← Previous | | Hub | | Next →

Somewhere in the depths of Site-19, an old man by the name of Victor Stafford sat quietly in an interview room. Despite being away from the Foundation for almost 15 months, he still thought it suited him well. He could not- however- say the same for the young 20-something opposite him, who had a demeanor that suggested he'd rather be somewhere else. A quick glance at his personnel ID revealed his name to be Dr. Oswald, and Stafford could tell he hadn't been with the Foundation long. It was the look in his eyes; that look of confusion and naivety about the organization's many dark underbellies. In other words, it would have been putting it lightly to say that Oswald was less than prepared for this conversation.
“Dr. Stafford,” Oswald began anyway, “you were employed here at Site-19 for over 30 years, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Up until May of last year when you were forced to resign for unprofessional behavior.”
“I suppose that's one way to put it.”
A pause, filled by the faint lull of ambient noise. The soundproofing ensured that they were alone in here. It was no wonder why they had politely asked Stafford to leave The Foundation. As a former Senior Researcher, he had grossly overstepped his boundaries by accessing various personnel files, Site project histories, and a myriad of other directories that he only technically had clearance to.
Even after explaining everything and passing multiple lie detector tests, The Foundation made him an offer: resign peacefully and never speak of (or contact) the Foundation again, or be forcibly amnesticized. Hell, Internal Security considered making him take the amnestics anyway, but his history was clean and admirable, and he had a lot of colleagues vouching for his good intentions.
“…How would you phrase it?” Oswald asked.
“I was putting research into a pet project of mine; a collection of data that had been bugging me for years before I could even figure out why. When I finally started building up an idea of what was going on, nobody seemed interested in listening. I slowly became branded as the old crackpot, and maybe eventually that's what I became.”
Oswald looked over a page of notes in front of him, clearing his throat as he did so.
“I'm sure you already know that the reason we invited you in today,” he told Stafford, “was to ask about that data.”
“I do. But I'd be happy to explain.”
“Then explain away.”
Stafford took a breath.
“Okay… So about twenty years ago, a dear friend and coworker of mine went missing; Dr. Lilibeth Orion. She was a brilliant astrophysicist and had worked on countless SCP items. Then one day, she just up and disappeared. There was a brief investigation, which I offered to take part in since she was one of my closest friends. I was turned down, and the investigators found nothing of interest.
But I was unsatisfied. I was intent on finding some semblance of closure. That's how this all started. I quickly learned that she was only one in a decent-sized list of Foundation missing personnel. Something about that list irked me to no end. I felt like I was being taunted by answers just out of my reach. But, eventually, I started seeing the little threads that connected everything, thin and complex like a spiderweb.”
“And you went to the Site Director, telling him that something was abducting Foundation members. But you're talking about The Foundation as a whole, over a very long period of time. Wasn't this just the outcome of general probability that any individual- regardless of Foundation employment- would go missing? ”
“I thought so too at first, but when I looked at the number of reported missing personnel by occupation within The Foundation, I saw something strange. Some of the numbers were erroneously higher than others. Compared to the average, Memeticists went missing 75% less often. Containment Specialists 90% less often. Spatial Anomaly Experts going missing was- and still is- virtually unheard of.”
“That doesn't necessarily prove anything.”
“No, but this does,” Stafford procured a small sheet of paper and proceeded to write down a fairly drawn-out equation, loaded with variables and symbols. Needless to say, Oswald didn't even come close to understanding it.
“What is this?” Oswald asked.
“This is the function that clearly depicts a pattern within- not all, but some- disappearances. Are you familiar with Dr. Cardinal?”
“No.”
“He went missing under incredibly strange circumstances in the early days of The Foundation. RAISA won't release full details, but those bizarre circumstances are a jumping-off point for this formula. It says that a missing individual within this pattern will determine another missing individual based on their interpersonal relationships and occupations. It's six degrees of separation with more rules. The results look random in the end, but they aren't, and I can prove it, because when you start with Cardinal and follow the function, it will always lead you to someone else within the Foundation who has gone missing: Always.”
“I see. So you believe it has predictive power? If it's a mathematical function?”
“To some extent. There are a lot of variables that are difficult to know ahead of time, but I can at least predict the next person in the pattern.”
“And who would that be?”
“Well, the last person to go missing was Dr. Orion. Last Site she worked at was this one, on a project regarding some sort of space anomaly. Coworker nearest her age was a Dr. Kleinsmann. But he has a background in spatial anomalies, and the formula requires the individual to be at least 3 iterations down anyway. So we go to the previous project he worked on, in which he'd been assigned to analyze something Agent Underwood dragged out of a back-alley. Underwood's a good fit for the criteria but still only iteration 2, so her project before that was dealing with acquisition of, erm, something. I don't know any of the details. But I know who else was on that project, and…" he trailed off.
Stafford bit his lower lip and furrowed his brow.
"They were right about you," Oswald scoffed. "You are a crackpot.. This is getting us nowhere."
“I know, I know. You think that I'm just seeing things that aren't there. You think I'm just looking too deep into things and making some sort of narrative to go alongside them… but I also know that you think this meeting was the Site Director's idea, and that you were merely assigned to talk to me by chance. Don't agents usually handle interviews?”
Oswald's sardonic grain morphed into an anxious scowl.
“No way,” he said sternly, “you are not implying what I think you are. Don't try to screw with me like this.”
“I'm sorry Oswald. You were on the project with Agent Underwood, whatever it was. You're closest to her age. You're young and in good standing and distanced from Orion. I know you don't want to believe me but I thought it best to tell you in advance, who knows, maybe you can thwart whatever is causing this.”
“You're crazy,” Oswald stood, giving Stafford a look of both disgust and of dread.
“That's the reason they made me resign, Oswald,” Stafford leaned over the desk, his voice hushed. “But if I'm not? Then something's been taking our coworkers, and we have no idea what it is, or how to stop it.”


Researcher Jordan Kytes desperately wanted to keep sleeping, but the alarms insisted he was done. Still groggy, he slowly forced himself to his feet, and shuffled to the door to see what was going on. His mind made a fuzzy attempt to remember if any drills were scheduled for the day. He opened the door to the bunk room, and was nearly blinded by the flashing red emergency lights in the hallway of Zone-SCP-097's main research lab. Doctor Bridge dashed past him, heading in the opposite direction of the main control room.
"Doctor Bridge! What the hell is going on?!" Kytes called out to him.
The doctor yelled something back, but Kytes could only make out part of it before the man had disappeared around a corner.
Kytes grabbed his coat, then headed out the door in the direction he had seen Doctor Bridge heading towards. This is bad. This is containment breach bad, he thought. He didn't run, but walked as quickly as possible towards the main garage. Somebody bumped into him from behind, almost knocking him to the ground.
"Jordan! What are you doing?! We need to get out of here fast!" It was Agent Valk. The man had stopped running and was staring at Kytes with eyes that appeared to understand true fear.
"Casey, will you please tell me what the hell is going on? I just saw Doctor Bridge bolt down this way like he was training for the Olympics!" Kytes began to jog as Agent Valk turned back towards the garage and began running again.
Valk tried to yell over the sound of the alarms as Kytes trailed behind him. "I don't know the details, but as far as I can tell, it's really, really bad, Jordan. Agent Sandison apparently fucked something up big time. Containment wasn't just breached, it was destroyed. Other sites have been contacted for assistance, but for the time being all we can do is get the hell out of the area as fast as possible."
Kytes thought for a moment as the two men plowed through another set of swinging doors. "What did Sandison do? Is this because of his kid? Bridge yelled something to me about the QES unit, but I couldn't make it all out over the alarms."
"I got no idea. Hopefully someone will tell us something after we get out of the building."
Up ahead, Kytes could see other researchers and agents heading out the main doors that lead to the garage. He could see the lights on beyond the door, and could smell exhaust fumes and hear engines being started between alarm blares.
Just before he and Agent Valk reached the doors, the garage lights shut off. Valk reached the doors first, his momentum propelling him through before he could register the sudden darkness, but Kytes stopped himself. The scent of exhaust had been replaced with another, stronger smell. It was so strong that he almost felt like dry heaving. He knew something was wrong, but he didn't want to get left behind. He pushed one of the doors open, holding his breath, and stepped through the doorway.
The smell was much stronger now, but that wasn't nearly as startling as the complete and utter silence that met Jordan Kytes inside the now pitch black garage. No alarm sounds, no engine noises, no one yelling or talking.
Something wrapped around his ankle. The choking smell of fermenting cider was accompanied by dead leaves and rotting pumpkins. Cool breath hissed into his ear as something spoke.
"Kytes!"
Researcher Jordan Kytes awoke to the sound of his name being hissed in a loud whisper. Whoever it was had a death grip on his ankle as they shook him from his slumber. Kytes groaned; first in pain, and then at the realization that he was back in the company of the person he hated most in the world, Agent Marcus Sandison.
"Get the hell away from me, Sandison."
"Kytes, oh shit, look what they did to you…I'm so sorry. I should've-"
"You should fuck off." Kytes' suggestion was a spike of hatred.
"I know. I know. I have to fix this. I can still fix this."
Kytes sighed. "I'd feel bad for you, you know. I'd feel bad for you, if you were anybody else. He groaned again as he shifted against the tree he had fallen asleep under.
"Kytes-"
"Shut up. Just shut the hell up. How the hell did you get to be like this?"
Sandy didn't respond immediately. Kytes wondered if he was trying to decide if it was a rhetorical question or not.
"You know how I got like this, Kytes. You know what happ-"
"That's not what I mean. I'm talking about even before you screwed over everybody on this planet. How the hell did you get to be like you?"
"I'm sorry Kytes, I don't foll-"
"Of course you don't," Kytes interrupted again. "I want to know how a shit bag like you gets a job, and a family. I want to know how you had all that, when you're the type of person who literally needs the apocalypse to happen before they can take any sort of responsibility for themselves."
Sandy didn't respond at all this time. Instead, Kytes felt the man rummaging through his pockets.
"What the hell are you doing? Seriously, just what the hell are you doing, Sandison? Stop fucking touching me!" Kytes tried to push Sandy away, but the movement made his head swim, and he gave up the struggle. Sandy stopped.
"Where is it Kytes? That thing that brought us here. The device or whatever SCP that thing was."
"You think I'm going to help you run away again? My eyes get ripped out of my skull because you caused the end of the world, and you think I'm going to help you?! You're human garbage. Get fucked and let me die in peace."
Kytes leaned his head back against the tree, and was surprised by Sandy's hand slapping him hard in the face. "I'm not running away again, Kytes." This time, the agent's voice was like steel. "That thing killed my son, and I'm going to kill it. Now give me the device or I'm going to start breaking the rest of you."
"Your son died because you're a selfish idiot. You should never have brought your family anywhere near the zone. Your son died because you're an idiot, and then the world died because you're an idiot." Kytes heard Sandy stand up. He waited silently for him to follow through on his threat. Minutes seemed to pass.
"I just wanted them to kill it, Kytes. I just wanted it destroyed. I asked them to stop babysitting the thing that killed my son and so many other kids, and just burn it all. And they said no."
"They said no because they knew trying to kill it could just make things worse. And it did. You tried to take things into your own hands, and look what happened." Kytes voice had a trace of compassion in it this time.
Sandy said nothing this time. Minutes passed as Kytes tried to imagine what Sandy looked like beyond his ruined eye sockets.
Kytes finally broke the silence. "The device is still by the nuke. I dropped it when we were ambushed. If you can get it and bring it back here to me, I can try and help you finish what we came here to do. I'm not going anywhere."
Sandy didn't say anything at first. Then Kytes heard the man slowly walk away, his footfalls gently cushioned by the pine needle floor.

To Jordan Kytes, time stretched like a highway across the dark space of his thoughts as he waited to see if Agent Sandison would return. Hopefully he would come back with the device he had managed to procure thanks to the remaining members of O5 Command's dwindling resources and connections. It would be difficult to try and use it without the aid of his own eyes, but it was the best prospect—no, the only prospect they had left.
"I've got it." The words startled Kytes so much that he yelped. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't heard the man's muffled footsteps. "Sorry, really wasn't trying to frighten you," Sandy apologized.
"Give it here," Kytes commanded. Sandy handed the device to him without question. "You're going to have to help me out here, Sandison."
"Yeah, of course. What do you need me to do?" Sandy knelt down next to the blind man, and listened.
Far away from the two men, well out of ear shot, something moved. It twisted and grew in the darkness.

Kytes awoke from another dream; this one had actually been pleasant. The sun was out, and the air was hot, and he had been wearing sunglasses. A dream of summer time. The sound of shifting pine needles broke him from the rare visitation of good thoughts.
"Having second thoughts, Sandison? Or did you already forget how to work it?"
The voice that answered was not Sandy's. It was ancient and bitter, and wreathed in a raspiness that made Kyte's think of pumpkin vines.

Blind man and beggar, you flounder in doubt
Your fumbling confusion will bring you no clout
Transgressors will fall like the leaves from a tree
Piled up on the ground with your dead victory

"Did you come here just to gloat? Or are you going to finish me off?" There was certainly real defiance in Kytes voice, but his fear bled through the words.

No need for bloodletting, no need for a boast
I come here to show you the thing you fear most
Your eyes now acquired, your-

"You've lost, did you know that? I made sure of it."

Your faith in your friend is so sadly misplaced
His resolve will falter, so truly disgraced

"He's not my friend. I have no faith in him. I'm sure his resolve will falter, and he is a fucking disgrace. You still lose. You're de-"
Something grabbed Kytes tongue, and he tried to scream.

Sandy's head buzzed. His second experience with the teleporting device was even more disorienting than the first. He struggled to his feet, and gazed around at the large room he had found himself in. This wasn't right.
The large barn was gently lit by the glow of hundreds of jack-o-lanterns. Seeds littered the floor, and the carcasses of many unnaturally large pumpkins were haphazardly scattered about among the rusted farm equipment. In the center of the barn, the largest pumpkin Sandy had ever seen hung from the ceiling. Hundreds of feet of vines tethered it to the rafters, and it seemed to expand and contract like a giant heart. It was black and green, with knobby bumps marring most of its spongy-looking surface.
Sandy was both relieved and terrified when he realized what had happened. He looked down at the nuclear device, which had unexpectedly arrived with him. He laughed as tears formed at the corners of his eyes.
"You were right about me, Kytes, well played. It's good that you knew. I wish I could have told you what I did. I never tried to kill it. I was too angry and lost and broken to try. I sabotaged the QES so that everyone could feel the despair that I was going through. Even I didn't think I could ever be that selfish, but there it is."
Sandy closed his eyes. "You gave me another chance, and I tried to run again. I thought that-"
Sandy's world became brighter than it had ever been.

Whatever had grabbed Jordan Kytes' tongue suddenly let go. He heard it collapse to the pine needle floor in front of him.
Guess I won't need my sunglasses after all. It sounds like November will be here soon.

« Bones of Autumn


The muddy slush of frozen earth soaked into Spinella's clothes as he writhed on the ground, gasping for air, spitting blood. From his back, he watched the old man's shadow on the ground beside him lengthen and darken. No. This was not the plan at all.
The two checkpoint guards did not notice the solidifying darkness cast onto the ground as they barked questions into the radio. Had they looked next to the prone figure of Spinella on the ground, they would have seen the black outline of the old man's shadow grow ever thicker, solidifying until it appeared to corrode the ground beneath it. The snow it touched instantly evaporated into thick vapor. Thin black lines, trailing at sharp angles and hanging in the air, inexplicably rose from the ground where the shadow had now formed a yawning hole, its depths impossible to see.
Spinella weakly gurgled his protests, wheezing and attempting to get to his hands and knees away from the forming darkness. Yuri wheeled on him as he saw movement from the corner of his eye, and then stopped dead as he saw what was rising from the old man's shadow.
The outline of a door had formed, translucent and black, fixed in midair like frozen smoke and hovering over the shadow-void cast by the old man. The chuckling of the wasted, wheelchair-bound husk was now manic and high-pitched, an obscene tittering. Inside the doorway was the same infinite blackness being cast on the ground. The roughly rectangular frame of the door grew more and more defined, its angles sharpening. As Yuri turned to alert his comrade, three men were suddenly thrown at great force through the otherworldly portal, smashing into him as they all piled onto the ground.
For a second, no one in the heap on the ground moved. The lean guard's eyes were wide with disbelief, moving from his comrade to the men who had suddenly materialized. The first to come to their senses was Juhasz, atop the pile. He quickly found leverage and pushed himself forward, lowering a shoulder into the stomach of the lean guard and tackling him to the ground.
A mad scramble ensued, Yuri now kicking and swinging his fists in all directions as he tried to free himself from the scrum. He caught Stillwell square in the chest, driving the wind out of him and leaving him gasping as the burly Russian soldier found his footing. Coogan squared to face him.
Behind Yuri, Juhasz had managed to pin the lean guard to the ground, allowing him a free hand to reach into his inner coat pocket. He drew a stout, thick-bladed service knife. The guard seized the split second of opportunity; one of his hands shot to Juhasz's neck in a flash, the other frantically reaching for the knife. The two men rolled sideways, struggling for the blade.
In the confusion, Yuri's gun had been knocked from his hands, about a meter away from him. He looked sidelong at it briefly, baiting Coogan into rushing him. Yuri tripped him as he moved forward, getting him onto the ground and quickly bringing a knee to Coogan's throat. Before he could crush the prone operative's larynx, Yuri saw Stillwell going for the rifle on the ground. He was on his feet again almost instantly, his brawny limbs belying the quickness and precision of his movements, moving as though he were made of springs and not muscle. A huge fist came barrelling straight for Stillwell's face. Stillwell snatched up the gun, and with the AK-47's stock deftly nudged the Russian's arm mid-swing, parrying the strike and letting the soldier's bone crushing force carry his momentum forward. Stillwell met that momentum, slamming his knee into the man's midsection as hard as he could. He could feel the telltale crack of a rib breaking as he struck. His foe bent over and incapacitated momentarily, Stillwell glanced over his shoulder.
He saw Juhasz and the lean guard, blood covering the two combatants as they grappled on the ground, the snow around them now a morass of brown, red and white. Juhasz had managed to get back on top, both hands on the handle of the knife as he pressed it towards the first guard's chest. The soldier was breathing hard, almost hyperventilating, as he tried with all his strength to push the knife away, his hands wrapped around his attacker's, desperately trying to move the blade. It edged closer over his heart. Juhasz was trembling with exertion, leaning down onto the pommel of the knife with all of his weight.
Adrenaline sped his thought process, and Stillwell acted, turning forward once more. He seized Yuri's lapels and crossed them over his throat, tightening them in his fists and pulling the collar into a noose. The guard's eyes bulged as his air was cut off, his face twisting with pain, hatred and fear. He reached for Stillwell's wrists and wrenched violently, trying to free himself from the choke hold. Stillwell could feel tendons and ligaments starting to give in his arms as the massive Russian squeezed and pulled, the pain slowing time to a standstill. Fifteen seconds and then he could help Juhasz. Hold out for fifteen seconds.
The Russian's face was draining of color as the blood supply was cut off. Panic made his movements less and less coordinated, and Stillwell was now able to force the man onto his knees. He took several punches to the ribs as his opponent flailed, the glancing blows still hard enough to make him flinch and loosen his grip. Finally, with what must have been his last reserves of strength, Yuri aimed a blow directly at Stillwell's right wrist. The Russian's fist caught him at a critical angle, and Stillwell felt a pop in his wrist as it broke. His hold on Yuri's left lapel was gone, and the soldier was now free.
Yuri seemed to require no time to collect himself. He prepared to hurl himself at the disabled Stillwell, when three whooshing cracks sounded in quick succession. The side of Yuri's head collapsed as bits of skull, hair and brains were ejected forcefully from the now-gaping hole where his right ear was an instant prior. He fell face forward into the snow, steam rising from the welter of blood pouring out of his head.
Stillwell took several seconds before he looked over from where the shots had been fired. Spinella had pulled himself to his feet and gotten to the guard's rifle. Coogan was starting to regain his footing. Juhasz. Stillwell cradled his broken wrist and moved to the other fight.
Juhasz had worked the tip of his blade into the lean guard's chest. Ragged grunts and shouts came from below him as the soldier struggled against the blade with an animal's ferocity, blood beginning to well up now from the wound. Spinella trained the rifle on the two combatants.
"Stop!" Stillwell shouted. "You're going to hit both of them!"
Spinella ignored him, lining up the iron sights, taking careful aim. His hands were trembling, slightly.
The shouts seemed to prick Juhasz's ears. With a spasm of effort, he slammed the knife downwards, through the Russian's death grip on the blade, burying it in his chest. The lean guard gurgled, then gasped, his hands suddenly falling away. Juhasz firmed up his grip on the handle, and with a ragged grunt of exertion twisted the knife with both hands, sending an arterial spray up from the man's chest, the sound of ripping flesh and tearing sinew audible to the men three meters away. The ground was sopping with blood, the scene resembling the end of some animal's hunt. The lean guard shuddered, and then stilled. Spinella lowered the rifle.
The four Foundation operatives looked to each other. No one spoke. Stillwell surveyed the carnage. The portal was now gone, the impossible gulf next to the old man disappeared, replaced by the wan shadow that nature demanded. Juhasz got to his feet, his suit soaked in blood, his mustache sticky and dripping with it. His expression was blank. Coogan looked like he was going to be sick. The old man chuckled from his wheelchair, untouched by the scene that had unfolded around him.
"Why didn't you just shoot the asshole while you had him stunned?" Spinella shouted at Stillwell.
"No gunfire. Those were the orders." Stillwell looked at his hand. The angle of his wrist was wrong. Broken for sure.
"Fuck orders! Does this look like the mission at this point?"
"We need to go." Juhasz interrupted as he picked up the lean guard's rifle, looking out beyond the checkpoint. "Now."
Stillwell nodded. His arm was beginning to throb.
"Where? We're out in the open, they're going to send patrols out any minute!" said Coogan.
Juhasz slung the rifle over his shoulder. He looked at the surrounding buildings, narrowing his eyes.
"That's the Cloth Hall beyond the gate here. I know a place that should be good enough to hide from the military police for a while. Come." Juhasz broke into a jog, hopping over the gate arm of the check point and heading for a low, pale building in the distance, surrounded by an arched walkway.
Stillwell turned to Coogan. "Get the skip."
Spinella coughed. "You can't be serious. Leave the fucker."
"We don't leave anything for the Soviets," replied Stillwell. He nodded to Coogan. Coogan nodded back and hoisted the old man out of the chair, gingerly settling him over one of his shoulders. The low chuckling continued unabated.
The three men followed after Juhasz. Behind them, two bodies surrounded by splashes of red snow lay, an empty wheelchair standing sentinel over the scene.
As the Foundation operatives disappeared into the distance, sirens began to wail.

« | Part Three | Matryoshka | Part Five | »


The sudden, electric buzz of his cell door unlocking assaulted the doctor's ears as he lay on the bare metal cot, instinctively recoiling from the noise. He raised a scrap of his coat to shield his eyes from the light flooding the chamber. A shadow of a person entered, the face obscured by the blinding lamps hanging in the hallway outside. He backed his way to a corner, desperate to avoid the blows that he knew were about to resume. He trembled as the door closed, restoring the darkness. Several seconds passed. It was not until a full minute had gone by without violence that he dared to uncover his eyes.
Standing over him was a trim, blond-haired man, his uniform cap tucked under his arm, along with a large manila envelope. The man's smile was natural, and yet still somehow ill-suited for his hard face.
"Hello, Dr. Geissler. My name is Major Maxim Chernikov. I'm here to remove you from these premises."
The doctor began to sit up. Chernikov's smile upset him. He shrank further still back into the corner.
The major laughed. "Oh, not to take you out and have you shot, of course. They wouldn't send me to do a mundane task like that. I'm a great admirer of your work, by the way. I'd offer to shake your hand, but, you know." He motioned to the doctor's raggedly bandaged right hand. It was missing three fingers.
Geissler brought his right arm closer to this body, cradling his ruined hand. "I cannot give you what you want," his voice quavering as he trembled. "The critical portions-"
"Are in the laboratory, yes, I am familiar. So you have repeatedly informed my men. You must forgive them, they are merely brutes of little imagination. But they have their uses. For instance, they have convinced me that you are telling the truth."
Chernikov tossed the manila folder onto the cot. Geissler startled, jumping out of his seat away from the parcel. The major laughed again.
"Relax, you're going to be fine. And that's because you're going to answer a different set of questions. Questions of my own, doctor. No, don't fret, I promise you'll know the answers to these ones, or the outcome will be very quick and clean."
Chernikov suddenly pulled his sidearm, unholstering and drawing in one fluid movement as he pointed his pistol at Dr. Geissler's forehead.
"Tell me Doctor, who agreed with Socrates that the soul must possess multiple parts?"
"Wh…what?"
The Russian cocked the hammer of his pistol, hand steady. The smile was gone now.
The doctor struggled to find his voice. "G-….G-Glaucon!"
Chernikov's pistol remained fixed in place; Geissler imagined that he could feel the barrel boring into his forehead.
"Which culture never developed the concept of a human soul?"
The doctor was frozen with fear. "Th-th-the P-Pirahã tribe of the Maici River, why-"
"Three hun and how many po?"
Geissler stared, uncomprehending and terrified.
"How many po, you subhuman Nazi filth?" Chernikov's voice stayed steady.
"Seven! There are seven!" the doctor pleaded. Chernikov kept the pistol pointed at Geissler's head. One second. Two seconds. He lowered his weapon. His smile returned, the gun back to his holster while the doctor quietly wept, apparently still capable of being relieved to be alive.
"Good. Your wits are still about you. No signs of concussion. I left very specific instructions on that account. We're going to need your mind intact."
Chernikov rapped smartly on the cell door three times. It opened promptly. A uniformed adjutant handed the Major a radio handset.
"Oh, come now Doctor. We're on the verge of a great discovery. If you're lucky, we might even allow your name to remain in the history books. Open that envelope, now."
The doctor tried to regain a measure of composure. He pulled the envelope closer. Chernikov began speaking Russian into the radio set.
He opened it, shaking the envelope to disgorge its contents. Out tumbled photographs of Liesel and the children. His eyes went wide.
Chernikov paid no attention to the doctor as he continued his conversation. A scratchy, monotone voice spoke at length from the handset, occasionally pausing to allow Chernikov to speak briefly. Geissler studied the photograph; the street sign outside of the house was clearly visible. Ashbury Lane. They had been discovered.
The Major rapped three times more on the door, his conversation now over. The adjutant reappeared, this time with two additional guards. The doctor had not seen these ones previously.
"There's one more item in that envelope, Doctor. You'll want to see this one, it will be comforting to you."
The doctor finally looked Chernikov in the eye. The Russian looked confident, unconcerned. He peered into the envelope, spotting something tucked in the bottom. He fished it out with his good hand.
"I collected that myself, as a favor. I thought you may like a reminder. Many men in my battalion liked to carry these around."
Doctor Geissler held the lock of jet-black hair, tied with a scrap of white lace that he instantly recognized from Liesel's wedding dress.
"She won't miss it, of course. They tell me she was sleeping quite soundly. My men were in and out before anyone woke up, it seems. They're very good at that."
The doctor took the full measure of Chernikov's words. He had imagined his own life to be forfeit once he had come to this place; it was only a matter of time, he had thought. As far as Liesel knew, he had been dead since 1945; a necessary condition of his arrangement with the Foundation. Death seemed a formality, a settling of accounts long outstanding. But he had never imagined that the Foundation would be compromised to the point of exposing his family. The full extent of the damage was becoming more clear. His thoughts branched out again past his own impending demise.
"I trust we have your full, unhesitating cooperation now, Doctor?"
Geissler placed his feet on the floor, and slowly, agonizingly stood up on bruised and bleeding legs. He closed three stumps and an intact ring finger around the lock of his wife's hair, clenching it in his fist, fresh blood seeping out of the wounds on his hand and already starting to drip.
"Yes. Major."
Chernikov beckoned the guards into the cell. "Clean this one up, get him some clothes. Feed him while you're at it."
The two guards made their way to the Doctor, beginning to ease him out of the cell, in a strangely gentle manner. Chernikov donned his cap, and started down the hall ahead of the party.
"We're headed back to Site-7, Doctor. There's much to do."
The GRU-P official disappeared around the corner. The guards eased the doctor into a wheelchair, waiting outside his cell. The doctor made a note to himself to properly thank Major Chernikov when he had the chance. He had thought that he wished for death before this visit. But he knew now that he was mistaken. There was something to live for after all.
Doctor Geissler's swollen black eyes and cornea abrasions made his expression unreadable to any of the attending guards and medics. His newly kindled hatred went unnoticed.

« | Part Two | Matryoshka | Part Four | »


SCP-████ Addendum: Partial list of recovered documents from Incident-████/4. Documents constitute a correspondence between PoI-4667 and PoI-4668, both prominent anartists potentially involved in the creation of SCP-████. See Document-████ for more information.

Abel
I thought you had lost your touch. I thought when I went to see "This Little Sadness in Life" that I would see something mainstream and conforming to typical modern dance notions, but my God have you done it again. The way you had your dancers move against that carpet wall was a revelation, my friend! That young man (Ira, I believe?), where did you say he trained again? Switzerland?
The audience was simply spellbound by the feats of strength you were able to portray. I was glad to see the final performance.
Yours, Andre.

Dear Andre.
I am humbled to hear you caught the final show. I almost thought you weren't coming. I know things have been difficult between us, and I wanted to say that I have improved since Mumbai. Really, both artistically and emotionally. I was an idiot, then.
I've been trying to channel my anger into the choreography. To do something useful with it. But the truth is what happened was simply so outrageous that to convey these feelings we had to an audience is…difficult, to say the least. Every time I try to create a combination, they barely stir. They might privately rage a little, but there is nothing like the feelings I want to inspire.
I've invited Suzette over. Probably as soon as I finish writing this, she'll have arrived. We're going to try something new with the anger combination. I've removed all the fragile furniture from the studio now.
Call me at ███-████, if you need to talk. Ask the operator to call long distance.
Sincerely
Abel.

Abel
I resent the fact you need to convey my anger. Not everything in your life needs to be experienced by an audience. What we had was special, I grant that. But it wasn't working. Both you and I recognized our driving apart. I wanted to take things further, and you desperately needed to stay behind. You obviously still aren't ready to commit.
If you had gone with me, listened to me instead of blowing on past like a bull, perhaps you wouldn't have such difficulty with your choreography. Perhaps there would be no need to make a crowd rage and tear each other to pieces. God, do you even know how selfish that sounds, Abel? I counted 70 people at the performance, and that's seventy people who would know the rage of a spouse in fury. And it would kill them.
I'm sorry I didn't call, my friend. I cut the phone cord a hour ago. Don't bother trying. Glad to hear Suzette's still your dance partner.
Yours, Andre.

Dear Andre.
I am so sorry I strayed. I understand you're still upset. But listen, you've got someone new. You don't need to carry the torch for what we had. I should be the one who is carrying the torch. I should be feeling regret.
Maybe you were right. Maybe the future is to go beyond modern dance. To create steps and movements that echo beyond pure dance and into some higher artistic medium. Maybe I can fill minds then. I've had difficult even making an audience see a storm at sea.
I am coming to think the reason I cannot convey the anger in this combination, is because I feel none. Deep inside myself I do not feel regret for my actions those weeks. At that point in our relationship I no longer felt an equal to you. Artistically we began to conflict, physically nothing felt exciting, emotionally you were too absorbed in yourself. Even now, you insist I am making my piece about you! In every way you could not satisfy me. Sorry if this sounds maudlin or trite, but it's true.
And it fucking pains me that you were oblivious until the last minute. I admit my regrets on that, at least.
Sincerely
Abel

Abel
Fuck you. You continue to disappoint, even to this day. I put aside my so called "self-absorption" to actually reach out to the man who broke my heart and say that he did something good. This despite the fact that he is still stuck in the old ways, limping his company along without me. Yeah, no shit that you cannot influence people anymore. All you do is put on a pretty show.
Who are you, Abel? You constantly live behind a mask. Your dancers don't see who you really are. Your family never saw who you really are. I never saw who you really are. I lived with you, I cooked for you, I had sex with you, I loved you for nine years. You were always so charming, you never showed the hole beneath.
All those weeks you were with David, all those weeks lying to me and evading me. You actually think I was ignorant? You were the one dodging me every day, making up stories about late night choreography. What was I supposed to do?
Who do you think you are? Literally all you know how to do is put on a pretty show, the only emotion you can instill in a crowd is awe. Awe isn't good enough anymore, Abel. Not when the painters can melt skulls and the sculptors can turn flesh into bone. Not when the young people so quickly consume the old like us. Not when the world of anart doesn't care about dance. We need to be better. A flick of the heel, a graceful roll, the right combination of jumps and leaps, they can influence the minds of people in ways nothing else can. We can instill whatever we want if we try. Pure anger, the sight of a summer day with a lover, intense sadness.
It's not that hard. You did it with no problem.
You want to let the world feel my rage? To dance the pain into everyone's mind? So be it.
Andre


Directly across from Stillwell sat Juhasz in the green plastic chair. To his left was Coogan on the threadbare gray couch. Stillwell shifted in his flimsy wooden folding chair. Its creaking echoed far too deeply for the small room in which they waited. Motes of dust hung unmoving, fixed in space, illuminated by a sickly shaft of thin light coming down from a skylight with a view of nothing.
Coogan shifted his bulk, his huge hands flexing, cracking his knuckles yet again. He looked to the mission's commanding officer.
"We could have really used guns for this."
Stillwell frowned. "That's not a good idea in this place. The symbolism isn't something we want rattling around in here. It was hard enough to get the place into this condition."
Juhasz smiled, a flash of teeth underneath his bushy black mustache. "Amusing. And yet we stuff a killer, a traitor, and a thug in here. No second thoughts."
"There were plenty of second thoughts." Stillwell shook his head. "No reason to add more risk where it's not needed. Three fellas packing heat in a Kraków restricted zone would cause enough problems anyway."
Coogan sat up. "I thought getting through the restricted zone was the whole point of this place."
Stillwell checked his watch. "Never know when you might need to bail out."
The banging on the door in the room's shadowed foyer started again, growing more insistent and hurried than when they had first entered.
"And what is that?" said Coogan.
"Don't open the door," replied Stillwell.

Spinella was barely able to get the wheelchair he was pushing off of the plaza and into an alcove before he slumped his decreasing weight against the wall, doubling over as the wet, rough coughing wracked his body. By the time he was finished, his vision was blurred, tears forced from his eyes by the violent fit, his head throbbing. He looked at his handkerchief, studying the spots of blood that were there more often than not now.
The wheelchair's occupant, as ever, stared blankly forward. Even through the numerous layers of thick woolen clothing, it was easy to tell that the man in the chair was emaciated and little more than bones and weathered skin. Wiry gray hair poked out from all around his knit cap, the sunken and waxen cheeks impervious to the feeling of the cold. The rictus grin stuck on his face was not reflected at all in his blank, rheumy eyes. To the casual observer, the only indication that Spinella wasn't pushing a corpse around was the old man's constant, slow cackling. It was apparently a reflex reaction of some sort, a brain defect. The knowledge never made Spinella's mood any better.
Spinella wiped his mouth one more time on his handkerchief, then fished the leather case out of his coat pocket. He took out a cigarette, flicked open the metal lighter, lit it and drew. The smoke seared his lungs, while he felt a slow calmness settle back into his body. He reflected again on the mission. The Foundation's only neurologist sent to reconnoiter Site-7, now unresponsive for two weeks. Accompanying a poorly-understood, anomalous humanoid into an area controlled by Soviet military police. They had told him that he was to get the hell out of there as soon as he could. That was the only part that made even a little bit of sense to him.
Spinella dragged deeply on the cigarette, the pain bright and terrible in his chest. This sort of ridiculous operation was a perfect emblem of today's state of affairs. Unsuitable operatives doing stupid things because there was no other choice. And the evacuation from the Soviet territories wasn't even completed yet. The manner in how things were supposed to improve from here was well beyond his reckoning. He drew on the cigarette until the embers were close enough to burn his fingers. Then he cast the little stub into the gutter, and exhaled a slow, lazy stream of blue smoke into the frigid night air. He was now ready to resume. Just another couple of kilometers. Mindless cackling accompanied Spinella back into the plaza as he pushed the old man's wheelchair ever onward.

The young team leader leaned forward in his chair, and regarded Juhasz. "We never had the chance to debrief when you came back in," said Stillwell. "Lafourche said you had calculated that you were better off here than there. But why? They've already seized eight Sites. You could have finished off this whole thing if you wanted. Killed all of us."
Juhasz leaned back and sighed. He studied the man before him, the curiosity in the prodigal operative's face reminding Stillwell of a professor back at MIT. "It was a close call. The Russians could still win, and in short order. Your little play in the States was quite successful, you know."
"Please don't call that a success." Stillwell's stomach clenched at the memory, his hands suddenly clammy.
"Oh, but it was marvelous. When Zherdev heard what the Americans were doing, he looked like a gutted fish," Juhasz chuckled at the recollection. "You should have seen him. All of them. They thought Truman was coming to wipe them all out. But you, you scared the Yanks so thoroughly, all they have instead is their precious nuclear stockpile."
Stillwell swallowed back the excess saliva and took a couple of breaths. "So why return, if the Soviets have such an advantage? You're a smart man, why choose a losing side?"
Juhasz frowned, clicking his tongue a few times. "I saw what they're planning."
The statement hung in the air between the three men like the unmoving dust motes. The knocking on the foyer door had now turned to heavy thumping, more forceful than before. It rattled the whole room, the vibrations reaching in to Stillwell's bones and imbuing him with the sense that something was very, very angry.
Coogan broke the silence. "How do we know you're not still working for them?"
Juhasz replied softly, the note of concern in his voice surprising to Stillwell.
"Don't open the door."

"Why do you not speak Russian?"
Why? Because I'm supposed to be from Poland, you arrogant prick, thought Spinella. He forced out another line in fake broken English.
"I am not so good with the language, tovarishch. Please, to let my father through to the Institute."
The checkpoint guard looked lean and hungry, like the war had ended yesterday. He looked down at the wheelchair occupant, the grim set of his jaw unwavering as he handed the forged Polish passport and identification back to Spinella. "He looks to be dead soon regardless. You don't look so good yourself."
"It's just a small cough. Too bad, I bought two cartons of cigarettes, here in my satchel, they'll go to waste." Spinella coyly touched the pack hanging from his side. "Oh well. We are just checking in, won't be very long."
"I should say not." The lean soldier permitted himself a slight smile. "Yuri, idi syuda!" He motioned another guard to come over, indicating with a glance Spinella's pack. The second guard, small-eyed and hulking, roughly upended the pack onto a nearby table, shuffling and picking through the contents while the lean guard kept his eyes locked on Spinella, calmly drumming his fingers on the stock of the Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. Yuri sifted through Spinella's pack for what felt like an eternity, the seconds passing like hours. He abruptly stopped his search, tapping his comrade on the arm. The two soldiers conferred over the contents of the pack now, backs to Spinella.
Please just be the cigarettes. Just take the bribe and move on. Spinella's thoughts raced to what else they might be looking at. What other suspicions might be raised.
"What is the meaning of this, now?" The first guard turned back toward Spinella. The second guard was holding a bottle of duty-free vodka, plumbed from the depths of the satchel. Spinella grimaced as he wheezed an exhalation of relief from his chest. The dance continued, just as planned.
"Something to keep me warm on my visit, tovarishch. You know how these things go."
The lean guard smiled once more, tucking the bottle into his coat as Yuri removed the cartons of smokes from the contents arrayed on the table. "We shall inspect these goods further. Lots of smugglers, that sort of thing coming through this crossing. You may take the rest of your belongings and proceed."
The vise that had tightened around Spinella's heart and stomach relaxed its grip. He tried not to let the relief that overtook him show on his face. "Many thanks. We'll be on our way." He moved to push the wheelchair through the checkpoint, when the old man started to cackle. Wheezing, low chuckling completely devoid of anything human, that could have come from a faulty bellows or a distant air vent if Spinella weren't watching it come from his traveling companion. Their passage came to a halt.
Yuri stopped them. "What is so funny, old man?" He stood directly in front of the wheelchair, crouching down to be able to look into the man's lifeless, watery eyes.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. "Please, he is old man, senile, you know?"
The old man continued his reflexive chuckling. Yuri's expression darkened. He looked now to Spinella, accusingly. "Why does he do that?"
"It's reflexive. Please, don't look at him, it upsets him." Spinella hurriedly tried to deflect. Jesus Christ, don't look him in the eyes.
"Traitor in our midst" the old man wheezed out. "Treachery inside. Treachery." He resumed the obscene, mirthless laughter. "I can see it in me, oh yes."
The two guards looked at each other. The lean guard brought his weapon round, his trigger finger sweeping down over the safety lever in a fluid motion as he readied the rifle.
"Do you know what Command put out this morning? They said to watch for anything unusual today at the checkpoints."
He looked at Spinella. The smile was still there, but all traces of amusement were gone.
"You must agree, this situation. It's unusual."
Yuri silently moved behind Spinella. The lean guard continued.
"What sort of man are you bringing in here? What are you playing at?"
The Foundation neurosurgeon was dumbstruck. In all the time they had studied this creature, it had never spoken. But now, this…thing, had picked this moment for the first time to say something. The whole goddamn thing was about to come apart.
There was only one option left now. He would die on his own terms.
Spinella suddenly turned around and drove a fist into Yuri's groin, striking as hard as he could. The soldier cursed, wide-eyed with shock as he sank to his knees. Spinella tried to make a run for it with his wheelchair-bound abomination. As he started, his foot slipped on a patch of ice, and he fell to the ground. Not even a chance to start running, he thought, struggling uselessly to get up. His thoughts were interrupted by a blow to the back of the head that sent him to the ground. The lean guard stood over Spinella, barely visible through his blinding pain, the rifle now pointed at him.
The old man's eyes remained blank the whole time, the stretched translucent skin of his face pulled taut into its ever present skeletal grin, expression unchanging as he inexplicably spoke.
"They'll kill us all. Every single one." The ragged chuckling resumed as the checkpoint gate closed.

The three men were all standing now. The door rattled in its hinges, somehow staying intact through the terrific force on the other side slamming into it. Stillwell's teeth rattled each time whatever it was barreled into the increasingly unstable barrier.
"The room is shrinking" remarked Juhasz.
It was true. If Stillwell jumped, he could now touch the skylight. Something was very wrong.
Coogan clenched his fists. "How is that-"
The three men were knocked from their feet as another blow struck the door frame. The unknown force had knocked a hole through the middle of the door, splinters of wood traveling through the air like mist, unnaturally slow. Only darkness was visible on the other side.
The room had suddenly shrunk again. The ceiling was now just an inch or so over their heads.
"The key" said Stillwell. "We need it now."
Coogan hurriedly unbuttoned his coat and his shirt collar, looking down. "It's not here, it's supposed to be here!"
"It's supposed to be around your neck," shot back Juhasz, "how can it not be there?"
"He has to put it there from outside! I don't have it! What is he doing?"
The two other men looked at Stillwell. They were now hunched together, constricted by the bounds of the room. The chairs were pressed against them and the walls touched their shoulders. They were face-to-face with the door.
Stillwell buttoned his thick, long coat. "Get ready."
Juhasz arched an eyebrow. "For what?"
"I don't know."
Coogan began to pray. A blow of pulverizing force suddenly shattered the door to pieces. The room was no more.

« | Part One | Matryoshka | Part Three | »


To be honest, you felt pretty lucky that you were assigned to one of the least dangerous skips you could think of. It wasn't memetic (or antimemetic for that matter) and all you were required to do was talk to it. The thing eats paper for God's sake!
You get up from your seat, a little apprehensive but not too frightened, and follow her into SCP-2020's cell.
"Hi!" SCP-2020 says, sitting in its chair. "It's nice to have someone to talk to. I'm working on some ideas of mine. Writing, you know. Do you write stories by any chance?"
"I do, actually. I haven't recently because I've been having some trouble thinking of anything to write about though."
"Oh, me too! Maybe, maybe we should brainstorm some ideas together? It always helps me to talk with people about ideas."
You consider for a moment before responding.
"Sure, I don't see why not."
The both of you discuss some of the things you've written before SCP-2020 comes up with an idea that gets your attention:

Maybe something else?

That idea could work.

I mean, it could probably work, right?


"Do you have children, Ekaterina?"
SCP-1041, dressed in loose-fitting gray and black striped clothes, picked another file out of the cabinet and rifled through it, her flashlight scanning quickly, assessing its relative importance against its weight and size. "Experimentation in Extraction of Compound H13-White: Trial Series VII." Into the briefcase it went. She hurriedly moved on to the next shelf.
"No. That would be a grave error." Nechayeva's French was flawless, her aptitude for language one of the reasons for her initial assignment. She looked again at the clock mounted above the door, undoing and redoing the cuff of her thick woolen coat while she waited for her companion to finish. She was ill at ease in civilian attire.
SCP-1041 paused briefly. A grave error. For her, or for everyone? The unspoken distinction was troubling. She continued to fill the briefcase with the most relevant files available. The whole project would never fit in such a small case, but enough points of reference would allow Petrov's people to reconstruct it, in time. "I don't know if I have any children. I mean, I've claimed to be a mother sometimes, but there's never been any proof. I hope for my sake I am. I hope for anyone else's sake that I'm not."
"That doesn't matter right now."
"Hm. I suppose you're right." It was easy to forget how young this woman was, sometimes. The briefcase was almost full. She would only be able to fit the abstract of the paper detailing the final findings. The older woman slid the report out of the case, and undid the clasps binding the pages together. "Where will I be tomorrow, I wonder. I haven't had to think about that for quite some time."
"They shouldn't be here for another eighteen hours. We've repositioned most of our people to Novosibirsk. Once I secure the exit route, you'll be coming with me out of here."
SCP-1041 paused as she considered the plan once more. "Have you had any news of Dr. Geissler?"
The younger woman's face hardened. Lines furrowed around her mouth. "It's better to think of him as dead." SCP-1041's flashlight briefly shone on Nechayeva's steel teeth as she spoke. Despite herself, the older woman felt stabs of regret when she thought of the Foundation researcher. Dr. Geissler had always been likely to come to a violent end, considering where he had come from and what he had begun. But they had all been a part of it, willingly, enabling both Soviet and Foundation scientists to make great leaps of understanding in the terrifying new field they helped create. The older woman had logged a total of four days and eighteen hours of work on Dr. Geissler's project; yet she felt deeply responsible for its ultimate result. And for Geissler.
Right now, though, she was right, she thought. Far better to think of the doctor as being dead. Other thoughts were intolerable at the moment. Nepheshology had been born at Site-7; their job now was to make sure it did not die here. Or worse.
"You have what's required?" asked Nechayeva, nodding to the briefcase.
SCP-1041 paused, shoving the last of the documentation into the case and snapping it shut. "I hope so. We have fifteen minutes at most before the sentries check my block again, we have to hurry."
The two women left the file room, entering a dark hallway. All personnel were focused on maintaining the perimeter and keeping those anomalies that were an immediate threat on lockdown. Even GRU-P didn't have the staff at present to post guards in the research wing. The Foundation operatives at Site-7 had fought dearly to keep control, surprised as they were. The new masters of Site-7 were still awaiting replacements from Moscow for the men they had lost in the operation.
The older woman led the way to the service corridor in the back, where the boiler equipment was kept. In the years she had spent as a mandatory guest of the Foundation, security had never been relaxed. She didn't remember wishing to escape at any point, especially when Dr. Geissler had asked her to participate in his work. But the guard complaining at shift change about how damned drafty it was in the boiler room, that had seemed like something useful to remember at the time. Nechayeva's people at KGB, eager to strike back at their rivals within the Soviet government, had been able to make good use of the information.
Quickly, they twisted their way among the service corridors, steam ducts and wiring snaking over their heads, the hum of the machinery that powered Site-7 growing increasingly louder as they ventured into the heart of the facility. Coming to what looked like a dead end behind three large pipes, SCP-1041 saw a plain access door, next to where the pipes appeared to come through the wall. A thin sheet of frigid air seeped around the frame of the door, a small wind that sliced cleanly through the bare warmth of her clothing, chilling her immediately despite the boiler room's oppressive heat.
Nechayeva produced what looked like a tiny screwdriver and several thin lengths of wire from an inner pocket in her coat. She crouched down level to the doorknob, inserting her tools and levering delicately inside the lock. Within seconds, she heard a small metallic catch, and the door was open.
In her mind, SCP-1041 went back over the route they had taken, repeatedly, hoping that she would not lose her way while rushing back to her cell before inspection. She had never had illusions about the Foundation, or what their capabilities were if they were threatened. But from what she had been told, GRU-P was a different matter. If she were found out, she would need to take the pill that Nechayeva had given her, immediately, and hope that it killed her quickly enough. Even with the fate that surely awaited her if she were captured alive, she wondered if she would be able to do it.
Nechayeva touched her arm, looking her in the eyes. "We haven't forgotten your service." The young KGB operative's face was stony. "I'll be back here for you. We'll meet again."
SCP-1041 squeezed Nechayeva's hand in reply, and then handed the briefcase containing the work of years over to her. "Please know, no matter who I am when you see me again, what I say…I'm grateful for what you have done."
Nechayeva nodded. She opened the access door, cold air now buffeting them, propelled down the exterior service corridor by unknown forces. She drew her service pistol from under her coat, looking into the dimly lit path ahead.
They nodded to each other. Though Nechayeva's permanent frown remained on her face, SCP-1041 noticed now that the younger woman's eyes were not as hard as the rest of her. They still provided a little insight. The future was less certain than the young operative was presenting.
"Do zavtra," said Nechayeva. She moved now into the corridor, disappearing into the winding pathway in just a few seconds, briefcase in one hand, pistol in the other. The service door closed behind her.
SCP-1041 started running back through the boiler room. Matters were out of her hands now.

« | Prologue | Matryoshka | Part Two | »


O5-8 opened the door to the observation deck, brightly lit by a clear morning sun. The observers on the 86th floor had a clear panorama of Manhattan, still buried in snow from the storm passing through the day before. A healthy crowd of men in business suits and women in fur coats were clustered along the concrete wall, peering down at the skyscrapers, posing for photographs. O5-8 scanned the wall, narrowing his eyes against the sun as he spotted a white haired man in a long, black coat standing by the southeastern corner, apart from the crowd, looking up into the sky. He picked his way among the crowd, weaving amongst tourists and businessmen.
He took a place next to the man, and tried to figure out what it was he was looking at. Whatever it was, it was too close to the sun, the glare threatening to blind him. O5-8 settled for a view of the East River, the tiny barges below steadily moving up and down the blue line winding between the endless expanse of the city blocks.
"I'm pleased that you heeded my note." The old man kept looking upwards as he spoke, his deep voice tinged with a Moscow accent.
"You picked a fine place to meet, in enemy territory." O5-8 selected a cigarette out of his case. "I had always envisioned this group as more of a committee, you know. Thirteen men with a common purpose." He lit his smoke as he continued to study the crawling ant-barges eighty stories below.
"The naiveté of youth." O5-13 idly scratched his head in thought.
"How are we going to survive if Two and god knows who else is working against me?"
"Two isn't working against you. He simply doesn't care what you think." O5-13 sighed. "He's been waiting for something like this for a long time."
A crowd seemed to be gathering at the other end of the observation deck's eastern wall. O5-8 turned to face the deck now, leaning his back against the concrete. "Sending a mission to Soviet territory without my knowledge, activating assets, ordering the decommissioning of an anomaly? What else is it but a challenge?"
"Oh, it's a challenge," replied O5-13, "but not to you. Like you, Two sees the world as organized into a series of clear, identifiable factions. And like you, he is wrong about that."
O5-8 let a stream of smoke pass his lips. "The world seems to be shaking itself into two very clear factions, if you ask me."
The older Overseer laughed. "You may be right. And it may very well be happening within this very Council."
"That's an odd observation, coming from you. You're surely aware of the rumors about your loyalties."
"I am the Subdirector for Eastern Eurasia. Only a fool would think I had no ties."
The crowd at the other end of the wall was murmuring. O5-8 glanced over briefly at the increasing commotion. Too many bodies were in the way to discern much of anything.
The younger Overseer frowned. "I'm beginning to think it was a mistake to meet you here."
O5-13 looked over at O5-8. "That mindset will serve you well. The day may come where that is true, but I assure you, it's not today."
O5-8 shrugged. "So what do you recommend? How do I call off the mission? The personnel are already in Poland."
"Call it off? No, no. You're sitting in a good position right now. If you meddle, you waste resources stopping a Foundation initiative, and you concede Site-7 to the Soviet Union. You diminish yourself to the rest of the Council."
"And I tip my hand. As well as yours."
The hint of a smile crossed O5-13's lips. "The best advice comes with a dose of self-interest."
"So I can't act against a mission that I didn't authorize and don't like. How is that a good position?"
The old man turned his face back to the sky. "Two is gambling. He's ignoring factors that would usually make him hesitate, because he sees an opportunity. It's blinding him, and the mission is likely to fail."
A flash of light pinged O5-8's peripheral vision. He glanced over, light glaring from a gold wristwatch. He saw a single person above the fray now at the other end of the wall; a silver-haired man in a gray suit, standing on top of the wall, facing the air. The noise had coalesced into various entreaties not to jump. The man didn't seem to hear them. Sirens started to echo, far below.
As O5-8 was about to step away, he felt O5-13 gently hold him in place, his gloved hand on his arm.
"Never mind that. It's been a long time coming," the old man said, casually waving the scene off. "Use your contacts to keep tabs on the mission. Be ready to pick up whatever pieces are left after this. And pull the snare that Two has set for himself at the right moment."
Thirty feet away from them at the other end of the wall, a gasp went up from the crowd. O5-8 looked over again. The man was no longer on top of the wall.
O5-13 turned up his collar against the cold. The hand on O5-8's arm now patted him on the back.
"Time to go."
The two Overseers walked back toward the elevator, passing unnoticed against a stream of onlookers rushing to see what they had missed, several in police uniforms, a dull roar of excited chatter and word already sparking between the assembled visitors as salacious details, real or imagined, filtered away from the wall and out to the world.
As the doors of the elevator closed on the two men, the car to themselves, O5-8 faced his colleague.
"Who was that, anyway?"
O5-13 had removed his gloves, slender fingers laced together, cracking his knuckles.
"A piece with only one possible move left. The rest you'll read in the papers this evening."
The arrow above the elevator door steadily swept to the left. Seventieth floor. Sixtieth floor.
"I'm sure I will." O5-8 put his hat on. "I appreciate the information, Thirteen. Though I suspect you're the one who should be thanking me, in due course."
"If you play it right, we'll both be pleased."
The two men rode the rest of the way down in silence.
The doors opened. A line of police had cordoned off access to the observation deck, and the two Overseers passed through a mostly empty lobby on the way to the main entrance. Before heading back out into the world, they shook hands.
"Udachi," the old man said. "One believes that you're the man for this job. I'm inclined to agree."
"Auf wiedersehen," the younger man replied. He held the handshake for a moment longer. "If the time comes, Thirteen, you'll need to push me yourself."
O5-13 felt the younger man's firm grip tighten just a little. He smiled, broadly. "I know, Eight. I know."
The Overseers pushed out onto 5th Avenue, taking their leave as they went in separate directions. Down the street, a man freshly arrived from the city coroner's office read off a time as he looked at his watch, an assistant scribbling notes next to a crumpled mass, hastily covered in a sheet. The red stains were beginning to bloom.

« | The Coldest War | Matryoshka | Part One | »


Some comfort may be found in the shadow of the Machine Goddess, our Broken Salvation

Person of Interest File #2273/01
Legal Name: Alexei Belitrov
Aliases used: "Father Anvil"
Associated Groups of Interest: The Eastern Clockwork Orthodox Church1
Reason for monitoring: PoI is a former SCP object. PoI may possess sensitive information regarding SCP Foundation operations and assets.
Course of Action: Monitor communications through standard channels, detain if information leak is detected.
UPDATED 2063/11/01: Monitor known and suspected points of contact, carry out information control measures if information leak is detected.
Priority: Low
Status: Currently believed to be living in Eastern Clockwork Orthodoxy monastery in Volgograd Oblast, Russia.
UPDATED 2063/11/01: PoI is deceased, interred in the graveyard of the Volgograd Eastern Clockwork Orthodoxy monastery.
Background Information: PoI was contained as SCP-2273 by Foundation from 1989 until 2018. Upon Hypothetical Lifted Veil Scenario 2217 having been realized, SCP-2273 was released alongside all other applicable Type C Sapient Anomalies, with provisional PoI status. PoI was given passage to Volgograd, Russian Federation through the Manna Charitable Foundation (MCF)'s Anomaly Reintegration Project. PoI sought employment with Russian Federation government, but was denied due to anomalous status. PoI participated in televised, radio, and online interviews, but was unable to find permanent employment.
In April of 2020, PoI 2273/01 contacted the MCF's Volgograd Office for Anomaly Reintegration (OAR) seeking discreet relocation; MCF internal documents indicate that several displaced anomalous entities had been taken in by various religious entities, including the Eastern Clockwork Orthodox Church. Three weeks following his contacting the MCF, Foundation assets became unable to track PoI 2273/01.
In April of 2021, PoI 2273/01 contacted SCP-██████ (formerly Dr. T. Friedrich, Site-17 humanoid anomaly psychologist) through written correspondence.2 PoI did not disclose his location, and the listed address was a known MCF mail-handling center. Correspondence was handwritten. SCP-██████ reciprocated PoI 2273/01's correspondence, quickly resulting in the regular exchange of correspondence between the two anomalies.
Following SCP-██████'s expiration from lymphoma-related complications on 11 February 2034, all undelivered correspondence addressed to it was returned to senders, including PoI 2273/01's. On 22 February 2034, a phone call from the MCF Volgograd OAR was received by the Site-17 Office for Public Affairs. The caller identified themselves as a former SCP object but did not disclose further information, instead repeatedly inquiring to the state of SCP-██████ and, when informed that SCP-██████ was deceased, requested contact information for next-of-kin. As such information is considered sensitive, this request was denied. It is believed at this time that the person responsible for this interaction was PoI 2273/01. No further information regarding PoI 2273/01's location or status was obtained until the MCF Office for Public Affairs released a public statement declaring that PoI 2273/01 had expired of natural causes one decade prior.3 This public statement also published several previously unavailable documents regarding PoI 2273/01.
Several selected transcribed pieces of correspondence and other related documents are attached to this document. Personality profile of PoI 2273/01 as indicated by these and similar, unattached documents indicate that PoI 2273/01 was a minimal informational security risk to the Foundation.
Attached Documents:
Selected pieces of correspondence addressed to SCP-██████:
Correspondence addressed to SCP-██████ dated 31 March 2021:

Dear Doctor █████████,
I am sorry that it's taken me this long to contact you. I've been busy. As far as I can tell, you're still facing your own issues. I wish that this weren't the case. If you're allowed to speak about it, I'd like to know whether your case handlers are any closer to resolving the issue. If it's sensitive information, I understand.
Doctor, I never had the opportunity to thank you for everything you did for me. You didn't take credit for it, but I know you had a hand in my downgrade to Type C status, that you are at least partially responsible for introducing me to Victoria. And I can never repay you for it. The nightmares still haven't stopped, but, because of techniques you taught me, I can handle it. There is no way I can repay you for that.
The last three years have been hard. I'm not meant for this world, Doctor. This is a world of flashing lights and happy people and air and food and capitalism and things I'd never imagined. Your world is stranger than the books and music and films I was allotted ever allowed me to conceive of. People in Russia walking on the surface, making phone calls to friends in the United States while military personnel from both countries cooperate to secure peace in places like Libya and Syria. It's beautiful, Doctor █████████. And it's not meant for me.
I think of the people I knew in containment often. Is it strange that I miss being in a cell? I miss Penny and his damnable card tricks. I miss playing table-tennis against the — what did Security call it? The "Space Crab?" It was fun to play against it, anyway.
And I miss Victoria. I never told you this, Doctor, but the reason I was so quick to try to be friends with her is because I wanted to make up for what I did in the Toronto bunkers, and elsewhere. I still feel responsible for what happened to her. She was the only one who didn't show disgust the first time she met me. And she was my best friend in this world. Is it strange that an old man's best friend was a small, disabled girl?
On the outside, things are strange. I was able to eke out a living through public appearances for a while, but one can only do so many interviews, repeating the same information, before it becomes exhausting and before there is a loss of public interest. People on the street recognize me and either avoid me like the monster I am or treat me like a celebrity or hero that I am not. It's aggravating to know that eyes are always watching you the way they are out here. This may sound cold-hearted, but I almost miss seeing Russia as a burned and radioactive wasteland. I had to escape from the spotlight, and I hope you understand that.
Doctor █████████, I can never give you back what you gave to me, and I hope this letter finds you in good health and strong spirits. Please, if your handlers will allow it, write back to me. I want to know how everyone still at Site-17 is doing. I understand if there must be some omissions, but unless I am mistaken, they'll allow you to see this letter, so please get back in touch. I do not want us to be strangers.
Your patient and your friend,
Alexei Belitrov

Notes: Letter was translated from German. This was the first piece of correspondence delivered to SCP-██████ sent from PoI 2273/01. It is believed that the entities listed by PoI 2273/01 are, in order, SCP-191-N, SCP-507, and SCP-163-EX. At time of reception, there was no reason to believe that PoI 2273/01 had any information regarding any of these anomalies that had not already been declassified following Lifted Veil Scenario 2217. Low-priority monitoring remained in effect at this time.

Correspondence addressed to SCP-██████ dated 4 December 2022:

Dear Dr. █████████,
It's strange, Doctor. For the first thirty years of my life, I was told that atheism was absolute truth, that religion is propaganda used by capitalists and monarchs to keep the many in chains. In containment, I simply learned to live day-to-day, hoping that I might be allowed something to pass the time. But here? The people who are helping me? They dedicate themselves to their God, and their lives are without worry or pain. They treat me as one of their own and ask nothing of me. They are more understanding of my condition than anyone employed by your Foundation or anyone who tried to help me on the outside.
These people are not in chains, Doctor. They may be the only free people I have ever known.
I do not have a television of my own, but on a trip to a village a few kilometers from the monastery, I saw 163 on television. It was being publicly presented during some sort of conference by an American scientist. I'm glad to see that it's healthy; perhaps more public knowledge of its existence will lead to some resolution of its homesickness? I could never tell when it was happy, but I like to think it enjoyed our games.
On a similar note, I saw that Penny's published an autobiography. One of the clergymen here ordered me a copy. It should be here in a few days. I wonder what he has to say. From what little he was allowed to tell me, his experience with the Foundation had been unique. But I suppose this is true for all of us who have lived on the inside of containment cells. Maybe there's nothing to be learned there at all.
It feels strange to say this, Doctor, but for the first time in my life, I've started praying. I pray for people I've never met, and for people I've lost. I pray for Victoria and Penny and all of you crows. I pray for your health, Doctor, and hope that someday, you'll be able to walk as a free man. Please, write back when you can.
Sincerely,
Alexei
PS: I've finally quit avoiding the issue and have written a letter to Penny. I'll deliver it when I deliver this, and will let you know if he writes back. Thank you so much for giving me his address!

Notes: Letter was translated from German. Signature line was written with a calligraphy pen, the first apparent time such a tool had been used by PoI 2273/01. Analysis of ink and paper indicated that it was not factory-produced, that the paper had been milled using a combination of waste plant fibers and cotton. The ink had been locally manufactured with charcoal and ethanol with results chemically similar to India ink. Later cross-referencing found that both recipes were commonly used by Clockwork Orthodoxy monasteries and communes.

Correspondence addressed to SCP-██████ dated 30 April 2027:

Dear Dr. █████████,
I heard about what's happened. The people who relocated me, they don't want me to return to Site-17. Ever since I've been released, people have assumed that I faced abuse — or even my current condition — because of the Foundation, and these Manna people are no different. I'll call you when I can, if you could give me a good number to reach you at. I'm so, so sorry to hear about this. Please, do what you can to take care of yourself. Follow your physician's orders. Know that my prayers are with you. Penny's, as well.
Does this have anything to do with your other condition? I know the Foundation should cover your medical costs, regardless of whether it is, but perhaps your case handlers could help alleviate your pain if they could work harder to eliminate whatever it is that's put you in a cell. I don't know. I pray for you every night. I don't have materials to make a card here, and my place here has become more permanent, so I can't simply buy one, but I'll do whatever I can to help you. Please let me know how I can help.
Remember that God is with you, comrade.
Alexei Belitrov

Notes: Letter was translated from German. This letter was received shortly after SCP-██████ was diagnosed with Stage III lymphoma. This was not considered an information breach, though SCP-██████ did express distress that this information proliferated through social media and other methods as rapidly as it had. As a result of the content of this letter, it is believed that, at some point following his last letter and before the signing of this one, PoI 2273/01 had joined the Volgograd Eastern Clockwork Orthodox monastery as a full member.

Correspondence addressed to SCP-██████ dated 7 January 2034:

Dear Thomas,
Myself and my brothers and sisters here all pray for a safe surgery and rapid recovery. Please, when you are able, contact me. It has been a cold winter, and good news will help to welcome the coming spring.
I've lost too many friends, Thomas. I have known far too much tragedy in this life. I've seen worlds die, I've seen friends die, I've made men I thought my enemy die. I cannot stand to watch another leave this world so soon, not after hearing about what happened to Penny, not after Victoria. God is with you, I know you believe this too.
You may be unmarried, Doctor █████████, but you are not unloved. You have to be strong for me. You have to be strong for yourself. If you're ever worried that you cannot find the strength to continue, think of the garden you'll plant this spring. I'd like to share gardening photos with you again. Not many of my brothers and sisters here appreciate the simple beauty of a flower bed or the effort that goes into growing a patch of vegetables. It's a beauty I'd like to continue to share.
Trust in the power of our Lord, Thomas, and trust in the power of modern medicine. God is smiling on you. Please, be strong.
With Love and Prayers,
Alexei Belitrov

Notes: Letter was translated from German. On the signed date, SCP-██████ entered radiation therapy to treat its lymphoma, which had entered Stage IV and become metastasized. However, several cancerous tissues had evaded detection and SCP-██████'s condition deteriorated rapidly, resulting in its expiration on 11 February 2034. The letter arrived on 15 February 2034, and, following analysis for informational breaches, was returned to the sender address at the MCF Volgograd office. This was the last confirmed contact by PoI 2273/01 with Foundation personnel/tracked anomalies prior to his death.

Selected Excerpts from journals secured following public announcement of PoI 2273/01's departure:
Excerpt from a journal entry dated 7 January 2035:

I'm only writing to gather my thoughts. I don't believe I'll be keeping this journal regularly.
Today is the day that our monastery celebrates the birth of our Lord. However, I feel no desire to celebrate. All of my friends in this world are dead. My brothers and sisters are partaking in some celebration outside my dormitory; all of the required ceremonies are complete, and neither they nor whatever is happening out there now will lighten my mood.
Father Cogwheel and Mother Axle both spoke to me today, expressing concern. This is the first Christmas I have spent alone in this world, so I do not expect them to understand. Though they are both Standardized, they do not know what it's like to sit in a containment cell, or what small comfort might be gleaned from a piece of familiar music. They are machines, stuck in mechanical ways. They talk of confession and forgiveness, but they do not know what it's like to confess to war crimes, to murdering innocent children, while a man behind a glass partition nods and tells you that you can be forgiven. They do not know the joy one might feel when teaching a small child chess or watching her eyes light up as you tell her stories. And they do not know the darkness that can enter a soul when one sees those people die.
I know there is comfort in the words of God, in the Schema and the words of the Holy Bible. But this comfort evades me now. I do not know if I will ever find comfort again. But I have survived greater trauma, so I will try.
Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.

Notes: This and all further journal entries were translated from Russian. Though they were not released until 10 years following PoI 2273/01's death, they were valuable in confirming that PoI 2273/01 had direct connections to the Eastern Clockwork Orthodox Church. However, these journals were written during a 29-year gap in surveillance of the subject; full information on the subject's activities during this time will likely never come to light.

Excerpt from a journal entry dated 16 July 2039:

Sermon Notes/Ideas:
"Finding strength in Our Mechanized Salvation's Promise to Return?"
"Why Standardization must be sought after?"
"The beauty of industrialization"
"Our Mechanized Salvation's Grand Design?"

Simplicity found in nature
Self-constructing systems
Strength of naturally-occurring systems
Adaptability of Humankind/beauty of human ingenuity

Notes: Page had been torn from the journal but later replaced. Page showed wrinkle marks. Adjacent pages contained further notes on an apparent sermon PoI 2273/01 had been assigned to write by high-ranking individuals within the monastery. This is possibly indicative of promotion of PoI 2273/01 within the monastery's religious hierarchy. No evidence of the actual content of the sermon or whether it was ever delivered has been discovered.

Excerpt from a journal entry dated 21 September 2053:

I have lived a long life. It has been a painful life. My earliest memories are of mushroom clouds and radioactive rain and cold concrete bunkers. I spent one-third of my 95 years fighting a war I should never have believed in, and another one-third of my life within a cell, never seeing sunlight and being tossed children's novels to keep me compliant. It has only been in the last third of my life so far, what I strongly believe to be the final part of my life, that I have seen our Goddess's light and mercy.
I know that I am a sinner, and that prayer or a modest life as the one I have lived will not be enough to earn our Goddess's forgiveness. But this does not concern me. I have sinned and will pay for my sins in kind. She has cursed me, such that I may not be Standardized, but she has also blessed me, that I may see the wicked in Humanity and may be equipped to speak out against it. I am not concerned that I will pay for my sins but rather, that I have not fully fulfilled my Purpose in Her Grand Design.
We are, each of us, cogs and gears and springs and axles and all other manner of mechanisms in Her Grand Mechanism. She has been Rebuilt, and She has departed our world with a promise of a Return. But She was never truly Broken, as we are, each of us, a part of Her and She a part of us. Those who do not follow our faith, in the footsteps of Our Mechanized Salvation and of Her Son Jesus Christ, are not doomed to eternity as nourishment for the Flesh because they are heretics, but because they seek to make violence in the world, seek to disassemble the beauty of Her Grand Design. Buddhist, Muslim, Hindu, Christian, Jew, and all others are equals in the Eyes of Our Mechanized Salvation, and it is not those who do not know the Words, but rather those who would hurt Her Children who are frowned upon. And all of Humanity are Her Children.
I do not believe that my time in this world is much longer. Brothers and Sisters, when my time of Judgment comes, do not mourn me. I would rather you remember these words: the Goddess is most pleased with those who seek kind, non-violent resolution to their problems, because a machine whose gears grind against each other is a machine that cannot work. Seek truth, but also compassion. The Words are only words. Seek out the Truth within them.
God bless you all.
Father Anvil

Notes: The preceding is the final known journal entry authored by PoI 2273/01. It is believed that PoI 2273/01 had prepared this statement in lieu of a last will and testament, or in addition to one. MCF and Eastern Clockwork Orthodoxy documents indicate that PoI 2273/01 was found deceased from apparent old age within his dormitory on the morning 13 October 2053, less than a month following authoring the excerpt. This and other documentation confirm that PoI 2273/01 had achieved some rank within the monastery's religious hierarchy, though a precise date for the adoption of the moniker "Father Anvil" is unknown.
Closing remarks:

At this time, it is believed that PoI 2273/01's remains are interred within the graveyard at the Eastern Clockwork Orthodoxy monastery where he spent the last years of his life. There is no substantial evidence of informational leaks as a result of PoI 2273/01. I am recommending this file for closure.

— Agent Lakshmi Turnbow, Foundation Records and Informational Security Administration

Footnotes
1. A Christian Reconstructionist Sect with roots in the Russian Orthodox Church and the Clockwork Orthodoxy
2. Following Lifted Veil Scenario 2217, all Type B and Type F sapient anomalies were allowed to assume/resume citizenship of their respective states and allowed certain privileges (such as controlled correspondence) despite the need for continued containment. At time of writing, Type A Sapient Anomalies remain in isolation, per Ethics Committee Ruling #926433, dated 29 November 2029.
3. MCF standard operating procedures dictate that individuals discreetly relocated by the Anomaly Reintegration Project will only have personal information made available to the public at their discretion or 10 years following departure in order to preserve such persons' privacy.


Dr. Cassandra Pike spent this Friday night the same way she had spent every Friday night for the past three months: curled up on the couch, eating vanilla ice cream mixed with popcorn, watching some cartoon that her niece had gotten her into on her laptop. She tried to not click on the pictures folder, but her cursor was already hovering over it, and her finger tapped the trackpad.
In the folder were photos of her and her… ex-non-fiance. She winced, trying to tell herself it was just brain freeze, but she knew better than that. The photographs were of her and… him, doing various things. Going to a screening of the Avengers together. During that whole weirdness with the sentient toilet paper during Halloween 2011. Her handling cloned smilodon cubs. Her trying on a wedding dress as a joke-
She closed the folder and breathed slowly.
"One… two… three… four… in. One… two… three… four… ou-" she coughed and tried not to spill her dairy-and-corn confection on the laptop. As it turned out, it wasn't a good idea to try and count out loud while doing breathing exercises.
She shut off her computer for the night, and got up to go to bed. She did her usual routine: not brushing her teeth, not showering, taking her pills only because her pillbox reminded her to, and flopping into bed.

The next day, she went to Site 87's break room for coffee. It wasn't very good, but she didn't want to get out of the site for fear of… him seeing her. She had made a token effort of preparing her hair and makeup as she started up the percolator, looking up at the ceiling.
Someone tapped her shoulder. "Cass?"
She spun around and faced Dr. Margaret Reese, head of Bioengineering. "Oh. Hello."
"Are you okay?"
"…what do you think?" She sighed and brushed her hair aside with her hand. "And before you ask, yes, I've gone to see Dr. Palmer this week."
"That's good. Is he helping with the… you know."
"…Anger Management is hard to find in the Foundation, surprisingly. All the big groups are at 77 or 19 or something. This place is so smiles and rainbows-y to the point that I wonder if anyone but me in this town has relationship troubles."
"Anyone but you and-"
At that point in time, another person entered the break room. Seeing who it was, Dr. Pike bowed her head, shaking and hiding behind her hair. She needed to wash it.
The person was a rather lanky man, with large, coke-bottle glasses over his eyes, who walked past Dr. Pike, heading towards the coffee machine. He didn't even acknowledge her presence. He looked at Dr. Reese and nodded. "Margaret."
"Dr. Mattings."
"There's going to be a transfer into your team today; it's only temporary. The project my team's working on keeps on shorting out one of our junior researcher's insulin pumps. We don't know how, either."
"All right. I'll await…"
"Her."
"Her. Tell her to see me in my office for a project brief."
"Very good." Dr. Claude Mattings pushed his spectacles off his nose and walked out of the room.
It was only now that Dr. Pike realized she wasn't breathing. She gasped and coughed, putting her coffee on the table, and rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. It was a nervous habit of hers.
Dr. Reese frowned. "Why didn't you say anything to him?"
Cassandra swallowed and coughed before speaking. "I'm so scared. He said he has a moratorium against me- if I try to talk to him, he'll just… go to Weiss, and then it's off to the padded room for me."
Dr. Reese stared, tilting her head quizzically. "…what the hell did you do in order to get him to do that?"

"You did that because she tried to apologize?!" Dr. Johnathan West stared at Claude as he sat next to him at the bar, drinking a bourbon.
"She was constantly pestering me. All of her e-mails were things like "Please come back", "I'm sorry", "I still love you, can we make this work"… it got tiring."
"Even so, not allowing her to speak to you at all… that's fucking harsh."
Dr. Mattings raised an eyebrow. "She can talk to me if she wants. She just needs to stop constantly pestering me with apologies."
"That… is not what Margaret said. Dr. Pike seems to be under the impression that if she even acknowledges you exist, she'll get shipped off to D-Class Conditioning or something."
Claude sighed. "As always, she overreacts. She has issues. If she can ever work through them, then maybe…" He sighed. "I dunno. Another bourbon."
"That's your third shot tonight."
"Sixth. I had a couple when you were taking a leak."

Dr. Pike raced down the hall. She was late for the seminar, and she needed to make it if she wanted to get raised a clearance level. She held her work binder to her chest, ran around the corner-
And ran smack into the last person she wanted to see today, or this week, or this century. She looked up at Claude, visibly flinching. "D-Dr. Mattings."
"Dr. Pike," he said, pressing up his glasses. "You do know that your restraining order doesn't expire until month's end."
"I-I'm sorry, it was an accident…"
"…you've been good, so I'll let it slide. Don't let it happen again." He pushed up his glasses, and walked past her.
Dr. Pike stood there for another five seconds, then fell to her knees, clutching her binder and crying.

Dr. Reese was not pleased. That much was evident by the demeanor in her office. She usually had a pot of tea ready on a hot plate in case someone came in to talk to her, and the place always had a smell of something vaguely autumn-like in it; this was supposedly part of a treatment Dr. Reese was undergoing for some medical condition she had, but this was just hearsay around the site.
Now, the tea was gone, and the office smelled like winter. Dead leaves, cold, and hopelessness. Dr. Reese looked out from behind her desk, frowning as Claude Mattings entered the door and took a seat in front of her desk.
"What seems to be the problem?"
"I have a right mind to just… kick you out of your project and assign you to… I don't know, scraping the gunk out of the nanite tank, Mattings."
Claude stared at her, confused. "What did I do?"
"'You've been good, so I'll let it slide'? Are you trying to sound like a complete psychopath, or do you just want to drive her insane?"
Dr. Mattings's hand greeted his forehead with a high-five.
"Are you denying you said that?"
"…I'm not, but…" Claude rubbed his face. "Look. She has more issues than a Spider-Man book."
"As in the characters, or as in the actual number of issues of the comic book?"
"Pick one," Mattings snorted. "You have any idea how often she's done this? How often she just… blows up, throws a fit, and almost instantly cools down? We've had massive fights that have ended with her telling me to- and I quote- "Go fuck myself with a peyote cactus until I start taking a magic voyage"- and almost instantly after that, she starts crying and acting regretful. It's bizarre, and I just got sick of it."
"…I'm aware of her issues. When her cat died, she actually threw her computer monitor out of her window, and then spent the next five days cleaning it up and working overtime to buy a new one, and another two weeks after that to fully pay for the broken window. She is trying, though."
"Or so she claims."
"Mattings!" snapped Dr. Reese.
"Look, I can't put up with thi-"
"She's scared of you."
Claude blinked. "…what?"
"Why do you think I'm talking to you instead of her? The restraining order expired yesterday. She's still terrified of talking to you. She's missed five seminars because you attended them, too. She's only recently started working on containment projects again, and even then, your whole passive-aggressive bullshit the other day threw her off of work so badly that she checked herself into the infirmary." She threw up her hands. "But, it's moot anyway. She's requesting a transfer off-site."
Claude's eyebrow went up. "…where to?"
"Site 48. Harkness, Maryland. A Dunwich-Class Nexus. You might know it as 'The town that's populated entirely by people sick with anomalous diseases'."
Both of his eyebrows were up, now. "…you can't be serious. She hates germs."
"She hates herself even more, right now."
"For fuck's sake, like she'd ever do it." Claude made for the door. "She's making a toy out of you, Reese. She's manipulating you into feeling sorry for her." He opened the door, and was about to close it behind him, when Dr. Reese asked a question.
"Does she know she's doing it?"
"…I've asked myself that question hundreds of times." He closed the door and came back into the room. "She's… frustrating. She's incredibly cruel and manipulative at times, but… I don't think she can fathom how cruel she is. She needs to see what kind of effect this has on others and take responsibility for it. Is that too much to ask for?"
"It isn't. But… hell, she was going to propose before all this happened."
"Yeah, well. Nuts to that, eh?" He sighed, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger in his pocket. It was a nervous habit he acquired; he didn't know where from. "I… do want to reconcile with her, some day. If she can prove she's ready. I don't hate her."
"At least there's that."

"Just… talk to him, please?" Dr. Reese frowned as she sat by Cassandra in the break room the next day. "He doesn't hate you, and he wants to talk."
"…I don't know if I can," Dr. Pike replied, sipping at her coffee. "I just… I'm scared."
"Scared? Of him?" Dr. Reese sighed. "We deal with the horrors of the universe on a daily basis. Last week, fifteen people in town were eaten because some nanites bounced off the back of a Foundation truck and their container burst. And you're scared of talking to a person? It's not like he's 682 or something."
"No, I worked with 682, once. It at least had the balls to admit how disgusted they were by everything." She clutched her cup, trembling.
"Cassie… just… talk to him, okay?"
At that point, Dr. Mattings walked into the break room.
Dr. Pike stood up, swallowed, wiped her eyes, and approached him.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"…shit kinda sucks, huh?" Claude rubbed the back of his head. "It takes two to tango, though."
"Yeah." Cassie looked down at the floor and rubbed her hair. "…want to try again?"
He looked down at her, and walked out of the room, beckoning her to follow. They had catching up to do.