May 2, 1997
Min Yu Zhang, servant of the New-Moon Emperor, wiped the sweat from his brow. He was not usually a man to tremble, but nonetheless he was humbled by the great stone tomb, finally freed from its own grave in the earth beneath the bleak wastes where Genghis Khan rode. The blisters on his hands from days at the shovel seemed insignificant in comparison to its smooth black façade. Great black chains wrapped around the cube tightly, ending in the gigantic circular lock on the vault door. Soon those chains would be broken, the door would open, and then…
Then the old ways would return and Great Night would begin. These men who uncovered the tomb would die, yes, but their sacrifice was to usher in a new age, an ancient, powerful age. Those who had been dead would return, and the Sleeping God now awoken would once again lead them to victory.
The cadre Speaker began the prayers in his high, quavering voice. The other workers dropped their tools, took their positions around the tomb and lay themselves prostrate in the dirt. The Speaker's voice, unpleasant as it was in everyday speech, grew to magnificence as it echoed around the excavation site. The tomb's presence did not allow for any of the faithful to be less than properly glorious, but even then, it dwarfed them, surrounded them, towered over them. The prayers were mere words, dribbling from the mouth.
The god within listened with dead ears.
The Speaker's voice trailed off. This was not right. Zhang looked up. The speaker stood frozen, his arms outstretched in supplication, his lips parted in mid-syllable, and his eyes locked on the rim of the site. Zhang followed his gaze: there were men standing on the rim. They were not wearing clothing appropriate to the cadre: these were soldiers, government soldiers, guns aimed at the praying cadre.
“Well howdy-doody, motherfuckers,” drawled a scrawny, rat-faced man with a cigarette dangling from his lip. English. Zhang did not understand the words, but he could tell the intent: mockery of a defeated enemy. Oh, the fool. Such a fool.
A larger man who stood beside the ratty one gave his compatriot a sideways glance of exasperation. He clasped his hands behind his back, cleared his throat, and then spoke in heavily accented Chinese.
[Remain face down and place your hands on your heads. You will not be harmed if you surrender peacefully.]
Who? How? There had been guards! They had paid off the government!
The Speaker did not kneel. With a look of utmost disgust, he raised a thumb to the interlopers. He was answered by a pattering of bullets. Zhang watched him fall to the dirt.
“What the fuck, they're all scrubs. Shoot the rest,” the rat-face man said.
More bullets. Min Yu Zhang died lying on his stomach. The gunshots echoed into dust and nothingness. John Dawson shrugged, tapping the ashes off of his cigarette.
“I love it when they do the fish in a barrel thing.”
Dmitri sighed.
“Is not honorable.”
“Not a fuckin' scrap. The way I figure, with you working for the Russkies and me for Uncle Sam back in the day, we're basically a walking honor deficit.”
“Says you, capitalist American swine.”
“Perhaps this conversation would be better suited for another time,” A man in an officer's uniform walked up to them. He was older, with graying hair, a bristly beard, and a small triangular patch on his arm bearing an opened eye in the center, framed by an olive wreath. The man had introduced himself earlier as Agent Knight.
John tossed the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it under his boot.
“What the fuck, let's go check this thing out.”
The three descended the dirt ramp to the base of the excavation site. The soldiers remained on the rim, spreading out around its edge. At this point they would just get in the way.
“What can you tell us about tomb?” Dmitri asked Knight. "Our information was…not detailed."
“The tomb? Harmless. A block of warded stone. It is what is inside the tomb that is not. Interpretations of the Sleeping God vary: the name is Able or Ablel or Abln, in some works he is a honorable warrior, in others a mindless savage, and in a great many he is somewhere in between. He is supposed to be some prehistoric hunter-gatherer war-god, unstoppable in combat, at least by stone-age standards, and supposedly immortal. He grew proud, and so the ancients sealed him away in his tomb, asleep for eternity. Unfortunately, so long as he remains in the tomb, we cannot harm him.”
“So we're going to kill a god.” John took out another cigarette from his jacket pocket. “I can dig it.”
“That is the end goal, yes. The tomb must be opened and the Sleeping God woken in order to destroy it."
"Is great risk," Strelkinov said. "I do not think we have enough men. Or tanks."
"All you need do is observe, captain. We will take care of this."
Knight reached into his jacket and removed a metal flask.
“Whatever you do, do not move until the kill-op has begun.” He clicked the walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder. "Prepare opening ritual."
Knight walked to the door of the tomb and began to draw a thin line of blood red symbols in the dust. The line extended thirty feet or so, and consumed another three flasks before ending in a circle around the three men. Up on the rim, the Coalition soldiers were doing the same, tracing their own circles and symbols into the dirt, as well as one around the entire dig site.
Knight waited until they had finished before reaching to his walkie-talkie again.
“Stand by: I am opening the tomb.”
Reaching back into his jacket, Knight removed a palm-sized figurine, very worn with age. He set it on the ground and pulled a knife from his belt. One clean cut. Blood dripped down from his hand onto the idol. It began to pulse and melt, changing shape until it resembled a stone heart, each vein and fiber hyperreal, beating silently. Knight plunged his knife into it.
The air rumbled, sounding like an earthquake.
The chains dropped to the ground, thudding with leaden booms.
The lock turned slowly, stone grinding on stone.
The tomb door rolled away.
The dust cleared.
Able, the Sleeping God walked out of the tomb, no longer asleep.
He stood at least eight feet tall, with skin the color of sun-darkened leather, covered in tattoos of some forgotten and occult meaning. His hair was black and matted, hanging down below his shoulders. He was naked, all save a hide loincloth, and his features had a primitive look about them, a god of another age.
The god walked towards them, shoulders slumped, an expression of bored distaste on his features. It was an expression of “I am waiting to kill something, and you are keeping me from that.”
“Do not move. We are standing within the summoner's circle: he is obligated to address us before killing us,” Knight whispered.
The god snorted with disdain before speaking in a voice that rumbled up from the pillars of the world. His breath was stale and foul.
“Athu basher. Kazikul ta faren ja-marl. Avskani?”
It was clear that he wanted a response. Knight reached for his walkie-talkie again.
“Initiate Code Cobalt-Triplet-Finnegan.”
The Sleeping God tilted his head slightly and shrugged. A shimmer in the air around his hand was followed by a long obsidian blade from nothingness. The Sleeping God raised it, with the same bored expression. This was hardly sport, his face said.
“Oh, hey there! What're you doin'?”
The god froze. His sword arm lowered, and he turned around, back towards the tomb.
Someone was sitting on top of the cube, a tallish man wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a worn Pink Floyd tee and patched khaki pants. His head was a tin of lutefisk, and he held a ukulele in his hands. Defying all sense of logic, he still had a mouth, stretched just beyond the edges of his metallic face in a Cheshire grin.
The man strummed a single chord and began to sing.
“What would you think if I sang out a tune? Would you stand up and walk out on me?”
The Sleeping God stared dumbfounded, silent rage seeping out of every pore at this display of insolence.
In a blink the man was standing in front of the open tomb door. His head was a cauliflower. Another strum.
“Lend me your ear and I'll sing you a song, and I'll try not to sing out of key.”
He stood behind the god, looking over the right shoulder. His head was a toothbrush. Another strum, and then a pause.
“Now, I forget the next line, but I think it has something to do with grievous bodily harm.”
With the grin growing just a little bit wider and a little bit more joyful, he smashed the ukulele over the Sleeping God's head.
—
“I must congratulate you, Agent Knight. You have done an excellent job with Francis' conditioning. I'm surprised that the Coalition has been so cooperative with the project.”
“Agent Ukulele is as much use to us as he is to you, and we know how to dispose of his kind. Once he has served his purpose, we will dispose of him as well.”
“If the non-combat persona can be implanted successfully, that may not have to happen.”
“Perhaps. I make no promises on the matter, and neither do my superiors.”
“Understandable. Now, as we agreed, Francis will remain under Coalition jurisdiction until the non-combat persona is successfully implanted. The recovered entity will as well, as Francis is the only force we have available of resisting and overpowering it. Our staff on the project will remain the same for the second phase of his conditioning, and since there's nothing else to report, I will allow you to take your men and leave. Francis has already been put back into his coma and is ready for transport.”
“Thank you, Dr. Crow.”
…
…
…
…
“Ah, Sophia. Please, come i…”
“What were you thinking?”
“Excuse me?”
“You allowed the Coalition to deploy Francis in the field before we could confirm that the conditioning even worked! He could have leveled half the continent, if not worse!”
“Sophia, I appreciate your concern, but at the moment it is a non-issue. Francis managed to not only overpower the entity, but doing so proved that the conditioning did work: our project was able to create a stable persona for him and control his powers through it.”
“A persona that is a sociopathic murderer at best, based off of Soviet conditioning memetics twenty years out of date. He's unbelievably unstable, Crow. If the conditioning breaks down, what then? The Coalition could have easily snuck in some sort of killswitch or designed him to fail as an excuse to kill him.”
“Possibly, but the Coalition can't afford to lose a weapon like him.”
“What if he starts using powers outside of what the persona allows? What if he breaks free of our control? Will you be willing to accept those consequences?”
“Yes. Yes I will. Sophia, I know the dangers involved, and I know that the Coalition is begrudging in this project, but they have experience that we don't in matters like this. We need them at the moment, and so we cooperate.”
“It's on your head then.”
“I never expected otherwise.”


September 21, 2011:
Lament awoke with a start at the shifting at the door. He'd be thinking. Dreaming again. It wasn't good, but it was what it was. He raised the gun at the door, glancing at the spent cartridges so he'd know exactly how many he had in there in case he needed one for himself or a friend. The matte black uniform of one of the site security forces made him relax again for a moment.
"Is anyone alive in there?"
Lament debated answering, but chances were that they'd torch the room to be safe. 940 outbreaks were best answered with fire. Site-37 had been entirely immolated and rebuilt, but the infrastructure of 19 would mean that a room by room clearing would be necessary.
"Yo!" he called.
And ten minutes later, he was clear, better armed, and fed for the first time in two days. He was escorted from that wing of the site without incident, and as he sat in the infirmary, leaning against the wall while the genuine injuries were treated, he found himself wanting to stand up and walk off again. But he didn't. He curled up against the wall, closed his eyes, and slept.

Lament was woken by a hard shake to his shoulder, his hand immediately flying to his hip, reaching for his gun to shoot and kill immediately until he looked up and recognized the face. He let out a slow breath, slumping down against the wall. "Fuck, Dodridge."
"Get up, man. We're due for debriefing."
"To hell with that," Lament pushed himself up slowly and leaned against the wall. "This is why I hate active duty…" he complained, scratching his arm and nodding to Dodridge that he was ready, following him down the hall to the mess for coffee and another meal. The two of them ate quickly, barely talking.
"You still talking to the Erdrich girl at twenty-three?" Lament asked.
"Yeah," Dodridge said flatly.
Lament chewed his sandwich. "She hot?"
"Yeah, she's hot."
"You thinking of transferring back to security for a while?"
Dodridge shrugged. Lament nodded. And they finished the meal in silence.
The debriefing took maybe forty minutes. It was a regular discussion. When were you two alerted? How long did it take you to get to the site? Why did you split? Were you able to reach the site nuclear device, Agent? Were you able to successfully reseal the lock on the 682 wing, Agent? Were you, Agent? Did you, Agent? Why didn't you, Agent? Agent? Agent? Agent? Blah blah blah.
It wasn't until the end of the meeting that Lament realized that Djoric was one of the men on the panel. He waved at him. Djoric made eye contact for a moment, looked away, then left. It made him remember Sandy again, remember the times the two of them had sat together, laughing and bouncing ideas off of each other. Remember the look on 106's face as his friend was pulled into the blackness of the pipes. Remember how he always counted his bullets now.
Dodridge broke the silence. "You wanna get a beer, Lament?"
"Nah, man. I'm good."
"Suit yourself. I'm getting shit faced," Dodridge said.
Lament laughed. "Tell Alice I said hello when you talk to her."
"Yeah, whatever, asshole."
Lament smirked, Dodridge flipped him off, and he was gone. He stood in the hall for a minute, wondering if Sophie was still stationed here. They'd lost track of each other after he'd gone active, but that was just how the job was. It was why he knew Dodridge would go to Site-23 full time. And he'd end up… He didn't know what.
He sighed and turned down the hall, walking down it aimlessly, but unsurprised when he found himself again outside the office he'd hid in for two days. He pushed into it.
The cleaning crew had already been through, putting things back where they belonged. Gears' desk was back in position, as well as his old one. It feel eerily… the same. Too close. Too similar. It felt like four years ago.
"Agent."
He turned, looking over his shoulder as his hand dropped nervously to his sidearm, resting on it for a moment as the familiarity of the voice sank in.
"Dr. Gears."
He looked the same. Bald pate. Smooth, expressionless face. Clear, cold eyes.
"I understand you took refuge here during the outbreak."
"Yes, sir," Lament said.
Gears nodded to him, then walked past him to his desk, sitting down at it and opening a file. "If you have time, there's a mild, level two threat I would like to consult with you on."
"Am I cleared for that, sir?" Lament asked.
When Gears looked up at him, he imagined a smile. It was a habit he'd picked up. Implying the emotions that were never there.
"I can secure the clearance, if you wish, Agent."
Lament nodded. "Of course, Doctor."
"Very well. I can meet with you after lunch today."
Lament nodded, feeling the kind of familiarity that left a pit in your gut. He looked at the man, wondering if his new assistant had died in the attack. Killed themselves like Iceberg had. Run like him.
"Of course, Doctor. Maybe I can talk to my supervisors at Site14 and see about a temporary reassignment, if you're in need of assistance."
Gears didn't respond, but then, Lament hadn't expected him to. He turned, pushing through the door and into the hall, looking both ways and then walking toward the arboretum. Maybe Sophie was still stationed here…

Gears watched the agent leave, wishing he could have done… something. Anything at that moment. He was actually… glad to have him back. Thrilled, even. But it never touched his face. He never smiled. Never congratulated him.
Nothing.
He unlocked and opened his bottom, left drawer, the one that was nearly empty except for a few classified memos. It was his 'destroy' file, a place where he kept things that were sensitive and needed to be completely expunged. There was only one file there that had lasted longer than a week. He quietly reached into the drawer, pulling out a plastic bag. There was a piece of paper inside it, a splatter of blood across the faded letterhead. He looked down at it and read it again, as he had a hundred times before.

It happened. It finally happened. I was watching Agent Shelly walk down the hall, doing that one hip thing.
I just watched, then posted my work to Records. I didn't drool, or make a pass, or anything. I felt it, I felt it inside, the vague desire, but there was no reason to act on it. I'm not even upset about it, really, just…nothing.
They trust me with too much, mainly because nobody else will take it, or maybe that's been a part of it too. I looked into the files. I dug back and sent requests for the old hard copies. I know what happened, and what they want.
He's trapped, inside, he can feel, but not react to it. What could be a worse hell? And what could be better for them?
They know what they're doing. The personality type. The ones who are susceptible. His was an accident. I'm not letting it happen to me on purpose.
I know you'll be the one to find this. Tell them I'm sorry. Please? And if you've still got a soul in there, warn the next guy.
-Iceberg

Gears stared at the note for a long moment, and for an instant, he was almost certain he felt the sensation of a tear rolling down his cheek, but when he raised his hand to it, it was dry. Bone dry.
He dropped the note back into the bottom drawer and stood. He looked over at the desk that had sat empty for the past four years. And he felt regret.
But it didn't show.

« Part 7 | HUB | »


☦A story that should've been a joke.☦
When they sent me to the ocean, I knew I would never see my family and friends again. I had never seen the ocean before. Never been to the beach. I don't even like visiting the swimming pool. But that's okay. As long as I'm making the world a better place for the innocent and the pure to live in, I'll be fine. Even the strangers, that kind man who looked to me in pity as if he could know my sacrifice. That's what I told myself when I took the injections and the treatments. Even when Stacie saw me after the first session and she threw her engagement ring in my face. As long as Stacie can have a few more reasons to use that beautiful smile, I can bear that burden. I know I can. When I dove into that vast plane of salt water, I held no regrets.
It was with my determination I had lived as long as I had, in complete isolation. I made sure to avoid the ships and the boats. I grew to learn exactly where my targets liked to stay, where they liked to migrate and wander. I knew where to place my fist for the most optimal attack. It was perhaps the most fulfilling time of my life. Even if the world would never know -save for a rare few- that I existed, I knew I was doing good in the world. People don't have to fear swimming in the beaches because of me. People don't have to worry about fishing because of me. Did you know that some sharks have been found at least 4000 kilometers inland? Without someone like me to keep them from getting in freshwater, sharks would overrun our rivers and change the world as we know it! Because of my efforts, people can sleep safely at night. No matter the struggles, I'm sure as long as I keep them in mind, all of this will be worth it.

People have caught me. How? What? I'm not anomalous!
Get me out of here! I won't do any of your testing! I have sharks to punch! Don't you understand the importance of my efforts? Without me, sharks will overrun humanity!

It's been months now I've been here. I've got a system going. I can still save these people. It doesn't matter what they think I am or who they are. They send me sharks. It won't be as effective as it once was, but that's okay. I can still help them; they just don't know I'm doing it for them. For humanity. Nothing matters but the greater good and the greater good shall be through my fists. It is not the most peaceful or the most kind way. But it's the only way to keep humanity safe. I still think of Stacie. I hope she's smiling, somewhere. She'll never know my struggles for her, for everyone. But that's okay.

They've been slowing down. Can't they see the importance of my work?

I see why they've kept me here now. They're here to keep me from helping people. They know what I do and how I'm helping humanity and they cannot be human. They're sharks. How did I not see this before?! They've tricked me all this time, slowing down my work, keeping me from my job. But it's okay now. They don't know what I know. I'm in the belly of the beast and they may think they have me cornered but they've given me more opportunity than ever before to help humans. I can bring down this system myself. It's the only way to keep humans safe from this society of sharks in secret. They want to bring us, humanity, down but I won't let them. I will fight for us all and I will never back down. I will stop their agenda the only way I know works by any means possible.

I've had it so wrong for so long. How could I have been so blind? Stacie was right when she left. I thought I was protecting humanity. I was fighting for the right side. It never occurred to me that I too, loved those spots my targets liked. I never realized I had for so long wandered in the same places they did not because I knew to hunt them but because I…
But I'm still a man inside. I know I am. I'll remove that monstrous part of myself. I'll suppress it. I know how to, I've done it so many times before. I've been training decades for this. I'm a goddamned professional and I know how to fix this. When I do I'll get out of here and do my job right this time. I can still fix myself.

Why won't it work? I know it works why won't it work I know it works I know it must work it must I must keep trying I must keep trying it will work it has to work
I had hoped at first it would go away. I'd remove it, as I had removed all other things. The monster I was would swim away from the man I am. I know what I am. I cannot escape. No matter how fast I swim I can't swim from myself and no matter how hard I punch it's not the monster it is me. Sometimes if I punch myself hard enough I can forget what happened and remember what I was to do and feel determined like I used to feel. If I punch hard enough I know I'll forget everything forever.

Please don't remind me, I want to forget.
Please don't remind me I beg you
please don't make me remember
please


March 15, 1994
Francis tapped his pen against his chin, surveying the great sheet of paper pinned to the wall. He had been here longer than he thought: great swathes of it were covered in lines of his writing. He selected a reasonably-sized blank space and began to print in thin, neat letters.
[Next question: how do you perceive what I am writing?]
The drawing of a girl picked up a drawing of a piece of chalk and wrote on the drawing of a blackboard next to her.
[I hear it.]
[But you can't see us.]
[No.]
[Do people sound different to you?]
She erased the board to make more room.
[A bit. Sometimes a lot. Some people mumble, and some people sound really uptight and draw out their words. You sound normal. I can tell the difference, but it's subtle.]
Hmm…probably dependent on handwriting.
Francis scratched some more notes down on his own tablet before writing once more on the larger sheet.
[Thank you. That'll be all for today, Cassie. I'll send up some new pictures for your wall this afternoon.]
[Wait! Could you stay? I'd like to keep talking.]
[I'm sorry: I have work to do. Agatha or Simon will be around sometime after lunch, I promise.]
[Oh. Okay. Goodbye.]
[Goodbye.]
Francis watched the sketched girl begin to doodle forlornly on blackboard for a few moments before he stood up from his chair and left the room. He signed out on the time sheet hanging next to the door. A little hollow hole sank in his gut, as it always did after visiting with Cassie. Simon had “officially” confirmed that she was depressed, but that was obvious to anyone who spoke with her. It was like visiting your great-grandmother in the nursing home. All she wanted was someone to talk to, to break the monotony.
The staff did what they could for her, but with juggling recruitment, management, studying other items, and maintaining the façade as they stealthily wrapped up their outside lives…
Oh well. Off to the next job.
Francis' footsteps echoed in the empty hallway for a minute or so, before they were drowned out by a blaring alarm klaxon and the amplified voice of Dr. Crow's over the intercom speaker.
“Attention all personnel. A security breach has been detected in Tower 3, Level 5. SCP-682 has broken containment. Area lockdown has been initiated. Please proceed to your designated safe zones.”
Tower three. He was in tower three. He was in a locked tower with the lizard. Alone.
Francis automatically ran his left thumb over the smooth scarred depression in his right.
Son of a fuck.
—
“So. Dmitri. Where'd you find these pieces of work?” John motioned to the four men sitting around the conference table, his toothpick held between his first two fingers. Fucking administration and their no-smoking policy.
Strelkinov pointed to each in turn.
“Vasili is good friend from army days. Boleslav, he kill Afghans with bare hands. Live in mountains alone after war. Stanimir work for the KGB. Very classified work. Listed as KIA. Matvey, he is mafia.”
John raised an eyebrow.
“Not even going to ask. They're your problem. Any of them speak English?”
“No.”
“Your problem then, you give them the spiel.” John walked off towards the door. “I gotta take a piss.”
“Ah. Okay. Mm-hmm. [Hello, gentlemen…]
—
John pissed like a racehorse. Too much coffee. Fucking no-smoking policy. Toothpicks, gum, coffee, nothing worked. He needed tobacco, dammit. He was jumpy, rattled, razzled, and supremely agitated. No smokes in four days. No sun in four days.
Easy, John. Relax. Just fucking relax…
The recruits. He focused on the new recruits. That was his job anyway. With these four, it brought the total number of security staff to sixteen. The others were a scattering of mercenaries, ex-cons, homeless vets, several other Russians, and one retired state trooper. Crow had been steadfast that they get a reliable security staff up and running as fast as possible, and John agreed. What irked him was that he and Dmitri were in charge of all of it, and it was not easy. Dmitri may have been able to pull old war buddies out of his hat like rabbits, but it wasn't like they could just put out personal ads for this shit.
Still better than working for the CIA, though.
The stream finally trickled off. He had just zipped up as the alarms went off: his coffee and withdrawal-wrecked nerves shot him a good two feet in the air. He barely had time to land before the bathroom door was kicked open and he felt a large hand grab him by the collar and drag him backwards.
“We are having an emergency! We must be fast!” Dmitri pulled him out into the hall and threw him upright. John wobbled to a stable pose as Dr. Crow's voice came over the intercom.
“Attention all personnel. Security breach detected in Tower 3, Level 5. SCP-682 has broken containment. Area lockdown has been initiated.”
“Shit on a biscuit!” John spat out his toothpick.
“That will not help us.”
“Goddammit Dmitri you know what I meant!”
—
Francis was alone, and he was very scared. He held his mop in a vice-like grip, creeping with his back flat against the wall, and trying to control his breathing, as he had been doing for the last half hour.
He was terrified of 682. He would admit that. The last time he had worked with it, it fit in his palm and took a chunk out of his thumb. It wasn't so small and cute now.
“Come on out, little guy. I've got a mop with your name on it. A nice dirty mop. I'll mop you good. Beware my mop, boy. Respect the mop.”
Nothing beyond an empty hallway responded to his whispered bravado. Nothing at all.
Wait.
He leapt into the middle of the hallway, whipping out with the mop and hitting nothing. There was still nothing there.
Still nothing there.
There was a vent, though.
Something hit Francis in the chest, knocking him to the floor. Now there was something there. It was right there, actually. Right on top of him.
The lizard was about the size of a large cat, and held itself in much the same way: hunched and bunched up, ready to lash out, tail flicking back and forth. Its hide was knobbly and thick, a dull greenish yellow-brown with faded dark spots. The teeth were crooked, like the jaw wasn't fit for them, but they were sharp. Very sharp. Francis could feel its breath on his face. It glared at him with yellow eyes that looked thoroughly evil. Francis shut his own eyes tight. It looked like it had been smiling.
This was it. This was mauling time. He was going to get mauled. He clenched everything he could clench and readied himself for the pain
The weight lifted from his chest. Snarls broke out once more, this time a few feet above him.
“Mr. Wojciechoski.”
Francis opened his eyes. Dr. Gerry stood over him, wearing a stained apron of thick leather and matching gloves that went up to his elbows. He held 682 by the scruff of the neck in one hand. It had stopped struggling, and the cause was clear: a frighteningly large hypodermic needle held in Gerry's other hand.
“This will suffice for the moment. I will place it in the backup containment unit before it adapts to the drug.”
Gerry turned and began to walk off, carrying the unconscious lizard as if it were nothing out of the ordinary.
“Now then, I believe you are still scheduled for overseeing experiments this morning. Good day to you, Mr. Wojciechoski.”
Francis fell back on the floor and began to laugh. He had been there the whole time. Of course he had.
Of course he had.
—
“I'm sorry you weren't able to see your new recruits in action, Dmitri.”
“Win some, lose some.”
“That said, I'll be revising 682's containment procedures to include a permanent guard station. It's become far more adaptive than I had originally foreseen, and I don't want it getting out again.”
“Very well. I go speak with them.”
…
…
…
“Two decades of work and the only variant of the prion that works leaves us with a psychopathic gecko. It's a pity Sanderson isn't here, Connor. He'd be calling this a massive success. I miss his enthusiasm.”
“His absence is regrettable.”
“And will continue to be, because he's been in the ground for twelve years. He would have loved to see this. Probably would have put a collar on it and called it Leeroy or something.”
“As you say.”
“…You really are a bore nowadays, Connor. Has anyone told you that?”
“Regularly.”


Welcome to Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. If you are here, then you have been accepted into our ranks. Congratulations.
A short summary of our organization is in order. We are a club of sorts, and we provide our members with the most exclusive, expensive, and rare experiences available. We are centered in London, with agents all over the world, finding and retrieving items for us so we may better provide said experiences. Those of you here today, sitting, blindfolded, in the audience, are to be our finders, our retrievers. We have selected you from the best of the best, the most able and intelligent of those who have applied.
Allow me to explain your duties. You are to be our field agents. Many of you have connections to other groups that deal with objects that we are interested in, such as the Foundation, The Serpent's Hand, and the Church of the Broken God. We expect full loyalty to our cause despite these connections. Any sign of deviance will be punished.
As you will work on a case by case basis, I will be very broad. Cases, known as Acquisitions, will be assigned based upon personal statistics. You are not allowed to turn down an Acquisition. While working on an Acquisition, you will have access to certain portions of our near unlimited resources, depending on the case. Abuse of these resources will be punished.
You are to apply yourself to the assigned Acquisition with all due haste, while keeping up any required appearances. Under no circumstances are you to reveal that you are working for Marshall, Carter, and Dark. Any attempt to speak about Marshall, Carter, and Dark with people that have not been sanctioned by Marshall, Carter, and Dark will be punished.
This concludes your orientation. Please face to your right and take short, measured steps. Your blindfolds will be removed as you exit the door. Some of you will receive your first Acquisition case. Thank you for your time.

Agent Smalls left the room with a bit of difficulty, his hands twitching at his sides. He seemed to be stepping extremely cautiously, as if afraid he might bump into people that were not there. His trip to the doorway was filled with tension, and a close observer would have noticed his breathing slowing, the gleam of sweat on his forehead becoming a bit duller. Agent Smalls, an up-and-coming Foundation agent, would have cringed in horror had he actually seen the room.
Mr. Carter watched the man leave the room with rheumy eyes, his breathing carefully controlled. A shriveled husk of a man, battered and scarred, hung from the back of his wheelchair, its milky eyes still showing a vestige of fear. The old man wheezed as he spoke, and the husk wheezed with him. "Was it really worth it? A whole orientation, only for one man?"
Mr. Marshall watched the blindfolded man leave the room impassively. A single, long finger made a sign, and the other men in the audience begin to walk as well, their footsteps echoing throughout the room. Their eyes were blank as they walked, and each bore a shallow but visible scar on their forehead. The co-founder of Marshall, Carter, and Dark cleared his throat, and drank from a glass of water. His voice changed from the cool, detached tone to a more rich, deeper one, one that belied an immense and inhuman intelligence. "Well. He might be useful in the future. It is always good to have investments." He straightened his tie. His chuckle was cold and knowing. "And it is always good to have them with the Foundation. Who knows how useful this one might be? He might even be better than Jenkins."
The empty sound of wheezing laughter filled the room.


To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com)
From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com)
Sent: June 5th, 2004, 4:23 pm
Subject: Big news!
Hey mom! Sorry I haven't emailed you in the past month. Things have been pretty busy. But, I have great news! You're gonna be a grandma! We found out yesterday that Maddie's pregnant, and we've already started turning the guest room into a baby room! Good thing I got a pay raise last week. We gotta think of the baby now!
Hope to hear from you soon!

To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com)
From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com)
Sent: March 7th, 2005, 12:38 am
Subject: She's here!!
It's a girl!!! She was born last night around ten at night. Madeline's water broke as she was going to sleep. We drove to the hospital so fast I think I almost hit someone! Jesus, waiting for the doctors to deliver her felt like years. Now, as I'm typing this, she's downstairs, fast asleep in Maddie's arms. We named her Abby, and she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I'll send pictures soon.

To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com)
From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com)
Sent: March 8th, 2006, 5:41 pm
Subject: Just saying hi again
Hey mom. We haven't talked in a while, have we? How are things? We, for one, have been great. I got another raise, Maddie's got a new job at a daycare center. It actually pays pretty well, and you know she loves kids. No child could ever replace Abby in her heart, of course. Speaking of which, Abby's first birthday was yesterday! Howard and Rachael even showed up! Got to see their niece for the first time! Too bad you and dad are all the way down in Florida. We'll have to visit when Abby's older. Love you!

To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com)
From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com)
Sent: June 24th, 2008, 8:14 pm
Subject:
There's been an accident. We were at the playground and we took our eyes off of her for one second and she fell of the jungle gym on her head. I saw blood. The doctor's said she'll recover fine but I can't sleep. It's all my fault.

To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com)
From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com)
Sent: June 25th, 2008, 7:35 am
Subject: Thank god
The hospital called and said that Abby will have to stay there for a few more days, but she's all patched up and on the fast track to recovery. No brain damage or anything, it seems. I'm just glad my baby's gonna be okay.

To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com)
From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com)
Sent: July 2nd, 2008, 9:57 pm
Subject: Abby
Mom, there's something wrong with Abby. I mean, she looks and acts perfectly fine, but I know something isn't right with her. Madeline says she feels it too. We started feeling it after Abby's injury at the playground. We've had the doctors look her over, but as far as they're concerned, no permanent damage, physical or mental, came of Abby's injury. But I just know there's something wrong with her.

To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com)
From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com)
Sent: July 5th, 2008, 10:22 pm
Subject: Abby
We got an email from Dr. Williams today. He says that he knows Abby has some kind of problem, even if it's not physical or mental. It doesn't make any sense, he says, but he says that when he was around her he couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness. The staff who were working with him agreed, apparently. He says that he didn't tell us at first because he didn't want Maddie and I to worry, but that he just couldn't keep quiet anymore.
What's wrong with my daughter??

To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com)
From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com)
Sent: July 9th, 2008, 9:30 am
Subject: Abby
I can't even look at Abby for more than a few seconds at a time now. There's something about her now and it just shouldn't be. When I'm around her I just get this awful, indescribable feeling. Like I'd rather be anywhere else but next to my own daughter. I try and limit my interaction with her as much as I possibly can. It's terrible, but being around her, it makes me wanna throw up. It's inside of her. In her eyes, in her skin, everything about her.
I just don't know what it is.

To: Thelma ███████ (█████████@hotmail.com)
From: Andrew ███████ (██████@yahoo.com)
Sent: July 10th, 2008, 8:26 am
Subject:
i touched her hand
it felt so wrong
wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong
madeline said she felt it too but shes infected it was INSIDE OF HER
im gonna kill them both im gonna kill that cunt im gonna kill that THING
it needs to die

Recovery Log: SCP-053 was recovered on July 10th, 2008, in ██████, Pennsylvania, from the residence of Andrew and Madeline ███████. Local authorities discovered SCP-053 and the deceased bodies of the couple within the same room. Mrs. ███████ had expired from multiple stab wounds inflicted by Mr. ███████, who had expired from a massive heart attack shortly afterwords, believed to have been caused by SCP-053's anomalous effects. Police who attempted interaction with SCP-053 also suffered from its effects, resulting in 5 additional casualties before implanted Foundation agents assessed the situation and properly secured the subject. Class-A amnestics were administered to all non-personnel involved, including Mr. ███████'s parents in Florida, as they had been exposed to information regarding SCP-053 through communication with Mr. ███████.


It's going to be my fault. When it happens, it's going to be my own goddamned fault. Every single time I blink it gets closer and closer to me, and every time I blink is just driving another nail into my coffin. Why couldn't they have shot me, or stabbed me, or done anything but put me in here with this thing?
I don't even know what I did wrong. You don't really expect to go to prison under false charges, and you especially don't expect some goons to take you out and put you in a room with a monster. Didn't even have the decency to let me move around. They chained me up to the walls so tight that I can barely turn my head. Then they walked out and just left me to whatever this thing will do to me.
Oh, why am I thinking "whatever it'll do?" It's going to kill me; I just don't know how.
I wish I could at least fight back against this. Lash out at it in some way. But I think it wants me to do that. Everything just feels a million times worse whenever I rattle the chains or shout at it. So all I can do is hang here and wait for it to kill me.
Dammit, if you're going to kill me, hurry up! I can't stand this! Death by inches. I blink and it's a little closer, and then a little closer, and then a little closer, and then…
No. No no no no NO! It can't possibly move that fast, I still had a few good hours! Goddammit, it's right in front of me! Dear lord, what is that stuff on it? Too dark to make it out, but it looks like some sort of crudely painted face. Could just be blotches on the thing, but it looks way too much like a face. Dammit, I can deal with a shapeless thing, why'd it have to have a face?
Don't blink. There's a way out of this, some weak link in the chains, some means of kicking this thing away; maybe if I'm lucky, I can twist away and let it go right by me! No, that's stupid, it'd never work. Level head, you've got to keep a level head. I can beat this thing, I can outlast it, I can get out of here so long as I don't…!
…
Why am I still alive?
I don't believe it. I simply do not believe it. It… it went around me. It was practically pressed against me, and it went around. How lucky do you have to be for that to happen? Does this mean I'm done? Are they going to come in here, "Sorry for the trouble, but hey, you're still alive," and then let me go? Can I go back to my life now, no, wait, before you answer, why did you put me through that, what the hell was that thing, why am I still alive?
Dear God, I'm tired. How long have they had me chained up in here? A few hours, at least. Maybe a day. But… I have to stay awake. I've got to keep my eyes open until they come and get me. Sleep is the absolute last thing I need right now.
I went to sleep. Why'd I go to sleep, sleep could kill me, why didn't I have a strong enough head to stay awake?
There's a cold feeling on the small of my back. I can't twist to see it, but I can tell something is there. And… oh God, no. There's something wrapped around my throat. I could twitch my head before, but I can't even move it now. This thing is going to break my neck, isn't it? That's what they were waiting for, wasn't it? They wanted this thing to wear me down until I had to sleep, and then they'd have it stop fooling around and kill me.
What kind of sick, twisted bastard do you have to be just to see how long a guy can last against a monster?
Don't panic just yet. I can still see it. I can barely see any of it, but I can still see it, and that means it can't move. Maybe if I try winking, I can get out of this. They'll see that it can't kill me, and then let me out. Come on, come on, this has to work, it has to. One eye, then the other. One eye, then the other. One eye, then the other. One eye, then the other. One eye, then th…
Oh…
Oh no. I… this can't be happening. I didn't do anything wrong. They just stuck me in here with a monster without any rhyme or reason.
I don't want to die, but… but… there's a… a…
There's a pipe sticking out of my chest, right through my heart.


Did I ever tell you the story of the Hindenburg disaster? It was quite a big deal when it happened, it was all over the news for months. And I was there when it happened. I was just a young kid back then, barely ten years old. But even now, I remember it as clearly as my first campfire.
I went there with my grandfather, your great great grandpa Charlie. We had gone down to see the great Hindenburg land in our town. Everyone in town was there. You could feel the heat of the people all around you. The stars shined as bright as could be. I saw the great airship come in.
It was big, bigger than anything I had ever seen before. It had great big red swastikas on it, redder than any I had seen before. I could see them very clearly as it came in for a landing. I asked my grandfather how anything could be that big. He didn't answer, he just took another drag on his cigarette and kept watching.
All of a sudden there was this big light from the inside of the ship. It looked like some great paper lantern suspended there in the sky. People didn't know what to make of it, they just looked on, dumb as a sheep looking into an inferno. Then all of a sudden… it bursts into flames.
You could feel the wave of heat wash over you. I can still hear the people screaming. They screamed so loudly… it seemed like all that you could hear was the screaming and the running. I wanted to run, but grandfather held me tightly. I can remember the warmness of his hand as he squeezed me.
Watching that big blimp go down was breathtaking. You could see people trying to get it under control on the ground, and people in the cabins trying to get out. It was just a terrible, terrible thing for a young kid like me to watch…I had forgotten about it till now. But this photo brings it all back.
I've got that warm fuzzy feeling.


December 22, 1998:
Lament leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee and reaching for his sandwich, taking a bite. Lunch had become a private affair, especially after he learned that everyone else had chosen to take the pills. He'd included a picture of Sandlemyer's corpse—a body that in no way reflected the man who had once been—in the file for 106, setting the heavy document on the corner of his desk.
He turned his attention to 884 for a moment, glimpsing over it again and sighing, thinking back to what Sandy had said. 'Get someone inside the Insurgency…' Why the hell not? Anything was worth a try at this point.
He sighed and reached for his phone, dialing the number and rubbing at the bridge of his nose.
"Hello? Agent Strelnikov?" he asked. "I'm not sure if you remember me. Lament. We met on my first day." A pause. "Yeah, Gears' kid. I was looking for someone for a possible assignment. Deep cover." Annoyed Russian from the other end of the phone. "I know, but you're the only person I know over there, so I figured you'd know who to bother about it…"

August 10, 2007:
A smirk was worming its way over Lament's lips as he closed the file, leaning back in his chair, laughing quietly to himself. There was no one else to laugh to, after all. He looked over at Gears, hoping that the other would ask him what he was so pleased about, waiting and hoping, waiting and hoping, then leaning forward, staring at him until the doctor raised his head and looked at him.
"Yes, Agent?"
"884… is closed."
He leaned back again, arms behind his head.
"Congratulations," Gears said.
"Thank you," replied Lament.
There would be no praise, nor would there be any accolades. Your feelings of reward in the Foundation were the ones you made for yourself. Doing your job, and doing it well, meant one of two things: you lived or someone else did. That was enough.
It had to be.
"Would you like half of my sandwich, sir?" Lament asked.
"No, thank you, Agent."

Lunch?

Lament nodded, taking the plastic wrapped, perpetually dry roast beef out of the brown bag on his desk. "Then if you'll excuse me, I think I might take it in the atrium. It's nearly time for Sophie's lunch break…"
Gears nodded. "Tell Dr. Light I need her report on SCP-371, when she's finished."
"I will, sir."
Lament stood, walking toward the door when Gears spoke. "And Agent?"
"Yes, sir?"
Gears stared at him for a moment. It stretched past comfort into awkwardness, and Lament found it necessary to cough, then repeat. "Yes, sir?"
"Good work."
The awkwardness became palpable.
"Thank you, sir."
Gears nodded once, and Lament— feeling an emotion he could not put into words— left the office. When he got to the atrium, he stole a kiss from Light's cheek, took the obligatory punch in the arm, and then shared the lackluster sandwich with her.
All in all, he considered it a good day.

« Interlude 6 | HUB | Epilogue »


They don't come anymore.
I remember when they used to come every day. Talking quietly among themselves, walking through. Few of them ever talked to me, but them being here was enough to keep one amused through the days. Every now and then, they'd give me one of theirs. One that couldn't walk or talk anymore. Maybe it was a payment - what one of them always did before sort of hurt… but it didn't matter. I wouldn't mind if it hurt… if all of them were here, walking.
If he was here.
He stayed, almost all the time… He was one of the few who talked to me, he'd return from somewhere away with an unsteady gait, drop down into the grass, and we'd talk, until he stopped moving. At those times I could even touch him, feel his surface. It was different, nice, soft and warm.
Some nights he didn't go, usually one or two nights after they'd given me another of theirs - instead he'd open a hole in me again, take out the one that was inside - they always put them inside boxes made of tree - do something with them, then put them back in. Through time I learned to help him open the holes, it was easier, so much easier for both of us.
Those were the best times, times with him.
One night like that, another man came and walked through. He stopped for a while, then ran away, then walked back next day, with two others, with heavy boots. They grabbed him, just as he was touching the flowers growing near my end, and took him away.
He never came back, and I don't know why. I wanted to be with him forever, he loved me, he talked to me. I tried to talk to the others, but they didn't listen when there were many, and they ran away when they were alone.
Then, soon, another man came and wanted to make a hole. But, he wasn't him. He didn't love me, he didn't talk to me. I tried to touch him, but he run away. Ungrateful, vile. Not like him at all.
But still, at least some things happened then… walking, talking, a lot of things. I waited, many days, but he didn't come back. The others came less often, and were slower and slower, until one day they didn't come anymore.
I waited and waited.
A few times, some of them would come back, alone, or in small groups. I was so happy, doesn't matter it wasn't him, it was someone. I tried to greet them, help them, do anything for them, but they too were vile and ungrateful. One of them I tried to keep from running, and it worked - he went down, on one of the big stone slabs they have hauled in, and stopped moving. I was happy for a while - he wasn't him, he didn't walk or talk, but at least he stayed. I took him in, making a hole myself… that's what is proper, because that's what he did… even when he took them out, he put them back later. Besides, it hurts a lot less when I do it myself, I found. So, it's what I did with every one that stopped moving.
Then, one day, a lot of them came again. I was happy, so happy, it'd be like the old times again, maybe even he'd show up again. But he didn't… instead they put metal rods into me, and did a lot of things, and then they left, and noone came or stayed since. Oh, one of them stayed… but he was just like the ones I talked about. Meh.
And now they don't come anymore. Nobody does. I can't stand it… everything is the same, there are no footsteps, no talk. Maybe I should do something. No, I must do something.
I wonder. He used to take them out from me, every so often. Maybe if I take them all out, in his name, for him, he will return. He will return. He will return! Why didn't I think of it before! I was stupid, unworthy of him, but now I know! It will hurt, it will hurt a lot, but I must be strong. I can withstand it. I must withstand it. For him. For love.

Incident 1673-1
On ██/██/19██ , approximately 3 years after estabilishing containment, the guards located outside the perimeter of SCP-1673 have reported tremors consistent with seismic activity, and resulting in structural damage to the perimeter wall. Examination of SCP-1673 during its inactive period next day has found evidence of large-scale soil movement, and the exhumation of a large quantity of human remains in various states of decomposition, the freshest identified as D-833 (See Document 1673-Eta for experiment logs).

Note: As the town of Westkin, Virginia isn't located in a fault zone, and subsequently collected evidence suggests the epicenter of the tremours to locate within SCP-1673, I request its reclassification to Euclid. - Researcher Cartwright


Happy Birthday… to You.

August 18, 2007:
"I'm sorry… I really… really am…" Lament said, swallowing to keep his voice from cracking. "You're… You're like a father to me… You don't understand that I… that I just… I can't do this anymore… I've asked to be transferred to active duty. Site14."
Gears looked at him, his face blank and expressionless.
"I… Anyhow…" Lament placed a small, square package on the desk in front of the balding man. "Happy Birthday."

« Part 6 | HUB | Part 7 »


November 27, 1998:

It was all in his head.

Lament sat on the floor of the medical ward, leaning against the wall. He was rubbing both of his arms for a moment, until he realized what he was doing and stopped. It was an awkward moment, looking around, seeing all the legitimately injured people and then realizing that he didn't have any real right to be here. And with all the doctors running around attending to burns, wounds, and various exposures…
He pushed himself up, walking as smoothly as he could from the room and into the hall, maneuvering around more injured people and bed, finally making his way out into open hallway. He wasn't sure where he was at, but a lot of Site-19 looked the same. He just picked a direction and started walking in it.
Once, he was almost certain that he'd heard 106 laughing, but as he turned to look at the empty wall the sound had issued from, it was clean and unmarred.
All evidence from the recovery group that had found Sandlemyer suggested that 106 had somehow gotten itself caught in 015, tangled in the pipes somehow, screaming bloody murder. It would hold the damned thing. Seal it. Maybe eat it like it ate other people. And he'd write up a file. Give it to Gears. Walk away from this. Walk away from this hell that he'd found himself in. And for some reason, knowing that—finally—he had found a way to contain the damned thing was more of a comfort than anything else at the moment.
He looked at the wall again when he thought he heard the laugh a second time. He stepped closer and ran his fingers of it, then stepped back again.
In his head. It was all in his head.

November 29, 1998:
“What do you mean it was ‘playing'?”
Gears expressionless face betrayed neither pity nor concern. “It was playing with us, Agent. Cat and mouse."
Lament swallowed. “So… 015…?”
“The Overseers would never have allowed such a program to exist long term, Agent Lament, even if it had worked,” Gears continued flatly. “As it is, the men putting the next level of containment in place were attacked and utilized by 106 with—”
“Utilized?” Lament laughed. Laughing was all he could do, at the moment. He was inches from hysteria. That voice the night before. That mocking laugh as he walked down the hall… Had that been him? Had he been ‘playing' again? 'Utilized.' It consumed. It devoured.
And it apparently played.
Gears waited patiently for him to stop. "The men putting the next level of your containment plan in place were attacked and utilized by 106. Three dead on the scene. Four more deceased over the next week from the initial attack. Another twe—"
"Please stop," Lament said, closing his eyes tightly. He leaned against his desk, gripping the top of it tightly, not letting go.
He was close to breaking when he felt Gears' hand on his shoulder. “Dr. Glass informed me that you've not been in for your quarterly psychological evaluation.”
Lament looked up. Gears was right. Lament hadn't been in for it yet. It had been scheduled for the afternoon of the twenty-seventh, and he'd had other things on his mind that day. This was Foundation compassion, then?
“No, sir, I haven't,” he answered.
“I've scheduled your appointment for this morning,” Gears said emotionlessly.
Lament's fingers drummed for an instant on his desk, and while he didn't necessarily want to go, he couldn't think of any other excuse to get away from Gears for the morning. And getting away from Gears was exactly what he needed at the moment.

“It's a natural urge,” Glass said. “Everyone is afraid at times. This is the way the Foundation helps its people deal with fear.”
“I'm not taking them,” Lament said, staring down the doctor. He'd met with Glass many times in the past. Quarterly psych evaluations, voluntary sessions.
"Lament, you can't just… ignore this," Glass continued. "These policies and practices were developed by people with far more experience than either of us. Sometimes, you just… need to forget."
“I don't want to forget.” How many times has the doctor heard that same response?
“Why would you not want to forget watching your friend being devoured by a supernatural… thing?” asked Glass. "You saw him when they got him out. You know he was still alive for a few hours after that, Lament. Why would you want to remember him like that?"
“Because he was my friend.” How many people had he gotten to do this before me?
“You don't have to forget him. Dozens of people ‘transfer' out at the last moment, Lament. Take a Class-B. Forget the last couple of days. If you hold onto this too long, then when you finally get rid of it, you'll have to get rid of him entirely.”
Days? Lament frowned. For a moment, he turned his mind backwards, trying to remember something… Blindly reaching into gray. “Doctor… Can I ask you something? Something about those pills?”
Glass nodded. “Of course.”
“Which one did I take when I joined?” he asked. “When you all erased my family.”
Glass's hand tensed on the arm of the chair for a moment, and then relaxed. Lament actually found himself admiring the man when his voice came out even. He'd either not known or had forgotten.
“You were conscripted?” Glass asked.
He hadn't known?
“Yeah," Lament said.
A moment. “That would have been a Class-A,” said Glass.
“And is there a cure for these things?” Lament asked. He kept his voice conversational, but there was hope there. Hope for parents he couldn't remember and a dozen friends or colleagues he wasn't sure he'd ever had.
“Occasionally,” Glass said. “Sometimes, they don't take. Something inside your brain refuses to accept it. Those are rare cases, though.”
And… that. Only stress and a touch of bitterness was present in Lament's voice now. “But nothing after the memory is gone?”
“No.”
Lament drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair for a moment. “Then I'm not taking them.”
“It's your choice, Agent. But I wish you'd reconsider.”
“Stick ‘em up your ass,” Lament said. “See you in three months, Doc.”

« Interlude 5 | HUB | Interlude 6 »


August 16, 2007:

"There's some things you don't want on your conscience."

Agent Lament stood in the mess of Site19, staring out the window and looking at the landscape, part of his mind making an effort to register that the world was, in fact, still there. That everyone was actually alive. That it had happened. His stomach was twisted in pained, difficult knots, and he really just wanted privacy. But he wasn't alone.
He could hear the two men, both low staff, talking across the mess from him. Their voices carried, but he wasn't really paying attention.
"What's that guys problem? He onna them montaukers?"
"Nah," the first one said. "He works with Gears."
The other one laughed quietly. "So? Gears seems like uh good guy."
"Good as any of 'em, ennyway."
"Well, hell, then. I'ma go ask him what his problem is…"
A sound of a slight scuffle somewhere behind Lament brought his attention back to the room. He looked at their reflection in the glass, the taller one holding the other's arm solidly in his grip.
"Don't," the first one said quickly, his voice dropping. "Lesson number one about workin' around these guys: there's some things you don't want on your conscience."

« Part 5 | HUB | Part 6 »


Speculation, Theories Abound About Mysterious Assailant
WASHINGTON (AP) - Little information has been acquired thus far about the motives and identity of a Caucasian female who injured four on the floor of the House of Representatives Wednesday afternoon, a spokesman for the US Capitol Police said.
"We believe the suspect arrived on the House floor at about 12:43 PM and seated herself at a vacant desk next to Congressman [John] Sarbanes (D-MD)," Capitol Police spokesman Dan Anderson said. "The suspect did not engage in any noteworthy behavior until about 3:13 PM, when Congressman Sarbanes yielded the remainder of his time to her after addressing the floor regarding the farm bill."
The unidentified woman's address to the House, which was broadcast live on the cable network C-SPAN and has since been widely distributed over the Internet, has been widely examined by professional and amateur cryptologists worldwide attempting to decipher hypothesized connections to terrorism, domestic political extremists, or other esoteric claims. After opening with the phrase "My fellow Americans: Green April Yamaha flenses applique in toto, dos tacos chorizos con huevos, Allahu akbar," the woman continued for approximately five minutes reciting a seemingly incoherent series of phrases derived from various languages. (For the full text of the speech, click here.)
Speaker of the House John Boehner (R-OH) requested that Sergeant-at-Arms Paul D. Irving restore order when the woman continued speaking after being informed that her time had been exhausted. Upon his attempt to remove her microphone, the woman was observed on the live broadcast to violently tackle Irving and attempt to re-acquire it. Boehner, Sarbanes, and Congressman Adam Smith (D-WA) were injured attempting to assist Irving before Capitol Police reinforcements entered the chamber and arrested the suspect.
The suspect died of unknown causes shortly after being taken into custody. An autopsy will be performed Friday, Anderson said. Irving was transported to George Washington University Hospital and was in stable condition Wednesday evening after suffering multiple fractures and bite wounds. Boehner, Sarbanes, and Smith suffered minor injuries and were treated at the scene.
Video surveillance shows that the suspect entered the Capitol through the main gate shortly before noon, Anderson said, and was admitted by a security officer after showing identification. A forged Congressional ID card was found on the suspect's body, identifying the suspect as "Thompson van der ibn-Teddysburg", a congressman representing the 17th congressional district of the state of "West Chippewa". The security officer involved has been placed on administrative leave pending an investigation of why and how the suspect's identification was accepted as legitimate.
The Capitol Police have established a toll-free hotline for citizens with any information about the suspect's identity. Over five hundred calls had been received as of 6 PM on Wednesday night, Anderson said. More information is expected when the Capitol Police hold their next scheduled press conference on Monday morning at 9 AM EDT.
Wednesday's incident marks the third time an individual with forged credentials has attempted to enter the House floor in recent years, Anderson said. Unidentified individuals were detained and released in 1998 and 2003, after attempting to gain access to the House with credentials identifying them as a congressman from the state of "Hamilton" and a non-voting observer from "the Commonwealth of Amalgamated Polynesia" respectively.
A spokesman for Boehner's office declined to comment on the intrusion or on the nature of the Speaker's injuries.
Memo from O5-4: Get a kill-switch installed on the C-SPAN camera. These leaks are getting out of hand.


November 26, 1998:
Lament frowned at the glass, looking at the hovering box beyond it with some odd mixture of reverence and fear. It was… disturbing… to see it for the first time. He wasn't part of the crew of soldiers who risked their lives for it on a daily basis. He wasn't even one of the primary researchers assigned to the project. He was just the guy trying to keep them safe. Trying and failing, currently.
“The magnetic fields are working, but the corrosion is still spreading. It's like mold… We thought we had him locked up until he ate Grange last night,” the researcher said. The speakers made an odd whining sound, and Lament winced, losing his thought. Thankfully.
"How'd he manage that?" It was Sandlemyer who spoke. "I thought we had all the same safety protocols still in place on this thing."
The researcher shrugged a little. "We lose one or two people every coupla weeks with this thing. Regardless…"
Lament frowned, a pit forming quickly in his stomach. Failure didn't feel good, no matter how expected or anticipated it was. Especially when dealing with the deaths of fellow agents. He knew 106 was going to be a problem, but he didn't realize how much of one.
The speakers made another loud, mind crippling screech, sounding like painfully loud feedback. "Damn," Lament muttered, covering his ears.
"Eh. They go on the fritz all the time," the researcher continued. "We try to replace them, but it doesn't seem to do any goo— "
The alarms suddenly blaring made Lament glad that he'd covered his ears a moment before. He turned, looking at one of the screens. "The repulsors are going down!" he shouted. "Evacuate!"
But the researcher was already yelling into the microphone. The order went out, just as Sandlemyer reached over and flipped off the alarms in the booth, all three men turning to look out the window as the huge, rotting metal box fell the bottom of the containment chamber, cracking open.
The speakers whined again, loudly for a moment, then cut out. And a low, dark, broken laugh slowly filled the silence.
"He. He. He. He. Hee…"

When he was finally able to look back on the day without some sort of breakdown, Lament was certain the reports were wrong. That the hours and hours he felt couldn't have been minutes. That the door to that containment unit should not have been open. That the entire thing couldn't have been orchestrated just to fuck with him. But the mouse never really understands the true motivations of the cat.
Sometimes it's hungry. Sometimes, it just wants to play.

Lament pivoted quickly, running as fast as he could, Sandlemyer quickly on his heels. He was breathing hard, painfully hard, his chest close to bursting as he looked desperately for any point of escape. The alarms were blaring, guns firing at walls, at nothing, at everything.
An explosion behind him had the floor shaking hard enough that he fell. In a moment, Sandlemyer's arm closed around his arm, dragging Lament back to his feet and sending both of them down a narrow straightaway.
"He. He. He. He. Hee."
It was coming over the speakers everywhere now, echoing against his teeth and shaking his jaw. "Jesus Christ," Sandy muttered, panting and out of breath as he looked over his shoulder. "Fuck. It's coming this way Lament. It's coming this way!"
He didn't bother looking back. Training was kicking in, and he was running. There were no people who survived exposure to 106. At least, none who survived for long. The straightaway ended in a dark doorway, and as Lament stepped into it, he pulled out his revolver and fired two shots down the hall at the advancing 'man,' prompting another of those broken, painful to hear laughs. "He. He. He. He. Hee."

He. He. He. Heee. Hehe… He.

"God damn it," Lament muttered. "Get in, Sandy," he ordered. "Jesus, just get into the damn room!"
Sandlemyer dashed in first, followed by Lament, who turned, pawing desperately for a light switch for a moment, then feeling cold metal slap under his hand. Cold metal that felt rounded and damp. Pipes. And next to it, another. Sandlemyer's flashlight blazed to life, and Lament immediately recognized where they were at.
"Oh fuck."
The pipes. Gears had mentioned them as a plausible, future containment issue, but he hadn't realized…
They twisted and turned on each other, coining one about the other. It wasn't as he'd imagined it—strict, orderly plumbing—but instead a roving cephalopod nightmare. "Look for the widest opening," he ordered quickly, slapping the door control and backing away from it as the metal started to blacken and rot.
"Go… Go!" he shouted.
He knew there were more entrances and exits within the mass. You just had to find them. Find them and desperately hope. They were both running again, the flashlight jerking along, jumping and shaking as they fled the terrible, old man.
"Hee. He. He. He. Hee."
They ran for hours, panting. And it always sounded closer. Closer and closer to them. At one point, Lament thought he felt something graze the sleeve of his jacket, and the mere possibility of 106 sent adrenaline rushing through his body. Every time it seemed to burn out, there was something else. A laugh. A scent of rot. Eyes in the dark.
Again and again. Pursuing. Chasing.
And then, they finally spotted another source of light. One of the Foundation floodlamps that were always placed near the other exits.
They both ran toward it, lungs burning as Lament hurried to the door panel, typing in his emergency code.
*Denied*
He stared at it. Then entered it again.
*Denied*
"He. He. Hee. He. Hee."
"Lament… Lament, what is the fucking problem?!"
"It's not opening!"
*Denied*
"Hee. Hee. He. Hee. He."
He felt like crying. He entered it again and again, slapping the buttons harder and harder each time. "You son of a bitch. Open you son of a bitch!"
*Denied*
He felt it more than he saw it. It was an oppressive feeling, like someone standing right behind you, breathing down your neck. Someone with a knife, or a gun, or claws, someone who would hurt you, kill you, cut you, and laugh while they did it.
"Hee. He. He. Hee. He."
He turned. He looked at it. Moldy, rotten skin. Sunken, dead eyes. Yellowed, broken teeth. Lank, greasy hair fell around the sides of its head.
It took a step forward.
*Denied*
"God damn you."
Another.
*Denied*
Lament turned and emptied the rest of the shells into its head to no effect. "He. Hee. He. Hee. He."
"Jesus… Oh Jesus, we're gonna die…" Sandlemyer panted.
*Denied*
It was in arms reach as Lament, tears running down his face, slammed the keys a final time.
And the door opened.
He was through it in a second, into the exit chamber, looking back. "Sandy!"
106's hand closed on the back of Sandlemyer's neck as he turned and stepped through the door, squeezing for a moment. Sandlemyer's hand shot out to Lament, reaching for him, begging for help, but as Lament dove for it, 106 was pulling him away, pulling him into the recesses of the pipes, into hell and damnation.
Lament raised his gun, took quick aim at Sandlemyer, and did what he hoped any other agent would do for him in a similar situation. He pulled the trigger.
The hammer fell on the empty cartridge with a hollow click. And then they were both gone, and Lament was staggering back against the wall, sliding down it, staring into the mass of pipes.
When they found him, it had been seven minutes since 106 had breached containment.

« Interlude 4 | HUB | Interlude 5 »


February 19, 2009:

Wishing he didn't remember

"He. He. He. He. Hee."
Lament sat up in his bed in a cold sweat, the laugh still echoing in his ears. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, forcing the sound out of his head, then swinging his legs over the side and walking toward the shower.
He stepped into it, letting the cold water course over his back, feeling it slowly begin to warm as the echoing nightmare finally, slowly stopped…
He opened his eyes and stared at the wall. For a moment, he was almost certain that the porcelain of the shower wall was giving way, handprints emerging from it like a child's hand playing with their blankets. Mocking hands that would reach for his throat and squeeze the life out of him, but he wouldn't die. No. He'd live while the owners of those hands played. Played and laughed. "He. He. He. He. Hee."
As he briefly considered reaching for his sidearm on the sink, the effect faded. For a moment, he still considered reaching for it, for another purpose, and when he realized it, he slumped down the wall of the tub, sitting under the water until it had long run cold, staring weakly at the drain.
Wishing he didn't remember, but glad that he did.

« Part 4 | HUB | Part 5 »


November 8, 1998:

"Denied, Agent."

"Denied, Agent."
Lament looked up at the panel of three doctors, swallowing and licking his lips slightly. "Ma'am?"
"Denied," she repeated. He only knew two of the three doctors seated at the table: Sorts and Vang. The woman in the middle was the one talking to him now, professional and stolid.
"Can I ask why?"
"No," she said simply, closing the file, looking to the side slightly, away from his face. She seemed almost motherly for a moment, like she was about to tell her child that the puppy he'd loved was in Heaven now, and no, it's alright, don't cry.
This wasn't fair. He'd followed all the correct channels. All the correct forms were filled out, everything should be cut and dry.
"Can I ask who, then?" he asked.
She didn't speak for a moment, and it was Sorts who leaned forward, piping up. "You're aware that supervisors have to approve a transfer?" he asked.
Lament ignored the question. "I'm not qualified to be a research assistant," he countered. "It was…" He chose his words carefully. "… an unfortunate set of circumstances that landed me there to begin with. All of you know that. I don't have the degree. I don't have the credentials."
"Jesus, son," muttered Sorts. "Will you pay attention?"
Lament's voice finally cracked as the anger found its way into it, the placidity giving way to a harsh firmness. "Why the hell am I still here?"
"In this… particular case, an exception was made," the woman said. "The problem of your credentials has been overlooked, as well as your training. South Cheyenne is there, if you want to finish your doctorate, and there are several groups that can aid you in meeting the qualifications."
Frustration. Bitterness. "By who?"
She sighed and looked at Lament, pushing a bang back over her ear. The motherly look was back. "Isn't it obvious?" she asked. A small gavel smacked a small sounding block.
"This panel is dismissed."

He hadn't cooled down when he reached his office, and it took him a while to finally step inside of it. When he did, the anger flared back, and Lament found himself simply staring at Gears for a long moment before he finally spoke, keeping the edge out of his voice just barely. "Why?"
A placid and calm expression stared back as the doctor answered. "Your skills are more than sufficient for the work we've been doing, Agent."
"That's not what I mean, damnit!" he said, turning away even as he did, not wanting to look at him. Not wanting to see his face, content to imagine the disappointment and contrition that he knew would not be there. "You know what I mean."
Gears was silent for a moment. "You were a stop gap," he said flatly. "After Doctor Iceberg's incident—"
"Suicide."
"—incident, I needed someone who could pick up where he left off, which was the containment of SCP-106. That has been and will continue to be my primary concern. Containment is your specialization. Once we have arrived at a solution, if you still wish to transfer, then I will not deny it."
Lament sat there, taking slow, deep breaths. He didn't know what he should have expected. What he was expecting. Logic and straightforwardness were not always the things he received in these situations.
"All right," Lament said, the tightness in his chest still not abating.
"Do you work well with Assistant Researcher Sandlemyer?" Gears asked.
That… That was an unexpected question. "He's my best friend, sir," Lament admitted. No sense in lying.
"Do you work well with him?" Gears asked again.
"Yes," Lament said with a sigh, wondering where this was going. "Before your gag order, I discussed several of my projects with him."
"Very well," replied Gears. "I will inform Dr. Djoric that he will be assisting us with 106 for the next two weeks. Please update him fully at your earliest convenience."
"I… Yes, sir," Lament mumbled, surprise sapping articulation.
"You're dismissed, Agent. Enjoy your day off."

"I dunno…" Lament said, talking quietly over a cup of coffee in Sandlemyer's office. "I think he's trying to make me happy or something…" he suggested.
"I didn't think he was the kind of person to care," Sandy replied, laughing softly.
Lament looked up at the other man. "He's not like that," he said. "He's not… mechanical or robotic or… He's just…" He paused for a long moment. "Cold," he finished.
Sandy shrugged. "Whatever you say. But I've got no specialization in containment, man. And I'm not sure why he's dragging me on board or what he expects me to do."
Lament shrugged. "Me neither…"
He looked around the room at all the various shelves filled haphazardly with files, books, and papers. The low watt, incandescent bulbs. This office felt homey. Comfortable. Lived in. It felt… good.
"I'll see you in the morning, Sandy," Lament said, setting down the cup on the table.
"Seeya, Lament. Hey! This'll be fun, right? Like when you were over here with us for a few weeks."
"Yeah," Lament said. "Sure." He just wished he could believe it.

« Interlude 3 | HUB | Interlude 4 »


July 5, 2004:

"Butterflies!"

It was an unholy din that surrounded the pair, people shouting and clamoring. There was a fifteen minute window when Site19 could have the yearly photo made, and currently, Dr. Glass was having a hard time getting people to listen, much less position themselves.
"C'mon, guys! Please! This shouldn't take long if you'll all just get into your places."
Lament found himself smiling. Waving at some friends as he worked toward the left of the room, moving to stand behind Gears' shoulder.
When he looked around, he saw Agatha, giving him a significant look. He looked back at her, tilting his head and shrugging, giving her one of those—'hell do you WANT me to do'—looks. She gave it to him again, and he sighed, tapping Gears' shoulder.
"Sir?" he asked.
"Yes, Agent," Gears replied without turning around.
"Smile, sir."
"And what purpose would that serve, Agent?"
He took a breath.
"Smiling would serve to put the others at ease, sir. As this is a social function for the entire site, your smiling could aid the others in the establishment of a more efficient and normalized workplace, something that I believe your own reports have called essential when dealing with the unnatural world in which we work."
It was obviously prepared. Rehearsed. Practiced.
Gears turned and looked at him. After a moment, the corners of his lips inclined in a corpse-like rictus that never touched his eyes.
"Is this sufficient?"
Lament found himself grinning now. Genuinely.
"Yes, sir."
"Everyone!" shouted Glass. "Say… Butterflies!"
"Butterfliiieeessss," said the chorus.

« Part 3 | HUB | Part 4 »


November 1, 1998:
Agent Lament noted, almost in passing, that it was All Saints Day as he tore off his calendar. He tossed the old day aside, chuckling slightly at the new one. "Scientists are all over the place in the sack," he started. "Watt did it with power, Joule did it with energy, Ohm did it with resistance, Pascal did it under pressure." He grinned.
"All notable contributors to their fields," Gears said dryly.
Lament nodded. He'd never heard a chuckle from across the office for the past year. Never saw a smile. People seemed to think that Gears was a robot or a cyborg or some sort of computer given human form. Lament preferred to think of him as just reserved and needing to come out of his shell a little.
It was a damn thick shell, though…
Lament popped his neck and looked at his inbox. Nothing too much. A couple of memos concerning some security issues that he briefly glanced over… Nothing too important. He sighed a little, shredding the ones that were marked as such, filing the others, then leaning back in his seat. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.
"Agent?"
Lament opened his eyes, looking at the bald doctor across his desk. That was a surprise. Normally, it was a process of file, assessment, and writing up proposals and schematics. Conversation was not something the two of them participated in. "Yes, Doctor Gears?" he asked.
"What was your previous assignment?"
Lament was caught a little off guard at that one. Hedge. "You should know, sir. You received my personnel file."
"I did. Please, continue."
Lament nodded a little. "I was at Site-29, sir," he said. "Just outside San Matteo," he added. "I was working on… well… a few… different projects…" he finished, looking back at the large, thick file on the corner of his desk. Averting his eyes and putting wording together in his head.
"Such as?" Gears asked.
"Classified, sir," he said, hoping there was some protection in that. He didn't want to talk about 919. About his own face screaming at him. "I'm not free to talk about them."
Gears nodded slightly. "So are the ones you're working on with me," he said flatly. "Though the telekill box was rather ingenious."
And that was it. A pit formed in his stomach. Lament looked back up at Gears, then down again. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. But… I never shared anything above Level Two clearance, sir," he said quickly. "I'd never do anything like that…"
"Nevertheless, Agent."
Lament sighed, feeling thoroughly… chastened? He wasn't sure. It was the nameless feeling of having disappointed your father or mother. "Yes, sir."
And then, he and Gears didn't say anything for the next few hours, until Lament rose from his desk to go to lunch. "Can I get you anything, sir?" he asked.
"That will be unnecessary."
Lament sighed, nodded, and walked out of the office, realizing how… thoroughly he must have just disappointed the man, even though he'd never show it. He wondered if a transfer was coming somewhere in his future… Would he welcome that? The Assistant Researcher position he was occupying was never something he'd wanted, nor something that he was exactly qualified for. He felt out of his element, and now, it felt worse.
He met up with Sandlemyer shortly later, as usual. They sat together with a gaggle of other assistants; Lament was the only one at the table not wearing a white labcoat, though. Sandy had accepted his promotion to Assistant Researcher as soon as he finished his degree through South Chayanne Point University, and with a smile, he and the others started chatting openly about their current projects. Lament was almost certain that the only reason he was "allowed" to sit with them was because he was working with Gears, and the blank faced doctor seemed to be a source of fascination to the rest of them. They worked in circuits, providing what details they could, omitting what they couldn't. And then, it came to his turn. He sighed and shook his head.
"I am currently not allowed to discuss my project load," he said, flatly and to the point. He picked up a french fry and ate it, trying to act nonchalant and feeling none of it.
Sandy laughed, but the man sitting next to him, a researcher named Chubert, laid down his fork and looked at Lament seriously. "You know, Lament… You should probably transfer out of there, soon…" he suggested.
Lament peered up at him. "Why?"
It was another man down the table who agreed. "Yeah. I mean, you don't wanna be Iceberg part two," he said seriously. "And a gag order was how that one started too."
"What?" Lament asked. Iceberg… Djoric had said something about an Iceberg…
"Doctor Iceberg," Chubert's eyes were still locked on Lament. "Gears' old assistant. Was with him for… God… almost a decade? Eight years, at least," he said solidly. "Explosives expert when he came in. Gears recruited him to work on a couple of projects, and then he liked him or something, and he kept him around."
Lament raised an eyebrow. "So?" he asked.
"He worked with him day after day for years," Chubert said. "Years. Do you have any idea what working with someone like him for that long will do to you?" Chubert paused for a moment. "How long have you been with him now, Lament?" he asked.
"Just over a year," he said.
"Good. Next review, tell them you want a transfer."
"They'll want to know why."
"Then tell them you don't want to blow your brains out like the last guy did."

To: O5-██
August 1, 1997
After failure to report for his duties, I inspected the quarters of Dr. Iceberg. It was there that I found him deceased at his desk. Cause is believed to be a single gun shot wound to the roof of the mouth. The note present was confiscated and sealed, in accordance with containment procedures on SCP-███. His body was cremated the following morning, and his non-personal belongings were redistributed in accordance with Foundation procedures.
-Gears

It was two pages.

Lament laid the file back down on top of his desk. Ten years Iceberg had worked with Gears, and now…
He looked at the file. It was two pages. One that listed his qualifications, and the second one, a yellow, carbon paper copy of Gears' memo. This was it. This was ten years with Gears.
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes again, thinking. Thinking. Why hadn't he looked into this before? He wasn't qualified. He was barely qualified for the agent level work he'd been given.
He opened his drawer and stuffed the folder into it, not wanting to think about it. Not wanting to think about anything. What secrets had Iceberg expunged with that bullet? Lament took a shallow breath, then pulled out the paperwork he'd taken from Human Resources that afternoon, looking down at it.
He started filling out his transfer slip quickly, then folded it and stuffed it in an interoffice envelope. He dropped it in his outbox, and walked back to his quarters, his hands shaking.

« Interlude 2 | HUB | Interlude 3 »


July 7, 2005:

"I heard you like… ctenophores."

"Hey!"
Lament jumped at his desk, turning and looking up at the woman. Long, lightly curling, brown hair. Constant smirk. Mirthy eyes.
"Heya, Sophie," he said, grinning as he stood. The smile came to his face easy. It always seemed to around her. "Hey, listen, I got you something…"
"Oh…? Gifts? On a first date?"
"It's just lunch!" he defended. It was a date.
"Regardless, sir. Most unbecoming." Still that smirk. God, he loved that smirk.
"Well, I couldn't pay for the meal, since we're on base, so…" He pulled out a clear, glass vial, passing it to her carefully.
"Someone told me you like… ctenophores."
She looked down at it, then up at him, her face registering a mix of shock and joy.
"Best. Date. Ever."
Hehe. It was a date.

« Part 2 | HUB | Part 3 »


February 11, 1998:
He smiled at the bald man, waving with his elbow because his hands were too full, then setting his cup on the edge of his desk. Coffee—black.
He carefully balanced the other man's drink, easing it down onto the porcelain coaster gently, then nodding to him. “Morning, Dr. Gears.”
“Good morning, Agent,” he replied flatly.
Lament walked to his desk, sitting down and pulling off the calendar's top page, looking down at the next one. He grinned. “You'll like this one, sir,” he said, just a touch of humor in his voice. “Why do physicists make terrible lovers?”
Gears stared at him.
“Because they can find the position, but not the velocity. Or the velocity, but not the position,” Lament grinned from ear to ear.
Gears nodded. “Schrodinger, I believe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you finished your report on 106?” Gears asked.
Lament sighed. Swing and a miss. “No, sir, but I've got a few ideas…” he said quietly, leaning back to grab the file from his desk drawer.
Gears nodded slightly.
Lament pointed down at the schematic of the containment chamber. “I think we might be able to offset the corrosion if we actually suspend the cell," he started, laying it down open on his desk, pulling out his notes. "Keep it away from most surfaces. Direct contact seems to be the surest method of extensive transition, so…” And he was off.
And Gears listened, expressionless as Lament rattled off the plan. Of the original bodies that they'd found, one of them was wearing a watch which had a chromium plated band, untarnished, and he thought that they might be able to line the inside of the cell with that, since it seemed to have decayed slower.
Gears nodded as he finished. “And the suspension? How would we be able to manage it without direct contact with the cell?”
Lament shrugged. “Magnetics?” he suggested.
Gears nodded for a moment. “We'll look into it,” he said. “In the meantime, I need you to refocus your efforts. A slight conundrum for you.”
“What is it, sir?”
“SCP-884.”

April 27, 1998:
Lament had never heard of 884, and he quickly understood why. The Foundation barely had it in custody in the ninety-odd years that it had been known. Some group called “The Chaos Insurgency”—Lament had cackled over that name—kept stealing it. He looked down at the file, tilting his head slightly at the thickness of it, sighing.
“He's got to be kidding me…”
As luck would have it, the only one he needed to give a damn about was Dash-Four. The other pieces of the SCP, which had originally been a complete men's grooming kit, had been lost, destroyed, or stolen over the years. This last remaining piece was rather… innocuous. Just a mirror. It was nothing like the razor or the comb or even the shaving cup (all of which were far more interesting and far more dangerous). He read over the file a few times before pushing it to the side. He has to wonder what was special about it. And moreso, why Gears had assigned it to him. It wasn't an immediate or serious problem, just… He looked up at the clock.
Almost 7:00 PM already. He sighed heavily, opening his desk drawer and laying the thick, heavily bound document into it. With a stretch, he stood up, walking to the door and out into the silent hall. It was after hours in the Site19 staff offices, and there were only a few people still there. Over the last few weeks, he'd become one of those few.
Gears wasn't a hard taskmaster. He never gave you anything you weren't capable of. There was just… so much of it. He was completely amazed that the man had been managing on his own for this long, much less with this level of work. It was almost… disconcerting. At times, he wondered if he was actually helping or not, but Glass had told him—in his last mandatory psychological review—that it was a normal response. He took his reassurances at face value, and continued plodding along.

"Hey! Lament! Wait up!"

“Hey! Lament!”
He turned, smiling a little when he saw Sandlemyer waving at him. “Wait up!”
The two of them had gotten to know each other fairly well. Djoric, who was still the other agent's supervisor, worked mostly with written effects and mild memetics, and Sandlemyer was training in the same field. He and Sandlemyer had already worked together once on a small project when Gears hadn't needed Lament for a couple of days. It had been… nice. He was working with someone normal and even chipper at times. It was the most relaxing two days he'd spent since he came to Site19.
“Hey, Sandy,” he said. The Agent had taken well to the nickname Djoric had given him, and Lament occasionally wished he had as good a relationship with Gears as Sandlemyer had with the other doctor. “What's been going on in the library?”
Sandlemyer laughed. The library, as his office had come to be called, was just outside the holding room for every currently contained copy of The Hanged King's Tragedy, and just a few doors away, dozens of other books that would rape your mind or flense your skin sat waiting for someone to look at them.
It made for a slightly disturbing aesthetic.
“Not much. I've been trying to figure out the containment on this thing…” he said.
And it started. Their ritual. They talked to each other at length, discussing the problems that either one were having with their respective work. When Lament mentioned the mirror, Sandlemyer just shook his head and laughed. “You're going to have to get someone actually inside the Insurgency to figure that one out…” he said, a wide smirk on his face.
Lament just shrugged, suggested that he try setting up a telekill box—“It's like this. If the book is emitting thoughts, this stuff will explode and destroy it, which is your orders, right?”—and then headed back toward his quarters.
He walked back into his quarters—which were finally looking lived in—and nearly kicked a folder that had been slipped under his door. There was a note attached to the top of it, and Lament read it with a frown, feeling his stomach slip away as he realized that he would be awake far later than he wanted.
“Chromium ineffective. Reassess.”

« Interlude 1 | HUB | Interlude 2 »


August 18, 2007:

Happy Birthday to You

Lament's fingers slid over the chromium frame for a moment. It had been expensive, but the joke—which he knew wouldn't be laughed at—was worth it. His first failure for a final hurrah. He let a slight smirk slip over his lips, looking down at the picture, at the smile that looked almost abnormal, and laughed.
Lament wanted to think 'The look on his face…' or something similarly reflective, but he knew that it would be the same as it always was. Blank. Calculating.
He pulled out the wrapping paper, and slowly began folding it around the picture with a half smile, humming happy birthday.

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