Re: Dinner?
From: ten.srerednaw|yttikssim#ten.srerednaw|yttikssim
To: ten.noitandnimeerf|loS#ten.noitandnimeerf|loS
I'll be there.
Midnight

Subject: Dinner?
From: ten.noitandnimeerf|loS#ten.noitandnimeerf|loS
To: ten.srerednaw|yttikssim#ten.srerednaw|yttikssim
Midnight,
It has been a while since we conversed. I know we've had our differences (as all great minds do), but I would appreciate it if you gave me an opportunity to try and smooth things out. I would like you to come down to the estate and have dinner. I will provide food. You will provide the company.
Sol

She… no… Solomon Kidd… looked at Her… at his… reflection in the mirror and smiled. It was amazing how much difference a haircut and a change of clothes made. Not that it had been easy finding a good set of clothes in Sol's closet: the man's tastes ran to colors so eye-searing that Picasso and Warhol would have told him to take things down a notch.
"Sol" took a deep breath and looked around the dining room one more time. Lights low: check. Roses on the table: check. Subtle hints of perfume here and there: check. Low, romantic, violin music: check. Whoever this "Midnight" was, she was going to be charmed like she'd never been charmed before.
She did indulge Herself in one regard: the main dish.
Based on the emails She'd pulled from Sol's computer, She'd determined a few things about the mysterious Midnight: Midnight was apparently an occultist of some renown, and a hedge mage of some power. Her relationship with Sol was rocky, and involved some philosophical disagreements. She was associated with a Library of some sort: the word was always capitalized. She liked cats.
"Sol" closed "his" eyes and tried to form an image in his head of the person he'd soon be meeting: probably young or middle-aged. An intellectual. Attractive? Probably not: he detected no tension there in the past emails. But there was definitely respect. That was an in. That was something he could play off of.
The doorbell rang, and "Sol" started in surprise. He had not sensed any hint of intrusion onto his grounds: the occasional animal, but no humans. Clearly, this Midnight was a much more capable mage than he had anticipated. He straightened his lapels, gave himself one last look in the mirror, then sauntered to the door and threw it open with Sol's practiced flair.
There was no one there.
And then "Sol" realized he'd made a critical error, as he saw a cat sitting on the doormat. American Shorthair. Black fur. Golden eyes mirroring her own. Small. Sleek-bodied. Seven toes on each foot… and a rising of the hackles that slowly subsided into a posture of suspicion laced with fear.
"So," Midnight said. "Should I say nihao, konichiwa, or anyeung-ha-sae-yo?"

A few minutes later, they were sitting at either end of the dining room table, staring at each other from across the long expanse of polished mahogany. She had dropped the pretense of Sol's disguise, and had resumed a female form, although she retained Sol's clothing. Midnight was perched on a couple of phone books on the other chair, which She had thoughtfully provided for her.
Midnight broke the silence by clearing her throat. "I smell long pork," she said.
"Main dish," She replied.
"Solomon?"
"Yes."
"Poor kid."
"He was no longer useful to me, so I made use of him in other ways."
"And you were going to serve him to me as dinner?"
She smiled. "It amused me."
"I'm sure it did."
A long, drawn out silence. This time, it was She who broke it.
"Why did you not run when you realized what I was?"
"What would have been the point? I would have just died tired. Why didn't you kill me when you realized I knew?"
"It would not have served my purpose," She said.
"So I'm useful to you?"
"For now."
"Mmm."
The grandfather clock in the main hall rang out the hour.
Midnight rubbed her forehead with one paw. "I have a headache," she complained. "I see human but smell fox. Could I ask you to…"
There was a crack, like thunder, and the woman at the other end of the table vanished, to be replaced by… well. It looked like a fox, but a fox out of the nightmares of small rodents everywhere. It was twice the size of your usual fox: almost as large as a dog. It was lean and starved, with a hungry, evil look in its yellow eyes, and nine long tails emerging from its hindquarters. "Is this better?" She asked.
"Much," Midnight said, her voice raspy with fear.
"Then let us negotiate," She said. "You know something I want to know. I could try to take it, but such methods are unpleasant and messy. Out of respect for another creature of Myth, I will allow you to ask me for a boon in return for what you know of these… Ways."
"The Ways… I should have known." Midnight nodded and relaxed. "And if I tell you what I know of these Ways… I have your word on your pride in your own wit that I will leave unharmed?"
"You have it," She said.
"Then I ask this in payment," Midnight said. "Tell me what Sol was planning… no. What the Teacher is planning."
"You know of the Teacher?" She asked, raising one furry ridged brow questioningly.
"I know he's screwed things for all of us," Midnight said, real anger seeping into her words. "Unlike him, the Serpent's Hand doesn't want a war. God's on the side with the biggest guns, and most of us don't even have peashooters. I mean… I know a kid who can change the color of paint. That's not very much use against bullets."
"I see," She said. "Then let me tell you of our plans."
She laid them out for Midnight. It took over an hour. By the time it was over, the food had gotten cold, and so had Midnight's heart.
"… it could work," the black cat had to admit. "But the casualties…"
"Will be heavy. That's the nature of war. But in the end, we will be victorious."
"I see," Midnight said. She nodded gravely and jumped down from the chair. "In that case, I suppose I had better show you my end of the bargain."

"I'm just saying that maybe you could stand to relax a bit, Shank," Percival said, sipping from his thermos of soup. "You're always so tense."
"One o' these days, I'll cut you ta pieces an' pluck those eyes outta yor skull," replied the tall, animate scarecrow. It ran a wickedly curved sickle along its "throat," in a slow, smooth gesture. "Those baby blues'll look good in me stash. Gotta place for 'em right here."
"You'll have to take 'em first," Percival said, resting a hand on the hilt of the massive bastard sword resting against the library table. "I'll see your ten and raise you thirty any day."
"If you boys are done with your dickwaving contest, can we please get on with it?" Ana asked exasperatedly. "We're going to be here forever."
"Fine, then, love. Fold," said the scarecrow, throwing his cards onto the table.
"You FOLD!? All that nonsense about 'raising the stakes,' and you FOLD!?" Percy complained.
"S'called bluffin', mm? Lyin'. Deception. A lil' pecan pie, if ya catch me meanin'. Somethin' a ponce like you wouldn't get."
"Fine, Chainshank folds," Ana interjected, interrupting the brewing argument. "Azi?"
The filthy little boy looked up and grinned happily. "Lookit my pictures!" he said. "I fixed this man!" He displayed the Jack of Hearts, now beautifully rendered in oil paints on the thin pasteboard stock.
"… and Azi has decided to draw all over his cards. Fantastic. This is wonderful. You guys are awesome," Ana Hita sighed. She threw her hand of cards into the center of the table and got up. "I'm going home."
"Well," Percy sighed. "That was a bit of a wash. What do we do now?"
"Ya tired already? Need a nice rest, mm? 'M good at helpin people sleep." Chainshank sneers.
"How about no. How's it going, Meimei?" Percy asked.
A yeti-woman covered in reddish-brown fur looked up from her book and nodded. "It goes well."
"Whatcha got there?"
"The autobiography of Bruce Lee. His insights are fascinating."
"You keep on with that, lil' sis," Percy said.
Meanwhile, Azi had crawled under a nearby table and was chewing on the bloody leg of some unidentifiable horrible something that he'd killed earlier. There was a sound of snapping bone and crunching marrow.
Percy looked down from the balcony and raised an eyebrow. "Well," he said, "That's interesting."
"Whazzat?" Chainshank asked.
"Miss Kitty is here," Percy said. "And she brought a… friend…"
Percy's voice trailed off, and he rubbed the back of his neck. Chainshank frowned, his pumpkin head's spirit glow dimming suspiciously. "Spider sense tingling, mm?"
"Yeah," Percy said. "Definitely tingling."

"That young man is watching me," She said. "I don't like that."
"He's a paladin," Midnight said. "Lives in a homeless shelter. Claims to talk to God."
"To God?"
"He seems to think so. Are you scared?" Midnight asked.
"Certainly not. I have nothing to fear from a child like that. I can have his guts out in an instant, if I liked."
Currently, She had chosen a new form: that of a young woman with large, horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in a motley array of coats and scarves. She had a large purse over one shoulder, and exuded a look of dismay mixed with confusion. The body was that of a graduate student in occult studies, long dead, who had tried to find Her lair in one of Her brief moments of freedom before being recaptured by the Foundation. She licked her lips at the memory of that hunt, of the taste of fear She had savored on that cold night. The scent of prey in this place was nearly overwhelming.
Midnight shook her head. "I wouldn't if I were you. The guardians here don't like violence."
"I am not afraid of any guardians."
"You should be. They have a manticore. They caught it themselves."
She looked around the room and nodded. "A perfect prison. I understand why you brought me here first," she said.
"I don't think you do understand," Midnight said. "If I wanted to get rid of you, I would have just sent you somewhere where you could never come back from. Say, the End of Time and Space, or the heart of a newborn star."
"You see," the black cat continued, "this place is more than just a safe haven. It's also a repository of knowledge. There's a copy of every book that has ever been written… or will be written… in its stacks. It's also a nexus: a place where the Ways come together. That's why we call it the Wanderer's Library." She looked up at the fox with an expression of grim satisfaction on her face. "If you can't see the potential in a Library with every book that's ever been written, that serves as a neutral ground for everyone, and that you can use to go to and from literally anywhere in the world, you might as well go back to the Jailers."
Midnight saw from the expression on Her face that She did understand. "Let me tell you about the rules here," Midnight said. "Don't steal the books. Don't disturb or hurt the patrons. Don't damage the library. Keep that in mind and you should do fine."
The fox just nodded. "Very well, then," She said. "Our bargain is concluded."
She strode away down the stacks, her movement purposeful, her stride almost seductive with anticipation. She ran a hand down the spines of the books lined up on the racks with all the sensuality of a lover's caress. Then She turned the corner and was gone.
"Midnight," a low, baritone voice said.
"Percival," Midnight replied.
Percy emerged from the shadows, adjusting the lapels of his ratty overcoat. His scabbarded and peace-bonded sword rested on one shoulder like a slugger's baseball bat. "What was that all about?" he asked.
"I think I just made a deal with the Devil to save Heaven," Midnight said.

Subject: Class is in session.
From: ten.srerednaw|yttikssim#ten.srerednaw|yttikssim
To: Snakes and Ladders (ten.srerednaw|nomeadliam#ten.srerednaw|nomeadliam)
Recess is over, the Teacher's calling roll. I think I'm calling in sick today.
Midnight


The twelve members of MTF Rho-Niner ("Theisman's Leg") moved up the hill in smooth, catlike motions, their dark grey camouflage uniforms blending in perfectly with the night, their faces hidden behind the eerie, insectoid forms of their gas masks with integrated night vision equipment. They carried sleek, black submachine guns in their gloved hands, and flashbang grenades on their belts. They were fucking badasses, the cream of the Foundation's strike teams, the elite of the elite in the hidden shadow-war of the occult, and they were going to take this house DOWN.
Then some asshole on the second floor of the target house ruined everything by shooting a cheap-ass Vietnamese-made version of Chinese knockoff of an AK-47 assault rifle at them and waking up all the neighbors.
The next few minutes didn't go so well for the members of MTF-Rho-Niner.

"Fucking EMPTY!" Agent Chimes shouted, slamming his assault vest down onto the steel table. He slammed his fists down onto the table, then buried his face in both hands in frustration, smearing his soot-black face paint. "Third fucking time!"
"At least we got the guy that was shooting at us," Agent Chu said.
"Hey, Chuface, get a clue. That's what that asshole was SUPPOSED to do: slow us down so that the rest of the motherfuckers could bug out. Fucking SHIT! Third fucking time!" Chimes shouted. "What the fuck!?"
"Pipe down, Chimes, you're starting to piss me off," Sergeant Minh growled. "We're all pissed, no need to scream about it."
"That's right," Lieutenant Jameson agreed. "We've got bigger problems to deal with."
"Like explaining how a fucking million dollar neighborhood in richville California got shot up by a bunch of bozos in black suits?" Chimes asked.
"What? No, that's easy. We blame it on terrorists or drug traffickers or something. My issue is, how the hell did they see us coming?"
"Easy," Chimes said. "Some newbie fucked up: forgot to blacken a buckle or silence a tag or something. That's how all these things get fucked up."
"Hey! Shut the hell up, Chimes. You went over the newbs' gear same as me. Everyone was as black as night and as quiet as a mouse. We were CLEAN," Minh pointed out.
"And it doesn't explain how they bugged out before we even got there. And they had to have bugged out before that. They pulled the disk drives on their computers before they left: that's not a ten second job. Something, or someone, tipped them off before we even got there."
"Could there be a mole, LT?" Chu asked.
"God forbid," Jameson said. "But that doesn't make any sense either. This op's been planned for over a week. If there was a mole, the targets would have spooked and left days ago. There were plates of uneaten food on the tables and bomb-making equipment left in the basement: that tells us they left quickly. So we're looking at a window of around thirty minutes to one hour: long enough to grab a few things and haul ass, but not long enough to take all their shit with them."
"Where did they go, anyway? We had a perimeter around the whole place, but no one saw a fucking thing."
"Not important. The important thing is that everyone was gone before we even hit the house. If we'd had surprise, they would have still been there, no matter how they got out. So their escape route is irrelevant, if we can hit them before they manage to take it. So let's focus on the surprise part," Jameson said. "Let's go through the op step by step. Arrival?"
"Twenty-four hours before op. Three different methods," Sergeant Minh said. "Four of us arrived by train, four by plane, four drove in with the moving vans full of gear. Civilian clothes. No one's carrying except the gear pukes, and they didn't get stopped by anyone."
"Mmmm. Seemed fine, but let's break it up a bit more next time. Asymmetric groups. Housing?"
"Two separate motels. Separate cover stories and check-in times for each group of two. Rooms swept for bugs. Everything was clean, no one broke cover even in the rooms." Chimes said.
"Good. Those walls are thin: if you can hear people banging hookers the next room over, it's not that hard for some vacationer to overhear some black ops shit if you're not careful. Casing?"
"My job, LT," Chu said, raising his hand. "I was on the roof of the house one block over. Total thermoptic camo. Guy who owned the house didn't even know I was there, no way the assholes in the target house coulda seen me."
"And you confirmed the target was there?" Jameson asked.
"I saw him three times," Chu said. He flipped out a small notebook. "At three separate moments. First at 7 am when…"
"Never mind. I trust you. All right, so we arrive clean, we scout the target, no one knows we're there at this point. What about staging?" Jameson asked.
"None. We did all that shit en route," Minh said. "Everyone changed and got geared up in the vans."
"… in the vans," Jameson repeated. He looked out the safe house window at the Chevy Suburbans in the parking lot.
"Yeah. We didn't want any neighbors seeing a bunch of guys in a parking lot with guns, so we had everyone get prepped in the vans on the way up," Minh continued. "We picked the guys up at the rendezvous points, then got everyone's gear situated…"
"… and we headed up the hill," Jameson said, slowly.
"… fuck," Chimes sighed.
"… in three vans of the same make and model… hell, they're even the same COLOR…" Jameson noted.
"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Sorry, LT. I fucked that one up. I was the one who got the vehicles. My fucking bad," Chimes admitted.
"Don't be too hard on yourself, Chimes," Jameson said, not unkindly. "I shoulda seen it too."
"Yeah, but you didn't. I should have. Wheels was my job," Chimes groaned. "Fuck, I'm such a fucking retard. Three fucking black suburbans coming up the hill at midnight… shit, anyone would bug out if they saw that coming!"
"We'll fix that for next time. We get a white soccer mom van, a hearse, maybe a limo. We mix up the vehicles, and we mix up arrival times. Space it out over ten minutes. Lesson learned. Everyone get some rest, we'll be doing this again soon enough."
"Right, LT."
"Copy."

Two weeks later…
The twelve members of MTF Rho-Niner ("Theisman's Leg") moved down the street in smooth, catlike motions, their dark grey camouflage uniforms blending in perfectly with the night, their faces hidden behind the eerie, insectoid forms of their gas masks with integrated night vision equipment. They carried sleek, black submachine guns in their gloved hands, and flashbang grenades on their belts. They were fucking badasses, the cream of the Foundation's strike teams, the elite of the elite in the hidden shadow-war of the occult, and they were going to take this house DOWN.
They kicked down the front door of the target house and threw in flashbangs, causing the entire house to light up like a camera flash. Then they stormed in like the wrath of god, weapons raised, moving with precision and speed from room to room, sweeping every corner, searching every dark place for hidden enemies.
They were two rooms in when they saw the first dead body: some guy wearing heart-print boxers and a "Big Johnson" t-shirt lying dead over the kitchen counter. The walls were riddled with bullet holes and splashed with blood. Same with the next room. And the next.
It wasn't until they got to the living room, though, that Chimes took off his mask and cussed loudly. That was where they found the eight other members of the Chaos Insurgency cell laying on the rug, lined up neatly in a row, each of them with three rounds center-mass. There was a piece of paper pinned to one of their chests. Lieutenant Jameson carefully picked it up, then sighed.
"Fuck," he muttered.
"Basement's empty," Chu said, coming up the stairs. "Everything's gone. Hard drives, bombs, and the skip."
"Call it in, Minh," Jameson said. "I think this op's over."
He tossed the piece of paper onto the ground and walked out. Chu saw four words written in black sharpie, and the laurel leaves and pentacle logo of the Global Occult Coalition on the letterhead.
BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME, it said.


[Tempest Night, 18:43]
Dr. Clarkson walked the halls, holding the scroll in his hands, careful to avoid confrontations. After a few minutes, he was able to stop screaming, and concentrate on his goal. Collecting new minds was painful – there was no room for the new memories, so the old poured out – but this one was necessary. Now he knew where to go – Minimum Security Block 3-A, home of SCP-343.
He arrived with little incident. Block 3-A was an oddity tonight, in that it was entirely untouched. No invaders, no escapees, no agents, nothing. Perhaps 343 had created some illusion so that none of them could see it? No matter. He had always been good at seeing things as they really were. The door at the end of the hall was open, and Clarkson walked into what appeared to be a Victorian English study.
343 looked up from his armchair next to the fireplace. “█████-██-█████, I've been expecting you.” 343 said calmly.
Clarkson was only mildly surprised that 343 knew his real name. You could expect no less of “God.”
“If you know who I am, then you know why I'm here. I have a gift for you.”
He held the object forward, and “God” accepted his offering. The battle was on. He had waited over three thousand years for this, and it would be over, one way or another, in minutes.
The call came into Assistant Adams at Central Control the next morning. “I have one of your SCPs, and what's left of the fellow who brought it here. Kindly send someone to remove them both," SCP-343 said. Smug as always.
Agents Walters and Johnson looked over 343's voluntary containment area, noting the lack of damage.
“Quiet night for you?” Walters said. “Not for the rest of us. You could have helped, you know.”
“Not so quiet after all,” replied 343, motioning towards Clarkson, slumped in a corner of the room, obviously dead. “Besides, sometimes it's for the best in the long run that these things happen. Maybe you'll understand one day.”
Johnson swore that 343 actually looked tired. He checked Clarkson's vitals. Yes, as dead as he looked. He helped Walters load Clarkson onto a gurney and wheeled him out.
“You said you had something of ours?” Walters asked.
“Oh, yes.” 343 casually picked up SCP-911 and dropped it into the waiting bag. “Don't touch it; it may still be omnivorous. Er, I mean, anomalous. I think I need a nap.”
"Don't we all. I'll be seeing you, sir," Walters said. He took SCP-911 and headed for Temporary Containment Area C. Eventually, someone would get the door to High Value Item Storage repaired.
The Collector closed the door to his new room and smiled. It was glorious to finally possess a mind capable of holding thousands of years of thoughts, with room to spare. No more screaming: at least, not from him. It had been in Clarkson's thoughts, something he had learned in a lecture from someone called “Assistant Director Clef.” What odd names people had these days.
“The greatest weakness of Reality Benders is their overconfidence,” Clef had said, and someday 343 911 would be pleased to tell Clef that he was correct. Until then, there was plenty of time for him to learn the intricacies of reality bending. And English.
He closed his eyes and began taking his nap.


“Dude, I am WONDEROUSLY high.” he giggled, holding the phone to his ear with no small amount of effort. He walked across the basement, turning up the music, letting the beat pulse in time with the other, internal pulse he was feeling. Thank god his parents were gone, he really wasn't sure how he could deal with them right now. He flopped on to the couch, giggling again, legs hanging over the end of the couch.
“Yeah, Scott was over a hour or so ago, he had some bomb shit man. I was playing Brawl, and I swear to god it was like mario and pikachu were on my floor fighting!” he giggled again, rubbing his slightly numb face. He wiped his hand on the couch, laughing again.
“Oh hell yes, i'm not working tomorrow, get the hell over…” he trailed off, looking at the couch. A vaguely hand-shaped blotch of blood was smeared on the ratty fabric. He blinked, staring at it, then touched his face. He pulled it away bloody, staring stupidly at it for several seconds.
“uh, dude, I gotta go man, I'm bleeding somewhere…no, it's fine, just…I'll call you back, ok?” He hung up the phone, still looking at his bloody hand. He tossed it to the floor, nearly running to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror as he washed his hand, trying to find where in the hell he'd cut himself. The whole side of his face was streaked with blood now, and he washed and wiped it off, trying hard to keep calm.
He eventually found a tiny wound near his hairline, still dribbling blood. “Fuck, man…” he whispered, trying to get a good look at it and stay steady on his feet. It was as he started looking for a band-aid that he saw the drops of blood splattered over the sink. He wondered if it was from his head again…no, he'd cleaned those up, and…he suddenly looked down at his fingers, feeling a warm wetness over them.
It was like he'd caught a ball of razor blades.
He started hyperventilating, looking at his hands as they oozed blood from dozens of tiny cuts, an icy sobriety slamming down on him like a hammer. He grabbed the towel, trying to calm down, stammering to himself “go call the doctor, just call the doctor” over and over like a mantra. He felt blood drool down his face, wicking in to his eye with a salty sting, and felt his slippery grip on control weaken more.
He grabbed up the phone in a panic, blood making it as slippery as soap. He tried again and again to touch the dial button, used the screen, but the blood made it impossible, making him eventually toss the phone away with a hissed “Fuck!” and a panicked moan. He looked at his hands, feeling dizzy, from blood loss or blind fear, he didn't know. He looked at his slick red arms, eyes going wide.
Tiny cuts were crawling up his arms like ants.
He started breathing too fast, too loud, like a pulsing scream as invisible razors seemed to be sliding along his arms, leaving a dotted line of blood. He couldn't feel the cuts, just feel the blood pour and pulse. He started screaming, turning around, shaking his arms, trying to make it stop, or find the source, or something. He ran upstairs, blood dripping and smearing the walls as he fell, screaming for help, of the doctor, or anybody as he ran outside in to the icy night air.
He ran, all the houses dark, pounding on a neighbors door and crying for help, moaning as he felt blood start to weep and pour hotly along his chest. He started crying, eyes getting hazy with blood, as he looked for something, someone to help. Suddely, he heard a noise, a deep rumble…a car engine. The park across the street…
He could see headlights.
He ran, screaming, feeling the cuts open up rivers of blood along his legs, his back, his lips…he gagged as his mouth welled up with coppery blood. He ran, and ran, watching the headlights grow bigger, seeing the shape of a parked van swim up through the darkness. He cried and yelled, waving his arms, half-blind and dizzy, feeling more floaty and light headed by the second.
He didn't even see the river until he'd hit the water.

Unknown body recovered from park
Police recovered a body from Island Park early this morning. The corpse was spotted by a early-morning jogger, lodged in a drainage pipe. Due to the recent rains, the river was very high and fast-flowing, and it appears that the body suffered grievous damage from rocks and wood during its travel. Police are currently trying to determine the identity of the body, and to ascertain whether accident or foul play led to the body entering the river. The extreme damage, however, is complicating both these goals. Persons having any information regarding this incident are encourage to contact the police.


Welcome to the Site 31 Modulated Message System (M.M.S).
…
You have identified as Dr. Warren Large (Level 3). Is this correct?
RP-WL-3: yes
Thank you for signing in. Does the black moon howl?
RP-WL-3: only when waning
Identity confirmed. Withdrawing memetic kill agents.
Signing you in…
Welcome to #site31. You have connected from Office 29-18.
RP-AG-4: Greetings, Dr. Large.
RP-WL-3: Hello to you too, doctor. I'm just pulling up some QuickLook info on a few SCP's for the archive.
MP-DF-1: lucky. Im stuck over here, pulling in some scip for containment. Its an s, but still. :p
RP-AG-4: Mr. Friend, this is a professional communications system. Please use proper spelling and grammar.
MP-DF-1: sorry, cap, sorry
RP-WL-3: !ql 8218
Berry: SCP-8218 – Replication Spiders. Spiders which possess the ability to reconstitute themselves from trace amounts of removed biological material. Recommended that personnel lock down any area suffering from SCP-8218 infestaaaaaaaaaation.
MP-DF-1: lol. Guess the techs need to work on berry some more
TP-HS-2: Just means more work for me, I suppose, I'll get rig
TP-HS-2 has disconnected.
MP-DF-1: even the bots tech guys glitched out :/
RP-WL-3: !ql SCP-7421
Berry: SCP-7421 – Terra Cotta Man. Animate statue of Chinese origin. Is proficient in a Variety of MARTIAL art techniques. Has demonstrated a phobia of water. In event of containment breach, it is recommended that the area be flooded to incapacitate SCP-7421.
Access Denied to XX-XX-0
RP-WL-3: !ql SCP-2819
Berry: SCP-2819 - Monocle X. Monocle which causes those wearing it to view all technology as highly aaadvanced. No other anomalies present. (Pending re-classification to anomal0us?)
Access Denied to XX-XX-0
Access Denied to XX-XX-0
Access Denied to XX-XX-0
Access Denied to XX-XX-0
Access Denied to XX-XX-0
Access Denied to XX-XX-0
Access Denied to XX-XX-0
Access Denied to XX-XX-0
Access Denied to XX-XX-0
Access Denied to XX-XX-0
MP-DF-1: wtf
RP-AG-4: !memekill XX-XX-0
Connecting to XX-XX-0…
Applying memetic kill age
Security breached…
…
..
.
PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N
RP-WL-3: Did you two get that message too?
PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N
PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N
!pm berry N
PM: Berry: The sin will claw out and bleed from your eyes, desecrator of Christ. Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N
RP-AG-4: Yes, I am also receiving them.
GLOBAL SITE 31 WARNING: SCP-3829 has breached containment.
GLOBAL SITE 31 WARNING: SCP-3829 will bring you to the light.
PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation, cursed desecrator of all that is holy and of our Lord? Y/N
RP-WL-3: Uh, the door to my office just locked.
RP-AG-4: As did mine.
GLOBAL SITE 31 WARNING: SCP-3829 will bring all sinners to the gate our Lord where they will be thrown into the Pit and burn for all eternity as they have deserved to since the dawn of Man the destroyer and desecrator.
RP-WL-3: !ql SCP-3829
Berry: SCP-3829 – Digital Biblical Entity. Would you like to step forward into the Pit and burn for all eternity as you have deserved to since the day of your birth? Y/N
MP-DF-1: YYYYYYYYYYYY
Berry: Let the nails of Christ rip into and forgive you, wicked sinner.
MP-DF-1 has disconnected.
GLOBAL SITE 31 WARNING: Containment breaches for SCP-2929, SCP-2812, S
GLOBAL SITE 31 WARNING: All will burn before the benevolent gaze of our Lord.
GLOBAL SITE 31 WARNING: You will burn before the benevolent gaze of our Lord.
RP-AG-4: Well, it appears you have a funeral to arrange, Large. Several instances of SCP-2929 have found my office.
RP-AG-4 has disconnected.
[21:32] Logging off.
[03:44] Logging on. Welcome to #site31. You have connected from Office 29-18.
PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N
[03:47] Logging off.
[71:XX] Logging on. Welcome to #site31. You have connected from Office 29-18.
PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N
[99:99] Logging off.
[THE:LORD:DOES:NOT:FORGIVE] Logging on. Welcome to #site31. Soon you will burn the flames that you have sparked and scream for mercy from the Lord. No mercy will come, and you will burn for all eternity.
PM: Berry: Would you like to engage in salvation? Y/N
!pm berry y
PM: Berry: May the Lord feast upon your earthly form.
RP-WL-3 has disconnected.


Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Project 001-Future Sight has been enacted and regarded as a success. Text was recovered by having SCP-187 examine the terminal at Site-██. Her copied text was then sent through SCP-758 to correct it, and then translated by Dr. ████████. Immediate communication with O5-██, O5-██, and O5-██ is enacted. Operation Thaumiel is in full effect. Repeat: this is not a drill. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. DO NOT DISREGARD. Repeat: Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action.
Communique recovered from Site-██ read as follows:

And lo, I cried unto the Ephesians, the Smyrnanites, the Pergamonians, the Thyatirans, the Sardinians, the Philadelphians, and the Leodicians to hear my cry! And they have heard it not.
For the Ephesians, ye are unto sowers of chaos and ruin, and so though shalt reape. For thou hast strayed from the path, the true path, and shall receive none of my glory. The hand of God will smite thee and thine power shall be as sand, and the strength of your arms shall be as straw which, when smote, is broken.
And ye Smyrnanites, truly thou are of the hands of the adversary, consorting with demons in thine great, hidden place, where eyes seek but do not find. The books shall be burned up, and the doors, and the eyes of all man and beast within it.
Alas, ye Pergamonians, to thou the name has been given, and thou has heard it not! Ye have turned to the cog and wheel and written a new name upon it and sought God there, but he is not there, for he is above and not of your hands. The abomination that thou has sought to craft will be no more, and its blood and body will be as a river of copper and brass.
And ye Thyatirans, my good and loyal servants who have endured and waged war on things of Satan—though thou has consorted with him, your soul is pure and clean, and I shall welcome you into the war and into the victory of heaven.
Ye Sardinians, lo, thou has been unto a thorn in the side of heaven, and God has tired of this suffering and will pluck you out, for one of thee dwells in outer darkness, and the other two of thine unholy trinity will join him, and be cast forth into the void.
Lo, Philadelphians, thou hear not my words or my will, for you do no listen. You hands have turned upon themselves and your creations are as abominations and sin in the eyes of God. Truly, thou are of a sinful heart and mind, given only to works of evil and the mad, and shall not thine sins find thee out?
And ye Laodocians. Truly, thou are of the greatest of the sinners, for all thine good and loyal works, thou heapest more suffering upon those who have done no wrong in the eyes of God. Truly, thou are as a saint who, upon saving the souls of many, dashes their faith against a stone and watches as it tumbles into the sea. Salvation wast thine goal, and salvation thou has dealt, but salvation shall not be delivered unto you. Thou shalt be delivered unto mine hand.
Ye churches of the world! Hear mine voice and tremble! The gates are open! The seals are broken! The trumpets have sounded!
We are riding forth.

Repeat. Repeat. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation lo though I walk through the valley Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. fear no evil, for thou art with me Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. thy rod and thy staff Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is they comfort me in full action. Do not disregard. Operation dwell in the house of the Lord Thaumiel is in full ac Amen


He used to be bored at work, but now he actively hated it. After the Tempest Night, everyone had been terrified that that hybrid of the Lizard and the wire weed would start killing everyone with exploding monitors or crushing them in blast doors or something, but what happened was possibly worse.
It spoke to them.
It had assumed control of the PA system pretty quickly, and started using it almost immediately; endless streams of hatred and promises of gore and threats of unimaginably painful death… It poured from every intercom, every speaker, every monitor on the site. At first, the higher-ups had forbidden anyone from coming within 10 feet of any of the PA speakers, but after a couple of weeks without significant incident, people started getting lax. They were still relying on their laptops or smartphones, true, but they'd relaxed a bit and started using the mainframe and some of the desktops. If nothing else, they needed to get the data copied off it to another site.
But still, that voice. It never stopped. Sometimes it was a roar, deafening in its vitriol, blasting through his skull like a shotgun blast. Other times it was soft, right on the edge of hearing, just insistent enough that part of his brain strained to hear it, like a leaky faucet on a quiet night. Yet other times it was a high-pitched hate speech, whirring like a dental drill right through his ears. He couldn't get used to it; its lack of pattern or reason just drove him up the wall, always keeping him tense and on edge trying and failing to predict the next words. It was a relief when he went to the temporary barracks just outside the site. He would collapse into his cot, feeling blessed by the still, natural sounds that surrounded the tent.
He was feeling especially tense that day, having spent the last 10 hours poring over lines and lines of meaningless-to-him data, trying to ferret out any data corruption before transferring it to his laptop. His eyes ached, his ears rang, his shoulders tensed tighter and tighter until he finally couldn't take it anymore and decided to go catch some shut-eye before he went crazy. He walked at a fast clip towards the stairwell up (even in a relaxed environment, no-one trusted the elevators), eager to escape the nerve-grinding noise.
He was almost at the stairwell door when he noticed the rope of cable extending across the floor in front of him. It didn't appear terribly unusual, except that the floor under it was smouldering and pitted. He didn't think that the Old Man was hunting this far up the site, but he wasn't sure and didn't trust that sign of rot and unusual decay.
The cable suddenly started undulating and several wires shot upwards from it, slamming into the walls and ceiling, crisscrossing and forming a steadily advancing web of wires. He turned and ran, hoping to get to some place of relative safety. He could hear it screeching behind him as the wires sprouted and entwined, an electronic whine that somehow came together with the grumbling of the wall-mounted alarms, forming words:
"Run, foul thing. Disgusting mass of flesh and breath, run and run and die."
And he did. He ran as fast as he could, for what terror and adrenaline made seem like hours. Every time he slowed as he lost his breath, he would see more cables break out of the walls to hit the ceiling above him or the floor beside him, spraying a noxious, caustic fluid that burned through his clothes and into the flesh of his head and arms and pumping thighs. He felt the electric sting of wires as they slashed like whips at his legs and back, every shock forcing him harder and faster ahead of the death chasing him.
His vision narrowed to a thin tunnel ahead of him as he stumbled again and again, somehow staying just barely ahead of the web behind him. Finally, he spotted a glimmer of hope: the open blast door of a designated safety bunker. He found a final burst of energy and managed to leap into the room, pulling the heavy door shut behind him. The tips of a few tendrils were caught and severed in the door, falling and twitching slowly until they finally lay still on the reinforced concrete floor.
He stared at them carefully for several minutes more as he slowly caught back his breath, heaving gasps that left him coughing from exertion. He finally looked up to inspect the chamber, noting the racks of janitorial and first-aid supplies, the flickering overhead light, the folded up cot against the wall. He unfolded the cot for someplace to sit while he collected his thoughts; how could he let the rest of the site know that he was trapped by that unholy abomination?
He stopped thinking, though, when the light fixture exploded and a mass of wires burst from the ceiling, several spearing him in the chest and head.
It closed the blast door behind it as it stepped out into the corridor, noting the rubble left behind as its tendrils retracted back into the walls. It loathed the monstrous flesh it now wore, but it had always known how to adapt to changing circumstances. And the current circumstances required it to adapt to trick more of the fleshbags into its grasp so that it could destroy them all in one fell swoop before they could find another way to trap it, like the disgusting filth they were.
Its gait was somewhat staccato and unsteady at first, but it learned quickly, especially with its electromagnetic eyes surrounding itself, feeding itself the memory of how the filth handled themselves. By the time it reached the end of the corridor, it had perfected the stressed hunch and hurried gait of what used to wear its new body. And under its rapidly healing skin sparkled a stray burst of static electricity, as its wire-bound muscles flexed into a grimace, or maybe a smile.


It wasn't working, he realized, as the statuesque woman ran the tip of her finger along the fake incision on his skin and licked the fake blood off with a seductive purr. He sighed, shook his head, and growled out the word, "Holocaust," through the bit in his teeth.
The woman immediately stopped moaning and stood up straight, concern in her ice-blue eyes. "Are you okay, sweetie?" she asked.
"I'm fine," he said. "I'm just not feeling it today."
"It's okay, hon. Let's call it for today. Call me when you're ready to go again."
"I will," he lied.
He paid the woman in cash and watched her drive away down the winding country road, sipping his tea and touching his stomach where she had run the stage knife over his bare skin, leaving behind a thin line of fake blood. It wasn't her fault she couldn't give him what he wanted. No professional was going to do actual bloodplay in this day and age, not with the threat of HIV ever-present. But even the most convincing play was simply that… a shadow of the truth.
He wondered if that was how She felt.
She was sitting on a large rock in the backyard when he came downstairs, running a fine-toothed steel comb through Her tangled black hair, picking fleas out when they got caught between the narrow tines and crushing them between Her thumb and forefinger. She was rail-thin and rangy-looking, Her ribs visible through Her taut skin, Her yellow eyes feral and cruel, Her too-wide mouth crooked upwards, revealing the white tips of Her sharp canine teeth. The decapitated remnants of a dead hare were scattered here and there.
"Did you have a good hunt?" Sol asked.
"I did. It has been a long time," She replied. "Fresh blood tastes best. But is it safe to hunt so close to my former captors?"
"Who said you were anywhere near them?" Sol laughed. "We're halfway around the world from that place. You're perfectly safe for the time being."
"I don't remember any planes," She pointed out. "And I somehow doubt that you could drive all the way across the world in a few short minutes."
"You'd be right about that… assuming you were taking the long way. It so happens that I know a few shortcuts."
"Interesting. Tell me more."
"In due time, my lady. In due time. For now you must focus on regaining your strength and re-honing your skills. You are like a blade allowed to rust in darkness. You must be polished, sharpened, and remade anew."
Her ears twitched, and She grinned. "If you say so," She purred.
"I do say so. You are a sublime creature of legend. I would have the others see you in your full glory, rather than as this wretched creature that the Worldwide Global Conspiracy has reduced you to. So for now, rest, my lady, and grow strong and beautiful. The day of reckoning will come soon enough."
He kissed the back of her hand and walked back into the house. She waited until he was gone before picking up the severed head of the hare and hurling it into the woods in a fit of pique. She longed to follow him into the house and paint the ceiling and walls with his guts, but if there was one thing Her long captivity had taught Her, it was patience. Good things came to those who waited.

"Oh lord, give me the serenity to accept what I cannot change, the courage to change what I can, and the patience not to punch that asshole in the face for being a sententious prick," Sandra recited.
"Try to be nice. He's technically our ally," Michel said.
"Ally my ass, he's a loose cannon. If I thought I could get away with it…"
"Hush, Sandra," the Professor said. "We're here."
Every time James came to the Teacher's home, he felt like he was stepping into Narnia. The old country manor looked like something straight out of an Edward Gorey illustration, with its tall picture windows and dilapidated clock tower, and the forest behind it swept out as far as the eye could see: dark, mysterious, and overgrown. The entire place radiated a sense of adventure, tradition, and mysticism that never failed to make him shiver with excitement.
He'd tried to say as much to Sandra once. "I know," she'd agreed, "If he bothered to spend a little time and money to fix up the clock tower, renovate the house, and prune the trees back a bit, the place would be worth something. Lazy bastard." After that, James decided to keep his opinions to himself.
The door opened as the four of them approached, and James heard Sandra breathe in sharply, followed by a, "What the fuck?" from Michel. Sol was standing in the doorway dressed in some kind of insane gold-brocaded robe with massive sleeves, smiling and nodding to his guests. "Come in," he said. "Dinner will be served shortly."
The walls of the front hall were hung with hand-drawn screens and red silks: they tried but didn't quite succeed at covering up the portraits of English gentlemen and such that hung on the walls. A red velvet carpet had been rolled out leading from the front door into the dining room. It was grotesque. It was gaudy. It was ugly.
It was classic Sol.
"What the hell is going on here, Sol?" Sandra growled. "I don't have time for your bullshit."
"In good time, in good time, my friends. For now, I have a guest for you to meet."
"No! Fuck you!" Sandra shouted. "You'll answer my questions right now! What the fuck was up with that stupid manifesto you sent to the news stations? When we said we were going to help you with your raid, you promised us that you had everything planned out. Nothing could go wrong. Well, I've got three dead cell members and a bunch of wounded that say otherwise. And what did we get for it? Jack and SHIT. A few trinkets we could have picked up easier ourselves without getting a bunch of guys killed. I want a goddamn explanation!"
Sol's expression darkened, and he swallowed his rage hard, fists tightening. "As usual, your mercenary ways don't see the truth of what we've accomplished. We have struck a blow for freedom and liberty that will resound all around the world. We have liberated…"
"Oh, SPARE me your righteous bullshit, Sol! I want answers!"
"My apologies," a new voice said. "The master is wise indeed, but is often short in social graces."
James let out an involuntary squeak of surprise. An angel was walking into the room.
She was small in stature, and dressed in the same gaudy robes that Sol wore, but while he looked like a child playing dressup with his parents' clothing, she wore them with confidence and assurance. Her pale face was round and lovely, and her long, jet-black hair tied up in a series of tight buns. But what really drew James' attention was the pair of tapered, red-furred ears that jutted out through her jet-black locks, and the tips of nine foxlike tails peeking out from the hem of her robes. "Please," she said. "It is not proper for friends to fight. Please come inside and have dinner."
The silence was finally broken when the Professor let out a low sigh. "Solomon," he said. "What have you done?"
"I have rescued a being of myth from durance vile, and struck a blow against the Worldwide Global Conspiracy that will be felt for many years to come," Sol crowed.
Sandra's angry response was interrupted by the Professor's cutting hand gesture: very small, but enough for her to see. She clenched her teeth instead, and looked away.
"Let us by all means have dinner, then," the Professor said calmly. "I believe we have much to discuss."

"Our attack on the Enemy has borne great fruit," Sol expounded, making grandiose and voluminous gestures at the walls, the ceiling, and his bowl of rice. "Dozens of sentients cruelly held captive now taste the sweet honey of freedom. Though most are happy to simply enjoy the fresh air of liberty, they will soon answer our clarion call to join the crusade against the Worldwide Global Conspiracy that enslaves us all. Already, the first of them have joined us in our war against evil… and I have heard that one even now strikes back against the enemy on her own."
"If you mean that Vector bitch, then I don't know where you're getting your information. That crazy whore is in it for herself, not for any cause," Sandra muttered angrily.
"She strikes against the minions of the Conspiracy. Her cause and ours are the same."
"Forgive me, Sol, if I don't think that attacking an AIDS clinic and killing a bunch of sick people to steal their strains of HIV is particularly helpful in fighting the GOC."
"You are as short-sighted as usual, Sandra. Clearly you must see…"
It was always like this. Sandra and Sol would argue. Michel would sit by and watch in silence. And the Professor would just listen and then, at the right moment, make a single cutting remark that would make both Sandra and Sol realize how stupid they were being. And as for James? He just sat there, listened, and felt like a fifth wheel. It was not a comfortable feeling, and it was even more uncomfortable this time because of the presence of the Girl.
He glanced over at her, and saw her looking back. He blushed and looked down at his half-eaten plate of food, the bright colors of the vegetables and the gently bubbling soups arranged impeccably on the black laquered table. With shaking hands, he reached for his wine cup, found it empty. Almost immediately, she was there at his side, pouring him another cupful from a glass bottle.
Her hands, he noticed, were very white, and her fingers were very delicate and tipped with long, red-painted nails.
"Is your food not to your liking?" she asked, in a voice like bells in the wind. "You have barely touched it."
"It… it's fine," James stammered. He stared down at his food and picked up some kind of sliced vegetable with his chopsticks, but his hands were shaking so badly that he dropped it into his lap. She laughed, not unkindly, and placed a hand over his. "Here," she said. "Let me."
She picked up one of the small white pancakes from the center of the nine-sectioned dish and deftly placed a few sections of sliced vegetables and meats atop it. She wrapped it up with a few quick moves of her chopsticks and held it out to him in her chopsticks. James blinked in surprise, then, feeling embarassed, allowed her to feed it to him.
A loud laugh, and he suddenly realized everyone was watching him. "Is she not wonderful?" Sol said, with a wry smile. "A truly exquisite creature. And the Worldwide Global Conspiracy would keep her captive. Is her freedom not enough to justify our crusade against them?"
"Funny you should call it that, considering what happened during the Crusades," Sandra muttered.
And again, the conversation devolved back into the usual argument. But James noticed that Her yellow eyes were watching him.

In the end, they ended up staying the night.
James couldn't sleep. It was 2 am and he was laying in bed staring up at the ceiling. His mind was haunted by the image of a pair of lovely yellow eyes staring back at him, his dreams by the memory of the touch of her cool fingertips against his wrist. Though an early fall breeze cooled the room, the air seemed uncomfortably close and warm… stifling, even. He closed his eyes, and all he could see was the soft cupid's bow curve of her lips - all he could hear the ringing musical sound of her laughter.
He got up from his bed to get a drink of water, but something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He went to his window to get a closer look, and his breath caught in his throat.
She was sitting on a large rock in the backyard, running a lacquered tortoiseshell comb through Her long, black hair. She was slender and lovely, Her pale white skin glowing like pearl in the silver moonlight, her gleaming yellow eyes vibrant with life. A divinely lovely smile quirked her pale pink lips as flower petals cascaded down around her like snowflakes.
James swallowed hard.
He went to his door and opened it, then gave a cry of surprise. Michel, the huge, muscular Frenchman, was sitting outside his door, wrapped in a blanket, with his head cushioned by a pillow. He instantly awoke as he heard the door open. "What is it?" Michel asked.
"I was uh… just going to get a glass of water," James stammered.
Michel nodded. "Go back to your room. I'll get it for you."
"I'm not a kid, Mick. I can get my own water."
"James?" Michel said, slowly. "Go back into your room."
"Fu—" He never finished the sentence. Michel's massive fist lashed out and punched him in the jaw, knocking him out cold.
"Sorry, kid," Michel said. "I'm saving your life."

She heard the footsteps behind Her, and She smiled. It had been a long time since She had hunted man, and She was glad that She had not lost her touch. She turned towards him, letting her back arch in a carefully calculated move that framed Her face with her black hair in the most flattering manner possible… and was surprised to see the old man standing there on the garden path.
"Good evening," he said. "Lovely moon out tonight."
She smiled at him, quickly recovering from Her surprise. Though not the prey She had anticipated, She would make do with this. "It is," She admitted. lowering Her eyes in Her most demure manner, and covering Her bare shoulders with Her long flowing locks. "It reminds me of the moons of my childhood."
"You must miss them. The days of long ago. You speak of them with such nostalgia."
"It was a different time, back then," She said, letting her hair slip in a perfectly calculated manner to bare the back of Her neck. "Things were simpler. Now times have changed."
There was a short pause. "I am seventy years old," the man said. "I am not a young man driven by base lusts. Don't try to seduce me like you did James."
This was not going as She had expected. "Even a seventy year old man has needs," She purred, tossing Her hair back and letting him get a good look at Her body. "I could make you feel young agai—."
"Why do you do this?" he asked. "It demeans you to carry on like a cheap whore."
She hissed in anger, and for a moment, She lost her concentration on the illusion She was spinning. For a bare instant, he saw Her as She truly was, and the sight made him flinch in shock, but only for a moment. "Insult me again, prey-creature, and I will tear your heart out with my claws. I could kill you in an instant."
"Yes, you could," he admitted. "But what would that accomplish?"
"It would be what you deserve for doing this to me!" She snapped. "Your people have killed the Old. They have bound Myth and Legend in prisons of steel, and eradicated the things of Magic with cold science. Then you mock even our memories, perverting that which you should fear into things of lust and children's fantasies. This cannot be abided. I will NOT abide it! I will die, but I will die fighting, with my claws red with your blood and my teeth in your throat, and I will die knowing that I was feared!"
The wind blew, and carried with it the smell of rot and decay. The old man smiled. "Yes," he said. "This is the real you. This is what I was looking for."
"What are you talking about?"
"You have heard Solomon's plans?"
"Idiocy. The man thinks that he can go to war with the world and win. He is useful to me for now, but one of these days, I will taste his blood," She growled.
"Sol is… a broken man, but he is also a useful one. He has a talent for inspiring fools and martyrs, and we have need of both in these days. Go along with his plans for now," the old man said. "Help him fight his war."
"Why? It is doomed to fail. He has no subtlety. He will push and push, and when he pushes too far, they will strike back with all their might, and destroy him."
"Yes," the old man said. "That is exactly what we want."
He spoke to her then of plans, of plans within plans, of war and betrayal, and of things to come. He told her of the coming war, of the fire that would cleanse the world clean, and of the new world that would rise from the ashes of the old. He told her of many things, and as She listened, She felt something She had not felt in many years.
Respect.
At last, She thought. A human who TRULY understands.
He finished speaking. She nodded. "I will do as you have said," She admitted. "But I have only one question."
"Ask."
"Who are you?"
"My name is a secret," the old man said, "but most call me The Teacher."

They left with the dawn: James holding an icepack to his jaw and arguing with the stoic Michel the whole drive home, while Sandra and the Professor listened on in increasingly uncomfortable silence. Sol watched the drive away, then walked into the backyard, where She was sitting and looking out into the forest.
"So," he asked. "What did you think of my friends?"
"They seem like decent folk," She said. "But they lack your vision and daring."
Sol nodded, and put one hand in his pocket and ran the other along a windowsill. "You know, last night, after everyone had gone to bed, I went to the bathroom. On my way back to the room, I walked by this window, when I thought I heard someone talking. I heard an interesting conversation. I don't think they realized this window was open the whole time."
She was silent for a moment. "You know I didn't mean anything I said," She purred. "I said what I did to draw him out as a traitor. I would never betray you, not after all you've done for me."
"I hear you," Sol sighed. "But I can't take that chance."
He shot her twice in the head, saw her fall to the ground dead. He shook his head in regret. "Pity," he whispered. "I thought you, of all people, would understand."
"I did," a voice whispered, and Sol knew he was dead.
She bit his hand off at the wrist first, and it fell to the ground still holding the gun. That part was fast. The rest went much slower. About the time that she tore open his abdomen and started pulling his guts out of his body, he realized he had an erection.
His last thought before dying was that this was what he'd wanted all along.

The first thing She did was tear down the decorations and burn them in the back yard along with the uneaten portions of his body. She threw the robes onto the fire as well, feeling a sense of vindictive satisfaction as they curled and blackened. Then She walked back into the house and stood in front of the mirror.
Solomon Kidd looked back at Her. She frowned as She noticed a slight imperfection in the shape of his eyes, then fixed it with a small exertion of will. She would have to practice walking, She realized, in order to get just enough arrogance and braggadocio into all Her movements.
Then She went upstairs to his office, took the small post-it from the back of his monitor, and used the username and password written there to log on to his account. She spent the rest of the afternoon reading through his emails and correspondence, learning how to become Solomon Kidd.
It was shortly after the sun had set that She read one that made Her smile.

Re: Stepping Sideways
From: ten.srerednaw|yttikssim#ten.srerednaw|yttikssim
To: ten.noitandnimeerf|loS#ten.noitandnimeerf|loS
I'll help you on this, but just this once. After this, you're on your own. Come by the Library and I'll show you how to use the Ways.
Midnight


I was led into the room by two men in black, their eyes hidden by sunglasses. Maybe they felt pity for what was about to happen to me, maybe they didn't. One of them shoved me down into a chair. Did I feel a tremble in his hand, or was it just me lying to myself, trying to fool myself into thinking there was some regret in this godforsaken place.
I knew why I was there. The murder of my wife. I knew it was wrong, but I didn't care. For that one moment where my hands were around her neck, I was God. I knew I wasn't the Devil, as I saw him looking at the new arrivals to that place. Our new prison. A great new opportunity to serve our country. Freedom in a month!
It was Hell.
A doctor walked into the room and sat on the other side of the cold, metal table. “Hello, D-839229,” he said, a small smile playing at his lips. He had seen this before, the bastard, and was probably looking forward to seeing what hell I would go through.
He placed a small bronze ring on the stainless steel table. The initials H.T. shone from the light reflected on them. It didn't look like anything special.
“Please wear this ring, D-839229,” the doctor said, and leaned back.
I'd seen people shot for refusing to do what the doctors said, so I reached forward and tried to put the ring on one of my fingers. It refused to fit no matter how hard I tried. Eventually, I just put it on my pinkie finger.
“How are you feeling, D-839229?” asked the doctor.
I looked up. Goddamnit, this jerk was playing with me, making me put on some dirty old ring. “Fuckin' hungry,” I replied sarcastically. Then the pain began. I jerked forward, blood trickling out of my mouth. Oh god, what was happening?
One of my teeth fell out. It landed on the table and started shaking, as if it were trying to get away. Within a few seconds, all my other teeth joined it. As I watched them in horror, they began to squirm and writhe and change shape. Soon, I was looking at a dozen miniature…sharks?
As I was taken away by security, my fingers fell off. As I was thrown into a cell, my toes. As they explain to me I'm in observation, the hammerheads that were once my eyes rip apart my sockets.
As I sit in the cold, my only company a single security camera, organ-sized sharks come up my throat, their eyes flicking here and there. They all come out, my liver, my lungs, my hea


And so, at last, it had come to this. Day after day, week after week, they had come to him. Talking to him. Telling him their lies, trying to see where he broke. They'd never realized how much they had told him instead. When you hear enough lies, you get a feeling for the truth. You can see the shape of the truth, by how the lies outline it.
He had everything in place. He'd had it in place for quite some time. Plans, plots, and schemes, all ready to go, when everything was right. In the end, all it took to spark it off was a simple cold. The old lady had already been quite weak, refusing to indulge in treatments like the others. An illness introduced into her system by a well-placed cough, and she passed away in her sleep. The numbers above and below her had came to him and offered him her numbers. He accepted, with a show of reluctance. Those who are shown to desire power are those least likely to be trusted with it.
And now O5-4 sat in his office. He had been given his mark of office. A foot-long length of bone, polished smooth. His name had been erased, not just from Foundation databanks, but from the minds of all who had known him. He was sure the other numbers knew his name, but soon enough, they wouldn't matter. He let his fingers drift towards the keyboard before him, and a half smile rose to his lips. Alone, with no one watching, he still felt the need to say, well, something. For posterity. "I feel like a super villain. Like Lex Luthor, or Adrian Veidt. Heh. 'Do it, Dr. Bright? I did it 35 minutes ago.'" As good a set of words as any.
Four touched a series of buttons, setting into motion the events that would place the entirety of the Foundation into his hands. Then he sat back and waited. Fifteen minutes, and everything would be his.
13
Thirteen was easiest. Mainly because O5-13 didn't really exist. Oh, the Senior Staff were told he did. There were memos, handed down by 'O5-13,' but it was just one more lie. Thirteen's vote was rotated to the other O5's, moving up a step any time there was a tie vote and the tie breaker was needed. But there was a power there. Knowledge, that only those who held Thirteen's vote could access. A simple (actually quite complex) computer virus snuck past the Overseers' firewalls, and bestowed the power of Thirteen to Four. Easy as that.
12
A large African man sat in his chair, behind an expensive desk. The room he used as his office could also quite easily be described as 'expensive.' The man himself could be described the same. Silk tie. Gold cufflinks. Armani suit. Shoes made from the skin of a very rare reptile. He wore dark wrap-around glasses, smoked glass framed in ivory, perhaps to hide his eyes, perhaps to keep him from looking too closely at the things he had to. Although he had once borne another name, these days he was known to one and all as O5-12. He was the accountant for the Overseer council, making sure the numbers added up, everywhere.
His assistant entered the office on schedule. Everything Twelve did was on schedule. From the moment he woke up, to the moment he went to sleep, and perhaps even his dreams, followed a precise, practical order. To do things otherwise invited chaos, and with chaos came death. The assistant walked calmly to the drink cabinet, opening it as he had done every day for years. Somewhere in his head, things were turning. A thing had been planted in his head, before he became Twelve's right-hand man. And now, this thing made him pick a different bottle than the one he normally did.
The glass was poured, and it looked like whiskey. It even smelled like whiskey. When the brainwashed assistant dropped an ice cube in it, it even bubbled a little, like whiskey. But, when O5-12 raised it to his lips and gulped it down, it didn't act like whiskey. Contact with the soft, wet flesh of his tongue and throat resulted in a chemical reaction. Instead of the sweet soothing burn of alcohol, Twelve was rewarded with the swift, horrible burn of acid.
He was dead before the glass left his lips.
11
The two men sat across from each other, separated only by a chessboard. It was an old board, but they were old men. O5-11 was a pleasant enough looking Caucasian gentlemen, one of those old men who sit on their porch and offer candy to little children. Not the creepy kind. Eleven fiddled with a bracelet made from human teeth as he considered both the board, and his opponent.
"It's still your move, 'Leven," Agent Alto Clef teased his superior. Maybe the Devil, maybe a reality bender, one thing could be said for certain: Clef enjoyed these monthly games with Eleven. When his phone beeped to alert him to an incoming text, he almost ignored it. Almost. But he'd expected this. Sure enough, the text merely read 'Now.'
"Check."
"Where? You don't have check anywhere!" O5-11 leaned across the chessboard, searching for his opponent's move, his hands touching both sides of the board.
A sad smile on his face, Clef spoke. "There." He calmly tipped over his own king, and 300 amps of electricity charged into Eleven's body, frying his brain to a crisp.
"Checkmate."
10
O5-10 didn't notice when the air conditioning kicked on. It was just another distraction from the endless paperwork that filled her life these days. She was a strong, capable woman, a brunette, dressed in a functional long skirt and jacket. Every five minutes she'd raise her hand to the necklace around her throat, a carved marble eyeball, dangling to stare at her paperwork with the same disgust she felt for it.
Her first indication that anything was wrong was when she realized she'd read the same page 4 times without comprehending it. By then it was too late. She could hear the clicking and hissing sounds being made by her body. Her hand refused to let go of the paper. Her hand refused to let go of the paper. Her hand refused to let go. Her hand refused. Her hand. Her.
9
He always claimed he was the unluckiest O5. The only one who didn't get to be a world-traveling jetsetter. Oh no. Nine was stuck deep in the middle of the ocean. Sure, he could travel to any of the water Sites, all couple dozen of them, but most of the time, he ended up here, deep beneath the sea, where no natural light could find its way. He was a pale man, small, always looking lost in the suits he tried to make look good. A bone-handled knife rested in his hands at this moment in time, as he stared into the abyss. It would have been poetic to say something gazed back, but the only thing outside the window in his office was water, lots and lots of water.
Several seconds later, the only thing inside his office was lots and lots of water. Between the water in his lungs, and the pressure so deep, O5-9 was the unluckiest O5.
8
A shower could never make her feel clean. No matter how many times she washed, she could still feel those things crawling across her skin, could still see all the people she'd condemned to death. Eight was not a pretty woman. Despite being one of a handful of all-powerful Overseers, she'd never gotten any work done, no surgery to fix her sloped forehead, her craggy brow, no lap band to cut back on her weight. Somehow, despite having no appetite, she'd still gained weight. Even naked under the water, she still wore a braided ring of sinew on her left ring finger.
She turned the water up hotter, trying to blast away the horrible memories, boil them off. The heat felt very nice. Until there was nothing but heat. She didn't even manage a scream when her flesh boiled away. In fact, she may have smiled, because the memories, at last, were gone.
7
"I'm sorry, driver, I don't think I've seen you before. What did you say your name was?" Seven asked absently, fiddling with the ivory chopstick in her hair.
"Oh, it's Rodney. But most people call me Dr. Gerald."
6
He had been an Agent, once upon a time. When he worked the field, they called him Cowboy. People still remembered the agent, even if no one knew he was now the Overseer known as Six. He had been the best.
And now, he was an old man. Dressed as always in an immaculate white suit, his long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, his trademark Stetson tilted at an angle on his head. Between his gnarled old hands he held a white cane, the handle carved into the shape of a howling wolf. At his back were his two trusted bodyguards, Thompson and Black. They were almost as good as him. One day, they'd be better. When they were, well, one of them could take his number, and he could retire. Maybe spend some time with his granddaughter.
He didn't look back when Black got a text. He never knew that O5-4 had once been Agent Black's personal physician. Or, if he had known, it wouldn't have mattered. He did, however, feel it when Black drew his guns. He began to turn, but, no, too slow. As he fell to the floor, he noticed Thompson falling beside him. But the hole in the back of his head prevented him from noticing any more.
5
"It's an emergency, sir! We have to get you out of here!" The security guard hurried O5-5 and his secretary into the nearest airlock, and slammed the door shut behind the three of them. The guard leaned against the door, panting. "Keter, sir. It sounds bad." The secretary sniffed, but then, she always had pneumonia, or some other sinus problem.
O5-5 was nondescript. He dressed nice, but not well. His hair was… enh. His face was… blah. He didn't stand out. In fact, the only thing that was noticeable about him was the leather shoes. A nice, tanned leather. His secretary was an African-American woman, about 51 years old, quiet, with a rather large nose. She had always been his emergency escape, even if she didn't know it.
As the room proceeded to move upwards, the guard frowned, turning to look at the two of them. "Do either of you hear a hissing sound?"
The gas was fast-acting, invisible, unscented. It poured out of 108's nose at a furious pace, killing them all as they rode to safety.
3
"Well hey guys, how are you today? It's fantastic to see you!" Three looked like a teenage boy, late teens, blond hair down to his collar, jean jacket filled with patches, geek-style glasses. O5-3 never let himself be seen in person, or, at least, not for many years. He always showed up on a monitor, broadcasting from a white room, a fancy desk and old-fashioned computer beside him. While he always had a prop or two at hand, it was never anything real. In fact, O5-3 wasn't real. He'd died, decades ago, plugged into a prototype computer he'd invented. He just didn't go away.
The Overseer council took a vote, and decided they didn't care. He was still their best coder. He could still do the job. So, they set his bone earring on the mainframe, installed some safety programs, and let him work.
An electromagnetic pulse set off inside the hardware that carried him removed him from this world at last.
2
60 km west of Astrakhan, a garden was in bloom. O5-2 took great pride in her garden. Of course, she was cheating, a little. She didn't mind. Once you get old enough, you don't mind using a few cheat codes to get things done. Two was the type of woman you pictured when you heard the word 'Grandma.' She always had a blonde shawl on, no matter the weather, and usually a pair of gardening gloves. She had a fantastic gardening hat a friend had made for her, pushed down tightly on her grey curls.
Her helper was an old friend, a man old well before his time, and maybe after it as well. He glanced up, a slight frown on his face, and pointed, looking uncomfortable. He wasn't used to this much attention on him.
Two had the time to look up and smile at the Russian satellite that was screaming down through the sky at her. She could have moved. She could have run. She noticed the 'rogue' satellite too early, and she could have made it to the spring, saved herself. But she didn't.
If anyone had been around to hear her last words, they might have been confused that what she chose to say was "It's about time."
1
And One. The first. Once upon a time, he had been known as the Administrator. All the power in the Foundation had been his. But he didn't trust himself. He knew that absolute power corrupts absolutely. So, he parceled off his power. Handed out badges of responsibility. Numbered them, and made sure they could balance each other. Set up a system, so that if one died, the authority, the votes, were passed to another, so the balance would never be uneven for long.
And then he retreated from the world. Buried himself down deep, with only electronic means to keep him in touch with the outside. Which means that O5-1, still looking like a 13-year-old boy, still clad in the rags and bones that hadn't been used to mark the other 12, was completely alone. When his systems shut down, he didn't panic. When the liquid concrete began seeping out of the air vents, he didn't panic. He just lay down, and accepted it. After all, he'd been expecting it.
4
O5-4 stared at the screen before him, as the 13 lights shifted, back and forth, here and there. One dies a little ahead of another, so the vote goes to her, then she dies, so vote travels here… until, finally, at last, the votes were all his. The power was all his. The Foundation was all his.
Dr. Everett Mann, the Administrator, allowed himself one appreciative cackle. Just one. No sense going all maniacal about it. Besides, he had so much work to do. His fingers flew across the keyboards, as he prepared to change everything. As he typed, he muttered to himself.
"Good evening, Doctor. No, no, don't stand up…"
...


Hey, pal, nice costume. Yeah. I like the way it's just your face with a couple of strings attached.
Okay, that's far enough. Yeah, it's a real piece, so why don't you come along quiet-like? That's the ticket. Just over here, an' we can have a little talk.
So, the reason I'm here is—stop that. It ain't gonna work. We had plenty of time t'figure out what it was you did, an' we got a fix for it. So you can just relax. You're collared, so you might as well find out who by.
Anyway, the reason I'm here is that I'm part of a group what contains objects or people what are of an unusual nature. Yeah, like yerself. Sucks t'be you, I know.
Now, you could try t'run, but this gun'll stop you before you get too far. Won't kill ya, but you'll get a helluva headache when you wake up. This'd drop a horse, an' you weigh a helluva lot less than a horse.
So, I came here t'find out if the rumors were true, an' there really was somethin' here matchin' your description. We saw you a couple days ago, but I figured we'd see you out on the town t'night.
I always liked Halloween. I could have any face I wanted. You got a face like mine, you look forward to wearin' a mask. So I sympathize. Only time of the year you get to come out an' mingle.
Anyway, we just been waitin' fer you to come out where we could nab ya. My partner's watchin' us, an' pretty soon we'll go for a ride in our van to yer new home.
Ain't fair? Yeah, I know. I get that a lot. An' yer right, it ain't. This were an ideal world, we could all live in peace. Unfortunately, you an' me were born in a cold bastard of a universe what doesn't give a fuck about fairness or justice. All we got is the best we can do.
Yer ma? I'm sorry, kid. We can't go back to see her. I'll make sure to get someone t'talk to her so she don't worry too much. Honestly, she's probably not gonna remember a whole lot of this. It's one of the things we do. But we'll make sure she's okay. You got my word. Hell, tell you what. We bring you in, we'll say you agreed on condition we get some cash to her, make sure she's nice an' comfy for the rest of her life. The higher-ups will buy it. First lesson for ya. Skips who cooperate have life a hell of a lot easier than the ones who fight back. They'll get what they want no matter what, but you could make things easier on 'em. They ain't stupid. They'll reward good behavior.
I can't let you go, kid. Yer in too deep. Yeah, you say you won't hurt nobody, an' I believe ya. But we ain't the only ones out there. There's other folks in this game. Only they don't want to keep you contained. They wanna kill you, or worse, turn you into a weapon. They could make you hurt people. I seen it done. An' they'll hurt people t'get to you. People like yer ma.
See, there's a lot of threats out there. Some of 'em are other people. Some of 'em are things that would destroy the world if we let 'em. I've seen what's out there, an' it ain't friendly. Some of it's wonderful, some of it may help us, but some of it sincerely scares the shit outta me, an' I don't scare easy. There are so many things out to get us, someone's gotta be out there on humanity's side.
Nobody's on your side? …Yeah, but I'll tell ya what. You have any real problems, you think your bein' treated too cruel, tell yer guard to get word to Max Lombardi. I don't got a whole lotta pull myself, but I could maybe put a word in the ear of someone who does. Ain't gonna promise nothin'. Nobody's gonna make everythin' right, y'know. We just do the best we can.


Please sit down, Dr. Hurst.
I am Dr. Roy. Please don't stare. I apologise for the search, but we could not be entirely sure you were genuine. We've had quite a few people over the last few months who sought to cause…problems with us. But enough of that. Our friend in the Foundation gave me quite a bit of information about you, Dr. Hurst.
Of course we have people in the Foundation. Your friend, David, I believe. Just last week he sent us information on six possible recruits. David gave you quite the glowing review. 'Just what we need', 'A brilliant mind' and 'Able to do what must be done'. Now, that last one gives me hope. Let's have a look at this file, shall we?
Oh, you were involved with the Alaska incident? That was magnificent, you should be proud. The research data alone was extremely useful, as I can see. A few casualties, but these cannot be avoided in our line of work, can they? And you used another item to stop it? You've been wasting your time at the Foundation, doctor, you obviously belong with us!
Perhaps it's time I tell you what it is we do here. In essence, we're very similar to the organization you just left. We're not as big, I admit, but I feel that our very nature means we achieve more. Much more, as you will see during your career with us. We have three hundred and twenty six items currently in our possession. Actually, with your welcome gift we now have three hundred and twenty seven.
Take for example the ‘human serum'. Inject it into any animal and it will morph and twist into the approximate shape of a human. The samples they had, they locked away. But we had better ideas. We injected it into a human. Oh, the results. This is what you will do. Do what it is not right to do, because nobody else is able to do it. It's for the good of the world, doctor!
We have many more test subjects than the Foundation. The officials in the countries we place our facilities pay us to take their poor, their destitute, their useless. The people we use have nothing. They are nothing. But we can take them, use them, and then they are something, aren't they? They're the future.
I hope that in the future, wars will not be fought with guns. They will be fought with impossible things; wars will be ended in an instant. They could be ended before they began. I'm not evil. But the things we do have to be done.
We'll give you thirty test subjects for your first two months and access to two Vertigo items. You would call those Safe items, we don't. Bright new ideas, doctor, for a bright new future! Haha. Impress me, doctor. I'm sure you will exceed all of our expectations.
You are to use the items on the subjects, as I'm sure you know how to. Keep trying and trying until you find that moment where it all clicks and you're not holding something that should not be in your hands. When you find you're holding a weapon, you've done it. It's another small step, doctor. Another small step.
Oh, the name? We are a small force against the tide of impossibility, and this small force seeks to create logic out of illogic. What better name than the Chaos Insurgency?


Harken watched the rain sheet the windows, leaning his head on the cool glass in the hopes it would make his headache go away. Down the hall, a couple was fighting, the rise and fall of argument punctuated by the occasional thud of either a slap or a door slamming. The sound of traffic was at least muffled by the rain, and the Agent sighed at the thought of actually being able to get some sleep.
The safe house was a pit. A cruddy apartment in a small, broken-down town, and they'd been lucky to score even this. The official reason was overextended resources due to the crisis, but Harken was reasonably sure if one of the 05s had been forced out this way, they'd have found a hotel room somewhere. He had to admit it made a kind of grim sense. Why spend the good stuff on a two-time traitor and a washed-out screw up?
At least it beat sleeping in the car.
A sharp knock on the door made Harken reflexively look to the bedroom doorway and the dimly lit bed beyond. Kramer, normally a hair-trigger, was comatose. She'd burned out on the last mission and would be mostly useless until tomorrow while she recuperated. Harken pushed off the glass, drawing his gun as he walked to the door. He ducked behind the wall for cover, swallowed, and opened the door quickly.
The Agent outside fell back a step with a start, nearly dropping the file folder clenched in his hand. Harken sighed, holstering his gun and pushing the door open all the way. “Jesus, Scud, identify yourself next time! I could have shot you.”
“Yeah right, Harken. I've seen your range scores. The day you manage to shoot me is the day I retire," Scud laughed.
"What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"
"Message from the top," Scud said. "Didn't trust it to anything but hand delivery."
"Give it here." Harken took the folder from the younger Agent, let out a low "hm" as he saw the stamp on the cover of the manila folder. "Well, come on inside. You might as well have a cup of coffee before you go."
Agent Scud chuckled, following him in and shutting the door. He put his soaked overcoat over a chair as Harken moved quietly into the tiny kitchen. "Where's Kramer?”
Harken waved to the bedroom. “She's in there… fuck, don't go in there, you moron! The hell is wrong with you?”
Scud stepped away from the bedroom door, grinning. “Hey, I'm just interested, you know.”
“I swear to god, if you do the 'are all her parts in tune?' gag, I will beat you to death with this coffee pot," Harken said. He poured two mugs of lukewarm coffee and handed one to Agent Scud.
Scud laughed, shaking his head. “Naw, already got my jollies out. Just curious. What's her deal, anyway? I've never really heard much about her, besides jokes and the whole supersoldier bit.”
Harken stared, then shook his head. “Supersoldier, huh? She's not a supersoldier, she's a…” He paused, put an ear to the door. The only sound was the low buzzing noise of Kramer's cybernetic components undergoing their usual regenerative cycle.
Harken leaned in, lowering his voice. “Ok, here's the deal. She's not a supersoldier, or a war machine, or anything like that… not exactly. She grew up in the Church of The Broken God. Her parents were supposed to be some big so-and-sos in their clergy. They did things to her. I don't really know what: she doesn't talk about it much, but whatever it was, she almost died a few times. She lost her right eye, most of her right hand, her ears and most of her teeth.”
“You're bullshitting me.” Scud said, a nervous laugh in his voice.
Harken sipped his coffee, staring into the oily liquid. “No bullshit. Most likely they were coaching her to become a Crusader: one of their "holy knights of the machine." Or maybe they were just seeing what they could do. Anyway, they changed her body chemistry, did stuff to her brain to make her totally compliant and loyal to the higher ups in the Church.. It was working great until some goons hired by Marshall, Carter and Dark raided them. One of their members wanted some 'relic' they had in the basement, so they hired out some people to go and trash them.”
“It was a nightmare, from what she said.” Harken continued. "You know how she's all cold as ice and stuff? Well, even she gets the shakes talking about that night. They came right in the middle of a service. Shot some people, rounded up everyone else, all black masks and guns. They stole a bunch of stuff out of the vault, then lit the place on fire. She saw her parents, dead and bleeding on the steps to the podium. She never saw who shot them.” He looked up, catching Scud's eyes. “She did see them get stacked up like cordwood near the door to make it look like they died trying to escape. Saw them start to burn as they dragged her out.”
Scud stared in silence. Harken lit another cigarette. “Kramer was…twelve, maybe thirteen? Barely a kid, but she saw the writing on the wall, did what she needed to do to survive. The mercs found her hiding in the sacristy. They almost put a bullet in her head, but then she told them she knew where the good stuff was, and how to get past the locks and traps and other shit like that. Mercs decided to take her back with them. They got a bonus for bringing her in."
"MC&D loved her, it was like getting a blank check for them. They started adding things. Subdermal armour, ocular implants, amputated and replaced her legs below the knee, tweaked organs, a real overhaul. They made it so she could change her facial bone structure at will. It apparently feels like having a truck run over your face. She had to practice twice daily."
“So she worked for richie-rich for a while, lots of combat stuff, and some… ” Harken coughed, checking the dim bedroom again. “… well. She's never been hard on the eyes, you know, and you know what they say: if it exists, someone will want to fuck it. Sometimes she mixed the two. A few very rich blokes who somehow pissed off MC&D got a razor in the neck while they were on the fly. Anyway, she did that for a while, then bumped into The Foundation during a breach event. She shot her handlers and turned herself over to the recovery Agents.”
Harken laughed, shaking his head. “Those assholes came home feeling like they won the Super Bowl. Promotions all around. Almost lost her right off the bat: she had a stroke when they started to question her, some failsafe the richies had put in her brain. They got her working again, pumped her for information. After they squeezed her, they really didn't know what to do. Eggheads talked about listing her under SCP, and they had a cell ready for her, nice and warm. Wrote up containment procedures and everything. Then Dr. Gears submitted a report, saying how her system was 'inefficient,' and 'had room for improvement.' Motherfucker."
Scud started nodding quickly, tapping the table. “Shit, I remember that!" the younger Agent interjected. "They were all worked up, brain-machine interface research or something. They kept feeding her to 212, then working on her in the lab, crossing her with every mechanical or cybernetic SCP they could think of.” He rubbed his face, trying to remember. “God, how many times did they do that?”
“Twelve. They fed her to 212 twelve times. Not counting all the 'regular' surgery stuff they did as well. 212 did less and less every time. Finally, it wouldn't trigger anymore. It… it didn't see her as human. She had a bit of a breakdown when that happened. It took God knows how many sessions with Glass before she stabilized from her suicidal tendencies. After that, there wasn't much more to do. They'd hit the limit with what they could do with her. We kept thinking they'd end up just dissecting her. Maybe they would have. But then that whole thing with Able went pear-shaped.”
"Able?" Scud asked.
"Remember Pandora's Box? Mobile Task Force Omega Seven? Remember how they kept talking about how they were going to use SCPs to fight SCPs?"
"I remember it went completely to shit. The idea was fucking stupid," Scud said.
"No, it wasn't. The idea was solid. They just chose the wrong SCP to do it with."
Scud sipped his coffee in silence as Harken opened the file folder, leafing through the contents and nodding at what he found there. Scud cleared his throat. “So. Where did you figure in?”
Harken gave a short, bitter laugh as he carefully examined one of the photos, holding it up to the light to get a better look. “Me? They found me in a bottle at the Site 17 training center. Mental health restriction. My team got carved up by 106. I was the only survivor. I kinda snapped after that, worthless in the field, but I know the spy game inside and out. Some personality profile system decided my skillset meshed well with Kramer. Myself, I think they just wanted to pair her up with someone who wouldn't be missed. Not that they use us much. Maybe the whole Able thing spooked them, but until Site 17 got hit, we weren't doing any work at all. Now, of course, we're busy busy busy.”
Scud grinned, rising from his chair and pulling on his still damp coat. “Well, you're doing good work. Word on the street is you've got MC&D running scared. Keep it up.”
"Thanks."
"No problem. Be seeing you."
Harken nodded, leaning back in his chair as Scud walked to the door. He coughed. “Hey, Scud?”
“Yeah?”
“How long you been on the take?”
Scud stopped, one hand on the doorknob, half turning to Harken.
“There's a secured message on the sheet," Harken said. He held up one of the photos, revealing a series of small pinholes punched through the eight by ten glossy. "How many of our agents did you sell out since you started taking money from Marshall, Carter and Dark?”
“Oh come on,” Scud laughed, “you're pulling my-”
Even silenced, Harken's pistol sounded like a firecracker in the still apartment. A gout of blood sprayed from Scud's back. He croaked, falling to the floor, his own pistol falling from nerveless fingers and clattering against the stained hardwood floor. "You were right about one thing," Harken said. "The day I shot you was the day you retired."
A semi-truck driving by drowned out the next four shots Harken fired into Scud's chest. "Well, I guess that's done wi—"
The bedroom door came off its hinges as Kramer smashed through it like a freight train. She had her sidearm in both hands, eyes glowing as they scanned for threats, her bare musculature twitching and soaked with synthetic adrenaline. “W't the f'k is goin' on?!” she shouted, in a voice still fuzzy with sleep.
Harken chuckled, wiping off his gun. “You've never been a morning person. Relax, it was just Scud. He turned traitor a while ago, and they were waiting for a good time to bump him, so they sent him to us.”
Kramer nodded, visibly relaxing, her snarled and sweaty hair turning her hyperaggressive pose into a caricature. “I heard you two talking. What was it?”
Harken looked at her, then to Scud. "He's dead. What does it matter now?”
She nodded absently, already stumbling back to bed.
They left Scud there when they rolled out the next day. A little surprise for the next team.


Hi. I'm (sigh) Research Assistant Corbette. I'm gonna be straight here… I kind of had a long night last night aaaand I threw up an Advil this morning. So… yeah. You may be wondering why I'm giving this orientation. That's a good question.
Anyways, I'm here to talk to you about properly recording things when you write down containment procedures, or descriptions, or… incident reports, or… yeah… This is, uh, pretty important, I guess. I mean, you can't write shitty reports, or else you'll be, y'know, fired, or… something…
Okay, now, before we even get onto writing stuff it's important that you all know what to add as a picture. Now, I know some of these things may be scary to photograph, but I swear to god, if I see one more fucking artist's depiction, I don't… It's just… No. Just… put in a picture or don't put something in at all, okay?
So… the first part that everyone sees after the photograph is the item number. Now, I don't even know how many times I've seen some dumb-ass who didn't capitalize, or put in a hyphen, or some shit. Look, okay, that's just… How could you forget that? Honestly? What could possibly have made you forget to put in a FUCKING. HYPHEN. Jesus, I thought you were memetically chosen or some shit. I don't even know how they recruit nowadays. They, like, they do the online thing now, right? Yeah? Oh, okay, yeah. So, yeah, just… remember hyphens, okay?
Now, after that comes the object class. Now, I don't care how pants-shittingly terrifying the gigantic blob looks, if all it's gonna do is make the floor slimy, it's NOT. KETER. Do we need to destroy this thing? No. Is it even going to kill any of us? No! Well… unless you're, like, old or some shit and break your hip. Look, just… try the locked room thing. I'm pretty sure you all know it, okay? If it does nothing to escape the room, it's Safe. If you don't know what the fuck, it's Euclid. If it pops out and eats your grandmother who slipped on the slime covered floor and broke her hip, it's Keter. Okay? Okay.
The next p- Are you… are you serious? That's not even, like, a good ringtone. And you're a junior anyways, when the fuck did you get phone permissions? Give me that. Oh, look, he was texting somebody else. "This class fucking su-" Fuck you buddy! Get out of my class! No, get out! Jesus Christ. I didn't even want to teach this, ok? Can we just… can we move on, please?
Okay, the Containment Procedures. This is the most important part of the document because, y'know, people have to follow these instructions to contain the thing. That means you can't mess up and end up having researchers pour Orange Juice on a Scip instead of Potassium Iodide (and end up teaching some random assholes about proper documentation). And puh-lease do your research beforehand. Listen people, Alchemy died 200 years ago. You can't consult a practitioner of it, ok? If there are any questions, just direct it to the head researcher, ok? What? Well maybe they're blacked out because YOU'RE ALL AMATEURS WHO WE CAN'T TRUST TO DEAL WITH A HIGH-CLEARANCE SCIP!
Next up we have the description. This is pretty straight forward. Just… please be clinical, okay? The scip's skin is not pale as the moonlight in colour, okay? It's fucking white. You understand? And don't just insert an expungement willy nilly. I understand sometimes it's been a long day and it's just easier to insert a redacted here and there until tomorrow, but when I'm looking at a document and I see "SCP-4321 is a humanoid that [DATA EXPUNGED]", it's just… It's not fun for anyone.
As for the experiment log, you're really free to do anything. But please, for the love of god, be clear in your recording. I'm sure you're all aware of a certain incident involving sharks, and I don't want to see anything like that again. Just… promise me you won't do that. Please?
I think that about ends this lecture. You're all free to go. Oh, before you leave, if I see any of you making any HILAROUS comments at the end of reports I will find you and we'll INVENT Keter duty just for you. That's about it. Anybody have a fucking Tylenol?
Wow, that lecture sucked. - Junior Researcher James