« UIU File: 2020-650 | D4C | Next »

Elliott Perez hated his job. The money he made from it was good, sure, he didn't even necessarily dislike the people he had to work with. No, no that wasn't it. It was the risks. The risks of being shot, torn apart, inverted, reduced into atoms, that's what did it for him. Elliott winced as he rolled his shoulder, the dull pang of pain echoing through his body was a very good reminder of this fact. He made a quick mental note to never accept work in Harkness— he shuddered at the thought– again before throwing his half-smoked cigarette to the side, replacing it with a single stick of chalk.
Elliott gripped tighter onto the briefcase he carried in his off-hand before strutting silently into a nearby alleyway. He sighed, and in one swift motion, put the chalk to the worn-down brick. Elliott wasn't an artist nor a Waymacer by any stretch of the imagination, but despite that he allowed the chalk to flow into shaky spirals and glyphs, forming themselves into an indecipherable barrage of language and shapes, complete insanity condensed into a thaumaturgical symbol only eighty inches tall. Elliott took a minute to step back and admire his work. He tilted his head to the side and grimaced, that didn't look… great.
Elliott didn't have the time to complain, he cursed himself for signing onto a contract with such a small time window, and took a deep breath before jumping into the newly formed dimensional tear.
His surroundings melted away around him. The grime and neon signs shattered into meaningless shapes and patterns, the sounds of busy traffic turning into a soft buzz before they were replaced just as quickly with the sudden impact of a cold hardwood floor and the smell of burnt hair and too expensive wine.
Elliott groaned to himself as he sat up, his eyes focusing on a small sign resting above the bar in front of him reading simply: "The Bygone Echos — A Hole in the Wall Within the Hole in the Wall!" A sigh of relief, he had at least arrived at his intended destination. 'Small victories, Elliott,' he thought to himself as he rose to his feet with a grunt.
Elliott had always hated creating his own Ways, no matter how hard he tried he could never get them quite right — the smoke rising from his suit was evidence enough of this fact — but ever since the Portlands incident the Black Suits and Gockers had been patrolling the previously established ones much more frequently than he was even close to being comfortable with. And not to mention that—
"Elliott," the individual standing above them interrupted, their voice raised above the chatter of the crowded bar as they squatted down in order to reach eye level, "I see your entrances are just as extravagant as ever…"
"Always a pleasure, Mara," he replied, struggling to his feet. His shoulder pain returned twice fold as he attempted to dust off his outfit, "Always. A. Pleasure."
"Now, now, Elliott, my dear. There's no reason to get snippy with me. It's unbefitting of you." Their voice laced with mockery as they offered him a small tablet of Tylenol. "It truly is good to see you though, Elliott."
"Truly," he chuckled, "It's been quite a while now, hasn't it? Since uh, Portlands, yes?"
"A bit before, actually."
"Right."
"Oh uh—" Mara paused, taking a slow step back as Elliott turned to look behind him. There stood… something. Neither of them could be sure if this… person was even human. No, no too big, no way. Elliott wondered how something so gargantuan could possibly sneak up behind him. These thoughts were soon overtaken by primal fear as it placed its hand firmly onto Elliott's shoulder.
"Mr. Perez?" its voice slow and deep, each syllable sending a thump through Elliott's body.
Elliott froze, his eyes quickly darting between the man and Mara, who was currently trying to make themselves as small as possible within the surrounding crowd. His mind went blank as he took an instinctive step back, the man's grip tightening to an uncomfortable degree.
“I-I-I uh,” Elliot stuttered, his voice hoarse as he swallowed. “I would say ‘the one and only' but uh, I'm afraid that would be a uh, a lie.” Elliott let out a nervous chuckle as he forced himself to look this thing in the eyes.
“Uh-huh,” the beast grunted, sadly not seeming to reciprocate Elliott's attempt at humor as it placed its hand back to its side. “Boss wanted to let you know that they'll be ready for you shortly… says that you and your friend there can go ahead and make yourselves comfortable.”
And, just as quickly as the man arrived, he was gone. The air tense, Elliott and Mara stared at each other, a nervous silence lingering between the two for what seemed like forever.
"Christ." Elliott's voice finally broke the silence as he sat down at the bar, his eyes glancing over the list of drinks.
"Yeah," Mara responded softly, their hand running along the cuff of their shirt.
"I… need a drink."
“Mm,” Mara replied, quickly finding themselves an empty seat next to Elliott.
Elliott sat in silence, the bar stool under him shifting uncomfortably as he picked up his freshly poured drink. Several possible futures ran through his head, none of them particularly pleasant. No not in the slightest. Elliott sighed, deep breaths.
“Mara?”
Mara took their attention from the menu, arm leaning against the back of their seat as they turned to face Elliott, eyebrow raised.
“I would like… I mean, hrmph.” Elliott paused, thinking his words over and over again in his head. “I appreciate you for this opportunity… for assisting me in acquiring this job, I mean.”
“Oh, certainly Mr. Perez. You're lucky I'm so kind-hearted.”
“Careful.”
Mara chuckled. “Oh I'm always careful Elli, besides, my heart, oh so overflowing with generosity, wouldn't mean a lot without your buisnessmanship. Buisnessmanship,” Mara quipped. “Now that's what's gotten you this far. I ain't got nothing to do with it.”
“Buisnessmanship,” Elliot paused as he looked over his glass, “Wouldn't mean a whole lot without those connections you've got.”
Mara took a swig of their drink, "That's… not the way Victoria told it," they mumbled leaning an elbow onto the bar.
Elliott bit his lip before turning back to his drink, taking a long swig of the bitter liquid as a long silence fell between the two.
"… My God, you're nervous, aren't you?"
Elliot's leg bounced slightly, “No, of course not. No, no, no it's… well, It's always… stressful before a big job. Nothing I can't handle.”
“The way you've been throwing back your drinks says otherwise.”
Elliott chuckled, “Alright, you got me. I mean, wouldn't you be a bit shaken up if you had that goddamn behemoth inches away from your face?”
“I, y–” Mara huffed, “That's not the point.”
“Sure it is!” Elliott said, before taking another swig of his drink. “Mara, look. I get that you're not used to fieldwork—”
“Hey, I—”
“And I get that. It's alright.. but, believe you me when I say that Iris and I put enough research into this job— especially into the people involved in it— for me to know that everything will be fine. Alright?”
"I.. guess you're right."
"I always am," Elliott said, putting a reassuring hand on their shoulder. “Now… let's follow that.. thing's instructions and make ourselves uh, ‘comfortable'.”

The office of Natalina Sullivan was the exact opposite of inviting. The immaculate, marble-white room was stained with the stench of Cuban cigars and the unmistakable taste of iron. Sitting in the very back of it all rested a single woman, shoulder-length auburn hair tied into a simple, messy bun, an overly elegant violet dress draped over her. A loud, drawn-out sigh filled the room as she let out a purple puff of smoke.
"Agnus?" She called out, tapping her cigar against the ashtray resting in front of her. Her eyes rested on the smoke before putting her cigar once again to her mouth. A pause, she allowed her words to echo through the empty room before breathing in. "Agnus!"
The door to the office swung open as a man, Agnus, entered. His clothes in disarray as he made his way to the desk before standing to attention, making a futile effort to straighten out his outfit.
“My deepest apologies Madame Sullivan,” he replied, his voice shaky, “How may I be of assistance?”
“The representatives from Em, Cee, and Dee,” disdain dripped from her voice, “Have they arrived yet?”
“Y-yes Madame Sullivan, Mr. Kentworth has already made contact with them both,” he took a nervous glance towards the door, and then to his watch, “They are both awaiting your call, Madame.”
“Lovely,” Natalina stood, stamping her cigarette into the ashtray as she stood up from her desk, her fingers fiddling against the window covering the back end of the room as she turned back to Agnus. “Let's get this over with, shall we? Please retrieve Mr. Perez for me, wouldn't you. Oh, and Agnus, do make sure to leave that little partner of theirs behind, we can deal with them… separately."
“Of course, Madame Sullivan. Right away.” and with a nod, he was gone.

Elliott flinched as the cold-blooded bureaucrat patted him down, slowly and methodically frisking his person for any hidden weaponry and, with a disapproving tsk, relieved him of his custom-made sidearm.
Elliott bit into his cheek, drawing the slightest draw of blood. “Oh, you must be joking.”
Looking the weapon over— glancing at every minuscule detail with frightening efficiency for any hint of anomalous alteration— Agnus placed it gently into a small chest resting near the door. “I'm afraid not, sir. You see, Madame Sullivan requires all persons entering her office to be completely unarmed… just a precautionary measure, I'm sure you understand.”
Oh, oh of course he understood. Elliott understood perfectly, if he was in her position he'd want the same, it was the only correct thing to do for anyone within her position, but ‘understanding' didn't rid him of the bottomless pit forming within his stomach as he was led into the office unarmed.
Elliot's knuckles turned a sickly shade of white as he gripped his briefcase tighter, his heart skipping a beat as the taste of iron met his mouth.
Agnus motioned for Elliott to sit and he obeyed, his hand relaxing slightly as he put on a cloak of falsified confidence. As he placed the case onto the desk with a thud, his eyes locked with the woman sitting in front of him as he tried his best to ignore the several men in pitch black suits littered around the room. So much for ‘all persons'… something didn't feel right.
"Natalina."
"Perez."
Elliott furrowed his brow, a thick cloud of smoke gathering above them all, threatening to choke Elliott as he leaned forwards, stone-faced. His elbows rested on the desk as Natalina exhaled, adding yet another layer of smoke to the cloud above.
"Mmm… alright then…" Natalina muttered, leaning back into her own chair, "Do you have what I've requested, Perez?"
Elliott chuckled, "Ah. Now, Ms. Sullivan, you'll have to excuse my… caution." He said, his hand motioning around the crowded room, "But, I'm afraid I'll need to see the money first."
With a sigh, Natalina swiped her hand across the desk. A large, dark brown briefcase, delicately highlighted with swirling golden lines manifested in front of them both. It opened itself with a soft click as Elliott looked down at the large stack of bills within. “There. You will find that it's all there, as your superiors and I had agreed upon. Now if you will, Mr. Perez, your part of the deal.”
Elliott delicately flicked off the locks of his own case, allowing it to swing open. Its interior was packed to the brim with fist-sized bags of fine purple powder, accented with small specks of gold. As the fine folk at Marshall, Carter, and Dark had graciously dubbed it, Duplication Dust.
Natalina pulled Elliott's case to herself and Elliott did the same with hers, a silent agreement between the two as they meticulously inspected their half of the transaction. Both sat in silence for what felt like hours. Eventually, Natalina snapped the case closed, a smile plastered on her face.
"Well Mr. Perez, I can happily say that I'm satisfied," she said, rising to her feet with her hand outstretched, "It's been a pleasure working with you. Please send my regards to your bosses for me. You have a pleasurable evening, sir."
A pause.
"Hey uh, hold on a second."
"… I'm sorry?" She asked, moving Elliott's case close to her side.
“I said,” Elliott mumbled, glaring daggers at the woman, “Hold. On… Natalina Sullivan, do you take me for a goddamn fool?”
"Of course not, why would yo—" "Then why try and pay me with a briefcase of fake cash?"
Natalina's smile faded as she sat and put a single hand on Elliott's case, “I… Mr. Perez…”
“Because I can assure you, Natalina, I am not an idiot. I know cash when I see it and what I'm seeing here is as fake as a three-dollar bill.” Elliott was to his feet, his fists firmly on the desk as he leaned forwards. “Now, I'm willing to let all of this go, willing to forget all of this, if you can get me something that's worth more than construction paper. But for the time being, I'm afraid I'm going to be taking my product and my assistant, and we'll be on our way.”
“Elliott.”
"Save it." he nearly yelled as he reached out for his case. He paused, his eyes widened as he swiveled his head around and—
Click.
Elliott's body shimmered as he dropped to the floor, the skull of the newly formed double folded inwards as the bullet painted the desk a dark red. Without thought, Elliot kicked the desk onto its side, ducking behind it as it was quickly riddled with gunfire. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out… ‘shit'. He was unarmed, that servant had— Elliott rapped his fist against his forehead okay, okay okay, just need to think think.
Running for the door wouldn't work. No, of course not there were too many of them. He'd get overwhelmed and gunned down the moment he took a step out of his cover, even if by some miracle, say he used a barrage of clones as human shields, he could get to the door but he'd still be unarmed and exhausted, he'd be dead the moment backup arrived. He could only think of one thing, he grit his teeth at the thought but he didn't particularly see many other options. Deep breaths, alright alright alright, deep breaths.
Another shimmer. Elliott turned to the two new versions of himself sitting to his side. They all gave each other a knowing glance before they burst out from behind the desk, flailing their hands in blurred, arcane patterns, and with a unique swear uttered by each, outstretched their middle and index fingers, allowing their thumbs to come down with a thunderous clap.
Elliott let out a roar of anguish, the pain was nearly unbearable as skin was ripped in half. Fingernails and bone shot out in the blink of an eye, imbedding themselves into the flesh of three of the opposing Suits as they fell to the floor, writhing in undignified heaps before falling still. Elliott felt like he might just do the very same himself as he let out a sob. He bit down on his tongue, filling his mouth with the taste of blood as he removed his tie, tying it tightly around what was left of his index, bile rising into his throat as he did so.
“How… gah fuck, how many more we looking at, Three?” Elliott moaned as he tightened his makeshift tourniquet.
“Four,” Elliott3 replied, mimicking the action, “What's the plan here?”
Elliott paused, “I don't know.”
“We need to think of something.”
“Tell me something I don't know you goddamn–”
“We need a diversion.” Elliott2 interrupted matter of factly.
“Obviously,” Elliott said, rolling his eyes. “What are we thinking?”
“Well… Three and I could flank them, One could continue to use the table as cover, and exit through the window. Maybe we could uh, use another Fingergun?”
“No, no absolutely not. That's–” Elliott3 said, ducking to get under the fresh wave of bullets “— the worst idea I have ever heard.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“… No.” Elliott3 sighed, “Not particularly.”
“That's what I thought. Now, we ready?”
“As I'll ever be,” Elliott and Elliott3 said in tandem.
“Good. Now, on my mark, alright? Ready… set… g—”
The door was smashed into splinters as something, no, someone, Mara slammed through, their limp body slamming into one of the Suits, sending the both of them flying to the far wall. Seeing the opportunity Elliott2 and Elliott3 burst out from behind the cover. Narrowly avoiding the incoming gunfire, Elliott2 dove forward, knocking one of the Suits to the ground. Grabbing their head and slamming it repeatedly against the floor. Elliott charged forward and with a sudden crack, slammed the desk down atop the remaining Suit. Elliott felt as they struggled underneath but with one large push, Elliott felt their arms give out with a sickening crack. Elliott slumped down against the desk just as his doubles crumpled to the floor. He didn't expect any different, of course. He realized this was the most likely outcome but… watching himself bleed out on the floor would never not be a harrowing experience and—
A single thundering footstep interrupted Elliott's thoughts as he rolled to the side, a gargantuan fist slamming down onto the desk, turning it to splinters and missing Elliott's head by mere inches. The beast turned, a snarl escaping its mouth as it ripped one of the desk's legs off with barely any effort and raised it above its head with—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three shots rang out as Mara struggled to their feet, blood trickling down the side of their head, Elliott's sidearm gripped tightly ln their hand. The beast threw the table leg with all its strength in Mara's direction as Mara slid the gun towards Elliott and simultaneously threw up a thaumaturgic barrier, the leg slamming into it, it shattered, the blast sending Mara skidding back. The beast charged only for two more shots to ring out. One dug into its shoulder while the other slammed right in the center of its back with the sound of crumpling metal. Sparks flew as the beast fell to one knee, the air of terror radiating from the beast dissipating as Elliott struggled to his feet, Mara close behind him.
"Pathetic," the once-beast growled, its voice not seeming to boom as it once had, its fists flying weakly at the two stood before it, hoping to at least grasp one last hit, "Absolutely pathetic."
Elliott cocked the hammer back, placing it firmly against the back of its head, and fired. What was left of the beast's eyes rolled into the back of its head as it finally fell. Elliott frowned, he truly was expecting more from the thing.
“Banshee tech,” Mara wheezed, spitting a wad of blood onto the now not-so-beastly corpse.
“… Yeah,” Elliott confirmed, trying and failing to catch his breath.
“So much for… for everything going fine,” Mara mumbled.
“Oh, shut up.”
Mara stumbled over to the office window, looking out just in time to see Natalina turn the corner, guards in toe.
“She's getting away, Elliott. You want me to–”
Elliott raised his hand as he reached into his coat pocket, grabbing a cigar and placing it gingerly into his mouth.
“I'll handle it later," Elliott groaned, lighting it. He took in a deep breath and gently exhaled a stream of smoke. His eyes closed, mumbling under his breath. “I'm not getting paid enough for this.”

« UIU File: 2020-650 | D4C | Next »

With thanks to Rex Atlas, Doctor Cimmerian, Leah, Tstaffor, Eeveellector, Crow-Cat, DaisyBelle, and @greeniebeanyy.


Item Number: [OP-REQ INSUFFICEINT]
Object Class: [OP-REQ INSUFFICEINT]
Special Containment Procedures: [OP-REQ INSUFFICEINT]
Description: [OP-REQ INSUFFICEINT]
Addendum 13 (ELATE BLACKBOX):

███████████
██ ████ █
██████████
 ████ ████

Addendum 55 (BUTANE BLACKBOX):

███ █ ████
███████████
███████████
████  ███

Addendum 92 (SERUM BLACKBOX):
Filtering for dynamic record access…

CONNECTION
AUTH: GREEN GREEN GREEN
COMM: 98.95 UP — 99.61 DOWN
CLEAR: L-4//TSQ/DST/SO
ISSUE VERIFY: N/V

CONTAG
• Site-03/Basement 10/Room 8180
• POI-█████ (SEPARCH)
• POI-█████ (BERATE)
• OID Remote Observation Program (MIDSIGHT)
• SCP-████ (ABLATE MALAISE)

BRIEF
1. Project SERUM BLACKBOX (subset, SALIENT CROW) operating contrary to O5C-901-555
2. SERUM BLACKBOX funding continuing contrary to O5C-901-555 via dark OSA streams
3. SEPARCH and BERATE observed in areas of Site-03 linked to SERUM BLACKBOX operations
4. 91 disappearances linked to SERUM BLACKBOX indoc sessions from 2048 to 2056
5. Status of ABLATE MALAISE currently unknown due to operating procedures

OBJECTIVE
1. Assess status of ABLATE MALAISE via MIDSIGHT program
2. Identify SEPARCH and BERATE via MIDSIGHT
3. Assess current SERUM BLACKBOX objectives via MIDSIGHT
4. Protect MIDSIGHT from contamination stemming in SALIENT CROW suite

MIDSIGHT SUMMARY (AMAR-135011N)
Supervising Analyst: FID-384100
Subordinated Nodes: FID-561002, FID-51081, FID-55982, FID-580003, FID-592103
Date: 04/06/2056
0637 – SEPARCH and BERATE arrive inside security perimeter via unknown means, pinging MIDSIGHT conglomerate on standby. SEPARCH comments on MIDSIGHT awareness (likely via feedback with individuals tied to Foundation empathetic networks). BERATE makes several infohazardous statements. Abrasion zone modified.
0645 – SEPARCH and BERATE approach S03-B10-8180 and buzz for entry. Both admitted after several minutes by personnel inside. MIDSIGHT further tuned to penetrate CIF shielding, reducing clarity to 25%.
0648 – Conversation with personnel refers to pressure on SERUM BLACKBOX operations, noting that its objectives (mentioned in both engineering and medical contexts) are several months from completion. SEPARCH comments on continued MIDSIGHT awareness.
0651 – MIDSIGHT cohesion lost due to an infohazard exceeding acceptable MIR ranges.

MIDSIGHT SUMMARY (AMAR-135130N)
Supervising Analyst: FID-384100
Subordinated Nodes: FID-561002, FID-51081, FID-55982, FID-580003
Date: 05/31/2056
0640 – SEPARCH and BERATE detected at last known entry point. Modifications to underlying MIDSIGHT structure evade detection, SEPARCH comments on absence. BERATE responds, implying current membership in an MTF (likely Nu-76 or Rho-53).
0648 – SEPARCH and BERATE enter B10-8180. Refined MIDSIGHT tuning achieves 55% clarity without alerting targets. Discussion begins with staff on the status of ABLATE MALAISE with frequent references to the collection of "slurry." Discussion ends with reference to a leader or leadership body nulled to MIDSIGHT by severing from all accessible networks (flagged for context analysis).
0706 – BERATE remains in intermediate CIF areas while SEPARCH enters containment area. MIDSIGHT clarity reduced to 15% by interference from ABLATE MALAISE. Excessive strain placed on all Foundation-anchored empathetic networks over this period (see: KERN BULLETIN-931 (Disruption to Senses of Self and Otherness)).
0830 – BERATE and SEPARCH exit B10-8180.

MIDSIGHT SUMMARY (AMAR-135145G)
Supervising Analyst: FID-384100
Subordinated Nodes: FID-561002, FID-51081, FID-55982, FID-580003
Date: 08/03/2056
1510 (approx.) – Long-term interference prevents immediate detection of BERATE and SEPARCH. Emergence has been estimated via past timelines.
1518 – BERATE detected in B10-8180 by passive MIDSIGHT surveillance, SEPARCH has already entered SERUM BLACKBOX containment area. Regular spikes of disruption to local empathetic networks coincide with Foundation personnel entering the CIF over the following two hours (28 identified, verified).
1726 – BERATE also enters ABLATE MALAISE containment, coinciding with severe disruption to local network. MIDSIGHT clarity approaches 0%.
1728 – The following message is broadcast across the sublayer-3 QWEX mental construct implanted in all Foundation personnel:

Extensive psychic noise, filtered as fine tuning begins.
[Urgent signal for attention. Stop non-essential work]
[Sense of approval from higher powers (tuned as "Overseers," modified as "deities")]
[Sense of support from colleagues, confidence in overcoming current challenges]
Second round of tuning occurs, hijacking positive channel overload to penetrate the secure sublayer-5 NORG construct. Focus on individuals with conceptual awareness of the "Department of █████████████."
[Sense of overwhelming dread for the Department of █████████████]
[Sense of overwhelming dread for 3,185 locations within Foundation facilities, 295 programs under Foundation control]
[Conditional relief: disbelief, rejection of concept]
[Sense of awareness by higher powers (tuned as "Overseers," modified as "watchdogs")]

1730 – SEPARCH exits B10-8180. BERATE unobserved by MIDSIGHT. High levels of disruption to all accessible empathetic networks continues.

MIDSIGHT SUMMARY (AMAR-135189G)
Supervising Analyst: FID-384100
Subordinated Nodes: FID-561002, FID-51081, FID-55982, FID-580003
Date: 08/04/2056
1502 – SEPARCH escorts three unidentified individuals into B10-8180, then into ABLATE MALAISE containment area. Direct observation lost.
1506 – A message is transmitted across the QWEX mental construct identical to the one described in AMAR-135145G. Average clarity of MIDSIGHT reduced to 30% by continued disruption.
1509 – An identical message is broadcast on identical channels. Average clarity of MIDSIGHT reduced to 20% by continued disruption.
1516 – An identical message is broadcast on identical channels. Average clarity of MIDSIGHT reduced to 12% by continued disruption.
1522 – SEPARCH exits B10-8180. MIDSIGHT clarity reduced to unreliable levels by continued disruption.

MIDSIGHT SUMMARY (AMAR-135193F)
Supervising Analyst: FID-384100
Subordinated Nodes: FID-561002, FID-51081, FID-55982, FID-580003, in addition to 103 other nodes sublet from SALIENT CROW projects.
Date: 08/07/2056
1454 – SEPARCH escorts five unidentified individuals into B10-8180, then into ABLATE MALAISE containment area.
1455 – Enhanced MIDSIGHT array achieves 100% clarity of ABLATE MALAISE containment area, including related anomalies (eighteen MIDSIGHT nodes are nulled as a result). Assorted human remains are identified as an amplifying apparatus after five individuals are added through the central orifice. BERATE identified as a focal point for specialized network.
1459 – A message is transmitted across the secure sublayer-5 NORG mental construct via the methods described in AMAR-135145G, maintaining selective target. Transcript of the modified message is as follows:

[Tangible sensation of breaths down nape]
[Tangible sensation of fingers on throat, nails through esophagus, breathing through blood]
[Tangible sensation of hands on chest, fingers through ribs, counting heartbeats directly]
[Tangible sensation of teeth through vertebrae, enamel scraping against bone, gnawing on nerves]
[Conditional relief: use of a targeted amnestic (triggers included to assist acquisition)]
[Sense of awareness by higher powers (tuned as "█████████," modified as "secrets in coffins")]
Extensive noise follows, likely tuned for disruption of any subsequent signals.

Local empathetic networks are rendered temporarily inaccessible. Thirty-three MIDSIGHT nodes are nulled as a result. SEPARCH tracking lost.

MIDSIGHT SUMMARY (AMAR-135223A)
Supervising Analyst: N/A
Subordinated Nodes: N/A
Date: 08/08/2056
1300 – SEPARCH enters B10-8180 with a janitorial cart. ABLATE MALAISE containment area unobservable via MIDSIGHT due to degraded conglomerate health.
1308 – SEPARCH exits B10-8180 with BERATE (identified at a low degree of confidence) stored inside janitorial cart, comments on the successful collection of "slurry."

Addendum 116 (PLIABLE BLACKBOX):

█████ █ █
███████████
 ███ ███
████ ███


Fish Crater

The Evil Queen of the East is dead! The Evil Queen of the East is dead!

Fish's
Author Page!

Afto's
Author Page!

About Community

r/undeadthequeen is a subreddit dedicated to bringing back and reinstating Queen Elizabeth II.

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The Queen's Detail

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Patrolling

Created Sep 8, 2014

Restricted Posting

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📌 PINNED BY MODERATORS

Posted by u/The_RealSlimshady08 Certified Rave Grobber 8 years ago

Announcements What the FUCK is this subreddit?

I suppose this is a thing now.
Greetings, Unveiled world (long time coming, I'm surprised it hadn't happened sooner). I'm probably gonna be the primary writer in this subreddit, since most of my "coworkers" aren't the most technologically versed. I am a practicing dark arts historian, Wanderer's Library spelunker, and a British enthusiast, in every possible interpretation. These are my primary eccentricities, the axioms that I believe to be the most relevant information for the purposes of this forum.
We prevent the Queen of England's untimely demise.

Who's "we"?

In 1907, Edward VII prophesied a future in which he predicted his own death, along with millions of innocent people in a series of back to back wars. Though this was normal behavior for him (he was a doomsayer in private), he decided to set up the MI6 and MI666, the latter you can read all about on Wikipedia, and the former of which were, at the time, glorified bodyguards.
We are MI666, the British Occult Service. At the time, our inclusion was of very little note. We were a spare detail attached to the primary force, a subdivision of the Secret Intelligence Service, hardly taken seriously, much like our UIU cousins under the FBI. However, it is something of a misfortune when we happened upon our success as a paranormal group.
Later, Edward VII would be proven correct, dying in 1909, forcing the throne onto his son, George VI, who then had to face both World Wars, roughly coinciding with the Seventh Occult War. Our origin as a prophesied entity was inverted as we were thrust into every branch of the British Armies, both queer and status. They believed we could see the future, and so we had to learn really fast, and to our credit, we managed to scrub together a working theory. I'm willing to bet MI666 contributed to more than its fair share of key Ally victories.

That's cool and all, but what does that have to do with the Queen?

In 1953, one month after the Queen of England was freshly crowned, she wandered onto the street and was struck by two double decker buses simultaneously, one on each side, making the world's first royal sandwich. The buses pretty much got away unscathed, but the Queen…
Now, the problem isn't that Her Majesty died, far from it. While we're supposed to protect the throne, we could not in good conscience disobey a direct order of the Queen, on account of the curse-tiles in our liver. If she deliberately orders us to turn around and sing the anthem as she tosses herself off a bridge, that's her prerogative. We must let her die. However, we foresaw her death far in the future, and we knew for a fact that the Queen would have been the longest serving ruler, succumbing only to old age.
This death wasn't natural. It wasn't supposed to be. But for some reason, the universe saw fit for her to die, and we called the universe out on it. So we spent the next four weeks lying about her death, bribing anyone even remotely close to the scene of the murder, and even installing a doppelgänger during a particularly tough spot. In the end, some morticians managed to stitch her back together a la Frankenstein, with none of the scars to boot.
We knew she would die from natural causes at ninety six. Until then, we had to keep her alive.

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Posted by u/The_RealSlimshady08 Certified Rave Grobber 8 years ago

History The Double Dare-U Dependent's Discharges

As of writing this article, three attempts have been made on the Queen's life, all of which have failed. In 1970, while traveling by train, a log was placed on the railroad tracks in order to derail and kill her. The train was too slow for that to happen though, and the culprit, if there ever was one, was never found. The other two occurred in 1981, and… well, I'll explain. The first was done by 17yo Marcus Sarjeant, who shot blanks and was subsequently arrested for treason. The second was 17yo Christopher John Lewis who fired through a window and missed, who was then committed to a psychiatry ward.
What you don't know is that 1964 was the Chinese Zodiac year of the Dragon, and all these 17yo men who really wanted to kill the Queen with a gun were born underneath the passing of the Dragon King. 1981 was year of the Rooster, and they had celestial beef, the fallout of which caused these people to go and seek vengeance against those blessed by the Sun God. It just so happens that the Queen received a jade ring from a Chinese immigrant which apparently possessed the blessing. Combined with her natural charisma and all the publicity surrounding the jade, the Queen became an irresistible target for the sons of the Dragon King.
We had to stop thirty four separate instances of boys with guns, and on the final day of October, when Her Majesty was in transit to the Capital of Germany for a meeting with the Prime Minister, her private plane had somehow gained a stowaway skeleton crew of twenty five 17yo men, who fired so many rounds into the passenger area that they inadvertently took out the entire crew, including the pilot, while somehow missing the Queen entirely. Instead, what eventually kills the Queen is the plane nosediving straight into a plot of farmland in the Netherlands, and we had to dig through over four acres, downwards, into old, frozen dirt (surprise! It's winter!), and somehow come out the other side with what we believed to be the liquified remains of the Queen.
Now, imagine if you will, how are we supposed to put the Queen back together?
Here's how. A cast iron mold of the Queen from a previous reanimation (see Mecha-Lizabeth), in which we poured the fluids into, refroze, and then stuffed with as many STEM cells as we could possibly fit like a fucked up popsicle. Frankly, we're pretty sure half of the Queen was male in origin, but who cares? We were lucky to find anything at all. Plus, the procedure doesn't care two bits about where the material comes from, as long as we had Her Majesty's uterus to catalyze the ritual. Don't ask, long story.
Anyways, we managed to get her back in two days.

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Posted by u/The_RealSlimshady08 Certified Rave Grobber 8 years ago

History Kaye Ballard and Frank Sinatra Sends their Regards

Did you know that the UK has its own space program?
Like every post-war space-faring nation, we were primarily interested in space research for military reasons, but all of you people in the future know that it pales in comparison to the USA and USSR space programs. Most projects would end up being collaborative with the EU and whatnot, the exception being…
The BLACK ARROW (R3) is a British satellite carrier rocket, three stages, developed during the 1960s. Of the five satellite launches, launched between 1969-1971, the first three were unsuccessful, and never made the rounds. On its fourth flight, the UK celebrated as we placed the Prospero satellite into low-orbit, a foreshadowing of what the public thought would be a future sky dominated by British engineering. A British satellite put into space on a British developed rocket, in bold faced adversity to the Cold War tech race. God bless, right?
Exuberant, parliament moved to make a fifth flight for the budding Joan system, a foreign satellite monitoring system for the express purpose of protecting British beaches, backed by Liberal Party Maria Fyfee on a thirty second GB News segment. 300 million euros later and we had another working replica. Significantly cheaper as well, since we already knew how to do the whole thing, sans some minor tweaks to perfect the system.
Such as the inclusion of the Queen as a power source.
Not literally, of course. They didn't strap her in like the Matrix.
Specifically, the spacecraft applies an interesting religious based supplicant energy system via a series of chalk outlines. Not only is it cost effective, its also extremely powerful. After all, the throne is a symbol of religious power. In order to justify monarchal rule, they were blessed by God under the authority of the Pope and given the supreme right to rule, and in the modern era, this still applies. People fucking adore the Queen, and to capitalize on this, they borrowed a healthy number of Ursa-Daeva artifacts from the CHASON in the Council of 108 and created BLACK ARROW (A1).
For a one month period preceding the launch, they would do everything in their power to increase the faith in the Queen, succeeding immensely. At the rate they were going, they wouldn't need fuel for the rocket launch, and wouldn't you know it, they dropped it entirely. It was an entirely pragmatic decision as well. Fuel made up nearly 90% of the mass on the ship, so if they could get rid of all that excess mass and fly the equivalent of a hollow aluminum can, why wouldn't they?
Then comes launch day, on a Sunday afternoon, as planned.
None of us ever expected the Queen to be immolated by her own faith.
Underneath the rocket launch pad were a series of concrete tunnels, hosting a number of terminal control centers. Her Majesty is privy to a front row seat right underneath the rocket. The operator notes that the blast doors are half closed. A second later, a aethereal blast of pseudo-rocket fuel propels itself through five floors of concrete hallways, incinerating the attending crew, news reporter, and the Queen herself.
Miraculously, the auxiliary equipment, save for the stuff in the hallways, were entirely uncharred. Kilometers of electrical wiring, liquid hydrogen pumps, all fine. Still, we had about an hour and thirty minutes, maybe two hours if we can stall long enough, to find a way to un-ash the Queen. This one was admittedly a new one, and one that nearly stumped us. Accidental beheadings in France and drowning in the Nile River was one thing, this is the first time we've had so little material to work with.
As it turns out, the best way to get out of a maze is to go back the way you came. We revisited one of the BLACK ARROW prototypes; functional, but fired white smoke that smelled of earl grey and biscuits (which, coincidentally enough, was perfect for our purposes). Our tinkering managed to refocus the engine to basically suck out the worship-fire out of the ashes. Here comes the trickier bit. All our advertising had been focused on Her Majesty's image from the waist up. Stamps, fine china, posters, all sorts. Had we attempted to bring her back there and then, we'd only get the front top half of the Queen, and that would be unpleasant. Our only solution was a stik-n-forget-me sticker printer that we modified to shit out every single body part of the Queen at every angle, and we stuck it on every surface we could find. The British Pound would have a pair of her bare legs for a year before we fully recalled them all.
We managed to bring her back from bone ash, albeit with some leftover traces of every dress she ever wore in public fused to her skin. It took the surgeons 52 hours to completely excise the silk that fused to her skin in the reconstitution, but she pulled through just fine, and five years younger to boot, thanks to PR.

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Posted by u/qwerty1902 8 years ago

History Solution for Her Majesty's Death in 1983.

Her head was crushed into her chest cavity, we pulled it out, restarted her heart, and she was fine.
Edit: Sorry, that was my coworker. Not a man of many words, that one. Here's what actually happened.
It was a fine afternoon, Britain was still celebrating their victory in the Falklands, and the Queen was having a nice stroll in the gardens. Some of our subterranean sensors, primed to detect abnormal seismic activity, picked up an unidentified object burrowing in the general direction of the Queen. By the time it had broke through the thaumic barrier under Buckingham Palace, a security detail had already been dispatched to evacuate Her Majesty.
As it turned out, our uninvited guest was a rather large pile of rocks held together by a large red gem, embedded in its torso, with smaller gemstones distributed throughout its constituent mass. Impervious to gunfire, it scuttled its way into the Palace, impolitely breaking through doorframes and walls before stumbling across the main vault. Now, MI666 had two problems. One, they haven't been able to kill the rock creature. Two, the "secure location" the Queen had been evacuated to was that very vault.
The entity tore through the vault door with relative ease, incapacitating two of our agents as it tossed the crumpled blocks of steel aside. The Queen was metaphorically and literally frozen in fear as the magnetostatic-equipped reinforcements flipped on, forcing everything but the monster to be still. The stone behemoth proceeded to bash the Queen's head in and reached over her, as it became apparent that the target was not Her Majesty's life, but rather the Crown Jewels, locked behind a glass display cabinet she stood in front of. Yes, the jewels in the Tower of London are fakes, besides the point.
Satisfied with the plunder of the royal regalia, the entity breaks apart it, retrieving the two largest, and places it against its crotch area before barreling away from the scene of the crime. And it completely disappears, leaving behind only a pseudo-dullahan Queen, a plundered vault, and a whole lot of rubble to clean up after. Only then did we, as my coworker so eloquently put it, "pulled her head out of her chest cavity".
We were also ordered not to retrieve the jewels.

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Posted by u/The_RealSlimshady08 Certified Rave Grobber 8 years ago

History Her Majesty, Stack Overflow

The Ship of Theseus thought experiment is a common water cooler discussion, something newbies would talk about after the first few times they had to put her back together from scratch. It's not really a primary concern for us. Yet, we must ensure that the Queen who dies for good is, with no uncertainty, the same vehicular regicide victim from 1953. It is literally written in stone, as it was tradition for doomsayers to record their prophecies on marble tablets.
Way back in the 70s, R&D whipped up a soul-detector in an effort to root out Soviet spies in the country, but was relegated to the depths of the National Archives once the CIA perfected their little mind control project. Y'know, the one everyone knows about. Just in case the complete annihilation of Her Majesty's corporeal form ever occurred, we had to make a backup copy of her incorporeal one. 500 copies, to be exact, spread out across the British Isles for emergencies. You see, a clone of the Queen could never be The Queen without the presence of her soul, it'd just be a run-of-the-mill meat puppet (much like half of Parliament).
And so, every time the Queen was brought back from ash and dust, she would be given a copy of her soul after we got rid of whatever happened to be inhabiting the new body. This wasn't an issue for the most part, save for that one time we opted into robo-Elizabeth. It was easier and cheaper for people to forget that the Queen short-circuited in the rain than it was for us to rebuild her from the bone up every time. As for her soul, we managed to digitize it into a floppy disk inserted directly into her spine.
We even got Y2K covered.
See, software engineers knew about Y2K decades before it would happen, before it even entered the public consciousness, and the Queen's mainframe was built with this as a prerequisite. What we couldn't (or didn't) account for was how a digitized soul would react to this. Tampering with souls once uploaded is messy business, so we tried to quintuply the tick speed of some alter-Queens to the mid-21st century in a retrofitted red telephone booth. What else could we have used? The booth was both familiar to the Queen and our most advanced server at the time.
The experiment proved… inconclusive, to say the least. The only thing we learned was that we should never send souls past 2037 AD, which was something we already knew, and just never confirmed. We couldn't exactly bring the Queen offline just for New Year's Day either, what with the vitally important rituals necessary to ensure the yearly survival of the British state. So we endured. And by "we", we mean the Queen mostly.
The Queen fell at midnight. Keeled over where she stood. We had operatives in Her Majesty's security detail who checked up on her while helping her to her feet, and instead of a grateful Elizabeth II, they were met with a very confused, terrified, and highly aggressive Queen Victoria. Luckily, someone managed to snap on a pair of cuffs, and the ensuing kerfuffle was scrubbed from the media almost immediately, overriding the public's memory of the incident via a far more memorable lack of public toilets during the event.
We later attempted to exorcize Queen Victoria from Her Majesty's body after the celebrations, but she was one tough cow, her necromancy notwithstanding. Making full use of the Queen's titanium and tungsten carbide endoskeleton, Her Former Majesty broke out of custody and sicced multiple Roman skeletons on the aforementioned security detail. She proceeded to run rampant in the London night for a few hours, raising hell from Westminster Abbey to throw MI666 off her tracks, myself included. I still have scars from when Newton dropped a bus on my unit. Hours later, we cornered her in the Royal Mausoleum while she was trying to find her husband's grave with a shovel wielding Charles Darwin in tow.
So stood MI666, locked in a standoff with a feral Empress in a graveyard of Princes and Kings, grenade launchers and hexcasters in helicopters. At this point, negotiations were way off the table, but we were still at an impasse. As Her Majesty's protectors, we could not in good conscience do harm to her material form, much less blow her up. Curse-tiles and all that, not to mention the paperwork. The Late Queen, taking advantage of our hesitation, began reciting some unholy scripture in tongues that were not dissimilar to German. No clue what the spell would do to us, but her eyes began to glow, which is never a good sign.
Then, a fireball comes tearing through the night sky, narrowly clipping the rotors of my helicopter and instantly decimating the Queen.
This piece of Deus Ex Machina is not lost on me. According to the official report, a satellite had drifted abnormally far away from its regular orbit, survived atmospheric re-entry in one piece, completely bypassed our early warning systems, and landed squarely on top of the Late Queen. It was as if the universe had spoken its mind with absolute clarity, and said that it wanted Her Late Majesty's dead.
After that whole incident, all iterations of the Queen were required by policy to be made of meat. We did kept the digitized souls though, since they proved to be more portable than soul orbs.

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Posted by u/The_RealSlimshady08 Certified Rave Grobber 8 years ago

History That One Scary Ass Moment where I had to Fight Off a Corgi

Okay everyone, this one is incredibly personal because I was there.
Over the course of Her Majesty's long life, she was evidently, inordinately fond of corgis, a well documented genetic phenomenon. However, they were almost… nightmarishly omnipresent. They would appear in dreams, out of the corners of eyes, in the reflection of water, and just barely at random for it to be dismissed as general anxiety. When I stood watch during her duodecennial inspection of Big Ben, there was a corgi in the hotel room, hidden underneath the love chair.
Whenever the Queen would wave at the crowd on the way to her private plane off to some foreign place, a corgi would sometimes enter the plane before her, just out of sight of all the cameras and eyes. When I brushed my teeth, I would constantly angle my head in the mirror, since my coworkers would claim that they would see a corgi in the shower shelves, only to find nothing.
After one particularly harrowing experience where I had to negotiate a hostage situation with a desperate man, I was tired. The incident took over seven hours to resolve, what with the constant bomb squads having to redo all their work after being sent back in time, and having to be present as they diffuse each bomb within one second of them tripping. I had forgotten to foretell the chances of success, but I had known that success did not necessarily guarantee my survival. At the time, I was fully committed, and I imagine that it was ironically the thing that help me survive the ordeal.
That is to say, I slept like a god damn log after it. Didn't matter I was still on duty, I deserved it. But the corgis were watching.
I had a nightmare of the incident, except this time, everything was replaced with a single corgi spinning in space. I still had the same nerve shot anxiety around the ticking time bomb, except it was replaced with the sound of a thirsty dog. It runs around in circles, or flies. I cannot tell. I was inside the corgi, shooting other corgis to prevent the corgi from exploding the corgi, and I cannot stress how much it felt like a recreation of these events, rather than a corruption.
Something about those fucking corgis correlated with some kind of threat. When I woke up, drenched in sweat, I had no reason to believe this wasn't a godawful premonition of sorts. I quickly got dressed, slathered on deodorant, left my flat, and arrived at a BOS station to report the news. A short lady acting as a liaison told me that they've received nearly a dozen similar reports, and that the information was snaking up the chain of command. I explain to her that it's already too damn late if we got a premonition.
I quickly give up and steal a motorcycle, and for the next two hours, I would be filled with so much adrenaline and nervous energy that it would all be a blur. All I knew was that I, along with several other MI666 were snaking their way through the London streets to get to the palace, collectively breaking so many traffic laws that a speedster would blush.
We get to the front entrance of the palace grounds, and its already been cleared of visitors. Thankfully, it was on a slow month, so not many tourists were on Buckingham, and the Americans were used to seeing armored cars on manicured lawns. We show them our ID cards and we're let in. White bodybags are already laid out neatly, carefully framing the newly deceased. I inspect the closest one, and its covered in orange fur and grotesque musculature. The bone structure was warped, the legs jutting backwards like a lightning bolt and the jawline extended. But the eyes, like black marbles…
The other corpses were all the same, shot dead. Big men with big guns, surrounding the palace. What concerned me was that this was a blockade, not an assault. Eventually, one of my coworkers relay to me about the situation. Another hostage incident, except this time its Her Majesty. I ask what the threat is. It's the corgis. Of course it's the fucking corgis, what do they want. We don't know. How do we know it's a hostage problem. Drones. Fucking drones.
It was a fucking thing and a half, and I swear to honest god I went psycho. I grabbed two men from the blockade and went down a side path into the sewers. We're methodical but efficient, sweeping with almost third eye precision. I believe it had to do with me awakening to my latent prescience abilities, but I could not give less of a fuck at the moment. We finally open up to an underground well where the Queen keeps all of her gold, breaking into the palace via a secret wall. Usually, it's the other way around, so it was a welcome change.
Now that we're inside, it's immediately apparent this was a bad idea. Corgis originally began as a hunting dog, and now that they've received limbs, they're stunningly fast and deadly. A howling erupts from around the corner, and a wave of echoes follow. They knew we were here, and if we didn't do something, we would literally be hound to death. One of the big men pisses themselves and goes back the way we came, and the other starts firing into the walls with a shotgun, wasting ammo. I knew he would survive, so I leave him to his own devices and start following a path straight to Her Majesty. I would cross five more were-corgis, routing them when possible, firing when cornered.
I find myself in front of the Queen's chambers, panting like a motherfucker. Somewhere along the way, I was bit in the leg, ripping clean my right foot, and I'm limping along. I knew that if it were viral, I was definitely transforming. My spine felt like it was ripping clean from the meat, I was gnashing my teeth as it sharpened, and my clothes were stretched taut. I would claw at my chest and arms, feverish.
I punch open the door, my weapon too small for my hands. And there was the Queen, larger than the Queen sized mattress she slept on, next to the corpse of a half eaten corgi behemoth. We roar at each other and I dive into her face, trying to claw out her eyes.
She takes one hand off the corpse and slashes my back, ripping me free from her face. I slam into a cabinet, smashing it into splinters, and it is further decimated when she balls her fist and slams downward, punching me through the floor. I land in a long hallway filled with stone statues as she begins ripping through the bedroom floor, making an opening for herself. I scramble away, claws clicking at stone. She lands on her legs and one arm, the other reaching out at me as I smash the bust of Queen Elizabeth I into her chest.
She would grab me again, this time hurling me through a wall into a neighboring ballroom. I smash through at least three tables, into a service cart filled with various alcohols. Glass and alcohol cuts into my skin. It burned into my wounds, and I would thrash in pain. I could distantly hear the slow, angry footstep of fur on marble, and as sure as hell she was above me, I slashed upwards. A chunk of flesh coats my face, and she howls loud enough to burst my ear drums. I start swinging at random, ripping apart architecture and occasional patches of fur.
A helicopter swings into the background, armed with two machineguns, and starts ripping into the ballroom. Giant clouds of dust and smoke coat us, and I continue to slash at the Queen. I can feel a bullet rip through my waist, bisecting me. I somehow pivot onto her back, my jaw firmly clamped around her shoulders. She can't reach me, her body too big and inflexible. She starts to half limp, half jog, head first into the opposite side of the ballroom. We break through, several walls, and I could feel us gaining height. Somehow, she runs far enough that we end up on a multi-floor foyer.
She stands at the edge, and she leaps off the parapet, plummeting back first off the balcony. Momentary weightlessness, and I am crushed under her weight, and just like that, the Queen had killed herself under a spiteful deadlock. I am slowly surrounded by paramedics, field agents, and soldiers, stared at through unblinking eyes.
To this day, I am unsure how they resolved this event.
The Queen had died that day, and so had I. Yet I was expendable, and yet, here I am, still alive.
I don't know the circumstances under which I had cheated death. I choose to believe I never died in the first place. That it was all a horrible nightmare. After all, someone amnesticized all the witnesses, and everything that was destroyed was fixed so thoroughly it might as well have never happened.
Overall, this was my second most traumatic experience working for MI666.


+ TRANSCRIPT [Text-only version]

- TRANSCRIPT [Text-only version]

[A worn printed booklet. Throughout, there are occasional hand-written comments or edits in two distinct handwritings/colors: Purple and Red.]
Page 1
Sophia Light's 7 Things That New Level 3 Researchers Should Know.
[Red: Why is Dr. Sophia Light clickbaiting me?]
[Purple: ? Vaux said it would add interest]
[Red: He's not wrong]
Foundation clearances operate on a “need to know” basis, which like any long-running broad-scope policy, is a good idea that works well until it isn't and doesn't. The kind of “guide” you currently hold is unorthodox but represents what I see as the basics of being a researcher: not just at competently performing research, but in sort of the bare minimum of what you need to be able to competently think about the world – in terms of things that would have been veiled to you at lower clearance levels but are now opened up.
If you're reading this, it means I'm winning my petty moral war against the infosec department. The information herein is not so unknown to Level 3 personnel, broadly speaking, but an appreciation of its relevance is hard-earned, and I hope you learn it earlier rather than later.
Do good work.
- Light

Page 2
1.
Common wisdom holds that all regulations are written in blood. AKA: policies are created because something happened, and even if one looks odd or unnecesary [Red corrects the spelling to "unnecessary"], you'd better follow it if you know what's good for you.
This is wrong.
Actually, only 30% of Foundation regulations are written in blood.
50% of them are in place for dumb reasons – holdovers from previous procedures or causal understandings that were never updated, bureaucratic reasons, sheer human error.
The remaining 20% are because someone did it once and it seemed to help, and it's been the rule ever since, which is to say, superstition.
Unfortunately, you will not know which regulations are which. Do your research before getting into trouble.

Page 3
2.
Make friends with people in the Philosophy Department. Most Level 2 researchers either don't know what they do or think they're a joke. They're not.
(1) The name is misleading. They recruit from backgrounds, including technical ones.
(2) They hire and promote based on having actionable good ideas. They are literally paid to look at SCPs and generate predictive models of anomalous phenomena.
If you've spent the past 2 years studying a particular anomaly, it can suck to have some stranger skim your research papers and Wikipedia, and then email you a list of ideas that starts off: “1. Maybe it's sentient and fucking with you on purpose?”
I would not like it either, if those ideas weren't often good. You think you're an expert in anomaly XYZ. I'm sure you are. You're still not immune to bias, tunnel vision, or low-level memetic effects.
I'm not saying their ideas will always be right. But they are very often interesting, and if you investigate them as serious hypotheses, you'll learn something. You can either get mad about being wrong, or you can get results. I recommend the latter.
Dr. Heiden (RIP) [Red circles RIP and writes: update?] wrote a memo called “So you're requesting a philosophy consult” that's still in circulation. Worth hunting down. If you can't find it, just ask them anyway. They won't bite.

Page 4
3.
Grade PU vs AM materials. You're likely familiar with the distinction between PU and AM-grade materials, and how some research strictly requires PU or at least gets different results between PU and AM. You've probably been told that this has to do with a facet of common manufacturing processes that many SCPs happen to be sensitive to.
Grade PU materials are “normal”.
Grade AM materials have actually been replicated en masse via <⋮SCP-038>, the Everything Tree, or another anomalous duplication or manufacture process. The Everything Tree is the secret economic powerhouse of the Foundation.
While nobody likes to call it such, use of Grade AM materials in testing is technically a form of cross-testing. You thought we directly controlled 15% of the world's computational capacity via the regular economy? No way in hell. We got one really good integrated chip and then made 10 million copies. Processors: they can grow on trees if you work at the SCP Foundation. Fuck you.

Page 5
More relevant to research, Grade AM materials rarely appear in the wild (outside the Foundation.)
If you've never run into this distinction before, count yourself lucky. Either way, thank a procurement officer today – their job is much weirder than you used to give them credit for.
[Red: Add a picture or something to fill big spaces?]
[Purple: Of what??]

Page 6
4.
Some of you will have done the inter-site shuffle enough to know this already. But since there are a lot of staff who spent their levels 1 and 2 at the same site or even on the same team, it bears stating: different sites do things differently. There are sites that work like militaries and sites that work like universities and sites that work like nuclear power plants and there are sites that are huge hodgepodges. Some are strict, some are lenient, some are loud and active, some are quiet. The site's directors and your supervisors have a huge amount of control over the site culture and procedure.
Even things like routine labwork can have big differences depending on who's teaching who – without new blood, you get insular bubbles of tacit knowledge.*
If you're trying to figure out what the deal is with a new contact or with an old research paper that has some kind of apparent idiosyncrasy, keep in mind: they might just do things differently somewhere else.

Page 7
Conversely, to quote the rather evocative words of an old superior:
“If you want to kill yourself, at least try working a different job at a different site first.”
[Red: Jesus.]
[Purple: Too much?]
[Red: No. Keep it.]
Mental health resources have come a long way since I was recruited, so I'd hope this advice isn't relevant to you, dear reader. But if you need to hear it, you really need to hear it. And it's as true now as it was then.
*(The way researchers get shuffled between sites isn't just bureaucratic incompetence - it's sometimes tactical as a way to combat this. I personally think we will get better results if we tell researchers this. Previous administration didn't like to do that for some reason. So I've been trying to implement this. If you slipped through the cracks and got moved to a new site across the globe where you didn't speak the language with zero explanation, my impersonal apologies. It might be because you were good at your job! Doesn't that make you feel better?)

Page 8
5.
The moral question of D-Class personnel is not open and shut. Whatever you've been told, there's still a raging debate. Some study fields benefit more from human experimentation than others, but there are plenty who think that any use of D-class constitutes a moral catastrophe.
If you work in one of those fields of research, and you buried your ethical qualms a long time ago, get a shovel and dig them back up. That decision is still being made every day. You now have a voice in it. If you don't use it, nothing will ever change.

Page 9
6.
Scranton reality anchors are machines that are highly effective at canceling out effects from distorted reality and have numerous applications in research, containment, etc. They exist, and while they're expensive, they're reasonably compact and the Foundation can manufacture more.
That said, their distortion-canceling effects also cancel out:
• A crucial enzyme in the human body
• Certain microbes
• Many books
• Certain ████████████
[Red: Bad idea. Use ████████ as an example instead?]
[Purple: DEFINITELY can't say that. Will explain why in person.]
[Red: We appear to be at an impasse.]
• The effects of common amnestic and antipsychotic meds
• Anything manufactured in Las Vegas (!!)
• All of Aramaic (!!!!!)
The Foundation does not like to talk about this, but it should, and either way, this is a good tool to know about that you've probably never heard of before Level 3. (Or at least, you weren't supposed to.)

Page 10
7.
Please learn about significant digits / sigfigs. I went to grad school in the real world so I have the standard academia take. It bothers me when people get it wrong.
Who it really bothers people like Bill Hart, who leads Site 19 Engineering's Precision Manufacturing team. He explains it better than I could, so I got his permission to include this:
Most researchers I work with are Americans, and if you're one, you weren't trained with the metric system, so you measure feet. So you check on the internet (or with a calculator and reference table if you're real old school or actually give a shit about InfoSec protocols). You decided your spooky skeleton needs a 5' long box. Fine.
But then you plug that in, and Dr. DuckDuckGo or your calculator (because they are DUMB ROCKS and only trying to answer the question you asked them) tells you that five feet is 1.524 meters. Or worse, 1.523999951 meters.
First of all, that's wrong. 5' is 1.524m exactly. You've just been PLAYED by a floating point error. So not a good start.
And then, because you are EVEN DUMBER than ROCKS, because you are GOD'S OWN FOOL, you copy and paste that and send that along to my team. And then all nine of us have

Page 11
synchronized heart attacks because you're asking us to do nanometer-scale precise manufacturing with a week turnaround time.
This wouldn't be a big problem in any other industry. But unlike all of them, we can actually do large-scale nanometer-precise measuring. And also basically unlike anyone else, once in a blue moon, some godforsaken son of a bitch actually needs us to count out one billion five hundred twenty-three million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and fifty-one nanometers and make a box exactly that big, or else the skeleton will get out and the world will fucking end. And we will do that because it is our job and we live here same as you. But most of you? Most of you just need a five foot long box.
Thankfully, we are not idiots, so if you send us some hot garbage like that, we will email you back. (If you're lucky, it will even be more than just hilighting the last 8 digits and writing “bro??”.) But if we're busy or you stop responding to our emails, we will guess.
And our guesses are pretty good. I'm proud to say my team has never caused a containment breach by having to make a judgment call about precision. (You know what has caused containment breaches? Floating fucking point errors.) But you, you labcoated asshole, maybe you should be scared shitless, because you went to fucking Spooky Harvard and me or my guy went to Walla Walla County Technical College and you think you're deciding how big your containment box will be, but if you don't clarify exactly how precise you need your units to be, it's not gonna be you deciding! It's gonna be me!!
Swear to fucking god. Thanks, Light. Feels good to get that off my chest.

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The back cover. A small gray box reads: UNOFFICIAL PUBLICATION. FOR PURPOSES OF STAFF KNOWLEDGE DISSEMINATION. —- Share at your own discretion (see policy 02.181.0931)
[Red: Is this a thing??]
[Purple: The policy is the right one but I just made the stamp right now. Think it'll make the censors happy?]
[Red: Worth a shot]

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