WANTED: GROUP OF INTEREST
A hero is only as good as the villain.
The SCP Foundation is looking for prospective Groups of Interest, which can attempt to oppose the SCP Foundation and emphasise the obvious superiority of the SCP Foundation.
Interviews will be conducted on ██/██/████ at Dr. Clef's office. Interview date is protected by a memetic seal that can only be bypassed by specific beings. If the interview date is visible to you, you really should participate in the interview.
There will be free drinks.

Dr. Clef: So, you sell video games.
Nolan Bushnell: Evil video games.
Dr. Clef: Right. And these games, they hurt or kill their players?
Nolan Bushnell: Or drive them insane, or something, yeah.
Dr. Clef: Isn't killing your customers kind of a bad business model?
Nolan Bushnell: [shrugs] It makes more sense when you're high.
Dr. Clef: I should hope so.

Dr. Clef: Who are you again?
ASCI Director: The American Secure Containment Initiative.
Dr. Clef: You can't just take two out of our three slogans like that.
ASCI Director: You're the ones who took our title. We're your predecessor, one of them at least.
Dr. Clef: If you're gonna become us, why are you here?
ASCI Director: Apparently, predecessors are still classified as minor GoIs.
Dr. Clef: Buddy, didn't you see the job ad? We're looking for villains. If you will become us in the future, you can't be the villains. That will make us, the heroes, look bad.
ASCI Director: I can at least join the winning side, right?
Dr. Clef: … I'm afraid you're mistaken, friend. You will never join the winning side. You're just a stale reductionist representative. Folks like me are forever the winning side, but we always find use for lackeys and cannon fodder. [smiles]

Dr. Clef: So, you're the daughter of one of our Staffs who had gained multiversal knowledge?
The Black Queen: Huh, I will not say it like that, but basically, yes…
Dr. Clef: In that case, I don't know what sort of villain you can be. I mean, right now, I can only imagine you as a rip-off of this weird caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland.
The Black Queen: Wait! My goal is to destroy the Foundation AND I'm not alone, me and my Sisters share the same goal.
Dr. Clef: Listen, I don't think that little kids are the best opponents…
Dr. Clef is interrupted by the sudden entrance of 380 other Black Queens. Some of them look exhausted and some others apologize for being late.
Dr. Clef, muttering to himself: Okay… what is the moment when this interview turned into a World War Z remake?

The guy you ate lunch with: hello
Dr. Clef: I'm sorry, who are you?
The girl who sat behind you: Don't you remember?
Dr. Clef: Don't think so.
Your best friend: We went to school together!
Dr. Clef: Uh, I was homeschooled.
The first girl you kissed: What about the road trip?
Dr. Clef: What road trip? I hate driving.
That guy you used to smoke weed with: You know, in the summer of '76. After we graduated.
Dr. Clef: I was, like, 10 years old. Are you sure you came to the right interview?
Youdonotrecognizethebodiesinthewater: You seriously don't recognize me.
Dr. Clef: Nope.
One of the band geeks: Ah, forget this.
[All your friends leave you behind.]
Dr. Clef: Looks like somebody peaked in high school.

An interdimensional portal openes and an ancient daevite beast steps out.
Dr. Clef: Take a seat.
Daevite: Eldritch screeching
Dr. Clef: Fuck this.

[Dr. Clef notices a large rectangular envelope that has been on his desk this entire time.]
Dr. Clef: Huh? What's this?
[Dr. Clef opens the envelope, revealing a large brass plaque.]
Dr. Clef: "Department of Abnormalities?"
[Dr. Clef inspects the envelope and the reverse side of the plaque for any further information, but finds none.]
Dr. Clef: Huh.
[Dr. Clef shrugs and tosses the plaque into the waste bin beside his desk.]

Robo-Dude: I AM ROBO-DUDE, A INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF DR. WONDERTAINMENT. I AM HERE TO COLLECT THE FREE DRINKS, ROBO-PAL.
Dr. Clef: Why? You are a robot.
Robo-Dude: NOT FOR ME BUT DR. WONDERTAINMENT. I AM HERE TO COLLECT THE FREE DRINKS FOR DR. WONDERTAINMENT.
Dr. Clef: Why don't he come and get them himself?
Robo-Dude: DO NOT INTIMIDATE ROBO-DUDE. DR. WONDERTAINMENT IS A BUSY TOY MAKER AND THIS VERSION OF ROBO-DUDE COMES EQUIPPED WITH AN ATOMIC GRENADE IN THE EVENT YOU FAIL TO FOLLOW UP WITH THE PROMISED FREE DRINKS.
Dr. Clef: Kinda extreme for a toy… Kids these days are so lucky. Anyway, the drinks are at that table next to the bowl of chips, which is mine so no touching that.
Robo-Dude: THANK YOU, ROBO-PAL.
Dr. Clef: You know Dr. Wondertainment should pay an actual visit next time. They could make-
[Robo-Dude grabs all the drinks and vanishes in a bright blue light]
Dr. Clef: Did he really just take all the damn soda?

Dr. Clef: So that's your entire mission? Finding a grave for Genghis Khan?
Berke Khan: He asked for an unmarked grave, and that is what he shall receive!
Dr. Clef: So what, you're searching through time for an unmarked grave?
Berke Khan: Precisely! We shall travel until we find a time when nobody remembers Genghis Khan, and then we shall return to the past to continue our campaigns, with the spoils of the future!
Dr. Clef: But you're only going forward in time?
Berke Khan: Always forward!
Dr. Clef: So really, all we need to do is fund a couple of low budget movies and books every so often, and keep good records on the most deadly conqueror in the history of mankind? We don't even have to be accurate, we could even whitewash Genghis.
Berke Khan: What's a movie?
Dr. Clef: Look, I know who your father is.
Berke Khan: No! I must continue my travels.
Berke Khan uses his Roman time machine to travel into the future.
Dr. Clef: Nobody had ever heard of Genghis Khan in 1160. Just saying.

Dr. Clef: So, bottom line, you're a circus?
Herman Fuller: Not just any circus, my good man. Herman Fuller's Circus of the Disquieting is The Circus, the Greatest Show in all the Worlds! Surely you've heard of us.
Dr. Clef: …
Herman Fuller: You're joking.
Dr. Clef: Well, I remember there were a few good scips about you a few years ago, then there was almost nothing until last year when we started getting all these weird stories coming in for some reason.
Herman Fuller: That's right, we've got a cannon now!
Dr. Clef: A canon?
Herman Fuller: That's right, Alty, a 90-foot-long cannon: solid cast iron, fires balls three feet wide, and is accurate to within 3 miles. Don't tell me that doesn't make us a formidable enemy!
Dr. Clef: Look, Mr. Fuller, every time we try to raid your Circus you just vanish into thin air. We're looking for an enemy that's a little more… menacing.
Herman Fuller: More menacing? More menacing? Sir, you show me one six-year-old in the world who isn't afraid of Clowns and then say we're not menacing!
Dr. Clef: We don't employ six-year-olds, so that's a moot point. Hey, come to think of it, last I read you weren't even still in charge of the Circus of the Disquieting.
Herman Fuller: I assure you, sir, I have no idea what you're talking about.
Dr. Clef: In fact, you're supposed to be in containment. You're a mediocrely rated SCP now.
Herman Fuller: I have had enough of these preposterous accusations! Good day sir!
Dr. Clef: Don't get your strings caught in the door on your way out, Pinocchio.

Dr. Clef: General, weren't you guys defeated in the Pacific War?
Kakure Shogun: Yes, that happened. Circumstances beyond IJAMEA's control, to be precise. But we have survived the war, and infiltrated almost all segments of society.
Dr. Clef: Standard secret organisation, eh?
Kakure Shogun: We have factions like the Kakure Shogun and Jirai. In English, they are 'hidden generals' and 'landmine' respectively.
Dr. Clef: General, look. We already have ORIA and GRU-P for our obligatory foreign organisation GoI. Three's a crowd. And yellow peril's so dead. Your group has absolutely no appeal at all.
Kakure Shogun: Doctor, I will not tolerate Orientalism. This is about the sacrifices of many people who died at war. Can you just let people die for nothing?
Dr. Clef: Speaking of dying, we beat your entire group. And that's your place, buddy. [snaps finger]
[Kakure Shogun is replaced with a human skeleton, which quickly crumbles to dust.]

The man whose face cannot be photographed: So, what's your group called?
A being with the head of a rabbit: We don't have a name, unfortunately.
The scientist who smiles widely and wears a big hat: What? why not?
The leporine visitor: Our names were taken from us long ago. Now we seek to reclaim them.
The doctor who sticks unrolled cinnamon twists in his nose: Taken? How's that supposed to work?
The fur-covered stranger: A great magical working. We aided your organization in a war against a terrible foe, but then you betrayed us, banished us to another realm, and stole our names to keep us from returning.
The interviewer with the long nose: Oh, so you want revenge?
The long-eared one: Hardly! We only wish to reclaim our names, so that we might return home.
The being who carries a ukelele: Oh. Can't you just…make up new ones?
Some rabbit guy: What?
The dude that all women find repulsive: You know, make up a fake name. It's not that hard.
A furry fairy: …
The person who lies often: Well?
John Smith: …you know what, never mind.
[John Smith gets up to leave.]
A somewhat confused researcher: Um, okay.

[Dr. Clef stares blankly at the empty chair in his office, nodding his head.]
Dr. Clef: I see you are truly Nobody. I think we can fit you in whenever we feel like it. Next!

Dr Clef: And… you represent?
Generic Waffen-SS Commander: I am here on behalf of ze Obskurakorps of ze Third Reich. Hei- [He is cut short by a bullet to the head.]
Dr Clef: Yeah, no. Fuck Nazis.

Dr Clef: Anyone there?
???: ⛧ I̶̺̼̊ͅ ̴̭͎̖̒̕h̸͔̱̍̌a̶͔͔̒ț̸̀ę̶̝̟̝͚̽ ̷̺̲̤̯͊̃̉͂ͅy̷̠̦͚̪̽̏̔ơ̵͍̕ư̶͙͍̱̺̈͆̈́ͅ ⛧
Dr Clef: I swear we had someone penciled in for this time slot.
???: ⛧ I̶̺̼̊ͅ ̴̭͎̖̒̕h̸͔̱̍̌a̶͔͔̒ț̸̀ę̶̝̟̝͚̽ ̷̺̲̤̯͊̃̉͂ͅy̷̠̦͚̪̽̏̔ơ̵͍̕ư̶͙͍̱̺̈͆̈́ͅ ⛧ ⛧ I̶̺̼̊ͅ ̴̭͎̖̒̕h̸͔̱̍̌a̶͔͔̒ț̸̀ę̶̝̟̝͚̽ ̷̺̲̤̯͊̃̉͂ͅy̷̠̦͚̪̽̏̔ơ̵͍̕ư̶͙͍̱̺̈͆̈́ͅ ⛧ ⛧ I̶̺̼̊ͅ ̴̭͎̖̒̕h̸͔̱̍̌a̶͔͔̒ț̸̀ę̶̝̟̝͚̽ ̷̺̲̤̯͊̃̉͂ͅy̷̠̦͚̪̽̏̔ơ̵͍̕ư̶͙͍̱̺̈͆̈́ͅ ⛧
Dr. Clef checks the daily schedule to verify meeting time.
???: ⛥ D̵̜̼̈͆ŏ̸̭̤͇̈̽n̷̦̝̪͎̓̅̑͝'̷̅̿̈͜t̸͉̎̿ ̶̨͙̠̙̈́̑̆̚i̷͈̹̫͗͂́͝g̸̠̻̗̬̲͝n̵͖̬̈́̉͗̋͜ö̶̹̙̪͍̬́̽͝͝r̵̢̥̠̝͛e̸̢̻̽ ̸̺̿͑m̶̞͎͝e̶̛̳͂̚!̴̡͎̩̑̏͝ ⛧
Dr Clef: Yeah, I definitely arranged for them to get an after-lunch interview right now.
???: ⛥ L̴̪̆͋̀͘I̸̥̩̍́̉̋ͅS̶̢̤͚̤͌̅Ṯ̷̢̳̘̀̓̇̏͘È̷̬͇̱̃̃́͝N̴̈́ͅ ̴̥̬̔̚T̶͙̖̠̋͘̕͠Ơ̵͔͔͙̈́̎̇̎ ̵̧̹̹̆M̷̻̗̟̈̄͜Y̷̹͔̭̩̒̆̈́͝ ̷͖̭͍̩̂͘S̶̨͍̳̙̲̐̂̂̃C̸͔͎̯̘̑̇̊̎R̷̥̗͉̅̑̏͒̚E̸̦̾͘A̶̲̭̾M̶̨͉̬͔̬̑̕Ś̴͖̞̑̅͜ ⛥
Dr Clef: Guess it's a no-show then.
???: This is why I hate you.
Dr Clef: What a shame.

Dr. Clef: So uh… What was the name of your group again?
Richard Dawkins: We are the most esteemed guardians of truth and reason, the Society of the Atheist Partisans of-
Dr. Clef: Alright you can stop there. We'll work on shortening that name later. Or at the very least come up with a cool backronym. Tell me more about your whole militant atheist schtick.
Richard Dawkins: What's there to explain? We use our superior intellectual prowess to rightfully disprove the frankly moronic notions of religion and the supernatural.
Dr. Clef: Uh huh, and how does that work in a setting where those things are more or less self-evident for important guys like us?
Richard Dawkins: Don't be daft! Your so-called "anomalies" are all but mere hoaxes. All of them.
Dr. Clef: We've got what's basically a Weeping Angel locked up. How do you explain that?
Richard Dawkins: I… Er-well-
Dr. Clef: And don't your guys use anomalies sometimes?
Richard Dawkins: I-I'm afraid I have to take my leave. I promised ZICRON Seamus I'd go fedora shopping with him.
[Mr. Dawkins sprints out of Dr. Clef's office.]

Grand Karcist Ion: Pleasure to meet you, Clef.
Dr. Clef: Indeed, Grand Karcist. Please tell me more about this Sarkicism.
Grand Karcist Ion: [visibly irritated] Firstly, I would prefer if you do not use the s-word. This is 2017. We should not be subject to such language.
Dr. Clef: I'm sorry, 'hon. Keep on talking.
Grand Karcist Ion: I represent the Nälkä, an ancient religion dated back to what you would call the Bronze Age. Our faith's tenets include the shepherding of the flesh-
Dr. Clef: Ah, that's your schtick! You can be the obligatory antagonists if we need some body horror and unspeakably ancient religion! Thank you for coming down today, Grand Karcist.
Grand Karcist Ion: Wait! I haven't told you our deity's UST with the Broken God and our equally ancient war with the Church of the Broken God!
Dr Clef: That's a bit unnecessarily complicated. Besides, the focus should be the Foundation. If you're so fixated with the Church of the Broken God, why don't you go to their interview site?
[Grand Karcist Ion disappears from Dr. Clef's office.]
Dr. Clef: Our original proposition still stands, if you're still interested!

[Dr. Clef leans forward and peers over the desk at the ██-year old █████ sitting on the other side.]
Dr. Clef: Aren't you a little young to be a GoI?
SCP-231-7: Oh, I'm not the GoI. I'm here on behalf of the Scarlet King, also known as blackbox-blackbox-blackbox-blackbox, the Devourer of Worlds.
Dr. Clef: He sent a ██-year-old to do his bidding?
SCP-231-7: Well, we are called the Children of the Scarlet King.
Dr. Clef: Fair point, but I still think I ought to interview the guy in charge if he's gonna be a GoI.
SCP-231-7: No can do. The Scarlet King is currently imprisoned, bound in an extradimensional prison by seven chains.
Dr. Clef: Isn't that a little cliche?
SCP-231-7: Ah, but listen to this. See, I'm the chain, in a metaphysical sense. Or, rather, my child is.
[Dr. Clef scrutinizes the ██-year-old █████. She does not appear to be pregnant.]
SCP-231-7: We have to wait until right before you contain us, so there can be suspense.
Dr. Clef: Ah. And how, exactly, are you supposed to be contained?
SCP-231-7: Way ahead of you. We made detailed notes.
[SCP-231-7 hands Dr. Clef a spiral notebook. He opens it and is visibly surprised.]
Dr. Clef: This says we have to [DATA EXPUNGED] you every 24 hours.
SCP-231-7: Well, of course. I mean, I'm containing an Apollyon-class entity.
Dr. Clef: Apollyon? What the Hell is that?
SCP-231-7: It's even worse than Keter! Isn't that edgy?
[Disgusted, Dr. Clef hands the notebook back to SCP-231-7.]
Dr. Clef: Sorry, this is the lolFoundation, not the edgyFoundation.
SCP-231-7: So you're not going to [DATA EXPUNGED] me?
Dr. Clef: Um, no.
SCP-231-7: …not even once?
Dr. Clef: Okay, we're done here.

[There is a knock at the door. Dr. Clef goes to answer it, and finds an unmarked cardboard box.]
[Opening it, he finds several unidentified black rectangles, possessing no identifying markings.]
Dr. Clef: And they said I should throw this thing out.
[Dr. Clef inserts one of the rectangles into a currently unidentified machine sitting on a dusty bookshelf. He then powers on an unidentified screen.]
[A yellow logo plastered on a cyan background appears, fading to what appears to be a talk show set. An unidentified figure sits alone.]
Unidentified Figure: VK Technical Media Solutions.
[The figure stands up.]
Unidentified Figure: Your life's already a joke. Why not laugh along?
[A stock laugh track can be heard, before Dr. Clef powers the screen down.]
Dr. Clef: Huh. Was that so hard?

Dr. Clef: Okay… So you're giant space birds who report wizard news and watch over refugees…
[Dr. Clef slides the resume back over the table.]
Dr. Clef: Sorry, the position is filled.
Seventh Wandsman of Trell: What? What are you talking about?
Dr. Clef: We already have the Serpent's Hand and they're basically the same thing.
Seventh Wandsman of Trell: No we aren't! We're preservers of knowledge who do our own research! And we're explorers of the multiverse and we deal with crippling dysphoria all the time-
Dr. Clef: I'm afraid the Serpent's Hand is really queer too.
Seventh Wandsman of Trell: But the Serpent's Hand is basically a local Earth thing! We do stuff in all of the multiverse and off planet too!
[Dr. Clef presses a button on his desk.]
Dr. Clef: Security, please remove the chicken from my office.
Seventh Wandsman of Trell: Wait! No! We have a focus on power of the press, and a beef with the Hanged King, and Lot of Sodom from the Bible being all angsty, and- bgawk!
[The interviewee is dragged from the room by his neck.]
Dr. Clef: Next!

[The representative from the Shark Punching Centre opens the door to the interview room and walks in. However, he is blocked by a solid brick wall. On the wall, the following is inscribed: "No. We may be lolFoundation, but we have standards too."]


Kit told the story the same, every time he told the story, every time he thought about her. He heard the click of heels in his head, determinedly strutting on the linoleum of the school corridors. Teachers looking down their nose at her even as she towered at six feet; dismissively putting on mascara as they spoke about standards and responsibilities and expectations. That attitude when teachers confronted her somewhat disappeared in the face of her peers – they were mean to her, to say the least.
But Kit always used to think she was cool.
They were young, and that was good, but it was far from the best years of their lives, for both of them. Kit was the awkward weedy kid who looked like an Alsatian puppy – big hands, big feet, gangly limbs that made him clumsy and ragdoll when he was punched into the lockers. She was taller than him, trying harder than him, with expensive make-up and long hair and tights that covered the hair on the legs she wasn't yet allowed to shave. People used to challenge her all the time. They called her a queer, a fag, Dr. Frank N. Furter, other names too gross and hateful to say out loud.
But Kit always used to think she was cool.
Kit went home left school for the day and went to the graveyard. He sat amongst the dandelions and thought of everything and nothing. He thought of the monster that was waiting for him at home. He thought about explaining bruises in PE. He thought about her. He stood, touched a familiar gravestone for luck as he passed it, pressed his hand hard to the material and let it dig into his palm so it was bleeding slightly. Punishment, maybe, for thinking of her. He paused under a familiar tree to speak to a spirit he had hugged many moons ago, before he knew this was all wrong and he sincerely thought love would protect him, when he thought love made the world go around. The people at school offered no love. Not to him, especially not to her. She was the weirdo, the outcast. Not a girl, not a boy. Not fitting in anywhere.
But Kit always used to think she was cool.
As if some telepathic power summoned her as her familiar form passed through his thoughts, she appeared at the gate of the graveyard. And that was the most amazing thing about her – that it was her, and that she was standing at the gate. Kit approached her slowly, blood oozing from his newest split lip, eyes fixed on her as she stood, quiet, expectant, maybe of insults. He had only seen her in the corridors and some classes, after all – they weren't friends. Yet.
But Kit always used to think she was cool.
He reached her, and held out his hand, the one that wasn't gravel-burnt. He meant it as a greeting, shaking hands as if they were stuffy adults in a meeting, but she took his hand and held it, instead, her manicured nails gently pressed into his skin as their fingers interlocked, and she finally fit in somewhere. They fit, palm to palm, eye to eye, shyly questioning – ‘Is this okay?' and when neither said anything, both concluded that yes, yes it was. Kit came close to her side, gently brushed aside a tangle of hair to whisper in an ear that was perfected with a large hoop earring.
“I always used to think you were cool, Dawn.”

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It was March 6th, and New York was still.
Doctor Selvece fished a lighter and a pack of cigarettes out of his backpack and stared at the dead shell of Midtown Manhattan. Corpses lined every street, as did the various things they'd left behind - a wallet here, a beer bottle there. Cars were parked, abandoned, and crashed as far as he could see in either direction; the city was a junkyard and a graveyard joined together in haphazard fashion. Walls were still decorated with graffiti he'd seen a lot in the final few days he was above ground - "THIS IS THE END", "GOODBYE TO EVERYONE", and so on.
As his eyes followed the cigarette smoke traveling upward and vanishing with the wind, he contemplated the closing months of civilization.

DoctorHongSite68: Hello? Is anyone there?
DoctorSevleceSite68: Hong? It's me, Selvece. Verification: "History is a cycle of mistakes."
DoctorHongSite68: Oh man I can't believe you're still alive. I had to abandon Site 68 a few hours ago - there was a containment breach and the MTF we assigned to it almost all shot themselves. How did you get access to this network?
DoctorSelveceSite68: I am monitoring the development of SCP-3519 from my current location. The emergency site FRC was still working, and nobody was using it. Likely because they are dead.
DoctorHongSite68: Yeah, I'm the only one who wasn't infected at 68, as far as I know. I was in an isolated containment unit when the countermeme was deployed, but it didn't make it to anyone else before their infection was irreversible.
DoctorSelveceSite68: That's about as bad as I imagined. I was in New York when things started to get really bad in January and hunkered down in a bunker I had constructed here awhile ago.
DoctorHongSite68: Wait a minute, a bunker? How did the rest of the Foundation not know about it? Were you alone?
DoctorSelveceSite68: Yes to the latter question. I had it built for myself in case the worst happened, and issued amnestics to the construction workers.
DoctorHongSite68: RAISA would've found out about that…just how long ago did you build this thing?
DoctorSelveceSite68: Long enough.
DoctorHongSite68: Well, the important thing is that you're alive, and so am I.
DoctorSelveceSite68: March 5th is still more than two weeks away. Wherever you are, you need to stay away from other people until then. And by other people, I mean everyone but me
DoctorSelveceSite68: From what we understand, the infection has become more aggressive as the date approaches. Countermemes may not be sufficient at this point if you are exposed to an eschatological concept.
DoctorSelveceSite68: Avoid all news outlets still broadcasting/publishing
DoctorHongSite68: Sounds like a good idea. But what about after that?
DoctorSelveceSite68: To be honest, I don't know. There's not that many people left.
DoctorHongSite68: I do.
DoctorSevleceSite68: ?
DoctorHongSite68: There's a place I know the infection didn't get to. A place of safety, free from the troubles of the world.
DoctorSelveceSite68: What on earth are you talking about?
DoctorHongSite68: Sending the file over now.
DoctorHongSite68: Did you get it?
DoctorSelveceSite68: Doctor Hong, I suspect you are currently infected by a Keter-class cognitohazard. I am closing this channel now.
[TERMINATING FRC CHAT #S68Emergency; 15 SECONDS]
DoctorHongSite68: It's not a cognitohazard. It's the truth. And I'm going there once this is all over.
DoctorHongSite68: Good luck with whatever you do, Selvece. I hope I see you in paradise.
[CHANNEL CLOSED]

It took until April for him to read the rest of the file. Part of that was because he'd been occupied with surviving, moving into a nice apartment near Central Park and stocking it with everything his survivalist instincts could think of. But mostly, he was apprehensive about whatever SCP-3891 had done to infect someone who had survived the cognitohazard that everyone else hadn't. What would've been the point of living past the 5th if another SCP finished the job?
But after weeks of trekking through a ghost city now being reclaimed by nature and reading whatever books could take his mind off of his surroundings, his curiosity could be held back no longer.
At first, his worst fears for his friend and fellow researcher were confirmed.

Although the cognitohazardous properties of SCP-3891 preclude detailed investigation, these individuals are presumed deceased given the inability of SCP-3891 to support any significant population for extended periods of time.

He was wrong. There's nothing for us there.
Then he read on.

SCP-3891 has a permanent population of between 250 and 300 individuals,

And on.

being a place of safety, free from the troubles of the world

And on.

Sounds beautiful, doesn't it?

It did.
He didn't decide right away, of course. Duty and obligation still meant something to him, and on the off chance that someone was still editing the files, he might be able to make contact with a survivor if he could find a working connection to the Foundation's servers.
But as spring turned into summer, Selvece formed a curious habit. After spending the morning and early afternoon hunting the deer that were becoming a more and more common sight, he walked to the World Financial Center and stared at a boat that was hastily docked in the harbor. After a week, he walked towards the boat and began clearing out the debris and bodies (mostly skeletons now) inside of it.
By the time July's punishing heat had formed the first rust on the cars, it was ready. All it needed was his supplies. Saying goodbye to his post-apocalypse apartment left him more sentimental than he thought it would, and he made sure to bring his group picture of Site 68's head researchers as he walked out the door for the final time.
On July 10th, New York murmured. It was a rumbling that would have been faintly audible to most, if anyone had been around to hear it. As it was, Doctor Selvece took one last look back at the big rotten apple that Fifthism had emptied as the roar of his boat's engine filled his ears. He wondered if anyone would ever see the skyline again before the decaying power of time eventually brought the buildings down.
He also wondered if SCP-3891 was what he hoped it was. It could be a trap, or simply an empty lifeless atoll. Or it could have been infected by 3519.
Or maybe, just maybe, Hong was waiting for him.
"I don't know," he said aloud. "But it's worth a shot."


Text: I hate your policies BUT this place is cleaner than any hospital or prison I've seen and that's my only frame of reference for whatever this type of place is, so… thanks for that part I guess. -Nicky
Staff Note(s) (If Applicable): Sanitation standards ought to be typical in all hospitals and prisons. Filed into compliments and criticisms records.

Text: I AM NOT BROKEN. I AM NOT AN ANOMALY. I AM NOT A LAB RAT. I AM NOT AN EXPERIMENT. I AM NOT A MONSTER. I AM NOT A MONSTER. I AM NOT A MONSTER. THE WORLD DOES NOT NEED TO BE PROTECTED FROM ME. I AM A PART OF THE WORLD YOU STOLE ME FROM.
Staff Note(s) (If Applicable): Ethics Committee interviewing is recommended. If psych care path does not improve, chemical assistance may become necessary over the next several weeks of containment.

Text: 03/'22. I've been in here since Sept 2017. My anomalous effects have only gotten worse. They used to only have to put the reality anchors on the lowest setting. I would watch them move the bar. Mom says they're faking it. She said they make up anomalous stuff so they can keep you longer. She said the activist groups have released something called the expunged docs and that they're proving that at least four sites were caught intentionally making people's effects worse, especially when the person is an anti-Foundation activist in the outside world. Several people were released and then recaptured for "worsened effects" but only coincidentally when they began to speak out about what they do to us in containment. I don't know who to believe anymore. This isn't my home. I'm going to shove this into a hole in the wall beside my bed, I guess…
Staff Note(s) (If Applicable): Visitations and phone calls for this anomaly are now under approved surveillance.

Text: Hi Mr. Trauss, thank you for standing in the halls all night while one of the monsters was out. I just turned 15 and thanks to you I didn't have to be scared all night on my birthday. Thank you for protecting me. -7 PM
Staff Note(s) (If Applicable): Agent Trauss does not at all mind doing his job.

Text: AGENT TRAUSS, please don't mention this note but I was hoping you'd maybe talk to me after your shift? Can you come here off the clock or do you get in trouble? I miss riding in your car. You were the last person I was with in the outside world and it's fucking with my head. Love(?), ███████
Staff Note(s) (If Applicable): Agent Trauss can't form a personal bond with an anomaly he captured. Scheduling for counseling will be arranged in the next few days.

Text: "Anomaly" "object" "skip" "scip" "SCiP" "patient" "subject" I HAVE A FUCKING NAME. I AM HUMAN.
Staff Note(s) (If Applicable): Just venting, it appears.

Text: I shouldn't have to beg on my knees to be treated like a person instead of an experiment. Fuck all of you. I hope every single one of you rots in Hell. -J.
Staff Note(s) (If Applicable): That's correct; no individual should have to beg on their knees to be treated like a person instead of an experiment. Complaints like these should be reported through the proper channels, and the offending staff replaced.

Text: A COMPLAINT: I AM A SAPIENT HUMAN BEING WHO IS HERE WILLINGLY. IF ASKING THE DRIVER TO HAVE SEX WITH ME (IT WAS AN OFFER, NOT A DEMAND) IS "INAPPROPRIATE" THEN FINE BUT DON'T MAKE ME TALK TO THE ETHICS COMMITTEE FOR TWO HOURS. I AM NOT INCAPABLE OF INFORMED CONSENT AND IF IT'S AGAINST POLICY THAT'S ONE THING BUT TRYING TO TELL ME I DON'T CONTROL MY OWN BODY IS ANNOYING AS HELL. I AM PERFECTLY STABLE. DON'T BE ASSHOLES. -("redacted")
Staff Note(s) (If Applicable): No across the board, though given context from the anomaly's containment specialist, it's likely this was not written from a serious standpoint, as Agents Trauss and Rogers cited that no such comment was made in the vehicle at the time of detainment. That said, no infractions to these strict no-contact parameters have occurred at Site-42 in over 20 years and we intend to keep it that way, so we have to approach it as if it is serious. Interview scheduled for 04/01/22.1

Text: as soon as I get my hands on one of you I am taking them straight out and into the wall and you will hear the screaming for hours on end | go fuck yourself before I do | Fuck you, -"SCP-████"
Staff Note(s) (If Applicable): Standard threats violence for this anomaly. Scranton-field plates have been installed in the exterior walls of SCP-████'s containment chamber and guard shifts doubled. This note is now on-file with the anomaly's psychiatric team as well. It is to be noted that increased frequency of violent behavior from former civilians now classified under the SCP-4427-A designation — including this anomaly — may be an indicator of an urgent need for reexamination and if necessary complete upheaval and restructuring of human anomaly treatment protocol, especially following increased frequency of 4427 manifestation events.2

Text: my release date is tomorrow 03/30 | thank you for saving my life | I love all of you | thank you for protecting me when the country outside treated me like a creepy story instead of a person | thank you for recognizing that I am sapient | thank you for knowing I was human all along | love, SCP-████
Staff Note(s) (If Applicable): Now those are the kind of results we're after. Copies of this note will be provided to the regional director of the coastal southeastern sites upon next opportunity.

Text: to the guard who opens my door to check on me every 20-23 minutes, i am trying to sleep. maybe part of the reason so many skips are on "suicide watch" is that you have taken all of our rights and privacy away and left us nothing to live for. please stop talking to me. i am just going to become mute from this point forward. cold and cruel are the same thing.
Staff Note(s) (If Applicable): Object has been refusing to speak in all interviews since the point of this note's reception. Complaints are somewhat valid and have been forwarded to the Ethics Committee and psychiatric health departments.

Text: Thank you, Director! My containment specialist has just told me that I'm clear to go back home NEXT WEEK. I am so ecstatic that I just had to write you personally. When you took me I was scared and I fought the containment team. I have always worried that I permanently injured the German man with the big scar down his stomach. I think I knocked his head into a brick wall and knocked him out. I've felt bad ever since — I know I've only been in a month and I'm only Euclid but is he okay? Can you find out for me and tell me before I leave? It might always bother (sic). Thank you so much for doing what you do. The SCP Foundation saved me from myself. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, SCP-████/Cheri █████
Staff Note(s) (If Applicable): ████ was too young for their effects anyway, so thankfully they were easy to quell. They have been released as of the time of this documentation. Copies of this note will be provided to the regional director of the coastal southeastern sites upon next opportunity.

Footnotes
1. Edited by Elaine Starck (EthCom Dept of Sentient & Sapient Anomalies) 03/29/22
2. Edited by Elaine Starck (EthCom Dept of Sentient & Sapient Anomalies) 10/12/22


Bryan's skin buzzed with magic, but his legs ached from days of hiking. Weeks of sitting in the forest hadn't prepared him for the miles of hiking up and down mountains. He had worked till his hands bled, building temporary Potential by repeating the same small ritual over and over, 18 hours a day, 28 days in a row. The only thing that had kept him sane through that process was the 8 other initiates, sitting with him in a circle around a maple tree.
There wasn't anything special about the maple tree, but several times he could have sworn that a knothole was staring at him. He had grown to resent it, the knothole just sitting there staring at him while he worked himself raw for a chance, just a chance to be accepted as a mage. He checked again that the seed was still in his pocket and walked on.
They practiced as they walked the faint trail, a singing chant in a language like the rustle of wind through leaves, like the groan of a bough heavy with ice, like the whir of seeds spiraling through the air. Its atavistic splendour was rich and heavy in the air around them.
Bryan was sixth in the line. His feet fell on leaves pressed flat into the soft earth by the initiates before him. Behind him, the last two sang and walked. He glanced back, sensing eyes on him, but the girl behind him was focused on traversing the terrain without losing her place in the song.
He looked around uneasily. He still felt eyes on his back. Were there mountain lions in this part of the world? They might be eyeing the three goats the last initiate was leading behind them. Back home in California, if you felt eyes on your back in the wilderness, it was probably a mountain lion…
~~~~~
Assessment Team 763 crept through the forest after the nine fledgling Type Blues. They were on a Response Level 2 mission to trail and eliminate a recently-discovered wing of KTE-Lerna (The Serpent's Hand), dubbed KTE-5325-Lerna-Blue.
763 commander Lena Drummond wished they could get closer, but her Grey Suit wouldn't keep her unseen if she didn't maintain a 30 meter distance between herself and the targets. Plus, (and she was increasingly nervous about this) the third from the back (Dubbed KTE-5325-Lerna-Blue-6) seemed all too aware of her team's presence.
Yeah, they were kids. Hell, the oldest member couldn't be older than 25, but they were members of the Serpent's Hand, and so they were terrorists. Still, she couldn't shake a feeling of apprehension as the six members of her team stalked through the forest.
They needed to get wherever the hell they were going, and soon.
~~~~~
Seedlings-Spring-from-Cold-Ash stepped her consciousness out of her tree, new lips forming the words of the song instinctively. She was the youngest dryad in the Grove, having just managed to create a humanoid form last full moon.
She loved it.
She loved the sound of the wind. She could feel the wind in her branches, but having ears? having skin? It was a completely different experience. And colours? She knew what colours were, having experienced them through her links with the rest of the Grove, but she could never have predicted the fact of them on her verdurous eyes.
She turned those eyes on the leaf-strewn ground. It looked like any other patch of earth in this forest, but just beneath the surface, her roots drank the rich earth. She could feel them, through her link with her tree, and through her roots she was linked to all the other dryads in the Grove. She could feel them all, so many ancient minds in harmony with her own. With those minds in harmony, they could call on the collective magical power of the Grove and work their wills on the world around them.
"Seedlings-Spring-from-Cold-Ash, would you help me grow rich fruit for the festival?"
She turned and smiled at Strong-Roots-Dig-Deep. She could have communicated through their shared connection to the Grove, but they were the two youngest dryads, and had yet to grow jaded to the novelty of speech. They had spent many lovely hours exploring their new forms together, as well as the curl of magic worked by hands and lips.
"It would be my pleasure," Seedlings-Spring-from-Cold-Ash joined Strong-Roots-Dig-Deep in a different song, moving fingers in complex patterns in the power-charged air.
As they sang, seeds carefully collected and stored burst forth with life. The ground around them grew thick and lush with pepper plants and tomatoes, strawberries and snap peas. Seedlings-Spring-from-Cold-Ash raced her friend, growing succulent, rich tomatoes faster than Strong-Roots-Dig-Deep could grow her sweet bell peppers. Strong-Roots-Dig-Deep retaliated by playfully wrapping her in pea plants heavy with sugary snap peas, while Seedlings-Spring-from-Cold-Ash's strawberries burst into perfect ripeness all around her.
They laughed and sang, collecting the fruits of their labour. When they had almost finished bringing the produce to the large stone at the centre of the Grove, they felt a ripple of attention go through the collective consciousness of the trees.
They're here.
~~~~
Bryan heard the song grow louder, richer, as if their nine voices had been joined by dozens more singing a companion piece. He stopped dividing his attention between his feet and the shadowed forest behind him, and stared forward in shock. Ahead, the sparse undergrowth of the old-growth forest gave way to thick green grass strewn with maple leaves. Inside the border, the old-growth beech-maple forest was replaced with only strong, tall maple trees, much thicker and stronger than the ones outside the border.
"The Grove," he breathed, hearing the initiate in front of him burst into tears of relief. Soon, the ordeal would be over. He would either be a mage or a failure. He could see them now, figures in the trees. He made eye contact with one, a girl who looked about 20 with green hair and an armful of strawberries. She looked as curious about him as he was about her, which surprised him. She had probably seen other humans, but this was definitely the first time he had ever seen a dryad.
~~~~
"Chief, what the fuck are those? Hell, that one just popped out of a fucking tree" Agent Miller messaged Commander Drummond. She halted their pursuit and answered as best she could. She didn't have a clue but it would be bad for morale for her to reply that she was as clueless as they were.
"Designate PTE-Lerna-Hogweed-06. Miller, contact command and request a strike team at our position. Wilcox, it looks like they're about to start a ritual. If it looks like they are about to sacrifice the goats, engage and neutralize the Type Blues before they can complete the Working." Okay. She had a handle on the situation. She hoped.
She turned to survey the other five members of her Assessment team.
"It will take half an hour for the nearest Strike Team to reach our location. If necessary, we can-"
"Commander, the assumed sacrifices have been transferred to Lerna-Hogweed-06, after an exchange of words. Orders?"
Fuck. She whirled around in time to see one of the green-haired figures bring a hand-sized thorn towards the goat in the lead.
"Stop them, by any means necessary."
~~~
The Grove happily accepted the symbolic gift of the livestock. Deer and moose were not hard to come by here, but goat was a rare treat brought only by visiting humans seeking boons.
Seedlings-Spring-from-Cold-Ash felt a dozen more dryads step out of their trees and prepare to see if one of the initiates was well suited to merge with their collective. If one was worthy, they would be granted a connection with the Grove, and given access to some of the powers the dryads themselves wielded.
The initiate in the back, a boy with winter hair and nervous eyes, passed the leads of the goats to Boughs-Bend-in-Summer-Storms. The ancient dryad took the leads with a bow and lead them back to prepare the livestock for the feast. She lifted a thorn made for the purpose, and-
CRACK
Seedlings-Spring-from-Cold-Ash felt the pain and surprise through her roots, but the Grove was mostly full of confusion. Why was there a hole in Boughs-Bend-in-Summer-Storms' head? There was a hole in a nearby tree, too. What did it mean? And why were the initiates scattering like dry leaves in the breeze?
~~~
The song vanished, and time slowed as Bryan dived for cover. How the hell was someone shooting at them? He saw the dryad with the goats stumble, a rapidly-filling hole in her head. He saw the confusion ripple through the dryads, strawberries scattering from the arms of the cute one he'd seen earlier, just yards away.
He fled the gunfire… and immediately tripped and fell.
That's it. I'm dead.
—-
"Standard rounds ineffective." Wilcox's voice was calm, collected. This was hardly the first time they'd run into something without an allergy to lead. "Switching to incendiary."
"The fucker is regenerating! Looks like limited regeneration Type Red."
"Miller, profanity. Wilcox, how are the incendiaries working?" She tried to project the collected, powerful leader she had to be.
"More effective, entities are fleeing."
"All units, switch to incendiary munitions. Miller, make sure the Strike Team knows."
—-
There were predators in the forest, and they had brought fire. The trees shuddered with fear. There were few things they truly feared, but fire was one. The initiates were scattered. Seedlings-Spring-from-Cold-Ash scooped up the nearest initiate and ran towards her tree. Towards safety.
—
Bryan's arm was a mass of pain, where the strange tree-girl had started to pull him along. The fire in his nerves was echoed by a blast of nearby flame, a maple erupting in a shower of shrapnel and napalm. A nearby dryad collapsed, her steps faltering as her body burned from the inside out. The one pulling him along flinched, sending more pain down his abused arm.
—
A whoop from Miller temporarily distracted Commander Drummond. He had clapped the youngest member of their team on the shoulder, congratulating him.
"The trees are the weak point! Burn the fuckers to the grou-" He collapsed with a gurgle, as vines erupted from the ground, thorns biting into his carotid and ending his exclamation shortly before his life.
-
The Grove burned with anger, elders marshaling defenses they had never needed. Vines whipped from the ground towards the invaders and fog was wrought from thick air. Storm clouds were summoned from the sky and thick pillars of stone rose from beneath the earth, creating physical and magical defenses.
-
Bryan clung to the dryad and survival. The Bookburners! It had to be the Bookburners. They would raze the Grove. It would all burn. She would burn with her tree. He would die. The seed! Maybe he could…?
-
Drummond peered from behind a tree. She had to stifle a laugh at the irony. Her team was dead. Only her silence and stillness had saved her. The Strike team was seconds away. She just had to-
The sustained thunder of the helicopter brought tears to her eyes! She would live!
-
They brought a craft with wings of thunder? Well the Grove could use thunder too.
.
Bryan slapped the seed to the dryad's chest, finishing his chant and dropping a prayer to the universe.
.
Drummond's one unseeing eye reflected the burning, falling helicopter. The other was replaced by a large shard of shrapnel. Falling from her hand, a screen displayed: 'Melville Airstrike inbound 36:02:53'
.
Seedlings-Spring-from-Cold-Ash screamed and collapsed, her tree obliterated by a twisting, blazing, shredding mass of metal. Her self was burned and ripped apart. She closed her eyes and wept her first, and last, tears.
.
..
…
A seed cracks open, tiny roots finding their way into the open air.
—-
A figure staggers under the weight of another, one arm hanging uselessly. He drags his makeshift travois between two columns. Her head bounces gently, hand clutching a seedling to her chest.
~~~
A pair of green eyes open.
End of Part 1
| Ash and Maple ~ Part 1 | Ash and Maple ~ Part 2 »


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SCP-3985-7 Vocalization Log (2072)

JAN 14 -    (00:51) Sixteen (suns/sons)
  (01:52) Burning
  (14:11) To see through
FEB 26 -    (12:36) [Unintelligible]
       (15:04) Up above
APR 02 - (05:05) White showers
      (05:08) White flowers
JUN 19 - (08:33) Strangle it
      (08:41) Strangle it
JUL 21 -    (19:09) [Unintelligible]
SEP 08 - (21:48) Dog
    (21:49) Play
    (21:50) Fetch

You watched me make it, right? Mix the bottles from the top shelf with the ones on the bottom. Two to one, remember? Stir it all together until white crystals form.
Dhole toiled in the basement of a forest cabin, stirring great vats and sweating over ovens. A long table spanned one side of the room, its surface covered in plastic bags, bits of wire, and neat tools. An aquarium full of tangible night squirmed on the other side of the room, glowing lines of stars tracing twisting paths through it. A radio crackled noisily, announcing the electoral victory of some would-be prince over another.
Fill the pouches with it when you're done. Twist the wires around the connectors. Don't push too hard, or it might go off early. You've got stuff to do before you die.
She only paused long enough to stuff an energy bar into her mouth and tie back her black hair. It had become shaggy and matted in recent months, but she was too busy to cut it. Sweat gathered on her forehead, sliding down through thick eyebrows before dripping to the floor. Busy. Numb. That's what she aspired to.
Get the stuff out of the safe while that settles. It's the same combination I used for everything else. You're probably going to need it all.
Giant blue birds stared silently at Dhole as she opened the safe hidden under a removable section of the floor. It was full of fascinating things: sleek guns, colorful pills, and stacks of plastic cards. Egret's voice came from the bird perched on Dhole's shoulder, explaining each's nature in vague terms. All facts she knew already.
We'll have to find where they have the Overseer locked up. Check with that girl we met in Pittsburgh. The place with the tower, remember? It's not that far.
The little witch stared with wide green eyes as Dhole sat down across from her. She placed the Overseer's rings on a flat map of the world and stared as they shifted in slow, jittering patterns. They stacked themselves over the southern tip of a southern continent and repeated the act on a more detailed map. Dhole swiped one of Egret's cards through a flickering device afterward, and it beeped happily as money vanished from a nameless account on some nameless island.
Getting in might be tough, even if you were me. Steel doors. Big guards. Bigger guns. Dying in a black site is as easy as breathing. Don't worry though, Dhole. Don't pick at your hands like that. Just listen to my plan.
The bird's beak pushed into her ear, though her mind, into some place even deeper inside. Dhole winced as she listened. Once, twice, too many times to count. Egret's hand was clear in the plot's bloody twists and repulsive turns. Dhole abhorred it, even after everything that had happened.
"Might some other path be charted? You know I can–"
No! The birds swelled in numbers, appearing at the edge of her vision and flying to every possible perch in the crowded basement. Blue feathers and harsh screams filled the air. Nonononononono! Listen to me. Listen to me! Don't think about those things! Don't think at all! Listen! Listen! Listen and act! Act and don't think! Bite. Bite! Tear their throats out! Maim the traitors! The false overseers. Everyone!
Had Egret ever spoken like that? It didn't matter. Dhole resolved herself to a thoughtless week as she completed her preparations. She resolved to being the kind of hound who would snap, snarl, and kill. The numbness was almost pleasant. This way, the plan stung less than a flea's bite. Her obligations would be met no matter the cost.

Dhole walked down the well-lit corridors of a place that did not exist in any records. She wore a single-piece uniform, pushed a wide cart that reeked of garbage, and went almost entirely unnoticed. Nothing this elaborate had been in Egret's original plan, but the hop to her homeland and back had not been accurate enough. The bird on her shoulder whispered a new plan into her ear as she went, and each chirp sounded oddly pleased.
She paused to empty a squat trash can into her cart, one of many on her twisting route. A bleary-eyed man passed by as she shook soda cans and rotting peels into her cart. He did not so much as look at her. Dhole waited until he was far away before putting an extra package from her cart back into the empty can.
Sweat ran down Dhole's back as she passed from corridor to corridor, emptying each can she saw before loading them again. The rings in her pocket vibrated with increasing intensity as she did, buzzing louder and louder against each other. The dark mass stuffed into a duffel bag pushed outward even more incessantly. It couldn't be much longer before the building's many cameras noticed its writhing shape.
The Overseer's jewelry sang as she turned a corner toward a passage full of important-looking signs and symbols. They no doubt warned her about what the armed guards standing at the far end would do to her if she stepped one foot too far.
Don't be afraid, said a bird as one of the guards shouted at her. Don't worry about them. Don't worry about yourself. Only worry about the Overseer. Dhole glanced down at the neat, white containers still stacked inside the cart, shoved it down the hallway as hard as she could, and slapped the detonator hidden in her pocket.
Flames bloomed immediately. The luminous eruption was majestic, but only in the moments before a wall of hot air swatted Dhole down the hallway. She bounced like a skipped stone, off one wall and again off the floor, before sliding to a slow stop on a scratchy carpet. Something like thunder rumbled all around her and the building shook violently.
Birds swarmed Dhole as she pushed herself to her feet. Her ears rang too loudly to hear what they screamed, but she could guess. Hurry. Advance. Before the opportunity is lost. She limped down the hall, leaning against the wall as she went, stepping over broken bodies and through a broken doorway. The rings in her pocket shook. The darkness in her bag dripped out. Dhole could barely feel anything, but that wouldn't matter soon.
Large metal spheres and leagues of heavy tubing dominated the once-secure chamber. Another crumpled body was sprawled on the floor and a wiry man tried to hide behind a toppled desk. Dhole could smell the urine as she approached. Him! Ask him! Make him show you! insisted the birds. She did not need to be told.
"Where are the overseers?" she said flatly. Once, she would have once hated the way he stared directly at her face, but it hardly mattered now.
"I don't–"
"The Overseers." How did Egret ever get people to do things?
"They're not here! This isn't that kind of place!"
Dhole stared blankly at him. A klaxon sounded overhead. Two birds alighted on her, one for each shoulder. Violence, squawked one. The gun, added the other. Of course. The pistol felt unnaturally heavy every time she practiced with it. This time was no different.
"Overseer-6. Bring her."
"I can't!"
The rings struggled against her pocket toward the nearest metal sphere. They spun against each other, clinking furiously, beating an irregular rhythm.
"That one," she said, pointing with her free hand. "Open." The man seemed almost ready to object until she pointed the gun at him. Could it truly be so easy?
The heavy door opened slowly. No light shone out, but Dhole didn't need to see inside. She could already tell what it held. Water splashed around her thighs as she stepped down and waded forward, each step quicker and louder than the last. The door slammed behind her, but it didn't matter. She was almost done.
The former Overseer hung in the middle of the chamber, bound in a harness hanging from the low ceiling. Straps were wrapped tight around her, and tight clusters of tubes led to needles stuck through her skin. Dhole looked around for Egret, looked for any of the birds, but there were none to be found.
"Overseer?" she said. Her words died in the strange room, and the woman barely twitched. "Overseer. Houndmaster. I've brought what you asked for. I've brought what you demanded." She twitched again. "As you summoned, I came. Overseer, please." Another twitch, more violent this time. One by one, Dhole pushed the rings onto the woman's long fingers. Brass, then silver, then brass again. They shook as she removed them from her pocket and stilled once they touched flesh. "Please."
Something banged outside the sphere and the Overseer gasped. It was a coarse, haggard sound. Rough and dry. "I, I… I!"
"I brought the other thing too," said Dhole, unzipping her duffel bag. Some of its contents had already escaped, but most remained inside. She could feel the Overseer's eyes focusing on her, then focusing on it.
"Mine."
The viscous night sky surged upward. High and thin, it wavered slightly, as if somehow indecisive. Several more bangs issues outside the metal walls. The starry edifice tipped forward, trembled, and rushed into the Overseer's chest. She screamed. Dhole screamed. Outside, someone else screamed. The process barely lasted a second.
"Dhole?" rasped the Overseer. "My hand. Take my hand."
The chamber's door slammed open as she grasped the woman's clammy fingers. Gunshots echoed off the walls louder than her voice had, and something inside her squished, snapped, and burst. A vast wave of pain overwhelmed everything else, crushing her senses and drowning her thoughts. Wildfire burned through her nerves. All of them. She was consumed, engulfed, and yanked away from the rest of the world.

Dhole floated in nothingness. Not a nothingness of the mind, she felt too cognizant for that. Not the nothingness of death either. It was too empty for that. Making tiny movements, she rotated herself, turning to face the woman hovering before her.
"You did well," said the Overseer. She was newly clad in a simple black dress and newly radiated power. It hurt to look into her starry eyes. "I did my best to fix you, but it's never been my specialty."
"I live, regardless."
"For now," she agreed. The nothingness receded slowly, and Dhole found herself lying on a cot in a sterile, white room. Unfairly, the pain remained.
"I fulfilled my contract. I reached and grasped it. I'm… I did it." She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes and groaned. "I did it."
"You've done more than I ever could have expected. There's more to do though, Dhole. I can't harbor this inside forever. The Foundation needs to be put right. It needs to be fixed. My place needs to be restored."
Dhole breathed as deeply as she dared and rolled up to a sitting position. The great walls of numbness erected inside herself were naught but rubble. Her fortifications were broken. She breathed again, and more things hurt than just her body.
"I am not sufficient," she finally said. "There are people better suited. People better able. Fetch a champion. Create one, if you must. I cannot, not again. I will not, not this time." She babbled on as she looked into the Overseer's eyes. Even when full of starlight, they were cold, dim, dead.
"I know," she said, reaching out to gently pet Dhole's matted hair. The touch was almost comforting, almost motherly, until she noticed the nothingness creeping around her feet, crawling up her legs. "I'll return this to you when I can."
The nothingness was more complete this time, and much closer to death.

Erin Ahmadi, once and future Overseer-6, watched her underling sleep. Slow breaths, slow pulse, but the piece of thaumaturgy seemed to have worked by every measurement she could take. A risky first attempt, but practice would have taken too long. The slug inside her was already demanding more than she wished to give.
"Egret," she said calmly. Forcibly. With her rightful authority. The girl's orange eyes snapped open and she grasped for some weapon that wasn't there. "Egret!"
"Overseer!" the girl said, stiffening suddenly. "Overseer," she repeated, almost sheepishly. She moved to rub her eyes and stopped to stare at her hands.
"Don't worry about it. Don't even think about it."
"Of course, Overseer." She moved them to her lap and looked up at Ahmadi with something close to worship. Something worse.
"Egret, I need to know: Do you do good things while working for me?"
"If you say they're good, Overseer." Her smile oozed out like coagulated blood through a wound. It looked even worse on a younger face.
"Do you want to keep doing this sort of work?"
"What else would I do?"
Ahmadi paused, then reached out hesitantly to stroke the girl's greasy hair again. She had nothing else to give in exchange for loyalty, though Egret would not ask for anything at all. She never did. All Ahmadi could do was leave the things buried inside her minion untouched.
"Then let's begin. Here's what I need you to do…"

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The Lock was opened and with it the World Enders awoke, each bringing their own Armageddon with them. Some desire to cleanse the world in fire, a few with ice, others in darkness, but all endings result in the enslavement or destruction of humanity as they know it. They all arise bringing death and destruction with them. These divine entities awoke when called by the lock, but yet their demons continue to slumber.

As Patrick scrambles over the fence and starts his walk towards the town in the distance, he can hear his friends goading him on from the fence. He is timid and quiet, yet as he strolls down the solitary road he just can't understand why he accepted the dare.
He follows along on adventures and gets into mischief with the rest of his friends, but he is never the leader; or even the one to act out on his own. They were just all supposed to be staying over at Kyle's house, then Brenden had to call out Patrick on never doing anything brave. Daring him to do this to prove his bravery was stupid, but accepting it was somehow even more stupid.
Walking along the road, he looks over the fields on either side of him. Even from where he is, he can see that small holes perforate the grass. Each one spews noxious clouds of gas. Colorless but hot, they make the surrounding air shimmer.

The natural state of reality is chaos and disorder. Entropy is the proof of that. Every action puts the universe a step closer towards its eventual death. No matter how much mortals try to reverse it, chaos will always end up winning. They can only try to make order within it. The attempt is almost poetic.

After a few minutes of walking, Patrick has almost reached the edge of town. The road continues on as a sort of main street with the buildings standing on either side. Looking around, he sees the dilapidated state of each structure. They are all crumbling slowly, with some having completely collapsed into piles of rubble. The temperature has risen too. A layer of sweat starts to soak through Patrick's clothes.
Feeling light-headed, he assumes from the gas, he takes a towel from his backpack and wets it with the water bottle he always carries on him. He ties it around his head, covering his nose and mouth. The cool cloth gives him a moments respite from his dizziness and he continues soldiering onward further into town.

Beings of the occult do not exist inside reality. Woven directly into the fabric of the nature itself, they exist as a part of it. Because of this, they are not ruled by chaos and order but instead by balance. Good and evil, Yin and Yang, light and darkness; for every one, an opposite must exist.

After he accepted the dare, Patrick asked what was so dangerous about the town? All he was told is that there was a bunch of noxious gas being spewed that smelled pretty badly. Chuck decided that would be a good time to make a fart joke. Everyone burst out laughing leaving the question hanging in the air unanswered.
He should've asked again. Passing the police station, the pounding in his head has increased tenfold. Approaching the hill in the center of town, his balance is thrown off by the torn up road. He reaches his arms out to help him balance, yet as he looks at his hands they seem to leave a trailing picture through the air. He starts to crest the hill anyway hoping that being higher up will help him escape the fumes.

This is why heroes and Gods of myth and stories must have an Antithesis. The good Hero has to have a Serpent to slay, armies must have corrupt emperors to overthrow, and even Gods must have their Demons to fight. But what happens when a being who was meant to provide their salvation, turns instead to damnation?

Chuck watches Patrick start to march up the tall hill. He is furious at Brenden for making Patrick go through with the dare. Why would he make Patrick do this? Patrick isn't a bad kid, just quiet. Brenden always made him the butt of his jokes and even though they all felt bad, they laugh anyway. Its okay though because when he gets back from this, no one will treat him like that ever again. Especially not Brenden.
Chuck squeezes the fence chain harder, and along with the rest of the guys there, continues to yell encouragement towards Patrick. Amazed that he's actually doing it, all the kids are lined up along the fence keeping a close eye as he marches further and further into town.
The ground begins to shake suddenly. Slowly at first, it starts picking up into a cascading effect that makes the trees sway back and forth behind them. Chuck watches as the holes in the field begin to open up even more. The shakes continue to increase, and with a loud crack a large fissure splits the field into two. The ground continues to shake more and more, and with each jolt the fissure grows. Most of the guys turn to hop on their bikes and pedal away as fast as they can. A few of the more scared ones even leave their bikes, running away screaming. The only people left there now are Chuck, frozen in place staring open-mouthed at the scene unfolding in front of him, and Brenden, who has fallen underneath his bike with his pant leg caught in the gears.
Chuck can't understand why Patrick doesn't notice this shaking though. Wide-eyed he watches the breach quickly reach and swallow the buildings at the very edge of the town. Brenden begs Chuck for help getting him untangled so he can get away. Chuck ignores him as best he can, even as Brenden starts to cry. Instead he takes a deep breath and as loud as he can he yells a single word.
Run.

I was made to represent the punishment of what would happen when mortals were to drift from the path to salvation. I was painted as the torturer, the tormentor, the scourge of purgatory. But instead of hell being a place where those who had strayed from his path were to go, it was simply a jail cell for one…me. Buried deep into the earth that we had created together, it was a solitary prison for a single soul. I was forced to fall to be a manifestation of this fear; labelling the path of the damned and the sinners. I became a symbol of something you became when you strayed away from Him.

Making it to the top of the hill, Patrick surveys the rest of the town in front of him. Being a relatively small town, made of only one single main street, from his perch he can see the rest of the buildings. He can even see the entrance to the old abandoned mine about half a mile further down. His steps fall more and more uncertainly, and his balance starts to vanish quickly. He has already come close to falling multiple times mid-step.
Patrick slowly notices yelling coming from the fence and turns to wave back, thinking it's the guys still cheering. Smiling underneath the towel his mind takes a minute to realize that the crowd at the fence is no longer there.

I wasn't something to stray from though. I was the one who gave them true life: love, anger, sadness, passion. I was the one who gave them true knowledge: curiosity, individualism, organization. I was the one who gave them their future. They are as much my flock as they are His. How could he turn his back on them!

Although his mind is foggy from inhaling the vapors, his instincts are crying out to him that something is amiss. He starts to slowly walk down the hill instinctively placing his hand over his eyes to shield them from the nonexistent sun. His foot lands weirdly and he nearly stumbles down the hill. Barely catching himself, Patrick looks down and stares. The ground has split and started to sink directly beneath him and his foot has barely just kicked the edge of the quickly widening crack.

Opening the lock gave power to the gods, and by the laws of the universe gave power back to their demons. Strength flows into my physical being, and for the first time in many a millennium I open my eyes. Flexing, I break free from the first layer of my prison, the pieces of rock and soil fall to the ground around me and I quickly fell to my knees. My body, used to centuries of paralysis, aches and cracks. Looking up from my position, I stretch my wings as far as they can spread into the cavern that had formed around me. The rapid gust of wind whips the flames of the burning embers into a whirling inferno around me.

A massive tremor, the biggest yet, comes and knocks the already unsteady Patrick onto his back, slamming his head into the ground. Sitting up on his hands, Patrick's headache was even worse than before and he can feel a slight trickle running down the back of his head. He didn't really have time to worry about it though because the gap he had just tripped over has now started to collapse into the ground.
Trying to crawl frantically back from the pit, the opening continues to encroach on him, nipping at the edges of his heels. The rising temperature heating up the ground was burning the palms of his hands, and Patrick can feel the skin blistering off the tips of his fingers.
He is scared, so so scared. This isn't just regular fear, this was the fear that arises when your life is no longer under your control. The world was falling apart around him and all he could do was to wait for death to finally arrive. Giving into his fear, Patrick curls into a ball and starts to cry.

Shifting my arms I reach out and call to me my weapons. With a blinding flash, my sword appears in one hand dripping fire and lave, and in the other was my uncoiled whip, flames and heat flowing along the length of it. Gathering more and more of my essence into this physical presence, I call out to the earth to move aside and release me from my shackles. Having rejected my authority for thousands upon thousands of years, it refuses to budge. I smile. The fangs of my teeth sparkling a brilliant white from each corner of my mouth. So be it. If His creation chooses not to release me, then I shall break free of my own will instead.

Chuck could see that the breach was more than just a group of small holes now, but had become a massive cavern, ravaging the small town with every shake. It had expanded so much that almost the entire town had been swallowed into the pit. It was so large that even portions of the fence ringing the area had dropped away into the ground. All that was left untouched is the large hill in the center of town, and even that was slowly spilling away.
Massive bonfires are launching out of various areas all around the growing pit. The temperature has risen so much that the fence became nearly to hot to hold. Chuck didn't care though. He is staring transfixed at Patrick trying to escape the hole, and summarily giving up. Brenden is still stuck under his bike, screaming for Chuck's attention. No longer even noticing him, Chuck wanted to cry out to Patrick to keep moving and not stop, but his voice caught in his throat. The only thing that comes out is his own sobbing.

Spreading my wings as far as they can reach, I roll all my weight onto my heels. Keeping my balance under me, I slam my wings down as hard as I can. The breakneck speed of the force launches me upwards. Swinging my sword above my head, I cleave the earth in two. The gravel, mud, and sand collapse around me. And for the first time since the dawn of the world, I see the gentle twinkle of the night-time sky and the light of the heavens shining down upon me.
I call the fire and wind to flow beneath my wings, and with a smooth shake I fly forth from the hole. Hovering over the land, I relish the cool air blowing over my body. My prison below has suffered though. The destruction I wrought obtaining my freedom came at a price. I can see a small human child cowering on the ground below me.

Patrick stayed curled up in a ball even as the tremors slowed and stopped. He lifts his head slowly to see that the ground had stopped falling away, and the fires had begun to subside. A sharp wind brushes across his face, wiping away his tears. Shaking, he looks up. Above him, a colossal monster hovers in the air suspended by two massive beating wings. From its head spouts two curling horns coupled with a forked tail dangling down to two legs ending in cloven hooves. Its eyes glow a dark red, looking right at him.
The ground by Patrick's feet solidifies as the creature swings a sword in its hand through the air. The sweeping motion flows from Patrick all the way to the fence line. Where it pointed the ground rose and forms a bridge across any gap between him and the fenced-in perimeter where Chuck waits.
Looking back up at up at the monster, a voice sounds in Patrick's head. "You'll be okay" it says in an unnatural guttural growl. "Please return to your friend and head home to safety. I must apologize for scaring you."
Patrick stumbles up to his feet and quickly starts walking down the makeshift path. Not stopping until he reaches the fence, he climbs over a section that has collapsed and rejoins Chuck and Brenden. All 3 turn and look at the hovering monster as it turns to face them. It bares its fangs at them in what may have been a smile. The boys are so frightened from the sight they turn and run away screaming.

Mankind has never had a true guardian, always being forced to bend the knee to one deity or another. They were considered nothing more than servants and sacrificial lambs led to the slaughter. Those days ended long ago, and I will not allow them to return.
I know that Man will never accept me as their savior. But His plan; to cleanse the world in fire, abandoning humanity in the process, is far too cruel to be allowed. For so long, man has put their faith in their God and that's what gave him His power. Instead I will place my faith in humanity, and thereby give them my power.
No single entity could defeat both God and his army of angels, but even The Devil has his allies. The time has come for the army of the damned to march against the host of heaven.
Mankind will not go back to hiding in fear.

+ Emergency Transmission

- Isaiah 5:20

[BEGIN TRANSMISSION]

This is an automated emergency message issued from Provisional Area-179 for all Sites

SCP-1179 has awoken and broken containment.

Rapture Protocol is now in effect.

May God help us all.

[END TRANSMISSION]


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Joey Fucknuts Builds a Flying Machine
Image Credit: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Chalbi_Desert_Panorama.jpg

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Joey Fucknuts lit three cigarettes and looked up at the hot blue sky, wondering what was actually up there.
It made sense to him that there had to be something up there that he couldn't see. The sky was the biggest thing he was aware of. He was pretty sure that the sky was even bigger than the ground, which was already really big. And he knew that there were things up there. He saw things up there all the time. Some of them even stayed up there, which was weird, because he couldn't do that. He had tried throwing things and getting them to stay up there, but it never worked.
He started an itemized list of what he knew for sure was up there, to organize his thoughts when they felt too big for his head. It was written on one side of the ruins of Vulture Vic's Diner in bearing grease. Joey had seen writing utensils before, but had forgotten about them after his death. The grease served his purposes well enough, and made it so that the letters were larger and easier for him to read.
1 - BIRDS
TINY. COMES DOWN SOMETIMES. EATS STUFF. USES BIRD ARMS TO STAY UP??? ASK ONE HOW TO DO IT
Joey had seen a number of birds before, and had seen that they could go up into the sky more or less whenever they wanted. He knew that they were alive, almost in the same way that he was. He knew that they came down though, probably because they had to. He reasoned that anything that could stay in the sky as long as it wanted would probably never come down on purpose. He furthermore reasoned that if birds were alive, and could move around and eat stuff the way that he could, that the easiest thing to do would be to simply talk to one and ask it how it went up into the sky so easily, or at least ask it where it learned how to do it so Joey could also learn.
Joey liked learning, which is why he was mayor.
2 - CLOUDS
PROBABLY BIG. REALLY HIGH UP. DOESN'T COME DOWN. GOES AWAY SOMETIMES. CHANGES SHAPE ALL THE TIME. KIND OF SCARY? ALSO PROBABLY MAGIC.
It was here that Joey began to enter dangerous and somewhat frightening intellectual territory. Clouds made Joey uneasy, as they flagrantly violated what he understood to be some universal constants. Everything else he was aware of, save for a few critical exceptions, came down after going up. Clouds did not. The objects he was familiar with did not change shape unless something was done to them. Clouds did not appear to care. They also disappeared and reappeared, apparently at random, refusing to adhere to anything resembling good sense or order as Joey understood it. Joey did not trust them, and suspected that clouds were things made by wizards, or, more horrifyingly, were wizards themselves.
3 - SUN
FUCK FUCK FUCK SHIT OW FUCK
Joey had spent an entire day from dawn to dusk watching the sun to see what it actually did all day, and had hurt his eyes. This made him angry at first, because he had done nothing to the sun and he saw no reason why it had to hurt him, and then it made him afraid, because if it could hurt him without even touching him what else could it do. He then spent some time looking directly into the stream of a garden hose to cool his eyes off, wondering what exactly he was dealing with and whether he should stop. The sun was more mysterious and threatening than even the clouds were, and he began to think that the sun was the clouds' boss, probably. Which was why it was so strong and bright, just like his Boss.
4 – SKY ARROW THINGS
SORT OF LIKE BIRDS, BUT REALLY HIGH UP AND NOT FLAPPY. NOISY. NOT SURE HOW BIG. DOESNT COME DOWN. WHAT ARE THEY POINTING AT???
These were perhaps the most mysterious things Joey had ever seen. These objects would appear, often making a very loud, rumbling sound like thunder, and would point in a direction of the sky while moving in that direction. They were obviously trying to get his attention, but he had no idea whatsoever what message they were trying to send. They also sometimes pointed in different directions, which was very confusing. Joey surmised that there were pieces of this message that he was missing, but was determined to find out just what exactly these things were trying to tell him.
Joey was sitting on a pile of burning tires, enjoying the way the heat felt on his rear, and looking at this list he had made on the side of the building. He smoked, and thought. There were so many things he didn't understand. He wanted to eventually understand them all, so he could be smart and make the Boss proud, but it was the things in the sky that interested him most. He was fairly certain that learning about what was in the sky would make him happy, and would make the Boss happy too. That would be nice.
But he had no idea how to get there.
“Joey! Joey, help!”
Two dead men and a dead woman came up to Joey on his throne of burning rubber. One of the men had four arms and wore a chef's apron. This was Chef, and he made the best oil soup and scrapburgers in town. The other was over 8 feet tall and muscular enough to physically tear a car in half, which he would do upon request whenever someone was too impatient to unbolt everything normally. His name was Awesome, because he was awesome.
The woman was wearing what Joey thought was a very cute yellow sundress and carried an umbrella with a small flamethrower installed in it, which, she had explained to Joey previously, was supposed to burn the rain before it could make her wet. Joey thought that was pretty smart. Her natural, humble intelligence combined with her milky eyes and missing lips made her impossible to resist. Her name was Flower, because she was very beautiful. Joey had a crush on her but was too shy to ever say anything.
Chef was at the front, and was carrying a small cardboard box with pictures and writing on it. He held it up to Joey.
“Joey, we found this thing, but we don't know what it is. See, wait, look, check this out.”
Chef shook the box, and there was a rattling sound.
“Joey what the fuck is that, even! I don't want to open it in case it's got bugs in it, and bugs creep me the fuck out. It's got words on it though, so maybe you could look at them and tell us what's inside?”
Joey nodded, not wanting to look stupid in front of Flower. “Okay, let me see.”
Chef handed it up to him, and Joey looked at it.
It said: “LEGO” in white letters on a red and yellow background, and the words “Boeing 787 Dreamliner”, which didn't make any sense to him. But at the bottom and on other parts he could see the words “construction” and “kit” and “toy”, which he knew.
The picture on the front looked almost exactly like one of the sky arrow things. And it was in the sky. It was flying.
Awesome was saying very loudly, “What's it say, Joey?! Is it bugs in there, or is it, like, a food? Wait, is bugs food sometimes?”
Flower laughed. “No, dummy, bugs isn't food.”
Flower's laugh knocked Joey out of his reverie.
“It's a toy. It's made out of a bunch of pieces, and you put the pieces together to make… this thing.”
Flower put her fists in the air. “Cool! This is gonna be a lot of fun, probably!”
Awesome cracked his knuckles, which produced pops as loud as gunshots, and replied, “Yeah! And after we build it up, we can smash it! The smashing part is always the funnest part.”
Chef narrowed his eyes. “Wait. But it's made out of little parts? But that means… that means after we smash it we can build it again.”
Flower gasped and shook Chef by his shirt. “Holy fuck, Chef! We can just keep doing it! It's just like cars! Okay, I'll be in charge of building, Awesome can be in charge of smashing, and Chef can be the boss!”
The trio walked away, talking excitedly about the prospect of an afternoon spent having fun building and smashing things.
Joey was confused.
That was a sky arrow thing, he knew it. And that box had parts in it, to somehow make one of them. If that was the case, and people made toys out of the sky arrow things, then it was possible that the sky arrow things were actually machines.
And you can make machines.

Think, Joey. You can see it. Gather your tools.
Forge your people wings of glowing iron, and fly.
I know you can do it.

Joey huffed a plume of smoke from his missing nose, and frowned in determination.
“I won't let you down, Boss.”

Joey Fucknuts Builds a Flying Machine | Joey Fucknuts Takes to the Skies »

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Joey Fucknuts Takes to the Skies •

Joey Fucknuts Believes In Himself •

Joey Makes a New Friend •

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CadaverCommander's Mobile Assault Necropolis •


MTF-Lambda-9, later known as the Foundation Animal Assets Division, was established in 1924, reached peak performance in 1946, and has been significantly downsized since. As dissolution of the Foundation Animal Assets Division is currently under vote, a timeline of events, including excerpts from relevant documents, is assembled below.
Part One: Creation (1924) to peak performance (1946)

Alberts's Proposal | ██-023 | 01/07/1924
CONTAINMENT DIFFICULTIES: The anomalous effects of SCP-██ affect any human beings who set eyes on it, touch it (whether direct skin contact is established or not), or attempt to disturb its position. The compulsion effect is currently irreversible.
While containment is possible through the creation of a provisional site around SCP-██, it is a constant drain on the Foundation's resources. Storage in a standard containment locker would be ideal, both due to the SCP-██'s small size and the fact that it is rendered completely safe when not directly observed or interacted with. Transportation into a standard containment locker is currently impossible.
OBSERVATION: Birds in the areas surrounding SCP-██ do not appear affected by it. Limited testing done with brown rat (R. norvegicus) and canine (C. l. familiaris) subjects shows no anomalous effects on these species.
PROPOSAL: A temporary mobile team is to be assembled. This team is to consist of one personnel member with ██/2 clearance, one outside animal training specialist, and between one and three members of any trainable animal species (C. l. familiaris is suggested due to abundance and ease of training). This team is to train non-human assets to aid in retrieval of SCP-██.
Proposal approved 02/03/1924 by Site Director ████. MTF-Lambda-9 ("One Trick Ponies") created 02/30/1924.

"So… pick up a ball, put it into a bag, and carry the bag?" Ace is a little small for a Border Collie. He's got a big smile with a tongue lolling out and a couple broken teeth. His handler, Rose Emerson, is a tall woman. Her hair is pulled back into a tight, thick bun, and the clothes she wears are meant to get dirty.
Agent Nelson isn't entirely sure about this. He still thinks a zoologist from the Foundation would have been better than a trainer. Aren't they supposed to know the behavioral stuff, anyways? Still, though, must be something either to the woman or the dog if she's the first one he's set to interview.
"Yes. Can he do that?" His tone is short, and he does his best to match her unimpressed expression.
"He's a stunt dog, honey. He's going to be in films." She cracks her knuckles. He doesn't call her bluff, just in case there's something to it. "He can pick up your ball, put it into your bag, and carry your bag."
"Just one more thing — he's got to do it without you looking at him." He adds, glancing down from the woman to the dog.
"That's just practice, then."

Nelson petition, 04/30/1924
Petition against action to retire MTF-Lambda-9
MTF-Lambda-9, which currently consists of Ms. Rose Emerson (animal handler), "Ace" (dog), and myself (Andrew Nelson, Foundation agent) can contribute more to the Foundation than we have already.
There is a multitude of uses for Ms. Emerson and Ace in the Foundation. Many SCP objects do not affect animal subjects, and Ace could be an asset in transportation, testing, and even neutralization of these objects.
I hereby petition to outline the purpose and members of MTF-Lambda-9 to individual project heads and Site Directors before any action to retire us is taken. If any requests for use of MTF-Lambda-9 are made, we should not be retired.

"I've got another audition with him tomorrow." She's brushing out his fur quickly and roughly, sending black and white wisps flying around the place.
Agent Nelson lights his cigarette and takes a deep breath, "They call you back about your last?"
"No. I think it's his teeth. It's because I let him chew on everything when he was younger." She leans back, taking a good look at him, and then gets back to brushing.
"Well, I wouldn't give up." He offers, "I think we might not be done here."
"Hm, I doubt it. I already got paid. And they were talking about giving me a… 'Class B?' You said that was paperwork?"
"Yeah, that's paperwork."

05/01/1924
MTF-Lambda-9 reassigned to Project ██████-04-██ ("Some Like It Cold"). Animal asset is useful in retrieval and containment of Anomalous Item-3244.

"You know, you boys never told me what it is you're doing."
"'Need to know,' Rose, we've been over this," Agent Nelson hasn't often been on a first name basis with a woman who wasn't his sister.
"I bet Ace knows. He gets this weird look in his eyes sometimes. I swear he'll start talking one day and spill all your government secrets. Butt me."
He lights her smoke. She's joking, but for everyone's sake, he hopes it doesn't happen. The look Ace gets sometimes — he's a smart dog, that's for sure.

07/03/1924
MTF-Lambda-9 reassigned to Project ██████-29-██ ("Noodle Juice"). Animal asset assists retrieval of SCP-██-1.

"He can limp on command?" Andrew can't help a laugh. "Hold on, make him do it again."
"You'll make my poor dog fat," Rose says, fondly, waving a piece of ham in the air. They've got an audience. Nearly the entire cafeteria, from Junior Researchers to Security Staff to the Site Director, are happy for the distraction. Ace is soaking it in — Andrew could bet he's performing for the attention nearly as much as for the meat.
"How does he know that?" Someone to the left of Rose asks, as the dog repeats the trick.
"I was training him to be in films," Rose says. "He's still gonna be, once this is over. Now, Oliver Twist, show 'em your dance…"

01/10/1925:
Agent Andrew Nelson reassigned to Project 03-███ ("Bluenose"). It is believed that his skills are not being fully utilized on MTF-Lambda-9. Agent Peters is to take his place.
MTF-Lambda-9, now with Peters as its head, is to be transferred to Site-19, and to work with SCP-████.

"…I can't do that. He can't do that." Emerson glances down at her dog, and shakes her head again. "Look at him, what makes you think he can do that?"
Mike Peters is an old man. He's worked for the Foundation his whole life, and he remembers almost half of it. He doesn't have the patience for this. "He's done everything fine when Nelson was heading this thing, he'll do it fine now."
"Is this a joke? He's thirty pounds, at most. He's not some kind of guard dog, or police dog, or whatever it is you all want him to be doing… He can hop around on one foot or carry around a ball, but do you really think he's going to be knocking people down, you're…"

03/11/1925
MTF-Lambda-9 expanded: After failure in reaching mission objectives during work with SCP-████ due to size, breed, and temperament for animal asset, MTF-Lambda-9 is to be expanded to include multiple animal assets of larger size, taken from police animal stock.
Due to unacceptable lapses in judgement during the project, Agent Peters is to be replaced with Agent McMillan.
Emerson is to be reimbursed for costs of veterinary care and offered incentive to return to the team.

She's careful as she's picking out the puppies. McMillan isn't even sure what she's looking for — every time he suggests one, she shrugs him off.
"That one looks mean," He says, anyways, after a moment, "The big fat one on the bottom right."
"Doesn't have it," She rises, finally, "That one's insecure. We need the one up over there, with the least black on it?"
They'd wanted them to take all six, but Emerson insists that she isn't going to handle more than two at a time. She's trained a trick dog, and she's trained him well, but she's entirely out of her depth.
They take back Penny and Paco.
Ace doesn't like them, but she won't leave him at home. She says he gets anxious now, and that he'll be a help teaching them, anyways. He yelps every time they run over the stitches on his legs.
She seems satisfied, every night, to leave them and take him home.

05/08/1926:
MTF-Lambda-9 begins operation with two additional animal assets, trained to subdue humanoid threats. After successful work with SCP-████, personnel are trained to work with said assets, and they are permanently stationed at Site-19.

"She doesn't listen to me," McMillan complains. Penny is still hopping around, the little leather training toy firmly in her mouth, "Drop it. Out."
"It's out, not out," Emerson says, helpfully. Just her tone makes the dog drop it, immediately. "Pretend you're interrogating her. You boys do that, right?"
"It's been a while." He hasn't been in the field condition for a long time. That's probably the reason he's on this team, too.

05/24/1926
MTF-Lambda-9 assists in retrieval of SCP-████-02 and -04 through training of a fancy rat (R. norvegicus).

Prey instincts, Rose thinks, are kind of weird to work with.
She still doesn't understand what a government agency is doing trying to pull dolls out of a dollhouse, or what starts rattling inside whenever she sends a rat in, but she's learned to not to ask these things. She's got her own theories about what they're doing here, now.
Pearl is darling, eager to please and happy to be pet, fur pretty and soft like a white mink coat. Rose has got her bringing back balls and even little rag dolls they provided for her, but she'll dash out, squeaking, every time the noises start coming. Most she's ever brought back has been one strand of orange string, long and wiry.
Leave it up to Rose, and she'd let her have a litter and raise those rats around the little house, so they're used to the noise. Her bosses, though, seem to think that'll make them grow up weird, so she's shaking a tin of marbles by Pearl's ears.
She's good, now, at working around their demands. When they were running attempt-014 and she saw something moving in one of the dollhouse's windows, she didn't say anything. She hears more, this way. Knows that the lab coats think cutting open the house will 'kill it,' whatever that means.
It's not her job, she's learned, to pry. Her job is to make the rat come inside the dollhouse and pull the dolls out.

09/30/1926:
Another team similar to to that established for SCP-████ is requested. Three additional canine assets are purchased for this purpose.

10/01/1926:
MTF-Lambda-9 expanded: One additional trainer is hired, in order to ensure ability to establish canine teams without sacrificing work in other areas. Agent Harrison, who possesses limited animal training experience, also joins the team. MTF-Lambda-9 now consists of Agent McMillan, three animal trainers, six canines, and a rat.

"Well, we used a lot of dogs like that one," Harrison gestures over at Paco, "Little less well-bred. Had all kinds — sentry dogs, mercy dogs, messengers. And little ratters, of course, though that'd normally be some kinda terrier…"
"You worked with them?" Rose leans in, chin resting in her hand.
"After Jim got shot, yeah. Didn't know what I was doing, at first, but you learn. It threw me off how smart they can be. Had this one bitch, Topsy, sharp as a tack. I swear she could sniff it out when something was about to blow… Saved my life, once."
"Is that when," Rose pauses, awkwardly. "Um. The arm?"
"No, that was under the Foundation, already. Between that n' the war, I've got a lot a lot of stories."
"I'd like to hear them."

01/10/1927
In order to deactivate SCP-███ without engaging its effects, a single chimpanzee is temporarily acquired. After some coaching, it is able to perform the task with no injuries or loss of life.

04/03/1930:
After SCP-████ has lead to the sinking of four different Foundation submarines, use of a trained dolphin is suggested for retrieval.

Agent Nelson sees the bun before he sees the dog. Her back is to him as she's sitting in the cafeteria, absently shoveling food into her mouth. Some man sitting next to her reaches over to give Ace a pet on the head.
"Rose?" He takes the seat next to her. He's not expecting to be remembered, but, immediately, Ace is wagging his tail, jumping up on him with his front legs.
"Andrew?" She turns around, gives him a once over. He's surprised at how much she's aged. How long has it been? Let's see, must have been '24…
"What are you doing here?" His hands glide over Ace's head, over where his right eye had used to be. The fur still soft and silky, even if the dog looks so different.
"I'm training a dolphin. Queer thing, but bright." He had actually heard about that — they'd tried to build submarines that wouldn't need any personnel, first, but of course that hadn't worked out. "Where have you been, then, Andrew?"
His hands shake a lot these days, in ways he can't stop, but they keep perfectly still now, running behind Ace's ears and over his head. "'Need to know,' Rose. I think I've said that before. What's with Ace's eye?"
"Some thing you've got in here took it out. I never got the details. He can't do much work anymore, it's all those big hulking shepherds. I… mostly bring him around now 'cos he doesn't like to be alone. They like him here, too."
"No, the other eye." He tilts the dog's head up, a little, to show her.
"They get unfocused like that sometimes. When they get old. He sees fine with it, at least. It's the hearing, actually, that's going…" She sighs, "He'll be eleven soon. Missed our chance for films, I suppose."
Agent Nelson doesn't know what to say, so he just sits there, running his hands over Ace's fur.

05/15/1930:
McMillan's Proposal
Introduce animal assets to major Foundation sites as means to improve employee morale.

02/01/1931
MTF-Lambda-9 dissolved, and Foundation Animal Assets Division established.
Headquartered at Site-19, the Animal Assets Division specializes in the following: creation of containment teams which involve use of canine units; retrieval and transportation of SCP items which affect humans to a larger degree than animals; training of service animals for injured or disabled personnel; and use of animal assets in order to improve employee morale.
Currently, the division consists of three animal trainers, twelve canines, one rat, a chimpanzee, two miniature horses, and a dolphin.

06/07/1931
Agent Andrew Nelson, the first member of MTF-Lambda-9, is killed in action while working with SCP-███.

12/21/1931 - 01/03/1951
Two K-9 teams are created and trained by the Foundation Animal Assets Division in order to contain SCP-████.

There's nothing like watching Scout take down a bastard. The skip looks human from the outside, a young man with slicked back hair and the kind of smug expression Agent Harrison hates on these things. He's loved watching it realize that whatever ju-ju it was pulling over the staff isn't going to work on the dogs.
The war had given him a healthy love of shepherds. The Foundation had given him a healthy hatred of things that pretend to be human. He doesn't come near it himself, as much as he's tempted sometimes, since they're figuring it's got a fairly large range of effect. So it's nice to see Scout's back legs hit the thing's chest and hear the thump as it hits the ground.
"She won't bite hard if you don't try anything rash," Agent Harrison shouts through the megaphone. "You going to head back now, when you get up?" It is. Off, then, girl, walk it back to its cell.
He can see how they'd been herding dogs.

04/03/1932
Four animal assets, trained and deployed by the Animal Assets Division, are used for detection of anomalous narcotics created by SCP-███.

06/17/1939
After four members of MTF-██████-8 are stranded in the ██████ Mountains, presumed KIA or wounded, Animal Assets Division employs the first team of Search and Rescue canine assets used by the Foundation.
The team, which initially consists for four canine assets of Newfoundland breed, is successful in recovering Agent M. Cooper and the body of Agent H. Fleming.

02/25/1942
After a proposal by Agent Keller, MTF-Gamma-██ briefly uses a messenger dog when engaging in ██████ warfare with ████████. [REDACTED], which occurs due to the effects of SCP-███. Later, [REDACTED] in Berlin, Germany.
06/01/1942 all members of MTF-Gamma-██ are summarily executed for [REDACTED]. As with multiple other divisions, information about involvement of Animal Assets Division in the event is suppressed until 01/05/1962.

"Do you ever feel like it can't touch you?"
"Excuse me?"
"The war." There's something oddly vulnerable to the way Rose is standing, her back to him, hair spilling out of the bun. It's thin and grey and it sticks out, brittle and ugly like straw. Been years, but it's still odd to see her without the dog. "You know, my brother's fighting it. I think some of our boys here are too. But you never hear anything real."
"I've got two nephews," Harrison doesn't get it. "And I knew Keller. It's just as real here as it is anywhere."
"Here isn't real," She says, shaking her head. "Or anywhere isn't. I don't know anymore. We're gonna live forever, you know? Here's gonna live forever."
That's the kind of talk that makes Harrison think she's going to have her dog back again real soon.

11/26/1943
Rose Emerson, the second member of MTF-Lambda-9, dies of ovarian cancer.

09/31/1946
Dr. Clarence Frost, one of the first professional psychiatrists hired by the Foundation, is transferred onto Animal Assets Division, where he works to launch Project-λ-099 ("Everybody needs a pal"), the Foundation's first full service and therapy animal project.

Everybody Needs Somebody»