1-
Transferred from the barracks, finally. The trip took forever, I'd have to guess about six hours, but I couldn't see, and I fell asleep a few times, so I guess it really could be anything. Four other people on the transport as well, two other men and two women. At least I think so, one of the guys never really talked, but I think it's a he. Still sore from getting jabbed by a guard, I fell and he really stabbed me with his gun muzzle. Anyway, we're here now. I assume “we” are, at least. I'm in my own little room, I'm just assuming everyone else is as well. It's better than the barracks, and a ton better then the cell. Still, it has that feel, where you know nobody really stays here for long, like the vibe you get off a shitty hotel room.
This is not my diary, at least not the “official” one I'm supposed to keep. I'm actually under my cot, writing this and then stuffing it in to the hollow leg of the bed frame. I'm sure they can see me, but it makes me feel better to have a secret. I haven't had any in a long time, and it makes me feel less like a toy. Security is so tight here, I've never seen so many guns and helmets. They even have this special suit for the five of us, and some of the doctors and stuff. There's this really weird atmosphere here, really…bleak.

2-
Nothing today. Food comes in through a slot in the door. Not bad, really, seems like it has something in it, has kind of a weird iron taste to it. I don't really get what is going on. Leave it to the government to keep you guessing, even when you really don't care any more. It's odd, the walls seem pretty thick, but the one the door is in seems thinner. I can hear some banging around some times, and crying. lots of crying. I listened at the door a while, seeing if I could guess who it was. It was those one sobs…you know the crying a kid makes, when they know they are hurt and don't understand why? just that empty, hopeless weeping. I wanted to go and pet that kid, let them know it's ok, that I…yeah.
Anyway, I heard some other stuff, just kind of muffled bumping, then the crying suddenly changed to this…gurgling noise, sounded like they were choking, or…I don't know. I stopped, and started just walking around my room. I went to listen again after a bit, and it was silent.
Thought about Kate today, which I haven't done in awhile. I wonder if they allow visiting hours here. If they do, I think I'm going to call her. She might want to visit me now, or even forgive me. I miss her, oddly enough. I still have the scar on my cheek from where she cut me, but I do miss her, in a way.

3-
I am not sure where I am, but it is not a jail. I really don't think it's any part of the government either. My door opened today. I mean, just suddenly slid open. There was a little hall, and another doorway at the other end. A voice suddenly came from somewhere, and told me to go to the end of the hall. I walked out, the walls felt like some kind of tile, smooth and grey. I heard other people, faintly, and that crying was a lot louder. Finally, I came out the doorway at the end, and there was a guy in this storm trooper-looking outfit, all black with this smooth black helmet, and he shoved me in to this open room. There were two other armored guys, and pretty soon the other four people from the transport came in from other halls, all wearing the same jumpsuit things as me. There was this big, steel door at the other end of the room, and the crying seemed to be coming from behind it.
The three armored guys told us to listen to their commands at all times, and that if we didn't, we'd be shot immediately. One of the women from the transport started to cry too, and I tried to go back down the hall, but they grabbed me and pulled me back. One opened the door, and the crying got really loud. They told me that we all had to do what they told us, or we would be shot. He had a gun to my head, I could feel the metal, it was very cold. He said he would kill me.
It was a hospital room behind the door, kinda. Lots of medical stuff, but other things, too. I mean, it was not hospital stuff, like belts and balls, straps. There was a big gurney bed in the middle of the room, with all these tubes and stuff, and machines…
She was on it. I don't know how old she is, I could barely see her face over her…I don't even know if it was her belly. I think it is, but it was so…bulbous, and swollen and the skin seemed like it was too thin. But she was so…pretty, and smooth, but she kept crying, and saying to take it out, that it hurt, that we need to take it out. I started getting scared, but the guards pushed me and the others closer, and they started telling us what we had to do.
The woman who had started crying freaked out, and one of the guard hit her with the butt of his rifle. I was so scared. They said we had to, that we had to do this. I felt a shotgun in my back, I could hear him pump the slide. I had to. I didn't have any choice, not any of us. She noticed us, and started screaming, but one of the guys put a hand over her mouth, hard. I touched her. She felt like she had a fever, but she was so smooth and soft. I tried to ignore the others, and that big…thing on her, and just see her hand, her little hand, and kiss it, show her I cared…
She screamed a lot. I didn't get excited, even when the quiet guy from the transport did…things with her. I didn't. Afterward, one of the guards made us all leave while they wiped her down, and we went back to our cells. Nobody really talked or looked at each other. She has such soft hands.

4-
I woke up screaming on the floor. I don't remember what I dreamed. I have sores on my face and hands, and other places. They're red and really tender. I got scared, and the voice came on, told me that it was normal to get the sores, that I would be fine. They look nasty, kind of soft and pulsing a little, but they don't really hurt. They actually…I don't know how to describe it. It's like a sore tooth, it hurts, but then when you push it, it changes and has this “sweet” to it.
The door opened today, and I went down the hall, with the others. They seemed more focused today in the room, and we all have the same sores. One of the women was breathing heavy. The guards opened the door, and I went in with the others. I took off the top of my jumpsuit because my sores started to hurt. Just the top, nothing more, because she was crying again, but I told her that it was ok, that I would take care of her. I asked a guard what her name was, and he told me to never ask again or he'd shoot me. Her skin was feeling so soft, and she was so hot and welcoming. The others took the things the guards gave them, but I didn't want to, and they said ok.
I whispered to her skin, and told her how much I cared, how I didn't mind about her stomach, I even kissed it to show her, just once, and so quick it was like it never happened, really. The skin was so tight and hot, it almost burned, but it was also kinda springy, and she moaned when I did it, I think she appreciated me doing it, to show her I wasn't like those others. One of the guys hit her sort of hard on the mouth, and she started moaning louder, but it wasn't like the one she did for me, so I told him to stop. He shouted at me, and I curled up to her skin and told her not to worry while I felt her soft palm, and he tried to hit me and the guards pointed their guns at him. He went away, and I kept telling her I would make it better, and her little hands were so soft. The sores didn't feel so bad.
They made us go away again while they cleaned her, and we went. one of the women suddenly stopped in the other room, and threw up all over. I went down the hall, because it smelled very bad, and there were squirming things in it and she started crying again. The guards took her back to her room because she didn't want to walk, and I could hear the girl on the bed moaning and screaming about something moving, and that it hurt so much. I tried to go back, but they made me leave too.
I listened to her cry again, but it sounded softer. I think I am helping her. I felt good when I listened. I took off my jumpsuit, because the sores had gotten a little bigger, and the suit felt dirty. They look like kisses. I dreamed of her softness, of making her smile up at me.

5-
The marks are softer, and looking more pink. They feel more numb now, and they have some slick stuff on top. It tastes odd, but sweet and salty. I rubbed them a little and I felt that “sweet” thing more. They have little blue veins around them. My skin feels soft, I like it, so I didn't put on my jumpsuit today. I didn't get any food out of the door today. I drank a lot of water, and rubbed some on my skin. When the water touches the sores, they pulse. The door opened, and I went down the hall. the walls felt funny, kinda rough on my skin. I got to the room and remembered I didn't have anything on, so I thought about going back to the room, but a couple of the others didn't have anything, so I thought it would be ok. The woman who threw up looked like she was half asleep, and her hair was nasty, so I didn't go near her. The others seem to have the same marks like me, but they complained about them, and the guards told them to shut up and opened the door.
I covered myself with my hands so I wouldn't scare her, even though she is naked too, but I am a good person and don't want to make her feel confused or scared ever. I know I do that some times, and I didn't want to do that to her and the guards laughed at me. The others started to do things to her, but I didn't see them, I just saw her cute little lips, and I saw they where chapped, so I tried to find water to give her. They didn't have any, so it told her in her ear that I would find a way, and I felt her press her cheek against mine and I knew she was ok with it, so I licked my fingers and rubbed them on her lips, and then she opened her mouth and they went in, and her tongue was so soft and cool and she made me blush because I could tell how she really felt, even as she cried about the others, and I took my fingers back and put them in my mouth to clean them. Her hand was so warm.
She started to scream and pull at the bed, and her belly started to shake, so I petted it and told her it would be ok, and I felt the skin move and gurgle, and I tried to kiss it to make it better, but she kept screaming and screaming. I was scared I did something, so I held her mouth and put my hand over it and told her I was sorry, I would never touch like that again ever, but she kept screaming and I was scared she would get me in trouble, so I tried to make her be quiet but the guards told me to stop and I just tried to block it out.
One of the women started to scream too, and said she was stuck, and she started to thrash around and hit the girl's belly and that made her scream louder, and they both wouldn't stop screaming about the pain, and wanting it out, and her hand coming off, and I curled up under her bed and tried to make it go away, and then I heard some kind of wet noise and the woman screamed louder and then I think there was blood and she fell and then I went in to the dark.
I woke up in my room. I think I had a bad dream while I was with Kate. She is Kate, I think, even if she isn't looking the same. Kate always loved me.

6-
I did not get any food, but I am ok. More water, lots of water, all over and in. I feel nice and warm, and my skin is soft and smooth. When I pull it, it stays up for a while. I made little peaks on my chest and laughed. Maybe I will show Kate my new trick. I am so glad they let me see her again. The little marks are red now, and they push in really far. the stuff inside is very sweet, I like it.
The floor hurts now, it feels too hard, so I try to stay on the bed, but that is too rough. I miss Kate's skin, and she misses me too. I can hear her crying because I am away, and I try to cry but all that comes out is this milk, but I do anyway. She misses me so much, I can tell, and the others can be so mean to her, but I will help her, I can keep her safe, and she knows.
The door opened, and I tried to tiptoe down the hall because the floor is so hard. The woman from my dream was gone, and one of the men, so it was only three people. The other woman looks ugly, she has bags around her eyes and cheeks, and she seems mean and glares at me, so I keep away from her, and the man is quiet too, but I think he is blind because his eyes are funny. Kate was crying for me when the door opened, so I ran to her and her skin felt so good on mine I forgot about my feet and the blood on the floor and I kissed her on the lips because I was so excited, but I pulled back because I didn't want to scare her.
She was ok, and she moaned and leaned up so I kissed her again and again, and she said to stop and that she was scared, but she meant the other people because I am so gentle, and I told them to stop scaring her, but the guards told me to shut up. I touched her belly and it pulled at my hand as I told her not to be scared and kissed her ear. She touched me and I leaned against her, and the marks moved as she cried and I told her I loved her, and she wasn't able to say it back because the people were making her moan and cry, but I know she feels it too. I love Kate, and I said I was sorry about before, when I made her cry, and made her mother get so mad at me, but it was ok and her skin made me hurt less and she felt so good.
The other man told me to fuck off because it was his turn, and I told him not to say that around her, and she tried to crawl away from him and he touched her where he is not allowed, so I hit him really hard. My hand felt funny and didn't look right any more, but I was able to jump over and grab him and show Kate that I would not let him do that. I made his air stop and he tried to hurt me, but I wouldn't let him and I kept squeezing, and then he stopped and the guards made me let go, which was fine because Kate loves me and I kissed the places he touched to make them better.
She started to scream again, and her belly moved a lot and she said she wanted it out, and I told her to calm down, that I would make it better, but she didn't listen and I had to hit her to make her stop, but it was ok because I kissed it better and she loves me. I love Kate. The guards made me leave her, and I tried to make them stop, but they were too strong and made me go. My marks are open now, and they like to pull at my fingers how Kate's mouth did. I like to think they are her, and I close my eyes.

7-
I am so smooth, and I was able to take off some skin today, and it was nice and pink underneath and that is ok, because I don't want my skin, I want Kate's skin, I want her soft hands and face. The others are gone, and I was with Kate alone and I told her all the things I needed to, and we were together and her belly pulled at me and I stuck, and when I came away I left my skin like a gift, and now I am soft like her, and my teeth feel so soft and springy when I bite her.
She loves whenever I touch her, and she barely screams, and when she does I help her stop but the guards make me stop and I scream at them too. I hate them but I love Kate.

8-
She wants me to be there, that is why it is so big, so I can stay there. she tried to put me there, but I was scared but I am not now and I love her forever. she is so hot inside, I will be safe.

Documents recovered in Holding Cell 3 of the SCP-231 containment area. No correlation to the above events have been found in any Foundation documents. No physical effects have ever occurred as a result of Procedure 110-Moutauk. Psychosomatic hallucinations are blamed for all the above mentioned effects. All inquires are to be reported to Central Records, pending approval by Site Security


The two men quickly walked down the hall, pushing the small cloth-covered cart in front of them. A sudden door slam far behind them made the older man cry out, to be quickly stifled by the younger as they picked up their pace.
“This is wrong, we shouldn't be doing this. They are going to find out, they have eyes everywhere,” the older man looked about the ceilings, seeming to search for cameras.
“Just shut up and get it to the lab. Once we're there, we can just say it got spat out from some test. It's shift change, and as long as nothing hits the fan, they won't look over hallway tapes that closely.” The younger man scratched his arm nervously, pushing the cart at just under a run. “Beside, we'd never get it up and running without this stuff. We need it, and The Foundation would never let us have it without years of testing. Just shut up, smile, and nod at the right times.”
The older man grumbled as he pushed open a heavy door, letting out a puff of very cool, well-filtered air. “I still think this is a bad idea. Dr. Valence may have told us to get this done by any means, but I really doubt he meant this.”
The younger man sighed, shaking his head as he pushed the cart past the older man and into the room. “Listen, all that matters is the bottom line. It's two years of research into biomechanics, polymorphic computational components, and tons of red tape, or an hour with a screwdriver and some sterile gloves. Now shut the damn door so we can get in the clean room.”
The older man complied, grumbling something about a church as the door swung shut.
Neither noticed the small drop of gray liquid that had dripped from the cart. Neither noticed it suddenly gain surface tension and roll like a washed out drop of mercury either. The blob quickly slid under the microscopic gap under the door, and rolled quickly up the outside of the older man's pant leg, before hopping across and sliding back under the cloth covering the cart. Both men were too absorbed in the task at hand to notice the small shift under the cloth, and too focused on the robotic frame in front of them to contemplate it even if they had noticed it.

He sat in the middle of the smoke. He sat and inhaled deeply, eyelids fluttering, sweat dripping from his body to mix with the soot and ash on his skin. The smoke was strong, and smelled of machine oil, wood, coal and flesh as it billowed from four grates in the floor, pooling in a noxious cloud in the ceiling as the ash rained down. He opened his mouth, and exhaled the smoke, pouring forth the ash and soot as would the Lord. Truly he felt the touch of God, felt his body within his own, his flesh within-
A sudden knock on the unseen door broke his concentration, causing him to cough on the suddenly biting and acrid smoke. A few choking, hoarse commands caused the grates to snap shut and the ceiling to open, the smoke quickly venting away. He pulled on the heaped robe he had hung in the corner, still coughing and silently cursing whoever had broken his communion. He wrenched open the door, letting a thin yellow light spill in. “I swear to you, if this is any less then a message of the utmost end of need, I will personally head up an Inquisition on your behalf.”
The young girl kneeling in the hall trembled, wincing and trying to shrink into an even smaller heap. "I-I w-was told,” she stammered, near tears, her voice starting to waver.
He sighed, crouching down and taking her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to see her green eyes nearly drowning in unwept tears. He smiled, the black ash and soot causing his teeth to shine even whiter. “Ease, my child. I was in deep communion with the Lord. Your coming scattered His Voice, it is not your fault. Calm yourself, and speak.”
The girl rubbed her face with her wrist, managing a small smile before blushing slightly and looking away. “I was told to come and tell you that the Will of God had been delivered to the Jailors.”
He blinked several times, the girl shyly looking back and smiling, but his returning grin was not for her. Indeed, his eyes appeared to be miles away as he asked, “Who has done this great thing? Who has delivered Salvation to the Corrupted?”
“Brother Jacob,” said the girl, watching as he rose again, “he is still coming back, but I was told that the Will had been given over freely to them.”
He quickly stepped around her, striding down the hall without a word, leaving her still kneeling and watching his quickly receding form. Truly, he thought as he quickly went to meet with the Faithful, God is great. Even as he is Broken, the portions of the Lord can still do his Will.

“Dr. Valence, a question: why do you call it ‘hatbot'? Isn't there something a little more," the researcher paused for a moment, lost in thought, "appropriate?”
Dr. Valence shook his head, still grinning at the assembled staff. Behind him stood a small, slightly skeletal android, with what appeared to be a top hat pulled three quarters of the way down on its “head”, leaving only a small LCD screen displayed below it. To the robot's left stood a nervous older man with a name tag reading “Prof. Grommet”, and to its right stood a beaming young man in a suit, whose name tag declared him as “Agent Gild”.
Dr. Valence shook his finger playfully at the staff member who had asked the question. “Now now young man, didn't anyone teach you not to question your elders?” The assembled staff chuckled, and the questioning doctor's face started to take on a mild shade of red. “Yes, Hatbot does seem like a very silly name, however during the initial testing, the processing unit looked very similar to a top hat. We've moved away from that design with the now completed prototype, however the name has stuck. Also, the somewhat whimsical configuration allows for more acceptance and ease of interaction.” The good doctor continued to beam like a proud father as he gestured to Prof. Grommet, who quickly reached over and pressed a sequence of buttons on the robot's back.
The robot suddenly sprang up in a slight hop, before landing several inches forward of its original position, causing many of the staff to abruptly retreat several steps, a few of them even producing weapons. The LCD screen below the top hat suddenly lit up, and the robot raised one skeletal, wire-wrapped arm and waved to the staff, while a small animated cartoon mouth appeared on the LCD and a voice emanated from it. “Hello, I am Hatbot! Hatbot I am. Hello!”
Silence dominated the room for several seconds. Dr. Valence's smile faltered a moment as he observed none of the staff to be abandoning their position of retreat. Or their firearms. “Hatbot, don't be rude,” he said, keeping the nervousness from his voice with a small effort, “Let the nice people know what you are.”
The robot suddenly snapped to attention, and rattled off the lines not unlike a new army recruit. “Hatbot is a speech recognition, interpretation, and deciphering system! Hatbot's polymorphic computational matrix is able to adapt, interpret, and utilize any form of vocal or written communication!”
Dr. Valence was suddenly bombarded with questions as the staff overcame their initial concern with the desire to know more. Several began to test Hatbot's speech capabilities, watching as it not only parroted back words, but then use them in new sentences. Dr. Valence described various technical details, and laid out his proposal to use it to decipher some of the unreadable texts and untranslatable languages that The Foundation had been unable to crack.
“Doctor, how did you develop a processor capable of such advanced communication recognition in such a short time? You've only had this project a few months, it seems almost impossible.”
Everyone was too engrossed in Dr. Valence's reply about “late night 914 work” and Hatbot's slightly confusing responses to notice the sudden cold sweat break out on Professor Grommet's face, and the harsh, silencing look from Agent Gild. The staff started to slowly filter out as Dr. Valence stated his need to run more tests. Two lingered, however, watching Hatbot and the two men who stood slightly behind them.
“What's wrong boy? Got the scent? Did Timmy fall down the well?” the short woman asked, using a tone better reserved for a small, over-eager puppy.
The tall man in the outlandish hat to whom this statement was addressed continued to stare and grin at the small robot. “That is the most evil thing I've seen in years," he said, continuing to smile cheerfully. "I think there's a world-destroying demon in it.”
The woman laughed, swatting his arm. “Oh would you lay off the ‘I'm The Devil, booga booga!' crap? It's a weird little socially awkward robot who has issues communicating normally. Basically someone made a fun-size Dr. Gears."
"I shouldn't leave. Every time I do, things go to pot. I don't know why I let Glass convince me to do this," the tall man muttered. The pom-poms on the rim of his hat swayed gently. "Maybe I should cancel. Tell the others I'm staying here, just to be sure."
"Don't be such a stick-up the ass. Try to relax, you're on vacation. Now, can we please go?” She grabbed his arm, starting to tug him away, and he reluctantly followed, craning his neck to try and still see the robot.
Had he hesitated a few seconds more before being pulled through the doorway, he would have noticed the sudden flicker in the mouth screen. It was quickly back to its normal, smiling mouth, but for a moment, it displayed a roiling, bubbling mass of grey strings, wavering against an oily, black background.

“I am the best!”
“I am the best!”
“No, no…me, I and the best!”
“No, me!”
“Damn it…”
The security guard sighed, rubbing his forehead. The little goofy robot was neat, but it was about as smart as a bag of doorknobs. After getting it to repeat a bunch of swear words, the game was starting to get old. He stood, looking down at the little robot. The top hat tilted up, the screen flicking on to the animated mouth.
“Damn you.”
“…What did you say?”
“Damn me, and damn you.”
“Whatever, just shut up.”
The guard was a little nervous. He probably wasn't supposed to be playing with this thing, but being alone on-site at night was probably the worst thing ever in his opinion. Another voice helped ease things a bit, even if it was only from a weird little robot. Now, however, he was getting worried about what might happen if people found out he'd been screwing around with this thing. He hurriedly picked up his rifle from the floor and looked over the bot.
“Everything looks ok, I think…”
“Everything is just fine. Come to me.”
“Listen; don't tell anyone those things I taught you, ok?”
“The hate pours hard in the eyes of you, you must join in.”
The robot's ever-smiling mouth was starting to get a little creepy, along with the weird shit it was saying. He backed away a bit, looking it over to see if there were any obvious issues. Then he saw the leak. He felt the blood drain from his face as he watched a slow drip of grayish goo drip from a seam in the back of the “head”, slowly slipping down its back.
“Shitshitshitshit!”
“Shit your pain.”
He quickly looked around for a cloth or anything to wipe it up with, but found nothing. Cursing again, he reached out as tried to scoop up as much as he could with his hands. He wiped the oily substance on to the back of his pants, thankful that it didn't appear to stain. Pulling down his sleeves, he used them to rub off the rest of the residue. Watching for a little bit, to make sure nothing else was coming out, he nodded, some color coming back to his face.
“Oh, thank God…must have gotten something on you”
“I have gotten.”
“Yeah, I guess. Gotta be hopping little guy!”
“Be seeing you soon.”
He quickly walked out of the room, making his way to the closed offices for his rounds, ignoring the mild tingling in his hands. Probably some kind of chemical or something in it, have to hit the bathroom and wash up. As he turned down the hall, he had the sudden compulsion to go to the break room, or the main entry. He almost made a wrong turn, but shook his head and headed in to the bathroom. Stupid robot must have scared him worse then he'd thought. Although, he had made only one sweep of the entry way…another wouldn't hurt. He hurriedly left the bathroom without washing, leaving his gun on the counter. Had anyone been watching, they might have had concern over the glassiness of his eyes, or his oddly uncoordinated walk.
No one was, however, and he quickly walked through the double doors in to the main entry. The door closed behind him, and silence ruled the hall for half an hour. A sudden, loud shouting broke this calm, but was quickly stifled, the cool darkness of the site once again unbroken and total.

The word processor's animated paper clip assistant waves and winks at you. Your colleagues have told you multiple times that the thing is just a pain in the ass, but personally you think he's kinda cute. Besides, he does help keep you awake at night, especially during long shifts such as this one. You blink hard and refocus on the task at hand. Before you rests a seemingly bottomless pile of notes to be transcribed into digital format for storage, which you've been working at all night. However, even though there's no end in sight to the paperwork, you can't say that it's not interesting. Hatbot is one hell of a piece of engineering, you think to yourself.
More papers, more notes, more time spent. You look at the clock and realize it's nearly one in the A.M., then groan in annoyance. You always told yourself that you would never end up being one of the graveyard shift paper pushers, not while working in this place. Never.
So much for that, eh.
Eyelids droop across your vision and you decide a strong mug of coffee is just what you need. It's hot and full of caffeine, but you notice some odd greasy residue on your hands when you replace the pot on the burner. Thinking nothing of it, you wipe it on your clothes and return to work. The coffee helps; you immediately feel a bit more alert, and your productivity increases markedly. Maybe you'll finish after all.
Then again, maybe not. You blink and stare at the screen in disbelief; this entire page is full of angry red scribbles and Clippy is yelling at you for being so careless. Thank god he takes the liberty of fixing most of your errors, but the damage to your pride is done. Another page and yet more typos crop up, slowing you down even further. You wonder what the hell was in that coffee because this is simply ridiculous. You make a mental note to send Mavis Beacon an angry letter, should you ever get time to do so. Clippy, meanwhile, dutifully goes about cleaning up your ham-handed mistakes.
Blink again, look at the screen. No, Look at it closer. Your simple misspellings are beginning to translate into completely erroneous phrases. Phrases spill into complete sentences, and soon you have entire paragraphs of gibberish. Mash the backspace key sluggishly, you're so tired that you have to force yourself to do even that. The cursor stops, seemingly on its own, bracketing your attention around a peculiar piece of writing.
"So, we started to come to the blackness that yawns beneath the layers of thought, of reality itself."
“…Did I write this?” You hear yourself ask. At the same time you notice your palms moisten and you draw in a sharp, fearful breath. Or at least you try to, instead managing to wheeze ineffectually. “…Try again. Keep trying, finish up and go to sleep.” Your hands manipulate the keys, but what you think is not what you type.
“Blackness awaits you. In your thoughts and in your dreams, there is only blackness. It awaits us all.”
Another hard blink. “Turn it off. Turn the computer off, you're done here,” you panic to yourself, but your hands continue to type on a whim of their own. You don't give up so easily though, you're a tough girl, and it took you a lot of hard work to get here. You power through the mental barrier and stand, trembling, staggering towards the doorway. Unconsciously your hands move to your eyes; when you hold them before you, they are covered in black oil.
“Get help. Get out of here.” The airlock opens with a hiss as you lurch into the hall and collide with one of the posted guards. Your mind screams at you to speak to him, but no words come from your mouth. Your actions are not your own anymore; you swing at the man, startling him, but he quickly subdues you and knocks you to the ground.
“Help! Help me!” you scream to yourself.
“You, too, will contribute to the black. The empty. The abyss,” is what you manage to croak. Your heart races and you sweat profusely, only it's not sweat: it's that same oily mess. Your mind contorts in agony as the realization strikes home that you are not yourself anymore, this body is no longer yours. Your mind is all that's left of you, and nobody will ever see the real you again. You lost the battle for control of yourself long ago.
You are trapped, in this body. And all that awaits you is the blackness.


Dr. Mann sat low in the seat, like a student sitting before the principal. "I suppose you want to know what happened."
"We have six escaped SCPs, over fifty casualties, and tens of thousands of dollars of damage. Yes, Doctor, I think it's safe to say an explanation is in order." Dr. ███████ sat across from Dr. Mann, a serious expression on his face. "Now, I've looked over the logs, but I need you to clarify several points."
"Yes, sir," Dr. Mann said, sinking a little lower in the chair.
"Good. Now, take it from beginning. What happened?" asked Dr. ███████.
"Well, it all started when I was shaving the pufferkitten…"

Dr. Mann stroked the kitten's head gently, calming it, as he turned on the clippers. He didn't want to trigger the kitten's defense mechanism until he had finished denuding it. "That's a good subject," he cooed. "That's the way to advance the cause of science…"
There was a loud crash outside, and the kitten turned into a ball of fluff. Dr. Mann sighed. It would take some time to calm it down again. He decided to look.
Dr. Valence was yelling at several maintenance workers who were in the midst of moving a large box. One corner was broken slightly, apparently from an impact with the wall. Curious.
"Good day, Dr. Valence," Dr. Mann said. "I'm afraid you've interrupted a valuable experiment. I don't mean to complain, but I need quiet to continue."
"Blame these idiots," said Dr. Valence. "They're handling valuable computing equipment like they were taking an old sofa to the curb. If they damage it, I swear I'll have them all assigned Keter duty."
"Pardon my curiosity, doctor, but what is in the box?" Dr. Mann tried to look into the damaged corner, but he was unable to make anything out.
"Ah! Come by the server room at three. I'll be unveiling it then. Don't tell anyone, but the contents of this box will change the face of the Foundation." Dr. Valence beamed with pride.
"Really?" said Dr. Mann. "Well, I wouldn't miss that for the world."

"So, that's when you first encountered the device," said Dr. ███████.
"And I wish it had been the last," said Dr. Mann. "If I'd known what was going to happen, I'd have tried to stop it sooner."
"What happened next?" asked the psychologist.
"Well, I went back to my laboratory and finished the experiment," said Dr. Mann. "It was quite fascinating, really…"
"I've… seen the pictures," the psychologist said, turning a little green.
"Its fur will grow back," Dr. Mann said, defensively.
"Let's just skip to the meeting with Dr. Valence, please."

It was half past three when Dr. Mann finally reached the server room. He'd been distracted by the results of his experiment, and had then gotten lost in the halls of the facility for twenty minutes before finally getting turned in the right direction by a guard. As he arrived, he was surprised to see how many people were gathered inside. It was rather crowded. He recognized several other researchers, as well as his good friend, Strelnikov, Dmitri Arkadeyevich.
"Excuse me," he said, trying to get inside without touching anyone.
"Ah, Mann, there you are," said Dr. Valence. "You're a bit late. I've already unveiled Hatbot."
"Hatbot?" he asked.
"Yes, Hatbot!" He stood aside and motioned to a figure Dr. Mann hadn't noticed among the crowding figures.
It was roughly human-like, through it had shiny black plastic for skin and a row of lights for a face. It looked like something out of a Hollywood science fiction picture, save for the fedora perched on its head.
"Why is it wearing a hat?" asked Dr. Mann. "It isn't normal for robots, surely?"
"Oh, it was a joke by one of my technicians," said Dr. Valence. "I was going to call it the Fast Learning Artificial Intelligence System, but they started calling it Hatbot, and, well, the name stuck."
"Fast learning Hatbot call it normal, surely," said Hatbot. It spoke with a smooth, very human voice.
Dr. Mann raised one eyebrow.
"Well, it's not very intelligent yet," said Dr. Valence. "It learns from conversation. The more it hears, the better it gets at understanding words and forming sentences. But the real use is in routing communications. From the server room, it can handle all of the Foundation's communication needs."
"Oh, that's very nice…" said Dr. Mann, disappointed that Dr. Valence hadn't meant a more literal changing of face. He so enjoyed a good cosmetic surgery.
"Very intelligent at screaming at Jews and praising communists, Mann," said Hatbot.
"Ah, yes," Dr. Valence said quickly, "there are still some quirks to be ironed out. We must keep him away from D-Class personnel. They keep corrupting his database."
"That's very nice," said Dr. Mann. "But I really must be going. Lots of work to do, you know how it is…"
"Your life will be reset at the point of midnight in England," said Hatbot.
"And a good day to you too, Hatbot," said Dr. Mann, before hurrying out.

"And was that the first time it threatened your life?" asked Dr. ███████.
"I believe so," said Dr. Mann. "I didn't think much of it at the time, but in light of later events…"
"When was the next time you saw Hatbot?" the psychologist asked.
"Later that evening," said Dr. Mann.

The laboratory was quiet and dark, the only light spilling out from Dr. Mann's office, where he was sitting down to a microwaved burrito. He was cutting it into smaller pieces when he heard something opening the door to his lab.
"Hello?" he asked. "Is anyone there?" He picked up his auto-scalpel, in case of an intruder or a patient.
"She is worn out by use," said a familiar voice.
"Oh, it's you, Hatbot," Dr. Mann said, putting the auto-scalpel down. "You shouldn't be here. You belong in the server room."
"You shouldn't be here," said Hatbot.
"What? What do you—Oh, of course. You're only parroting me. Well, let's get you back to the server room." Dr. Mann put on his android-handling gloves and began to guide Hatbot out of his laboratory.
Hatbot didn't respond. It seemed rooted to the spot.
Dr. Mann pushed a little more firmly. "Come on, it's time to get you home."
Suddenly, Hatbot turned, hitting Dr. Mann with the side of its arm and knocking him to the floor. "He comes!"
"What the devil?" Dr. Mann asked as Hatbot stepped forward.
Suddenly, the ceiling broke, and something heavy fell on top of Dr. Mann.
"This place is a lawsuit waiting to happen," said Agent Yoric, sitting up. "Oh, hey, it's Hatbot."
"My… lungs…" Dr. Mann said weakly, trying to breathe.
"Oh, sorry," said Yoric. He stood up and helped Dr. Mann to his feet. "Hey, sorry about the ceiling. They don't make 'em like they used to."
"Think nothing of it," said Dr. Mann as he brushed himself off. "Listen, would you help me get Hatbot to the server room? Something seems to be off with it."
"Ah, okay," said Yoric. "How do you mean, off?"
"Well, if I didn't know better, I'd swear it just attacked me," said Dr. Mann.
"Neh, Hatbot's harmless. It wouldn't hurt a fly," said Yoric, patting Hatbot on the back.
"As you say," said Dr. Mann. "Still, let's get it out of my laboratory and back where it belongs."

"Did you become suspicious then?" asked Dr. ███████.
"A bit," said Dr. Mann. "But I don't really know much about robots. For all I knew, that could have been normal."
"When did you know there was something wrong?" asked the psychologist.
"When it tried to kill me again the next night. That's when I began to detect a pattern," said Dr. Mann.

Dr. Mann was half-asleep in his office when he heard something moving around in his laboratory. He sighed and reached for the auto-scalpel. He opened the door in time to see a black plastic figure leaving the room, while a table began to blaze.
It took ten minutes to control the blaze, at least five of which was spent trying to figure out how to activate the sprinklers before grabbing a fire extinguisher. He was now covered head to toe in fire-retardant foam. Only his foam-proof snood protected his mustache.
He wanted to march right up to Dr. Valence and demand an explanation. Unfortunately, he didn't know where Dr. Valence might be this time of night. That left only one avenue.
"Dr. Rights! Dr. Valence's creation tried to kill me!" Dr. Mann said as he burst into the break room.
"What? Slow down, Mann. What's wrong?" asked Dr. Rights.
"I was in my office and that android of Dr. Valence's set my lab on fire. And last night, it hit me. Very hard." Dr. Mann tried to project a tone of righteous indignation.
"Ooooh, poor baby. Are you sure Hatbot was trying to kill you, sweetie?"" asked Dr. Rights.
"I saw it!" said Dr. Mann. "With my own eyes."
"Well, it will be on the security tapes, dear. Come on," said Dr. Rights, guiding Dr. Mann to the video room with a gentle hand.

"And what happened then?" asked Dr. ███████.
"There was nothing. Not a damned thing on those blasted tapes." Dr. Mann tugged his muttonchops in irritation. "And of course Dr. Rights assumed I was dreaming. She gave me a cookie and some warm milk, but no salvation from the machine."
"Did you suspect it may have edited the footage?" asked Dr. ███████.
"I knew it had done something, but as I've said, I don't know much about computers and networks and the like. All I knew was that no one would believe me about the threat of Hatbot."
"Can you expand on that?" asked the psychologist.
"Well, the problem was that darned near everyone loved Hatbot."

Dr. Mann walked nervously down the hallway. It was just after lunchtime, and he still hadn't slept. He was waiting for another attack.
"Have you been hanging around Hatbot?" one guard asked another.
"Ha! Yes. 'Fuck trees, I climb clouds, motherfucker!'" The guard laughed raucously.
"Hell yeah," said the first guard.
"Don't they understand the threat Hatbot represents?" Dr. Mann thought to himself. "Don't they understand he's a menace?"
"Tovarish Mann!" said a familiar voice. "How is you are doing today?"
"Strelnikov, Dmitri Arkadeyevich! It is good to see you, my friend," Dr. Mann said, glad to see the Russian. "Surely you will believe me."
"In what are you for need this believed, friend?" asked Agent Strelnikov.
"It's Hatbot. It has tried to kill me, but no one will believe me." Dr. Mann was nearly on the point of tears.
"For make sayings of nothing more," said Strelnikov. "I stop this fascist machine for Doktor Mann. Where am I for find this?"
"Oh, thank you!" said Mann. "It's in the server room."
"Yes! I am make destroyings of it now," said Strelnikov. He marched off, purpose in his stride.

"And that was the last time you saw Agent Strelnikov?" asked Dr. ███████.
"Yes. Poor Strelnikov, Dmitri Arkadeyevich doesn't know the site very well. He was depending on the automated maps to find his way around. I understand he wasn't found for several days."
"He was all right," said Dr. ███████, "except for a few superficial burns from the steam tunnels. Now, what happened next?"
"I guess Hatbot knew I was on to him, because that's when it became more subtle."

Dr. Mann was sitting in his office. He'd taken a short nap, but he'd woken up again, knowing Hatbot would come soon enough. He had readied his laboratory for defense, but he wanted to be awake when it happened, in case his preparations were for naught.
"Yeeaaarrrgh!"
Dr. Mann bolted upright. Robots did not scream like that! He looked out into the lab, and saw a man dangling from the loop trap he'd set at the entrance. There was a package on the floor beneath him.
"Oh," he said. "You're not a robot."
"Get me down!" the man said. He wore a maintenance uniform.
"Oh, sorry, of course," Dr. Mann said. He hurried through the laboratory, avoiding tripwires, nooses, and sundry other traps as he did so. A quick swipe of the auto-scalpel, and the man was returned to the floor. "You haven't seen an android, have you?"
"What? No!" The man struggled back to his feet. "Look, I was just told I had to deliver this package to Dr. Mann."
"I'm Dr. Mann," he said.
"Well, here's your package. And you're welcome to it!" The man stormed off, not even saying goodbye.
Dr. Mann picked up the package and walked back into his office. He wondered what it might be. Was it a present? He tried to remember if it was his birthday. No, it wasn't his birthday. That had been a month ago. He had gotten a nice e-mail from the Foundation reminding him to get a physical. Was it Christmas?
It had to be Christmas, he decided. He opened the box with the auto-scalpel, and looked at the contents. Inside were several odd, round fruits, about the size of a pomegranate. The skin was a very dark purple. There was also a note. It said, "He waits behind the walls." Most peculiar.
Dr. Mann picked up the auto-scalpel.
Two minutes later, Dr. Mann stumbled out of the room, covered in stinging insects. "Bees!" he screamed. "Why did it have to be bees?"
He tripped over a wire, and his arm was caught by a snare, pulling him off his feet entirely. His feet knocked over a stick, releasing a small avalanche of ball bearings beneath him, which knocked him over again as he tried to regain his feet. His flailing arm broke a string, and a bunsen-burner-turned-flamethrower activated, setting his coat on fire. He pulled his arm from the snare, falling over a chair and knocking over a small basin of acid which fell down his leg. He screamed, and swallowed a bee. He choked and flailed as he tried to make for the exit before finally stepping into a snare and being pulled upside down, dangling over several of his trained surgeon-crabs, which jumped up and down as though expecting treats.

"It sent fruit from 417?" asked the psychologist. "And you tried to eat it?"
"I thought it was a Christmas present," said Dr. Mann.
"It's almost July!" said Dr. ███████. "Forget it. Just… Just tell me what you did after you got down."
"Well, after I excised the affected tissue and performed emergency heart surgery on myself, I endeavored to get help."

Dr. Mann looked down the hallways, desperately looking for help. Any help.
He walked past Dr. Clef's office.
All right, not quite any help.
He looked in the break room. The only person inside was Agent Tam, who was eating some sort of sandwich.
"Excuse me, Agent Tam, could I borrow a moment of your time?" he asked.
"Sure thing, Mann! What's up?" asked Agent Tam.
Dr. Mann sat down across from Agent Tam. "Hatbot keeps trying to kill me. I'm very frightened. I think it may succeed soon."
"That's crazy! Hatbot's awesome. Why, I'm getting a Hatbot tattoo!" said Agent Tam. "Fuck trees, I climb—"
"But you don't understand!" Dr. Mann said, desperately. "It struck me! It set fire to my office! It covered me in bees!"
"Bees? Sounds like you need an exterminator." Agent Tam began to chuckle, then looked down at his sandwich. "Goddamn! Some bastard stole the mustard!"
"Please, Agent Tam, this is important," said Dr. Mann.
"So's this! Some bastard stole my mustard! That was good fucking mustard! I'm going to ram my fist down the throat of whoever took my mustard!" Agent Tam threw down his sandwich in disgust.
Dr. Mann was hit by sudden inspiration. "It was Hatbot!"
"Hatbot?" Agent Tam looked at Dr. Mann wildly for a moment, then growled in rage. "I'll kill that pile of scraps! Teach him to take my mustard!" He bounded up out of his chair, grabbing a butter knife. "Remember the horseradish!" he shouted as he ran out the door.
Dr. Mann smiled to himself. Surely now the matter was over.

"But the matter wasn't solved, was it?" asked Dr. ███████.
"No," said Dr. Mann. "I overestimated Agent Tam's good sense. He punched Hatbot several times, called it a pansy, and then spat at a researcher on the way out. Sadly, none of this disabled it."
"So your second attempt to neutralize Hatbot failed."
"Yes. But I didn't realize it until the next attempt on my life," said Dr. Mann.

Dr. Mann slept the sleep of the just, or at least the sleep of the oblivious. He was finally safe thanks to Agent Tam.
He shot up when he heard someone moving about in the laboratory. An intruder! But it was impossible. Surely Agent Tam had destroyed Hatbot.
He got up, grabbing the auto-scalpel as he did so. He carefully opened the door, turning on the light.
There was a man standing in the middle of the laboratory. His shoulders were hunched. For some reason, he was wearing a metal gauntlet.
"Hello?" Dr. Mann said, tremulously. "I'm afraid I'm busy, but if you'd care to come back in the morning…"
The man gave a deep growl, which turned into a chuckle, and then a scream. "He comes!" he said. "Beh҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚ind… He's waiting҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚ . I… I… Stop. No. He knows of the ord ҉ ҉҉er. Ber ̒̓̔̕̚eft of chaos, it…H҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘Ȅ̐̑̒̚̕̚ IS C̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̚̕̚̕̚̕̚̕̚̕̚OMI҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘NG." The man's eyes were leaking a black substance, almost as though he were infected with SCP-679, but much more viscous.
"What? Who's coming? What's wrong with your voice?" Dr. Mann asked, reaching for the auto-scalpel.
"Z҉A҉L͡҉O҉ ̵̡̢̢̛̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟ ̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍̎҉G ̎̏̐̑ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ͡҉҉̔̕̚̕̚҉ ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍!" the man screamed with sounds that should never issue from a human throat, and the gauntlet changed shape to a long spike, as though poured into a mold.

"I still don't understand how it managed it," said Dr. Mann. "I understand it used ███, but I'm not quite sure how it moved it to my laboratory, let alone with a test subject. How did it keep from alerting anyone?"
"We're still working out how it managed to take control of the maintenance worker. However, once it had managed that, it was able to give him an artificially high clearance. He took ███ from containment, took it to your laboratory, and put it on."
"Diabolical," said Dr. Mann.
"What did you do then?" asked the psychologist.
"Well, once I dispatched the subject with ███, I knew I had to find a way to destroy Hatbot once and for all."

Dr. Mann stormed up to the server room. "Dr. Valence!" he shouted. "I must have a word with you, Dr. Valence!"
The scientist opened his door. "Yes, Mann? What's the problem?"
"Your mechanical Machiavelli is trying to kill me!" Dr. Mann said, grabbing Dr. Valence by the collar.
"Let go of me, you maniac!" Dr. Valence said. "That's ridiculous! Hatbot is perfectly safe."
"You should pants fetchingly in the morning," said Hatbot, from behind Dr. Valence. "Every midnight in England. Are you human?"
"I am not a crazy! I am perfectly normal! The machine is trying to end my life!" Dr. Mann let go of Dr. Valence, and gestured toward the server room. "I have suffered no less than four attempts on my life thus far! I will not suffer another! Hatbot must be destroyed!"
"Are you crazy?" asked Dr. Valence. "Do you know how much he cost? You can't possibly expect me to let that work go down the drain."
"But it tried to kill me," Dr. Mann said. "Why won't you believe me? It has to be destroyed!"
"You need to sit for the camera, and die possibly," said Hatbot.
"See? See? It just threatened my life again!" howled Dr. Mann.
"I think you've been working too hard," said Dr. Valence. "You should go back to wherever it is you hole up at night and get some sleep."
"I don't need sleep! I need Hatbot's destruction! Hatbot delendo est!" screamed Dr. Mann.
"Guards!" Dr. Valence shouted. "Restrain Dr. Mann and escort him back to his office. Make sure he doesn't go anywhere near the server room."
"But you can't do this! Don't you understand? Hatbot is a menace! A menace, I tell you!" Dr. Mann's screaming became more frantic as two guards grabbed him by the arms and started pulling him away. "You think he's harmless, but he's going to kill me!"
The guards paid him no heed as they dragged him down the hallway.

"So, your first attempt at direct confrontation failed," said Dr. ███████. "What did you do next?"
"Well, you have to understand, I was fairly desperate by this point."

Dr. Mann wandered the halls disconsolately. Anytime he approached the server room, he was turned away, or escorted politely but firmly back to his office. No one would believe him about the danger. Didn't they understand that this was a matter of life and death?
He had near given up hope when he heard someone mutter, "God, I hate Hatbot."
He looked up to see the secretary, Break. "Excuse me," he said. "Could you repeat that?"
She looked at him levelly, and in a slow, even voice, she said, "I. Hate. Hatbot. Do you have a problem with that?"
"No! I hate Hatbot too!" he said, excited. "It keeps trying to kill me."
"Oh, you're the one they've been talking about," said Break.
"But you believe me, don't you?" asked Dr. Mann.
"No," she said. "Hatbot's just a machine. It can barely form coherent sentences. I'm pretty sure it's not trying to kill you."
"But you said you hated Hatbot," Dr. Mann said, desperately.
"Yes, because it's annoying, not because it's homicidal. All anyone talks about is Hatbot. They keep walking by my desk repeating everything it says. I swear, if I hear 'Fuck trees' one more time…" She glared down the hall towards the server room. "Plus, when I went in there, it kept asking me for nude pictures."
"Well, if it's that big a problem," said Dr. Mann, "why don't you deal with it? Take direct action! Destroy Hatbot!"
Break thought about this for a moment, and then shook her head. "No, I'd have to get up from my desk. I've got way too much work to do."
"But what about when they start bringing Hatbot here?" he asked.
The pencil in her fingers broke. "Here?" she asked, a dangerous gleam in her eyes.
"Yes. They're going to start taking it on walks around the facility. It can do its job just as well from anywhere on site." Dr. Mann had no idea if this were true, but it sounded plausible.
Break's eyes narrowed. "Wait here," she said, taking a handgun from her desk. "I'll be right back."
Dr. Mann smiled broadly as she stormed off down the hall. She seemed much more capable than Agent Tam. Surely she would have the problem dealt with swiftly.

"And that's when all hell broke loose," said Dr. ███████.
"Yes. It seems that Hatbot's power had become stronger by this point."

Dr. Mann knew something was wrong when he heard the screams and smelled the smoke. Surely Break hadn't accomplished all of that with just one handgun.
A man stumbled out of the hallway. His eyes were dripping with the same blackness that had issued from the subject of 047. More was dripping from his mouth. He turned to Dr. Mann. "His is coming. I must… I must kill Mann."
"Kill Mann?" Dr. Mann said, horrified. "But I'm Dr. Mann!"
"Hail ͪͅZ̩̻͎͓̯̲̓ͥͫͪ̎ą̹͔̖̖̱͍̥̞́̂̀̈ͭ͂̈̂͛l̨̮ͪ̒͌ͦ̊ͧ̊͛͘͜g̪͔̩̑͆̆̏͛͌ͩ̋ớ̢̳̮̫̬̣͈͔ͨ̽!" the man said, lifting a sidearm.
Dr. Mann didn't wait any longer. He dodged down a hall as a bullet burrowed into the wall. He ran until he found a utility closet.
He breathed a sigh of relief, until he noticed he was not alone. It was a Class-D holding his face in his hands.
"Excuse me," Dr. Mann said. "Look, I'm hiding here too. Perhaps we can figure out what's happening and stop it. Your status could be changed if you help the Foundation."
The man looked up, and Dr. Mann saw that his face was gone, replaced by a dark hole. Stars could be seen shining in the black. A scraping, slurping sound could be heard, as though from a great distance.
Dr. Mann started to scream, and then decided that wasted valuable breath that could be more profitably used fleeing.
He ran back to his laboratory by a very roundabout route, changing his path whenever he heard footsteps. When he arrived, there was no one inside. He locked the door with a quiet sob of relief.
He tried to figure out what he should do. This had to be Hatbot's doing. Someone had to stop it. But how?
He could only think of one answer.

"So, this was the point you decided to take on Hatbot yourself?" asked Dr. ███████.
"Yes," said Dr. Mann. "I realized why it was afraid of me. It knew I was the only one in the Foundation who was immune to its effect."
"Why do you suppose that was?" asked the psychologist.
"Well, I can only theorize, but… Have you ever noticed that the Foundation staff are a bit… eccentric?" he asked.
"…Yes," said the psychologist. "It's been noted."
"Well, I think that Hatbot could only influence certain kinds of minds. It had to be able to create some sort of link. Clearly, I was immune because I'm so normal."
The psychologist coughed. "Yes. Normal. Anyway, you left your laboratory. What did you do next?"
"Next, I fought Hatbot."

Dr. Mann walked down the hallways. He had encountered the minions of Hatbot several times, mostly guards and D-Class personnel. He had dispatched them as quietly as he could, but had still ended up running several times as he drew the attention of others. It was slow, but he finally reached the server room.
Things were worst here. The metal of the walls was moving like flesh with worms crawling underneath it. He saw what might have been men, groaning little inhumanities of black fluid and running flesh, twitching and shuffling along the floor.
He moved aside them, and walked into the room itself.
There were spiderweb cracks in the air, and the angles were all wrong. It hurt his eyes to see. And where was Hatbot?
The first blow nearly took him off his feet, and the second staggered him. "You sh̵̸̝̳̮̫̙̮͖̬̔̂͗̂͞ould ͥṋ̗͙͇͉͕̬͙͙ot be here. You need to̊̅ͩ̔̾̅͛҉̯̳͢ be res̹̳͖͉͇̣̻̊ͣͤ̄̌͛̓̚͟et every 24 h̵̸̝̳̮̫̙̮͖̬̔̂͗̂͞ours in En̶̝̞̬̦̄̃g̥̖͇͙̠̽land!"
"Hatbot!" Dr. Mann cried out. "I'm here to destroy you."
"The m̒̓̔̕̚aster comes to s̷͉̘̹̟̺̦̅͌ing the song t҉҉̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞hat ends the ẅ̢͙̭̥̜̿̍̀̏͌orld ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚," Hatbot said. Its voice was different now. It had lost its electronic, synthesized quality, and had picked up strange harmonics that hurt Dr. Mann's head. "It's a̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓ ̔ ̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉beautiful nig ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚ht in Englͬͧ̿ͫ̔̉ͫ̽̚҉͈̦͕ḵ̸͇̽̎̐͜and. Hail H̗̘̙҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙atbot."
"Stop it," Dr. Mann said. "This must end. It's madness!"
"Suc̟̲͕͕̩̓̎͞h a ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡beautiful song. Fǔ̍̎̏̿̿̿̚ ҉ ҉ck tr҉҉̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞ees, I KILL MAN̲̲ͤͣ̀N͚͍̻̿̒͌̍͆ Kͦͥ͘͡i͇̺̬̭̻ͯͣ͂LL M҉A҉NN K̕̚̕̚ ̔̕̚̕̚҉LL M͡҉ANN!" Hatbot charged at Dr. Mann, swinging its shining plastic arms.
Dr. Mann dodged to the side, keeping a desk between himself and Hatbot. He stepped in something that used to work there. He put down the auto-scalpel, knowing it would do little good against a machine. Instead, he pulled his secret weapon from his bag.

"Why do you even have a cricket bat in your office?" asked Dr. ███████.
"In case of 008 breakouts, of course," said Dr. Mann.
"Of course. Continue."

He swung the bat as hard as he could, connecting right where Hatbot's head connected to its body. "For Science!" he shouted.
"Embra҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ c e̓̔̕̚ the end ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚," Hatbot said, staggering back. Its fedora fell from its head onto the floor.
Dr. Mann hit again, and again, driving it further back.
"I cǎ̍̎̏̿̿̿̚ ҉n't let y҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ou do th͡҉҉ ̵̡̢̛̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋ ̌̍̎̏̿̿̿̚is, Dr. Mann," the robot said, rallying. It caught the bat and tried to pull it from his hands. "He a҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚waits this nǐ̍̎̏̿̿̿̚ ҉ght."
Dr. Mann pulled back, trying to free the cricket bat. "You're a menace. You have to be stopped for the good of humanity."
"I wi̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙ll make you one҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚ with him. Ha̫̪͙͎͉̲͎̹͋͆ͮͪ̿ͪ͋il Hatb҉҉̡̢̡̢̛̛̖̗̘̙̜̝̞ ̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠̊̋̌̍ot. Hail Z҉A҉L҉G҉O̚̕̚." Hatbot lifted suddenly, nearly pulling Dr. Mann off his feet.
He kicked the desk into Hatbot, loosening its grip. He began hitting it again. Plastic cracked, exposing servos and electronics.
"I must give him the call to set him ͭͯ̀ͭ͒f͎̗̳͎̥̈́̑͌͛̌̏ͥ͞r ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ee," said Hatbot. It stepped backwards, trying to stay back from the swinging bat. "The chaotic soul. The Ne҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡zperd҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚ian hive ҉҉-mind of cha҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ os. Ḧ̫̤́ͨ̄͜͢͠e̲̯͍͇̫̋ is c̠̘̗̹̰̬̱̝̖oming. Z҉A҉L҉G҉O̚̕̚…"
Dr. Mann stuck again, and again, bashing into the robot. Plastic and metal shattered under the assault. "This is for my laboratory! And this is for my friends! And this is for the bees!"
"The ҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ ̒̓̔̕̚waa҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡ aallll҉̵̞̟̠̖̗̘̙̜̝̞̟̠͇ ̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍ ̎̏̐̑̒̓̔̿̿̿̕̚̕̚͡lls̐̑̒̓̔̊̋̌̍̎̏̐̑̒̓ ̔̕̚̕̚ssss," said Hatbot, its voice becoming slower and slurred. ""Daisy, daisy, give me your answer do. Fuck treees… I… climb… cloouudsss… moootheeeerrrrfffffuuuuckeeee…" Its voice finally drew to a halt, and the bank of lights went dim.
The feeling of wrongness stopped. The walls snapped back to normal solidity, and the cracks in the air vanished. Dr. Mann picked up the fedora, dusted it off, and placed it on his head. He whistled as he walked out.

"And that's everything," Dr. Mann said. "Oh, there was some clean-up, but I understand nearly everything was back to normal."
"Except for the damages done indirectly," said Dr. ███████, dourly. "Well, that clears up your role in this mess. I suppose your actions were reasonable, given the circumstances. Still, in the future, try to deal with these situations before they summon Keter-class reality distortion."
"I"ll try," said Dr. Mann.

Endnote:
In the bowels of the Foundation's Network, a background program triggered a hidden script.
Login: E_Mann
Pass: …………………….

Welcome, Dr. Everett Mann.
Site 17 Terminal 137
Your session will expire in 30 minutes.

E_Mann@SCP-Site17-T137:~$ sudo -bK -u root '/home/L4/A_Valence/bin/hatbot -d &>/dev/null'
sudo: User is not in the sudoers file. This incident will be reported.
E_Mann@SCP-Site17-T137:~$ su A_Valence
Pass: merrilydownthestream

Welcome, Dr. Adrian Valence.
Site 17 Terminal 137

A_Valence@SCP-Site17-T137:~$ su root
Pass: doestheblackmoonhowl

FULL SYSTEM ACCESS GRANTED
ALL FURTHER ACTIVITY WILL BE MONITORED

root@SCP-Site17-T137:~# /home/L4/A_Valence/bin/hatbot -d &>/dev/null
[9] 13873
[9]+ Loading….. Done
[9]+ Running as Daemon

He Comes.

[END OF LOG]


Electronically recorded journal of Dr. Gerard L. Johnston. Recovered after a recommendation for employment was made by his superior, Dr. Devon Corbin. Dr. Johnston's continued employment is being reviewed at this time. Dr. Johnston is currently employed at Site 33, Psychological Care Facility 22, and believes it to be a government-run psychiatric hospital for high-clearance personnel involved in incidents related to national security.
Site 33 - Psychological Care Facility 22
██/██/████:
[ Note: Patient 207 is Agent Corinne ████████, exposed to SCP-212 on 05/12/2002 resulting in a complete restructuring of the musculoskeletal composition of her face and torso. Agent Corinne suffers from identity issues as a result of this and has been remanded to the care of PCF-22 until she is capable of returning to duty.]
Same old, same old, journal. It's been a tense year, ever since patient 612 got here. I'm supposed to take over for Dr. Smith on that patient in a few weeks, apparently Smith's requested a sabbatical. Still don't know why they won't give us a name to identify them by, I know these are important people, but an alias wouldn't hurt anyone, would it? Anyway, I only had to deal with Patient 207, but that was enough, let me tell you. She's still a wreck after undergoing that reconstructive facial surgery - apparently a lot of the tissue wasn't recoverable, and so they had to perform a face transplant in addition to pinning about half the bones in her skull together. Honestly, whoever did it deserves a medal, she looks amazingly healthy - no swelling around the face or scarring that I'd expect, but the end result was that she can't handle looking totally different, and she got put here.
I walked into her room today, and she was curled up in the fetal position in the corner, crying again. She seemed to have gone through another episode of depersonalization, which is understandable. 207 has rejected her new appearance as that of another person, and has adopted her identification number, 207, as her new name. Often, she will pair this number with another name that she doesn't seem to be fond of, "Skip." In her periods of lucidity, she's demonstrated remarkable intelligence and a keen, if dark, sense of humor. "Corinne" is what she prefers to be identified as in these moments, and she absolutely clams up if I ask her about "Skip", or "Skip 207". The number 207 doesn't elicit the same response from her, which is odd. Skip must mean something more to her, but what is unknown and probably unimportant.
I really think she can be helped, but it's going to be a long-term process of teaching her to accept her new face and pair it with her sense of identity, which has given her a lot of trouble. You've got to feel bad for her, a nasty incident necessitating that kind of reconstructive surgery is rough enough, the long-term effects are just salt in the wound.
██/██/████:
[ Note: Patient 337 is a D-class unit (D-42773) exposed to SCP-███, eating a single brown candy. He has been remanded to PCF-22 in order to study the length of effect of SCP-███ and to determine if it 'wears off'.]
Had to go see 337 today, which is honestly refreshing. Sometimes he hears voices running commentary on his life, sometimes they argue, but that's basically the only variation you hit in his symptoms. I feel bad for the guy, sure - he can barely communicate, suffers from hallucinations of all sorts of messed up stuff, and when he's not doing that, he just sits on his bed and stares into space for hours on end. But, on the plus side, he's basically a textbook case of schizophrenia. I thought he was faking at first, the symptoms 337 exhibits are literally straight out of the DSM-IV.
Unfortunately, he isn't responding to treatment. I mean, at all- all the antipsychotics in the book haven't done a damn thing. I switched him to electroconvulsive therapy - still, nothing. We've just had to keep him restrained until we can figure something out, but so far all that's worked are sedatives. I don't think I've had a case that any colleague not working here would believe since I've started.
██/██/████:
[ Note: Patient 612 is Dr. ███████ ██████████, a linguist assigned to studying the symbols produced by SCP-035. Dr. ██████████'s mental state degraded continuously over the three and a half weeks she worked on the project, until she was caught fashioning a stylus out of D-13448's ulna shortly after his termination. At that point, Dr. ██████████ was sent to PCF-22, was she has resided for several months.]
I know the government's up to some crazy stuff, but this has officially gone beyond the pale. Today was my first day on 612, and I was ready for just about anything. I've seen some nasty stuff in my life, some seriously disturbed people, and so have my colleagues… which is what initially concerned me about the rumors. Something is wrong here, and I don't know what, and I don't know if I want to know.
I walked into 612's room - unpadded, and she was unrestrained, which really shocked me at first. With all the rumors flying, I was expecting some kind of feral maniac trying to rip her own face off. Instead, she had a stack of paper, a pen, and a bed. She was completely still, had the sheets on the bed pulled up over her face, and she wouldn't acknowledge me. Gave me time to evaluate the situation, I figured, and I started going through the papers. She's a doctor of linguistics, so I wasn't too surprised when I didn't understand the writing, but it was pretty clearly Latin and Greek… but some of it I didn't recognize, wedges in patterns. Sections of it were circled with notes written in the margins, same language as whatever was circled. I looked it up a few hours ago, that wedge-writing was cuneiform, Sumerian writing. She has had no education whatsoever in Sumerian culture or languages. I tried to take the papers out of the room, and the guards stopped me, saying that it was their job to handle that. When I protested, they flashed a badge in my face and said something about a foundation, then they gave that meaningful look that basically translates to 'I'm better armed than you are, back off.' I left 612's room after that, went immediately to Dr. Corbin, who's in charge around here (I thought), and got about six words in before he cut me off and told me to let the guards handle it and just worry about 612.
I didn't press it at the time, even though I probably should have. 612's cell was the same as I left it, stack of papers on the desk, blankets pulled up over her head, no response from 612. I admit my temper wasn't what it ought to have been, I should've probably left well enough alone, but something about 612 just set me off. I walked over and ripped the blankets off of 612, and got quite another surprise. 612 was using the blankets to keep people from seeing as she drew a new set of symbols on her bed in her own blood. I've seen self-mutilation and writing in bodily fluids before, that wasn't the surprising part. What got me was that these were certainly not cuneiform, nor anything from the Greek or Latin alphabets. Also notable was the pattern of self-mutilation that no one had seen fit to mention on any of the reports- these cuts were made with a pattern in mind, and for God's sake, I don't know what. When the guards noticed, they came into the cell, sedated 612, and dragged me out of there. I left work from there and came home, took a nap to clear my mind, and wrote this down… I don't know if I can go back to work tomorrow. Something is really, really wrong here and I don't know what. Dr. Corbin knows, but he won't tell me. The guards even know, and they won't tell me. Something's got to give, and soon, or I'm out of here.
██/██/████:
[ Note: Patient 552, or Guard Matthew ████████, was assigned to SCP-231 as an observer for Procedure 110-Montauk, during which he prevented two D-class personnel assigned to the procedure from murdering SCP-231-7 in the midst of the proscribed ████ ███ ██████████ of Procedure 110-Montauk. SCP-231-7 requested to be euthanized shortly after Guard ████████ intervened, a request which was summarily denied by Guard ████████. A Class 3 commendation has been placed on Guard ████████'s personnel file and as per his request, he was transferred to Site ██-█. Shortly after his transfer, he was offered and refused a Class B Amnestic and memory implantation, after which he suffered a psychological breakdown, necessitating his current status in PCF-22.]
I can't work in this environment anymore, this has become ludicrous. I was talking to 552 today - the one with the depressive and guilt issues, fairly standard case and he seemed to be responding well to therapy. He has problems I'm not going to be able to help him with unless he opens up more… this negative self-image he carries around is like a greenhouse for depression, it's just going to keep feeding on itself and growing. The fact that a guard detail is required to accompany anyone interviewing 552 is just hindering his treatment further - it's going to be hard enough to get him to tell me why he hates himself, much less two armed guards standing less than three meters away.
To be honest, I really think the guards know more than I do about this place, and I don't like it. I swear I caught one of them making a threatening gesture at 552 today when I thought for sure the poor bastard was going to crack and tell me what was wrong. Of course, he clammed up immediately, at which point I terminated the interview and went straight to Corbin. At which point I got the same damn runaround I'm always going to get around here, where of course the guards are here for my own safety, and no, don't be ridiculous, the guards would never interfere with a patient's treatment, and blah blah you're imagining things take a day off. I'm going in tomorrow and giving Corbin a piece of my mind about this whole business, he and I both know something odd is going on, and he needs to level with me about it.
[ Note: Dr. Johnston is to be evaluated for potential direct employment by the Foundation as a Class 1 on-site staff psychiatrist. He knows enough at this point he could be considered a security risk, and he could still be useful to us. I can't keep brushing him off like I have been without making it blatantly clear that I'm hiding things from him. -Dr. Corbin]


Leningrad, December 1979:
The flicker of your nightlight casts an unsettling glow throughout your small bedroom and the wind rattles your window, keeping you from finding sleep. Your young mind runs wild with imagination, only heightening your fear of the night and that which you can't see. Fortunately your father senses that all isn't well in your world and steps quietly inside the room. He sits on the edge of your bed and asks why you're still awake, in an awkward combination of stern and gentle that is so characteristic of him.
“There is a monster under my bed, papa,” you whisper quietly, so as not to disturb or otherwise make it aware of your presence above. Your father smiles and gives a quiet laugh.
“Do you want me to look underneath the bed?” he asks with a grin. You nod, and his next words surprise you. “No, Pasha. There are no monsters. They are all dead.” Incredulous, you sit up slightly and ask, “How do you know?” Still smiling, he pats your head and says, “Pasha, your grandfather killed them all in the Great Patriotic War. Go to sleep.”
You believe him, and sleep finally takes you.
A Russian Federation army base, February 1995:
Snow billows and swirls around your face, obstructing your view of the man-shaped bullseye target hundreds of meters away. In your white-knuckled hands rests an almost ancient Mosin Nagant 91/30 sniper's rifle, a relic left over from the Second World War, relegated to use as a training instrument for new potential marksmen. The metal is frozen and has lost much of its bluing, exposing the roughly milled receiver to the harsh elements you are now subjected to. The trigger group rattles and one of the lenses is cracked, sometimes making it difficult to concentrate. The wood is rotting away due to the dank storage arsenals it has resided in for so many years, but also displays a number of crude carved markings on one side of the stock-a previous owner's morbid scorecard.
When your instructors distributed the weapons to you and your fellow marksmen candidates, the rest of them clucked their tongues and mocked the pitiful appearance of the weapons. Their jokes and spiteful comments escaped your ears at the time.
It is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen, and is everything a weapon of war should be: old, battle worn, and victorious, with scars to prove it. You sense prophetically that years from now you will wish you had this weapon to call your own, but sadly you too will return it to the armorers to be given a cursory cleaning and then a dip in storage oils, until the next recruit comes along. It seems an unfair existence for something with so much history behind it, but you suspect it is more fitting than hanging on a collector's wall as a showpiece, never to be used again.
Your eye peers through the scope, ignoring the cracked lens and seeking out the target through the mire of snow and fog ahead of you. You wait, wait for a chance, wait for God to clear the skies for you. A sudden break in the squall rewards you with a few fleeting moments of clear sight, exactly what you need.
You pull the trigger without hesitation, causing your instructor to turn from the spotting scope next to you and smile for what you think is the first time in his life.
Chechnya, May 1995:
Your senior sergeant glares at you. He is covered in an unspeakable and inescapable filth that infests this place, and eyes with scorn your clean (relatively speaking) uniform. Especially that marksman's badge that you only just earned little under a month ago.
“You, boy!” he barks, and you stand at rigid attention. “Give me that fucking badge. Once you've killed something like the rest of us, you can have it back.” Obediently you surrender it to him, understanding your place in this war all too well, having to prove and reprove yourself to these men who have known nothing but misery and death for the past year.
You are attached to your first patrol the next day, in what on the map is labeled Grozny but in reality exists only as a smoldering cemetery of skeletal buildings, charred vehicles and mostly unburied corpses. Though the battle is officially over, it remains a place of wholesale slaughter and devastation, and you wonder why anyone would deem such a godforsaken place to be of any importance. Your squad picks its way through mountains of rubble and around mass graves, sweeping up a few stragglers here and there.
Out of the corner of your eye you spot a teen aged boy, his face covered in a few dirty rags and carrying a soldier's rucksack over one shoulder. The sergeant screams at him to halt but instead the boy breaks into a run, darting away from you. Your sergeant turns to you, pointing, and bellows, “Snaiper!” leaving little doubt in your mind as to what he is ordering you to do. Before you even realize it your SVD is nestled snugly upon your shoulder and the scope is at your eyes, the graduated sights already aligned on the fleeing figure. The rifle jumps violently in your hands and the boy drops to his knees, blood spilling from the exit wound in his chest as he gasps for air. Dust settles around him, and he is still.
Your sergeant jabs a fist in the air, ordering the rest of the squad to hold as the two of you fall out to examine what was in that bag. Approaching the corpse, your eyes notice something you had missed before: long strands of dark brown hair fall from the crude balaclava, now jarred out of place and showing the boy's facial features more clearly. You are suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that “he” isn't a boy at all, but actually a young girl- only about 17 or so by the looks of it. Her blood soaks the charred ground and her empty brown eyes stare lifelessly at the perpetually cloudy sky. Your hands begin to shake as you riffle through the bag and you pray, pray to god that there are grenades or something, anything to justify taking this girl's life.
All you find are a few meager scraps of bread.
Nausea overtakes you and you fall to the ground and retch violently, your sergeant standing over you with his ever-present scowl. He grabs you with his giant's hands and forces you to stand on your feet and look him in the eye. “Looks like you can shoot after all, boy,” he says as he pries open your clenched hands and returns the marksman's badge.
The Mediterranean, present day:
Jimmy Durante's “I'll Be Seeing You” lilts through the air from a radio somewhere on the street below you, conveniently distracting passersby just finishing their antipasti at the streetside cafés. The beach is deserted save for a young girl sprawled across a tiny dock, her shapely legs kicking playfully in the warm Italian water, frilly pastel-yellow dress glowing in the soft luminescence of the setting sun. A smile plays across her face-she's pretty, and you find it difficult to maintain your professional detachment whilst observing her through the rifle scope. You try to keep focus, but part of your mind keeps drifting, longing to be on the beach with her, holding her hand, telling her how beautiful she is and how happy she makes you feel by just looking at her.
“Delta One, in position.” Dr. Clef's voice responds through the radio in a terse command, “Delta Six. Go.”
She turns to look at the older woman approaching her from the beach, affording you a perfect view of her face. You barely feel the weapon move as a .22 caliber bullet leaves your suppressed rifle and impacts her head squarely between the eyes. She doesn't feel a thing, just crumples like a broken doll, still smiling, blood streaming from the tiny entry wound and glimmering in the sunlight.
“Delta One, target neutralized.”
“Delta Two, confirm.”
"Delta Three, engaging target."
"Delta One, moving to support."
"Negative, Delta One, Delta Three. Delta Six will handle this one personally."
The older woman stops in her tracks, dropping a basket of wine and cheese at her feet in disbelief and horror just as Dr. Clef clubs her across the face with his pistol. Your concentration lapses again and you ignore the ensuing brawl and flurry of radio activity. Instead you gaze at the young woman's face, even now still smiling as her skin grows pale from blood loss. You manage to hold the bile down as your spotter takes a shot; SCP-784's body collapses atop the girl and breaks your line of sight. Silently, you thank God for this small gift.
Later, you come across a folded note on your desk. It's a commendation from your Mobile Team leader for assisting in the termination of SCP-784, a “dangerous and destructive entity that posed a grave threat to both the Foundation and mankind in general.” You fold the note and place it atop your gun rack, in which reside two rifles: an SVD Dragunov, and a suppressed .22 rifle of Czech design. Each has a single mark carved in the stock. Each has only been used once, now they both collect dust in your office.
You collapse onto the stiff bed and contemplate the day's events, your mind returning to something you told yourself many years ago in a place far away from here.
The only thing worse than killing an innocent girl, is getting a medal for doing so.
The thought remains with you all night, keeping you awake. You wish your father was still alive, wish he could give you some advice, wish you could ask him what all of this was for. You remember what he told you when you were a little boy, and wonder now if you would have the fortitude to tell him that he was wrong. The monsters are still very much alive.


Interviewed: Agent Thompson.
Interviewer: Dr. Sylvius
Forward: Post-incident interview with the only survivor of the anomalous SCP-C Blizzard.
<Begin Log>
Dr. Sylvius: Okay, let's begin. Tell me, Thompson, what exactly were you doing at the site?
Thompson: Well, I was helping all of the researchers make it through the storm. Studying something during a blizzard in Greenland isn't exactly the safest thing in the world.
Dr. Sylvius: Indeed. So, the report says that SCP-C activated at 1300 hours. Could you tell me what happened then?
Thompson: Well, that's when the thing started to spin. That's also when things really became nasty.
Dr. Sylvius: How so?
Thompson: Well, the wind shot up 'til it was hard to stand, it was blowing so hard. It was snowing worse than before, and it was colder than hell, let me tell you. The visibility just started out bad enough, and it got to the point you had trouble seeing your hand in front of your face. And those were just the issues with the weather.
Dr. Sylvius: There were other problems?
Thompson: Yep. First was the sun. It was impossible to see anything, but you could tell where the light was coming from, and I swore it switched spots in the sky the second that thing started up. Then it was the ground. The area we were in was kinda rocky, and sloped a bit, but it changed and became more like a flat plain.
Dr. Sylvius: I see. In the incident report, it says the group led by Agent Smith was unaccounted for when contact was reestablished.
Thompson: I was getting to that. Smith's group was near the edge of the storm, and he told us his group was gonna try to get help.
Dr. Sylvius: But by then all communications were lost.
Thompson: That was odd. We could talk between the groups, but not with anyone outside of the storm, almost as if they had dropped off of the face of the planet. Anyway, Smith's group kept moving for about four and a half hours, but they said they saw absolutely no other people or the facility that was set up nearby. They also said there was absolutely no change in the terrain, as if the tundra never ended. We told them they got turned around because of the blizzard, but they said their directional markers were working. After the sixth hour, they got out of range of the communicators. Never heard from them again.
Dr. Sylvius: So how did they all die?
Thompson: Well, we were into our twentieth hour when it happened. I was on break in the little shelter we had set up when I heard yelling from outside. I went outside and saw three of the researchers down in the snow, bleeding pretty badly. The others were running around, yelling about something that had come out of nowhere and started attacking. They weren't done, either. The whole place was a madhouse with people running around, while things were killing people left and right.
Dr. Sylvius: What did they look like?
Thompson: I have no clue. Like I said before, you couldn't see anything in the snow and the wind. All I could tell is that whatever they were, they weren't human. I was trying to talk to Sergeant Reynolds, when a white blur shot between us and sliced his head clean off. Just like that. One second he was fine, the next there was a fountain of blood where his neck used to be.
Dr. Sylvius: How did you manage to survive all of this?
Thompson: Well, I realized that there was no way we were going to win this fight. These things kept jumping in and out of the snow, and we couldn't see them for more than a split second, let alone hurt them. They were obviously experts and fighting with those conditions. We had no hope. So I made a break for the cabin. The moment I slammed the door shut behind me, this huge fucking knife stabs right through the door. If I was half a second slower, it would have gone straight through my head. I could hear them out there, growling and screaming at me, but the walls were too thick for them to get through. What they did do was break the three inch thick bullet-proof windows the shelter had, and left me there to freeze to death. I spent five and a half hours huddled in the corner, covered in blankets and hoping the storm would end early.
Dr. Sylvius: Interesting. Well, Agent Thompson, that's all the information we need at this time. Thank you for your cooperation, and we'll talk to you again if we need to know more.
<End Log>
Closing Statement: After this interview, further testing of SCP-C during storm conditions was prohibited, and measures were set up to prevent further incidents of this nature.


The field marshal peered through his binoculars at the soon-to-be battlefield laid out before him. His epaulets gleamed in the warm light, a soft breeze tickling his well groomed moustache as he surveyed the advance of two infantry companies below him. His scouting teams had chosen an ideal location, so perfectly situated that he could observe the men creeping towards their rally points, the armor waiting behind them for the breakthrough, and the artillery regiments prepping their tubes for firing. He had waited a lifetime for this exact moment, had been born for it, had lived and wanted it every waking minute of his life. This was the sole purpose of his existence, and he was destined to fulfill it.
Each man, from the marshal to the lowliest private, knew his own role in the grand show to come, operating like a well-trained orchestra about to perform a musical masterpiece for the first time. With the marshal's simple nod to a nearby lieutenant, radios summoned the fire of dozens of heavy guns, pulverizing today's target with deadly precision, raining untold destruction upon the unfortunate inhabitants. The muzzles roared and belched great tongues of fire, heaving the earth and splitting the air like thunder on this cloudless day, signaling the beginning of their beautiful, deadly performance.
The din of the heavy guns soon subsided, and was replaced by the guttural screams of his infantry companies surging from their rally points, giving battle to the enemy. They ran headlong, bayonets fixed against an already broken foe, screaming their curses and battle cries as they reached the first defensive lines and tore into the enemy defenders. The ramparts ran awash with blood of the fallen, shining in the light and adding a surreal kind of beauty to the carnage. One by one the defenders collapsed to the weight of the attack, and at last victory was theirs. A tear crept from the marshal's eye as his men erected a green clay flag atop the brewer, having finally wrested the coffee machine from enemy hands. Mr. Coffee would taunt them no longer.
Their moment of glory was not to last, however. A great shadow abruptly swept over them, sparking fears of an air attack in the Marshal's subconscious, but he soon realized it was far worse than that: their plans had been compromised-some defeatist traitor had leaked his intentions to the overlords and now they had come for retribution. He barked at his lieutenant to raise the company commanders, but communications were severed when a giant fist left the hastily established forward CP as nothing more than a sorry green smear across the desk. Their only chance at salvation was in a swift and desperate counterattack. Mechanized behemoths (to them, at least) creaked into action, their guns spitting forth a torrent of green fire and smoke that lifted morale until the shells bounced harmlessly from the giantess's white armor plate. Her gaze turned with annoyance to the advancing armored columns, followed by a cruel backhand that sent men and machine careening to a linoleum deathbed far below.
Their spirits shattered, his men began a frantic withdrawal from the coffee pot, abandoning defensive lines they had just seized no more than ten minutes ago. Some threw down their weapons in a futile attempt to surrender to this unholy queen of the battlefield, only to be flattened like pancakes beneath her clipboard. His binoculars trembled in horror as she deftly plucked the green flag from atop the coffee machine and flicked it nonchalantly into the fleeing mass of soldiers, laughing as their resistance melted before her. The terrified screaming of what was formerly a proud army reached his ears as he lowered himself to the ground and wept.


Tales from the Bright Side 1.5
Intermission: Back to the Return of the Son of the Future Strikes Back
3125
The young man blinks as the VR helmet rises, attempting to sort through the various memories now in his head. His furrowed brow turns towards his waiting teacher. "I don't grok, sir."
The old man leans on his staff, his own head above the skull that tops it. "Go on."
"What is 'God'?" The student can find no equivalent reference in his studies.
"Outmoded concept. Creator Myths." The man smiles, with a twinkle in his eye. "Anything else?"
"682. Still active. No solution?"
"No, sadly." The man clucks under his breath. "No solution. Keep studying."
Once more, the boy dons the helmet, submerging himself in his studies. His teacher watches him for a moment, then glances at the yellowed skull that tops his staff. "I don't know, Kondraki, they just don't make them like you anymore. I should be glad… but I miss the challenge."
End Intermission


Part 6: Escape
"Ever Dance With the Devil in the Pale Moonlight?"
"Delta One, in position."
"Delta Two, in position."
"Delta Three, in position."
"Delta Six. Go."

Beatrix Maddox sat on the lakeshore with her shoes off, letting the cool water flow over her bare feet, as she smiled and waited for Andrews to arrive with the picnic basket. He was bringing wine, cheese, and olives, and this delicious bread from the bakery down the street.
Italy was everything that she had ever imagined. The food, the wine, the music, the nights spent with her lover, the days spent exploring the gorgeous Mediterranean countryside. It was everything that Andrews… that Andrea… had promised and more.
She couldn't have cared if they'd spent the time in a quiet farmhouse in Kansas, or a New York City apartment. For her, all that mattered was that they were together.
It was her last thought before the .22 caliber round hit her between the eyes. She slumped over onto her side, her blood pooling under her, staining the wood dark red.

"Delta One, target neutralized."
"Delta Two, confirm."
"Delta Three, engaging target."
"Delta One, moving to support."
"Negative, Delta One, Delta Three. Delta Six will handle this one personally."

"You fucking bastard," Andrews whispered. He… she… spat a tooth out, dislodged from where Delta Six had clipped her with the butt of his pistol. "You fucking bastard. You promised."
"I did? I don't recall saying anything of the sort. Only that it wasn't my concern at the time." Delta Six, also known as Assistant Director Clef, smiled… he always smiled… as he rifled through Maddox's purse, pulling out her wallet, taking the cash, and tossing the rest into the lake. "It is now."
"You fucking bastard! You asshole! We wouldn't have talked! We just wanted… we just wanted to be left alone, why couldn't you let us at least have that!"
"Because, my friends, you can't just be left alone." Clef said, calmly. "You were involved. And you can't get uninvolved." He laughed. "I mean, what the hell would our world come to if people could just… quit? Who the fuck would keep doing this job? Psychos and assholes, that's who."
"And which are you?" Andrews sneered.
"Me? I'm perfectly sane. So I guess that makes me an asshole." He raised his gun and put the muzzle of the handgun between Andrews' eyes. "I mean, hell, look at me. Perfectly good sniper team, and I've gotta come down here and do it up close. Can't be satisfied just doing it from range, can I? Can't have you just die quietly without knowing what hit you, like I did to your girlfriend. No, I gotta get up close and look into your eyes first."
"I know," Andrews whispered. "I was counting on that."

"Delta One, man down, man down!"
"Delta Two, engaging, engaging!"
"I don't have a clean shot!"
"Fuck!"

"Fucker. Motherfucker. Fucking asshole," Clef gasped. He was holding in his stomach. It wasn't a good sign, the way that his guts were spilling out.
"Like you said, Clef. Only two kinds of people still work here," Andrews said. He raised the bloody nanolathed knife that he'd crafted from the slide of Clef's gun, wiped it calmly off on the sleeve of his… of her… jacket. "Assholes and Psychos. I didn't used to be either." He smiled as he knelt by Clef's side. "I guess, after killing enough cats, you kinda turn into both."
"Fucker. Motherfucking… fucking liar, you said you were gonna nuke the damn nanites…"
"I know. I lied. You should know all about that."
"Won't get away with this! You'll be dead before you get two steps!"
"I don't plan to. Because the truth is, Clef, I never wanted to. All I wanted to do is to tell you something… to tell you the truth." Andrews leaned down close, and the voice of Director Valentine whispered into Clef's ear.
Clef's face went pale, and he shuddered.
Then Valentine's body stood and turned towards the lake. It extended its arms out and dropped the knife onto the ground. It closed its eyes and smiled as it walked down the dock towards where Beatrix Maddox lay dead on the cold, hard wood.
The sniper's bullet pierced its skull just as it reached her, and it slumped down on top of her, arms outstretched, their two bodies laying on top of each other like two lovers embracing in their sleep.

… in other news today, Italian police are investigating the murders of two American tourists in the Tuscany region. The motive is believed to be robbery. Residents of this peaceful town are horrified at these recent events, the first murders in over a century…

He splashed water over his face and looked into the mirror. The face that was not the one he'd been born with looked back.
The man now known as Assistant Director Clef had accumulated many scars over a long career… a career built on lies and deceit. He ran a finger along his newest scar: a wide, deep gash across his belly, where Agent Andrews had delivered a final blow, one last Fuck You to the world before dying.
Memories rose unbidden, the words whispered in the voice of Director Valentine, but the words, the intent, all Andrews'.
"You're not a soldier. You're not a hero. You're not even a murderer. You're nothing but a bully… and SCPs are the nerdy kids who you like to beat up to hide the fact that you're nothing but a lonely, empty shell of a man."
He picked up the handgun that was by his sink and removed the magazine. He checked the chamber. One bullet. That would be enough. The rest were gravy.
He put the muzzle of the gun to his temple and closed his eyes.
Click.
He opened his eyes and smiled. "It works better," he said to himself, "when you take the safety off first."
Then he picked up his can of shaving cream and straight razor and got to work shaving. He was extremely cautious handling the keen-edged blade. A man could kill himself like that, if he wasn't careful.