Introduction
This document was made available to all Foundation personnel on the International SCP Foundation Network on December 04, 2024 by the Ethics Subcommittee for Sentient & Sapient Anomalies. It is intended to provide a comprehensive review of what modern standards for the ethical treatment of human anomalies involve, as well as offer the Ethics Committee's insight into the topic. This document is based upon existing policy and Ethics Committee consensus; it is intended as a strongly encouraged set of guidelines updated for the modern age, though it cites some definitive regulation as well.

I: Detaining Human Anomalies
Historically, even in cases where immediate cooperation was shown, Containment & Retrieval teams had a zero-tolerance policy on allowing human anomalies to be unrestrained — or in some cases even conscious — during the period of transport from the pickup location to the containment site. As this period can last anywhere from a few minutes to several hours depending on location, it was clear from the beginning that the method was far from ideal; however, the risk posed by a potential escape was seen as a direct threat to maintaining the veil of normalcy, and thus nothing changed until the era of public operation was entered.
In the present day, human anomalies must be approached differently. Foundation personnel are more numerous and more frequently present in public areas, contributing to overall security. The Ethics Committee suggests the following as a flexible base on which individual Containment & Retrieval teams can frame their methods; no matter what, one of these approaches is always possible.
Conversation should always be attempted before physical force is used; it is possible for an anomaly to fully agree to their detainment even in cases where cooperation was not expected based on preliminary profiling, and this has occurred before. If legally applicable, a human anomaly should first be approached in a public area by personnel wearing plainclothes (so as not to distract passerby) who should provide proof of Foundation identification and explain the legal reasons that the anomaly had to be contacted about their effects.
If it is not possible to converse, it is possible to explain. Only if an anomaly is physically violent or extremely disruptive is physical restraint appropriate; the moment an anomaly is drawing excessive attention to themself or the situation, they should be removed from the area for the safety of the public, personnel, and themself. However, once privately in transport, personnel should still attempt to explain the legality of the situation and the necessity of containment to the anomaly, as well as listen to their concerns.
It is important to note that many anomalies supposedly affiliated with groups hostile to the Foundation are not in such a position willingly; they may be bound to a contract they have no legal right to opt out of1, be subservient to a group's demands while showing reckless disregard for their own personal safety or health2, or simply feel that affiliation with a group experienced in handling the anomalous is a safer option than living on their own with their effects. Thus, these anomalies should be approached the same way as unaffiliated anomalies.
An anomaly's Initial Containment Date is the most influential point in the Foundation's interaction with them, as it is their first perception of the Foundation's motives and operating methods and will affect their opinion of all personnel handling them for years to come. If initial containment takes longer with these methods than 'brute force' methods, that is an acceptable price to pay.

All of the above assumes that the anomaly in question is a legal adult; in cases where the anomaly is a minor3, Foundation policy and non-Foundation law becomes complex.
In most cases, child anomalies with effects considered "excessively destructive and/or causing immediate or latent harm to other persons or property" within the context of applicable local law may be detained with or without parental consent for no more than three weeks. Following this, results vary depending on relevant state or country law, and can either yield state-ordered continued containment or state-ordered release to state-owned containment facilities, among other options.4
In cases where parental consent is given, anomalous children may be contained as indefinitely as adult anomalies can be5 and may be visited by parents/guardians as frequently as is determined to be reasonable and safe by assigned psychologists and containment specialists. Provided at least two psychologists deem it necessary for a child's health and containment personnel deem it safe for all involved, their parents/guardians may reside onsite in an adjacent room for up to two weeks per month.

II: Treatment and Documentation
The Ethics Committee encourages personnel to refer to a given human anomaly by their preferred first name and pronouns rather than by their SCP designation and it/its pronouns when in their presence; doing this has no notable effect on formal documentation and is psychologically beneficial for the anomaly.
In the past, the vast majority of human anomalies were non-compliant and/or hostile, particularly due to the lack of public knowledge of the Foundation's existence and the negative view of the Foundation the majority of informed groups held. This consistent behavior pattern allowed for lax regulations which permitted individual research teams to determine what privileges a human anomaly should or should not have. This approach was not conducive to cooperation; rumor spread of teenagers who weren't allowed books or entertainment because of a 'bad attitude' and elderly humans whose requests for 'luxurious' amenities such as a softer mattress or desk chair were denied for being 'unnecessary', which created a stifling environment detrimental to anomalies' health.
In response to this (and perhaps years too late) an organization-wide standard for privileges was developed and instated by the Ethics Committee, in use since March 2023:

Classification
Uniform/ID Stripe Color
Qualifying Parameters
Requirements/Permissions

I (Contained)
red
The anomaly either has been in containment since before the Foundation became public or actively attempted to conceal their possession of anomalous effects while originally under investigation, and in either case continues to be uncooperative and actively hostile.
The anomaly may not leave their chamber unless for research purposes, and is not permitted to wear plainclothes or possess items not directly approved in signature by their containment specialist(s) due to the security threat posed.

II (Limited Contained)
orange
(Regardless of history) the anomaly is unpredictable, meaning reasonable requests are frequently denied and behavioral outbursts are possible but some compliance is shown.
The anomaly may not leave their chamber unless for research purposes, and is not permitted to wear plainclothes or possess items not directly approved in signature by their containment specialist(s) due to the security threat posed.

III (Compliant)
yellow
(Regardless of history) the anomaly is consistently (>3 months) non-hostile toward Foundation personnel, does not deny reasonable requests, and shows comprehension of why their containment is necessary and/or how their anomalous effects function/how to control them if applicable.
(Unless in direct exception cases due to effects) the anomaly may leave their chamber with the supervision of two or more qualified C-class personnel, and is permitted to wear plainclothes (with identification card displayed) and own items given to them by personnel or civilians provided externally sourced items were screened and no items compromise security or pose a threat to the anomaly or personnel.

IV (Limited Civilian)
green
The anomaly has either been recently contained or otherwise still legally retains their civilian identity; additionally, the anomaly is consistently (>3 months) non-hostile toward Foundation personnel, does not deny reasonable requests, and shows comprehension of why their containment is necessary and/or how their anomalous effects function/how to control them if applicable.
(Unless in direct exception cases due to effects) the anomaly may visit public areas with the supervision of two or more qualified C-class personnel, and is permitted to wear plainclothes (with identification card displayed) and own items given to them by personnel or civilians provided externally sourced items were screened and no items compromise security or pose a threat to the anomaly or personnel.

V (Civilian)
blue
The anomaly was originally non-anomalous and developed effects not severe enough in their impact on the surrounding world to necessitate (or, in some countries, make legal) onsite containment.
The anomaly resides offsite, is monitored by the appropriate personnel, will contact personnel if effects worsen, and can ask personnel to detain them if safety concerns arise.

While the system above does not make outlier cases impossible, data from psychiatric researchers' reports has indicated an overall improvement in the mental health status of contained humans since the system's inception.

III: On 'Unhealthy Compliance'
While compliance as a general trait is typically desirable in contained anomalies, there are circumstances under which expressing it can signify serious psychological issues. The Committee finds it necessary to call attention to this topic not just when briefing Foundation psychologists, but in communication with all Foundation staff at all levels via this document.
In July 2022, following investigation into the root causes of an egregious personnel misconduct case, the Ethics Committee defined DSF Syndrome (Dependency/Subservience/Failure Syndrome, sometimes referred to as DSF-Stockholm Syndrome) as "a mentality under which a human anomaly in Foundation custody first acknowledges that they are dependent on the Foundation due to their anomalous traits, but then develops this acknowledgement into feelings of obligation to comply with even unreasonable demands from personnel, culminating with a conclusion that they are not 'worth' the Foundation's resources and/or that they owe personnel something in exchange for Foundation resources."
While DSF Syndrome may appear identical to Stockholm Syndrome, it is definitive in genuine cases. It is not considered possible outside of settings such as Foundation custody wherein a person's anomalous effects not only prevent swift reintegration into society but also induce in them an awareness that the Foundation has more control over them than they do and needs to have this control in order to ensure their safety. Anomalies with DSF Syndrome meet some or all of the following parameters:

The anomaly was non-compliant when initially contained and only became amicable toward Foundation personnel after recognizing the stabilizing results of containment.
The anomaly does not want to possess anomalous effects, has no interest in the possibility of controlling their effects, or otherwise considers their anomalous nature to be undesirable.
The anomaly has effects which are not containable through the sole use of technology and require regular interaction from personnel.
The anomaly has effects which require frequent physically or emotionally invasive procedures to be carried out by personnel.

All cases of DSF Syndrome on-record affected anomalies which were (or would have been considered, had the system been in place) Class I-III; anomalies with ongoing or recent access to their civilian lifestyles appear to be minimally at risk. Signs that an anomaly has developed DSF Syndrome can include but are not limited to the following:

Expressing friendliness toward personnel that could be described as abnormally affectionate or 'clingy' behavior.
A fixation on the notion of removing their anomalous effects, prioritized over their mental and physical health.
Expressing that they view the Foundation as more important than they are.
Treating personnel as equal representatives of the Foundation as a whole rather than as specialists or individuals, and speaking to personnel with language that clearly conveys this generalization.
Making inappropriate advances toward or offers for personnel, especially of an intimate nature, and especially if actions are offered in exchange for treatment that would take place regardless (such as receiving food).
(early onset) (can be influenced or exacerbated by unrelated mental illness, if applicable) Experiencing periods of 'reversed' attitude toward the Foundation, meaning random short episodes of expressing hatred and non-compliance before reverting to the opposite viewpoint again.

It is important to note that some signs of DSF Syndrome can be benign when isolated, but clusters of behavior fitting these patterns warrant psychiatric investigation and/or Ethics Committee involvement.6
The Committee's primary concern is that DSF Syndrome opens opportunities for abuse to take place. An anomaly with DSF Syndrome will typically comply with any orders given, and the Foundation is not and has never been immune to corruption; Foundation employment offers multiple positions which allow total control over a group of people or a person, and as the civilian world has shown us with cases from law enforcement and similar, some people who wish to exercise their will on others for their own gain will seek out positions of power for this purpose. Now that Foundation employment is open to the public, the Ethics Committee wishes to emphasize that greater care than ever must be taken in assigning thoroughly vetted personnel to positions which involve direct influence on or access to anomalies.
Ultimately, the Committee urges all personnel to consider how environment and culture influence frame of reference, and thus how lacking respect for the basic rights of human anomalies from a supposedly 'clinical' standpoint can be a dangerous contributing factor in settings where DSF Syndrome can develop and/or corruption can be circumstantially invited.

Overview
The Foundation's obligation to human anomalies is first and foremost to protect them, whether this is from themselves, Groups of Interest, or the civilian world. The Foundation's characteristic 'coldness' is generally not appropriate for human anomalies; we are in many cases the only force on the planet capable of providing for an anomalous human, and no anomalous human should be made to feel like they are nothing more than a scientific curiosity.
Containment and protection are interconnected concepts; prioritizing protection does not mean neglecting containment, but rather means approaching containment differently than we do for inanimate and non-sapient anomalies. Only by recognizing our shared humanity can the Foundation successfully fulfill its obligations to anomalous humans; humanity defined what is or is not 'anomalous', and while any sapient anomaly is capable of comprehending its own existence, only an anomalous human has to live their life with the knowledge that their own species deems them not fully a part of it.

Published by the Ethics Subcommittee for Sentient & Sapient Anomalies, December 2024. Internal; unavailable for public viewing and discussion. Direct inquiries to Chairwoman Elaine Starck or Dr. John Blanchard.

Footnotes
1. Common with Herman Fuller's Circus of the Disquieting and Marshall, Carter & Dark.
2. Common with the Chaos Insurgency and several lesser-known organizations with destabilization-oriented goals.
3. As defined by the country's age laws, not Foundation regulation.
4. Currently, no country allows parents/guardians of anomalous children to retain full custody.
5. In modern context, this means until effects are "controllable" as defined by local law, or subside completely (>1 year of inactivity, proven in testing).
6. If an employee is not certain that an anomaly is suffering from this, no harm can come of contacting the Committee regardless.


NOTICE FROM GOI-386 R&I LEAD
Hello! If you're reading this, it is because you've got a certain level of experience with the weirder things the Foundation deals with, know a thing or two about thaumaturgy, are knowledgeable on spatial anomalies, or Director Alder doesn't like you.
Either way, welcome to the Dr. Wondertainment Research and Investigation Department! Please read through the following dossier, as it will teach you a lot about what you're in for. There is no quiz, but I do like having an informed team at my disposal.
Enjoy your transfer!
- Dr. Everwood

.
.
.

Location of Interest: Wonder World
Group of Interest Number: 386
AKAs: WW, "The Workshop"1, "Wonka's"2, "Kiddyland"3
Threat Level: Orange
Assigned Task Force: MTF Alpha-98 "Focus Testers"
Location Description: Wonder World is a vast spatial anomaly containing a city of the same name (Wonder World!™4), various industrial parks, research facilities, housing developments, schools, a university, and the headquarters of Dr. Wondertainment.
Though the demographics of Wonder World are largely unknown, the current population is estimated at around 15,000 (c. 2014). Various testimonies, as well as evidence from captured subjects, suggest the anomalous properties of the area alter the appearance of its human residents over time. A baseline human will, over the course of their life, experience minor changes such as the pigment of the hair, skin, or eyes into non-natural colors, amplification in the size of the eyes, etc. These alterations appear to amplify over generations and will become more extreme, including mutations such as the growth of additional limbs, elongation of the neck, prehensile tails, etc.
The culture of Wonder World revolves around the concept of "Wondermaking", the belief that one's goal in life is to seek fulfillment in 'making the world a Wonderful place.' Though its calendar system overlaps with major commercial holidays (Black Friday, Christmas, Boxing Day, etc.), and displays many similarities to the Gregorian system, the Wonder Calendar observes years in Wonder Years. The founding of the Dr. Wondertainment company is considered year 0 in this system.
Typical education curriculums involve the history of the Wondertainment brand and its lines of products, Economics5, Marketing, Anart History, Thaumaturgy, Thaumatology, Psionics, Craftsmanship, and Studies of the Mundane. Though most citizens complete several years of internships and work studies before being hired by the Dr. Wondertainment Company, employment is not compulsory.
The Foundation has been aware of the existence of Wonder World since 1935 but were not able to reliably investigate the location until 2006.
Connected Persons of Interest:

Dr. Wondertainment (PoI-386-Prime): There is no definitive Dr. Wondertainment. An inheritor is nominated by the prior title holder and is then approved by the Dr. Wondertainment Company's board of directors. The current title holder is believed to be a Wonder World citizen by the name of 'Holly Light.' Motives are currently unknown.

Chester Williams (PoI-386-001): (Presumed deceased) Original patent-holder for Dr. Wondertainment, filed in 1929. Opened a toy shop under the name of 'Dr. Wondertainment's World of Whimsy' in Boston, Massachusetts. Suspected to be the first holder of the Dr. Wondertainment title. Disappeared in late 1942.

Maria Herring (PoI-386-002): (Presumed deceased) Co-owner of 'Dr. Wondertainment's World of Whimsy' in Boston, Massachusetts. Suspected Class-B reality bender with ties to the Serpent's Hand. Disappeared in late 1942.

Cornelius Młynarczyk (PoI-386-069): (Presumed deceased) A citizen of Wonder World and the third holder of the 'Dr. Wondertainment' title. Migrated to Boston, Massachusetts from Poland in 1969. Believed to be responsible for the creation of the Little Misters.

Brian Harding (PoI-386-126) AKA Brainy Brian: (Status Unknown) Defector of Dr. Wondertainment Company, serial child murderer believed to have been neutralized by operatives of the Global Occult Coalition. Brian Harding's actions caused a massive shift in Wonder World and Dr. Wondertainment Company policy. Locals consider the mention of Harding taboo and regard the events as a tragedy.

Judith D. Achilles/Papill (PoI-386-639) AKA Judy the Tongue: President of the Sweets and Consumables Department. Possesses a prehensile tongue of unknown length, estimated to measure at least 2 meters. Believed to be a high-ranking member of the Dr. Wondertainment Company Board of Directors.

Group of Interest Interactions: Wonder World has had contact with notable groups of interest. Known interactions are listed here.

Are We Cool Yet?: Anartists have been known to perform work for Dr. Wondertainment, and it is believed several members have settled within Wonder World after being employed by the company.

Chicago Spirit (DEFUNCT): The extradimensional space of Wonder World was used for storage by members of the Chicago Spirit between 1929 and 1932.

Deer College: The Dr. Wondertainment Company is a notable presenter at the bi-annual career fair and are known to hire from its alumni.

The Factory: Relations between Dr. Wondertainment and The Factory appear to have been established in the late 70's by Młynarczyk. Though terms of their agreement remain unknown, it is believed the Dr. Wondertainment Company agreed to pay a lump sum in exchange for mass production of goods. It is believed Holly Light has terminated this agreement as of their appointment as Dr. Wondertainment.

Gamers Against Weed: The Misters Against Weed concept is a parody of the Little Misters products. See SCP-3012 for more information. Wondertainment appears to have not heard of, or not recognize, GAW.

Manna Charitable Foundation: The MCF have accepted at least 16 donations from Dr. Wondertainment since 1978. Most recorded donations consist of non-anomalous Wondertainment branded items such as clothing and toys, but anomalous donations have been reported as well.

Marshall, Carter, & Dark: The Dr. Wondertainment Company is a known supplier for MC&D, producing various exclusive lines of products.

The Serpent's Hand: It is currently speculated Maria Herring's influence on the Dr. Wondertainment Company has facilitated relations with the Serpent's Hand. Captured members of the Hand have suggested the existence of Ways leading to Wonder World from the Wanderer's Library, though these claims remain unconfirmed.

Wilson's Wildlife Solutions: To date, there has only been one recorded interaction between WWS and the Dr. Wondertainment Company. WWS has been forbidden from engaging in further interaction. See SCP-3879 for further information.

Footnotes
1. As given by the Serpent's Hand.
2. As given by the Global Occult Coalition.
3. As given by the Unusual Incidents Unit.
4. Pronounced 'Wonder World, Tee Emm'
5. With a focus on capitalism.

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NAME OF TALE Freedom, Forever

They called him a tailor. He was not a tailor, of course, but a scientist, and a very intelligent one. There had been a time where he had been on the forefront of new developments, a man of power, influence and impeccable taste.
Prometheus, schoolchildren were taught, took fire from the gods. But instead of using it to warm, they used it to burn, scald, annhilate. This was true. This was all true.
On the offworld colonies, on the red stations, the transport lines of the Gamma Quandary, the name Prometheus was almost forgotten, now. A name from a darker epoch. Nothing more than a petty yet dangerous thief.
The tailor had belonged to Prometheus, long ago. Now he had no fire left to steal. He sat in a dark room, an empty room, over a little lamp. His hand was inside a mechanical gauntlet, all bronze and glowing lights. A dim monitor flickered, its image being manipulated by the shaded hand.
Prometheus took fire from the gods, and his liver was eaten by an eagle.

Mary gasped, retching. She didn't know where she was, how she was, what was going on, why would-
"Hi! Er, sorry. That happens, sometimes. It's, er, Mary Woodward, right?"
A thin, nervous man was in front of her. She thought he was thin and nervous. It was difficult to tell. She tried to move her arms, but they didn't respond.
The room was grey. Pale light was streaming out of… god, what had happened? She felt like she'd woken up from a long dream. She'd- she'd been in a showroom, and the men had been-
Oh god.
"You, um. You might find things aren't quite working as they used to. But we can fix that. We think. We've got all the time in the world, now, you see."
The others had been going away for months. Krešimira. Bojan. She'd been surrounded by unfamiliar faces, and they'd taken her to the floor, and-
And then…
"I'm sorry to tell you, that, well, it's been a while. A long while. Things have, um, changed recently, you see. About a hundred years ago. And we've finally been able to correct some of the mistakes of the past, and, well-"

The tailor was balding. He'd been balding for centuries. He couldn't remember much of a time when he wasn't balding. He moved his hand, slowly, slightly.
Images moved, a fraction at a time. It all had to be just right. The computer did a lot of it, but automation's problems were never fixed. There was always a need for a human touch, to iron out the errors.
Electrons, electrical movements, intricate knowledge of parts and placement. He was ideal for the job. He knew how to frazzle and fry, and scald.
He remembered penthouses. He remembered looking out, and understanding the nature of power. Frail twilights, while the electric colours danced behind him. Young women becoming older women becoming younger women.
There had been a person, once, named Greene. He wondered what had happened to them. Something about Greene's smile had always disconcerted him. He couldn't remember what. None of them could remember what.
It was a frail twilight here, too. What little was left of sunlight poured in through the windows, as he stitched and mended and fixed the thing before him.

Two poles. She could do this. She had once been fit and fresh, only five minutes ago.
One foot forward. Two feet. Ignore Augustus's babbling, he only made things worse. Third foot. Fourth-
Mary collapsed, face-first, onto the mats. She felt Augustus's hands pick her up, carry her, place her in the wheelchair. "Never mind, Mary", he said, with a little smile. "We can try again, whenever you're ready.
"I don't know if I ever will be", she said. But she didn't say that. A series of sounds came out of her mouth, echoing in the tinny refractions which were all she could hear. They weren't correct, but maybe Augustus could understand enough to-
"Could you say that again, please?"
She saw a thin nervous man. She heard a thin, nervous man's voice. But it was all skewed, fragmented, pieced together imperfectly. Her memories had holes. She couldn't remember.
They'd told her she'd been liquid.
But she couldn't remember. There was… something there. A sensation that nobody should ever experience. But she hadn't died. Her atoms and electrons were still communicating with one another, thousands of miles apart, and the clever men of this world of tomorrow had put her back together. But she was wrong, all wrong, all was nothing, just dancing in the dark.
One thousand years, they'd said. One thousand years of solitude.

The tailor left work. He locked up after him; he always worked late. He stepped onto the street, and walked.
Above him, sky-trams and neo-maglevs coursed their way through the air. You could hardly see the sky anymore, but it had all become so beautiful, so clean. Function had become so easy that the artist and the architect could turn their energies to other things, to smooth lines and happy cacaphonies of discordant styles.
It was all beyond him, now. He'd forgotten so much. They all had.
And then he'd remember, they'd remember, at the worst moments. Sudden flashes of a past that was wrong. Those who remembered death, those who remembered being far too alive. He'd see them in a park, his new creations, or the creations of those like him. Trying to walk, move, feel.
He remembered another tram, when he'd been young. The first time he'd been young. He'd been old when the reaper had passed away, and he could still remember the old trams, rattling through Old New York a millenium ago. He'd collected coins running into gutters. He'd been poor, and proud of it.
Things die, he thought, even when they don't.
He walked home, quietly, head down. The lovers in the twilight ignored this old man, frozen with a half-bald head forever. He reached his little apartment, designed to be cosy but happy, and opened the door.
It was not cosy or happy. He did not cry bitter tears of regret; he drank some milk, and went to sleep.

She felt like she wasn't a person any more.
People are natural. They might have flaws, faults, things that need correcting, but it all flowed from natural impulses, experiences. A world that was one.
She'd been soup in a jar for a thousand years, splashed across the ocean and bound together by strange machines. She was a constructed thing. Did souls exist? Did she still have one if they did?
She'd wake up and it'd still feel like a dream. Her eyes would tell her things that didn't exist. She'd look out of the window at orange autumn skies, and want to know what she was still here. Augustus didn't say. She thought he was handsome, but she couldn't quite make it out.
She thought herself only as a thing, suspended on a wire, waiting for an impossible death. The new bodies had all their kinks ironed out; like the humans of old, except without aging, and still without death. An infinity of starlight shining on a perfect world, centuries to fix the old problems and old sins.
Across space, there were people dancing, on curves of light burning on forever. Colonies of pleasure, pain, meaning, every last variation people could think of to stave away the boredom. The limits of memory helped, the constant changes in personhood helped too. The infinite didn't seem so infinite when you could do it all for the first time, again, without even realising it.
And she had none of it. A bygone remnant from an ill-remembered age.
She was a broken thing.

How many ways are there to dig yourself out of the dirt?
Slums. Corporate surgeries. Aging and collapse turning people into a pulp of dust and flesh, barely dreaming through the pain. A stagnant society was the order of the day when new blood never got a chance to rule. It was a living hell, for so long.
But there's always hope, and hope can blossom into something more. Century upon century went past, and things began, slowly, gradually, to get better. First there were the exoskeletons, then the better designs that removed, or added, some of the kinks, then the clone bodies, then the artificial growths, then…
The thing about power is that it doesn't last forever. And it has trouble reasserting itself while still in living memory of old forms of tyranny. And so, things got better. Overcrowding was fixed by endless exploration into the dark spaces. Hunger was fixed by new bodies, grown and made and altered at mankind's whims. Paradise came to Earth, as the last of the New Kowloons were torn down, as everyone became equal under the law, as the people became free.
And then there was Prometheus.
Criminals still had to be punished, of course. But how could you punish Prometheus? They had done so much. The new notions for humane forms of punishment weren't enough for them. They had to be made to understand their sins. How could we make them feel, truly feel, what they had done?
In a dark corner, in an unknown boardroom, a plan was created.
And so, every day, the men and women of Prometheus came to dark warehouses, with monitors lined in rows upon rows. They put on mechanical gauntlets, and frowned low over their screens, helping to fix that which they had broken.
As long as electric impulses continued to fly between the parts of every brain as a discrete unit, it was possible to track them all down. The great machines, automated drones, would fly from sea to sea, rock to rock, sky to sky. They trawled the stars for those burnt in the sun. They trawled the ocean floor for tiny atoms floating in the dark, winking out odd signals. Plastic bags were broken into, their shrivelled contents liberated.
Nobody asked them if they wanted to wake up. Nobody asked them if they wanted to be brought back wrong.
The men and women of Prometheus returned to their small, miserable dwellings. Some of them were sorry, and wept bitter tears of regret.
Some of them did not.

Mary looked out with broken eyes. The park was green, and she stood on her two feet.
Augustus was smiling at her. He was nice. Centuries old, but then again, so was she. She raised her arms- an arm- something approaching her arms, and felt the wind whistle against her skin.
She saw the world in shades of red and grey and orange. It wasn't right. It wasn't how it "should" be. But the construction of the Earth allowed for its anomalies, here and there. Things were different, she was different, and nobody would be exactly like her. In an instant, a singular instant, here and there, she could be happy.
Children played in the park, the strange games of their own devising. They laughed and sang and sauntered, unaware of their frailty. They'd leave, one day, for new pastures up in heaven, while the Earth would sing on in its ancient way. Augustus was smiling at her, his head on one side and his limp hair tousled about.
She wondered what she'd do, forever, in paradise.
But then the sky darkened, and began to weep, gushing out strange tears of incandescent light. And then the colours seemed to sag, and she wondered how this could be paradise, after all.

The tailor went to work. He didn't cry. He had a job to do. He sat in a dark room, at one glowing monitor in a room full of glowing monitors.
The screen flickered to life. The usual reds and greens and blacks began to crystallise on it, logos and menus and instructions. There was a note, in the top-right corner of the page.

SUBJECT WW113M232 EXPERIENCED MATTER-TISSUE GRAFT FAILURE YESTERDAY. FIRST TASK TO FIX MATRIX.
DO NOT MAKE SAME MISTAKE AGAIN.

The man's faced moved. Its blankness was gone, just for a moment. But you'd be hard pressed to say what the emotion which passed over him was. He paused, for a second, and began to go to work.
Everything dies, he thought. Even in a world without death, it all dies. Pleasure, pain, comfort, care, colours, the mind, paradise. It all dies in the dark, alone and screaming.
You're never really free.


I made it. Yeah, I did. It cost me everything, but I got through that door. And what I found on the other side was not worth the risk.
Let me rewind a bit, for anyone who finds this and has no idea what happened. If you don't know what the Foundation is, then I don't know how you got this note, and you should drop it right now. I will assume that you do know about the SCP Foundation, and so I'll skip all the warning crap. I don't have any fancy memetics anyway.
I was sent to test on SCP-1346. That's the corridor that freaks everyone out. Anyway, no one so far has made it past 100 meters without running. Except me. I was chosen because I'm different somehow. Something about 3031, being immune, or something. Basically, I have much lower fear reactions than anyone else. I was the perfect test subject. I was shoved in alone with a cable attached to my back, and the door was closed behind me. It was pitch black, so I lit a flare. I was told if I didn't go down the creepy hallway, I would be "terminated". Not likely. If this immunity was so rare, then they wouldn't just kill me. The radio in my ear squawked something about moving forwards. I began walking, holding the flare high to light up the tunnel. There wasn't much to notice. Just a tunnel. About forty meters in I felt like something was off. I looked around, but couldn't see anything. At somewhere like eighty meters, I was sweating. Yeah, things weren't right. I wasn't downright terrified, but I was scared, no question. I commented on this to the radio, and kept moving. I passed a chalk line marking 100 meters. Must have been put there by a rover. The doorway looked closer now, like it was only fifty meters away at most. I figured if I'd made it this far, I could make it a little further. At around about 130 meters, I was freaking out. I felt like I was being watched. I begged to be let back out, but I was denied. So I kept walking. Wish I hadn't now.
I finally made it to within five meters of the door. It was right there, but I was rooted to the spot. I was so scared. I'd never been this terrified of anything. Seriously, I was usually pretty calm, even when I thought I was gonna die. But this was something else. I was so close, yet so far. I nearly collapsed there, and that would have been the end for me, but the suits back at the entrance must have rigged me with a shock collar or something. A huge jolt ran through me, and for a second I forgot my fear. I stumbled forwards, and touched the door. Suddenly, it was like a gate had closed, and I felt fine. I even felt stupid for being afraid of a tunnel. I laughed in relief. The radio crackled in my ear, and I turned back to the door. There was a deep thumping coming from behind it, like the footsteps of a giant. I reached up to the valve, opening it enough for the door to swing open. The footsteps suddenly ceased, and I opened it up. The radio, which I could hear the suits through, suddenly went quiet.
I know whoever's reading this will want to know what was beyond that door. I won't tell you. All I will tell you is it's out now. SCP-1346 is a prison, and I'm it's newest inmate. It must always have at least one thing inside it. So the thing that was in there before got out, and I got put in. Suffice to say, I can't talk about the thing that got out. If I did, this paper would be gone in a few minutes of me sliding it under that huge door. All I can say is, good luck containing it. I mean that.

Note found at far-end of SCP-1346 by electromagnetically shielded drone approximately 1 week after incident SCP-1346-[DATA EXPUNGED].
Research is ongoing into whether SCP-1346 could be used for containment purposes.


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North's Author Page: Intelligence Agency Data Archive-Subject: North

It was never meant to be known.
Always kept within.
Never to see light.
The unavoidable happened.
Failure.
Out of its cage.
Off its leash.
It's collar broken
My Library.
The pool of knowledge.
Exposed.
Uncontainable.
Inescapable.
It will hunt me down.
My demise.
Ignorance falls upon them.
The majority sleep.
Eyes closed.
Avoided.
The ticking of a clock.
It breached.
The Trainman knows.
Origins. Not.
Safe.
The Train goes to America.
The Cowboy enters.
It begins.
Eyes slightly open.
A search.
No superstition.
Invisible to the breach.
It might blow past.
The hands move around.
It ticks.
It tocks.
Some of them learn.
The Train starts back up.
A Cowboy at its controls.
Long journeys.
Chases.
Several circles.
The Train stops.
A Pedestrian boards.
Worries. Fears. Complications.
A downward spiral.
It is no longer safe.
Remained frozen.
No one knows.
A trio of them.
Complication rise.
Stranded.
No one to watch with.
Desperate.
No friends.
It matters not.
None were supposed to be.
A Trio scavenge.
The lone Blackbird watches.
It became a Vulture.
More time.
Survival. Only with its assistance.
The clock mocks the unfortunate.
I.
They saw the Vulture.
From the Garden center.
The Planter saw the vicious Bird.
Exchange.
A spiral of words.
They loomed.
Within a Myriad of flowers.
Mine had turned to ash.
The decrepit clock laughed.
It told me to run.
Suspicions it would cause.
Listen to it I ain't.
The Pedestrian applies for a university.
Let into an archive.
A Professor, and The Archivist watch.
Shared knowledge.
The half now sleeps.
Eyes slightly open.
It's being eliminated.
My chances.
Time acts as water.
It flows out of the lake.
Yet I still drown.
The far lander.
A Hermit.
Learns the wonders of a locomotive.
And of its Trainman.
The Hermit has its code broken
It gets abducted by the rampaging Cowboy.
A Harangue.
Turned agreement.
More problems.
A BlackBird and A Gardner.
Join a parade.
Sulfur in the air.
Smoke in the distance.
A Veteran spotted.
A story told.
Tea in hand.
They are the biggest fools.
Next to I.
Abandoned. Alone.
One of three other.
The middle man.
Left beside a Leader, and a Liar.
They gather.
Within shadows.
Fools. The lot of them.
They think they've been a secret.
I know them all.
I knew. I knew. I knew.
They can't hide.
None of them ever could.
Ignorance falls upon them still.
A Liar is indicted.
Brought before a full council.
It started off in favor.
A deserved break.
It will blow past.
An error.
Malfunctions.
Data corrupted.
Evidence forged against.
Yet, a Liar let free.
Unfortunate.
A victory within inches.
Now massive failure arise..
Problems.
They know.
Two left.
No time.
They know.
The twelve sleep.
With eyes fully open.
It laughs more.
It told me to run.
Suspicions already caused.
I must listen.
An undesirable end.
Although expected.
Eyes can deceive.
Always. Always. Always.

"O5-9 'The Secret Keeper' had left the aforementioned poem on his office desk. It is not much of a surprise, but O5-9 is currently missing and is suspected to have leaked highly classified information to multiple GoIs such as the Chaos Insurgency and the Global Occult Coalition. It seems that O5-9 has also dispensed sensitive information regarding us in the O5 council to some higher level staff within the Foundation. Those that have been exposed to the information are currently in the process of receiving amnestic treatment. On a more positive note; we have several Mobile Task Force Alpha-1 units out on a worldwide manhunt in search of O5-9. In the meantime I propose all information regarding 'The Secret Keeper' to be expunged from all our records. That is all I have to say. Thank you"
O5-11 “The Liar” sitrep speech to the O5 council.


Brian stared for a full minute, hoping it would turn out to be something else, but the dead bug under the bed stubbornly continued to exist.
Gross. How did it even get in here? He went to get something to touch it with. Toilet paper and then flush it, I guess. It was when he came back and got on his hands and knees that he saw the nest.
It was a circular hole in the floor, teeming with them. They writhed over each other as he pulled back in horror, looking around for something to spray them with or sweep them away. He took two quick steps toward the door, ready to bolt if they came after him, but they stayed put under the bed.
He grabbed a pen and bent down again, hoping he could just be mistaken about the whole thing. No. Shit. That's real. He couldn't deny what he saw, and when he carefully stuck the pen into their midst and felt them pushing against it he had to accept that it wasn't a hallucination.
He jerked away, crawling backward to put some space between himself and the bugs. They swarmed over and around each other like fish in a pond, but only within their little circle. In fact, however they squirmed, they never rose above the level of the floor. They were flat, like a movie projected onto the carpet. But with depth; when he stuck the pen back in and released it with trembling fingers, it disappeared completely.
___
"Hey, I'm Neal. From the, uh, you called an exterminator?"
The man was in his late twenties, with a mop of blonde curls down to his shoulders. He was unshaven and very obviously stoned. He pointed to the words "Wilson's Wildlife Control" on his jumpsuit and smiled, rattling his spray can as proof of identity.
Brian squinted at him. "This is the right place. Look, I think this might be kind of serious -"
"Yeah, totally. That's why they sent me. I'm good with weird stuff."
Brian considered for a moment, then let him in. "They're in the bedroom, back here. Hopefully they haven't moved."
Neal started down the hall, taking the lead. "This the first time you've seen roaches around your house? I guess you don't have other pests?"
"No, never. As you can see, I keep it pretty clean in here."
"Yeah. Nice place, by the way."
"Thanks." Brian watched as Neal gently opened the bedroom door and peeked through, ducking as if anything might happen. When nothing did, he stepped in decisively and started looking around. Feeling absurd, but caught helplessly in the moment, Brian hung back to see what happened.
"Coast is clear, man," Neal said from inside the room. "If they were gonna, like, jump out at us or anything, they'd have done it by now. Were they under the furniture, or something?"
"Under the bed." Brian gestured, keeping the exterminator between himself and the spot he'd seen the bugs.
Neal got casually on all fours and peered into the darkness. "Okay. Yeah. Those are roaches all right. You'd be surprised how often I see stuff like this. They got in and now they're your floor."
"I've never heard of cockroaches burrowing in wood like this."
"Nah, man, they're not in the floor, they are the floor. The ground under your bed is those bugs now. They haven't burrowed into the house, they've burrowed into your personal space. You know?"
"No." He's just high. "I think I need a second opinion."
"I mean, call someone else if you want, but they'll just tell you the same thing. Here, check this out." Neal pulled a flashlight from his belt and lit up the underside of the bed, gesturing for Brian to get closer.
"Look what happens if I — there it goes." The exterminator stuck the long steel nozzle of his spray can into the midst of the roaches. Brian watched as its length disappeared into the hole, inch after inch, well into where the building's foundation should have been. "Okay, now if I just -" and he pushed it forward a little more. Brian yelped as cold metal poked him in the back.
"What - stop! What the hell was that?" He'd felt it beneath his skin, as if the probe were inside his body. He shuddered, touching his chest and back to make sure nothing bulged out.
"Okay. This is what I was worried about. What you've got is, this floor, this apartment, it's all connected to you, right? So, you're seeing them in the floor, but that's not really where they are. They're in you, right? Get what I mean?"
"I don't. I don't understand this at all. You're saying - so I just need to move? Is that it?"
"Yeah, no. The thing is, if you replaced the whole floor, the new floor would become your floor as soon as you had it installed. You see what I mean? They'd still be there. They're feeding on something moldy in you, like old regrets or a guilty conscience or something."
"But I'm not like that. I'm fine." He grimaced as he said it, a highlight reel of mistakes and social awkwardness playing in his mind's eye. "I mean, I'm a regular guy. I'm normal. This isn't normal."
Neal shrugged. "I don't know, man. It's probably not even anything you'd remember. Think of your life like a house. These guys must have gotten in way down at the basement. If you're seeing them here, then, like…" he made an awkward weaving motion with his fingers. "They're gonna be going all the way through. See?"
"Wait, are you saying there's more of them?"
"Well, you know what they say, right? 'For every one you see, there's a hundred more you don't."
Brian felt his jaw slack, his face going pale. He looked at his hands, then at Neal, searching for words but coming up with nothing more or less than "So what do I do now?"
The exterminator looked back sympathetically. "Well. They're in your space because it's yours. Changing the space won't help. You want to clear them out, I think what you're looking at is having to become a whole new person."
He felt lightheaded. "How do I do that?"
"Being a person is mostly about what you do, so repairing it's mostly about doing new things. Trying stuff, meeting people. Gotta make a lot of mistakes. It's a big process, obviously. Probably less expensive than replacing an actual house, though, so that's good, right?"
Brian crouched down, head between his knees, fighting the urge to throw up. "It's so - none of this makes sense."
"Well. Sure it does, man. Look, no judgment, all right, but this kind of thing doesn't happen overnight. You know? But, just, you're better off doing something about it now than waiting for it to become a real problem. Right? So it's good that you called today."
"Right." He stood, collecting himself. He was a capable person. He could handle this.
"That's the spirit, dude. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other, and, y'know, be okay with it taking a while. Like remodeling a house, right? You do one thing at a time until you've replaced all the bad parts with new stuff. That's how you'll get rid of this situation down here."
Brian nodded. "I think I can do this. Thanks for your help. I… just, thanks."
"No problem. Hey, man, while I'm here, you want me to spray for ants?"


It was calm, it was cold, it was reflective — and it was perfect.
Kit took a deep breath and then dived into the turbid water of the river, breaking through the surface.
Dead reeds and grass strands stuck to him as he swam through the water, going as deep as he could in one breath.
He could only half remember the argument that had driven him out here, into a quiet area of the nature reserve near where Gabriel lived. Something about defacing his walls, something about throwing a knife, something about a deep gash on his thigh that burned in the calm waters around him.
It was always something about something, he concluded glumly as he popped back up again, breathing free for a moment, doggy-paddling in place. And to boot, it was frigging cold out here, with his clothes folded neatly on the bank and the sun sinking on the horizon. But if felt like the refreshing cold was helping him think clearly, pushing the anti-psychotics and z-drugs through his system, out of his system, detoxing him.
He absently pulled his long hair over one shoulder, where it grazed, chilled, just below his collarbone. He squeezed some of the water out, then stretched his legs so he could find pebbles under his feet, their edges softened by time and pushed by the gentle current.
It was then that he felt something colder than the water, like icicles, dragging themselves around his ankles. The grip was sharp, and strong –- he could feel every individual bone that would be present in a human hand, traced in freezing relief against his skin. 'You're on her turf,' his thoughts supplied grimly. 'The Spirit of Dark and Lonely Water.'
The Spirit was pulling him down – she was strong and meaningful and determined. Well… he could be all those things too. He wasn't going down without a fight. He pulled back as the hands yanked at him greedily, working their way up his shins to get more purchase. But he quickly found himself in the water to his chin, the hands pulling him downstream.
His own hands groped for the surface, grasping blindly for help — he didn't want to go with her. 'Live now. Tomorrow, we die,' his thoughts reminded him mockingly. The reason for the argument; the dark thought itself the reason there was blood in the water as he felt the hands grab at his thigh, dig into the self-inflicted wound. He was sinking, and fast. He could feel weeds enveloping him and suddenly realised the hands hid here, grew here, grabbed here – neither good nor evil, just waiting for an unsuspecting swimmer.
An unsuspecting him.
With one swift pull all of him was underwater, and hands were snaking up his body – some anchoring him at the ankles, but others pushing themselves over his mouth. His lungs burnt as he tried to take a breath and fight against the alien concept, but the world was quickly growing dim at the edges.
Next thing Kit knew, hands that weren't as cold, hands that were human, were pulling at him, rolling him out of the water and onto the bank, where he spluttered and drew shaky breath. Kit's eyes darted to the water and, amongst the clouds of dirt that had been kicked up, he saw the hands disappear back into the weeds, disappointed they hadn't sunk their target.
Gabriel was next to him, his clothes soaked; evidence of what had happened.
“Kit! Jesus wept, Kit!”
Kit blinked slowly, trying to get his bearings, turned his head towards his boyfriend friend boyfriend(?).
“You were laying face-down in the water! I thought you were dead!”
Tears were streaming down Gabriel's face. Kit couldn't breathe, turned, coughed river water.
“…I was only pretending,” he managed to wheeze out.
Hands under the water. Gabriel would never believe him.
“You shit!”
Gabriel didn't swear. Gabriel never swore. Gabriel was always in Wise Mind. Deep blue. Murky river water.
Kit struggled to his feet and grabbed his clothes by the armful. Gabriel was already storming away; the silent indication there that Kit should follow him.
Behind Gabriel, pace slightly slowed, Kit took a lungful of clean air and was grateful.
Later, in the afterglow, Gabriel would see long, finger-shaped bruises on Kit's bare ankles and wonder about creatures in the water.
But sleep came heavily over him before he could imagine exploration, capture, containment…

« No Racing by Horse-Drawn Vehicles | Hub | Kit Always Used to Think She was Cool »


This was a bad idea.
Travis knew it. Kate knew it.
But it was already too late to turn back. The two junior researchers crouched outside of Dr. Cimmerian's office, at 10:30 at night. They switched between looking back at each other, and looking down the hall both ways to see if anyone was coming. It was a safety precaution, but it doubled as an excuse not to open the door too.
"Go on, just open it already!" Travis said as he surveyed his surroundings for the fifth time.
"I can't," Kate replied, "you have the keys."
"Oh, right right."
Travis finally pulled out the key chain he and Kate nabbed from the custodian's closet earlier that week. See, this whole operation had been planned out for a solid month. It first formulated when Travis noticed that, every time he showed up a few minutes early for a meeting with the good doctor, Cimmerian would always be writing something out by hand. He'd always put it away before Travis could get close enough to read it too.
Travis brought it up in a few discussions he had with Kate during lunch, and eventually the hand written papers became the subject of increasingly ridiculous hypotheticals: love letters to a soul mate who is just out of reach, a will that he can't seem to get right, or maybe he was just practicing his handwriting. All of these came out of little inside jokes that Kate and Travis would make about the mysterious things that Cimmerian wrote about behind closed doors.
Fast forward twenty-four days or so, and the curiosity had become so strong that the two Junior researchers just had to know what it was Cimmy boy was writing. It was the sort of curiosity that defies logic, much like the plans that sprout from it.
This brings us up to speed to Travis now slowly turning the key.
"Strange… I'm not feeling the lock click."
"Maybe he forgot to lock it before he left?"
"Maybe."
Travis shrugged and opened the door.
The office inside was quite plain and bland. A single desk with a monitor on top was positioned in front of a large window overlooking the expansive parking lot. And that was it.
Travis and Kate walked behind the desk. Together, they started opening drawers. The first desk drawer contained five loose-leaf sheets of paper, each filled with immaculately written cursive letters (so much for the penmanship theory). Travis picked them up, and handed a few to Kate.
"Is this…"
"I think it is."

Dr. Everwood closed the door behind her. The click of the lock echoed off the office walls.
"You know, I haven't done it in this office yet," Gears mused from behind his desk.
"Let's take it out for a test run then," Everwood replied as Gears began to unzip his[…]

Kate and Travis put down their respective sheets at the same time.
"Maybe he wrote something else?" Travis asked.
"Maybe."
"Can't hurt to look."
Travis opened the second drawer. He was greeted with a document cover reading: LEVEL 4 CLASSIFIED. Kate slammed the drawer shut again, almost crushing Travis' fingers in the process.
"What did you do that for?"
"We're not here to look at classified documents!"
"I mean… yeah. Just yeah."
It was around this point that the severity of this violation became apparent. Information Security violations at the Foundation are probably the second fastest way to lose your job right behind straight up causing a containment breach.
"We really shouldn't be in here," Travis said at last.
"An astute observation if I do say so myself."
The two junior researchers looked up to see the silhouette of one Jeremiah Cimmerian standing in the doorway. He had his arms crossed, his brow raised, and his brows furrowed.
"Oh shit," Kate muttered.
"Oh shit is right," Cimmerian responded, "I don't need to tell you how deep that shit is, do I?"
Travis and Kate swallowed in unison. Cimmerian flipped on the light switch, and sauntered over to the two junior researchers. He looked at the papers they had placed on his desk.
"Did you two really come in here… just to read my senior staff slashfic?"
Kate started, "I mean—"
"Yes. Yes we did."
Cimmerian just shook his head at the ground.
"Umm… can I just ask a question?" Travis said.
"You aren't exactly in any position to ask questions."
"Why? Why smut? Don't you have a degree in English or something?"
Cimmerian couldn't help but crack a smile.
"That's your question?"
"We're screwed anyways… so yeah."
Cimmerian pulled out the chair that was still tucked away underneath his desk, and took a seat. Then motioned for the two junior researchers to move, so they shuffled around to the front of the desk.
"You see, I spend a lot of my day writing and reading reports detailing research and casualty counts and budgets. It all becomes quite grating after a while, you know?"
Travis and Kate both nod.
"So, I write about a fictional universe. A good way to take a break from this real one."
The three just stood there, each looking around at each other, waiting for someone to do or say something to conclude these nighttime shenanigans. Eventually Cimmerian just waved them off, and, after taking another look at each other, Kate and Travis scampered away.
After he was certain no one was looking, Cimmerian reached into the second drawer and checked to make sure all of the papers were there as well. They were. He sighed with relief. He wouldn't know what to do if they got to the "Clef, Kondraki, and a 20oz Aquafina Water Bottle. Part 2.".


The room was well lit. The floors were polished, and there wasn't a single speck of dust to be found. Bishop found it unsettling to walk into a place devoid of dirt, but then again he had spent the last week or so cooped up in a hospital bed. As he closed the door behind him, he noticed that it had a lock, one that he hadn't seen before. But he could have been just ignorant of his surroundings; his physical therapy made that a very harsh reality. He turned to the woman at the desk, which had a lingering smell of freshly laid varnish. The only objects placed upon it were a laptop and Newton's cradle, another unsettling detail for Bishop to worry over.
"You wanted to see me, Isabel?"
The Site Director looked up from her screen.
"Yes. Please have a seat, I'll get to you shortly."
Bishop obeyed, and grabbed a chair from the corner. His sense of distance and grip had gotten better since the incident, perhaps as good as when he had had two working eyes, but he would have to wait for the results first.
The Director closed her laptop and pushed it aside, staring directly into Bishop's eye. It penetrated every mental barrier he tried to erect.
"Nice to see you back from the hospital, Nathaniel! We were worried that you wouldn't make it."
Nathaniel blinked.
"Oh, uh, thanks. I got discharged just a few days ago."
Isabel beamed.
"That's nice to hear, we can't wait to get you back in the workforce soon. Now if you just give me a second, I'll grab something you'll need to read up."
"Sure."
Bishop was feeling reserved today. Not much for talking, except when truly needed. Sometimes he was caught off guard, but most of the time, it was easy to handle. Now that he thought about it, he seemed to have gotten better at conversing with people. Maybe all that speech therapy from Primary School did actually help out.
"Ah! There we are! Incident-3502-A! Take a quick look at it."
She slid the file over the hardwood desk, Bishop catching it with his fingers. There was a single piece of paper, which read:

On the 31/06/2016, Dr. Nathaniel Bishop was conducting an interview with Michael Palmer (now designated POI-3502 -"Kangaroo Jack"). After the interview concluded, Class-A amnestics were provided to POI-3502. However, whilst Dr. Bishop was entering the interview room after administration, he was ambushed by POI-3502. During the scuffle, Bishop's eye was forcibly removed, and POI-3502 escaped containment. His whereabouts are currently unknown.

The painful memory made Bishop wince. While it had been almost 2 weeks since it happened, he still couldn't get it out of his mind. The phone call that made him look away, the ambush, the scuffle, the loss and escape: it was permanently burned into his mind, to be forever remembered.
"I'll just need you to sign the bottom there, Nathaniel."
Bishop shook himself free of the images, and took at look at the signature line:

This signature states that one, Dr. Nathaniel Bishop, acknowledges the events listed, and approves the publication of this material to the file "SCP-3502", with appropriate modifications.
_ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ __x
By order of the Site Director, this document is to be copied, then shredded and placed in a file storage system, with access granted to only the Site Director.

Bishop couldn't read the line under the signature, but just assumed it was some clause about the terms and conditions of the Foundation, which he had already memorized when he first joined, as much as it bored him to tears. Without a second thought, he placed his full signature on the line and handed it back to the Director.
With an unchanging smile, she went over to the corner of the room and turned on a small shredder. Within 2 seconds, the document was completely unreadable.
Nathaniel was safe to say a bit stunned.
"I, uh, h-how, that's n-not..?" He couldn't form any longer words without reverting to incomprehensible stutters, this wasn't standard procedure after all, and any standard procedure was his procedure.
"Hm?" The Director turned around. "Oh! Don't worry about that, I just needed to witness you sign it, is all."
She walked briskly back to her seat, singing a whimsical, lighthearted tune. Nathaniel really wanted to leave at this point, but the click of a remote lock made him stay put. He hadn't personally met the director until now, from what he had heard, she was hard as steel, impenetrable, no nonsense. But what he was seeing now, was akin to a child trapped in an adult's body.
"With that out of the way, we can now discuss important matters, specifically regarding Michael."
She brought her laptop back and opened it. After a few moments, she typed in something and turned it to Bishop. The image stared into his soul, the eyes were the part that got him the most. Even when he wasn't trying to kill him, the eyes still bulged out, unblinking.
Before he could say anything, the screen flickered to a different image.
It almost made him gag right then and there.
It was a scene of carnage. Four bodies lay dead. Each in their own pools of blood and god knows what, baking in the desert sun.
"See that, right there? This was taken just a few minutes after you called security."
She pointed to each body.
"These guards, these people, weren't murdered by some animal or anomaly. They were murdered by the man that took your eye."
Nathaniel ran his fingers over the patch that covered his glasses and eye socket. His false eye felt unnatural, incomplete - not that he could use it in public; they'd gotten the colour wrong. Bright blue and dark brown, what a horrid combination.
"This monster went along and murdered perfectly good gunmen in cold blood, violence absent of mercy. Do you really want someone like that to roam free in the wilderness?"
Bishop shook his head.
"And do you know what started this all? What toppled the dominoes?"
The screen flickered to a map of Yaraka, the town where their station was located, albeit in the outskirts to avoid suspicion. There were points on roads leading in and out the city, each pertaining to a sign.
"Those signs. Those anomalous Kangaroos. They are the cause of this tragedy. If it weren't for them, none of this would have happened, yes?"
Nathaniel nodded.
Isabel smiled, the shadows on her face making her look god-like.
"Now then, how about we take care of that little chain before the dominoes fall again?"

Bishop's head hurt.
He was standing outside the door, without a clue as to why. He checked his clothes for anything missing, and sighed in relief. But then he felt a small piece of paper in his coat pocket.
Without thinking, he took it out and unfolded it. It seemed to be normal paper, from a sticky note. But there was a weird drawing on it, an assortment of lines, in a seemingly random pattern. It felt like it was burning into his retina, traveling directly to his mind and consciousness.
Without realizing it, he ripped the note up and threw it to the ground. He had a burning inside him, and it needed to be released. His fists clenched, hard. His teeth grinded together, his jaw tight.
He took a deep breath.
"THOSE FUCKING KANGAROOS!"
«Memories and Marsupials


"You ever wonder if we've kinda lost what the Chaos Insurgency fights for?"
Several men sit in a barrack, together, enjoying a meal, lightly celebrating their accomplishment the previous day. One man is throwing a bouncy ball at a wall and catching it on the way back.
"What do you mean?" the man bouncing the ball replied, "We won, wasn't that the point?"
"Yeah, but that's just what Marcus tells us. You can't believe whatever Marcus says, Eric."
"Yeah but he's the leader, aren't we supposed to? He says our job is to destroy the Foundation, by any means necessary, and that just makes sense, doesn't it?"
"Well, yeah, but why? The way people explained it to me, we're here to take down some batshit shadow organization that does bad stuff sometimes. I just joined because they were promising room and board."
"Poser. I know what I joined for. The tyranny of the Foundation has gone too far!"
"Why do you even care? I didn't even know the Foundation existed until I joined."
"Well, because… I was told they did bad stuff? It was totally true so who cares?"
Eric tosses the ball up to John McElroy, the man he was talking to. John starts to talk but is interrupted by a ball landing on his face.
"As I was trying to say before you hit me, are we even really fighting the Foundation anymore?" John asked, "Because it feels like we're just letting Daddy Marcus get a promotion."
"Don't shit on Marcus. Man's a legend now. Did you see how he spooked that old guy and got the all-clear out? The man was terrifying, I would follow that guy to hell, he would probably take the piss out on Satan himself."
"Can you two shut the fuck up?" the man on the bottom bunk, Timothy said, "I'm trying to get some sleep here and it's hard to do without you sucking our glorious leader's dick."
"Fuck off Tim, I'm trying to talk to John." Eric shot back, and turned back to John, "I heard some stories about Marcus from some of the other guys, wanna hear?"
John grunted in the affirmative, clearly annoyed, and tossed the ball back to Eric.
"Spill it," Tim said, moving his head away from his pillow, "Let's hear these stories."
"Ooh, look at Sir Tim here, stepping off of his podium to listen to the commoners." Eric sneered.
"I just want to hear how bullshit the story is, that's all."
"Sure, sure. So anyway, I heard he grew up in the slums…"

He was the son of a biker and a prostitute. Unlike most, his father, Adrian, actually cared for him. He had taught Marcus how to use one of them weird ground bikes even at the young age of eight. Marcus was a natural, and despite his father being poor as dirt, he was living a good life. That was until Marcus's mother left them and made Adrian turn to have his gang sell drugs.
His father thought of himself as a freedom fighter and was a noble and thoughtless one at that. He led his motorcycle gang with honor, only dealt in light psychedelics to make ends meet, like Sparkle or Glib. But his crew received a shipment of Glib that was a little different, and instead of making you feel all floaty and nice, it gave you wings.

"Alright, what the hell?" John interrupted, "That makes no sense. We've all tried Glib right? Yeah, it makes you kinda feel like you're flying but that doesn't mean it gives you wings."
"I don't know, this is just what I was told." Eric replied, "Maybe the guy making it didn't understand what they meant by floaty. It was apparently a bootleg version of the drug or something. But anyways…"

Every dealer knows you aren't supposed to sample the product right? Well, that's just what one of Adrian's men did when he was preparing to sell the drug to people. Of course, because of this weird bootleg, he got wings, and Adrian made damn sure to recall all samples of the drug before they were sold. The guy with the wings, his name was Leblanc by the way, was actually able to fly, and before you call bullshit, remember what kinda weird shit they got locked up here and stop questioning it.
Well, Foundation must've caught some wind of a dude with wings and they caught Leblanc while Adrian was sleeping. Naturally, this made Adrian pissed as hell, and he went to go save them. See, Adrian already knew about the Foundation, cuz he used to be a D-Class that escaped death and amnestization.

"You're making us suspend an awful amount of disbelief, Eric." Tim chortled, bemusedly.
"Seriously, Tim, I'm just going off what people told me. So after that…"

Adrian is about to get on his bike but he remembers that he might die trying to get his man back. So he goes and wakes up Marcus, and the man tells him, "I might die today. And if I do, I want you to destroy that god-forsaken Foundation. Raze it to the ground. Do it for your old man."
Marcus of course accepts, and his dad gives him a spare set of keys to the motorcycle. Then, while Marcus watches, Adrian rides out into the night, armed only with a shotgun, never to see his son again.
Adrian never came home, and the motorcycle went missing. Now, Marcus is on a quest to destroy the Foundation and reclaim his father's motorcycle. That motorcycle he loved so much is probably gone, but he still holds out hope that he'll see it one last time.

Eric's eyes waver and water a bit as he says the last line of his story. John and Tim look on in a state of disbelief at the man getting emotional over the story he told.
"Are… you crying?" Tim asked.
"He never saw that motorcycle again, you can't blame me for getting a little emotional." Eric explained, "That poor man, I understand his conviction."
"I don't really trust the guy, but I heard something different, and a little less melodramatic," John interjected.
"Oh boy, let's hear your version," Tim replied.
"His birth is of no importance, he was just poor…"

But what he was, was an anomaly. That's right, Marcus has superpowers. I mean, did you see him talking to 13? Not even torture could break that guy, yet Marcus just talking to him broke his spirit. That's because Marcus can influence minds. He probably has crazy powers of persuasion, so much so that the Foundation noticed and captured him.
Those bastards probably tortured him for months, testing out his abilities. Marcus just wanted to live a normal life, but they took that from him. They lied to him and told him he could eventually go home, but that was a lie to try to keep him compliant. Eventually, he snapped. But Marcus was a calculated, cold-blooded child now. He knew he couldn't just use his powers on the guards, they would have countermeasures for that.
Marcus didn't care about any of his fellow anomalies, but using his abilities he convinced them to stage a break-out. He knew most of them would die in the process, but he would slip away. Because Marcus had a plan. Marcus always has a plan.

"Cliche." Tim muttered from across the room, barely audible.
"Well he does always have a plan, have you seen the guy?" Eric rebutted, "He's had two plans so far and both of them have worked."
"A whole two? Wow, that's incredible. Practically Alexander the Great over here."
"Who? Can I just finish please?"

The breakout was staged for 2 o'clock in the afternoon, during a scheduled research block. See, the guards had these helmets or whatever, and they're made of some sort of lead, which blocked Marcus. But he knew the researchers were negligent in wearing these helmets. So see, what he did was get those other anomalous folks to attack at once and disable the guards. Surprisingly, they succeeded and ran rampant. But Marcus didn't go to escape. He found his mark. A researcher, about his age, probably around 24, and held him hostage.
He had a sort of shiv with him, Marcus did. But despite how he hated the Foundation, and how he wanted to escape, he hesitated. But not for long. Marcus plunged the knife into the researcher. In that moment, Marcus made his decision. The Foundation was his enemy, and he would do anything to stop them. He stole the researcher's clothes and burned the body, with his clothes on the body. Using the full extent of his powers, he managed to convince everybody that he wasn't Marcus, but the researcher. It worked. All of the Foundation's technology and they still lost to a simple anomalous ruse.
From there he rose up the ranks. It was a shame that "Marcus" had died but he got reassigned. Proving himself to be trustworthy he got close to O5-6 and seduced her, becoming her secretary. But for all of that time, he was working for us, and nobody knew.
Until now.

"What a fantastic story, John." Tim responded, "It is just a story though."
"Hey man, it could be true." John replied, indignant, "Have you seen him? I'm sure he's anomalous. Why do you keep yelling at us when you don't know either?"
"Because I do know. I knew his roommate. He went to Pike's Peak college, majored in Business Sciences. He had a normal life. The man is just ambitious, he wants to become as powerful as possible, and as soon as he figured he couldn't rise higher in the Foundation, he turned on them. He's veritably crazy but smart. But all in all…"
"He's just a normal guy."

< Dancing to The Tune | Coming Soon! >


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2/2/2073 Emergency Brief Notes
FEB 1: A reliable source with access to GOI-181 leadership warned that hostile action on a large scale was imminent in the Balkans (specifically northern Greece and southern Bulgaria.) Intelligence was matched by other reliable sources. Preemptive action approved due to sensitive, hazardous anomalies in the region. 155 UAV strikes in low-population and medium-population areas (following Ethics Committee consultation), and 7 raids in high-population areas. Further Nu-7 action faced minimal resistance by remaining forces.
Note to self: Current casualty numbers are over projected strength. Serious underestimation by FS-16? Order investigation.
FEB 2: 89 attacks carried out against personnel over ~4 hours this morning. 85 caused at least one death or serious injury. 89 attackers dead between suicide attacks and dental explosives. Pattern analysis found no connection between attackers aside from methods. Pattern analysis found no connection between targets except involvement with the Ethics Committee and generally high rank.
Note to self: Downside to putting committee staff in chain of command? Order analysis.
A-1 Assessment: February 2 attacks were likely planned to match Balkan action. Standard responses would divert resources and murdered personnel played key roles. Supports earlier assessments that GOI-181 was founded by former employees. Severe ongoing threat until leaders are captured or confirmed KIA in Balkans.
Note to self: Reassess outprocessing procedures. Review policy re: executing traitors.

Erin Ahmadi, leader of a bloodied terrorist organization, felt uncharacteristically anxious as she prepared herself for the coming day at the camper's dining table. Allowing such unease was unbecoming, though perfectly comprehensible. A great shift loomed at the horizon after all. One that went against everything she sought in life. As a thaumaturgist, constraint was her watchword and lodestone. As the second oldest seat on the Overseer Council, she endorsed the conservative path. As a person, she could admit to despising change. All the same, she would never be rid of the awful thing engulfing her spirit without bringing about a great upheaval.
Wringing the starslug from the night sky like dishwater from a rag had been a mistake. A youthful indiscretion by one engorged with power and pride, not at all unlike writing that damned book. Holding it inside was a vile feeling, but nothing else could give her the power she needed. Without it, Ahmadi would have crumbled after Foundation's last reservoirs dried. She would be helpless against the world's worst disasters, things the new Overseer Council could never hope to best even if Sakarya's prowess exceeded expectations by leaps and bounds.
No, the Foundation needed Ahmadi back in her place. The world needed her back before it spun itself to pieces. Any sacrifice was worth it, just as they had always been. Nothing was more important. Not the misfits she brought together for one grand sacrifice. Not the particular misfit brushing her teeth in the camper's cramped bathroom. Not even herself, if someone better suited was available. There was no one suitable though. There never had been, and everyone would suffer for that absence. Herself. Her misfit. The loyal employees of the Foundation. So much suffering, and so few who truly deserved it.
Egret leaned out from inside the bathroom, toothbrush still inside her mouth. "Fursh ime ibe heen–"
"Spit it out."
"Ash ott ah–" Her thick eyebrows shot up, and she leaned back behind the door. Wet gargling and spitting followed. "I said it's the first time I've seen you dressed, you know, casual."
"Do you have something better?" Flannel did not suit her by any measure.
"Sorry, ma'am. I didn't think you were coming with me."
"Translocation has become troublesome." She was nearly spent, and her last vestiges of power could not be spent on something so frivolous.
"Well, you'll get your quarters back soon," chirped Egret as she started brushing her hair. "And everything else too."
"It's not about that, Egret."
"It's where you should be, Overseer. It's what's right."
Ahmadi sat in silence as the girl kept brushing. As her monster kept grooming. She was not ignorant of her own role in twisting Egret out of a normal shape, far beyond a blade's form. Beyond what could ever be beaten back into a plowshare. It weighed heavily on her, more than some atrocities, less than others. Most were more easily banished to distant corners of the mind. This one was too immediate, the hammered dents too apparent. How many of the pills swallowed daily were her fault? How many fresh, pink scars were for her sake? Too many. The answer was certainly too many, especially as Egret took the brush to her master's long hair. Ahmadi neither needed nor enjoyed being tended to, but it was a small burden in comparison.
"I won't ask if you're ready for today," she said.
"Of course I am!"
"I've asked too much of you."
"Nothing I wouldn't have offered, ma'am."
"And there's nothing I can do for you in return?"
Egret did not so much as pause in her slow, even strokes. "Remember me, if you can."
"At the very least."
"That's all, ma'am. Overseer. Remember that I did a good job."
"At the very least."
Birds called in the night outside, as if to show their agreement. Owls, nightjars, nightingales, they caused a fearsome racket compared to the silence that dominated the camper. Ahmadi could have asked hundreds of things in the hour left. Thousands. Questions she never bothered with before, mostly because she never expected Egret to live this long. Questions with answers long gone from her agent's mind. Maybe silence suited people like them better.
The time passed quickly. They took to the road again, moon hanging in the night sky's empty half. A few cars passed them, each full of bleary commuters. A few trucks did the same, each with a jittery driver slurping bad coffee. Ahmadi stared into the dark forest around them and could only wonder what lurked beyond. They eventually stopped on the main road of a tiny town with a single, flickering street light.
"We're here, Overseer."
"To work, then." Ahmadi put her hand on Egret's shoulder, breathed deeply, and rose from the driver's seat. There was nothing left to be said, only tasks to be accomplished. Sentiment could not bind her. Affection could never restrain her. She was unfeeling. Cold. Dust. The former overseer stumbled down the camper's narrow steps and watched from the curb as it lumbered down the road.
A payphone stood in the street light's orange puddle. The former was old, the latter older, and Ahmadi older still. All three would work. All had purposes to serve. She dialed a number, eleven digits, then three for an extension, six for a passcode, and three more after that. A garbled burst of sound came in response. Nearly anyone else would be vomiting for hours after hearing it.
"Identify yourself," said a high-pitched voice. The aged receiver did nothing to dull its edge.
"You may call me the Houndmaster," said Ahmadi in her haughtiest tone. "I serve at the behest of Delta Command, of the group you know and fear as the Chaos Insurgency." The phone screamed again, this time vicious enough to send blood running from her nostrils. Decades had passed since she last tasted its like. "You should fear me too. My hand struck down a hundred of your mutts. I could do far worse."
"And you've called to gloat?"
"To send a message to your leader. Chairwoman Sakarya. Overseer-1. We have done grievous harm to one another. I, at the behest of my new masters. You, in spite of their best efforts. For my part, for our history, you will surely hunt me to the ends of the Earth and beyond. I do not wish to die for the sake of incompetents and cowards, so consider this offer. Meet me above Site-06 in twelve hours. I will be alone and unarmed. You may bring whoever and whatever you please. Accept my surrender and that of my soldiers, and I will turn over Delta Command's identities and locations. You have a reputation for trustworthiness, prudence, and caution. I pray it will not disappoint."
Ahmadi slid the phone back into its cradle. The trail of bait was long and specially crafted for Sakarya. Hundreds of her comrades dead with no hints. Hundreds of her enemies slain with no satisfaction. It spoke to her grievances and frustrations. It offered her a chance for magnanimity and revenge. Yes, everything she could have hoped for, but wrapped in a bitter pill. Hopefully not too bitter to swallow. She could only hope now. Hope, and wait.

Elif Sakarya was not having a good day. No, she would rate it among the worst of her life. Worse than the day she buried her father. Worse than any of the days she read about the Foundation's crimes from her seat at the Committee's table. Worse than the first time the Administrator inflicted their miserable whims from beyond the grave. Colleagues she knew, trusted, and loved were dead in vast numbers. Not vast compared to the world's strangest disasters, or even some normal ones, but vast for human malice directed against the Foundation. Vast for malice directed against her.
What else could it be, when a hundred deaths would only anger the sprawling beast she oversaw? No, this was a dagger driven through her ribs no matter what her minders in Alpha-1 advised. Colleagues, dead. Friends, dead. Even relatives, dead. All captured perfectly on that accursed video. So many daggers, but the Foundation's retribution would still not be the furious, senseless one her foes expected. Instead, she would calmly wrench whatever information she needed out of this Houndmaster and carry out a series of rigorous interrogations, orderly trials, and thorough executions. That was her way. That was the best way.
Every bump of the armored truck sent a new ache spiraling up Sakarya's raw throat. Cold water did nothing to soothe, but she drank from a bottle anyway. The convoy made good progress from the secret airport toward the secret site, but it could not possibly go fast enough. Alpha-1 insisted on every precaution as she set out, and precautions were slow.
Things were moving at pace now though. Satellites peeked down from above at every opportunity. Aircraft swooped and drones lingered. Hundreds of soldiers swept out through the fields and forests. All agreed. One person with a familiar face waiting above Site-06. One person with a thousand kinds of death pointed at them, an arsenal beyond equal.
The armored truck finally stopped next to the entrance of a long, narrow road. Sakarya emerged, flanked by her most persistent protectors. Acorn and Squirrel, as if pseudonyms could conceal their nature. The two towering men were similarly armed and armored for all manner of death. They insisted fiercely on following her no matter how often she turned away their protection. Even if she were to perish on that very spot, her phylactery would yank her spirit back from the beyond, and it would only be noted that one more body double had served dutifully. One of the few privileges of a strange family.
Sakarya's floral dress billowed as she walked beneath the black power lines that marked out a grid against the polluted sunset. Gray concrete stretched out underneath the suspended maze, linking the fenced-off way station to the empty highway. A single figure leaned against a squat crate, hands clasped in what might have been prayer. Her form blurred against the violent light blooming in the distance, reducing black hair, dark skin, and a simple flannel shirt into colored smudges. The sigils of her spirit were clearer. The war criminal. The cluster bomb. The indiscriminate violence of a million-barreled gun. They were not the expected signs, but such things were wont to change in the face of calamity. Birds alighted on the lines above. Ten. Fifty. Hundreds. They bowed their heads in solemn reverence. The meeting had already begun.
"Erin Ahmadi," said Sakarya from a respectable distance. Her words were loud and clear over the wind.
"Elif Sakarya."
"I thought you were smarter than this. After you fled Site-262, I was sure you'd never show yourself again. Now you've only proved yourself a traitor. You proved it better than I ever could have! Not just to the spirit of the Foundation. Not just to its laws. To all of us!"
"I thought you were smarter too. I was so sure of it."
"You should have run, Overseer. You should've kept running. I would have found your new masters eventually, and now I've found you too. I'll wring everything out of you before I see you hang. My new guards are excellent interrogators, but you knew that, didn't you?"
The woman's glare at Acorn and Squirrel could have stopped hearts. Unabiding rage. Unbridled fury. Sakarya pulled back a half step from its intensity. Even the birds were set to flight. Even the sun retreated behind the skyline.
"You should have listened, Chairwoman." The last word oozed like poison into a village well. "Back at the pool, you should have listened. The Overseer was generous then. I won't be now."
The world realigned itself in Sakarya's mind with sudden clarity. The changed sigils. The willing surrender. Magic. Of course, magic. Question after question resolved with the same simple solution. Ahmadi had been the court magician all along. It was to be that sort of war, and this would not be its end.
"Kill her!" she demanded the terrible apparatus surrounding them all. A bullet punched through the former overseer's chest, bloodless in defiance of human form. A second drove through her head, scattering it to the wind in a cloud of dust. Somewhere below them all, deep within Site-06, a satisfied sigh shook the earth.
Nuclear fire clawed its way to the surface. Worse than physics could depict. Worse than history remembered. A screaming wall of countless fears. A crushing wave of indiscriminate dread. Humanity had never reviled anything with quite so much fervor, and it reviled them back. Sakarya's spirit squirmed out through the aether as it fled her incinerated husk, followed close behind by that overwhelming tide. The fire burned the place between places. Not hot, not even warm, but burning all the same. Burning contently. Burning with fulfillment. Burning so brightly as to erase the dark corners of the shadowlands and all the things dwelling there.
Her spirit fled toward her phylactery with single-minded purpose and haste. So much of each that no defenses were left against those that might trace its path.

Sakarya woke sweating and shackled. In her old home, handcuffed to her bed's frame, looking down the barrel of a sleek pistol. The girl holding it stared at her through brilliantly orange eyes that shined like looming stars. Like suns barely contained. Her sigils were right: The headless queen, the world spider, the goblet overfull with silver teeth. Ahmadi.
"No speeches, please," she said, gesturing casually with her pistol toward the laptop sitting on the bed. "Your abdication phrase. I'll guarantee your life and the rest of the Council's. You won't get better."
"I'll never–"
Ahmadi shot her.
Sakarya's phylactery sucked back her spirit in an instant. A new body squirmed out after a few minutes. She regained consciousness within ten more, right next to the corpse of herself.
"A useful thing," said Ahmadi, "but easily abused. Your abdication phrase."
"You–"
Ahmadi shot her.
The pain of shattering skulls and splattering brains did not dwindle as the process repeated. It clung to her with cold, firm hands. It insisted itself even as she was forced into the next body. The easy path down was forbidden to her. Oh, how she started to envy those that simply slunk down into the underworld.
"Your abdication phrase," insisted Ahmadi. She looked pale and damp, but could not possibly feel worse than Sakarya. Not even a quarter as bad as the deathly sensation layered upon itself. An eighth. A sixteenth. It could not possibly be so bad. It could not exceed what Sakarya endured, and endured, and endured. She thought herself a wall, but even the grandest could only hold back so much. She thought herself a fortress, but all would fall eventually. She withstood more, and more, and more, until no more could be borne.
"Ajax melancholy blaspheme nine six nine five," she spat out, seated in committee with an open morgue.
"Thank you." Ahmadi pressed Sakarya's fingers to the laptop's touchscreen, typed slowly, then scanned her own fingers. Pinkie to thumb on her left hand. Thumb to pinkie on the right. The screen acknowledged her as a provisional overseer, and she sighed deeply.
She shot Sakarya once more. No phylactery pulled her back this time.

Erin Ahmadi, Overseer-6 once again, sat in her old office. Nothing had been moved, nothing changed. The smooth stone desk. The sterile white lights. One by one, she slid rings of silver and brass onto her fingers. Each digit was smaller than her old body's, but the rings clung tight all the same. She leaned back in her leather chair and felt the overflowing reservoir of the Foundation's power rush back into her. It drowned the starslug. Washed away every last bit of it. Cleaned her soul anew, as much as it could ever be cleaned.
Ahmadi set three snow globes onto her desk. Each encased a miniature forest with detail exceeding anything a master craftsman could ever hope to accomplish in a lifetime. She tapped each once with her ringed hand, and in each, an animal appeared amidst those tiny trees. Mongrel. Sheepdog. Bird hound.
"A life, as I promised," she said to the first.
"Your body, until I can return this one," she said to the second.
"A reminder, forever," she said to the third, though it was a ghostly thing.
Until the end of that eternity came, there was ever more sleepless work to be done.

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