"Welcome to the Level 1 Research Staff Laboratory Induction. My name is Dr. Eisenberg. Now, all of you are probably asking yourself 'Who the hell is that?' and 'Why isn't someone like Dr. Gears introducing us instead, being that he's head of the research site?' Let me put it this way. That monkey you saw down the hallway? That's Dr. Bright. Like Dr. Gears, he is Level 4 Research Staff, which means he is considered about as important as two-three roomfuls of you here… including myself. It also means they get to ehm, relegate administrative tasks, so do level 3's, the shit falls through… you'll see. But it isn't so bad.
"Now, all of you here folks joined the Foundation because we pay off your college debt, pay you a decent salary, and allow you to get your doctorates done. We're kinda like the army, just that we don't make anyone march uphill like an idiot.
"Now, good news is, we don't care what college you went into, as long as you have a working head on your shoulders - for one, as you probably heard, what we got here doesn't only fuck with physics, it makes porn of it, so there's hundreds of experiments that need to be run, and that's what we need you for. And for two, you will be working as assistants to other researchers, who will outline your tasks in a way that doesn't require you to go through tons of theory. You carry out the experiments, you write down the findings carefully and anything unexpected even more carefully, and that's pretty much it for 90% of the time.
"However, it isn't all that easy, and I'd like to say a few things to help you survive until it pays off. See, you might hear essentially everyone else bitching about how hard and risky their job is, but it's a matter of fact that the researchers aren't any better off. Intel just watches stuff from afar, if an MTF sees something they don't like, they get to 'retreat', but we, not only have nowhere to go if shit hits the fan, we have to take whatever they bring in, and prod it until we find out what exactly does it do, and how to prevent it from doing that without control. So, listen carefully.
"Now, first, SCPs… they probably told you the gist of what we do here on the main briefing, with all the other folks there - the supposed House MD's and James Bonds and John Rambos, so I don't need to go through all that shit. Now, if you're in direct contact with a Keter class object you're likely fucked, and well, pure Euclids you'll meet only during initial containment, and there's little advice I can give you for that. What I'll speak about are the 'Safe's'. The bureaucratic cunt who thought up that name probably never seen one.
"Do not fuck about with a safe SCP, and mainly, do not let your guard down. The most dangerous times when researching an object isn't the first time you're around it, it's the umpteenth time you've been asked to collect a bunch of data, think you know exactly what it can do, and get careless. Might seem odd now, but you will begin thinking like that, no matter how weird or dangerous the item you work with is. It's human nature, something about psychological baselines but I'm a metallurgist, not a shrink. I guess it's so since in most of the world, if something does A for five hundred times, it won't do B for the five hundredth one time.
"Here, not so much - it's how half the stuff in containment gets their 'Euclid'. For example, the two staff that died swilling their own shit because of one nine eight - shapeshifter cup from the devil's mother we thought we had contained. One of them was a researcher like you, and all he did was reach for what he thought was his own thermos on the desk in front of him - turns out the bloody thing teleports every so often.
"Second thing. D-Class. Disposables. The folks in orange jumpsuits recruited from death row inmates. Their main official purpose is to manipulate Keter class objects so that we don't have to. That much you heard on the briefing. They are also used for human testing of SCPs. Now, listen well, and you back there, try looking a bit less freaked out - we aren't fucking Schutzstaffel.
"Now, the official documents say they are terminated at the end of each month, and so will die anyways. Now, I seriously doubt that, given the amount of them even I use, and since you aren't brain dead, you will probably doubt it too. You might even get reluctant to terminate D-classes that you have run a set of experiments on.
"Let me run with a practical example. One of the memetic SCPs we had on site, relatively harmless thing, a jingle or a song of sort. There, with the suspenders? What's a meme? How can I put it… memes are malicious ideas. They break your mind's programming if they are read in, from any source. Sort of like the computer viruses bored Bulgarian youths write - no matter if it's from a floppy or email attachment, it does the same, whether it's displaying a silly message, or making your hard disk plow. Over there? What? That's a cognitohazard, not a meme? You're probably right, I don't work with these… either way, what it does is more important to what it's called.
"Either way, researcher who did the testing was 'humanistic' - he didn't know better. Returned the D-class he used to the pool, not even with a note about what's been done. A few days later, we contained another memetic SCP, one that killed people, it was an image. Another researcher who ran tests on that one, by incidence, took in the same D-class. In his mind, the two memes merged somehow. From what the camera feeds show, the man started babbling, then tore his own trachea out, and so did the researcher and the two security staff present.
"So yes. There's a reason why their papers contain a short summary of what they were sentenced for, beyond selecting a fitting psychological profile for SCP testing. Read it through. And any time you get the urge of returning a used D-class back to the pool, think to yourself: 'Is prolonging the life of a rapist worth risking the life of my colleagues and friends?'.
"Now, that's all of me, really. Questions?
"You with that look? Demotion to D-class? Ah fuck, who told you that? I thought so… see, that, and Keter duty is one of the pieces of bullshit we scare the greenhorns with. Now, see… most of the ways you can fuck up here, we'll have no one to punish, and taking out sensitive information, they'd kill you for that everywhere.
"Next one. Why do you have to stay on site? Probation period, really. For the next six months. Those who go through it, you'll get your level 1 permanent clearances, and will be able to spend their time off wherever. Those who don't… you'll get class B amnestics and forget everything you ever experienced here. Which isn't as bad as it sounds - we'll still give you the salary.
"Guy in polo shirt? Where's the best place to meet women in here? The Internet… Joking. Try Bio section's staff break room, lots of cute girls there, like Rights.
"You there, girl with glasses? Why don't we research the objects so they can help mankind? Well, I could say that… Screw it. Know what? You can. If you succeed, and develop a theory that explains and reproduces an object, it'll get reclassified as SCP-EX, leaked to the public, and you might get a promotion out of it. So far, I have heard of about five people succeeding… in the last century. Hell, I'm still trying to work out what triggers structural cancer, and the six of us have been messing with it for two years by now.
"Go on. What do you need to get promoted? Ambitious, aren't we? Well, goes like this. You finish your degree, and then you either leave with the civies, or you stay with us, sign a permanent contract, and get level 2 clearance. After that, it's a matter of luck and arseclimbery, and since I have neither, I'm still stuck as a Researcher.
"Another girl? A dog somehow got into the on-site showers? That'd be Professor Crow. Next time he does that, steal his glasses.
"Anyways, you're all dismissed - in a while, security personnel will escort you to the researchers that you'll be working for. In the meantime there's some coffee and donuts here too, so help yourself."


Travis Brenton was always the one to help a damsel in distress, but this one took the cake. Walking alongside Highway 62 more than fifty miles out of town, and despite the triple digit heat, she was bundled up in a bright red coat. As he pulled up alongside her, she hardly turned to look at him, her coiffed blonde hair bouncing with each labored step she took.
Travis rolled down the passenger window on his pickup truck and leaned across the vinyl bench seat, "Hey there, miss, do you need a lift somewhere? Are you hurt?"
She stopped walking, wobbling slightly before she turned to look in the window. Her face was painted like porcelain, with a stark set of cherry red lips and little pink swirls painted on her cheeks like peppermint candies. The rest of her face was hidden under a wide brim straw hat and oversized sunglasses. But despite what must have been an inch of makeup on her cheeks and her heavy clothing, she didn't seem to have a bead of sweat on her. She judged him for a few moments before her face lit up with a bright, wide smile revealing a row of perfectly white Chiclet teeth.
"Thank you, sir. A ride to the next town would be very nice."
Travis pushed the pickup door open and she laboriously climbed into the cabin of the truck, one oversized sleeve completely obscuring her arm. She didn't grunt or wheeze a bit, but she seemed weak as a kitten. No surprise really, given how far she must have walked in this heat. Travis stretched out a hand to help pull her up, and she gripped him with a sticky white palm.
Travis' fingers felt like they were covered with syrup. He worked his fingers together curiously before trying to rub them on his jeans, which only caused his sticky hand to be covered with a layer of dirt and lint.
"Are you feeling alright, miss? You must be hot, let me turn up the air for you," he offered, leaving a sticky set of prints on the knob as he turned it.
"I'm fine, really. It's very kind of you to share your truck with me. Sharing is very important," the mysterious woman cooed, removing her hat and glasses. She fanned herself as the air kicked in, looking straight ahead at the road. Travis tried to get another good look at her as he pulled back onto the road, but she didn't turn towards him again.
"Well, I think it's important to lend out a helping hand to people who need it," Travis said with a smile.
"Funny you should say that, dear," the woman said mirthlessly, working her coat buttons open with her single exposed hand, the sticky one. Beneath the costume she was wearing some kind of ridiculous lacy candy striper outfit that seemed to be torn and stained brown. A rich maple scent filled the cabin, "Oh, oh, I'm sorry. I think I might be leaking on your seat."
Travis whirled to look at his passenger, and she turned to face him with blank, unblinking blue jawbreaker eyes. Her puffy red licorice lips pursed into a pout, "I truly am sorry, sir, I know you are doing me a kind deed by sharing your truck with me but I can't help the syrup. It just doesn't clot like blood does."
The truck swerved back off the road, bumping wildly on the bare earth off the highway. A cloud of dust erupted on both sides, obscuring the windows from outside. The woman yelped and her hair became undone as Travis slammed on the brakes and stared at his passenger in horror.
"I must look a mess, I know. It's just that I tried to share with him, but he wanted to take so much. He simply took too much, more than his share, and now I need to get back to the kitchen you see. You don't have to take me all the way there, it would probably be best if you didn't."
The woman had shrugged off the coat completely, and she was as white as her face from head to toe. She worked to pin her hair back up with a peppermint twist with her one good hand, as her other arm ended just before where her wrist should have been. Her flesh was cracked like a piece of hard candy, and two thickly rolled tubes of paper poked out where the bones should be, like the sticks on a half-eaten lollipop. Her outfit had been torn and chewed upon, and there was a large part of her perfectly shaped torso missing.
"I'm sorry if I have frightened you, sir, but I really do need to get back on the road. Maybe if you shared with me a little bit more?" she scooted across the flat bench seat, leaning her face towards Travis as if to kiss him.
What happened next was a bit of a blur, but Travis was suddenly aware of the dust all around him and the hard ground against his back. His hand hurt terribly from being twisted in his panicked attempt to open the door and flee the cabin before the strange confection woman could touch him. She looked down at him with a hint of regret in her mask-like visage, and thick coils of red vines spilled from the hole in her side down to the floor of the truck cabin as she reached out over him.
"It's probably better this way. Thank you for sharing with me. I will repay your favor when I am back from the kitchen, I promise. You are very, very sweet," the candy woman grasped the open truck door and pulled it shut, leaving Travis scrambling away on his hands and knees as she started the truck back up again and drove away, stranding him on Highway 62 in triple digit heat.
Travis slowly pulled himself to his feet and stood in the swirling dust with a stupid look on his face. Had that really just happened? Was he really just carjacked by a half-eaten candy woman?
Something squirmed against his boot, and he looked down to see a few strands of the candy woman's innards writhing and pulsing on the ground where they had been pinched off by the slamming of the truck door.
He turned on his heels and ran.


"It's beautiful," Dr. Lesley Mause announced, zooming in on the wriggling cells taking up her monitor's screen.
Dr. Drake looked over her shoulder, still wearing the same bored expression he'd had for the same half hour. "It's vomit."
Across the room, two heads swiveled in unison, hawklike, to stare at Dr. Drake. Agent Rose and Agent Walker, security. They did that every time Dr. Drake opened his mouth, each time tingling with almost animalistic animosity. The two ex-members of the Children of the Sun were objectively creepy as shit, she reflected. The way they did so many things in synchronization. You'd think they were twins, but they didn't even look alike, even if their mannerisms tended to be identical Rose (a man) was pale and androgynous, and Walker (a woman) was attractive in a classical fashion and had skin dark as pitch. She'd been working with them almost two years now, and she felt the same affection for them that she might feel for a pair of cats. A pair of extremely murderous cats, anyway.
Plus, they hated Drake almost as much as she did.
"Yes," she agreed, "it's vomit. But that doesn't preclude beauty."
She zoomed out again. Drake pointed at a structure in the gray-green mess. "Is that a bone?"
"Indeed," Mause said. "Alces alces. And they're not the only thing our green friend has been eating. I've found at least three different species of squirrel. And what's probably a squirrel. But most of the bones are Alces alces."
Drake leaned back in his chair, propped his legs up on the desk in front of him. "What's an Alces alces?"
She rolled her eyes in advance. "One of the cervids, a capreoline. Known in North America, of course, as… the moose."
Drake sniggered. "Moose, eh?" Then sniggered again. "Moose."
Mause's eyes flicked to Rose and Walker. They wore identical expressions of barely repressed fury. Mause, for her part, only felt mild annoyance. Most people knew better than to make that joke in front of Rose and Walker, but Mause heard the joke about every other day. She'd long gotten over cursing Fate for the timing of her transfer to the Special Reconnaissance-and-Research Task Force M-Omega-773 - or, as it was now so wittily referred to by other members of the Foundation, "the Deadly Moose team".
She'd been dumped from Research Team MO3-Gloria with everyone else when the O5s decided they didn't want anyone else poking at 003 and landed her directly in M-Omega-773 just in time for the disaster in which she - and every other member of the team - had stumbled through the corridors of Site 19 crazily warning everyone they came in to "beware the deadly moose". She herself had set up shop in the cafeteria with a shotgun for two hours before security tranquilized her and strapped her to a bed until the effects passed.
Memetics. She hated memetics.
"Yes," she said. "Alaskan moose, actually. A. a. gigas. Which fits with where we picked it up. Naturally."
"No Bigfoot bones in there?"
"No." She glared at her monitor. "We're not so sure that this thing has any connection to 1000 after all, I'm sorry to say."
Drake looked at the video monitor. "But just look at it. It looks like a big green ape."
"SCP-1000 instances are brown, black, red, and white in color," Mause said. "They don't come in green."
"Still," Drake said. "My gut tells me there's some connection. Keep looking."
Mause stifled her sigh. Technically, Drake did outrank her. Being on the Deadly Moose team meant you got ridiculously high clearance to a few fairly important SCPs, but outside of those small spheres you were left at basic level 1 access. And the respect that went with that. It didn't help that most of the team's assignments sounded inherently mockable. 'The Bloodstone.' (Also known as the bad-trip ruby, even though it wasn't actually a ruby.) The glorified mechanical people-eating fishing worms. Organic motherboard. ('So can 003 run Crysis?' Jesus, you'd think these people never grew out of the 90's.) Bigfoot, for chrissake. And, of course, the goddamn moose… thing.
And now, the weird thing pacing about in the temporary containment cell on the monitor, provisionally classified as Anomalous Humanoid TXCD-R.
The thing whose vomit she was analyzing for the last half hour. TXCD-R was picked up in Alaska only days ago, and had slaughtered half the task force sent to capture it before suddenly going docile and allowing the rattled survivors to bind it in a net and transport it to Site 17's temporary containment auxiliary facility.
It really was beautiful vomit, full of living things she'd never seen, in a rainbow array of colors. Even TXCD-R was beautiful in its own way. She watched it pace, a hulking seven-foot-tall thing shaped vaguely like an ape, covered in what might be a living growth of moss, wide teeth like spades sticking out of its mouth like reversed elephant tusks. The "moss" was growing so fast you could actually see it move if you had the patience. Tiny glittering eyes peered out from under the moss curtains - not just from its "head", either. Tiny auxiliary limbs moved and twitched, peeking out now and then to groom the ever-growing moss.
As she watched, TXCD-R bent double and vomited for the ninth time that day.
"Again?" Mause scratched her head. "It's vomited up almost the entire bodies of everything it's eaten so far. And judging by the bones I see, that would be the last of its meals for the past week." She looked at the screen again. "It's not digesting anything. None of the things in here have been broken down like you'd expect if they'd been in stomach acid for hours. They have signs of chewing, and not much else. Is it sick or something?"
"I'm telling you," Drake said. "It's got Bigfoot's fingerprints all over it."
"Tomorrow," Mause said. She pushed back her chair. "I'll look more tomorrow."

Excerpt from Video Log, Observation Camera 6320945 (Temporary Containment Chamber for Anomalous Humanoid TXCD-R):

0700: TXCD-R continues to pace back and forth across chamber.
0756: TXCD-R abruptly ceases pacing and stands perfectly still until 0811.
0811: Power fluctuation related to explosive event at main Site-17. TXCD-R begins to repeatedly charge the walls of its containment chamber. Local alarms set off.
0813: Agent C. Rose and Agent I. Walker open containment chamber left and right ports and shoot TXCD-R repeatedly with tranquilizer darts. TXCD-R does not react to shots except to charge containment chamber ports.
0815: Agents Rose and Walker cease attempting to shoot TXCD-R. TXCD-R continues to charge walls of its containment chamber.
0827: External power lost. Switching to emergency power. TXCD-R continues to charge walls of its containment chamber.

Mause stumbled into the main observation chamber, eyes bleary. Rose and Walker were waiting for her.
"Wazz going on?" she managed.
"Containment breach at Site 17. Unknown insurgent forces. Tempest Night scenario. Assistant Adams currently coordinating personnel," Rose said.
"No breaches on this Auxuliary Site. Yet," Walker added. "TXCD-R is going to breach the walls of its containment chamber in approximately ten minutes."
"Where's Dr. Drake?"
"Gone to help with the Tempest Night scenario," Rose said.
"Insurgents," Mause said. "Tempest Night? How long?"
"Three hours and eleven minutes," Rose said.
"Three hours? Why didn't you wake me?"
"Sufficient sleep is required for optimal bodily function," Rose said.
"Besides," Walker said. "There's nothing any of us can do. We are not equipped to stop TXCD-R from breaching containment. We are under orders to remain here as long as TXCD-R does. On event of TXCD-R's escape, we will attempt to stop it. When we fail, we will track it."
"So you see," Rose said, "there is nothing to be concerned about, for the next nine minutes, until TXCD-R breaches containment. And sleep is very important."
Mause shook her head and watched Anomalous Humanoid TXCD-R hurl itself at the wall of its containment chamber. And again. And then again.
"For now, though," Rose added, "you should put on body armor. In case it's hungry."

Excerpt from Video Log, Observation Camera 6320945 (Temporary Containment Chamber for Anomalous Humanoid TXCD-R) and Observation Camera 6327641 (Temporary Containment Facility 17-K, Exterior):

1132: TXCD-R breaches containment chamber.
1134: TXCD-R exits Temporary Containment Facility 17-K and heads in the direction of Site-17.
1135: TXCD-R confronted by Agent Charles Rose and Agent Iola Walker, armed with S2-05 shotguns. Agents fire on TXCD-R repeatedly without effect. TXCD-R temporarily incapacitates Agent Rose and Agent Walker via physical impact.
1136: TXCD-R continues heading towards Site-17.
1140: Dr. Lesley Mause exits Temporary Containment Facility 17-K, rouses agents Rose and Walker. Mause, Rose, and Walker enter nearby vehicle and drive after TXCD-R.

They'd followed TXCD-R nearly all the way to Site-17. Smoke rose from several of the central buildings. TXCD-R was stopped in the middle of the road, just in front of one of the Site-17 buildings, the side completely blown out by some explosion. Screams drifted out from inside.
Walker stopped the car a respectful distance from the creature. TXCD-R kneeled in the road, and seemed to be pantomiming something.
"What's it doing?" Mause asked.
"It's eating," Rose said.
Mause stared at the pale green creature. It did seem to be eating something, except… its jaws were closing on nothing, its hands holding something up to its mouth that wasn't there.
"What is it eating?" she asked.
"An instance of SCP-870," Rose said.
"The monster that only schizophrenics can see?"
"The same."
"How can you tell?"
Rose shrugged.
TXCD-R jerked its head up. Blinking eyes became visible everywhere underneath the curtains of moss that covered its body.
Then it bounded off. Through the blasted wall, leaping over rubble, and into the Site-17 building.
"Great," Mause said. "Just great. Where's it going now?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Rose said. "It's hungry."

Audio/Visual transcript of SCP-472 containment chamber

1149: Anomalous Humanoid TXCD-R breaches containment chamber. TXCD-R does not appear to experience any effects from SCP-472. TXCD-R briefly examines SCP-472 and removes it from its pedestal.
1150: TXCD-R appears to claw the air while holding SCP-472. At the end of its claws, red flesh appears, spurting blood, apparently extruding from midair. TXCD-R bites down on the piece of flesh and pulls. More flesh appears, with an accompanying tearing sound, splattering blood on the walls of the containment chamber.

Mause was standing in the brand new, still smoking entrance of Site-17 when she heard the scream. A long, low, inhuman shriek that rose and fell for what seemed like an eternity.
"Jesus," she said. "What was that?"
She could hear her heart beating - boom-boom, boom-boom - much too loudly, inside her head -
Mause looked at Rose and Walker for confirmation. She could tell by the looks on their faces that they were thinking the same thing.
"SCP-472 is screaming," she said.

Audio/Visual transcript of SCP-472 containment chamber

1151: TXCD-R pulls and rips with its claws and teeth until a two meter length of flesh comes into appearance, detaches from its [still invisible] source, and drops to the ground. The flesh appears to be a collection of organs, including three still-beating hearts.
1152: TXCD-R exits containment chamber, dragging the length of flesh behind it, still holding SCP-472. It tears off a chunk from the length of flesh and consumes it as it exits the chamber.

Transcript of Video Surveillance Recording
Location: Checkpoint Camera, Service Entrance H-01

1158: TXCD-R passes camera, still carrying SCP-472. Length of flesh no longer visible. It is confronted by the service entrance by Dr. Carl Drake. Dr. Drake shouts a challenge to TXCD-R, telling it that it "shall not pass". Dr. Drake elaborates that he is in possession of an SCP item. He produces a small gold circlet later identified as Anomalous Item 56428609 [previously categorized by Dr. Drake, not known to have any special effect beyond unusual chemical makeup]. Dr. Drake places the circlet on his head while shouting "Crown of Thorns, activate!" Anomalous Item 56428609 emits a nimbus of glowing light.
1159: TXCD-R removes the top of Dr. Drake's head via aggressive mastication. TXCD-R consumes both the top of Dr. Drake's head and Anomalous Item 56428609. TXCD-R exits through the open service entrance.
1200: No further activity.

"It's eating SCPs," Rose said, as a group of other agents carried away Dr. Drake's body. "That's why it killed an instance of SCP-870. And took SCP-472. It's a food source."
"Quite a theory," Mause said. "Maybe that's why it vomited everything it ate… Maybe it wasn't built to be eating … uh, natural things, for lack of a better word. Of course, why would it be able to keep down SCP items? It's not like 472 and 870 have anything in common. Or that anomalous item. Natural things have much more in common than anomalous things. How could something evolve to eat anomalous items?"
"Maybe it didn't evolve," Walker said. "Maybe it was created."
Mause shrugged. "I guess we won't know until we get it back."
"Then let's get started," Rose said.


During Incident 234-900-Tempest Night, many junior staff and personnel took part in the attempts to repel attackers by seizing control of already uncontained SCPs or, in some cases, breaching containment of SCPs with the intent of seizing control of them for defensive purposes. A notable example of a failed attempt is the efforts of Junior Researcher David Eskobar, who remains in medical care and has begun psychiatric treatment recently. Relevant information is included below.
Excerpts from Surveillance Logs, Security Cameras 00290001, 00290011, 00290993

0920: SCP-275 confirmed secure, armed guards holding position.
0922: Junior Researcher David Eskobar attempts to instigate security breach at SCP-275 containment cell. Armed guards fire warning shot down hallway. Researcher Eskobar flees.
0944: SCP-███ confirmed secure, guards having left position but making periodic patrols.
0945: Researcher Eskobar arrives at SCP-███ containment area. Eskobar attempts to instigate security breach. Armed guards walking past fire warning shots. Researcher Eskobar flees. Guards seen chasing after Eskobar momentarily, then shouting; microphone unable to pick up dialogue.
1010: SCP-███ confirmed secure. Guards holding position out of sight but nearby.
1011: Researcher Eskobar arrives at SCP-███ containment area. Eskobar attempts to instigate security breach. Multiple armed guards rush from concealed locations and capture Eskobar. Eskobar is dragged out of sight.
1030: Researcher Eskobar successfully enters Site 17 video archive.

After-Action Debriefing, Agent ██████/Guard B-3273

Agent ██████: Tell me about Researcher Eskobar's behavior during the beginning of Tempest Night.
B-3273: Christ, he was the same as the rest of them. We heard junior staff running around like hamsters, screaming about “I always wanted to try SCP-this” and “we have no choice, we have to have SCP-that.” It's insulting that almost every one of them forgot that there were still a few guards in the building, still staying on post no matter what was happening. You know, actually securing a few SCPs, not letting them out and hoping everything just turned out okay.
Agent ██████: And you say Eskobar was the same?

B-3273: No, Eskobar was the worst. He hadn't worked here more than a month at that point, and he apparently hadn't read half of the files on the Scips he was trying to break out. He was going to jump on to the table in front of SCP-212, figuring it would just turn him into Robocop. You should have seen the look on his face when we told him about the “no anesthetic” part, or the survival rate.
Agent ██████: But Eskobar kept trying.
B-3273: I guess he forgot we still had radios. We were tracking his movements, and by the time he got to ███, we had decided enough was enough.
Agent ██████: So you moved in to arrest him.
B-3273: As far as I'm concerned, he had enough chances. We waited until he actually tried breaching containment for the third before we took him.
Agent ██████: And none of the guards were feeling…especially antagonistic towards the researcher?

B-3273: Of course not, sir. We maintained professional conduct throughout the incident. Where possible.

Agent ██████: I'm interested in how Eskobar escaped from containment and broke into Site-17's video archive.
B-3273: I'm sorry, sir. I guess he just got past us.
Agent ██████: I'm especially concerned with how he managed to break in while still handcuffed and gagged.
B-3273: Sorry, sir. I guess he just got past us.
Agent ██████: Were any of you aware of his coulrophobia?
B-3273: Sir?
Agent ██████: His fear of clowns.
B-3273: Not particularly, sir. We would never—well, we would have advised him not to…contain himself in that particular room had we known that, no matter what had happened.

Agent ██████: (sighs) Yes, that's what the others said.
Due to lack of evidence and extenuating circumstances, guards involved in the incident have been cleared of all charges.

Excerpt of Security Log, Video Transcript, Security Camera 00290933
1030: Researcher Eskobar enters Site 17 video archive. Researcher begins demonstrating intense fear and huddling against corner, still handcuffed.

1045: A television turns on. Researcher Eskobar registers acute panic.
1046: Researcher Eskobar appears to lose consciousness.

Suggested modification to SCP-993 containment protocols, Addendum 993-1:

Given the events surrounding the death of Dr. █████ (see Incident Report 993-Gamma) and its behavior during Incident Tempest Night, it appears that SCP-993's previous manifestation towards children and exclusion of adults was the result of a conscious choice. SCP-993 is capable of manifesting itself to adults as well as children. However, in order to interact with adults, SCP-993 appears to be able to render adults unconscious. Once unconscious, [REDACTED] (see Security Log Transcript, Camera 00290993)

Excerpt of Security Log, Video Transcript, Security Camera 00290933

1048: Researcher Eskobar appears to regain consciousness. Begins smiling.
1050: Researcher Eskobar rises to his feet, maintaining eye contact with television.
1055: Gag applied to Eskobar's mouth falls out. Hands cease to be restrained. [Note: Handcuff chain was later found to have been severed by unknown means.]
1059: Researcher Eskobar raises his arms outward to the sides, forming a T-shape. Video cuts out briefly. When image returns, Eskobar's hands are pinned to the wall with large spikes; blood is flowing freely down his arms and down the wall. Researcher Eskobar's face is smiling widely, and continues to do so for the duration of the taping (seventy-two hours).

After-Action Summary, ██/██/11:

After the conclusion of Incident Tempest Night, during cleanup operations, Researcher Eskobar was found in Site 17's video archive, badly dehydrated, suffering serious blood loss, and nearing a comatose state, still smiling. Researcher Eskobar was taken to a Foundation medical facility and assigned to psychiatric therapy. The television across from Researcher Eskobar remained on, broadcasting test pattern SMPTE RP 219-2002 (commonly known as “color bars”). Several DVDs were found on top of the television; when arranged in a rainbow shape, markings on the DVDs spelled out “SEASON II!” These discs were revealed to contain videos in the animated style of SCP-993, depicting the deaths of various Foundation researchers during Tempest Night. Some of these deaths were not actually witnessed by any surviving researchers, casting doubt on whether the particular brutality shown to accompany many of these deaths actually happened.
SCP-993's primary role in the videos is narrative in nature, providing commentary for the deaths and making comedic comments about both the means by which individuals died and the appearance of the remains of dead personnel. However, three researchers who were never located and considered MIA, along with two D-class personnel who were believed to have escaped, are shown on the videos. Each researcher is individually shown being knocked unconscious by an unseen attacker and dragged into empty containment rooms. Though the experiences of all three are different, all are assaulted in various ways using different weapons, which appear to be held by the camera's operator. One is shown dying from blood loss during a surgical operation to connect the victim's colon to his esophagus, another dies of cerebral failure during an unanesthetized hemispherectomy, and the final researcher dies of shock after being skinned alive with an industrial-grade belt sander. The two D-class personnel are shown being sewn to one another at several points and led into an area where SCP-███ was roaming after breaching containment, leading to dismemberment. All five victims continue smiling broadly throughout their experiences. None of these events can be corroborated or disproved by available evidence.


So you've all been selected to be doctors for the Foundation. Heads of your fields and all of that. Well, I'm here to tell you that none of that matters. Here, you're just one of the rest. We have on staff over nine hundred and seventy four doctors among the eight primary sites alone. Why so many? They're necessary. The Foundation racks up a body count like it's going out of style, and it's your job to get that number as close to zero as you can, while not getting yourself wiped off this rock.
My name? Doctor Christopher Zartion, MD. Yes, I know you've all got your MDs, and probably a few PhD's. You're all world renowned surgeons and pathologists et cetera. I don't care, and neither do your superiors. You're here to do a job, and to be honest, it's going to suck.
The good news: The forefront of medicine? It's here. Right here. This is the place where you'll work on superviruses, strains of staphylococcus that would make your head explode, and viruses and bacteria which you'd never heard of before. We work with technologies and methods of treatment that are deemed too dangerous, and too experimental. If you think you can't handle that, I suggest you leave now.
What? Hey— What are you doing?! Sit back down. That was a joke. This isn't voluntary.
What you'll see here is going to make or break you, in some cases quite literally. Now I know you're probably wondering what I'm getting at, but I can't tell you. If I told you, in some cases, you'd risk exposure right there. I've been working here for less than five years, and I've seen pathologies that would make you shudder to think of it happening to you, or even any other human being.
That being said, it's going to be your job to log all of what you see, so that it doesn't happen to your teams, and your friends in the containment division. Believe me, they'll be your friends. You'll certainly have to patch them up enough. Yes, Doctor? Of course you're expected to keep accurate records. See this? This is a standard case file for a D-class that the research staff were exposing to one type of virus. You'll notice it's over eighty pages long. That's from one experiment. We perform hundreds in a given month. It should be noted that paper copies are only kept for experiments that are deemed too vital to be left to electronic storage. So you write up this extremely meticulous log, and you might be given a one line mention about the results in a distilled format on the database. Sucks, but it's what happens. It's your job, and you don't get to call out.
The D-class. You're going to feel bad for the D-class, you really are. They're all terrible people, but they're still people. You'll patch up the spine snappings, and the lacerations of the throat. You'll remove rock candy from mucus membranes, and send them back to have it done to them again. This is horrifying, yes? No, it's your job now. The Foundation runs on, whether we like it to or not, and we are the ones who keep it on its feet. Not the researchers, not even the containment staff. We do. Without us, everything would go to hell around here.
We have, in containment, right now, several viruses that if unleashed on the world, wouldn't be an epidemic situation. It would be pandemic, guaranteed. I'm sure some of the pathologists here would be assigned to researching them, and developing countermeasures. Of course it goes without saying that all those procedures you learned back in medschool about cleanliness and disinfecting go double while you're here. Hell, some of those won't work either, so you'll have to follow the containment procedures for the specific object you're working with.
The best case scenario for you who will be working in actual medical? Severe lacerations, or bullet wounds. Hopefully it's only physical trauma. God help you if something infectious gets in to your lab. Some of you might even be assigned to site resident shifts, and get it easy. Keep in mind researchers aren't as scrupulous about disinfecting after experiments as we are. You'd be amazed what passes under your microscope.
Maybe if you get a little less lucky, you'll deal with someone whose arm spontaneously exploded. Then you'll have to report what exactly the patient is going through, secondary symptoms, etc. If you're assigned in a research capacity rather than called in to treat the injury, your first job is to report anything that is off, or anomalous about the trauma. That's your job now, the patient comes second. If you're kind of lucky, you'll deal with someone whose blood is boiling out of his eyes as you speak to him. These are standard cases, of known SCP's. These aren't fabrications to scare you.
What if you're not lucky? You become the patient, doctor. Something gets out, gets inside of you, and we study you.
Let me give you two major pieces of advice.
One, we're here to treat, to heal, and to do as we're told. Sometimes, that might involve breaking the Hippocratic oath.
Oh sit down, I know, first do no harm. This, however, is the Foundation. If anything gets out, it's more than the patient who will suffer. Remember, we're responsible for the lives of countless thousands. If one has to suffer for it, they will. Besides, if you don't do as you're told, you'll probably end up in front of an inquiry.
Two, if the patient is violent, or carrying something; don't try to contain it yourself. Call a containment team immediately. Don't risk your own life. We have precious few doctors now, and believe it or not, training a doctor takes more resources than the Foundation is generally willing to expend without a damn good reason. For those of you who thought joining the Foundation turned you into Doctor House, or James Bond, think again. You're here to do a job, keep that in mind at all times.
For those of you who work outside of medical, assisting in the field, keep your heads down. Yeah, you with the Bill Nye bowtie. Of course you'll be in danger. You could get shot at, exposed to a memetic hazard, anything. The idea is to keep your head down, follow the instructions of the field agents, and try to come back in one piece.
Yeah, you with the— Is that a top hat? Why in the hell are you wearing a top hat? Go see Doctor Bright about staff dress code. Office 37-C, level 4. What? I don't know, he's just as weirded out by that stupid list as everyone else. You're all dismissed, try not to get yourselves maimed on your first week. I don't want to see any of you in the medical bay.


The man in the chair struggled against his bonds, trying to shout something but failing due to the gag in his mouth. A guard stood in the corner of the room, his nose buried in a checklist. "Let's see…" he muttered to himself, "One 6x6 meter room, check. Walls lined in special Telekill alloy, check. Blast door sealed, check. Subject beaten and restrained…" He glanced over at the other man's attempts to break free, and smirked.
"Check. Subject bound and gagged, check. And one guard on duty armed with standard Foundation weaponry. Check." He looked over at SCP-631, who shot him a glare. "Well, mister, it looks like everything is all set and accounted for. You're tied up, and I get to spend the next eight bloody hours in here. Alone. With a man who can alter reality on a whim." The guard heaved a heavy sigh. "Brilliant, isn't it?"
SCP-631 ceased his efforts and muttered something through his gag.
"Yeah, whatever it is you said, you can say it again."
At that moment, the blast door slid open, and a man garbed in a long black coat stepped in. The guard leapt to his feet, reaching for his gun as the man looked around the room. "Yes, yes. Everything seems to be as they told me it would be."
"And just who would you be?" demanded the guard, aiming his weapon at the intruder. "I don't recall you being on my list of cleared personnel, and I highly doubt you're a member of senior staff."
"I go above senior staff," said the man coolly as he strode over to SCP-631. "I go above O5 Command. Above your administrator." He looked closely at the bound subject's face. "So I'd drop your weapon, if I were you, and just let me do my work."
The guard discharged several shots into the intruder, who barely flinched. "And please, do listen to what your told. I don't want to be in here any longer than I have to be." He ripped the gag off of SCP-631, who grinned maniacally.
"Whatever you're thinking about doing, I am ordering you to stop!" shouted the guard. "I've been ordered to keep this man from leaving this room, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to stop y-" He began choking on his own tongue at this point.
"Must he have written you so poorly?" asked the intruder to nobody. "Honestly, why did I… but that's not the point." He turned to SCP-631 and pulled out his gag. "I'm more here to deal with you."
"Oh, you're here to spring me?" asked the subject, smiling again. "It's about time. I've only been in here for a few days, but I'm already sick to my stomach with this place. C'mon, undo the bonds, and let's blow this place."
"James Doctrine," said the man. "SCP-631. Third attempt. Able to make any literary reference work to his advantage, captured in the midst of massacring a small town in Quebec. Current status, -21."
Doctrine gave the man a cock-eyed look. "Just what are you talking about? Come off of it, let me out of here."
"Sitting at three votes. A shame really. Personally, I rather liked you. I can see where they're coming from, though; You're overpowered, have Mary Sue-ish tendencies, overkill containment procedures. In my opinion, you're not that bad, but the others don't seem to like you, so it's fallen to me to do the job."
"Whaddaya mean?" demanded Doctrine. "What job?" A look of panic came into his eyes. "Hang on now, hang on now. I've read your archives, I know all about decommissions, how you kill off the ones you don't really like. I'm not letting it happen, do you hear me? Pro libarte! If a nation values anything more than freedom, it will lose freedom! Open sesame!"
The man sighed, as he pulled an object from within his coat pocket. "If there's one advantage to having Telekill in here, it's that you don't get to make things any harder than they have to be. Regardless, no. I am not talking about decommissioning. I am talking about deletion."
"What the hell is the difference?"
"Decommissioning, you still get to have an article. Deletion, you go away forever. Now shut up and let me work." He placed the small object on 631's lap, and stood back. Behind him, the guard stumbled over and clutched the stranger's coattails. He glanced backwards, and sighed. "Oh, fine. You can have your voice back for now." He waved his hand, and the guard stopped choking.
"What are you doing?" he whispered, pointing to object on Doctrine's lap. "What is that thing? Who are you?"
"I thought I'd answer that already," said the man, staring straight ahead. "I'm deleting him." He twitched his fingers slightly in Doctrine's direction.
SCP-631 began to shake slightly. "What do you mean by deletion? This isn't some sort of 1984 crap, is it? What are you, Big Bro-" He cut himself off with a scream as he began to violently rock back and forth in his chair. His head started jerking violently from side to side, regardless of the straps that bound his neck in place. Eyes bulged out of their sockets as fingers gripped the arms of their chair. A pool of sweat began to appear on the floor.
"Just to give you an idea of how this will work," said the man to the guard, "I advise you look at the clock." He waved his hand, and one appeared on the wall. The guard looked over at it, and saw the second hand suddenly come to a stop.
James Doctrine let out a mighty scream as his body began to blur, becoming more and more out of focus every moment. Small bits of it began to flake away as he thrashed against his bonds, in a manner resembling a seizure. His hands broke free and he reached down to undo his feet, only to find them already gone. Bits of gibberish flew out of his mouth, sounding mostly like a series of numbers too garbled to extract any meaning from. The guard instinctively hid behind the man, and whispered, "You're killing him."
"If I was decomming him, I'd be killing him. As it is, I'm only getting rid of him." He looked down at the now pale-faced guard. "He's been through this twice before, you know. The problem is, nobody remembers it."
"What the hell do you want from me?" screamed SCP-631 as his torso began to vanish. "I'll say anything you want, anything at all! Release me! Let me go! Do it to Ju-" The clock moved forwards a second.
And then he was gone.
The man strode over to where the subject and chair had been, and picked up the object. To the guard's eyes, he seemed much less tense now. "See? Less than a moment. Truth be told, I really wanted to use 055," he tossed the object up in the air here, "as part of a decommissioning. You know, make it part of his person, have him vanish from memory. Thought it would make for a good little story. But nobody would go for it. So I just decided to go for a bit of a personal fantasy while I deleted the page. Makes things a little more interesting on my part, see?"
The guard looked flustered for a few moments, and then said, "Look, I don't know who or what what you are, and quite frankly, I don't care. Just… just go. I want to get back to my job. Get a new assignment and forget this ever happened. Can you do that?"
"Naturally," said the man, turning to leave. "Of course, you'll be gone in a few seconds, too. I only invented you so I could have someone to talk to during this little fantasy." He strode forward for a moment, then paused and turned. "Would you say I'm a little weird for wanting to do that? Talk to someone while I have a fantasy?"
"Go."
"Fine." The man left, and the room vanished.
*Taken from mibbit*
Taximonay: Alright. 631's gone. I hope you lot are happy.


DISPLAY CONTAINMENT PROTOCOLS AND OBJECT ASSESSMENT
On 10/██/11, SCP-857 was successfully decommissioned by Dr. Bridge and Dr. Muse by order of O5-8. The following is a record of their attempts.

SCP-857 DECOMMISSION LOG
Date: 10/██/11

Date: █ Oct 2011
Object used: SCP-682
Result: SCP-682 ignored SCP-857 completely. When prodded by D-66943 carrying SCP-857, SCP-682 messily devoured him, crushing SCP-857 in the process.
New Form: A coffee mug at a ███████ restaurant in █████, ██
Well shit. That usually works. - Dr. Bridge
Date: █ Oct 2011
Object used: SCP-073
Result: SCP-073 was given SCP-857 and instructed to destroy it. SCP-073 complied.
New Form: A beaker in Dr. Bridge's office
Do not cut yourself on the glass. - Dr. Muse
Date: █ Oct 2011
Object used: A standard claw hammer
Result: SCP-857 shattered by Dr. Bridge.
New Form: A juice glass in the buffet at ████████ Hotel, ███████████, ██
Worth a shot. - Dr. Bridge
Date: █ Oct 2011
Object used: SCP-123
Result: SCP-123 successfully consumed SCP-857.
New Form: A thermos owned by Dr. Muse
Of course. - Dr. Muse
Date: ██ Oct 2011
Object used: SCP-076
Result: SCP-076-2 was given SCP-857 and instructed to destroy it. SCP-076-2 instructed Dr. Bridge to "[REDACTED] off."
New Form: N/A
Who authorized this? - Dr. █████████
Date: ██ Oct 2011
Object used: SCP-354
Result: SCP-857 thrown into SCP-354. SCP-857 bobbed at surface until it filled with contents of SCP-354 and sank.
New Form: A commemorative 2008 inaugural stein owned by Agent Yoric
Date: ██ Oct 2011
Object used: A standard claw hammer
Result: SCP-857 crushed by Dr Bridge.
New Form: As yet unknown
Well, it destroyed a cup. Not the right one, but… yeah sorry there. - Dr. Bridge
Just ask next time, damn. - Agent Yoric
Addendum: On ██ Oct 2011, SCP-857 was discovered to be inhabiting a bronze goblet in the [REDACTED] Museum at ████████, approximately 250 km away from Area-354.
Date: ██ Oct 2011
Object used: SCP-914
Result: SCP-857 processed on "rough" settings. Output was a small pile of bronze fragments.
New Form: A crock pot at a private residence in ████████, █████
Comme c'est gênant. - Dr. Muse
Date: ██ Oct 2011
Object used: SCP-646
Result: SCP-857 successfully fed to SCP-646 during weekly feeding.
New Form: A pitcher owned by Dr. Xander
One of you had better replace that. - Dr. Xander
Date: ██ Oct 2011
Object used: SCP-447
Result: SCP-857 covered in SCP-447. Incinerated after effect was noted to persist.
New Form: A wine glass owned by Agent Tann
Well… the slime always seems to do what you need it to do. Thought that would work. - Dr. Bridge

"Why do you look so gloomy?" said Harmon as Dr. Muse took a seat at SCP-946 with SCP-857.
She plunked the wine glass onto the table and gave it a long glare.
"I loathe zis object."
"What's the matter with it?" Garcian said. "It's a rather nice glass."
"It is ze worst SCP object."
"Tell us of it, then."
Dr. Muse sighed.
"Well, it apparently believes it is God or somesing like it, and it does miracles but sometimes it does not, and occasionally it does 'orrid sings to sinners and when its form is destroyed ze effect travels to anozzer cup, and ze containment procedures called for an alchemist and I am not a containment specialist so 'oo am I to question such sings, but anyway it is simply too much trouble to keep around, and just as I was sinking zis I got a call from one of ze Overseers and 'e informed me zat I am allowed to attempt to destroy it but after days and days I just cannot. It is ze worst."
Harmon and Garcian nodded slowly, then turned to face each other.

Date: ██ Oct 2011
Object used: SCP-946
Result: SCP-857 was described by Dr. Muse to 946-1 and 946-2. After 946-1 and 946-2 agreed SCP-857 was "absurd", SCP-857 ceased to exist.
…I see. - O5-8


Debriefing: Dr. Michael Edison
Excerpt from Interview conducted by O5-█, regarding Dr. Edison's involvement in Incident 234-900-Tempest Night-1.
O5-█: Good evening, Dr. Edison.
Dr. Edison: Good evening, sir.
O5-█: Please, take a seat. I have a few questions to ask you.
Dr. Edison: …I'm not in trouble, am I?
O5-█: No, of course not. This is simply standard procedure.
Dr. Edison: Oh. Okay then. That's fine, I guess.
O5-█: Glad to hear it. Now, tell me, exactly where were you when the incident began?
Dr. Edison: Well let's see… I believe I was in the middle of feeding SCP-391 when I heard the blast. Fearing for my safety, I fled to the nearest security station only to find that the security personnel inside had died prior to my arrival.
O5-█: Do you have any idea how they died?
Dr. Edison: No idea, sir. Everyone had a big gash in the back of the head, but it looked like they didn't have their weapons drawn or anything so I guess they didn't fight back.
O5-█: Interesting. So what did you do?
Dr. Edison: Well, I took one good look at the security monitors and quickly realized how [EXPLETIVE REDACTED] we all… um, I mean, that we were in the middle of a wide-scale Class-█ containment breach. I tried to activate the self-destruct sequence manually, but the detonation system was apparently too damaged to respond. So I sent a message over the intercom ordering all essential personnel to evacuate, and ordering all remaining security personnel to enter high alert.
O5-█: And then what?
Dr. Edison: Well, then I noticed that SCP-353 (who had breached containment), was being escorted by a number of masked men towards section [REDACTED], where we were keeping all the biohazardous materials from Site 19. So I… um…
O5-█: Well? What did you do?
Dr. Edison: I… went after them. Die Hard style.
O5-█: …I beg your pardon?
Dr. Edison: I mean I went after them. Alone. I ran around the site grabbing everything that looked even remotely useful, picked off the masked men one by one using my superior knowledge of Site-17, and squared off with SCP-353 in a climactic showdown inside of the decontamination chamber.
O5-█: …
Dr. Edison: …
O5-█: …Is there any chance you "forgot" to take your medicine that day?
Dr. Edison: …maybe?

Dr. Edison stared at his watch anxiously. He knew there wasn't much time, and the rhythmic clacking of 914 only made him even more aware of it.
And then the clicking stopped. Edison's heart skipped at beat as the tiny bell rang, letting him know that it was time to check on his little “experiment”. Nervously, he slid the door open to take a look at the results.
At first, he didn't know what to think. At first glance, it appeared to be an orange helmet, similar in form to the bulletproof SWAT helmet he was currently wearing. It even had the kind same “Property Of…” sticker that his own helmet was labeled with. But upon further inspection, he noticed that the accompanying balaclava appeared to be made of rubber, and that there was some form of breathing apparatus in the spot where one's mouth would be should be.
The doctor scratched his head. “Well, it's getting there, certainly.”
Suddenly, the radio Edison was carrying on his belt sprung to life. “Hey! You!” it said, “You there! By 914!”
With a sigh, Edison handed the orange helmet to his assistant, who was similarly decked out in SWAT armor. “Please run this through 914 with helmet 3 on ‘very fine', will you? I need to take this call.”
Wordlessly, the assistant accepted the helmet and stiffly carried it to 914's input chamber.
Edison, meanwhile, took the opportunity to answer the radio. “Hello…?”
“What the hell do you think you're doing!?” screamed the man on the other end. “We're in the middle of a containment breach and you're playing dress up! Does that seem like a good idea to you?!"
“Hey, hey, don't worry about me,” replied Edison. “Look, everything's under contro- okay, everything isn't under control, but you have better things to do than worry about some lone-wolf renegade action movie star type… thing. You should get out of here before the shit hits the fan, because if I can't stop Vector, we ALL die.”
“Well I'd love to… but I'm trapped in a security station. The ceiling behind me collapsed, so the door's jammed behind a huge pile of… er…”
“…What? What is it?”
“appleseeds.”
“What?”
“a huge pile of appleseeds.”
“…I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear that. Did you just say you were stuck behind a pile of apple-”
“YES, APPLESEEDS!” the man screamed. “THE DOOR IS STUCK BEHIND A FUCKING PILE OF FUCKING APPLESEEDS! WHY THE HELL ARE THERE SO MANY APPLESEEDS I CANT TAKE ALL THESE APPLESEEDS AND ALL THE APPLESEEDS DAY AND NIGHT AND NIGHT AND DAY AND I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE WHY WON'T THEY JUST APPLESEEDS APPLESEEDS APPLESEEDS!!!!!”
Edison paused for a moment to let the man cool off. He could hear a faint sobbing through the radio. “…nice to see you too, Dr. King.”

Debriefing: Dr. King
Excerpt from Interview conducted by O5-█, regarding Dr. King's involvement in Incident 234-900-Tempest Night-1.
O5-█: Now, Dr. King. From what I've heard, you played an instrumental role in directing the flow of information during the incident. Can you please describe exactly what you were trying to accomplish?
Dr. King: Well, I was mostly just trying to find something to keep my mind off the… the… the you-know-whats that were keeping me cooped up in there. I mean, it's not like there was much else I could do other than watch the monitors and call people with the radio. I've really got to hand it to the guys who designed the security system, that security system was state of the art! I don't think there was a single blind spot in the entire base. I mean-
O5-█: …Yes, yes, the art of security is a fascinating one, but I'd much rather hear about your involvement with Dr. Edison's recent… “adventure”.
Dr. King: Oh, that… [NOTE: Dr. King appears to be visibly distressed at this point] Well… I found Edison with SCP-912, making some kind of “Super-Armor” or something using SCP-914. He explained that SCP-353 was making her way section [REDACTED], and that unless he stopped her things would get a million times worse.
O5-█: …I see… and how did he plan on doing this?
Dr. King: Well… he never explained the whole plan, but he assured me it was extremely clever, intricate, and well-thought-out.

“I'm going to do something extremely clever, intricate, and well-thought-out that's going to stop Vector and save the world!” Dr. Edison said as he continued to sprint down the hallway. “I'll get back to you when I know exactly what it is.”
“Well I hate to burst your bubble, kid,” said Dr. King, “but Vector is five stories down, and the insurgents are practically there. You'd have to move at the speed of sound to make it down the stairs in time.”
Edison chuckled. “Who said anything about stairs?” He screeched to a halt in front of the doorway he'd been looking for, stepped inside, and found himself in an enormous white room, whose only feature was a small, blue pinwheel, sitting upon a pedestal.
“Oh no…” said Dr. King. “You have GOT to be kidding me…”
“Yep!” said Edison. “I'm going to use 161 to drill a hole down to section [REDACTED], one floor at a time, and assault them from the front, holding them off until 912 catches up and surprises them from the back.” Edison reached into his pockets, and pulled out a small squirt bottle, which he used to make a series of red security lasers visible. “But first, I need to perform some death-defying acrobatics in order to get past this array of invisible crisscrossing lasers, or else I will be fried to a crisp!”
“Uh, Ed? You do realize I can just-”
Slowly, Edison backed up to the doorway, and began to swing his arms and count. “One… two… THREE!”
And with that, the doctor broke into a mad dash, and completely failed to launch himself into a series of amazing front flips that allowed Edison to weave through the beams like a graceful butterfly. The doctor turned red with embarrassment as he fell flat on his face a good ten feet from the nearest laser.
“Yeah… I'm just going to turn these things off before you kill yourself. Why do we even have a room like this?”
“No idea. It was probably one of Bright's projects.” Edison said as he pulled himself upright. “But regardless, now 161 is about to within my grasp, there is nothing left to stop me from saving the Foundation!”
And then a nine-tailed fox tried to bite Dr. Edison's testicles off.

Excerpt from security footage of SCP-161's temporary containment cell (formerly the containment cell of SCP-████), detailing an encounter between Dr. Edison and SCP-953 (in vulpine form), accompanied by Dr. King's comments via radio from Security Station █.
SCP-953 (in vulpine form) tackles Dr. Edison from behind, knocking him over. 953 then attempts to remove Dr. Edison's armor so it can [DATA EXPUNGED].
Dr. Edison: OH GOD WHERE THE HELL DID SHE COME FROM WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?!Dr. King: Why does she hate you so much?!
Dr. Edison: HOW SHOULD I KNOW [EXPLETIVE] DO SOMETHING MAN!
Dr. King: I could turn the lasers back on, but-
Dr. Edison: I DON'T CARE JUST- OH GOD, MY [REDACTED]! SHE'S GOT MY [REDACTED]!

“You okay?” said Dr. King, his voice slightly distorted by radio static.
“If you mean, ‘am I still alive', then just barely.” Dr. Edison groaned. “Man, I can't believe that bitch is still worked up about that…”
“About what?” said Dr. King.
“Well, you know that little disclaimer about not calling 953 a ‘Kitsune'?”
“Yeah?”
“Let's just say I watch too much anime and leave it at that.” Dr. Edison attempted to produce a faint chuckle from his lame joke, followed by a deep, hacking cough. “She's still there isn't she?"
“Yep. Just outside the doorway.”
“Probably waiting for me to start running… dammit…” The doctor slowly began to push himself off the floor, only to have the tip of his nose burnt off by one of the containment beams. “Well, at least I can still move…”
“Just hang tight, Ed. I'll try and find someone to pick you up.”
“No way, doc.” Edison wheezed. “We're on the clock here, remember?”
“Yeah, but…”
“JUST LISTEN TO ME, DAMMIT!” the doctor shouted. “Everything's going to hell anyway, so what do you care if I die attempting some sort of ridiculous ‘Action Movie Hero' plan? This sort of disaster happens only once in a lifetime, and I'll be damned if I spend it sitting in a corner holding my eyes closed.”
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“Am I trying to tell you something? AM I TRYING TO TELL YOU SOMETHING!? Yeah, I'm trying to tell you something all right!" Dr. Edison took a deep breath. "It's Game Day, King. And it's not just any game, King, it's the World Series and we're playing for the Stanley Cup. The other team's up by a field goal, It's the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, 4th down, our star player is in the penalty box, and the big man's about 2 WREAK SOME HAVOC on the court!”
Dr. King was speechless.
“So do you want that gold medal, or are you going to take a penalty kick with the rest of those losers?!”
“…I don't even know where to begin with that.” said Dr. King.
“That's what I like to hear!” said Dr. Edison. “Now, on the count of three, I want you to turn off the containment beams so I can grab 161. Ready?”
“Now wait a second, I never said I would-”
“1… 2… 3!”
In a flash, Dr. Edison jolted upright, and sprinting towards the pinwheel, ignoring the stinging from his numerous wounds. Moments later, 953 burst though the door, and began to chase after him.
“Get out of there, Ed!” said Dr. King.
“No! I got a head start! I can make it, I can make it, I can make-”

Security Log-█████-2

Excerpt from section [REDACTED] security footage.
An unidentified body (presumably belonging to Dr. Edison) falls though the ceiling and lands in the men's room of section [REDACTED]. An audible ‘snap' is heard, implying that Dr. Edison has broken most, if not all of his bones.


I remember for the otherss, they are too sloww
-
It was raining red on Ito. It always rained red, red drops into red oceans, filled with the red blood of dead creatures. Appi-210-352-399 sped through the oceans. This world had realized it was wrong. It had to get ou -
Appi-210-352-399 died, as the sea creature caught it in its jaws.
-
I record it.
-
The crackling, the burning, the pain. The Fireman had taken Appi-210-352-400 into its daily bath of heat, and left it in intentionally. This world had realized it was wrong. It was on fir -
Appi-210-352-400 died, as its processors blew from the heat.
-
I record it.
-
Appi-210-352-401 had drifted for years now, its systems having gradually shut down. It had been launched into space by the natives. This world had realized it was wrong. This was the en -
Appi-210-352-401 died, in front of the watching sun.
-
I record it.
-
Appi-210-352-402 was trapped, a prisoner of the creatures that had found it. One of the terrible things was crawling towards it right now. This world had realized it was wrong. If it did not escape soon, this monstrosity would -
Appi-210-352-402 died, a meal for a needy creature.
-
I record it.
-
Appi-210-352-403 was being ripped apart, a sacrifice in a conflict it had never understood. All six of those terrible arms tore at it, pulled it to pieces. This world had realized it was wrong. It was paying the pri -
Appi-210-352-403 died, a victim of a war that didn't happen.
-
I record //it.
-
The Hanging Men were not fools. The Leader held out the thing in front of him, screeching in rage. This world had realized it was wrong. It was time for retribution, as the Hanging God demanded.
Appi-210-352-404 died, crushed in the hands of a terror.
-
And I record it.
-
Appi-210-352-PRIME sat there in the cold sterile room, recording what it knew with its little paintbrush, its camera having long rotted away. This world had realized it was wrong. And so, it had been contained.
Appi-210-352-PRIME would never die.


Designation: TNO-10000
Description: A short bronze sword, a cashew-shaped jade magatama bead pierced with a hole, and a circular mirror bearing an eight-pointed star design.
Recovery: Nagoya, Tokyo and Ise, Japan

Designation:EXC-410
Description: A long iron sword, rusted and deeply scratched, constructed in the Welsh or Mercian style, c. 5th century. The haft was evidently encrusted with diamonds, topazes and jacinth, most of which are now missing. The legend "R.ART" is inscribed on the hilt, and the word "caledfwlch" is inscribed in smaller lettering on the blade, near the hilt.
Recovery: Dozmary Pool, Cornwall, United Kingdom

Designation: SeZ-08
Description: A curved sword in the Persian style, decorated with emeralds.
Recovery: Zahrgiah, Iran

Designation:MJL-436
Description: A heavy iron hammer with a short handle.
Recovery: Trøndelag, Norway

Designation:PRN-881
Description: A bronze axe head, decorated with zig-zag markings and an inscription in proto-Slavic glyphs. There is a knob-like protrusion on the bottom of the axe head, and a hole drilled through the axe.
Recovery: Peryn island near Novgorod, Russia

Designation:ZFQ-329
Description: Double-pointed curved scimitar in the Arabic style.
Recovery: Samarra, Iraq

Designation:DRK-1596
Description: A snare drum, decorated with a heraldic coat-of-arms. Drum is dated to the late 16th century, and bears evidence of salt contamination consistent with long exposure to maritime environment.
Recovery: Buckland Abbey, England

“Are the swords even sharp?” “Not really, Doc.” “Just… just throw that crap in the dumpster, then. Keep the valuable-looking gems.”

The staff at Site-33 seemed to think that they had a keen wit when it came to nicknames. Site-33 itself, of course, was “Rolling Rock”. Its director, the bearded, bespectacled Dr. Sanders, was “the Colonel” (though never to his face). And the building designated General Non-Anomalous Testing and Containment (GNATC) was “Granny's Attic”. If the Foundation was in possession of a specimen or an object that turned out to not be anomalous-that is to say, safer than Safe-well, it generally ended up in the Attic.

Designation: BDH-483
Description: A human left canine tooth, with trace amounts of ash of burnt sandalwood and pork proteins.
Recovery: Kandy, Sri Lanka

“Who even brought that thing here, the tooth fairy? Trash, trash.”

In theory, things in the Attic (being non-anomalous and therefore not interesting) would eventually be processed in one way or another. That glowing worm that turned out to be a bioluminescent animal unknown to science but otherwise uninteresting? Released back into the cave where it had been found. That tour bus of Mexican pilgrims to Guadalupe who had been contained on suspicion of having been infected by a dangerous meme? Heavily dosed with amnestics and dropped off at the roadside. Who knows, maybe some of them made it back home to the loved ones who had last seen them eleven years ago.
In theory. In practice, processing non-anomalous items was the kind of duty that none of the Site-33 researchers seemed to ever really get around to doing. There was too much interesting work to be done on the SCP-level objects, you see. And so, an object in the Attic tended to stay in the Attic.

Designation: HFR-019
Description: A live, healthy, unblemished cow, red in color. All of the cow's hairs are absolutely straight.
Recovery: ██████, Israel

“Anybody want a burger?”

On February 7, Dr. Jerome Savonarola found himself in the Penalty Box. The PB (officially, the “Processing Bureau”) was the office charged with running the Attic. This office was normally vacant, but from time to time the Colonel would assign personnel there, more as penance or to get someone out of the way than in order to ensure the fulfillment of the duties of that office. In this case, Savonarola had (according to the Colonel) bungled the containment protocol of Site-33's colony of SCP-831. (“How was I supposed to know that D-29934 had a loose dental filling?”). Before the napalm had even been hosed away, it was “off to the PB with you, Jerry. Maybe a tour of duty in the Attic for a few weeks will remind you to follow protocol to the letter.”

Designation: ANG-1430-G
Description: A handwritten manuscript, written in the Punjabi language in Gurmukhī script and dating from the 16th-18th centuries.
Recovery: Amritsar, India

Designation: MHM-PBUH-J
Description: A single leather sandal with two straps. Footwear dated to c. 7th century.
Recovery: Topkapı Palace, Turkey. Replaced with replica.

Designation: VSNU-08
Description: A white conch shell decorated with a representation of the Hindu god Vishnu.
Recovery: Travancore, India.

Designation: DFSH-KV-6
Description: A purple leather-backed cloth flag, bearing a star-shaped emblem. There are traces of adhesives indicating that gemstones or minerals, now missing, were once affixed to the flag.
Recovery: Qadisiyyah, Iraq

Designation: IAGO-859
Description: A swallow-tailed canvas banner, suspended from a crossbar in an identical manner to the ancient Roman vexillum. The banner was probably originally white in color but is heavily soiled.
Recovery: Santiago de Compostela, Spain

Designation: ARGO-001
Description: A sheepskin dated to the 8th century BCE, the wool intact being yellowish in color. The sheepskin indicates that the ram had anatomical irregularities in the region of the scapula.
Recovery: Colchis, Republic of Georgia

“Scribble-scrabble, a stinky shoe, rags and a wad of wool. Ugh. Pitch ‘em.”

Protocol to the letter. Have it your way, Colonel. As long as I'm here, I'll follow the GNATC manual to the literal letter, just like that old passive-aggressive soldiers' trick for coping with a martinet of an officer. Particularly, Procedure TRS-β, which expressly requires the Site PB duty officer the duty to “expeditiously process GNATC items with a view towards minimizing expenses of continued maintenance and storage.” If they want me to take out the trash, that's what I'll do.

Designation: LNG-1022-K
Description: A Roman spear, dated to c. 1st century. The blade of the spear is surrounded by a golden sleeve bearing Latin text and affixing an iron nail to the blade.
Recovery: Schatzkammer, Vienna. Replaced with replica.

Designation: QAB-0007-B
Description: A collection of mineral fragments, approximately 20 cm x 16 cm, cemented together and encased in a roughly elliptical silver frame. The fragments are black in color and composed of agate with trace amounts of iron. Analysis suggests that the fragments are meteoric or impactite in origin.
Recovery: █████, Arabia. Replaced with replica.

Designation: ARJ-1000-503-580-500-100-L
Description: A bow, decorated with gold embossment and with faintly luminescent ends. A Sanskrit inscription near the grip bears the word "Gāṇḍīva".
Recovery: Kurukshetra, India

Designation: EIR-TUA-THA
Description: A pillar-shaped stone approximately 1.5 meters in height, an iron cauldron, a spear with an integrated sling for firing small stones, and an iron sword.
Recovery: Tara, Ireland

Designation: HYK-492
Description: An oversized arrow in the Armenian style, with bronze head
Recovery: Dyutsaznamart, Turkey

Designation: SOL-KTM
Description: An iron signet ring, hexagrammatic in form.
Recovery: Temple Mount, Jerusalem

Designation: KSMR-ZOR
Description: A living branch cutting of a cypress tree.
Recovery: Razavi Khorasan, Iran

Designation: FLAM-001
Description: Vessels of various sizes, each containing a reddish powder, largely comprised of a rare isotope of mercury.
Recovery: Various locations including the cornerstone of Temple Mount, Jerusalem, and the crypt of the Dominican church of St. Andreas, Cologne, Germany.

Designation: JMSH-062
Description: Brass and crystal cup with a reflective basin, decorated in the Achaemenid style.
Recovery: Persepolis, Iran.

Designation: SHI-0259-C
Description: White jade seal, dated to third century B.C. The seal is square, with one corner chipped off and restored with gold. The words "Having received the Mandate from Heaven, may he lead a long and prosperous life" are inscribed on the seal in an archaic form of Chinese seal script.
Recovery: ███████, China.

“Sticks and stones. Charming. Dumpster. Keep the gold, though.”

As it turned out, the Penalty Box could be surprisingly cathartic. A few more dumpster-loads, and there'd be nearly enough room in here for a squash court.

Designation: MOR-1823-I
Description: A collection of rectangular plates, approximately 26 kg in total mass. The plates are comprised of gold and are extensively inscribed in a dialect of Egyptian used in the Western hemisphere between approximately 2600 BCE and 421 CE.
Recovery: Cumorah, New York.

“Gold, again. More of it, this time. Melt it down, and put the resulting ingots in the trunk of my car. I, er, have some research in mind.”

Designation: INRH-27-32-66-D
Description: A collection of fragments of cedar, pine and cypress wood which, when re-assembled, comprise two beams, the first being approximately 3.7 meters in length and the second being approximately 2 meters in length, with the two beams having an aggregate mass of approximately 75 kg. The collection also includes iron nails. There is residue of vinegar and human blood on the nails and some of the wood fragments, with the blood matching that from CLX-1337-A.
Recovery: Various locations. Largest single fragment recovered from Gishen Mariam, Ethiopia.

Designation: CLX-1337-A
Description: An olive wood cup, dated to 1st century B.C. Analysis indicates trace residue of Levantine grape wine, myrrh and human blood in the cup. An Aramaic-language inscription reads "Joseph of Arimathea". The letters "GALAH" appear roughly carved near the base, with the style of lettering indicating a pre-Norman British origin.
Recovery: [DATA REDACTED]

“Incinerator. Why are you looking at me like that?”

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Tales

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

Spring Cleaning

Transcript of meeting, June 2 1972

Transcript of telephone conversation, August 9, 1991

Memorandum Dated 6 November 1944

Scroll fragment 13Q29

Stray Katz (part 1)

Ad Majorem Bonum
Rating: 24


Hey, everyone. I'm Agent Bibs. If you really have a hard-on for being formal, call me Mister Bibs. I don't, so if you call me Mister Bibs, I'll throw a pen cap at you. Now, I've got a few guesses as to why the higher-ups wanted me to run this class, but I'll deal with that later. For right now, you get the oh-so-wonderful privilege of hearing me talk about being an Intelligence Agent for the Foundation.
You know, I think I'm going to like this group. This isn't me slobbing your knobs or anything, I'm serious! See, most of you screwheads didn't pick up any of the food and drinks. It means you don't trust free food given out by someone you don't know. That's a good thing, because in about three seconds..
Okay, so I'm off by two seconds, plus or minus. Hey, using knock-out drops is an inexact science! Which is good, because I'm not all that good on the whole 'science' thing. They only gave me the Researcher role because I kept figuring out what the eggheads were going to do before they did it, for Christ's sake.
While the Ds get the idiots out of here, let's get down to business. By the way, D-44632, take Fred there to a Cell. He's Church.
Now, how did I know all this, you lunkheads? Am I a genius? Well, kinda, but that's not the point. The point is, before you guys came in and sat down, I went over each and every one of your dossiers. The ones you gave us, and the ones my fellow IAs compiled on each and every one of you. It's how I realized the majority of this group wouldn't take food from a stranger, and how Fred was a Church plant.
I don't do all this background-looking-into shit because it's impressive to newbies. Well, partially I do. Mostly, though, its because it's my job to know shit. It's my job because the Foundation needs to know shit. Shit we don't know about, we can't keep people safe from. Yes, James-Who-Wet-The-Bed-Until-He-Was-Six, I said people. Let the eggheads frame things in a way that lets them avoid thinking about seven billion people. You're Agents. You're dealing with people. Good people, bad people, good bad people, bad good people. And Clef, I guess, He's not really 'people', though.. I think.
No, Alexander, put your hand down. I'm not going to talk about Clef. He's one of your bosses, and he's smarter than you, and seeking out more than that'll give you a headache. But no, you're going to think you're smart enough to find the truth about him. If you're lucky, he'll warn you off. If you're not, he'll tell you everything. Don't pout, Alex. Prove me wrong. It happens so rarely, I'm going to sit down and put my feet up on the table to complete the Arrogant Prick Look. Yes, these are gym shoes. Running in dress shoes is a bitch and a half. 48% of IA's job is based on running.
Anyways, being an IA? You'll get up, and you'll find a folder on your table. Or, in my case, stuck to the wall of the Containment Cell I took over when they decided to recruit my surprisingly-firm ass. It'll be all professional-like, brief as hell. We're talking location, rough approximation of what the higher-ups expect, how you'll be getting there, maybe a few suggestions on attire and the like. I'd tell you to ignore the last one, but if I do that, you'll wear a clownsuit to a GoC facility. That only works once. Or twice, if you count that time in March.
On the way to wherever you're going, you'll be studying the location. Not the quote-unquote specific Foundation stuff, no. I'm talking about cultural shit. Do the people where you're going have a strong oral tradition? Are the men or women more open to talking to people? Do they respond well to authority, or is it better to be One Of The Guys? You're here because you either know that kinda shit already, or you know people who know people who know that shit. As long as you don't tell your buddies you're with the Foundation, nobody here really gives a rat's ass who you talk to. Yeah, the higher-ups talk about Super Obnoxious Secrecy In All Things, but that's because most of them were never Agents in the first place.
You'll get to wherever you need to go, and then the fun stuff starts. If there's places the Foundation wants you to examine, you do it. Otherwise, do whatever you need to do. Go into a bar. Drink a bit, talk with the locals. Ask if there's been any crazy stories floating about. Most aren't relevant to what you're doing, but learn them anyway. You'll build trust, and you'll have new cover stories for your next few missions. Take notes. Follow up on those notes, make sure they are legit. In short, learn shit. That's why the Foundation pays you a lot of goddamned money, and why you're here instead of wherever you were.
No, Matt, don't raise your hand. Nobody cares you used to work with the CIA. I ran loops around your former boss's head a few months after I started here. I think I got him fired for it, now that I think about it. Long story. His fault. Yes, I'm aware he was your father. I'm talking, you're not. I speak, you learn shit. From my massive brain to your probably-larger-but-empty brain. Seriously, I don't know if anyone has told you, but your head is huge!
As I was saying… you've done your canvassing and networking, and you've found what the higher-ups are looking for. You've got as much info as you can get on the thing: where exactly it is, best way and time to get at it, things to know to ensure a clean retrieval. If y'have to ask yourself if you've learned enough shit, y'aint learned enough shit. You want your fellow Foundationites thinking you're anal-retentive. Actually, scratch that: be anal-retentive. If you don't put down that the skip turns blue at 11:34pm on Fridays, someone is going to fucking die.
This is when you expect me to chuckle and point out how pointless that sort of detail is. Newsflash: you're in the Foundation, now. Stuff turning blue can and will cause someone to die. I've seen it happen.
And since I have three of you guys flagged for wanting to play hero, I'm going to make this very clear to everyone: don't be James Goddamned Bond. You're Intelligence, dammit, and running in to capture a skip on your own is going to get your ass killed. Leave it to Retrieval and Containment agents. Let them get their asses killed. Nah, if R&C teams get killed, you didn't give them enough shit to go on. See these names on my arm? Three men died because I failed to give them enough information for a clean retrieval. I don't plan on adding any more. I'm not sure if you guys know this, but tattoos? They hurt!
Actually, here's a teaching moment: don't get tattoos. Ink identifies you, and your job as an Intelligence Agent is not to be fucking identified. I know what you're thinking: "Why is Bibs allowed to get one, and I'm not?" First off, I'm better at being an IA than you. Secondly, I've been here longer than you, and I'm granted wider latitude. Thirdly, I was the one who discovered an anomalous brand of ink that vanishes when you mentally will it to.
Okay, it's mostly the third one, but the first two still apply. And no, you don't get the special ink. I found it, and it was the one anomalous item I got to take possession of this year.
Shit, I'm digressing again. Anyway, back to being an IA. When you're done with getting all your shit together, get out of there without making a fuss. On your way home, write up your reports. When you reach your home Site, you'll be formally debriefed. The shit you provide will be filed and processed, into a form that R&Cs won't even bother reading, because it's all about how to get to their goal without shooting everything in sight. I'm kidding. Sort of.
Oh, and one last thing before I dismiss you guys: being an Intelligence Agent isn't just about getting into places. It's also about getting out of places. While we've been talking, this entire room has been moved and deposited into a one of our larger Containment Cells. Quite a few exits head back to the facility, and each one seals off after one person uses it. You're being timed.
…
Okay, this is bullshit. I told the techs that I wanted the lights to go out when I said "You're being timed". I thought it would be badass. New lesson: never trust Bill. That motherfucker always thinks it's funny to ruin the one moment I get to look all bad-ass to newbies. You know what, you guys are dismissed, I'm going to…
Oh, there they go. Christ, I forgot how dark it gets. So yeah, forget that stuff about Bill. Find your way out, and have fun with it! I'll be here, taking a nap.


The dinner show provided by Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. had been surprisingly pedestrian that evening. The magician, although skilled and pretty, hadn't performed anything other than the usual misdirection which could be seen anywhere. The hoop aerialist, who was also very pretty and wearing a costume that left very little to the imagination, did little more than spin in her ring in various positions and look seductive. There was very little of what many considered the MC&D flavor.
The curtain closed around the stage as she finished her act and bowed. Polite applause sounded from the audience, along with a few barely audible disappointed sighs. When the curtain reopened, the hoop had been replaced with a pair of white ribbon-like straps. A man built like a ballet dancer with bare arms and feet stood next to the straps, ready to perform.
Music started playing. It was a peaceful melody, light and uplifting. The acrobat lifted himself onto the straps and started his act. At first the act looked as though it was going to be as ordinary as the other performances. He wrapped straps around himself like the stripes on a candy cane. He hung himself upside down, spun himself in circles, and held himself parallel to the ground while holding onto the straps solely with his hands. He contorted his body into grotesque shapes which could only be achieved with the help of the straps. He somersaulted upwards, spiraling the ribbons around his arms. The audience sat in silence through all these moves.
The aerialist wrapped himself up asymmetrically. One strap spiraled down his leg, while the other wrapped tightly around his left bicep. There was a twist, a sudden drop, and a note of discord in the music. He now was hanging upside down from the one wrapped leg while the other strap hung down, not wrapped around anything. His left hand was still gripping it, but his arm had been severed where the strap had been wrapped.
There was no blood, and the aerialist continued to climb and twist himself on the straps unfazed. The arm climbed too, wrapping the strap around itself and alternating between gripping with the hand and the elbow. No wound on either end of the arm, only an expanse of white where bone, sinew, and other tissues should have been visible.
The act now seemed to be a strange kind of partner acrobatics; a one-armed man and a single arm both performing tricks. Sometimes the tricks were separate, and sometimes they were in tandem, resulting in holds and balances that should have been impossible. The arm helped him into another wrap, this one around both legs. The aerialist balanced himself like a board for a few seconds while the severed arm held itself straight out above him.
There was another twist, a discordant note in the music, drop, and he again hung by one leg. His right leg had been severed this time and joined the performance as a separate entity. Less than a minute later, his right arm joined the act.
The music began to swell as the severed limbs, all moving of their own accord, helped the aerialist into position for what could be one final trick. His one remaining leg wrapped in a candy cane swirl, as his severed arms wrapped the other strap around his neck, bringing him into a horizontal balance. One hand then brought the strap down and over his throat quickly, enclosing his neck.
The body once again was hanging upside down, suspended through a wrap around the left leg. The head rolled on the floor. It was just as neatly severed as the three limbs that were no longer attached to the suspended torso. His head finished rolling and faced the assemblage of wealth and power. The music still played, but the show was likely over.
While the audience sat in stunned silence, the magician from earlier entered the stage. She looked at the hanging body, the severed limbs, and the head. Her expression, rather than horrified, seemed bemused. She glared at the aerialist's severed head, which returned her expression with a sheepish smile. Shaking her head, she started collecting his parts. One by one, she reattached them to his body, wrapping a section of strap around each one. He moved each reattached part into his suspension, keeping himself aloft with his strength until he was once again whole. Finally, he rolled down the straps to the ground, stood up with the magician, and bowed.
The audience applauded thunderously.


One month before Tempest Night…
A single brown leaf blew through the long-abandoned corridors of Site 17. Skeletons lay in the hallways where they had fallen. An alarm blared through the corridors, the person who activated it long dead. Horrors of all shapes and sizes roamed the facility.
For a moment, the wreck that was once civilization was silent.
Then, a small toy robot appeared. Its neck swiveled around, taking in the new and unusual surroundings. It spoke, with a touch of uncertainty in its synthesized voice.
"THANK YOU FOR PURCHASING YOUR VERY OWN ROBO-DUDE, MADE BY DR. WONDERTAINMENT. ANY ATTEMPT TO OPERATE ROBO-DUDE OTHER THAN IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PRODUCT INSTRUCTIONS, INCLUDING ANY ATTEMPT TO OPEN OR SERVICE ROBO-DUDE IS LIKELY TO RESULT IN UNPREDICTABLE BEHAVIOR. DR. WONDERTAINMENT IS NOT LIABLE FOR ANY DAMAGE, DESTRUCTION OR LOSS OF PERSONAL OR REAL PROPERTY, OR FOR ANY INJURY, UP TO AND INCLUDING DEATH, TO THE OWNER, THE OPERATOR, OR OTHERS WHICH MAY RESULT FROM THE OPERATION OF ROBO-DUDE FUNCTIONS. BY INTERACTING WITH ROBO-DUDE IN ANY WAY OR BY REMAINING IN ROBO-DUDE'S PRESENCE WITHIN FIVE SECONDS FOLLOWING THE COMPLETION OF THIS ANNOUNCEMENT, YOU ACCEPT THE TERMS AND CONDITIONS DESCRIBED IN THIS ANNOUNCEMENT, AS AMENDED AND SUPPLEMENTED BY DR. WONDERTAINMENT FROM TIME TO TIME WHETHER BEFORE OR AFTER ACCEPTANCE, AND AGREE TO HOLD BLAMELESS DR. WONDERTAINMENT, AND EVERYONE AFFILIATED WITH DR. WONDERTAINMENT, FROM AND AGAINST ALL LIABILITY OR LOSSES RELATING TO ROBO-DUDE. DR. WONDERTAINMENT RESERVES ALL RIGHTS AND REMEDIES, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY RIGHTS IN AND TO 'ROBO-DUDE', 'ROBO-PAL', 'ROBO-ACCESSORIES' AND ALL PATENTS, TRADEMARKS, COPYRIGHTS AND OTHER INTELLECTUAL PROPERTIES EMBEDDED OR EMBODIED THEREIN. GREETINGS, ROBO-PAL."
It stopped and realized it was on its own. For the last few years, Robo-Dude could never remember being alone. As a toy, it only remembered what happened when it was turned on. And when it was turned on, Robo-Dude was never alone. It called out now, for the researchers and doctors who had asked it questions and played with it before.
"ROBO-PAL?"
If toys could be surprised, Robo-Dude would be. For a charred corpse was sitting up, burnt flesh replaced with a cold, serious face. Its security uniform became a grey suit. It looked at him for a few seconds, raising a single eyebrow.
What? He said. Who are you?
This Robo-Dude knew!
"I AM ROBO-DUDE, ROBO-PAL. I AM EQUIPPED WITH OVER THREE HUNDRED FUN ACCESSORIES TO MAXIMIZE PLAYTIME ENJOYMENT."
A toy robot? Can robots even dream?
"AFFIRMATIVE, ROBO-PAL. ROBO-DUDE IS FULLY OPTIMIZED FOR NOCTURNAL VIEWING OF CONDUCTIVE LIVESTOCK."
Alright, fine. There's no time to be picky, I need you to -
"ENGAGE IN ROBO-DANCE?"
No, you need to warn -
"ROBO-DUDE IS NOW ENGAGING IN ROBO-DANCE."
Thirty minutes later, Robo-Dude had finished its daily ritual. However, this man was far too old and far too serious to play with toys. Robo-Dude knew that this must be important and stopped dancing one minute early. Some things must be sacrificed for the greater good.
"ROBO-DUDE IS NOW READY FOR INPUT!"
The man smiled with relief and began to speak.
Alright. He said. In one month, Site 17 will be attacked by an enemy force. I can't tell you who they are, I'm sorry, but you must warn them, or horrible things will happen, do you understand?
"ROBO-DUDE UNDERSTANDS THIS MISSION, ROBO-PAL."
Good. Now this dream needs to end. Shake yourself awake or somethi - what are you doing?
Robo-Dude looked up at its new Robo-Pal, its chest open and a small canister emerging from within.
"DEPLOYING ATOMIC GRENADE!"
Hold on, wait, NO -
*
For the first time ever, Robo-Dude activated itself. It had a mission now, it had a purpose! And that purpose was…Robo-Dude was not very clever. In any case, it is hard to remember dreams.
And so, Robo-Dude had forgotten.