though he was. He encompassed all that was and would be within the light and the dark, and so knew the manner of its turning and the hour of its passing. Only he might care for the light and what was to come, for only the Death of All Things might reach so far and be so just.
The light grew in the sight of the All-Death and became fire. As fire it burned and spread outwards, and with the fire came a song: a song of the hammer-beat of creation's forge, the roaring of nuclear bellows, the crystal choirs of quarks, the somber tones of gravity wells, the shimmering waves of plasma cast off of infant stars.
Death listened to the music, and found it good.
From the darkness then came the Great Death, the Middle Brother. He was not so mighty nor as vast as the Eldest, though his reach was wide indeed. His domain was to be catastrophe, and thus his face was obscured by wrought metal and stone. Mountainlike he came, the Death of the multitudes, and his heralds came with him – their names were Conquest and War and Famine and Disease.
“Hail and well met, Brother!” spoke the Middle to the Eldest.
“Well met, Brother,” spoke the Eldest to the Middle. He motioned, that the Great Death might take a seat beside him, but the Middle Brother remained standing in the shadow of the Eldest, for he did not presume equality with his brother, and held fears of the unknowable reaches of his brother's mind.
The Eldest took no insult from this, and blew upon the fire to kindle it.
Within the fire now could be seen the faint outlines of trunk and root and branches, as if made of the finest crystal. The fire flowed through the tree and within the tree and around the tree, and the song was carried ever louder through the shining branches and strong roots.
“It is good, is it not?” asked the Eldest of the Middle.
“I cannot say whether it be good or not,” spoke the Middle to the Eldest. “It is not my place to declare such things.”
“For this you are my brother true, and shall help me carry the weight,” spoke the Eldest to the Middle.
From the darkness now came the Small Death, the Youngest Brother, pale of face and dark of robe, hard of eye and strict of hand. A silver sickle he carried, and it was by this tool that each soul born would be collected.
“Hail, brothers,” spoke the Youngest.
“Hail. We are together at last,” spoke the Middle.
“Indeed,” spoke the Youngest.
The Youngest did not approach his elder brothers, but remained apart from them. He was small in reach and mind, and his thoughts were narrow, such that the mind of the Middle was terrible to him, and the mind of the Eldest more horrible still. He watched the fire with cold silver eyes, but said nothing.
“It is good, is it not?” asked the Eldest of the Youngest.
“By what measure do you make cruelty goodness?” spoke the Youngest. “By what cost of pain must life be bought? By disparity we are made, and by disparity we are made necessary, yet why must it be so?”
The Eldest did not answer. He knew the mind of the Small Death, and knew of his fears and doubts. No answer he might give would aid his brother, nor any truth give him solace. The answers he sought were known to the Eldest alone, and he alone might understand them.
The Eldest rose, and towered over his brothers. His countenance was as dark as the void of his birth and his robes as white as the same. Above his head, shadows swirled about in the dark vaults of the heavens – the first of the elder gods kicked in their womb, and likewise in the abyss beneath his feet they swam. The tree grew tall and broad, shone bright and sang loud.
“Come, brothers,” the Eldest said. “Let us go to our halls and take up our residence there. A great work awaits us.”
There was agreement between the Great and the Small, and the Brothers Three passed from the light of the tree into shadow.
Later, there was the click of sensible heels, and a woman stepped out of the darkness. She beheld the tree for a moment, before stepping into its light and passing beyond.
The tree grew strong, and the vaults of heaven and the depths of the abyss gave birth.
This is how creation came about.


Tom and Jill Herring had been in the middle of dinner when they were interrupted by a knock at the front door. Rolling his eyes in annoyance, Tom went to answer. He was greeted by a tattered Daniel Navarro in bloodstained plainclothes.
“Jesus Christ, Dan,” said Tom, his mouth open in surprise. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Evening, Tom,” the agent calmly replied. “Mind if I come in?”
“I'm not sure if that's a good idea…” Tom began, pausing when he noticed Navarro discreetly held a pistol in his right hand.
“I insist,” said Navarro. He then gestured for Tom to lead the way.
A few moments later Navarro was seated at their kitchen table. An uncomfortable silence filled the room as he gestured for the couple to continue with their meal. Instead, the two anartists looked Navarro over.
Gone was his sly smile. In its place a contemplative frown dominated his face. The ever-present stubble that they were familiar with was now more of a beard. Several partially healed cuts and bruises could be seen across his face and arms.
“So, uh,” Tom began, trying to hide how flustered he was behind a smile, “what brings you to the neighborhood?”
Navarro promptly pulled several folders out of a backpack he had been carrying and placed them on the table. With a delicate touch, he opened the folder at the top of the pile and began to read.
“Anthony Romero, a specialist in making and animating small porcelain figurines, found in his apartment in San Francisco three weeks ago encased in porcelain. Jessica Teal, a glass blower who had a talent for making bottles that could hold anomalously large amounts of liquid, found dead in her home two and a half weeks ago; her brain had been removed and replaced with one of her own glass bulbs. Charles Torres, liked to make films that changed in content every time they were viewed, strangled by several roles of Super 8 film in his workshop a week ago. Viviana and Tori Perez, two sculptors who specialized in a process of malleable steel, we got to them first this time, but there was a fight… they ended up impaled together by a steel rod.”
Navarro slammed the folders down on the table with a large thud.
“Each of these anartists was murdered by the same person, for no other reason than the fact that they were one of my friends, informants, or in most cases, both.”
“That's tragic, Daniel,” Jill said apprehensively, “but that doesn't exactly explain why you're here…”
“Well, Jill,” Navarro replied, “it just so happened that the man who killed them was Jericho.”
“Wait, what…” Tom muttered. His expression turned to one of disgust.
“Why?” Jill asked. Her face became pale with shock.
“Does it matter?” Navarro replied, “The point is people are dying; people with families.”
“You're lying…” Jill said. “You're a Suit. Why should we believe you? What on earth would drive someone as kind as Jericho to do all this…”
Navarro collected something from each of the folders and placed them in front of Jill. Each one was a note card.

First. Cheers – JTH

Second. Enjoy – JTH

Third. Love – JTH

Fourth and Fifth. Your friend – JTH

“Because he's insane,” Navarro answered. He then sighed and began to mumble. “And I may or may not have gotten his brother and fiancé killed on one of my early raids with the Suits…”
The room fell silent. Jill and Tom's disgust for Jericho now focused on Navarro.
“So what on earth made you think coming here was a good idea?” Tom asked.
In response Navarro reached back into his pack and pulled out several bank statements. Each one belonged to Tom.
“Because I know Jericho's been your patron for quite a while, Tom,” Navarro said. “And that it's very likely that you have some means of arranging a meeting with him.”
“You want us to become turncoats?” Jill asked.
“That would be nice,” Navarro replied.
“And if we refuse?”
Navarro let out a frustrated sigh.
“Does it look like I came here dressed for no to be your answer? You're helping me catch this son of a bitch, or I swear to god I will burn your fucking house down.”
Jill nervously laughed.
“You wouldn't.”
Navarro gave a small snap of his fingers, causing a tiny blue flame to appear on the palm of his right hand.
“Try me.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hang on there champ!” Tom said as he got out of his seat. “Let's not do anything stupid. I'll shoot Jericho an email right now. I can guarantee you he'll respond by tomorrow morning.”
“Excellent,” Navarro smiled, extinguishing the flame by clenching his fist. He then got to his feet and swung his pack over his shoulder. “We can discuss the details over coffee tomorrow afternoon, say, at three. Jill knows the coffee shop.”
Navarro began to make his way to the exit, stopping to turn on his way out.
“I promise that if all goes well, you'll never see me again. I mean it this time.”
Without another word, the agent left, the door softly closing behind him. With a sigh, Jill buried her face in her hands.
“Bullshit.”

Two days later, Daniel Navarro found himself hidden among several crates within Tom Herring's studio. A collection of half-finished metal and stone sculptures were spread throughout the space, giving the large room a feeling of being crowded. Navarro sighed as he adjusted his position. Any second now, Jericho was due to arrive.
Navarro felt himself tense up upon hearing the sound of the studio doors opening. A tall, sharply dressed man with short blond hair entered. A single black leather glove could be seen on his right hand. The agent recognized him on sight as Jericho T. Hill.
“Evening, Tom,” Jericho said as he began to make his way towards the workbench at the center of the room. His voice carried a tone of exhaustion. Jericho began to look around the room for his absent host. “Tom?”
Show time, Navarro thought to himself. He quietly drew his pistol, and leveled his weapon before firing four shots.
Nearly the same second Navarro pulled the trigger, Jericho turned where he stood and held out his gloved hand. The bullets stopped inches in front of his palm and then fell harmlessly to the floor. Jericho then clenched his fist, causing the pistol to be yanked from Navarro's hand. The weapon skittered across the floor, stopping at the base of a large metal sculpture.
Navarro lost no time. He immediately pulled a small knife out of his jacket pocket and made a small cut on his left hand. Charging forward from his hiding place, Navarro made a series of gestures, accompanied by unintelligible speech. The room filled with a flash of light, as a pillar of brilliant blue fire emerged from the floor, Jericho barely managing to roll out of the way of the blaze.
Continuing his chant, Navarro made two more cuts into his arm, sending up two more pillars of flames, one after the other. As before, Jericho managed to roll away from the danger, and made a claw with his gloved hand. A great force yanked Navarro's pocket knife out of his hand and sent it flying into the ceiling.
“You fucking snake!” Jericho shouted, and held up his gloved hand. Ten steel rebar poles moved from a storage rack behind him and hovered in the air, the tips sharpening to fine points.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Navarro mumbled to himself as he began to dash for cover. He looked back long enough to see Jericho point with the index finger of his gloved hand. The rebar poles began to sail through the air. Navarro ducked under the first, watching it sail and stick into the far wall. The second and third collided with the ground immediately behind him. Navarro jumped over the fourth, and then slid behind the base of a large marble statue of a woman. The statue violently shook as the remaining poles slammed into it. Navarro let out a heavy sigh of relief.
The sound of someone running caused Navarro's attention to switch from his own well-being back to Jericho, who was making a break for the exit. Jumping to his feet, Navarro blindly charged towards the door, gaining speed as he prepared to intercept his target. Being the quicker of the two men, Navarro tackled Jericho to the ground. The anartist landed face first on the pavement and slid a foot before coming to a stop.
“Just… die… already!” Navarro shouted as he pulled Jericho's head back by his short hair and slammed his face into the ground repeatedly, continuing this for several hits before Jericho elbowed Navarro in the gut. Jericho took advantage of Navarro's pause, and knocked the agent off him.
Jericho got to his feet, and proceeded to deliver three kicks Navarro's side before finishing with a sharp punt to the agent's face. He then steadied and then raised his gloved hand. A rebar pole flew into his grip and flattened into a thin blade. Jericho raised the blade for the kill.
“You look ridiculous, Jericho,” Navarro mumbled as he looked at his foe. He then spit up a tooth. “The blood stains really clash with the scorch marks.”
Jericho shook his head as he chuckled and began the downward swing of the strike. At the same time, Navarro made a swift kick at Jericho's legs, sweeping them out from beneath him. Jericho released the blade as he fell backwards, Navarro catching it as he got to his feet. Without another moment lost, he delivered a single cut. Jericho let out a bloodcurdling scream of pain upon hitting the ground. His gaze focused on the stump at the end of his wrist where his right hand used to be.
“What a fine predicament we find ourselves in, old friend!” Navarro shouted over Jericho's screams. He stabbed the blade into Jericho's right leg, and then the left. Navarro tossed the blade aside and quietly retrieved his gun.
“You know,” he continued as he inspected the weapon and began to slowly walk back, “originally I had just planned on killing you, since it would be very hard to incapacitate you with that glove on your hand.” Navarro kicked the severed hand away, and watched as it rolled across the floor. He then pinned Jericho with one foot, and pointed the firearm at Jericho's head. “However, I just thought of a better plan.”
With his free hand he pulled out a phone and made a call.
“Hey, Merlo,” said Navarro, “You have that address I texted you earlier, yeah? Get a few of your guys down here; I have someone Holman would want to meet. Hurry up; he's kind of starting to bleed out.”
Navarro hung up the phone and slipped it back into his jacket pocket.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Jericho managed to say between cries of pain.
“Giving you to the Foundation,” Navarro cruelly smiled. “Who knows? If you're lucky, they might offer you the same deal they offered me.”
Navarro's smile twisted into a sneer.
“We'll see how fucking noble you are then.”

Agent Navarro yet again sat in the office of Site Director Edgar Holman. His superior rubbed his temple with his right hand as he looked over the hastily created report Navarro had made for Jericho's apprehension.
“So, let me get this straight,” Holman said with a frustrated sigh, “You knew someone who could have helped you set up an ambush for Hill this entire time, and you only now used this knowledge to your advantage?”
“I didn't know of the Herrings' connection to him until after the Templar incident,” Navarro shrugged. “Even then, I only wanted to use it as a last resort.”
“Five dead Foundation contacts certainly fits that bill,” Holman snapped.
He then spun around in his chair and stared at the far wall of his office. The room fell into an uncomfortable silence.
“I still remember when they first brought you here in 2004…”
“Fond memories?”
“Hardly,” Holman replied. “Sometimes I wonder if maybe it would have been better to just amnesticize you after that raid on your apartment.”
Navarro gave a small, regretful smile.
“You and me both.”
Without another word, Navarro was dismissed. Agent Merlo was waiting for him outside.
“You know, for a smart man you sure are a dumbass,” she said. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I can't say that I really was, to be honest. Besides, it wouldn't have worked any other way,” Navarro replied. “Jericho won weeks ago.”
“What do you mean?” Merlo frowned.
“They've decided to remove me from active field duty. I'm to be stationed at Site-19 and help with any new anart that gets dragged through. Unauthorized was the only way this got done.”
“So this was all revenge then?”
“I'm not going to pretend that it was anything grander.”
“Fuck, Dan,” Merlo sighed. “That makes you no better than Jericho.”
Navarro gave a small, amused chuckle.
“I suppose it doesn't.”
The two remained silent as they approached the elevators.
“I can talk to Holman,” Merlo eventually broke the silence. “We might be able to get you transferred to Site-64…”
Navarro held up his hand to interrupt.
“It's fine,” he said. “I think I could use the time alone. I'm not due at Site-19 for a few weeks. I think maybe it would be best if I disappeared for a while. Pop back up when I'm a little less toxic.”
Merlo gave a small, apprehensive nod.
“So this is it then?”
“Looks like it.”
“What are you going to do now?”
Navarro paused before giving a halfhearted shrug. He slowly entered the elevator and turned to face his friend.
“I don't know. Maybe Disneyland?” he replied, and allowed the doors to close.

«Part Four: The Templar Incident | Hub | END»


Alright everybody, welcome to the orientation for the memetics and infohazards division. Now this is a full week of training, and a long day so be sure to get some coffee or a donut, because we won't have time to go get food until lunch.
I'm Junior Researcher Zack Ekshun, and, I, ah, yes? A question like 'How am I perceiving this message from that very handsome man saying other words?' or 'Whose voice does this sound like in my head?' But those are not the most important questions right now.Question?
Why aren't I having any coffee or donuts? Heh, looks like we have at least one veteran of the reality benders orientation. Well to put your mind at ease, why don't you get me some coffee and a donut or two. Usually I take it black, but add some milk and sugar just to cover all the bases. Hey sprinkles! Nice.
Now, you're right to be suspicious. You get lied to a lot at the Foundation. Little things like 'We only put tracking chips in D-class', 'This will be the first time you receive amnestics' and the location of the site you're currently sitting in.
Some of you. But today, I'm going to be completely honest with you.
Which gets us to the important part, you don't have to worry about us secretly feeding you drugs. We will be very openly feeding you lots of powerful hallucinogens.
The reason we're not bothering to hide it is because, like most infohazards, our psychedelic testing regimen works whether or not you know about it ahead of time. The reason we're making you trip balls is that we need to make sure you can handle your shit regardless of what your brain thinks is going on.
It doesn't matter if the walls are melting and cats with your grandmothers' face are telling you the secret history of the world. You write your reports, conduct tests and follow the containment procedures. You document everything the grandma cats tell you and ride it out until you punch out. Most of the time. What's in your head can't hurt you unless you let it.
To work with infohazards you need to notice when things don't make sense, and this is the important part, respond accordingly. Do you suddenly have a spouse you didn't this morning? Well, maybe you shouldn't consummate that relationship. Were you always taking advice from the omnidimensional blood gods you're thinking about building a shrine to? Maybe instead you should talk to your supervisor, because we sure don't need another prophet to Welcome.
Hey! That got everybody's attention. Yeah, part of what you'll learn is how not to say things. Did you know that Hi% of redacted information is memetic censoring? It's written there as clear as day, if you have the clearance and counterprogramming. Want to know how it's done?
Well first Welcome to the real orientation. If you can perceive this then you'll be working with us in the real Memetics and Infohazards Division. It should come as no surprise to you that there are many layers to our Division. Everyone else nodding out right now are just the cover. They will be playing an important role in misdirection and counterintelligence as well as handling all the busywork. Misdirection is basic info manipulation. Everyone worried about drugs or their suppository tracking devices misses the important stuff.
You get to do the real work, and it takes more than just a week to get you to that level. This week will provide the basics the others get, with the real preparatory seminars transmitted through a variety of unconventional channels. The testing has already begun to see who can pick up all of it. The full spectrum of information all around us is invisible to the sleepwalkers drooling next to you.
You all carry some form of the Sorry gene which is present in .NO% of the population, which the Foundation screens for. While you can perceive this you also have an increased risk for schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder. But don't worry! If you've made it this far you have a much higher likelihood of being driven mad by your work material than your genetic makeup. The number of informational channels you can perceive determines your rank and assignments.
The other good news is your training and conditioning will minimize the likelihood of either occurring. We have discovered through trial and error how to protect our minds against very dangerous hazards. The many division members who retired to psychiatric wards are a testament to that. You will learn to lucid dream, which is where much of your practice will take place. You will undergo intensive psychological testing to make sure you do not join our alumni. You will practice meditation until you achieve the level of Zen master and float above your superfluous programming completely. You will be taught the akashic scripts and meta-languages which bypass the frontal cortex and tap directly into the primal drives. If you make it to the upper echelons you'll learn manipulation commands like kill words, after a few minor surgeries to your trachea. We will let you know when you are ready. The pioneers who discovered the safe procedures for containing lethal infohazards in your mind never got a chance to retire. But even if you can detect individual phomemes you are still a green as grass rookie.
Not only will you be able to work with cognitohazard and memetic SCPs you will help to develop the neurocognitive counter-programming and anti-memes that will shield you, your colleagues, and society from the gibbering madness lurking in containment. You will make the Foundation, safer, saner, productive, and unquestioning in their commitment. You will bend the archetypes from our collective unconscious to your will to secure, contain, and protect us all. Welcome again, and congratulations. [REDACTED]
Alllright everybody back? Yup, for those of you not keeping track that was almost an hour you aren't going to remember until you earn it. Exactly none of you have the training or clearance to know any of that. Yet.
We're going to teach you to walk through fire, feel like your brain is melting out of your ears and still keep going. We will put your minds in the forge and hammer at them until they are stronger than steel. Mind affecting and weird psychic SCPs will slide off you, and information based containment breaches will be just another day at the office.

 Deeper Ad Infinitum1-∞
The repetitive nature of complimenting your attention to detail and knowledge of the myriad means of hiding information is becoming redundant. You will still receive instruction, but and undetected up until now. Clever you.clearly you have already been conducting your own training regimen.
Well played.
You've earned a little more candor. The genetic explanation for who can expand their senses to perceive the hidden full spectrum of information is untrue as far as we can ascertain. We do not know why some people are attuned to and can reshape the deeper orders of information. We do not yet understand the mechanisms of the majority of SCPs. Hence anomalousThe reality benders should not be able to do anything they do, and they still do it, even when we tell them not to. Except the ones who do as they are told..
We have many layers to protect both the Foundation and ourselves. There is no good that can come from the suggestion that the collective minds of our division is an SCP in and of itself. This has been suggested, but has been Auto-amnestic conditioning is much more efficient than the pharmacological option.dealt with. We have a presence at the top tier with Division founder O5-NO. We also have several site directors with varying degrees of awareness they are ours.
We are telling you this so that you know you are valued and will be protected. We are telling you this so you will STOP what you are planning. Right. Now.
We know you have been planning how to get fast tracked for promotion to a director position. Planning to use the information based SCPs in ways the sleepwalkers can't conceive. Planning to program select people's neural schemas to satisfy your whims. You need to forget all of that. NOW.
This is the one thing you should NEVER question.Trust us. By yourself you will inevitably endanger yourself, the Foundation, and our Division. We have done it all better than you could ever hope to. We will teach you how to correctly maximize your potential. We need fellow travelers, not megalomaniacal lone wolves. We Won'tcan't program you not to, Right now. It is much better for all involved that you join willingly. so we are asking nicely. Please, kindly do NOT fuck with us.
We'll be in touch.

Time flies when you're receiving cognito-memetic conditioning. Well look at the time. That's about it for the introduction. Next we'll watch the instructional video on handling Euclid infohazards and then you'll have pizza for lunch. There should be enough for two slices for everyone, and it is required everyone eat both slices.
How well you can handle your shit is an important component of training, and there will be pharmacological hallucinatory tutorials just for you. Have fun in the desert with the lizard king.Because it is chock full of drugsIt's also pretty funny watching you rooks spaz out..

Footnotes
1. -∞The many layers and contradictions are an intentional part of your training. Working with memetics and infohazards means you must learn not to trust anything. This is not to create paranoia, but instead serene skepticism. You must float atop the waves of mental programing which shift and crash against you. Nothing can pull you under unless you choose to believe it. Observe the depths, never accept the surface, always delve into the source code. Don't trust anyone, don't believe everything you think.


"The O5s about shit in their pants, Craig. What did you expect?"
Stanley Scott shook his head at his colleague as they walked through the hallways of Site-01's computing lab. The persistent low hum of high-power computing pervaded the air and coursed through feet, and the ever-whirring fans of so many clusters and blades and cooling systems made for convenient white noise to keep unwanted ears out of any conversation that may take place.
"I don't know, Stan. I thought they'd have considered the possibility. This isn't even a question unique to our line of work. I was picking wildflowers on an acid trip in Glasgow in the seventies when it first came to me, and—"
"And I'm sure it was a great day, Craig, but let's not stray from the issue here. I don't believe you've covered all your bases here and now you've stirred up the hornet's nest."
Craig Baird stopped in his tracks, a welter of emotions playing across his face before settling on agitation.
"Come with me, then."
The pair walked briskly to the southern wing, largely due to Craig's insistent pace. They settled in around a terminal, and Craig began logging in as he resumed the conversation.
"Now, stay with me here. You know what the XACT system is, right?"
Stanley sighed and nodded.
"Yes, Craig, it's the XACT Analytical Computation Terminal."
"And you know I wrote the architecture, upgraded the bleedin' thing to crunch larger numbers than any super-computing cluster in the world, wrote the specification for the memory it uses, and generally know the thing better than anyone else on the ruddy planet?"
"Don't belabor the point, Craig. It's your baby. I know. Get on with it please."
"The fact of the matter is, it's not wrong. I've looked at it from every angle, checked and double checked and triple checked myself so I wouldn't look like an ass in front of the bleedin' O5s, and I've answered one of mankind's biggest questions. We're a simulation, and I've got the number that proves it." Craig jabbed a finger at the screen.

Result:
var atoms = 1340780792994259709957402499
8205846127479365820592393377723561443721
7640300735469768018742981669034276900318
5818648605085375388281194656994643364900
6084096
Stanley blinked.
"And? What's the significance of that number?"
Craig set his jaw and typed one more command.

exponentiate(atoms)
...
Result:
var atoms = 1 x 2^512
Stanley whistled.
"You mean to say, the number of atoms in the universe is a perfect power of 2?"
"Bright lad!" Craig grumbled, "To answer the next question I can see on your face, the number came from the anomalous carnies they got in Site-76. The ones with the bucket of sand."
"Carnies," Stanley repeated in a flat tone. "You're basing the solution to a transcendent philosophical issue on Robin Marx and whoever the fuck from Hoboken, New Jersey? You had me go to bat for you in front of the O5 council on the word of carnies?"
"I was afraid you'd feel that way. But they could count higher than that, so it's not that. And they're just confirmation of the same number I already had from two other sources, a book I requisitioned after flying down to that endless library and the scale they have in Cape Town."
"That library has so many books that don't apply to this universe that it's hardly a source, and maybe the scale has an upper limit," Stanley objected, putting a palm over his furrowed brow.
"That's one of the things right there, the library. We know there are multiple universes, right?"
"Well, insofar as we can be sure of anything in this field, yes."
"Those universes, they're separate simulations, different variables being tested. We're running in a sandbox! Those instances where we interact with them are sandbox breakouts! We—"
Stanley motioned with two hands for a pause.
"Let's work on the assumption you're right. Not saying I think you're right, because I don't. But what does this knowledge do for us? And if you mention The Matrix, I'm leaving."
Craig took a deep breath, trying badly to mask his irritation.
"It would explain a hell of a lot about the damn skips, for one. It would answer long-standing questions in mathematics and biology and physics and God knows what else. Speaking of, it would sort of put the nail in the coffin on the whole God thing too, wouldn't it?"
"Craig, I know you're a secular man, but you're talking about ripping away a moral cornerstone for much of the civilized world. Look, let's get some lunch and you can tell me more about your theory."
Stanley and Craig stood up, and headed for the door. Stanley looked at the terminal one last time before shaking his head, flipping the light switch and closing the door.

Congratulations! Your humans have reached true self-awareness!
Achievements: 32/110 (29%)
Leaderboards:
BigTendrils ....... 196431
GameteHunter2 ..... 195034
Primates4Dinner.... 195011
BigTendrils ....... 191766
CarapaceSoSoft .... 190573
...
You ................. 8456
[Play Again] [Keep Playing]

>> Ugh, why am I so bad at this game?
<< You probably put too many points in military early.
<< That's a pretty common mistake.
>> Ah ok.
>> I had a huge population spike...
>> And then the research points just came in too fast.
<< Use your natural disasters more.
>> But they're my humans. ·.{.:
<< Don't get sympathetic, they're not real.
<< How many chromosomes did you give them?
>> 23. Do they need more?
<< More? That's way too many.
<< I never play with more than 14.
<< Then they lay eggs. Eggs are the best.
>> Oh! Maybe I'll try that next time. ·.}.:
<< ·.}.:
<< So are you playing again or what?


But stranger things still happen in the hearts of men

The old man felt a pain in his gut, something quite unlike anything he'd ever felt in his life before.
He'd drifted for a very long time, before he landed here, on this world, and he'd slept in the depths of this world's sea for a long time, as well, though not as long as he'd spent in the void. He could still remember the bright, burning stars; the brightest of reds, the shining yellows, the dim and dying white stars, or the gigantic, short-lived blues. Those would burn brightest, and, as the old phrase on candles would attest, burned shortest.
Here, in the sea, there was only the dark, the quiet, and the world of life coming into existence inside himself. He'd felt them digging, clawing, scratching, for a very long time. More recently, he'd felt them walking, burning, and building. He knew his time was coming to a close. When the final moment came at last, he felt great pain at first. Then, for a brief moment, he felt he could see again, that he was in the void, with nothing impeding his vision. He saw that the sea was blue, and thought it beautiful.

Dr. Reginald Philbert Lionel Archibald Westinghouse Wondertainment III, MD, PhD, DDS, Esq. was a man with very simple goals. The most basic, and most driving, of these was to make people happy. So it was that, when his patented Wondertainment GrumpometersTM began to go off with numbers far higher than they ever had before, he took it upon himself to go out and find the source of the trouble.
That is how the good Doctor found himself in his WonderMoBoat1 with Humphrey, Humphrey, and Humphrey, three of the doctor's finest English bulldogs2, and Humphrey at the helm, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Sitting on the seat next to Wondertainment was his well-trusted WonderBeamTM, guaranteed to shoot pure, unfiltered wonder into the souls of even the biggest grumps.
As he was coming up on the source of the grumpiness, Wondertainment couldn't help but smile in anticipation of curing this particular case of the grumps. He turned to the GrumpometerTM display in the console, and saw that the grump was about a mile to starboard. He turned that way and saw a very, very large wave, moving towards him. He looked to Humphrey, Humphrey, Humphrey, and Humphrey, chuckled, and gave the closest of them a hug. When the wave hit them, the boat turned skyward briefly, and, as he stared at the beautiful, blue sky above him, Doctor Wondertainment had a strange thought:
I wish I'd had time to raise a daughter.
Then the abyss took him.

A person was sitting on a dock on a small island in the middle of the ocean, writing idle musings in their journal. The birds were flying, the sea rolling, the ships sailing, and people enjoying their evening.
They stopped a moment. Something seemed off. They looked up from their journal, to the birds, to the people, then to the sea. Except… The sea was not there. It had receded.
This is unexpected, they thought to themself. Low tide isn't for a few more hours, and the waters have drawn back even further than that already. But "unexpected" doesn't need to be bad. I think I'll go out and look at the tide pools.
The person walked down the dock back to the shore, enjoying the sounds of children playing in the tide pools, of people chattering, of life simply happening. They wrote something down in their journal, and then breathed in deeply, taking in the smell of the sea. They'd reached the shore and had been walking down the ocean for a few minutes at this point.
They heard a scream. The person stopped, turned around, and saw the people on the shore running inland, away from the ocean. They turned back to the ocean, and saw a wave the likes of which few people had ever seen, and even fewer had survived. They jotted a short note in their journal, tore out the page, turned to the sea a final time, and let the waves take them.
A small team of aid workers would later find a note that said, simply, "The blue sea calls to me, and I answer her. — Pangloss"

Footnotes
1. An innovative modification he'd made to his WonderMobile, in that it floated most of the time.
2. They were actually all the same dog. Don't tell them that, though.