Got a virus you just can't bust? Is malware holding you or your personal information for ransom? Can't find information on this dubious process anywhere? Sperling Computer Protection Services: We'll Make It Work!™

3 March 2015
Not a week before Agent Kildare's transfer to Site-85-6, or 'Site Arse End' in casual company, there was speculation around 85-2 that an O5 had fallen victim to the malware known as Drive Doctor. DD and its mutant, many-armed offspring were harmless—annoying, but harmless—if the victim happened to be using a CRT monitor upon accessing the injection site.
Thus far, only the Foundation had noticed this quality.
Those at Site-85 owed this explanation to a memo from on high announcing that every Foundation flatscreen monitor was to be replaced with a CRT one. Effective immediately, it said.
Kildare's new charity shop monitor was yellow with cigarette smoke and smelled like a burning Furby. A discolored purple spot curled from the bottom of the screen like a tentacle, probably where a stupid kid had waved a magnet. The thing made him feel like a 90s hacker. Further, he was in the process of remote-controlling a client's computer, which made him feel like an expert 90s hacker.
"Okay, ma'am," said Kildare. "I've got good news and bad news."
The lady sighed. "Let's get the bad news over with."
"Your problem is Drive Doctor, which is sort of the common cold of malware. Too varied to make a good vaccine, too widespread to really protect yourself from."
"So there is no cure?"
"That's the good news. The program isn't behaving as it usually does, which is to lock down your files until you pay a large ransom. That means I can simply get rid of the thing. As part of our partnership with Microsoft, you will not be charged."
That always cheered them up.
He cleaned out the registry and installed a malware scanner. When it was all over, Kildare leaned back and addressed Dr. Mint, the only other person in the back office.
"Shame the Reaperlike isn't done, ah?" said Kildare. "I could've sneaked it into the old lady's PC just now."
"It'd be useless within the week." Mint rose and put on his jacket. "We've got a house call, if you're finished."
"What's the issue?"
"Impolite malware."
That could be anything, Kildare thought, but he held his tongue and followed Mint from the office.

The client, a Mr. Lisbourne, lived some miles inland. He was a little wisp of a pensioner with a little wisp of white hair and a tropical-print shirt. After a cursory inspection of their Sperling name-tags, he let them in and showed them the closet in which he'd stowed his PC.
"Huh," said Kildare, stooping. "What made you do that?"
"The bad spelling, mostly," said Mr. Lisbourne.
Mint and Kildare exchanged glances. They took the tower into the study, put some power to it, and disconnected the modem. Startup went as normally as one would expect for Windows 7.
Kildare said, "Show us where you encounter the problem."
Mr. Lisbourne opened a Word document: ThE BaDaSs ReVoLuSiOn.doc.
"That wasn't the name of it before," he said.

From 1788 to 1793, a writer and physician named %^)*DIRK SHADOWBLADE BUT EVRYONE CALLS HIM CAIN@$^#

Mint yanked the power cord out of the strip. With a tiny electronic sound, the monitor went black.
"My nephew always made a fuss about proper shutdowns," said Mr. Lisbourne.
"As well he should," said Kildare. "But that particular malware is—"
"—time-sensitive," said Mint, "self-replicating, and impossible to clean. You shall have to get a new PC."
"Oh dear."
"But we can save some of your things," Kildare said quickly. "We'll need to take it with us for isolation. It can get in everything if you're not very careful."
Mr. Lisbourne offered them tea, which regulations forbade them from accepting, and signed all the necessary paperwork. Kildare carried the enfilthed PC to the van. He stooped to wipe his hands on his socks.
Mint shut the doors and they left the neighborhood. The sun was low in the sky and positioned in just the right spot to blind Kildare.
"Sir, 732's containment procedures," he said. "Did they say anything about handlin' infected things with gloves, or tongs, or…"
"What would that change?" said Mint.
"I just don't want to get fanfiction all inside my mobile."
"If it worked that way, I think every Foundation data monkey would wear gloves."
Kildare bent down to wipe his fingertips on his socks again. "Maybe if that didn't cut into the budget too much, ah?"
"Tell you what. If you can come up with a way to reliably contain an instance of SCP-732, our entire department will get more funding than we know what to do with. Then you can buy your own gloves."
"Then I'll get 'promoted' again, right? Transfer to Site Even More Arse End?"
Mint turned a corner. "That's the spirit."

6 March 2015
There was a knock at the cupboard door.
"Come out of there," said Dr. Mint.
"No," said Kildare. "Sir."
"You'll need to explain yourself whether you're in a cupboard or not, and I'm sure you'd be more comfortable in a chair."
Kildare hesitated. He pushed open the door and climbed into the break room. All his pipes had gone very cold.
"They'll kill me," he said. "Agent Killed-are. Agent Kildead."
"Stop that."
Mint shunted Kildare into one of the chairs and went about fixing some tea. Neither said anything until a cup of watery Earl Grey and a tape recorder had made their way to the table.
"Okay." Mint sat across from him. "How did Drive Doctor get onto that PC?"
"I just don't fuckin' know, sir." Kildare looked at his hands. "Perhaps it's Drive Doctor that spreads through touch. Like warts. It shouldn't even be possible because we only use CRTs! C'mere, look—"
Kildare went into the office and sat in front of Lisbourne's PC. Mint trailed after him and set the tape recorder on the desk.

Your files have been crypted with #&@STRONGEST cryption software IN THE UNIVERSE$(*. Pay 2 bitchcoin for private decryption key within 120 hours or your files will be crypted ^*+for always and eternity huehuehue&!@. Follow instruction carefully !

"What the fuck is a bitchcoin?" said Kildare.
"Are Mr. Lisbourne's things safe?"
Kildare nodded at the external hard drive, sitting disconnected on the desk a couple feet away. "I haven't checked them to be sure."
"I'll do it." Mint took the drive and gestured to the monitor. "Take a photo of that and describe it for the audio log."
"Wait, wait. Sir. Are they—" He stood and leaned near Mint, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Will I be sacked for this?"
"Let me handle it."
Mint crossed the room to the row of guinea pig PCs. Kildare sat back down and pointed the recorder towards himself.
"I am currently looking at Drive Doctor's ransom screen," he said. "This is very certainly a CRT monitor. The screen reads, quote, 'your files have been crypted with strongest cryption software in the universe'…"


Special thanks to Clef, TheDeadlyMoose, TroyL, Decibelle, Light and all of the other resurrection authors who helped me with or reviewed this piece. It's the longest I've ever worked on a tale and I'm happy with how it turned out.
Edit: Was reminded by a recent interaction that while I'm pretty sure everyone got the Duke Till Dawn reference I stuck in here, I should mention that's where I got the "kiss your ass goodbye" section from for anyone who hadn't read that tale.

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

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The Ethics Committee isn't your enemy! Your site's liaison is there to help you do a better job. Those pesky containment procedures can seem impossible to perfect, but if you work with your liaisons, you can get them just right. If your liaison pays you a visit, give them your full attention. They're just there to help!
~ Page 234 of the Foundation Employee Handbook

Dr. Jeremiah Cimmerian sat in the back of a powder blue Lincoln Continental at the outer gate of Site-88. It wasn't a long drive from Mobile Regional Airport to Site-88, and Cimmerian had enjoyed the scenery. Cimmerian's driver, an elderly, quiet, and somber man with a barely detectable southern drawl, flashed identification to the guard, and they moved past the outer perimeter. Two other cars were ahead of them at the second checkpoint.
Cimmerian tried to get a closer look at the other two cars. "Kent, right?"
"Yes, sir," the driver answered.
"Busy day today?" Cimmerian closed his laptop.
"Probably more engineers out of 352," Kent said with a nod. "The regional director's been pushing us to upgrade our containment wings."
"Kate was on us about those upgrades for years. I'm surprised they're finally following through, honestly."
Kent turned around, seeming interested for the first time this entire trip. "You know the Regional Director?"
"I didn't actually meet her in person until that breach a few years back. Though the circumstances weren't exactly conducive for us to get acquainted. If it wasn't for that I'd just know her as a name on reports I filed."
Kent put his arm on the back of the front passenger seat. "You used to work here?"
"Yeah. Site Liaison for the Ethics Committee."
Kent laughed and turned back. For a minute, Cimmerian thought, he must've thought I was important.

You are not just scientists and you are not just agents. You are diplomats. The world is counting on you to not just contain threats, but to avoid taking actions that create new ones. There are many objects that will not or cannot care how morally or ethically you treat them. There are also many that will care. And we care.
Remedial Ethics: A Refresher, Page 2.

Cimmerian turned the doorknob leading to Director Maddox's office and nearly choked on the smell of cigar smoke. The photos on the bookshelves were significantly older than the ones on the desk. All of them were pictures of Maddox, at various stages of his life.
Maddox greeted him warmly. Cimmerian had heard these sorts of pleasantries before. Regular staff might not care, but site directors knew better than to piss off a member of the Ethics Committee. Everyone had skeletons.
Cimmerian just nodded along until Maddox got to the real question on his mind. "What brings you back to Site-88?"
"Honest-to-god ethics violations, believe it or not," Cimmerian said, pulling a file folder from his bag. "I'm here to investigate your Liaison's reports."
"Ahh. Yeah, she's been complaining about a lot of our work recently."
Cimmerian nodded. "Mostly stuff relating to the Alpha-Nine trials, right?"
Maddox stopped suddenly. "You're cleared for that?"
"Did you think the committee was just skipping the party?"
Maddox composed himself. "Sorry. Um. Ok. Your liaison…" Maddox paused for a moment as if remembering the name. "Jenkins. She's complaining about some of our work because she's not read up on Alpha-Nine. There's not much we can do about that right now, though."
"Even so, we can't just ignore the reports. That would be even more suspicious."
"So, you're just going to run around the site and make it look like you're checking up on things?"
"I'm focusing on 2913, so depending on how that goes I might be out of your hair before the end of the day."
"2913?" Maddox shifted in his seat.
Cimmerian pulled a folder from his bag and opened it. "I'd like to talk to you about the impact testing you ordered last month."

SCP-2913 is a severed right hand, formerly belonging to James Hallman (deceased), which is capable of independent movement. Approximately 5.1 centimeters of the radial bone and 4.6 centimeters of the ulna extend, uncovered by skin, behind the wrist joint. Despite the lack of a biological support system and obvious trauma associated with the terminating ends of the bones behind the wrist joint, SCP-2913 remains healthy.
SCP-2913 is capable of speech, hearing, sight, and smell. SCP-2913 has shown a moderate level of skill in complex problem solving. While SCP-2913 has been observed to move its fingers and thumb together in tandem during the act of "speaking", observation of SCP-2913 has revealed the auditory source of speech to be between the 1st and 2nd metacarpal bones even in the absence of motion.
~ SCP-2913's Documentation.

Doctor Cimmerian sighed. The records he'd read had prepared him for this… but this was exactly the kind of SCP object that made it difficult for him to do his job properly. Cimmerian wasn't a naturally emotional person, but he was human. Remaining objective was always a struggle.
Better get this over with now.
The inside of SCP-2913's containment chamber was grey and sterile. Cimmerian sat down at the desk on one side of the glass partition. SCP-2913 lay almost motionless on a table, facing a television. Cimmerian could tell the room hadn't been properly cleaned in a few days. He wrote that down in his notebook, then activated the microphone.
"Hello?"
The hand jumped and spoke. "Holy heck!" 2913 turned and moved its fingers and thumb in time with the words. "Who are you?"
"I'm Dr. Cimmerian."
"Well heya Cimmy. Can I call you Cimmy?"
Cimmerian paused for a moment. "Sure."
The hand walked on its fingers to get closer to the glass partition. "I never saw you before."
"I've never come down here before. Han, I think?" Cimmerian put the object's documentation on the desk in front of him.
"Haha. You're the first one to call me that. I was getting used to 2913."
"I can call you that instead if…" Cimmerian began.
"No! I like it. It's much more personal than the number."
"Ok. Han. I wanted to get your perspective on the tests they've been running on you."
Han recoiled slightly. "Maddox knows what he's doing. He's been with me since I first got here."
Cimmerian nodded. "I understand that. I'm just helping him out. The more you can tell me about the testing, the better I can help Maddox with his job."
"Well, tell him just because my bones heal quick doesn't mean it doesn't hurt when they break 'em."
Cimmerian started to answer when a short blast of noise blared over the intercom, followed by a voice. "Warning. This is not a drill. Please remain in your current locations until further notice. There has been an incursion in sector 4."
Han spoke up excitedly. "Are you about to go all John McClane on their asses?"
Cimmerian pulled out his phone. No bars. "They locked the door before they played that message. No escape."
"You're just going to wait it out?"
"Not much choice." Cimmerian set his phone down on the desk. "I'm safer in here than I would've been out there."
There was a pause from Han before it turned around and crawled towards its television remote. "You wanna watch Game of Thrones then? I can start it over from the beginning of the season if you want."
Cimmerian looked over at his phone. Still no signal. Shit.
"Maybe later," Cimmerian said. "Right now we need to talk about those tests."

I have here a copy of Dr. Kondraki's termination procedure proposal. Step one is his plan to use cat urine and a pistol loaded with silver bullets. Backup plans two, three, four, And five are listed as, and I quote, 'Wing It,' 'Make Something Up,' 'Cross That Bridge When I Come To It,' and 'Put My Head Between My Knees And Kiss My Ass Goodbye.'
~ Post-Incident Interview 083-CLEF-01

The questioning was routine. When it was over, Han had apologized if it was getting Maddox into any trouble. Cimmerian had laughed at that. Now though, with the hand back to watching television, Cimmerian was moving around the room awkwardly holding up his cellphone and hoping for a signal.
A distant rumbling shook the containment chamber and interrupted them both. Cimmerian looked around as the power blinked twice and then went out for good.
For a brief moment there was complete silence. Then the backup systems kicked on. Red emergency lights illuminated the room, and the ventilation system began to move air again.
During that brief silence, Cimmerian thought he could hear something outside the door. He put his ear up to the wall and listened. He heard the faint sound of a declined access card.
"Shit." Cimmerian said, even though Han couldn't hear him anymore.
Cimmerian dragged the desk to the left wall before flipping it over on its side. The intercom clattered to the floor. Cimmerian pulled the table closer to the wall, and then laid down beside it.
Outside, a knocking started, and quickly became louder. Cimmerian closed his eyes, covered his ears, and took a small breath. He heard the metal door come off its hinges a moment later and slam to the ground. Cimmerian opened his mouth and breathed out slowly. The men outside threw an object into the middle of the room.
The world went white, and then very black.

14:45:01 Second group of hostiles (designated "Dasher") breaches 2913's containment cell. A flash bang is deployed into the breached room.
14:45:13 Dasher-1 and 4 enter 2913's cell while Dasher-2, 3, and 5 remain outside.
14:46:34 Dasher-1 and 4 leave 2913's cell with 2913 in a cloth bag carried by Dasher-4. Remains of this bag later indicate it to be a Kevlar weave.
14:46:39 Dasher receives a radio signal from Prancer (first group of hostiles) requesting assistance at 2343's containment cell. (Please see incident report 1430 for more information on LMTF 352 Dalet's neutralization of "Prancer".)
14:47:05 Dasher proceeds 13 meters before 2913 escapes its confinement.
14:47:06 2913 exits bag, brushing Dasher-4's belt as it falls to the floor.
14:47:10 A fragmentation grenade detonates on Dasher-4's belt (It has been determined that this was an accidental detonation relating to 2913's fall.), killing Dasher-1,2,4, and 5. Dasher-3 is mortally injured and will die before security teams arrive. 2913 is thrown away from explosion.
14:47:25 2913 recovers and returns to its cell.
Note: Request by 2913 to keep grenade pin acquired from Dasher-4 as a "souvenir" is currently under consideration.
~ Video Surveillance: Incursion Log 88-04

There would be debriefings, investigations, and reports to file, but Cimmerian headed back to Site-17 the next morning. They'd have to catch up to him there.
Kent, for his part, seemed equal parts reverent and curious. He hadn't asked any questions yet, but Cimmerian could tell they were on the tip of the man's tongue.
"You seem like you've got something on your mind, Kent."
"Yes sir." Kent paused, before looking at Cimmerian in the rear view mirror. "I heard from a friend that you took out half the incursion on your own with a single grenade."
Cimmerian blinked twice and chuckled. This, he thought, this is how those kinds of stories start.
Kent snapped his eyes back to the road.
"Well," Cimmerian began, "I can't talk about it, but that seems incredibly unlikely."
"Yes, sir," Kent answered.
Cimmerian was sure he could've gotten away with telling the truth, but what was the truth anyway?
That the other half of the hostiles had died trying to get into 2343's cell? Why did the teams go straight for Alpha-Nine candidates? What was 2343 doing on the lists in the first place? It was basically a god, there's no way anyone would have approved it for Alpha-Nine.
There were leaks and subterfuge and danger around every corner. This was exactly the kind of shit he'd been avoiding during his entire tenure with the Foundation.
"Hey Kent," Cimmerian said, sighing. "Could you turn the radio on?"
Kent nodded and pressed the power button.
Norman Greenbaum. Cimmerian thought as he hummed along, Prepare yourself, you know it's a must. You gotta have a friend in Jesus.

Memories can be fuzzy, so if there are important details, don't wait to be asked, write them down!

If you or one of your friends had direct contact with either an escaped SCP object or a hostile intruder, report it to your superior!

Once a containment breach ends, follow the four R's. Re-contain, reclaim, remember and record! After the site has been cleaned up, your debriefings will help prevent future breaches.

Sometimes problems are systemic and recurring. Breaches rarely happen just once.

~ Recovering from a Containment Breach; The Four R's and More Tips.

Dr. Light's temporary office was spartan, but she… she was anything but laconic. Cimmerian knew he was going to end up here. He'd met her when he was first assigned to the project, and she'd seemed pleasant enough. A bit secretive, but she used to be a site director. That came with the territory.
After the breach at Site-88, he'd been stuck trying to explain the events to five different people before this meeting. It wasn't like Light could even fire him, he wasn't in her chain of command. The Ethics Committee, though, would only take so much of a personality conflict before it tried someone else who was equally good at the job, but more agreeable. Cimmerian had seen it happen to others. Hell, he'd been the replacement before.
"Why do you think you're here?" she asked pointedly.
"Well. I get the feeling you're going to tell me I won't be flying commercial anymore."
"Funny. Yes, that's definitely true. But what I really need to know is what you didn't tell security about the breach."
Ahh, Cimmerian thought. That's what this is about.
Cimmerian crossed his legs and laughed. "2343."
"When did you figure it out?"
"After the first debriefing. Prancer walked into a kill-box dressed up as a containment cell. What I want to know is how you got that past Maddox."
"Maddox still believes that 2343 is an Alpha-Nine candidate. The engineering teams have been making some modifications to his site that he's not been briefed on yet."
"You figure he's a mole?"
"Not until the breach hit 2343. That was a false flag we planted in his lists. We've modified everyone's now, but until the morning after the breach he was the only one who thought 2343 was a possible candidate."
"Smart. Why isn't he in a cell right now?"
"We want to see what he does next. I'd love to say 'better the devil you know' but we think he's worse than a mole. He's a pawn."
Cimmerian blinked. "Wait. Who uses Site Directors as pawns?"
Light stopped and smiled.
An O5. It had to be. An O5 had executed or at least helped plan a breach of a Foundation site. Cimmerian's eyes widened slightly. "No. There's no way."
"I think you'll find it's becoming increasingly likely. There's a reason the council hasn't signed off on our little project yet. The debate is fierce. Fierce enough that someone might wanna persuade folks that this is a bad idea with a little outside help."
"Shit."
"Yeah. Shit. So you can imagine then that no, you won't be flying commercial anymore. We're going to bring the more promising candidates to a central facility. A single facility will be easier to secure and easier to hide."
"Sounds more like a single point of failure. There's no location that'll stay secure for very long."
"A central facility," Light said, shaking her head. "Not a location."
Cimmerian stopped and cocked his head to the side. "How are you going to hide a whole facility?"
Light smirked, but didn't answer. Cimmerian knew that was as much information as he was going to get today.
"Whatever you're planning, you're going to need staff that are above reproach. A janitor speaks out of turn and this is over before it gets started."
"That part's easy. Everyone's coming out of the woodwork for this."
"Ahh. Well," Cimmerian said with a nod. "I do enjoy meeting new people."
Both of them laughed, but only for a moment.

« That'll Do Pig. That'll Do.| Resurrection | Come Back Kid »


Let me take you through sands of crystal,
and down that silver river.
And I shall show you,
we are all beings of His creation.

The artist has long seen the Flow, but he has never seen something like this.
The Flow, the source of all creations as he knows it, has long been guiding him through his artistic path. He knows when to let the Flow move from his mind to the tip of his brush, from the void looming with white mists to the very reality he resides. He knows how to redirect it, how to use its pushing force to make his creations real, or even surreal. And he thought that it was the only beautiful thing in the world.
He might have made a bad decision when he decided to enter that place, to hear the priest's preaching and learn about that alien belief. A Church of clockwork and metal, so he had heard. He only intended to use that as a possible way to let out the Flow, to open his eyes to and to start something different. After all, he had always liked steampunk pieces, and the things this Church offered seemed no different.
But now, the artist stands in the river, and everything is different. The white mists are still there, but are now mixed with hot, surging steam. The riverbed he stands on, once of emptiness and void, is now made of cogwork and metal. Shining and beautiful, from beneath, unlike anything he has ever seen.
He blinks, and feels as if his senses have cheated him, but as he opens his eyes again, the scene shifts and he sees something even more unbelievable.
He is still standing in the Flow, but he also now sees outside of it. He witnesses a majestic clockwork machine, all gears grind and fall perfectly into lockstep. He sees the Flow too, no longer floating in the void as he long knew, but streaming through tunnels in the gigantic machinery, twisting and turning as the machine moves. And his eyes can hardly capture its movement. The hot steam are rising from its surface, as its brass structures boil the river. Cogs hum from beneath.
For a moment there, he is shocked and lost, dazzled by the scene he had witnessed. But another moment, as he blinks again, he's back at the river, with the Flow rushing endlessly down his knee. The mental riverbed, however, is still there, but shines even more, and shakes slightly. He bends down to reach for the water.
But there is no water.
In the mental riverbed crafted by the grand machine, a river of mercury flows endlessly through hot burning steam.

The artist begins his creation with the new scene he saw lingering in his mind and appearing in his dreams. He throws out the brushes and paint, and gathers cogs and pipes and wires. He feels a clock ticking inside.
He works as he always works, but not with paper and pencil, but with brass, iron and silver. He pieces together the parts in an artistic fashion, one gear fitting perfectly into another as the Flow whispers and the Machine hums. He has never learnt how to construct clockwork, but he works as if he was born with the skill.
As his hand runs against the shining surface, he sees once again the silver river, now rushing and surging and falling through the carved lines in brass machine. He speaks soft words with his work, and wishes that the grand machine would hear, and one day talk to him.
Yet he fails.
In an attempt to mimic a god, he has only created monsters. The humming machines never fit quite right. The clockwork doesn't tick or it sings the songs wrong; the structure collapses or only moves clumsily. He aims to capture the beauty of the clockwork in his dreams like masters of Renaissance had painted saints and gods, only to find his own shallow skills stand in his path.

The artist stops creating. He puts aside his tools and materials, and locks himself in the room alone, with his mind wandering the vast silver river. He wanders there for days, until the uneven edges of the riverbed penetrate his skin, until the humming sound echoes in his ear, until the mercury that flows in the river runs down his veins.
And then he sees.
The artist takes a deep breath, and dives into the silver river. The riverbed is no longer there, and the river feels like an ocean. The Machine hums as if an orchestra.

It should hurt as the metal pieces pierce through his skin into his flesh, but he feels none of it. The Flow pushes him as he picks up the gears almost mechanically, and puts them inside of him.
It is his one piece, his final piece. His blood has tainted the floor, yet he sees only the mercury flow; his flesh has been cut open and scattered in pieces, yet he sees only the clockwork movement.
As he puts in the final one gear, there's a small clicking sound, and he knows this is the moment. He stands straight, and feels the clockwork move smoothly inside, as if it were natural. The Flow rushes even faster, the Machine sings even louder, and he feels that he is singing with Him.
“It is done.” The artist lets out a final breath. “I am art of His creation.”

| HUB |


Before
"I'm going to see the other members of the Council," Ten said. "I want you to come with me."
Salt had known this was coming, since the visit to the oracles. Her first reaction was guarded excitement. As was typical for a Factotum, she'd only met a few Council members. Even working so close to the Council, you never forgot how larger-than-life they really were. Who wouldn't be curious?
Then she wondered why Ten would do that. Some Council members took associates everywhere, but Ten was a loner.
And the vote on Alpha-9 was imminent.
She expected to die, Salt realized. Ten, the Archivist, the keeper of the ends of the world, had always been fatalistic. This was a parting gesture.

Two
"I counseled waiting." Two's tone was gentle.
They'd met Two in the vast garden that housed SCP-006. Here at the spring's source, the foliage grew dense and rich and alien. There were things that lived here and nowhere else, primordial refugees from a time that no longer existed.
Two was an old, grandmotherly white woman. One of the oldest members of the O5 Council, maybe one of the original twelve. She wore casual clothing and a grey hand-knit shawl decorated with pink flowers and a straw hat that mostly hid the scars on her face.
Salt envied her. As Ten's decoy, she moved like Ten, smiled like Ten, and dressed in Ten's fitted, confining suits. Salt wondered if Two employed decoys from the Factotum, too — a small herd of kindly grandmothers with identical flowery shawls.
"I believe the vote will pass," Two said. "It's only a matter of how. You have Four, Nine, me, and yourself. Your trouble will be getting above four votes."
"Seven supports the project," Ten said.
"Of course. Seven never regretted the old days. But she is a tactician to the core." Two paused. "If Seven votes against this project, then you should expect an attempt on your life in the next several days."
Ten looked startled. "She wouldn't—"
"Of course not," Two said. "Seven is a barometer. If she sides against you, it's because she knows something. Make sure you speak with her soon."

Three
One of Three's proxies came to see Ten, surrounded by agents of MTF Alpha-1.
Alpha-1, the Red Right Hand, was the Council's personal Task Force: part terrifying inquisitorial squad, and part Council's personal guard. Three didn't take much advantage of that, preferring other security methods, but lavished agents and resources on all their assistants.
Salt knew this proxy distantly: a well-dressed Japanese-American woman named Flint. Flint delivered Ten an envelope. It contained a flash drive adorned with a happy face sticker, which Ten pocketed without explanation, and a note on expensive stationery.
I'm sorry, but this isn't my fight. If you need anything else, feel free to ask.
—Three

Four
Four's message warned them that the meeting location was "a place where humans are not meant to tread." It turned out to be a Waffle House somewhere in the Midwest. The hour was late. Snow fell outside.
Salt watched the patrons as they waited. A woman wearing a trucker hat, hoop earrings, and tap shoes. An unthinkably massive man with greenish skin. A hunched man sitting six seats away. Salt looked away, then back, and he was five seats away.
Again, and three seats.
Salt was trained to evaluate detail quickly. The man's eyes didn't match. His clothes weren't fitted correctly. One of his nostrils was missing.
The other customers were the same — even from a distance, something was off. The only exception was the waitress, who watched them with a strange intensity.
"Ma'am?" Salt said.
"It's alright," Ten murmured.
"Hello." Salt looked up to see Four, smiling at her without a care in the world. "My apologies for keeping you waiting."
"It's no trouble," Ten replied.
Salt looked back at the hunched man. Six seats away.
The waitress eyed Four, visibly sighed, and turned away. Four looked much the same as he always did. His suit and shoes were pristine, barely touched by the snowfall. He didn't even seem cold. That was the thing about Four. All Council members occasionally seemed preternatural, but Four was preternatural.
Many people found Four irritating. Too mysterious. Even though he was unusually free with personal information. Salt knew that he was of Native Australian descent (by way of Toronto), that he was assigned female at birth, that he had once been an exceptional Foundation field agent, and that he liked to practice sleight of hand — badly. More than she knew even about Ten.
But Four would tell you nothing about his most remarkable trait: a clearly anomalous ability to walk vast distances in impossibly short time.
Salt understood. Four was like a vampire in a world where nobody knew anything at all about vampires. Why tell people about crosses, about garlic? All O5s were like that, Four only more so.
"What is this place?" Salt asked.
"This is a Waffle House at three in the morning." Four picked up a menu. "A place of wrongness and unnatural entities. But I repeat myself."
"I assume we aren't in danger?"
"Ma'am, we're always in danger," Four said. "This world's a dangerous place. If one place wears its danger more on its sleeve than another, well, at least everyone's following the same playbook, right?"
Salt looked at Ten. Ten looked neutral.
"This seems like SCP-1670," Salt said. "There should be a rule about having two of the same anomaly."
"I'll keep that in mind next time I talk to them."
"Who?"
"Mm."
"I asked you here to discuss your vote," Ten said.
"And why would that be?" Four looked surprised. "My opinion remains the same as always. I see no special reason to have any discomfort regarding the use of anomalies."
"Things could get ugly. I wondered if you wished to abstain."
The waitress brought them plates, though they hadn't ordered. Fried eggs for Ten. Eggs Benedict and coffee for Salt — exactly what she'd been considering. A pile of waffles drowned in syrup for Four.
Four dug in. "I appreciate your concern, but I am in no danger. I'm only sorry to say that I can do little to help you."
"I understand." Ten hesitated. "You know about the…"
"Possible assassination threat, yes." Four scoffed. "So wasteful. More fun with more players at the table, don't you think?"
"Only thirteen places," Ten said. "Each player can be replaced."
"That depends entirely on which table you're talking about." Four took another bite of waffle. "Still, you can be confident that you have my vote. And…" He smiled. "…that it will not be my knife in your back."

Five
They met Five at the Foundation's busiest facility that wasn't Site-19. Salt and Ten had to wade through a hive of activity to find the right office. Five was deep in discussion with an uncomfortable-looking portly gentleman.
"Come on in!" Five smiled widely under his salt-and-pepper mustache. He was wearing a black-and-yellow blackbird tie. Another blackbird perched atop his gray hat.
Everyone knew about those damn blackbirds.
Salt observed that this was, in fact, the portly gentleman's office. He seemed to be a secretary. Certainly not cleared for Council discussions.
"I thought you'd be alone," Ten said, in a tone that said no such thing. "I'll come back—"
"Oh no, this is fine." Five winked at the secretary. "What can I do for you?"
"I've come to ask you what your vote will be," Ten said.
"On Alpha-9?" Five shook his head. "Oh, no. God no. That should never be allowed to pass."
Salt's stomach sank. She'd expected Five to abstain. He didn't favor projects like this, but if he thought it sufficiently entertaining, he was usually willing to step aside. If this was his reaction…
"Is there something that could convince you otherwise?" Ten asked.
"Oh… probably not. If this passes, it will endanger everyone in the Foundation." Five slung an arm around the terrified secretary's shoulders. "In a year I could be saying 'I told you so' in the ruins of this very office, over this poor gentleman's corpse!"
"Right," Ten said icily.
"Then again," Five said, still smiling, "who knows? I've been wrong before. Maybe it'll work out. Or maybe the end of the world as we know it won't be so bad." His jollity fell away. "In seriousness, Ten, I'm sorry. But I won't vote for this."
Ten nodded. "Thank you for your time."
"You are more than welcome." Five turned back to the secretary. "Now, where were we?"
Salt and Ten let themselves out as the man struggled to come up with an answer.

Six
They met Six at a station filled with hundreds of people on hundreds of monitors. Here, walking back and forth, barking out orders, Six was at home.
Six was a tanned white man in a white suit with a white wolf's-headed cane and a white Stetson. American personnel called him "Cowboy." Non-Americans called him "The American."
Presently, he was overseeing the aftermath of a containment breach. A fire raged on one screen. A roiling pale mass flowed across another. A sea of red obscured a third.
"Pull the teams from Sector Seventeen and send them to Eight," Six said. "Seventeen's lost, I've seen what the tagliatelli can do. Get another squad to Sector Five: we can't afford a second alfredo flood."
Salt and Ten watched as Six directed his forces with easy mastery. When the breach looked like it was under control, he approached and greeted them. "You can speak freely here," Six said. "I trust everyone in this room."
"I got the breach alert on the way over," Ten said. "That was handled well."
Six chuckled. "Trying to butter me up?" He waved off her objection. "I'm kidding. I read the Alpha-9 report you sent. I'd have appreciated it a bit more if you'd sent it to me before you started the project."
"I apologize," Ten said. "I misread the situation. I didn't wish to make your job more difficult."
Six nodded. "Yours was not the only report sent to me in the last few days. I received several from Eight's office alone. Seems they don't approve of Alpha-9."
"Which did you find more convincing?"
"I found all the reports convincing," Six said. "I see a whole lot of upsides, and a whole lot of downsides. This could be a disaster waiting to happen."
"Yes," Ten said. "I believe that the benefits outweigh the risks."
"I appreciate that, but it's still more risk when we have enough to deal with already." Six pointed at the fires burning on the monitors. "The Insurgency's breached that damn pasta pot three times in the past year. They're mocking us, because we're vulnerable."
"I would respectfully suggest that this illustrates why we need Alpha-9," Ten said.
"Or maybe it just means we can't afford any new risks." Six paused. "If this is worth the risk, then find a way to prove it."

Seven
Seven was a fat South Asian woman who dressed like she'd blown up a thrift store. Unlike Six, she would never be confused with a movie star. But she inhabited her power like a second skin. She stood at the prow of a battleship, watching the horizon, mint-green scarf whipping in the wind.
"Recognize these?" she asked, gesturing to cannons mounted in huge turrets.
Salt did not. They were sleek, blue, chrome-patterned, like something out of neo-classical sci-fi.
"They're called L-Cannons," Seven said admiringly. "They fire anomalous lightning. Nonfatal, and doesn't disperse in water. They use a lot of water, so they're easiest to use on the ocean. We use them to subdue aquatic anomalies."
"Eldritch stun-guns," Salt said.
"Came from Project Zeus. Anomalous weaponry — lightning from heaven, right? Zeus seemed pretty promising until the Council got wind and shut it down."
"I'm seeing the parallel," Ten said wryly.
"They only made five of these babies. But we learned a lot. If they shut down Alpha-9, we'll have learned a lot too. And we can try again in another ten years."
"We might not have another ten years," Ten said.
"We're all but immortal. We've got time."
"What if we don't? What if the end is right around the corner?"
Seven waved her off. "You sound just like the last Ten. You remind me that there is such a thing as too much knowledge. All those ends of the world rattling around in your head. Look around us. What do you see?"
"The sea," Ten said. "The sun rising."
"You see the world," Seven said. "It's still here. Despite everything, we're still here."
They were silent for a while, the ocean breeze drifting around them.
"You've helped Project Resurrection more than anyone," Ten asked. "How do you plan to vote?"
Seven smiled. "I don't know."
The ship sailed on, into the sunrise.

Eight
They met Eight in a crowded office, hunched over in his chair, surrounded by his proxies. Salt felt the discomfort of their stares. She had advised Ten against coming here. Eight was never going to support Alpha-9.
Nine years ago, Eight had been the newest member of the Council, as Ten was now. Salt remembered him then, ambitious, full of energy. Among his first acts was approval of a plan which led to the destruction of Site-19. He had never recovered.
Now, Eight's proxies ran his office. They spoke for him here, too.
"I can't believe you would come here." This proxy was Pine, a by-the-book woman Eight had taken on nine years ago as damage control. "You know the way these things should be done. You chose to flout them."
Willow, rumored to have been narrowly passed over for a Council position, worked on Foundation infrastructure. "You're new," he told Ten. "A member of the Council can do anything they wish, but they shouldn't. You had no right to start a project like this. You should have come to the Council first."
"I don't know what the hell you and your staff were thinking." Dogwood, who spoke for Eight so much that many thought he was Eight. "There are plenty of projects on the Council's plate that are actually worthy. More manpower. Expanding existing Task Forces. Overhauling existing operations, not starting new ones. Fucking seriously." He glanced at Salt. "You're not stupid. Tell her."
Salt looked away. She was used to Ten commanding fear and respect; the attitude of Eight's staff disturbed her.
Ten looked at Eight. "What do you have to say?" she asked.
"We speak for Eight," Willow said. "You know this. We've—"
"Leave," Eight murmured.
Silence.
"Not Ten. The rest of you. Leave the room."
Willow looked astonished. "But—"
Eight clutched his chair's armrests. "Get out!"
Pine shook her head and left. Dogwood left calmly. Willow sat in his seat for a moment before rising, a picture of barely contained fury.
In a few moments, only Eight, Ten, and Salt remained in the office.
"They are right," Eight said, in a voice harsh with disuse. "Your project will fail. As it should be." He was silent for a moment. "It's wrong, what we do. Thirteen people, controlling the fate of the Foundation, the fate of all mankind… It's a cruel joke. We shouldn't even exist. None of us deserve to stay on this Council."
Eight looked up at Ten, his mouth drawn in a grim line. "But you'll go before I do."

Nine
Before, Nine had been Donna Whetu Taylor, Maori New Zealander, noted geologist. She landed on the Foundation's radar when she independently discovered the presence of anomalies. She'd been developing a unified theory of anomalies. It wasn't perfect, but it impressed the Council enough that she was put on a very unusual list.
The list to replace O5-9.
Nine took them to visit SCP-2697, the watershed of a creek in Nevada, which burned yearly with anomalous fire. Their helicopter landed in a cloud of gray ash, and Salt followed the Council members through the dust.
Nine seemed eager and embarrassed. "Besides our protections, which I can't study, this is only the second time I've come this close to an anomaly since joining the Council. The first was that Oracle."
Ten nodded. Salt watched curiously. Officially, no member of the Council was allowed to come into contact with any anomaly. In practice… so long as they didn't do it publicly, who could stop them? But, while the Council hadn't actually restricted her access, Nine was particularly kept apart.
They hiked through an aspen grove with barely charred leaves. If it weren't for the ash on the ground, no one could've guessed a wildfire burned through here only days ago.
Nine stopped to examine a rabbit. Like most of 2697's wildlife it seemed very interested in the interlopers. One of its legs was almost burned off, exposing white bone. Nine almost touched it, hesitated, and called over an agent to hold it for her.
"Remarkable," Nine breathed. "The leg is fully functional. Most of the fur doesn't even look burned." She stood up. "There are two anomalies here — the first exists to contain the second, something underneath us, dangerous to all life."
She held out her hand for the rabbit to sniff.
"These animals are agents of the paranatural world. They keep us safe, and are rewarded for it." She pointed at the rabbit's leg, where ash was causing flesh to grow over the exposed bone. "This place may be an anomaly, but it has a kinship with us. It secures, contains, and protects. Why don't we acknowledge that kinship?"
Ten was quiet.
"That's why I wanted to come here." Nine smiled into the breeze. "I wanted to see that we are not alone."
They visited a bar after, incognito. Nine drank like a fish. Ten matched her. Salt watched.
"I gotta admit I'm frustrated sometimes," Nine said. "You all are so damn cagey." She shook her head. "No one explained all this to me, you know. First I thought it was because I was so new. Then they added you, and you're…"
Ten looked at her glass. "I am one of them like you're not."
"At least you'll drink with me. The others… It's like you want to live up to your reputation of Omniscient Council of Possible Supervillains. I'm surprised we don't get cats to pet and mustaches to twirl."
"I did have a pet cat," Ten said. "I gave her up when I joined the Council."
Nine shook her head again. "Good god, if that's the kind of key personal information that you let slip when you get drunk…"
They were quiet for a moment.
"I'm sorry about your cat," Nine said.
"Think nothing of it," Ten said.
"So why am I different?" Nine asked.
Ten looked conflicted. "Ah, hell." She downed another shot. "If I'm not long for this Council, consider this my parting gift. The Council is afraid of you."
Nine furrowed her brow. "Why would they be… afraid?"
"Because . . we all think the same way. It's just what happens, when you rise through the Foundation. How you look at the universe is different from us. And how the universe looks at you." Ten looked at Salt. "Help me explain."
Salt was startled, but complied. "The Council knows you won't attack anyone, and you don't have a personal power base. It's about why they chose you to replace 963-2, not someone else."
"Oh?" Nine said.
"So much of the anomalous depends on perspective. All those self-made Type Blues in the Serpent's Hand and the GOC. Our more esoteric thought-based containment procedures. The entire anti-memetics department… The Council is afraid of losing your unique perspective. They're also afraid of what your perspective might do." Salt hesitated. "They think you're going to change everything, be wiped from existence, or some combination of both."
They were quiet for a long time. "Do I end the world?" Nine asked Ten.
"We all end the world," Ten said. "In some way or another."
"Do we save it?"
Ten stared into her empty glass. "Who knows?"

Ten
Ten ordered Salt to watch her as she slept that night. She woke several times, babbling odd things before falling asleep again. She seemed more than drunk: sick, maybe delirious. Salt had never seen her this way.
Salt kept targeted amnestic pills in a little cup next to her caffeine pills, in case Ten let something slip that she wasn't supposed to know. The audio-video feed would verify that later, but Salt hadn't passed all the Factotum's loyalty tests for nothing.
"They will send her to see the plague first… and then, who knows…"
"First Zero, and Adam, then Nine, and then if the pattern holds…"
"What if this isn't enough? Only thorns… for how long? If we can't find another chance…"
"The Black Queen must know… she closed the Way… all her little birds scattered… in the Library… if I could see that catalogue… Perhaps Four…"
"The first cracks are already here, and the dandelions…"
Eventually, Ten slept for a long while. Salt watched her in the dark. She deconstructed Ten's appearance, as she had many times before. That nose, the slight freckles, the curly hair, the slender hands…
It had been disturbing, back when they'd altered her to take Ten's appearance. They shared only certain baseline qualities: African descent, US origin, cisgender female. Everything else had been different. She'd been heavier and shorter than Ten, her skin had different undertones, her hair had been less kinky, her eyes a different shade of brown.
This was the face that had looked back at her in the mirror for nearing half a decade. This was her job, to be Ten's twin. If Ten was… removed, because of Alpha-9, would she be asked to keep this appearance, as a security feint? Would they revert her to the way she was before, replaced by a decoy compatible with the new Ten? Was that what she wanted?
The hours ticked by.
Ten woke again in the wee hours of the morning. She shot up from her bed like a bullet, eyes staring everywhere. Sweat poured down her face.
"If I die," she said. "If I die, you have to tell the next Ten to go to the Bloom. They have to find out what Cain and Able did, and why. There is a reason for all of this, and Cain knows. You must tell the next Ten to speak to Cain about the Bloom."
She sat back on the bed, panting, looking at the floor.
Salt recognized enough to know that she was not allowed to know what Ten was saying. Horrified, she reached for her amnestic pills.
Ten slapped them out of her hand.
"You will not forget!" She grabbed Salt by her collar. "You will remember! Promise me!"
"I promise," Salt said.
Ten stared at her, breathing hard. Then she released her, laid down, and returned to sleep.

Eleven
Eleven took the use of proxies further than other Council members — not even Eleven's Factotums knew which was the real Eleven. Perhaps it didn't matter.
Salt and Ten met with two maybe-proxies. "The Mailman" greeted them politely. Rumor claimed he was once an actual mailman. His Staff joked about him "going postal," but only joked. He oversaw the Class D pool. Every mass intake, every use of Protocol 12, every assessment for mind-wipe or termination.
"The Liar" sat on the edge of the Mailman's desk. Today, her skin was white as death. She wore a tight-fitted black suit with red pinstripes and a plunging neckline. The Liar held court over the Foundation's Department of Disinformation. Probably.
"Welcome!" Her stark makeup accentuated her intense stare and fierce grin. "We're sorry more of us couldn't make it! The Senator sends his regards."
"I appreciate that you asked for me," the Mailman said. "But as things stand… I wish both sides the best. You've seen so many other Council members already, I'm not sure what I can say that they haven't said better."
"So many other Council members, indeed!" The Liar shook her head. "How lucky for you, Salt. You must have learned so many juicy secrets… Would you like to learn another?"
"From you?" Salt smiled. "Why not?"
"I tell plenty of truths," the Liar said. "I expect you'll soon learn more exciting secrets. I'd like to upstage them in advance. So here is half of my secret. Maybe you've already guessed it, from what they call me." She leaned in close to Salt, and stage whispered. "I am the Devil."
"Alto Clef already pulled that one."
"But that was only half of the secret! Guess the other half."
Salt felt skeptical. "You're… also Alto Clef?"
The Liar laughed. "I like this one, Ten! It's so lonely down here… You should bring her around more often."
"Perhaps," Ten said.
The Liar looked suddenly serious. "My lovelies. I am indeed Alto Clef, and also, the Devil. If you tell, no one will ever believe you. Not even on this Council. That's why Seven felt she could approach me that way. Shameful. First making me put on that fat male body again, and then hanging my daughter over my head? So cruel." She shook her finger at them. "I hope you had nothing to do with that. But even if you did… I'll bear it, because I am loyal to this Foundation. Aren't you?"
"Of course."
"Don't mistake me," the Liar said. "The Devil could never run the Foundation. I am under God's thumb. Returned, however temporarily, to my former role. That of Accuser. Of Adversary. The others have split opinions. Left to them, Eleven would abstain from the vote… so it comes down to me." She sighed. "And I cannot support your project. I simply cannot."
"Understood," Ten said.
The Mailman pushed aside some of his stacked-up paperwork. "You're welcome here anytime, Ten, but…" He was trying hard not to look exasperated. "May I please have my office back?"

Twelve
They met with Agent Troy Lament in place of Twelve. Rain poured down overhead.
Lament wasn't a Factotum, but close. He was of that rare breed of Foundation agent usually assigned to projects that were both vital and possibly fatal. Invaluable, yet expendable.
Sometimes the projects were people. Gears. Everett Mann. And though he didn't know it, Lament was a Council project too. Another success: another who did not remember his real name or history, nor the family he'd left behind.
"I'm told you're not cleared to know about O5-12, ma'am," Lament said to Salt. "Please assume anything I say about them is disinformation. That sound good?"
"May I ask why Twelve sent you as a proxy?"
"Nope," Lament said.
Salt smiled. "Perhaps a personal question?"
"Depends what the question is."
"I heard you were offered the Commander position for MTF Alpha-9, before Sophia Light." Salt looked at Lament carefully. "And that you… declined?"
"If you don't already know, ma'am, I think I should go ahead and not answer that." Lament wiped rain out of his eyes.
"Then Twelve's verdict is unfavorable," Ten said.
"Sorry," Lament said. "They don't want to see us go back to Pandora's Box. They feel that using SCPs is the Insurgency's bailiwick. SCP task forces are just too far from the Foundation's actual mission."
"I understand," Ten said.
"One last thing…" Lament looked uncomfortable. "Twelve feels you are a valuable member of the Council… and you shouldn't let yourself go down like this. I'm heavily paraphrasing, here… They say you should consider apologizing, backing off, and living to fight another day."
Ten nodded. "Thank you for your time, Agent Lament. Please relay my thanks to O5-12."
"Yes, ma'am."
Thunder rumbled overhead. They headed for shelter. Ten looked contemplative, rain soaking her curls. Salt watched her and shivered.

Thirteen
Thirteen. Tamlin. A person said to be unstuck from space and time, able to see the future.
Thirteen's vote usually passed between Council members, used only as a tiebreaker. When Thirteen chose to vote personally, everyone took notice. It meant that the course of the Foundation was about to change.
Ten's hope was that Thirteen would consider this vote such a shift in course, and that Thirteen would favor her cause.
There were many paths to see Thirteen. Under Kilimanjaro, governed by wind and fog. Under Uluru, by permission of the Anangu. In the Marianas Trench, by submersible. And here, under the Olympus Mountains.
All led to an incandescent blue lake. In the lake was a half-submerged bronze castle, more gargantuan than any ever seen, a castle for giants.
Salt and Ten entered a rowboat at the shore. Ten whispered a soft verse in another language. The boat's empty seats filled with pale, shimmering phantoms.
The boat moved on towards the castle. Salt could see writing etched on the castle walls, between arterial tubes running with lake water. The writing swam when she tried to read it. She looked away, until the boat rode a reverse waterfall to the castle's landing.
Mammoth doors swung open. An inscription: None who die may leave.
This castle was not always mind-bending, she'd heard. But today it was in fine form. Rooms spun, melt, fused and turned. Salt was quickly unsure what was real. A shrine to a shadow called Old Aggie, here… a nest of squirrels with butterfly wings, there. Ten seemed to navigate the maze easily. Salt stumbled after.
They entered a room full of books, handless clocks, and a fireplace with ruby fire. Thirteen greeted them.
Most people saw Thirteen as a red-haired man of varying description. Sometimes, a woman. Disturbingly, Salt saw Thirteen as another mirror to her and Ten, except with vibrant red hair, and deep green eyes. She wore a labcoat, a turban, and a friendly, innocent smile.
Thirteen and Ten talked. Salt couldn't understand the words. She tried to focus on anything at all.
She picked up one of the books filling the shelves. A diary, filled with handwriting. She checked another book. Another. All different languages, same handwriting. She couldn't focus…
Afterwards, she remembered only one thing Thirteen had said.
"Oh, no." Thirteen had looked surprised. "I don't vote on the matter of Alpha-9. This time."

One
One, the Founder, was the hardest to see. Or maybe Ten had wanted more time to brace herself.
A mansion crowned the top of a hill, surrounded by orderly white labs and peaceful woods. One border was a sheer cliff. It reminded Salt of wealthy coastal homes with whitewater views worth millions. But One's mansion overlooked a bustling city — a view of the rest of humanity.
Salt and Ten were ushered into an impressive study. Maps and framed black-and-white photos adorned the walls.
A pale, well-dressed man entered. He reminded Salt of someone — she wasn't sure who.
He shook Salt's hand. "I am Aaron. You must be wondering if I am O5-1, or a decoy like you. I will say this… You have O5-1's regards. You have come to ask for One's vote?"
"Yes," Ten said.
Aaron opened an unlabeled amber bottle and poured glasses. "Cognac. A unique vintage. It doesn't technically exist on Earth any longer. Don't be shy — if I don't drink it with visitors, it can never be drunk."
Salt sipped from the glass. It tasted of honey, and something else, unidentifiable, alien.
Aaron watched her expression. "A memory of the Garden," he said.
They walked through a maze of bright labs, and boarded a glass elevator.
Aaron smiled. "I made that cognac sound spooky, didn't I? It wasn't mystical — just really good cognac. But it seemed anomalous, right?"
Salt nodded, embarrassed.
"It's all a matter of perspective. Is that a fairy, or a miniature flying humanoid? Is that a mind-bending eldritch horror, or an anomalous memetic pattern? Is that a dark primordial god, or an SCP with a multi-digit number?"
A bright white underground facility came into view. The walls and ceilings were also tempered glass. The facility hummed with activity. Researchers, agents, D-Class.
"Among other things," Aaron said, "this facility contains what I am about to show you. No, it's not SCP-001. Not nearly that interesting."
The elevator sank past the facility, then emerged again into a dark cavern.
The cavern was massive, dwarfing Thirteen's lake. As Salt stared, she found she could make out… faces. The cavern was half-filled with a gallery of statues. Too immense to have been constructed here, underground.
"I hate this place," Aaron said. "It's an ordinary SCP, classified for historical reasons. We completed research on it back in '85."
A ways into the cavern, a fire burned. Beyond the fire… Salt could make out a procession of massive shadows moving slowly through the deep dark.
"What are they?" Salt asked.
"It doesn't matter. We are the Foundation. We contain things like this. We don't dress them up. We don't give them power. I'd have paved this whole thing over long ago, if I had my way, and good riddance." He sighed.
They walked out to the fire. A small group formed a ring around it. The most unusual was a bearded man who sat on a carved stone throne.
"This is where we come to remember," someone said. "All the eras erased or unremembered, when all of humanity huddled around fires like this one." Firelight danced across her face. "Here, we remind ourselves what it is like to be afraid."
"We protect normalcy," another said. "We do not choose normalcy. Increasing our use of anomalies is a dangerous step. One that could lead us, like the Insurgency, down the path towards trying to become like God."
"What do you advise?" Ten asked.
The bearded man looked at Ten. "You know what's coming. I hope you do not regret what you have done, and what you mean to do. Do not drag us back into the dark."
They returned to the surface in silence.
"I can't tell you how One will vote," Aaron said. "But you've been heard." He shook Salt's hand. "Perhaps we will meet again."

After
The Council meeting was attended securely, members represented in shadows. Salt and other personal Factotum were allowed to observe.
The debate was quick. Salt grew frustrated, watching, as Ten said very little in defense of Alpha-9. Maybe she'd already given up.
The Council voted.

Support: Two, Four, Nine, Ten

Oppose: One, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Eleven, Twelve

Abstain: Three, Thirteen

Alpha-9 was over. All that buildup, Salt thought, just to end like this, a quiet deflation.
There would be assassins, now. If they were lucky, there would only be assassins.
"I have another matter to bring to the table," Eight said. "Two or Four have acted appropriately, but their allies have not. With regret… I propose the censure of O5-9 and O5-10."
Salt watched with horror. The Council wouldn't censure Nine, but Ten…
She looked at Eight's shadow and felt something close to loathing. He should have a little more sympathy, she thought. It was his head on the chopping block nine years ago.
But then, maybe that was why he didn't.
Ten finally spoke.
"This is not about me," she said. "It is not about repeating the old mistakes. We all know we have changed. At the root, this is about SCP-076-2. Its turning was… a betrayal that we will never forget.
"But Alpha-9 is not about SCP-076-2. It is about SCP-105. During the breach at Site-19 — when she encountered agents of the Coalition — her actions were remarkable. She went above and beyond the call of duty, as someone who that call of duty does not even officially apply to.
"She is, potentially, an ideal agent. She understands how we work. She is calm under fire. She is loyal. Cage her again, and she'll stay loyal.
"She is anomalous. Jack Bright resides in a soul jar with an SCP designation. Tilda Moose, a Type Blue, is the Director of Site-19. And we drink from the Fountain. What is more anomalous than eternal youth? SCP-105 is no different from one of us.
"Look how big this project became, so quickly. Frightening, or promising, none of us fully understand the ramifications here. I will not disavow this project. This is an idea whose time has come."
Silence.
The clock ticked on. Salt felt her heart beat in her chest, watching the screen, waiting for the silence to be broken.
At last, One sighed. "Very well," he said. "Until such time as we can prove the effectiveness or danger of Alpha-9, consider my vote changed to Abstain."
Silence rang.
Salt realized what had happened. What was happening—
"The vote remains four to six." Astonishment was in Eight's voice. "The motion still does not pass."
"Four to five," Six said. "I abstain. I hope you know what you're doing, Ten."
Seven sounded amused. "I confess, despite my ambivalence on its merits, I genuinely like the Alpha-9 project. I will change my vote to Support. I believe that is now… five to four, in favor."
"You bastards." Eight's voice shook with anger. "Anyone else? Anyone else wish to support this foolish dream?"
But it was a mistake. Salt could see that now. Eight had to see it too—
Eleven's vote switched silently from Oppose to Abstain.
After a moment, Five's vote switched to Abstain too.
Eight shook his head. When he spoke, the anger was gone from his voice. "My friends," he said, "I sincerely apologize. I look at these plans, and I see not the mistakes of others, but my own. I see Site-19 burning again. But… I see that my judgment has become compromised. I will trust you. I change my vote to Support. God help us all."
Salt stared at Eight's screen. The expression on Eight's shadow-face remained carefully neutral.
He'd realized it too, nearly too late. That the other Council members were never going to be convinced, but that they were going to let it happen anyway. They just wanted Ten to take the leap. They wanted her, when she ought to have backed off, to put everything on the line.
"Eh," Twelve's computerized voice said. "Both sides have fairly good arguments. But I still feel that Alpha-9 is too clearly dangerous for us to endorse, and I feel more strongly about that than I feel about punishing Eight's political error. I confirm my vote to Oppose."
"A respectable stance," One said.
The final vote stood: six to one.
"Consider carefully, Ten," One said. "If the consequences for this project are dire as we fear… if the Foundation comes crashing on our heads, it will come crashing on your head first."
The meeting closed. The shadows rose from their seats and disappeared into their respective darknesses.
Salt had a final thought as she and Ten left the Council chambers. If someone sent assassins… they wouldn't be sent for Ten. The opposition would target Alpha-9 directly.
But that was a worry for later. For now, Salt smiled.
Alpha-Niner was Go.


When the new man first arrived, we were frightened. He appeared out of thin air, a ghost marching into our world with silent footfalls. He was not the first person to enter town since Sandy, but he was the only one who terrified us.
Margie spotted him before the rest of us; stealthily, she snuck garden to garden, informing us of the interloper. We moved into position, and from bushes and trees, behind rusted cars and garbage cans, we watched to see what the new man would do.
He walked down the cracked and broken sidewalk of our town, staring at a small device he held in his hand. There was great purpose in his steps, and before too long the soft sound of boots on concrete could be heard. He was not a wraith, after all.
Dread became our companion as the new man reached Sandy's house. He knew exactly where to go. The device, perhaps? It did not matter. He had arrived. And he would knock. He rapped on the front door of the small ranch style home, and waited. The banality of a stranger knocking on a door was now the most interesting thing in the world, to us.
After a few moments, Sandy did answer the door. We listened intently, fearful children hiding in the dark, hoping this new man was not a monster from our collective closet. The conversation was quiet at first, but quickly became heated.
"-is YOUR doing! You. You. You! You did this!" The new man jabbed his finger into Sandy's chest, punctuating each use of the word "you". Sandy stood in the doorway, not budging, but the sadness in his face told us the new man was justified in his accusation.
Sandy had come to us many years ago, long after the Great Autumn had begun. He arrived as a demon to us at first, a troll covered in wet leaves, coughing and sputtering as he choked on bits of apple he could not rid from his mouth. We were not opposed to His will, but something about Sandy brought out feelings of pity from our clan. Behind the maple leaves stuck to his aging face there was a lost little boy, as frightened as any of us. Like the new man, Margie had been the first to see Sandy, and the first to help him. The memory of her gently pulling the leaves from his face and tattered clothing was still very fresh in our minds. Aidan had slapped Sandy's back to help eject the unwanted apple chunks from his throat. And we prayed. We all prayed to Him to spare Sandy, for we knew that he was only a child, like us.
Now Sandy looked exactly as he had the first day he came to us. The despair on his face and the trembling in his hands once again showed us the truth. For so long we pretended that he was no longer lost, convinced of his facade. Now, as he stared down at his own hands, no longer attempting to argue with the new man, that facade was discarded like a leaf plucked from his cheek. This was a broken man, not a frightened child.
"What do you want from me, Kytes? If you want to kill me, then do it. I can't fix what's been done." Sandy continued to stare at his trembling hands. He sounded close to tears.
"Trust me, Agent Sandison, there's nothing I'd love more right now than to put my fist through your face, but I have my orders. And, as it turns out, you actually can fix what's been done, by helping me." The new man's stern demeanor and winter coat were a stark contrast to Sandy's sheepish tone and tattered flannel shirt; his authority was absolute.
"How?" The word was more of a plea than a question.
"We found the new epicenter. We're going to do what we did the first time we contained it. And you're the only member of the original team that's still alive. Otherwise I wouldn't be here."
Sandy looked up at the new man, confusion on his face. "So? It's not like we didn't document every step of the containment process and the operations that went into securing the area originally. You don't need me just because I was there for it all."
"No shit we documented all of it. And all that documentation's been lost. You think the Foundation is still functioning at full capacity? What do you think happened when that thing got loose and started to turn the world into a live show of Children of the Corn? "
Sandy said nothing. He was looking at his hands again.
Sandy sometimes told us stories of what it was like before the Great Autumn. We always listened intently, fascinated by a world we barely knew, a world filled with people, with war, with seasons. Sandy was a good storyteller, but he would get a strange look on his face whenever one of us would tell him we liked the world better the way it is now, that we appreciated the gifts He had blessed us with. That was the look Sandy had on his face when he finally spoke again.
"I'll come. I want to stop this if I can. Even if it can't make up for what I've-"
"Great," the new man interrupted, grabbing Sandy's arm. "Next stop: Chilton, Wisconsin." He pressed a button on the device in his other hand, and the two men disappeared with a soft popping sound.
Their sudden disappearance had scared us, but as we finally crept from our hiding places and gathered in the street, we realized that Sandy's words were much more terrifying. He would end our play time, and send Him back to prison. We had saved Sandy from his fate, and now he was deciding ours. Did he think we would simply accept this betrayal? Did he think we were powerless?
Sandy had been terrified of us at first, though we had delivered him from His will. In time, he came to trust us. He became our lookout, our protector, and our friend, and in turn we ensured he had what he needed. Though Sandy did not like when we spoke of Him, and did not approve of our treatment of the guilty, he never made it a point of conflict. All it took was one new man for Sandy to throw everything we had away. We were wrong to save Sandy, and He had ignored our transgression to teach us this harsh lesson.
With tender precision, we formed a circle. 36 of us joined our hands together in solidarity against this new treachery. Slowly our circle spun, and then we sang. More than anything, we prayed.

Our dreams were broken by the soft singing of other children. The song pierced the flesh of our cocoons, delivering its plea as we awoke from our slumber. We were needed. He needed us, all of us. Some of us tore our own way out of our living beds, then we pulled the rest from theirs.
Small and large, fat and thin, groggy and alert, we formed our circle. Joining hands inside the large barn we found ourselves in, we spun. We started our song, and we prayed. The rotting of our cocoons brought the stench of wet leaves, and the aroma of cider. He was listening. When our singing and spinning finally came to a halt, He spoke:

Children of Autumn, Children of Bone
Our savior now turned, has come back, not alone
The gifts I bestow in this world we have wrought
Mean nothing if you cannot do what you ought
Our kingdom, this city, this home made of stalks
A sanctuary which their vile presence mocks
'Twill wither and die like November vines
'Less you show them the fear still deep in their spines
Go forth, pluck the eyes from their unseeing heads
Return them to Me, then return to your beds
These men need not sight, for they shall still see
October's tomorrow, and forever will be

Bones of Autumn »


At exactly 9:00 in the morning, Research Assistant Grace Renfield's eyes snap open. She tilts her head left, then right, with an audible pop, and yanks the tubes out of her mouth with her left hand. At 9:01, the glass door slides open with a soft whoosh and she steps out of her tank.
She stretches elaborately, a series of half-yoga poses designed to unkink muscles not used to motion, joints cracking audibly. When the popping stops, so does she. She walks to a metal sink and spits, then drinks deeply, gasping. A toothbrush waits for her in a porcelain holder; brand new, still wrapped. She cleanses the taste of rubber from her mouth and grins experimentally into a small metal mirror mounted to the wall.
Clothing has been left for her, folded on a bench on the opposite wall exactly according to her specifications. White pants, black shirt. No tags, no labels. A lab coat, cut with a strange high collar, Foundation ID badge already clipped to the front pocket. A pair of glasses, one lens squared off, with a slider on the temple piece to adjust magnification. A pair of heavy combat boots cut in white leather. She gets dressed.
A speaker mounted in the corner plays something ambient with a pulsing beat that could be equally at home in a nightclub or an upscale restaurant. There is nothing else in Renfield's room- the austerity suits her just fine. She nods to herself and steps out, smile hidden behind her collar.
The hallway beyond is lined on one side with identical doors, and on the other with identical photographs- the same as the one that adorns her ID badge. Below each is a small plaque made of stiff cardstock, the same sort you see below paintings in upscale galleries. Each plaque contains a pair of dates and a short paragraph. An obituary. She doesn't read them, but her fingertips trace the wall below them as she passes.
At 10:00, she presents herself to Research Director Anderson. His reaction to her presence is as terse as ever. No greeting, just a directive. The name of the Researcher she'll be working under, and number of the SCP object they'll be working with. She does not ask questions. He looks relieved when she walks away.
At 10:15, after a short walk to the containment wing, she presents herself to the Researcher. He does not ask her name- everyone in the Foundation knows Renfield. He thanks her for her work, and seems pleased she's been assigned to him. He asks her to step into a containment unit. She nods, licks her teeth, and steps in.
At 10:19, she dies. Her evisceration is as swift as it is horrible. Something unfathomable like a shadow on a malfunctioning CRT monitor reaches into her with a claw made out of noise and shucks her like an oyster. On the other side of the observation window, the Researcher frantically takes notes as she is consumed. He does not look surprised.
At exactly 11:00 in the morning, Research Assistant Grace Renfield's eyes snap open. She tilts her head left, then right, with an audible pop, and yanks the tubes out of her mouth with her left hand. At 11:01, the glass door slides open with a soft whoosh and she steps out of her tank.

« | HUB | »


One day, Jacob realized that the Foundation was the place for him. It was the day the pretty girl from his high school's Alto Clef Fan Club died in his arms, telling him how wonderful his long, raven-black locks of hair looked as they framed his perfectly symmetrical face. Jacob smiled a flawless smile, as he was especially proud of those long, raven-black locks of hair. It had taken him hours in front of a mirror to make them look convincingly like hair.
As she died, Jacob screamed in anguish, pain, and grief and vowed revenge against the robotic servants of the Church of the Broken God that had killed her. Channeling the full might of his incredible power over vegetation, Jacob enshrouded his school in a blanket of vines, and commanded them to collapse inwards, destroying the building and all the cybernetic cultists inside, sparing only the pretty girl.
Her body was borne aloft above the devastation on a bower of vines, which burst into flower as they brought her to rest in front of Jacob. On reviewing the corpse, he opted to make a few minor cosmetic improvements, to honor her memory.
With everything he had ever cared about lying in ruins around him, Jake Son-of-Gaia set off on the journey to Site 19, where he knew he would find people able to aid him in his vendetta against the foul Broken God.
Oh, and his parents were probably dead too.

At the gate to Site 19, Jacob encountered a man in the shape of a dog.
“Hello there,” Dr. Crow said. “I saw you were coming. Welcome to Site 19.”
Jacob stared up at the towering glass and marble building in front of him. It had twenty-nine stories, just as he had imagined it, topped with three huge letters, maybe 9.144 meters tall. It was heaven. As soon as he could contain his excitement, Jacob launched into his introduction.
“I am Jake Son-of-Gaia. Sinister cybernetic servants of the Church of the Broken God killed my family and my one true love, though I was able to best them in combat with the help of my brothers, the trees and vines. But the cultists I destroyed were only a fragment of the might of the foul Broken God. Only the SCP Foundation knows where I can find the rest of the unnatural Broken God to destroy it. I promised over the dead bodies of my family to avenge their loss, so I came here.”
Kain chuckled. “You'll fit right in, Jake Son-of-Gaia. I'm Dr. Kain Pathos Crow. Pleased to meet you.” The two shook hands.
“Can I be a doctor too? I've heard so much about you. I want an Egg Walker too, but it would be able to heal itself if it got damaged because it would be made of living plants and vines.”
“Ah, I don't think so. Controlling plants sounds awfully paranormal to me. That's the kind of thing we need to test and make sure the rest of the world doesn't know about. I think you'd do better as an SCP than as Senior Staff.”
“What about Clef and Bright and Gerald? They're anomalous too.”
Dr. Crow shook his head. “They've been doing this a lot longer than you have, Jake. They've always been staff. There never was a time when they weren't Senior Staff. We can't just make them SCPs now. Don't worry. Being an SCP is a lot of fun too. Come on, let's go inside.”
Jake Son-of-Gaia and Dr. Kain Pathos Crow walked up to the looming gate to Site 19. Dr. Crow paused. “You'll have to get it for me,” he said. “I don't have any hands. I'm a dog.”

The third floor stretched before Jacob, a final gallery of marvels before he reached the hall he'd be staying in. He was to be SCP-422, because April 22 was Earth Day. Keter class, of course.
Dr. Crow led him through, pointing out SCPs of particular interest, such as SCP-307, the carnivorous ivy (Kondraki had five plantings in the waiting room for his office. They claimed a secretary a week). Jacob stepped forward, keeping pace with Dr. Crow, and —

Jacob opened his eyes. He was in a dingy room of weathered walls that had perhaps once been white. In one corner of the room, motes of light swam in a bell jar. A thick plexiglass window looked out onto a gray wasteland crossed by scattered cracked roads. An aging man sat on a wooden chair at a desk in front of him, and his eyes matched the room.
“Hello there,” SCP-343 said. “I saw you were coming. Welcome to Site 19.”
Jacob looked around him. The cell he was in bore no resemblance to the wonderland that was going to be his new home. What was the meaning of this? “This isn't Site 19,” he said, “And I, Jake Son-of-Gaia, demand you return me there now!” Jacob commanded vines to sprout forth from the ailing walls to ensnare his foe.
No such vines emerged. The man shook his head and said, “None of that. You're Jacob Glaser, playing a demigod. In my room, I'll have things the way they really are.”
“Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
“These days, I'm SCP-343. I've brought you here to warn you, and to tell you what Dr. Carrow — Kain — won't. I'd bet you're used to things going your way, right? And how long has it been since you've worn your own hair rather than that black stuff? The plant command too. Guess you're a literal type green, then.
“Here, there's a lot of people like you. The staff, the major SCPs, they can all do what you can. They're used to things going their way, just like you are. If things don't work out between you and them, you could be in danger. I can keep an eye out for you, but —”
“What are you talking about? The staff all like me. This is the safest place in the world, because the Foundation stands for ‘Secure Contain Protect', not ‘Destroy Destroy Destroy'.”
SCP-343 sighed. “Well, we'll see. Unfortunately, you might well fit right in. Which is the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. You need to stop killing people. Your family, your school… I know you didn't realize, but you have to understand what you do to people around you.”
A surge of indignation and sheepishness? went through Jake. “I save people! That's what I do. From the foul servants of the Broken God, who are the ones who killed everyone I hold dear.”
“Jacob, they died to give you a tragic backstory. Where do you think those poor cyborgs came from? Around you, everyone's just a puppet, a prop, an extra. But leave them alone and they're as real as you are.”
“That's not true. I just don't want anyone else to have to go through the harrowing and awful trials I have suffered.”
“Anyone else! Let me tell you something, Jacob. Oh, you'll have more chances here to save people from cultists. But those cultists will be just whatever unfortunates were near when you and your new friends decide to play a game. You're just going to be another 076, another Kondraki.” SCP-343 rose from its chair, a look of revulsion on its face. It was no more a man than Kain was a dog.
“You've never seen anybody but extras,” it continued. “But you've met Kain, you've met me, and you'll meet more. You'll have your fun, and people will die for it when they're cast in the story of your life. We're all the same.
“Go, Jacob Glaser. Go and play as Jake Son-of-Gaia. Die a solipsist.”

— then he continued down the hallway towards the elevator to the next level, shaking.
When they reached room 422, Kain stopped. “Here we are then. The chamber's outfitted with standard accommodations. Well, sans the wine cooler, since you're under 21. If there's anything else you want, just add it to your containment procedures. It's good to have you with us, Jake.” Dr. Crow barked once, and the egg walker came tromping down the hallway, holding some ungainly creature that gave Jacob a doleful look through mismatched eyes. Dr. Crow rode off, and Jacob entered the containment chamber and sealed the door.
In the middle of the culmination of all his dreams, the words of SCP-343 lingered. Could he trust the opulence surrounding him? Jacob focused, and for a second the room became a small, barren cell with a cot and a chair and a table, but it was too much, so Jacob fell back on the feather bed and let the sound system lull him to sleep.

Incident 422-01: On 10/31/██, while transporting objects associated with the Church of the Broken God past SCP-422's containment cell, D-2663 and D-7529 were heard to remark that “It should be perfectly safe to leave these Broken God artifacts in the server room while we go get pizza, right D-2663?”, and “Absolutely!”. On hearing this, SCP-422 used pumpkin seeds he'd been storing since Thanksgiving to burst open the door to his cell, and attempted to take the Church artifacts. Dr. Bright was also in the hall, however, and ordered the D-class personnel to stop SCP-422.
In the ensuing struggle, Dr. Bright and D-2663 were injured. Dr. Bright then transferred himself to D-7529 and called for security personnel as he launched pursuit of SCP-422. SCP-422 summoned vines to entangle security, and approached the Site 19 entrance, with Bright still in pursuit. He threw the remaining pumpkin seeds behind him, and within seconds the corridor filled with a wall of pumpkins.
As SCP-422 fled the facility, Dr. Bright is observed to be slowly dismantling the wall of pumpkins, then rolling them outside. Security footage captures Bright tying approximately eight (8) pumpkins together by the stems into a roughly humanoid figure. He then removed SCP-963 and dropped it onto the assembled pumpkins. The mass animated and the head pumpkin spontaneously carved itself into a jack-o-lantern. Dr. Bright then ran after SCP-422 in his new body.
Seeing Dr. Bright approach, SCP-422 tried to use his powers, but succeeded only in growing Dr. Bright even larger. SCP-422 recaptured and returned to his containment chamber. Dr. Bright agreed to return to a human body when pointed out that the pumpkins were too big to eat from SCP-458.
Jake Son-of-Gaia is a very dangerous SCP. It's fortunate for us that he was motivated to prevent the dangerous handling of the Church of the Broken God items. Who knows what horrors from the forge of the Broken God would be unleashed on Site 19 had he not acted so early?
~Dr. Bright

Jacob couldn't recall ever having had so much fun. He couldn't believe he had waited almost a month to breach containment. It was probably the caviar and television, he mused, far sturdier than any walls or locks. Nothing to do with his chat with 343.

Incident 422-20: On 3/29/██ SCP-422 was provided with meat loaf for his dinner, in contravention of his preferences outlined in his containment procedures. SCP-422 protested to the guards, and vowed to go on a hunger strike until he was given a natural, vegan diet like humans are supposed to eat. When given a metal block the next day, SCP-422 entered a rage state and attempted to breach containment.
[DATA EXPUNGED] but Kondraki was able to outfence and destroy each of the four (4) remaining plantings before they consumed him and his prized [DATA EXPUNGED]
Dr. Crow and Kondraki then confronted SCP-422 in Site 19 Subbasement-Omega, where SCP-422 announces that he plans to throw the final cutting of SCP-307 onto the geothermal vents and use that energy combined with his power to [DATA EXPUNGED] four hundred feet (400 m.) tall and [REDACTED] the entire Foundation. The rapidly growing [DATA EXPUNGED] seized the shards of SCP-143 in its tendrils, and lowered them into the geothermal vent, forging them together into [REDACTED] (7) swords. It and Jake Son-of-Gaia fought with Kondraki while Dr. Crow attempted to disrupt the energy flow to the [DATA EXPUNGED].
The [DATA EXPUNGED] made a lunge with all (7) swords at Kondraki, who artfully parried, sending the swords tearing through the wall like tissue paper. This proved a mistake, however, as the wall was part of the containment cell for SCP-506, the instant growing plants. Chuckling at Kondraki's mistake, Jacob used his powers to breach containment on SCP-506, causing them to ensnare Kondraki.
Jake Son-of-Gaia then asked Kondraki if he had any last words before the [DATA EXPUNGED] ran him through [REDACTED] times, to which Kondraki replied “Yeah. What's red, green, and blue, and read by you?”, to which Jacob replied “A newspaper?”. 5 (5) enlarged instances of SCP-504 then flew at him in speeds in excess of 2175 mph, blowing the [DATA EXPUNGED] to pieces and stunning Jake Son-of-Gaia. Kondraki remarked that, “No, my butterflies making a 4 look like a 6. Shouldn't a plant guy know the difference between zucchini and tomato?”
Meanwhile, Dr. Crow succeeded in deactivating the geothermal vents, causing a loss of power to 15 Keter class containment cells (see Incident 682/076/106/1370-8 for further details), and also causing Jake Son-of-Gaia to plummet into the shafts below Site 19, where he was easily recovered and returned to his containment cell. Dr. Crow apologized for breaching containment, but was not subject to disciplinary action due to the overwhelming benefit to the Foundation this caused. SCP-422 hunger strike ends after three (3) days.
I had never considered how good fencers plants might be. Inferior in skill to myself, of course, but I won't underestimate their ability to wield one sword in each branch again. Still, they seem more vulnerable to fire than most people I've faced.
~Dr. Kondraki

As awesome as fighting Kondraki and Crow was, and as totally sweet as watching the chaos unleashed when Crow let loose half the Keters in Site 19, Jacob was troubled. While the others were chasing Jake Son-of-Gaia down into the bowels of the Foundation, he had stayed behind, and tried to strip the veils of unreality from the corpse of one of the D-class consumed by SCP-307. The D-class was no less dead without them. Rather more so, actually. When his classmates all died, they were just dead. None of the messy inside bits. When his parents were killed (Were they his parents? Was it really the Broken God's servants that had done it?), they too had looked at peace. That wasn't right. That wasn't how things were supposed to be.
That was how they were made to be.

Incident 422-25: On [DATE EXPUNGED], 50 (fifty) Church of the Broken God cultists entered Site-19 and attempted to steal SCP-882. Seeing site security being mobilized to stop them, SCP-422 used a small stash of SCP-843 to grow a herd of vegetable buffalo, and commanded them to stampede down the door to his containment cell. Following the terrible grinding of gears, he came upon Gerald, Kondraki and site security fighting the cultists on the eighth floor.
SCP-422 grew the fibers in the uniforms of the security agents into impenetrable armor to protect them from the cog pistols wielded by the followers of the Broken God. Just as Gerald reached the cultist working to access SCP-882, the last lock fell and the great machine within let out an earsplitting scream of greeting.
A cultist leapt into the grinding maw of SCP-882, but rather than be crushed by it, he somehow fused with it. SCP-882 (eight hundred eighty two) collapsed inwards around him, taking on a semblance of human form, guided by human will. A Gearlord of the Church of the Broken God had arisen within the walls of Site 19 itself!
Dr. Gerald is reported as having said “This calls for desperate measures” and then security footage shows him putting on a pair of roller blades and skating towards the Gearlord. The resulting explosion destroyed SCP-882's containment chamber, blasted the Gearlord through the wall and out of the building, and also damaged the pipelines delivering acid to SCP-682's tank.
Curiously, no members of security were injured in the explosion.
It was a tremendous explosion. Of course they died. ~Dr. Gerald
Go with Jake on this one, Gerald. I'll need some of them for later. ~SCP-682
Kondraki and SCP-422 took the emergency hang glider from the SCP-803's containment chamber (it was there in case it became necessary to fight the Parasols in all three dimensions; see Incidents 803-40 and 803-49) and leapt out the hole in the wall of Site 19 to where the Gearlord gathered itself — literally — below. Out of concern for safety, Dr. Gerald volunteered to take the stairs.
Once outside, Kondraki drew SCP-1871 and engaged the Gearlord in combat, while Jake Son-of-Gaia grew entangling roots around the whirling metal of its feet to slow it down. The surviving cultists shot at Kondraki, but he was too fast, deflecting an estimated 493 SCP-217-tainted gears with his sword.
[DATA EXPUNGED]
Just as Kondraki landed a killing blow on the Gearlord and turned his attention to the servants of the Broken God, the gate to Site 19 (nineteen) burst open, and Dr. Gerald came out, running, followed by ten remaining members of site security. A 300 decibel roar behind them told everyone that SCP-682 was loose!

Jacob watched as the bulk of SCP-682 leapt through the air in a probably impossible trajectory towards Dr. Gerald, who wasn't there when it landed. It bellowed and swiped at a guard, but at Jacob's thought, the blow went wide. None of the corpses really went away, he'd found; without the vibrant liveness of the Senior Staff, the hallways of Site 19 were scattered with bones.
“Jake!” Kondraki shouted, bisecting another cultist, “Come help. These are the monsters who killed your family!”
It was true. This was the eighth time servants of the Broken God had attacked in the months since Jacob had arrived at Site 19 — nearly as frequently as Chaos Insurgency agents (ten times). He wasn't sure where they came from or where they went. If they were killed, he couldn't tell their bodies apart from those of guards or D-class. Or even those of the junior researchers from the SCP-050 Prankpocalypse, now that he thought about it. The dramatic, black and red cloaks of the Insurgency agents seemed to only be there when the Staff were near.
What if the sinister cybernetic servants of the Church of the Broken God were also like that?
What if all people were people?
Jacob turned to one cultist running towards him and peeled away everything but the bare truth. The villain stumbled, the ground beneath him drained of life and color, and where the half-machine fanatic had fallen was now a frightened, half-starved man who tottered away. Jacob grinned; he had been right. “You see, guys?” he said, “We don't need to kill them after all!”.
“What did you just do?” Kondraki said, suddenly very still.
“Well, like any other sort of corruption, my plants can cleanse the machine plague, so I grew some and they siphoned all the SCP-217 right out of him!”
“Oh, bull████!” yelled Kondraki. Then he paused, focused, and said again, much more quietly, “I said bullshit. You think you can do that? Don't you ever █uck with me. Fuck!”
Jacob stepped back, but Kondraki continued.
“I'm the one everyone wants. If I say the O5s orally osculate odiferous offensive… Shit, I know there's more words that start with ‘O'. The point is they'll give me a medal anyhow for saving their asses in the last site-wide containment breach! Know your place, Jake. You're the dandelion guy we've got locked up, and I'm the everlasting badass the fucking devil's scared of.”
Though the record would later claim that SCP-422 entered a rage state at this point, Jacob in fact felt quite calm. “But I'm an SCP, not a doctor. You're not the boss of me,” he said, and restored reality around Kondraki.
Dr. Alan Condack was not as tall as Kondraki had been, and neither did he possess the everlasting badasses's rugged handsomeness or lust-stirring musculature. He wore a tattered lab coat and his nails were gnawed to the quick. In Dr. Condack's right hand, he held a short, rusted metal bar that slipped from now-slack fingers. From his sunken chest came a low wail of loss.
Jacob stared, Dr. Condack sobbed. The tableau held for nearly a minute, then a crushing mental force sent Jacob staggering to the ground and broke his concentration. He looked up to see SCP-682 and Dr. Gerald standing over him, ashen-faced.
Dr. Condack was gone, hidden away again under swaths of consensus reality, and the Kondraki that raised himself to his feet — not uneasily, because Kondraki was never uneasy — looked almost the same as before. “You little shit,” he snarled at the prostrate Jake, “What a fucking piece of shit SCP you are.” Jacob struggled to keep his form from obeying Kondraki's imprecation.
“Just what will we do with you, Jake?” said SCP-682, planting a claw on his back.
“I think a decommissioning is in order,” said Dr. Gerald.
“And has he fucking earned it!” said Kondraki, a grim smile spreading across his face.
Against the three of them, Jacob could do nothing; he could barely even maintain the separation between Jake Son-of-Gaia and himself. He felt both parts of himself shackled, beaten, and dragged towards Site 19.
As he passed through the gates, a soft voice spoke in his ear, “I don't think there's much more for you here worth experiencing. Let me in, and I can take you away.” With the last of his strength, Jacob signaled acquiescence, then SCP-343 was all around him, then he was gone, sinking into blackness.

Decommissioning Log 422:
SCPs requisitioned: SCP-272, SCP-891, SCP-1417, SCP-2800
Procedure: [DATA EXPUNGED]
Addendum: Seriously, fuck that guy. ~Kondraki

Jacob opened his eyes. He was in a large meadow, dotted with flowers and dappled with shade. A ways away, some figures were playing, joyously. Through the brilliant sky, if he looked closely, he could half make out a scarred room and a weary figure, and he knew that another mote now danced in SCP-343's bell jar.
A couple figures from the group ahead split off and approached him, a dog and a vampire. “Hi there!” said the dog, “We were told you might be coming. Come, join us. Rest, relax until we're finally needed. I'm Joseph Simpson, and this is my friend Sid Duquesne. What's your name?”
Jacob paused. He felt the plants listen to him, knew they would still obey the command of Jake Son-of-Gaia. But then he broke into a broad grin and said, “Nice to meet you! I'm Jacob Glaser.”

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