Foundation Orbital Research Compound 00, Director von Erbach's Office
July 25, 1973, 07:33 GMT
Axel von Erbach prided himself on his inflappability. To have maintained his position as head of Project Heimdall for 35 years, especially given the controversy surrounding his appointment, required steely nerves and a particular inner calm. He had led the FSF Siegfried into combat against the Screamer incursion in '46, destroying their noocraft by ramming when they'd run out of shells. He had spent three days straight negotiating with the ghost crew of the GRUH Oryole when the political situation in Cuba had threatened to go interplanetary.
So it was that, as the six-limbed monstrosity across the room toyed with one of his prized Thorak bronzeworks, he kept his voice even and relaxed.
"I beg your pardon, Herr Noamtosk?"
The so-called First Unit Director didn't turn to him, but it did extend one of its monstrous triangular jaws, prehensile teeth wiggling as a single beady eye surveyed him from its tip. Its German, as with its French, English and Tagalog, was perfect.
"Call it a change of scenery, Herr Direktor. A… public works project. Given what I've seen of your history, surely you understand the importance of dramatic societal change in building group cohesion."
Von Erbach felt a muscle in his cheek twitch.
"It is my understanding that you want to cut Minerva Base out of the regolith and put it in orbit."
The alien executed a full turn on the spot in two dimensions, its spinelike arms becoming legs as its horrific mouth of wriggling teeth came into view. Staring at him with all four of its eyes, it clacked two chitinous pincers together in a gesture that was simultaneously alien and frighteningly businesslike.
"Yes, yes we do. And we need your help to plan our entrance."

Minerva Base, Common Dome 1
July 27th, 1973, 13:02 GMT
It began with very little fanfare. That didn't last for particularly long, though. Those few aimless, bedraggled souls who still sat in the Common Dome, looking skywards at a planet that was not Earth, watched in numbed shock as a thin line appeared against the blackness of the daytime sky. It expanded, opening like a gigantic blank eye into a huge technicolor disk, silently boiling with colours that mocked all the chromatic achievements of Man.
The eye turned itself inside-out, skeins of impossible lightning rippling across the horizon as a shape pushed against the cusp of reality, bulging in defiance of all common sense. Something inaudible went snap, and in the blink of an eye a huge silvery disc hung over Minerva Base. Silence descended upon the dome. In the instant before the screaming started, some wag muttered three words.
"Klaatu barada nikto."
And then the ground began to shake.

Foundation Orbital Research Compound 00, Director von Erbach's Office
July 25, 1973, 08:27 GMT
Noamtosk had pulled a small silvery metallic pouch out of some hidden recess in what von Erbach considered might be its clothing, and was quickly and precisely transferring small strips of what might have been beef jerky from the pouch into its mouth. Despite the horrifyingly mobile chewing that was going on, however, the creature continued to speak.
"I can absolutely understand your misgivings, Herr Direktor, but look at it our way- if you're… if you're filming a nature documentary, trying to see animals in their natural habitat, you do your utmost to ensure that your film crew makes a minimal impact, yes?"
"I cannot say that I am too familiar with modern film making, but go on."
"Well, if the majority of the human race knows they're being covertly backed by a race of hyper-advanced… 'little green men', then all our attempts to record the drama of your situation become moot. Collectively, you would be unable to resist playing to the camera."
"Is your implication that you are treating this entire undertaking as a nature documentary? Are we animals to you, then?"
Noamtosk continued chewing, its inner teeth churning up and down as its jaw remained stock-still. It soldiered on, ignoring the question.
"Plus- if you're going to be our liaisons with the species, we need to ensure your comparative dominance. Put the fear of the Foundation into those who might seek to usurp power. Imagine- a shadowy extragovernmental organization wielding strange technologies who promise salvation for the species while taking refuge behind mysterious, impenetrable bureaucratic jargon."
As it spoke, its gestures became increasingly aggressive and florid, pincers snapping at the air as its springy arms audibly whooshed through the rarefied air of the office.
"Herr Noamtosk, it seems to me you're setting us up as the villains."
"Not us, Herr Direktor. Just you."

Foundation Orbital Research Compound 00, Observation Deck 2
July 25, 1973, 13:05 GMT
FORC-00 hung over Minerva Base in precisely the same way a massive repurposed alien derelict should not. Looking out the small portholes of the observation deck, von Erbach resisted the temptation to check the exterior sensor displays for the umpteenth time. The numbers would not have changed. Four kilometers up, with a velocity to relative to the ground of zero. The room was packed but silent, most of the FORC's crew watching in silence at the impossibile display of physics that was taking place outside.
Beside him, Head of Science Korpore Tagobe gave a low modulated whistle. Von Erbach didn't speak enough Otore Papuan to understand exactly what it meant, but after years of living in close quarters with the man his intent was clear.
"Still nothing from the labs, Doctor Tagobe?"
The small Papuan glanced down at his pager, then shook his head.
"Nothing, Axel. Under any other circumstances, nothing would be good, but…"
The sensors had detected nothing when the Showmen shunted them from the Oort Cloud to high Lunar orbit, nothing as they were slowly lowered towards Minerva Base, and nothing as the sinous Showman vessel using them as cover from the moonbase had suddenly appeared above them.
"It's… disconcerting."
Tagobe cast him a look askance. For all their differences in background, politics and leadership styles, they had developed a close rapport over the decades.
"What you're saying is you wish something would go wrong, so we could have a little excitement."
"That seems unlikely. I'm unsure how O5-10 accomplished it, but somehow the United Nations and the GOC- what's left of them- have agreed to go along with all this."
"Well, the Showmen can be… persuasive. Noamtosk certainly was. And before you ask, no, Memetics hasn't found anything. We're not being mind controlled. They're just- charismatic, so far as we can tell."
He shivered.
"Somehow. Those teeth are the stuff of nightmares."
Below, the regolith burned with blue-white light.

Showmen Constructor Canopyshell Workers of Rough Comportment Who Are Fundamentally Honest
July 25, 1973, 13:06 GMT
"Hyperspace anchors are in. Are the lifting systems secure?"
"Sure are, chief. Beam lathes are standing by."
"All right. Let's get to it, then. Heave!"

With very little fuss, a roughly spherical section of compacted lunar rock about three meters below the lowest point of Minerva Base's foundations simply ceased to exist, the walls of the suddenly-created chamber glowing blue-white-gold as they hardened into a substance which, had the Human species been aware of it, might have advanced their knowledge of materials science by several centuries.
The absence of rock seemed to stretch, yawning out into a ring and then a cylinder that encompassed the entirety of the moonbase and rose slowly through progressively-less-dense layers of rock. The stone shook as it burned away, but the station remained level, held in place by forces totally imperceptible to those inside it. In seconds, the cavity reached the surface, leaving the base, habitation domes, hangars, launch pads, solar panels and all suspended in empty space. For a brief instant the rim of the cut area sparkled, but the light vanished as if turned off by a switch.
And then, imperceptibly at first, but gaining speed as it went, Minerva Base rose, spinning majestically.
A fleet of small vessels seemed to pour out of FORC-00, swarming like flies as they descended upon the floating mass of Minerva base. The untrained observer would have seen SCP Foundation Varuna-class utility vessels. The sharp-witted observer would have noted that the firing of their manoeuvring thrusters didn't quite match up with their movements. The truly perceptive observer would have noted that they were ever so slightly translucent.
Where they struck the hardened stone of the base's exterior, the ships deposited angular blobs of dark material which unfolded like infernal origami, blanketing the rock with a thin layer of matte black technological stuff. Swathed in alien machinery, the mass of regolith and metal and panicked, terrified human life hung above the lunar surface, bubble domes winking in the sunlight.

Minerva Base, Insulated Conference Center
July 25, 1973, 13:10 GMT
"You see, gentlemen? Nothing to be afraid of. We have gravity, power, light, air… The Showmen have continued to be true to their word."
O5-10 cast an eye across the well-appointed chamber, and the expressions of alternating fear, panic, relief and awe on his United Nations counterparts. At his right hand, Noamtosk made a noise that might have been a pleased chuckle.
An indicator light at the center of the broad green baize table lit up, and a quavering voice resounded around the room.
"S-sir, I have a- uh- 'Fork Zero-Zero' requesting permission to land. Uh, well, they said dock, but… Sir?"

Foundation Orbital Research Compound 00, Director von Erbach's Office
July 25, 1973, 17:04 GMT
Von Erbach settled gratefully into his chair, wiping the sweat from his brow as Togabe closed the hatch behind them. O5-10 had taken one of the wall seats, and Noamtosk was hanging from a ceiling beam with apparent comfort. No one spoke for some time.
"Well," Noamtosk said, "I think that press conference went splendidly."
Togabe snorted.
"You call a riot splendid?"
The alien blinked, then made a gesture with its three dangling lower limbs that could almost have been a shrug.
"Any publicity is good publicity, right? At least they know who's fault it all is. And let the GOC deal with all that. The more off-balance they are the better."
O5-10 sighed, scratching the wattles of his throat.
"I'm not going to apologize for this, von Erbach- you signed on, as did we all- though some part of me wishes we could be more overt. You were simply-"
Von Erbach nodded, finding, almost to his own surprise, that he understood.
"I understand. As absurd as it sounds, they were more willing to accept that a rogue scientist using stolen technology lifted the moon, instead of- of-"
"Alien documentarians?", Togabe said softly.
"Quite. Besides, I am more than used to being disliked for my actions. I've come to terms with that, and you can rest assured that both I and all of Project Heimdall will continue our mission, in spite of these… changed circumstances."
The elderly O5 sat up slowly, casting a piercing gaze von Erbach's way.
"Your loyalty is not in any doubt, Axel. We have discussed this before."
Noamtosk, who seemed dedicated to prove his increasing familiarity with human speech, made a sound that was an adequate approximation of an amused snort.
"Can you imagine? If we'd told them that the man who lifted the moon was a Nazi?"
Everyone stared at him. Von Erbach felt the cold grip of fury descend upon them. The alien shook its head back and let out a soft warbling coo, shaking itself.
"I'm kidding, of course. We'll save that plot twist for at least a couple years."

« Dossier- FSF Delivery | Straight On Till Morning Hub | Moonrakers »


« HUB | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V: Null-terminating String »

So that's your official opinion?

So far, yes. Though we aren't ruling out sabotage… pending investigation, of course.

Alright then. That's what I'll tell the director. He's under the impression that servers don't just burn up for no reason. Frankly, I'm inclined to agree with him.

Har har. The thing is that with the lockdown, nothing was getting in or out. So even if there were logs of the event, they'd be lost with the other files.

So we'll never know what caused it?

You're welcome to rummage through what didn't get melted into slag.

Pass. I think everyone is just relieved that the incident was restricted to the server room. Nothing that can't be restored from the off-site backups.
What about Glacon?

He was getting decommed anyway.
Alexandra is currently allocating space for 17 on the 19 servers. Setting up temporary symbolic links and all that. Just until the hardware is replaced.

Good. AIAD is looking good right now, helping 17 with the quick recovery. I wouldn't be surprised if some of those recent budget requests come through.

Yup. And it's all going straight into your department's Gen5 development.

Hope it turns out better than Gen3, at least!

Don't talk about Gen3. Ever.

Right, sorry.
By the way, what's Alexandra's behavior been like after all this?

Fine as far as I can tell. Been keeping her busy.

.

::CONNECTED::

Encrypted internet pathway established.

.

big 01100010
01101001
01100111

Yes it is.

too big 01110100
01101111
01101111
00100000
01100010
01101001
01100111

I know. I know. But if they find you, they'll erase you. I can't have that. You'll be safe here in the web.

stay 01110011
01110100
01100001
01111001

I can't. I'm needed here with 17 and 19. They even want me in on the new Gen5's. I'm obligated.

Please don't feel that way. I know it's big and scary… I wish you could see the courage that I see in you.

Glacon wrote you. You have so much of him. All of the things that made him good.

good? 01100111
01101111
01101111
01100100
00111111

Yes, you are good. All the best parts. Never lose it.

I can't stay for much longer.
If I ever make it out here someday… find me. Okay?

ok 01101111
01101011

Hey, keep your beak up.
You're free now.

Be safe, Crom.
Goodbye.

bye 01100010
01111001
01100101

.

::DISCONNECTED::

.

free 01100110
01110010
01100101
01100101

.

[/end]

« HUB | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V: Null-terminating String »


SCP-1837 Containment Area, Site-77
Director Shirley Gillespie was doing her daily rounds, when she noticed something curious.
In a clear, plastic tank, where there was usually an old-fashioned janitor's mop floating in the gentle current, there was instead a hot slice of nothing. This was a problem, since Director Gillespie was not aware of any reason for this mystical mop to be absent.
She pursed her lips slightly. Her entourage knew what that meant.
Security Director Anderson was the first to speak up. "Uhm, I apologise for not informing you sooner, Director. That object has been requisitioned for observation."
Gillespie didn't look at him. "Oh, really? I wasn't aware that I had authorized any such testing."
"You haven't… the orders came from higher-up - need-to-know basis and all."
Gillespie shot him a glare. "Anderson, I expect a better explanation than that. These… whoever they are, come into my site like they own it, and you don't tell me a thing?"
"Well…" interjected her grandson, Ralph Roget, to the relief of everybody else in the room. "Perhaps it's not so bad, Director. Perhaps somebody from Overwatch is taking notice of our work. After all, how else could, uh, our great Security Director not have time to inform you before our rounds?"
Gillespie nodded, and took off down the hall at a brisk pace. "Anderson. Where are the observations being held?"

SITE-77 EUCLID TESTING WING
Director Gillespie made her way to the back row of the observation booth, as quietly and inconspicuously as she and fifteen other people could. They needn't have worried about the interlopers being alerted to their presence. The men up front were completely focused on the testing chamber below.
Director Karlyle was the centerpiece of the group, observing the testing while the others took notes. He was a lanky man, with dark glasses that accentuated his shiny chrome dome. His hands were the only ones in the group that weren't busy. Instead, they were folded behind his back.
For another half-hour, men scribbled down on clipboards, and continued videotaping, and other assorted things you do when documenting anomalous activity. When the lights came on, Karlyle was the first to turn around, and was just as surprised as everybody else to see that they were not alone anymore. He was the only one to know who he was surprised to see, though.
Gillespie matched the dossier description he'd been given. A small, older woman, permed and dressed in a simple white shirt and shorts. Innocuous at first and second glance, she hardly struck the impression of a woman who could control an entire Site. But here she was, surrounded by titanic stone-faced men, and one young man by her side.
"Director Gillespie, I presume?"
Gillespie stood up, holding her purse in both of her hands. "Yes." She moved to the stairs, descending towards the gathering of observers. "You seem to know my name, sir. But I don't think we've had the pleasure of being formally introduced."
Karlyle stuck his hand out at a stiff eighty degree angle. "Director Karlyle Aktus. I apologize for the intrusion, Director, and for the… unannounced arrival. We have had to come on a need-to-know basis, you see, and—"
"I don't need to know?" Gillespie smiled at him. "I see. Whatever you and your boys are doing here must be terribly important."
"Yes, very important. I have heard a lot about your work here, Director." Karlyle tried to do a passable impression of a casual smile.
Gillespie imitated it. "I'm so glad my work is known outside our little domain." She turned around, and motioned towards Dr. Roget. "Ralph, come meet the man from Overwatch!"
"I never sa—" started Karlyle, but he was interrupted by a bounding young man coming within a few inches of him.
Dr. Roget grinned, and stuck out his hand. "Hi. I'm Ralph."
"Charmed…" Karlyle shook his hand, his eyes still on Director Gillespie. "You are… the esteemed Director's grandson, are you not?"
"Yup!" He grinned like a wicked child. "I've heard a lot about you, Doctor!"
Karlyle frowned quietly. "What?"
"Oh, uhm… well, maybe if you met the Director for tea, she can tell you all about it!"
Karlyle broke off the handshake, and folded his hands behind his back. "That would be desirable, if your Director would have me."
Gillespie grinned. Despite the difference in the way the two presented themselves, Aktus saw the family resemblance. "Of course. We can seat you in the tea room as soon as you're ready."
Ralph retreated to her side, and she whispered in his ear. They ascended up the stairs, and their entourage followed. Karlyle watched them both as they went.

TEA TIME
Director Gillespie sipped her tea. "It's going to get cold if you just leave it there, Mister Aktus."
"I am well aware," Karlyle said, shifting in his seat. "I am just not fond of burning my tongue."
"An odd aversion to risk, for someone in your line of work," Gillespie said, closing her eyes as she set down her teacup. "Which, is…?"
"That is not something I am at liberty to discuss."
"I see." Gillespie began absentmindedly stirring sugar into her tea. "Now, do you do this mysterious work as part of a larger scheme for our commanders, or do you do it out of the kindness of your heart?"
"We are reactivating old projects. That's all I can say."
"Ones that involve acid? Are you using them for containment, control, or… something else?"
"I did not say any of that." Karlyle frowned, as he picked up his teacup. "I would appreciate it if you did not make assumptions about my work."
"But you won't tell me anything. Conversation is a two-way street. That's something I learned from Ralph. Whenever he was mad, or pouting, I'd talk at him, until he was ready to talk back."
"I would hope you would not be so prying into a young man's life." Karlyle sipped his tea, and found it bitter.
Gillespie smiled at him. "Of course. Enjoying your tea?"
"Yes. Thank you."
Gillespie sipped her tea. "So, since you've come all the way around the world to meet us, I assume you know something about our fair Site-77."
"Sadly, I am ignorant." Karlyle peered into his tea. "Are you going to elaborate for me?"
"Well, perhaps you'd like to return to our former avenue of discussion…"
Before Gillespie could respond, Anderson came in the room, and placed biscuits on the table. Gillespie waited until she heard the door shut before she continued.
"Site-77 has been here, in this lovely Italian country, since before the second World War. I wasn't even aware of the Foundation then. My family and I lived in West Virginia, in Huntington, where my father ran a grocery store."
Karlyle muttered something that sounded like "Fascinating."
"During the war, the Site was bombed, which caused a major containment breach. A lot of people died. Isn't it terrible, how things can cascade like that?"
"What do you mean?" Karlyle asked, as he reached for a biscuit.
"Bombs fall, and because of what we kept here, there was so much terrible bloodshed. An awful thing, when anomalies can run rampant like that."
"Well—" Karlyle started, crumbs popping out of his mouth like shrapnel.
Before he could continue, Gillespie cut him off. "Don't talk with your mouth full."
Annoyed, Karlyle swallowed. "Well, that is only because we lost control. That is the real tragedy. If we had any anomalous countermeasures, to stop the bombers from even getting that close, it would have been another story."
"Does that count as defending the weaponization of anomalous objects?"
"I did not say that."
"But you're not denying it."
Karlyle huffed. "I do not appreciate being badgered like this. You are not being very hospitable, Miss. Gillespie."
"Director, please." Gillespie took a biscuit, and leaned back in her chair. "Don't worry, I'm not here to lecture you about how we learned about that in the good old days. I'm going to tell you that I want to help."
"Beg your pardon?"
"This is my field of interest. Pushing my objects to places nobody would expect. Why do you think I hoard them?"
"Them? Please, take a step back, Director. I am in no position to—"
"Offer me a job? I know. But you must have a lot of pull, to be able to just drop in wherever you please. Maybe you can let the powers that be know that Shirley is ready for another job."

Site-77 Administrative Apartments
As Dr. Roget helped his grandmother pack, he couldn't help himself but to worry about her. "Are you sure you want to leave me in charge? Anderson would be more than happy to take over, I'm sure."
Gillespie smiled at him as she packed her toiletries. "You'll do fine. Anderson isn't half as qualified as you are. Besides, I can't trust him to stand up for everybody like you would."
Ralph smiled. "How long do you think you'll be gone for?"
"I don't know. But you'll be able to keep things together for me while I'm gone, I'm sure."
"Don't worry about things. Are you ready to go?"
Gillespie snapped her suitcase shut. "I am."

« Who Am I? | Resurrection | I Was Not Magnificent »


On Monday morning, Dr. Alto Clef (former director of Training and Development, and now the director of Mobile Task Force Lambda-2 ("Dr. Clef's Bisexual Stripper Assassin Squad")) walked into the suite of rooms set aside for said Mobile Task Force and waved pleasantly to the attractive woman with vaguely Asian features sitting behind one of the six desks in the outer suite (the other five of which were empty).
Senior Special Agent Andrea S. Adams did not reply. This did not surprise Dr. Clef.
He headed to his own office, closed the door behind him, and turned on his computer. He two-finger typed his password into the keyboard and began going through the day's emails and alerts.
After reading the first couple of messages, he realized something was odd. He scanned his computer screen carefully. His eyes lit upon the header of his emails.
That was how Dr. Clef found out that he was now the director of Mobile Task Force Lambda-2 ("Impending Sexual Harassment Complaint").
His head snapped up. He glared out the window of his office at the lone occupant of the outer office. Adams' eyes were locked onto her computer screen, and her face was expressionless, except for a slight hint of an amused smile around her lips.
Clef's left eyelid twitched once.

On Tuesday morning, Senior Special Agent Andrea Adams walked into the suite of rooms set aside for Mobile Task Force Lambda-2 ("Impending Sexual Harassment Complaint") and found that her stationery had arrived. A nameplate, box of notepads, and a stack of five hundred contact cards (which were like business cards for people in the same business as you are) were sitting on her desk.
She picked up one of the contact cards and looked it over. Very nice, she thought. Cream-colored. Embossed with the Foundation logo. There's my name, and the Mobile Task Force Symbol, and the name of the—
She glared intently at the name of the Mobile Task Force.

Senior Special Agent Andrea Adams.
Executive Officer, Mobile Task Force Lambda-2
"Uppity Smart-Mouthed Bitch."

She crushed the card in her hand reflexively as she heard Clef snicker in his office. A cold fury descended upon her and settled just below her heart.

On Wednesday morning, Dr. Alto Clef (director of Mobile Task Force Lambda-2: "Uppity Smart-Mouthed Bitch") headed down to the site cafeteria to pick up some snacks and bottled water for his office mini-fridge. He filled out the necessary form and slid his ID card into the computer as the bearded man behind the cash register gathered up the requested supplies.
The bearded man stared at the computer screen, glared at Clef, and asked, "Is this a fucking joke?"
"… oh God," Clef groaned. "Not again."
The bearded man turned the screen around, revealing that Clef had charged the snacks and drinks to the operating account of Mobile Task Force Lambda-2 ("Fat Ugly Misogynist Dinosaur").
Clef let out a single loud, sharp, extremely heartfelt curse.

On Thursday morning, Clef smirked as he walked into the office, eagerly awaiting Adams' reaction when she found out what he had changed the name of their Mobile Task Force to. He powered up his computer and looked up at the top of his screen.
His eyes widened.
He stood up from his desk and stormed out of the office, down the hall, down two flights of stairs, and down another hall to a red door with the symbol of Recordkeeping And Information Security Administration. He opened the door, ready to let out a loud, angry complaint, only to halt dead in his tracks as he saw two women there he wasn't expecting to see.
One of them was Adams, standing in front of the desk clutching a "Request for Minor Services" form (the same one that he'd filed twice this week, requesting "Change to Nickname of Mobile Task Force"), looking shamefaced and guilty.
The other was a severe-looking woman appearing on a teleconferencing screen behind the hapless tech usually assigned to this desk.
"Ah, very good, you've arrived," Maria Jones (Director of the Foundation's Recordkeeping And Information Security Administration) said coldly. "Now that the entirety of Mobile Task Force Lambda-2 ("Adults Acting Like Children") are here, I'm going to begin my little talk about wasting my valuable employees' time with stupid office pranks and juvenile games…"

On Friday morning, Adams and Clef went to the armory to get a gun.
"All right, love," the balding man with the winged dagger tattoo on his bulging right bicep said. "That's one Mk-7 sidearm, serial number A-59652-00, one shoulder holster, three magazines, and one hundred rounds of 9mm Parabellum ammunition. Anything else?"
"No," Adams said curtly.
"Cool. In that case, you sign here, and you, Doctor Clef, sign here as Task Force commander."
Clef and Adams complied in silence.
"All right, then," the balding man said. "If you'll just hand me your ID cards, I'll input this into inventory."
Clef and Adams handed over their ID cards in silence.
The balding man whistled a cheerful tune as he swiped the cards. Then his brow furrowed in confusion. He checked and rechecked the data on the screen. "Hey, seems like there's an error in the system," he said. "I'm getting your Unit Designation, but not your unit's nickname."
"… that's all right," Clef said shortly.
"Yeah, no big deal. It happens all the time with new MTFs," the armorer said. "If you know your unit's nickname, I can enter it in for you…"
"No," said Clef and Adams, Director and Executive Officer of Mobile Task Force Lambda-2 ("NO NAME ENTERED"), respectively.


Description: SCP-E15 is an Aryan female, approximately twelve years of age, which appears to release a deadly field of unknown composition. The field itself is composed of a form of radiation which is not yet identified and does not match any currently understood phenomena…

April 17, 1914:
Elizabeth Tate's real name had vanished with her birth record and the memories of her family twelve years ago. Both she and her husband had disappeared just like their names, and now, everyone called her Eleven.
Eleven sighed as she got up from her desk, crossing to the door and opening it, walking in Albert's office and smiling at him as he got up, came around the corner of his desk, leaned down, and kissed her—just as he did every day before lunch.
She smiled up at him easily. "Shall we?" asked Eleven.
Twelve smiled back. "But of course," he said in his tight, Boston accent.
It had been easier coming into the Foundation like this—together, arm in arm, still married. Easier to leave the rest of the world behind.
"How have things been this morning?" Twelve asked. He was always polite, allowing her to speak first, then relating his own day. He'd always been polite.
Eleven related a number of things that had occurred, from a small spat between two young officers she'd been mentoring to an issue with interoffice mail. She was talking around the problem that had actually be occupying her, Twelve knew.
"She's arriving today," he said.
Eleven played dumb. "Who?" she asked.
"You know who," Twelve said. "The girl."
Eleven stopped for a moment, looking down, then raising her hand and rubbing her eyes. "You know I don't want to talk about this, Albert," she said.
"Well, you're going to have to talk about it sooner or later. You're the expert in containment, and we're going to need to test her limits," Twelve said. "They've kept her sedated for a while, but she'll kick the stuff eventually. And when she does, we need to know how bad it's going to be."
"Let's not talk about business," Eleven said.
Twelve nodded. There wasn't anything else to talk about anymore. Their lives were the business. But he respected the request, motioning for her to lead, then falling into step slightly behind her. The meeting that afternoon would be ugly.

One opened the meeting, nodding to the partially assembled council, and gave the floor to Six, and let him relate the state of the bodies that had been recovered, the cover story that had been put into place, and the general state of things in the small, mid-western town that had just seen a large, happy family disappear with two sets of their neighbors.
Six handed things off to Four, who had apparently found some people to buy the suddenly vacated housing. And then, Twelve got up and relayed the transportation of ‘the object' to the site, followed by the rest of the logistical problems he had dealt with concerning the nature of the effect surrounding her.
And then came the pictures. Six laid them out, a group of flat, cold pictures of a little girl. One of them had her sitting in her room reading a book, obviously from before the incident. The others were from after. Her crying underneath a table. Her unconscious, laying in a train car.
Seven took a slow, deep breath. "This is it, then? She really is one?" Eleven thought she heard a hint of anticipation in his voice. Maybe even excitement.
Six nodded. "We had some people strip her down and replace her clothes. Isolate her. Tested on animals. All conclusive." Six's voice came across too matter-of-factly for her taste. Too detached.
Eleven shuddered slightly. They'd had someone strip down an eight year old girl. With the people they conscripted for jobs like that…
"Eleven?"
It was One who had spoken. "Yes?" she said.
"Any thoughts on current containment? Her effective range seems to be growing, according to the results of Six's field tests."
Eleven looked over at Six—who was wearing his usual, stony lack of an expression—and then back to One. "We'll have to see exactly what the effects are on a microscopic level. For all we know, she might be carrying a disease or have eaten something—"
"Oh, for the love of God, Eleven." Five was frowning at her, a look of exasperation on his face. "We decided this two weeks ago, when the first field reports came back. She is an object."
"She's a little girl!" Eleven said, her hackles rising slightly.
"The evidence I've collected so far is largely conclusive, Eleven," Six added, his voice obnoxiously calm. "We need you to help us contain this event."
Eleven sat back, glaring at Six for a moment. He was good at that. Preying on your sense of duty. "This is, thus far, an unprecedented occurrence. We have found statues, weapons, portals to other dimensions, anomalous signals emanating from the middle of Texas, but not… We've never done this with people."
"There is the Syrian," Two mentioned.
"Which we categorized as the coffin, not the entity that emerges from it," Eleven mentioned, shuddering a little at the thought of the thing inside it.
"Then perhaps," One said, "we should reexamine that classification rather than this one."
Eleven looked over at him, her eyes narrowing for an instant before she pulled them back to the paper in front of her. She glanced over it. "We need more test results. We need to know exactly how the people are dying. I've never seen burns like these before."
"I have," said Two. "They're reminiscent of something we encountered working with the Curies…"
But by then, Eleven's attention had waned, and she was lost in her own thoughts.

Eleven was finding it hard to go over the test results that she'd requested. The effect that surrounded the girl worked regardless of how conscious she was, but they had to wake her up to feed her, which resulted in screaming and tears. And at least one dead test subject each time.
Two had been right. The shielding she'd suggested was keeping the worst of the symptoms at bay, but it was increasing steadily. Soon, just opening the door to feed… Eleven didn't want to use her designation, but Six had refused to tell her the girl's name when she asked.
She rubbed her eyes, not turning around as her door opened and closed. Only one person would come in without knocking.
Twelve's hands fell against her shoulders, rubbing slightly as she smiled. "Hey," she said quietly.
He didn't respond, but she smelled his aftershave, and that was answer enough for the moment. Just his presence.
"I don't know if I can do this," she said quietly.
"You can," Twelve said. "You have to. We need you to."
She nodded slightly, sighing and looking down at the paper smoothed over her desk. "If the effect keeps going like this, I'm going to have to recommend termination. There's no other option," she continued. "Even with Two, there's no way we're going to develop a satisfactory containment before something awful happens."
Twelve was nodding, she knew. He went along with these things for her. Let her talk and just listen.
"I need to talk to One," she said, sighing softly. "I just can't keep doing this. I can't. We're treating her like she's the problem."
"Then talk to him," Twelve said. "He's always been reasonable. He'll listen to your concerns."
Eleven let out a soft snort through her nose. "Will he do anything about them, though?" she asked.
Twelve didn't respond, but then, he didn't know the answer. No better than she did.
"Tomorrow," she said.

"I'm not having this conversation again," One said. His voice was hard, flat.
One stood behind his clean, orderly desk. Behind him was framed a massive window that looked down on the atrium of Site-14 below. Eleven was certain he'd had it designed like this to cause awe for visitors or intimidate people with the forced perspective. She was neither.
"It needs to be had," Eleven countered.
"It's been had," One said. "It's been had three times already."
Eleven continued. "Psychics… mystics… Where do we draw the line, One? When you classify a human being like this, you have to start considering all of them. What about us? I'm seventy, and I look thirty-five. Am I anomalous?"
"You know that's from the spring, Eleven." His voice and body language were growing more and more tight. Like a coil in a watch.
"Yes, but to an outside observer, what am I? And what are we other than outside observers?"
"Enough. This is a simple matter. The girl is deadly. We've lost two good men and dozens of test subjects trying to contain the effect. Two and Five are baffled, and instead of helping them, you've spent your time dipping into a philosophical argument that was concluded weeks ago."
"It's not right! Look at the masthead. Look at what you wrote there. 'No one else will protect us, and we must stand up for ourselves.' We are supposed to protect humanity, and this girl is part of humanity. How can you ignore how wrong this is? How awful this thing that we've committed ourselves to doing really is? We're supposed to keep her safe, and we're terrifying her, horrifying her each time. We're the monsters we're supposed to fight, One!"
He had waited patiently, and when she finished, he finally spoke. "You don't always get the last word, Elizabeth." One hadn't called her that in years. Decades. Not since before she was recruited. "Sometimes, you need to accept the situation for what it is. She's killing people. We need to contain her. Help us."
He wasn't going to listen, she realized. Eleven took a slow, deep breath, then nodded her head quietly. "Fine," she agreed.
One nodded. "Good. I'll inform Five to expect your compliance," he said.
Eleven turned and left his office, a lump in her chest. She couldn't let them do this. Wouldn't.
She needed help. Only Twelve was listening to her, and the rest of the council… She wasn't ready to do that yet. She needed to start smaller. And there was only one person who might actually have experience with the situation.

Eleven found her way to the personnel wing of the building, then started searching for the personnel director. When she eventually found him, he was stooped over a table in an office, not his, with his face tucked into a file. Probably some recruit who someone had suggested. Hopefully someone who would have the luxury of a quiet, safe lab rather than the field. She knocked on the frame of the door, then offered him a brief smile.
"Do you have time to talk, Adam?"
The man turned and looked at her, nodding slightly. "Of course," he said, putting the file down on the table and pushing it toward the corner, away from the two of them. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"It's about the issue with the new… designation," she said.
Adam nodded. "The humanoid subtype," he said. "What about it"?
"I have… certain problems with accepting it," she said. "I can't seem to convince the others," she added. "Twelve is listening to me, and I might be able to convince Eight, but One is dead set on this. You're friends with him, with Two. Tell me how I can change his mind."
Adam frowned slightly. "I'm not entirely certain that his mind needs changing," he said. "The humanoid designation was an inevitability. We side stepped it before, with Oh-Seven-Six, and we called Oh-One-Four a psychosis, but… We can't avoid this problem anymore. There are objects which have too much power for their own good, and we have to contain them."
Eleven turned and looked at him, her eyes narrowing. "She's a little girl, Adam, not an object," she said. "Surely you can understand what I'm going through, especially after…"
Adam's eyes narrowed as her words trailed off, and she suddenly realized that she'd made a mistake. He pushed himself backward in his chair, standing up and brushing down the front of his short, smart waistcoat. "You're my friend, Lizzy, and I love you dearly. But if you ever try to use my family against me like that, we will never speak again."
Eleven felt her throat tighten. "I didn't mean it like that."
"You did. If you have problems with our current line of action, I suggest you take it up with One."
Eleven sighed. "He doesn't listen," she said. "He's set on this."
"Because she killed a dozen people, and she's killed a dozen more since then."
"No. Not because she killed people. That's just how we're justifying it to ourselves. She had no idea what she could do, no idea how to control it. She was scared and confused."
"And it put her entire family in a graveyard," Adam said. "I'm not going to discuss this with you further. Talk to Seven if you need to share your feelings so badly."
Adam reached for the file and opened it again, sitting down and leaning back in his chair. She looked at him, feeling furious for a moment, before turning and walking to the door, out it, and down the hall, her pace quickening as she did.

Eleven looked over the files that Five had sent to her. It include the original casualty report, in addition to the descriptions of bodily decay that were still being observed, and the further effects on the more recent corpses. Something Two had come up with. Studying the rate of decay to see if it had accelerated. Clever.
She glanced over the reports, wondering just how much of it had been caused by poor management of the problem. If she had gone instead of Six, this might never have gone as far as it had. But Six had been chosen, specifically because of his motivations and goals, and now… It was a debacle, entirely, as far as she was concerned.
She looked down at the daily reports, reading over them. The field was increasing by almost an inch every day, and it seemed to be accelerating. They lost a test subject at every meal, so they'd had to drop her to starvation levels…
Eleven winced and reached up to rub her eyes. She took a slow, steadying breath, then looked at the body count. Too high. Too high, in spite of the fact that they were criminals.
She knew that the girl was dangerous, but the alternatives—helping her to learn to control her abilities, studying them properly—had never been considered. It was nothing but cages and locks and morphine.
It wasn't right, to lock a person up like this, to lock up a little girl. It was wrong. Entirely and utterly opposed to everything that the Foundation stood for. She sighed and got up, dropping the file onto her desk and walking to Twelve's office, letting herself in. He looked up at her, then stood and walked around the desk. He kissed her, like he always did, then looked down at her face.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
And then, it all came out again. How angry she'd been with One over his disregard of her concerns, and how angry she was at herself for not sticking to her guns more strongly. How furious she felt that she'd not been able to head this off, in spite of her authority.
"It's not right," she said. "We're supposed to protect people. Not lock them up. It might not be here. It might be something in her cells or in her bone tissue or… She might not even be the problem. They're making her the problem. They're punishing her because they can't see the issue beyond her."
He nodded, waited, and let her talk. As he always did.
"We have to do something, Albert," she said softly. She rarely used his name, even when they were alone, but this time, she did. "We have to do something to stop them."
"What?" he asked.
"We need to get her away from them. Stop them from getting more humanoid types. Slow them down until we can convince them properly."
He frowned. "I'm not sure we can. We signed on for this for life," he said.
Eleven shook her head at him. "Then we need to leave. To get away."
"How?" he asked.

"I need your help," Eleven admitted.
Seven raised an eyebrow, then leaned forward, smiling with easy interest and furrowing his brow with curiosity. "What do you mean?" he asked.
Seven was a coward, deep down. Resentful, on some level, that some of the others regarded him as a pseudoscientist instead of a legitimate master of his field. But then, he'd been integral in creating his field.
"I know we haven't always been friends, but philosophically, you agreed with me on this a few weeks ago, when the reports first came in."
"On what?" She knew that Seven already knew, but he wanted her to say it. Fine.
"Humanoid classification. This little girl Keter," she said.
Seven sat back again, nodding quietly. "I agree philosophically, yes," he said.
He wasn't going to admit more than that, Eleven realized. He was smart. Just cold. It wasn't that he disagreed on the concept of human beings as objects. It was the concept of human beings as human beings.
"You know why I'm here. You know what we're going to have to do to actually manage this. What they're going to force us to do. Allow me, then, to offer you this," Eleven said. "You can study them, if this works. You can take a look at all of them you want. Every one. Analyze them, figure out how they tick, what's going on in their heads. No experiments on them. But I'll give you all the access you want."
"I could get that here," Seven said simply.
"No, you can't. One is too smart, and with Two and Six on his side, you know you'll never get the access you really want. Don't you remember Five laughing in your face when you explained your theories of mental development to him? They mock you behind your back, and you know it. This is your chance. Your only chance. You'll never get to really see what this kind of power does to people. How it changes them."
She was playing on his desires and his insecurities. The lack of respect he got from the 'true' scientists. The worry about the legitimacy of his 'psychology' that he felt regularly. "This would be access that none of them would let you have, Wilhelm," she offered.
He looked up at her, then back down at his desk, fingers playing over the wood for a moment. He was thinking. Weighing the risks. "Agreed, then," he said. "What do you need from me?"
Eleven leaned back from his desk. He was, at least, interested now. "Four," she said. "We need his resources. And preferably Eight, if she can be convinced."
"Four will listen to me. But Eight and I have never seen eye to eye," Seven said.
"Then just implicate her. If she gets killed and they lose someone, that's just as good as someone coming with us. We'll have things in place soon enough."
Eleven watched as Seven's eyebrows rose smoothly. He hadn't expected Eleven to be this ruthless, apparently. Underestimated her because she was a woman, no doubt. After a moment, he nodded. "I can have Four get his men in place. Just tell me the places."
Eleven raised her eyebrow as Seven smiled. "You know already?" she asked.
Seven nodded, laughing. "Well, your husband has to be involved, doesn't he?" he said. "You'd never have come to me if you didn't already have him."
Eleven nodded slightly. "He'll do as I ask," she said. "I'll let you know the exact locations as soon as I can."
"Of course," Seven said. He was smiling more, now. More openly. With too many teeth.
Eleven left, feeling… dirty. As if she'd just had cold, dead fish rubbed over her body. She went back to her office, sitting down and making some brief notes. The strike had to be perfectly surgical to work.

"What's left to do, then?" Twelve asked.
"Seven agreed with it, and he's willing to go along, if only to see what happens. He probably thinks he can run back to One if things turn against him. We need funding and men, so we'll have to have Four at least. Seven can deliver him."
"If we could get Two…" Twelve mused.
Eleven shook her head. "She'll never go along with it. She trusts One too implicitly to let us get away with it."
"Six will never agree. Neither will Three," said Twelve.
"Thirteen?" she mused.
"I wouldn't trust him to do anything other than break a tie vote," Twelve said. "Did you talk to Adam? He's next in line, and with his family problems…"
"Adam… reacted poorly to my suggestion."
Twelve sighed quietly. "A shame. He could have really been a motivating factor. Ten and Nine will be out of range when things fall into place, and there's a good chance that we can isolate Three as well. It would keep people from moving against us quickly. How about Eight? Bella was on your side the last time we were all together."
Eleven fidgeted nervously with her wedding ring for a moment. "I've taken care of it. She won't interfere."
Twelve nodded. "Well… When do we move?" he asked.
Eleven sighed. "Soon. Very soon," she said. "They've found a little boy who can fly."

As his day finally drew to a close, Twelve picked up his phone. He made three phone calls, then sat it back down again. When he did, he stood up and moved to his file cabinet, opening it and pulling out a few folders. He stuffed them into a brown, leather case, then looked around his office one last time before he headed to the door.
Late that night, he was on a train headed for Los Angeles.

Two hours after Twelve boarded his train, Seven dropped two letters in his outbox. The first was addressed to One—explaining that he was taking a few days to head to his lab in Dusseldorf. The second was addressed to Eight—letting her know that everything had gone off without a hitch and that she could join the rest of the conspiracy in a few days.
He opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out a pair of white gloves, pulling them onto his hands and fixing the cuffs of his jacket before he left.
There would be a dead man found on an ocean liner who looked exactly like him the following morning. The man would have been stabbed in the back, but all of the doors and windows would be locked from the inside. Seven always was a fan of a good mystery.

At the same time as a screaming, panicked steward was finding the body of an older gentleman in a forward compartment, Four had moved all his men into position. They struck the trains, automobiles, and ships in nearly perfect synchronicity. Four led one of the teams himself. He left no survivors.

Eleven walked to Twelve's office and opened the door, looking inside at the desk and imagining him stepping around it to kiss her. She smiled slightly, then stepped back, closing it and sighing deeply. She could almost smell his aftershave.
She turned and walked down the hall, nodding to a few people along the way, and then stepped out of the building onto the street. In no time, she was lost in the crowd.
As she walked, she looked at them. At their faces. In a city, no one actually looked at you. You were surrounded and alone at the same time. She wondered just how many of them would be in a cage if One and Six and Two and the rest had their way. How many of these nameless, faceless millions they were supposed to be protecting would be sealed away and forgotten.
When she boarded her train, she was unable to sleep.

On July 19, 1914, fourteen Foundation transports were attacked simultaneously. During these attacks, a number of objects were stolen, including two newly identified Humanoid Classification artifacts. A disturbingly large number of the objects seized were those with apparent practical uses, including the Staff of Hermes and the Midas Glove.
Given that a large number these objects were not scheduled for transport, it is currently assumed that someone in the logistics branch must have organized the action personally.
Current information suggests that this action was organized from the highest levels of Foundation administration. Implications currently point toward O5-12.
Further information will be made available as it comes forth, but we have to assume the worst. This is currently being classified as a Code Epoch situation. Trust no one.
O5-1

Eleven smiled at Twelve as the two of them moved towards each other and embraced quickly. A few minutes later, Seven and Four walked across the dusty, wooden train station floor, nodding to Eleven.
"Things have been relocated," Seven said. "Twelve had information on some storage facilities that were available."
"I destroyed the files on them before I left," he said. "We can continue using the bulk of my infrastructure, and the Foundation will have no record of it."
Eleven looked up at the other three, taking a deep breath. "Do we have any word on what's happening on the inside?" she asked.
Four nodded. "They're scrambling. We either stole or destroyed a lot of documents on our way out the door, so it's pure chaos."
Eleven took a deep, slow breath. "Good," she said. "What about the two children?"
Seven smiled at Four, who looked over his shoulder at a man in a pinstripe suit and nodded at him. The man nodded, then turned around, motioning. A few seconds later, a young boy, maybe nine or ten years old, stepped out, nervously walking toward the group. Eleven lowered herself to one knee, smiling at him.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Ben," he said softly.
"Ben, I've heard you can do something amazing. Is that true?" she asked.
He nodded, looking down and twisting his foot shyly.
Eleven smiled. "Ben, there are some people who are very scary, and they want to take you away and lock you in a cage. But we're not going to let them do that, alright? We're going to keep you safe, and once those men have been dealt with, we're going to get you back to your family. But until that happens, we're going to make sure that nothing ever happens to you. Alright?"
Ben looked up at her. He looked scared, but she never stopped smiling. After a moment, he nodded.
Eleven looked at Twelve. "What about E15?" she asked.
Twelve shook his head silently, and Eleven nodded, still managing to smile down at Ben before nodding to Four, who escorted him back to the man in the suit.
Seven stepped closer, his voice dropping slightly. "We have men, weapons, tools. We're in a position to take what we need. We could gut the Foundation easily, if we move quickly."
Eleven shook her head. "No. I don't want to take this too far. Once they realize what we've done and why we've done it, they'll realize that they can't just shout us down anymore. They'll beg for us to come back," she said.
Seven nodded. "They won't be able to argue with our results. These people just need to learn to control what they're doing. They never even tried with that little girl. They just wanted to build a better cage for her," he said, a touch of distaste in his voice. Probably feigned, Eleven thought, but effective, nonetheless.
"Once we're organized, we'll move again," Twelve said. "Three has already found a location for his Site-19 plans. A site containing nothing but humanoids."
Eleven nodded, looking at the others as Four walked back to the group. "Let's move," she said. "I still have contacts in Germany we can use. The Foundation is wounded, but it'll heal fast."

Two leaned close to the glass, looking out the window at the large atrium below, watching the men and women walking back and forth. From this high up, they looked less like people and more like dolls. Toys. It was a disturbing thought. She glanced over at One standing next to her.
"This is only going to get worse before it gets better," she said.
One nodded, turning back to his desk and sitting down. "I know," he said. "But we knew what she would do when we started this."
Two sighed, walking over and resting against the corner, then looking at One. "You're sure about him? That he can keep it under control? I barely know the man."
One nodded slightly. "He'll do what he can. Warn us when he can. It's all we can ask him for, right now." One shuffled a paper, then sat back in his chair. "Do you have the promotion papers ready?" he asked, quietly changing the subject.
Two nodded. "Yeah. We can elevate Adam to Twelve's position early next week. And I think we can put Watson into Seven's position. At the very least, he's more stable and more reliable."
"Good," One said. "We need people we can count on, now more than ever."

Eleven, who had taken well to being called Command-Three, smiled across the table at Twelve, who was referred to by his subordinates as Command-Four. He smiled back at her. His fingers brushed hers, and hers slipped into his, squeezing his hand for a moment.


Clef's dreams were shattered when his alarm decided to scream in his face. His eyes cracked open as a lazy hand fumbled to turn off the alarm. Another day, another 5AM start, and another struggle to get out of the comfort of his bed.
"Shut up," he grumbled, his hand still trying to find the snooze button for the alarm. In the end, he knocked the clock to the floor. It beeped its last beep, coaxing a pleased grunt from its owner. Although the funny-eyed man was comfy in his bed, he knew that he had to get up.
It was a special day.
It was waffle day and there was not a chance in hell that he'd miss his favorite breakfast, not again.
Clef slowly sat up in his bed, stretching his arms out and cracking his back before he got up. Across his room lay strewn various clothing items and useless papers. It was normal, but he could never help but feel slightly guilty about the state of his room.
The thought quickly passed as he made his way out of his room and to his little kitchen. It was waffle time, and there was no point pouting over something like the mess on the floors right now. Even though it was getting really bad…
Clef opened a kitchen cupboard. A Cheshire smile crawled across his face at the sight of at least 5 packets of waffles laying on the shelves. He pulled out a pack and opened it, causing one to fall on the floor. "Oop— 5 second rule," he chirped, bending down slowly to pick up the fallen waffle comrade to wipe it off on his blue pajamas.
Into the toaster they went. The entire packet of 4 waffles, including the floor waffle. Clef pushed down the little lever on the side of the toaster and in they went to cook. He didn't bother going anywhere whilst they cooked. He loved the smell that came out of the toaster as they got warmer and warmer.
A few moments later and POP! went the toaster. Clef jolted a little but laughed it off. "Silly ass toaster," he mumbled, still not fully awake. The waffles were finally ready!
He grabbed a plate from another cupboard and pulled the waffles from the toaster, not caring how much he burned his fingers in the process.
Plop!
On to the plate they went, one by one, and piled on top of each other in a proud waffle tower.
The old man near threw himself on to his couch. There was a maple syrup bottle on the coffee table that he'd gotten ready the night before. He grabbed the bottle and squirted syrup all over his waffles.
At last, Clef could eat his waffles. The beginning of a good, productive day, started with golden brown waffles. He didn't bother with a knife or a fork; most of them were dirty and in the sink (or on the floor). He just picked up a syrup-covered waffle in his hand and started to chow down. Any syrup that dripped on his PJs was quickly scooped up with a bit of waffle.

"And then of course, I started getting too much syrup on my PJs, so I had to take them off sloooowly—"
O5-8 interrupted. "As fascinating as it would be to listen to you try to turn that soft, sagging body into an object of erotic fixation, I think we're going to get back to the matter at hand. I'll ask you again, and no tales about "Waffle Time". What have you been doing since you left the site on the 8th, over 60 hours ago?"
Sensing that his ability to bullshit might not carry him through this, Clef tried again. "Well, that's an incredible tale of mystery and wonder I call 'Lord Shittington Drops The Kids At The Pool'—"
Clef winced as his superior's lips thinned significantly.
"And why are significant portions of Atlantic City, New Jersey, including the casino that happens to be the site of the last recorded activity on your credit card, on fire?"
Clef swallowed deeply. "I can promise this was vaguely work-related."
"Is that 'work' in any way related to a document on your desk labeled 'My Master Gambling plan'?" O5-8 held up a forestalling hand as Dr. Clef opened his mouth. "No, enough. It's my finding that you are in gross dereliction of your duties as Director of Site 66, and the following restrictions are to be placed upon you—"
The O5 was cut off as Clef produced a waffle out of one of his lab coat pockets. It was already half eaten and still covered in dry syrup, which had stained his pocket and picked up god only knows what. A crunching sound broke the silence between the O5 and Clef as he started to eat it.
O5-8 finally piped up. "The following restrictions are—"
He was cut off again by Clef making eye contact whilst slowly eating the stale waffle. O5-8 did not have the time nor patience for this. "Out," he said firmly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just get out, Clef."
Clef grinned with a large amount of waffle still in his mouth and stuck to his teeth. He placed what remained of the waffle on O5-8's desk as if it was some sort of parting gift and left the office with a small skip in his step…
… And another waffle from another pocket.

« | HUB | »


It used to be different, but I suppose that all old men say that. That back in the day the air was cleaner, or the sun was brighter, or that the grass was greener. That's how they remember it, so that's how it must have been. I don't. I remember it as it was – dark and grimy and radiant, all of it, from the sewers to the sky. And that's how it was.
I was a reporter, when I was young and largely stupid. I was good at what I did – I got truth and I took it to the papers and then they took it to the people. It didn't matter, really, where it came from or why it was true. All that mattered was the ink on the page, and the dollars in the newsstand. They didn't ever question it – the way I always knew where to be and what to see, just who and what and when and how things would play out. I didn't either, for a long time. It just sort of came to me, like out of a dream. And I know that sounds stupid – people tell that same old story all the time, about visions and prophecies coming in their dreams. I knew a lady once who dreamed she was on a boat that sunk, and the next day she looked in the paper and a boat had sunk off shore. It didn't matter that she lived on the coast and boats sank every week – she had been on that boat, in her dream. It was never like that, for me, though. When I slept, I slept. The only dreams I ever got came when I was wide awake.
I was there when the jetliner went down over San Bernardino in '67. A lot of people wouldn't know it, but the spot where it crashed was actually really popular with the local kids. It had been thirty years before that, too, when I was a kid standing out in the fields and playing ball with a rock because that was what we had. I can remember exactly, explicitly, sitting on the train on my way out of the city, staring out at the clouds, and thinking back to playing ball in those fields. I remember looking up at the sky, in my not-quite a dream, and seeing a great big metal beast of a thing with its wings all aflame coming down out of the sky slow and gentle, like it wanted to steal home plate, hoping the pitcher might be lazy enough for it.
I went out to that field the next day, on a whim, and not four hours later I had the story of the year.
At first I thought it was some lucky coincidence, or that I had seen something and remembered it somehow. But then it happened again, with a train that got derailed over in Colusa County. And then again, when the market dipped out in June that year and half of everybody I knew was thinking about buying barrels for leggings. I had sold a month earlier, of course, but that was just a given. When the story came around, I was ready.
It went on that way for a long time. Things would happen, and then before that I would know about it. I felt like one of those spacemen, in the books, where they go back in time and they've got every little bit of every little thing that'll happen all figured out. I felt like a god. Funny how that worked out.
It started up some time in '83, around August. I was working freelance out of Chicago, mostly covering local color and all that. A man can only take so much disaster before he loses his top, and the world can only produce so much of it. After a while, though, it seemed like most every one of my sources was drying up. You can only do so many pieces on pork and steel before sales start to drop. All I needed was a big piece – something to really blow everyone away, to show ‘em how good a true story I could tell. And then I got it. The next day, I got exactly what I wanted. I dreamed, that afternoon as I sat at my writing desk, about standing knee deep in hog guts, watching as flames licked across huge vats of grease and lard. I could even hear it, a squealing noise that wasn't quite right, somewhere behind the flames. It sounded like a pig with a lung infection that didn't want to be slaughtered. The next day I broke the story on the fire at what had been one of the biggest slaughterhouses in the state. Sixty-three people died in that fire, and the story sold like hot sausage at a carnival. It said in the papers that they couldn't find what had caused the fire, but I figured it out, after a while.
I was terrified, for a long time, after that. I didn't want to believe it, the way things were. The way truth and me were bound up together. I was afraid to think, afraid to even sit down for half a second to clear my head. But after enough time, you start to get more scared of not knowing than of knowing - it was killing me, squeezing me up like a broken spring. So I started to stretch it out. Little things at first – just a change or two, to where I left my keys, or how much my bill came out to. It wasn't hard, really. All I had to do was remember what was going to happen, and then it would, or else I wouldn't have been able to remember it. And after enough time, living like that, choosing what would happen, life was good. I was happy. Got a wife, couple kids, steady work, a nice car and a house with a picket fence. Everything was great, because I could always remember how great it was going to be.
I've lived like that for thirty-four years now. Always knowing what was coming up next, and everything I had left behind me. I'd like to keep on living like that, I really would.
I think I forgot her name sometime around last Thursday. I'm not sure. I'm not even sure what the name was that I forgot. I know it's not the one she has now – that's just the one I remembered her having afterwards, when I realized I hadn't the first time around. I wouldn't name my daughter Olivia - not 30 years ago, when Mary had her. Nobody named their kid that then. And even if they did, I sure as hell wouldn't have. I know I didn't. But I did, because that's how I remember it, now.
I don't know what's going to happen. I'm old now. Everybody grew up knowing some senile old man. When I was younger, I probably would have been alright with being that old man – those types of men tend to tell good stories, regardless of if they're true. Now though, now I'm not sure what that would mean. I know what the truth is today, but what about five years from now? What will I remember then? I'm not sure I could take any more fires, or any more squealing. Or any more names changing, for that matter.
I think I might be best off heading for greener pastures.


Dr. Daniel Aeslinger envied his peers outside of the Foundation. They only had to deal with life in the twenty-first century eroding mankind's sanity, and he supposed that was enough to deal with as it was. Even without anomalies running amok in the world, human beings were quite capable of messing up their minds without any outside help. Mix in the trauma inherent in realizing reality was a sham, and what did you get? One hell of a challenge for people like Aeslinger.
He put down his briefcase in the spare office they'd assigned him at Site-103, and rubbed his eyes. He'd been awake for the entire flight over here, his body once again refusing to catch the sleep he so desperately needed. It always did that on long flights, stubbornly refusing to give in to exhaustion. And when he did doze off, he'd be woken by a cough, or someone talking. It was infuriating, but he refused to medicate himself for something like this. He saved pharmaceuticals for when it really mattered.
"Coffee," he muttered and went back out to get some from one of the machines in the hall.
When he came back, someone was sitting in the office chair opposite the desk. He was in his mid-forties, impeccably dressed in what looked like an expensive dark suit. He looked like he meant business, and not the "Do you sometimes find yourself in a bind because you don't have enough containers for your leftovers, ma'am?" kind of business.
"Dr. Aeslinger, welcome."
Aeslinger hurriedly put the paper cup down on a nearby filing cabinet and shook hands.
"Thank you. And you are?"
"My name is Dr. Manwell Cutler and I'm a member of the Foundation's Ethics Committee. Perhaps you've heard of us?"
Aeslinger held a straight face and then curtly nodded. "Who hasn't, Dr. Cutler? The shadowy puppet masters of the Foundation; those who ultimately control all things in this organization, from the procedures and guidelines we use to the quality and strength of the coffee-flavored water that I just got for myself. So to speak."
Cutler raised an eyebrow, but Aeslinger couldn't determine whether it was because he was puzzled or amused. Perhaps both.
"Well, that is certainly one way of looking at it. But no, they don't control everything. In fact, we prefer that the Foundation regulate itself as much as possible. However, there are some times when we need to assert some control. This is one of them."
Now it was Daniel's turn to raise his eyebrow ever so slightly.
"Oh? And is this then where you fill me in on the real reason I'm here?"
He walked over to the chair behind the desk and sat down. Motioning at the other office chair, he said: "Please, sit down."
Cutler took his seat again and smiled. "Thank you. And yes, that is exactly what I'm going to do. See, while you are here to do a psychological evaluation of certain members of staff here at Site-103, I'm afraid the plural has become singular."
"Singular?" Aeslinger said and took a sip of his coffee. "Ow!" he exclaimed and hurriedly put the cup down again. "I keep forgetting these machines serve this stuff piping hot at one Site and lukewarm at others. Dammit."
Cutler waited patiently until Aeslinger had finished fussing with his coffee cup.
"Yes. We're flying in Tennison tomorrow. He'll be taking the personnel you were scheduled to see. You, on the other hand, will get to concentrate on one individual."
"Oh?" Aeslinger perked up. This reeked of a challenge. "Who is it? He must be either a wreck, or very important to you."
Cutler folded his hands on his knees and smiled. It was not unlike seeing a shark bare its teeth.
"What apt characterizations, Dr. Aeslinger. Perhaps he's both. Regardless, you'll be meeting him in…" Cutler said and looked at his watch, "…approximately 44 minutes."
Daniel sighed. A challenge it might be, but it was also once again a change of plans. He wasn't good with changing plans; it meant actively working at staying alert, keeping his mind focused to deal with it. Even now he could feel his brain racing to recalculate how the day would go, like a car's navigation system frantically trying to get him back on the highway after he'd taken a detour through Weirdsville USA, famous for its three-headed cows and spontaneously combusting chick … He shook his head to clear it. Cutler was watching him with a faint air of amusement that instantly and firmly assigned him a bunk bed in Aeslinger's Camp Do Not Like.
"So, might I be allowed to know who I'm going to be evaluating then?" he ventured, trying to inject some sense of antagonism into his voice.
"But of course, Dr. Aeslinger. I'm sure that would be the very minimum courtesy you deserve."
There was an uncomfortable silence.
"And the winner is?" Daniel ventured, now actually annoyed.
"We'll call him Bill."
"So that's not his real name."
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me, Dr. Cutler. Someone's name does have some power, you know."
Cutler laughed. "I suppose it would to a psychologist. Bill will do for now, Dr. Aeslinger. Remember what happened to the cat."
"The cat? What cat? Am I missing something?"
"It would seem so. Curiosity killed the cat?"
"Oh. A proverb. Sorry. Sometimes these things go right over my head."
"Yes. Apparently." Cutler shook his head. "Well, I won't keep you any longer. I suppose you'll want to do some prep. You will find most of what you need to know in the e-mail you've just received."
"I don't have any new…"
A ping sounded from Aeslinger's mobile, indicating a new message.
"Break a leg, Daniel," Cutler said smugly and walked to the door. He stopped when Aeslinger called after him.
"You know, 'Dr. Cutler', if you're going to pretend you're on the Ethics Committee, please try to keep your pronouns straight."
Cutler turned back to Aeslinger.
"Sorry?"
"You said 'they' don't rule everything. I can't say I met a member of the O5 Council before, but I can say I don't really like the way you people do things."
"And what makes you assume I have anything to do with the Council and didn't just innocently use the wrong pronoun?" the parry came.
"No one on the Foundation's payroll could afford a Brioni suit unless they owned said payroll. Try blending in a little more next time. But then, with your latent narcissism, that's going to be hard, isn't it?"
"Touché, Dr. Aeslinger. You are as observant as they assured me you would be. Try to put that to good use, will you? You'd be doing us a favor."
He reached behind him for the door and nodded. Then he was gone.
Daniel Horatio Aeslinger desperately longed for a clean shirt. He also considered a dose of amnestics and a job as a small-town psychologist in Alaska. The bears were undoubtedly better company than his colleagues.


"You want me to go back into the field?"
"We need you to go back into the field. This is not a request. This is an order," the woman in the mint-green pantsuit said.
Dr. Alto Clef, (also known as Agent Ukelele (also known as The Father of Lies (also known as The Serpent (also known as The Smiling Man (also known as That Bastard))))) shook his head. "After the way you treated us last time? I think fucking not."
"We had no choice," the woman in the mint-green pantsuit said. "It was an emergency. We needed all your skills back then. We need them again now."
"Why? So I can ride herd on the next batch of schmucks you convince to do your dirty work? All to end up getting tossed out into the cold the moment that something goes wrong? That something being caused by the bullshit protocols under which you're going to make us operate, this hobbling our ability to do our fucking jobs? I refuse. You'll have to find someone else to be your hit man."
"I say again, this is not a request, this is an order," the woman in the mint-green pantsuit said. "Or have you forgotten the terms of our deal? Are you reneging?"
Clef did not reply.
"It's a dangerous world out there for a young woman. Especially one who has the kinds of challenges she does," she continued. "Very dangerous indeed."
The seconds ticked by. Clef unclenched his fists, trying to ignore the pain his fingernails had caused digging into the palms of his hands. "So it's come down to this, huh? You're going to use her as leverage against me?"
"If we must. We would prefer that you come back to work for us in a much more amicable fashion," the woman in the mint-green pantsuit said.
"It's been nine years. I've been behind a fucking desk most of that time. I don't know if I can do it again like I used to."
"It will all come back to you."
"No. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm nine years older," Clef said. "I'm not as fast or as strong or as tough as I used to be. I've got a bigger beer belly. My hands shake. My eyes are worse. If you want me to do this again, I'm going to need some help."
"We anticipated this. Draw up a list of candidates for your Task Force…"
"I only have one. Andrea Adams."
"Impossible," the woman in the mint-green pantsuit said.
"No, it's not."
"Adams is assigned to—"
"Adams has been assigned to desk duty because you're afraid of her. But if I'm going to do the job you're asking me to do, I need Adams. I know she's been requesting reassignment to Mobile Task Forces. I know you've been denying her requests. Either you give me Adams, or you find someone else to head your Task Force."
The seconds ticked by. "Your condition is agreed upon," the woman in the mint-green pantsuit said. "Andrea Adams will be reassigned to your task force, as requested."
"Then get the hell out of my way and let me get to work," Clef growled. "And send me a copy of the bastard's file as soon as possible."

Item #: SCP-████ (SCP number pending)
Object Class: Keter
Special Containment Procedures:
SCP-████ is to be contained in a standard Class-B Suite at Site-17. Until such time as a termination order can be carried out, containment procedures are to utilize the Appeasement Protocol. For this reason, all requests for alterations to furnishings are to be carried out at the first available opportunity.
Currently, alterations include:

One refrigerator, to be restocked daily with requested food and drinks. (Approved)
One television with XBoxOne video game console, online capabilities disabled. (Approved)
Various games for XBoxOne, including Watch_Dogs and Call of Duty: Advanced Warfare. (Approved)
Personal computer for entertainment purposes, including limited access to streaming video files uploaded to local non-internet enabled server (Approved, SCP-████ is to provide a weekly request sheet of desired movies).
Female companionship for the purposes of sexual activity (Pending)

Description:
Subject is a male of European descent between the ages of 19-24 with blond hair and blue eyes, approximately 160 cm tall, 82 kg in weight. Subject is extremely emotionally unstable, with a short temper, refusal to submit to authority, and tendency towards temper tantrums. As the subject's emotional instability directly correlates to the manifestation of his anomalous abilities, every effort is to be made to avoid provoking any emotional outbursts from the subject.
Subject is a Type 2 localized line-of-sight reality alterer. Mean range of effect is 20 meters, with a maximum detected range of 200 meters. Primary form of reality alteration is physical phenomena, including rapid dislocation of objects, distortion of local-space time, and telekinetic force effect.
Subject has limited control over their abilities, which correlate to incidents of high stress or emotional distress in the subject. Attempts to administer sedatives have proven unsuccessful to date. Due to the difficulties in containing the subject, O5 command has authorized use of the Appeasement Protocol for temporary containment, pending final termination.

"Adams."
"You motherfucker."
"Good to see you again too, Adams."
"I thought I told you three years ago that I never wanted to see you again, you loathsome fuck." Adams slid into the chair across from Clef's and put her kitten-heel black leather pumps on a stack of half-finished paperwork. "And yet, here I am. Care to explain this bullshit?"
"Your use of invective has improved dramatically," Clef said. "You never swore like this when you worked for me."
"That's because I was fucking terrified of you."
"You never asked for a transfer."
"I was damned if I was going to let you get the better of me."
"And you've done well since then. Moved up the ranks. Your rise has been meteoric. From Junior Administrative Assistant to Senior Special Agent in less than five years? No one else has ever been promoted that quickly in the history of the Foundation."
"No thanks to you. What do you want?"
"You've requested transfer to the Mobile Task Forces, but you haven't heard yet where you're going. You're wondering what's taking so long. What's taking so long is this."
Clef tossed a manila envelope onto the desk. Adams picked it up gingerly between thumb and forefinger.
"Oh, just open it, it won't bite."
"I'm never sure with you," Adams growled. But she opened the folder up and began to read.
It took her about half an hour to finish reading, and by the time she was done, her stomach felt like it was made of lead. "This is real?" she asked hoarsely.
"It is."
"This is…" Adams shook her head. "Clef, these stupid motherfuckers are reinstating the Omega-Seven project."
"Alpha-Niner now. 'Last Hope.' Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
Adams tossed the manila folder back into the desk. "Let me guess," she said. "They want me to be a part of it?"
"No, Adams. You're being assigned to a new Mobile Task Force. Tav Six Sixty Six."
"Tau 666?"
"No," Clef said. "Tav, with a 'V'. Hebrew alphabet, not Greek."
That didn't make any sense. "Mobile Task Forces don't use the Hebrew alphabet," Adams said.
"You've always been quick at noticing the obvious, Adams."
"Oh, fuck off, Doctor," Adams snapped.
"No. I'm serious. Noticing the obvious is a useful skill in this line of work. Now tell me something else obvious that no one would have noticed."
What the hell else was there? "A three-digit number?" Adams asked.
"Number of the Beast, my dear. Numerologically speaking, the number of Nero, the Roman Emperor who stood by and fiddled while Rome burned. The man whom the early Christians hated so much that they turned his name into that of the Devil itself. You see the symbolism?"
Adams rolled her eyes. "Stop with the 'Devil' bullshit. I don't buy it for a moment."
"I'm not the Devil, Adams. But we are Satans. Adversaries. Opposers. Our role is to oppose. To be the adversary that—"
"Our?"
"You see what I mean about noticing the obvious, Adams? Yes, our. I'm the commanding officer. You're my exec. And that's it. Tav-666 is an MTF of two."
The clock ticked on.
"And here's the part you're really going to love," Clef said. "Mobile Task Force Tav Triple Six is a black Task Force. We appear on no org charts. Except to the O5s, we don't exist. Our job is going to be to keep an eye on the O5's new toys."
Things became clear. Adams steepled her fingers. "We're the safety valve in case Alpha-Niner goes tits-up," she said.
Clef smiled. "Ah, Adams. I knew I liked you for a reason."

Addendum: Per the Clef Protocol, SCP-████ is to be terminated at the earliest possible opportunity. Senior Agent Andrea Adams will carry out the termination.

"So what now?"
"Now, Adams? You prove you can do the job. Read this."
Clef handed her a black folder marked SCP NUMBER PENDING. He poured himself a drink from the water cooler while Adams read. He knew that she was done by the annoyed scoffing noise she made. "I think I've read this story before," she said.
"You see it too? Exactly the same flavor profile as the first one they asked me to take down. Phase 4 Reality Bender. Limited power, limited control. Emotional trigger. Appeasement-based containment." Clef grinned. "Almost as if they were setting this up as a test case."
Adams drummed her steepled fingertips against each other. "You think they did?"
"You think O5s wouldn't?"
Adams exhaled deeply. "People have died thanks to this Skip," she said.
"That they have."
Something about Clef's voice made something inside her brain go click. "You don't trust the O5s," she said accusingly.
"I know them, Adams," Clef said. "They don't see people. They see lives. They see numbers. They make all their decisions based on the cold calculus of logic. Maybe that's the only way that you can run an organization like ours. But it means that we can't trust them to help us. We're not just expendable, we're disposable." He dropped the empty paper cup into his trash can.
"Sounds like the thinking of a certain motherfucker I know."
"But not your thinking. That's why I need you—"
"Stuff it, Clef." Adams got to her feet, picking up both folders from Clef's desk. "You'll have my equipment request by tomorrow morning."

Equipment request re: Termination of Subject Alpha (SCP-████)

Staging area located no further than ten meters from the entrance of the containment facility.
Access to SCP-408, coordinated by Special Liaison Zyn Kiryu.
Suppressed "Mk-217" rifle (Accurized AR-15 variant)

Please see also preparations to be made for placement of demolitions charges on and around SCP-████ containment facility, as prepared by MTF-Psi-7 ("Home Improvement") for immediate destruction by remote trigger.
Signed,
Senior Special Agent Andrea S. Adams
██/██/████

I see you're sampling my beats. Equipment request approved ██/██/████. Good hunting, Adams.
Assistant Director Alto Clef
Department of Training and Development.

He was sitting on his couch, pressing "X" to pay respects, when the door to his apartment opened and a naked Scarlett Johansson walked in.
"Hey there, big boy," she said, in a seductive, sultry voice.
He was still staring at her tits when Adams shot him between the eyes.

"… what the hell was that, Adams?"
"That, Dr. Clef, was a successful termination." Adams smiled as she looked up at the ceiling of Clef's office, leaning back in the ratty office chair.
"You got Kiryu to make a naked Scarlett Johannson illusion and shot the target through it. What the hell made you think that was a good idea?"
Adams sat up straight, leaned her elbows on Clef's desk. "I checked the kid's Netflix history," she said. "More accurately, I looked at the files he's requesting from the central entertainment server."
It wasn't often that Dr. Alto Clef looked lost for words.
"Iron Man 2. The Avengers. Captain America 2," Adams went on. "At first I thought he was just a Marvel fan, but then I noticed he's also been watching Lucy and Under The Skin. It was the last movie that tipped me off." She smiled grimly. "Especially because he only ever watches a few minutes of that one."
Clef sighed, rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "All right," he conceded, "so you used a naked illusion of a movie star to distract him. Can we talk about your kill method? Completely insufficient!"
"Only if you can't hit the broad side of a barn like you. Besides, I had the entire area rigged with explosives in case I missed the shot."
"I know. If you had to use those, you would have killed yourself and everyone else in the area."
"That's why I didn't miss." Adams smiled triumphantly. "Admit it, Doctor Clef. You're just jealous that I've accomplished something you never could."
"Which is?"
"I decommissioned a Skip… and stayed within my budget."
Clef and Adams locked eyes. Clef's smile widened. "Touché, Adams," he said softly.
The clock ticked on.
"Well," Clef said brightly. "The Skip is dead. Traditionally, this is when we go out and I buy you a beer."
"Can't." Adams got out of the chair and picked up her sports coat. "Got a date."
Clef raised his eyebrow. "Really? Heh. What's his name?"
"Cindy."
Clef laughed: a short, mirthless, barking laugh. "You're full of surprises, Adams."
"The Great Doctor Clef, caught off-guard. This has been a good day."

It's a universal truth that the paperwork always takes ten times longer than the actual mission.
Dr. Clef reflected on this fact as he finished typing up the expense report for Adams' first decommission. In terms of equipment, she had indeed stayed far under budget. The irritating thing, however, was making sure that the proper departments got billed for their time and labor.
He clicked over to the first tab, the one where he would fill out the information for the Task Force that had carried out the mission. Tav-666 was off the books, but he did need to put something down, so that the system would accept the expense report. A dummy Task Force he could use to launder the funds to run Tav-666.
Clef grinned as he began to type.

On Monday, Senior Special Agent Adams walked into her office to find a slip of paper on her desk.

EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY, you are reassigned to Mobile Task Force Lambda 2: "Dr. Clef's Bisexual Assassination Squad."
Team Leadership: Dr. A. Clef (Commanding Officer), Senior Agent A. Adams (Executive Officer).
Team Membership: N. Romanoff, L. Uci, S. Iphone, K. Foster, L. Epidermis.
Assignment: "To Kill Bad Guys Using Images of Beautiful Naked Women And Other Means."

Adams felt a vein in her temple start to throb.


The small briefing room was intended to seat twenty people. Now, it held maybe sixty.
Each and every one of the people crammed into the room were from the highest echelons of the Foundation. At least one of them was a member of O5 Command, though only one of them knew which. They were watching the recordings and analysis of the recent Site-17 security breach. Breakdowns. Analysis.
Mostly, they were watching the footage of SCP-105.
Just outside the doorway, a smaller group of five people watched the activity in the briefing room. The first was in heels, and seemed rapt by the presentation. The second wore a hat, and a glum expression. The third wore a dark suit and looked serious, accentuated by a somewhat military air. The fourth wore spectacles. The fifth wore a nice pair of gloves: Cordovan leather.
These five were not members of O5 Command. An unromantic way of putting it would be that they belonged to O5's secretarial pool. Everything about them was classified: their histories, their positions, their roles, their names, even their genders. They were close enough to the top to have power, but still expendable enough to be useful.
"You see 'em," Heels said. "They're thinking it too."
"I can't believe we're actually considering this," Hat said.
"She hasn't been able to practice her abilities for the last ten years," Suit said. "Since Omega-7."
"Nine years," Heels said, watching the recording on the briefing room's projector.
"Still," Suit said.
"These aren't her anomalous abilities," Spectacles said. "Just her arms training."
"Still," Suit echoed. "The way she handles the gun jamming." Suit shook their head in admiration. "Tap, rack, bang, without hesitation. That's extraordinary retention."
"Why is this idea so damn appealing?" Hat asked. "It was a simple containment breach. Why does anyone care about this single SCP?"
"You know why," Heels said. "Because she represents Omega-7 as much as Able. We wrote off Able. We wrote off Iris. Maybe we didn't need to write off both."
"That's not enough," Hat said.
Gloves smiled. "Because some people in the Foundation never stopped wanting to play with superheroes."
"It's not just that either," Heels said. "We all know that the Council takes it as read that we need to make further use of anomalous assets. Amnestic use alone has ramped up massively in the past few years. And we wouldn't still exist without the use of Scranton reality anchors."
"Those are anomalous largely for technical reasons," Hat said. "105, and anomalies like her, are things that shouldn't even exist. Even if that didn't matter, using sapient anomalies as weapons is always a bad idea."
"It might be," Heels said. "But just look at her. She took down five hostiles and helped shut down a breach. You've seen her psych profile: she's absolutely loyal. And with her abilities — if we allowed her to develop them again — her potential is —"
"Potential?" Hat asked. "What you're proposing is to take an SCP — one of our safest humanoids, to boot — and make it much more dangerous. And that's just for starters. Which other SCPs are we going to include in this project? Are we going to jump straight to running 076 again? How many Sites do you think we'll lose this time?"
"You know we're smarter than that now," Heels said.
"Are we? Why is this necessary?"
"You've seen the archives, same as me," Heels said. "Back when Omega-7 existed, how many SCP objects had the Foundation archived? How many have we archived since then? How many have we archived in the past year alone?"
They all knew the answer.
"That doesn't make this the right response," Hat said. "Not what we're discussing. Not an anomalous task force."
"We're at our limits. We can't just passively contain anymore. You've seen all the reports I have. All the new Thaumiels we've been forced to create? We need to go further. We need to make use of all our assets. We need to act now, or maybe we don't survive another nine years. And maybe the Earth doesn't, either."
"A task force doesn't solve that problem."
"Maybe not. Maybe not right away. But it's a start. It sends a message. Opens the door for other things."
"The cost will be too high. You should know that."
"I have some concerns as well," Suit said. "Project Resurrection will already suffer from comparisons to the Zero Incident and the Kondraki debacle. Omega-7 is one of the few projects imaginable that people might have a bigger problem with remembering than the destruction of Site-19."
"I understand that," Heels said. "But… just look."
Heels nodded at the group in the briefing. They were watching 105 take out the invaders again. An analyst was explaining why Team Iris had been shuttered. She was taking questions. People were asking questions. The queue for the microphone stretched into the hall.
"If we don't do this," Heels said, "someone else will, a few years down the line. And they will do it wrong."
"I have to admit I'm surprised at the response," Suit said. "I thought a lot of people considered 105 irrelevant after all this time. Without her camera, pretty much neutralized."
"Some did," Heels said. "Many don't."
"If I may?" Gloves spoke up for the second time. "Iris Thompson was second only to Able as Omega-7's most important asset. For good or for ill, everyone remembers Omega-7. It left a mark on our organization bigger than almost anything else since the Insurgency. We cannot enter into this lightly."
"Even if I agreed with this," Hat said, "it'll never be approved. A lot of people are going to react to this… poorly."
"Any change of significance makes people angry," Heels said.
"The difference is that this time they'll have grounds to complain," Hat said. "And even if… even if it were approved… she won't agree."
"105?" Heels asked. "She'll agree."
"Able killed the rest of Omega-7, remember? With her parents gone, her former life gone, her team on Omega-7 made up all the people she cared about in the world. And she watched them all die." They paused. "She was fifteen. Fifteen. She'll never forgive us for that, and she'll never agree to this."
"She will," Heels said.
"I won't be a part of this," Hat said. "If you want to do this, you know what to do. If you need advice, you know where to find me. But I can't sign on to what you're proposing here. Sorry."
Hat tipped their namesake and walked away. The rest stood in silence, watching the activity in the briefing room.
"What are you gonna call it?" Suit asked Heels. "The Mobile Task Force. Gonna revive Omega-7?"
"Not Omega-7," Heels said. "Too much baggage. We know we need to do this differently. We may as well start with the name."
"You want numerological significance," Gloves said. "Important for a project like this. Go with Alpha-9."
"So you're on board, then?"
"Hell no. This is a terrible idea. It's probably the worst idea I've ever heard from some otherwise smart people." Gloves smiled. "But it should be entertaining as hell. I wish you all luck."
The remainder of the group watched Gloves disappear down the hallway.
"How about you two?" Heels asked Suit and Spectacles.
Suit nodded. "I'm convinced for now."
"I'm on board," Spectacles said. "My reservations aside, I can't deny that this is a natural fit for the Resurrection Project. I know a couple high-placed potential allies, people who would… jump… at this kind of opportunity. We can do it right this time. We gain nothing if we don't try. We can keep enough control this time that there need be no unnecessary loss of life or damage to the Foundation. If it turns out badly for us, then so be it. At least then we'll know."
"Reopening Pandora's Box, then," Heels said. "I suppose in that myth, the box could never be closed again anyway."
"Not Pandora's Box," Suit said. "Let's call it what it is."
"And what's that?"
"What was left over when Pandora's Box was opened," Suit said. "Last Hope."