Audio Log Site 17 PA System

The following was taken from backup recordings of Site 17 PA Logs. Due to the circumstance of their retrieval, some of the recordings have been lost or damaged. The timeline of the recordings has been reconstructed based on the events during Incident 234-900-Tempest Night.
1-1143: Wastes of skin, revolting bags of meat.
1-1245: [Electronic noise for 12 seconds]
1-1247: Rankling little piece of shit.
1-1283: Foreign [EXPLETIVE].
1-1286: [Electronic noise for 33 seconds]ut up.
1-1304: Level of a zoophyte, suited only for pond scum. You are disgusting.
1-1306: [Electronic noise for 23 seconds] [EXPLETIVE] [EXPLETIVE] [EXPLETIVE].

Blackguard Feed 087-104

1-1404 MTF-Ω1 (Blackguards), enters Sublevel-C3 from Stairwell 46.
MTF-Ω1-1: Stairwell 46 has become choked with debris. We are unable to proceed further. We will begin sterilizing Sublevel-C3 and head down through this section's sublevels from here.
OP-Ω1-1: Operator confirms.
1-1407 MTF-Ω1-4 and MTF-Ω1-5 open the electrical junction box for Sublevel-C3, revealing the interior circuitry, having since been heavily infested by SCP-229 and partially converted into a biological substrate by the effects of SCP-890. MTF-Ω1-4 begins severing SCP-229 using an oxyacetylene torch.
1-1408 Lighting fails in Hallway 67, MTF-Ω1 members activate helmet-mounted maglites. Electrical disturbances in Sublevel-C3 begin increasing in intensity.
1-1410 MTF-Ω1-4 has dislodged roughly 50 percent of the SCP-229 infestation.
MTF-Ω1-6: Did you hear that? [Insufficient Audio to Confirm]
MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 begin moving down Hallway 67, using the ignition flame of their XFOF7s to provide additional illumination.
MTF-Ω1-7: We got the front, one-five.
1-1411 All electronic systems in Sublevel-C3 fail simultaneously. Wires and cabling begin erupting from the walls around MTF-Ω1, severally wounding MTF-Ω1-4. MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 barrage numerous SCP-229 instances with chemical fire propellant. MTF-Ω1-1 engages masses of wires in melee combat with a trench knife, while pulling MTF-Ω1-4 to relative safety.
MTF-Ω1-1: [EXPLETIVE] they got the [EXPLETIVE] intel wrong again. Since when has 229 been prehensile?!
MTF-Ω1-2 retrieves oxyacetylene torch and continues severing the main junction box. MTF-Ω1-3 covers MTF-Ω1-2's position from the southern flank.
1-1412 Instances of SCP-229 lose much of their cohesion as the main junction box is largely destroyed. Instances are observed to infest each other, however by this time the SCP-229 population has been decimated by sustained fire from MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7.
1-1413 Remaining SCP-229 entities rendered combat ineffective. MTF-Ω1-4 given first-aid, administered painkillers and an analgesic wrap to wounds sustained to the left arm and torso. MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 begin standard mop-up procedure while MTF-Ω1-1 through MTF-Ω1-5 begin searching for survivors and SCP objects.
1-1424 MTF-Ω1 exits Sublevel C-3.

Recovered Documents from [REDACTED]

Memo Advanced Stages of Infection
Compromised systems exhibit intelligence. Experiment terminated.
[Documents continue on file MEMO-299-D7]


“Well…” the old man said quietly. “I guess it's time the charade ended then, isn't it?”
Director Clef's eyes betrayed a hint of annoyance at being disturbed that quickly faded… “Hello, Konny,” he said in a bare whisper.
Kondraki dropped into the chair, bushy eyebrows rising slightly, followed by a smile. “I'm glad you remember me, Clef,” he said. “I was worried that you would forget. It's easy for someone like you to forget things, after all. Are you liking the nice, cushy job? How are your boys?”
Clef frowned. “I don't know what you're talking about, Ko—“
“Drop the bullshit, Clef… You keep doing your damnedest to lie yourself out of everything. To lie in circles, keep people guessing… But I finally figured it out. It took me a while—a very long while—but I finally got it. Heh. Clever bastard.”
Clef eased himself backwards in the chair. “And?” he asked.
Kondraki smiled. “It's easy. You see, I spent years analyzing the records of you… Your exploits here. The things that you were willing and not willing to do. It took me forever to figure out why 682 had that moment of hesitation… Why it didn't kill you. Why reality benders don't fuck you up like they do other people. Why 343 shits his pants at the sight of you.”
“And?” Clef asked.
“It's simple,” Kondraki said. “You're God.”
Clef laughed. Hard. Leaning over, he coughed loudly, struggling to breathe. Minutes passed until he was completely out of breath and had to stop, leaning back in his chair.
“Really, Konny? Me? God?”
Kondraki smiled, eerily. Madly. “Certainly,” he said. “But not just any God. You're Poopstick McGee… And I… I AM THE FLYING WALRUSES!"
Clef smiled slightly. "Yes, Kondraki. Yes, I am. You finally figured me out…"
Kondraki laughed hysterically as the orderly came into the room. "Sorry, Docta Clef. He slipped away from me again…"
Clef laughed. "No problem, Rodney… Konny and I are old friends."
"POOP STICK! POOPSTICK MCGEE!"
Clef nodded. "You got it, buddy!"
The orderly walked Kondraki out of Clef's office, taking him back to his room and easing him into the bed, waiting for him to relieve himself in a bedpan.
He grabbed the orderly's arm… "He's Satan, you know…" he said seriously.
The orderly just smiled. "Last week, you said he was Adam," he said.
Kondraki's eyes went wide. "That's classified!" he screamed, throwing the full bedpan at the orderly. "EXPUNGED! EXPUNGED!"
The orderly ducked out of the room, and down the hall, Alto Clef laughed quietly to himself.


“So how do we do this?” Harken asked, stubbing a cigarette into the growing pile on the console ashtray.
Kramer looked around inside the car that had been their mobile home the last few weeks. Not overly flashy to begin with, the interior been rendered a wreck by Harken's chain smoking, snacking, and general disregard for property. Perfect camouflage yes, but even with her olfactory senses dialed all the way down, it still stank of smoke, sweat and nervous tension.
“You still in there, cupcake?” he asked, tapping on her nose. Almost before he'd touched her, five scalpel-sharp blades sprung from her thin fingers, the lethal hand poised a hair's breadth from Harken's eyes. He pulled his hand back with a smirk, more amused then afraid. “At least you're still with us. So how are we doing this?”
She ignored him, turning to look at the “Open Hands Outreach Center” across the street. A combined thrift store and community outreach center, it was also a cover for one of the largest Church of The Broken God communities in the midwest, with an extensive underground network of rooms and tunnels stretching far and deep. She absently cycled to infrared, watching the vague heat-ghosts wander through the building.
"We are not doing anything. You are supporting.”
“Oh to hell with that, you can't smash up a church all by-”
“YOU can't hit the broad side of a barn with a shotgun, and you have all the physical combat skills of toast.”
He huffed, throwing up his hands. It was cheap, childish, and absolutely true.
“There's a vent beside the air conditioner that leads to the main chamber. I can dislocate my ribs, arms and legs, and slip down almost on top of them.” She smiled with predatory satisfaction.
He cringed, looking at her sidelong. “Jesus, do it the hard way, why don't you?”
“It's the quickest way in. I can't just crash the front door, and waiting for the bishop to come out and wander into a bullet could take weeks. Quick in, quick out, no time for anyone to really realize we're here… it's sneaky. I thought you'd be pleased.” She grinned at him, radiating the sweetness of a cat with a bloody muzzle.
Harken stared at her, eyes half-lidded, mouth a grim line. “You're full of shit, you know that, right?”
“My, what ever do you mean, Agent Harken?” Kramer was practically purring now, her voice tinged with a nearly seductive anticipation that had nothing to do with sex.
“You just want to watch everyone run in terror.”
She smiled, stepping out of the car with a wink. “See you after work, sweety,” she giggled, winking a eye cycling between green, yellow and white, striding across the street with a exaggerated wiggle of her thin hips.
Harken smouldered in impotent, frustrated fury, managing to light two cigarettes backwards before letting it go.

The brothers walked down the hall slowly, heads bowed, the dull beat of the machinery deep below them like the warm pulse of a mother's heart. The two men stepped in time to the throb, letting it fill their Broken bodies, the richness of the Silent Voice tugging deep inside. Their reverie was so deep, so profound, they didn't hear the wall grate open, the soft sound of scraping flesh as it oozed from the confined space.
Brother Cam looked up at a sudden noise, his meditation broken by what sounded like a…a chirp, or a squeal. He looked, then suddenly turned more, searching, trying to find Brother Han. He'd been right there, walking beside him. Brother Cam heard another noise, like a soft tap, and he leaned in to the semi-dark hall, trying to place the sound.
A thick metal hook tore his skull open like a rusty can.

The bishop Bronzon could feel the devotion like a wind on his face. The sanctuary was filled, every body singing in time to the Great Machine well below them. Since the hated heretics had been silenced, the Church had swollen with faith, initiates, and the most sacred of relics, shards of The Broken itself. He raised his face to the sooty ceiling, lifting his own voice with the throng, feeling the touch of The Broken firmly, for the first time in years.
He watched the steam and smoke rise from the vents in the floor, the very Breath of God itself, the taste as hot and coppery as blood. Several brothers and sisters had torn open their robes, exposing their flesh to the fumes, letting them soak inside and out. Others had already swooned, shivering in ecstacy at the feel of the heavy hand of The Broken on their soul. Bronzon felt a thrill of excitement coursing through his body, both from admiration of their burgeoning faith and the more earthly admiration of their young, supple flesh.
He was still admiring them when the screaming started.
It started from the back, a sudden flurry of activity, spreading like a wave of panic. Soon everyone had recoiled from the door, some still chanting mindlessly, carried by the crush of humanity.
A demon stood in the doorway. The jaws hung wide, a mass of jagged death lining them. One hand ended in a spray of glistening points, the other in a smooth, hellish hook. The eyes crackled with a green glow, mouth frozen in a too-wide grin. It glistened with blood like a second skin.
Bronzon froze for a moment, paralyzed by fear, replaying every sin, every indulgence he'd taken. He looked in to those glowing eyes, and knew for one shining second, with all that he was, that his time had come. He broke free almost instantly, hitting the button below the podium to summon security and unlocking the hidden panic room behind the wall hanging.
Even in those few seconds, people had started dying. The demon slashed and carved like a living meat grinder, limbs and organs falling like leaves to the ground. Brave, strong men, Crusaders in training, threw their fellows before them to spare themselves a few more seconds, the whole mass pushing away like panicked cattle. Really, that's what they were, in the end. The loss would hurt for a time… but cattle could always be replaced.
Bronzon shook his head sadly, turning away from the carnage. It was only when he tried to open the panic room, and found it locked, that he felt that fear again, bright and sweet, like biting on a rotten tooth.
The screaming had died down, just a few wheezing, bubbling hisses, the odd flapping or brushing sound as some ruined limb tried to drag its dying body away. Bronzon was almost physically unable to turn around, the weight of what he knew was behind him freezing his muscles. He finally did, with great effort, keeping his eyes well away from the floor, still wincing at the sprays of blood and gore coating the walls.
The demon stood a few feet away, barely breathing heavy. Her eyes were wide and glistening, blood running around them like tears.
“W… who sent you? I deserve that much,” he stammered.
She tilted her head like a bird of prey, staring for a few seconds. “The Foundation. We know about your friends. What you did. What you want to do.”
He sighed, nodding his head, absently noting the banging against the locked chapel door… security. Finally arrived to help. Far too late to help.
He held his arms open, closing his eyes. “Send me on to The Broken. My faith may have waned, but I know The Broken waits to make me whole.”
“You talk like I'm about to kill you, bishop. You are mistaken. I have no intention of making you a martyr. My intention is to make you a heretic."
His eyes snapped open, a dark glimmer of idea emerging from a nightmare shadow. “No… no, you can't… ”
“Let me tell you what will happen. The security men will break in. They will find this room filled with the dead. They will find the room covered in blasphemous symbols. And they will find you, one of the priests of your mechanical God…"
"No! You can't!" Bronzon repeated.
"… covered in the blood of the faithful… having sacrificed… having slaughtered… the followers of The Broken for the glory of The Grey.”
He hisses, teeth bared at the very mention of that twisted sect's “god”.
“Blasphemy! They would never…”
“Oh, but they will believe… it says so right here, on this note that will be left on the podium, detailing the ritual you were performing. Too bad you had to remove your own hands, tongue and eyes as part of the ritual… I'm sure the other faithful would love to interrogate you before your body is torn to pieces and burned, excommunicated from your mechanical god.” She smiled wider, teeth chattering in excitement as she raised her slaughtering hands. “Oh well.”
The last sound his tongue made was a whimper, his last sight her dripping, blood-soaked hair.

The sun was going down when she stepped out from the alley, the outreach center closed up and dark nearly three hours before their normal closing. Agent Kramer looked a little rumpled, perhaps a bit dirty even, but still very presentable. She refused to feel her soreness, or reflect on the hard scrubbing she'd had to do after a short break-in at a nearby home. Whoever lived there would have a nasty shock when they went to use the tub…hopefully they'd just assume it was some kind of plumbing back-up.
Agent Harken sat in the driver's seat, a small hill of cigarette butts on the street next to the car door, topped with three or four empty crumpled packets. He sat up, a red-tinged twist of tissue paper jutting from one nostril, as he saw Kramer crossing the street. Kramer laughed, leaning into the open window, brushing at a small dried patch of blood on her hand, one of many she'd probably missed.
“The hell happened to you?”
“I fell asleep in the back. Some kid tried to take our stereo. I don't know who was more surprised, him or me.”
“Wow.”
He shook his head, tossing the tissue in to the road as she walked around the car. “Hey, don't worry about me, the hell happened in there?”
“Don't worry about it.”
“Can you think of any reason why I saw two guys come out of the building throwing up?”
“No.”
Harken sighed, starting the car and pulling out, rolling slow as the last gasp of sun dipped out of sight. “So, everything went ok?”
“Yes," Kramer said, her face settled back into its usual expressionless mask. "Like clockwork.”


"You're shivering," he commented, thickly accented voice purring in her ear. She jumped, her shoulder knocking against his chin, and pressed onwards.
"A-am not."
"I can see you, m'dear, if not with my eyes." He trudged past her. Even hunched over he was a good bit taller than her, the peak of his shoulders a full foot and a half over her head. Not that anyone could see her, to make the indication, the only visible trace of her existence smears of dirt and the leaves crunching.
He, on the other hand, would've stood out quite a bit, the horrid thing he was. Some of his skin was peeling off. He had grown unused to dirty environments. He peeled off his shirt, and draped it on her invisible shoulders, where it rested, betraying her shivering.
She clutched it around herself, and looked up at the night sky through the branches of trees.
"W-we should go back t-towards the town," she stammered, teeth clicking when she spoke.
"Nein. We will reach the next city in an hour, I'm certain of it."
She whimpered, and followed. Her hair felt tangled, the cold breeze made her skin burn, her feet ached and she couldn't tell if they were just wet and muddy, or bleeding. It was another twenty minutes of walking before she insisted they stop again, and he patiently waited as she sat against a tree and picked at moss.
"…We never should'a run," she finally grumbled. He didn't reply, looking up at the stars with mismatched eyes. "Seriously. It seemed like an awesome idea at the time, but right now? I feel like a dumbass kid who ran away from home. All I want is a bed and a blanket and a meal- even if it's that tasteless shit."
He nodded, and sighed, a wheezy and squeaking sound. "…I wish I had my books."
"Central heating!" she suggested, and he looked at her pitifully before wrapping an arm around her and picking her up, holding her to his fevered chest. She squirmed, but relented after a bit. "…Company."
"Aren't I fine company?"
"No offense, some of the D-Class are easier on the eyes than you, Frankenstein."
They chuckled. And stopped laughing the moment they came to the same realization.
"Mein Gott."
"Fuck. We're domesticated," Claudia mumbled. "…We gotta go back. I don't wanna be out here… I'm tired of being cold and hungry! And unseen!"
"And as much as I hate to admit it, I rather preferred not having to go through the trouble of hunting." He smiled, slightly. "…I rather liked having access to tools, a lab, fresh meat."
"Gross."
"Speaking of fresh meat, if we're going to take going back seriously, there's one thing we should very much do beforehand."
"Yah?"
He told her.
She grinned.
Their peals of hysterical laughter echoed through the forest.

The wee hours of dawn found the hostess at a Perkins in a small town looking up boredly from her example menu. Nobody at this ungodly hour but college kids with the munchies and people so old they no longer had any idea what time it was.
She stopped being bored when a monster whose his head scraped the ceiling (when he stood at full height) entered, next to… a floating coat.
Fuck, thought the hostess. I am so high right now.

SCP-542 and SCP-347 recovered in nearby restaurant. No incident except for a request to finish their meals and invitation of SCP-Retrieval Team 87-Sigma ["Windowbreakers"] to join them. Restaurant bill was paid in full, and all individuals administered minor-grade amnestics and preventative interviews. No civilians seemed alarmed at the presence of the SCPs.
Foundation "Soap From Corpses Inc." Business Credit Account charged for $25.97 plus a generous $10.00 tip, totaling $35.97


Dr. Ronald Stimson sighed softly to himself, going deeper and deeper into the facility. The heavy briefcase chained to his arm made him wince with every step, the additional weight throwing him off balance enough to put a crick in his back, sending jolts of pain through him again and again. He didn't know why he'd been selected for this duty, only that he had been. An unfortunate case of circumstance, he supposed.
After all, he was one of the last ones left alive.
He never knew Site-19 ran so deep or so far underground. The elevator had stopped after his ears had popped, and the stairs seemed to keep going forever. Hours seemed to pass before they finally stopped, and he stared at a heavy iron door. His destination.
He opened it, wincing slightly as a blast of stale air hit his nose. He walked in, turning on the ventilation and closing the door behind him, hearing it lock with an echoing click of finality. He set the briefcase on the table and sighed heavily, detaching it from his wrist at last and opening it, pulling out a file folder and setting it on the table.
He sat down in front of it, knowing the procedure, and closed his eyes, breathing deep. It was a terrible risk. The worst one left. But it was all they had, now.
He opened the file and turned the first page.
Object Class: Euclid
Description: SCP-3245 is a cloud fro—

He closed it again, then reopened it.
Object Class: Euclid
Description: SCP-3246 is a dimension parallel to our own, accessible only by—

He closed it, sighing more deeply, shaking his head. "This is wrong… Why did they think this would work?"
Object Class: Keter
Description: SCP-3247 was first noted in 2046, when it leveled the city of Hiroshi—

He slammed it shut, holding his head in his hands. "No, god damn it!" he screamed. "I don't care! I don't care if they won, this isn't right! We can't just do this!"
He shoved the file away from himself, getting up and pacing the room. They were dead, of course. All those people now. Every last one mentioned in the report. Just like his friends. His family. Dead. And he'd as good as killed them.
He paced the room, wondering how quickly the population on the surface was dropping. How much longer they would last. He closed his eyes, the stress of just breathing making him ache. He walked to the papers, reaching down and picking them up, sitting back down at the table.

Object Class: Keter
Description: SCP-4474 was first observed in 1864, when an event believed to be the Biblical rapture—

He hated himself.

Object Class: Euclid
Description: SCP-6449 first contacted the Foundation after becoming aware of his omniscience and realizing that he was a danger to the unive—

He wanted to die.

Object Class: Safe
Description: SCP-8140 was captured by the Foundation in 2018 after his production run of Mister Ender caused—

He was sure he deserved it by now. Positive of it. Completely positive.

He stared at the ceiling. He was sure, sometime in the past, he'd heard screaming somehow. Screaming from the top of the world. Claws scratching at the door at one point. Felt himself choke for an instant. But he was almost done. He closed his eyes, blinking so he could see again, and closed the file, opening it slowly.
Object Class: Keter
Description: Look what you did, Ronald. They're gone now. All of them.

He stared at the short page. He had to be hallucinating. Wasn't there one of these that would make you go crazy if you just knew about it? Had he been infected?
Object Class: Keter
Description: You ended the world, Ronald. This was a stupid plan when they came up with it, and you knew it.

He closed it again, gagging slightly. Then opened it.
Object Class: Keter
Description: You wanted this. You wanted this almost as much as I did. Things would have been fine, you know? Perfectly fine. But they were too proud. And you were too willing. And now, look at what you did. Your wife. Your family. Everyone and everything you ever loved. Thank you, Ronald. Thank you. Now, there's just one loose end.

He closed it, then opened it again, hands shaking.
Object Class: Thaumiel
Description: It's right next to you, Ronald. Loaded. Waiting. Go ahead. You know what to do.

Stimson turned, looking down at the revolver. He reached for it, picking it up and cocking the trigger, his face ashen. Almost automatically, he put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger, ending the last human life on the planet with a sudden thrash, sending the papers flying away from him, landing on the floor near his foot, the first page open again…
Object Class: Keter
Description...


I began walking along the hall to the briefing room. Another situation had come up, and I was expected to be present. As I walked my secretary Gloria walked alongside, giving me a cup of joe.
"What's the sitch, Glor?" I took a sip.
"'Nother possible scip. Non-sent RB. Chrono. Might be artificial."
"No kiddin'? Big F?"
"Nah, not Big F or Dr. Dubya. They're thinking Pro Labs."
"Geez, ever since T-kill I haven't heard anything from that place."
She shrugged and opened the briefing room door for me. I nodded and thanked her.
"Gentlemen."
"Heads up boys, it's the SD."
"Whuzzat? The suck dick?"
We all laughed and I sat down at the head of the table, looking at the men before me. We'd been in and out of this room hundreds of times before. Everything from CBs to possible CI attacks made us cram into this room every day.
"What's the story, boys?"
"Big one this time Ralph. We're thinkin' a K."
"Well shit. I hear there's Pro Labs involvement."
"Yeah. Some Gawk guys gave us some intel."
"What?"
"Non-sent object. RB. Chrono, we're thinkin'. Might also be prob bending."
"Some Wie-oo guys actually found it, Ralph. Ran back cryin' all the way to the FBI."
I laughed. "We got an MTF on this?"
"Yep. A-23. No pro-rep from them yet."
"Ok. Big S is done. Big C?"
"Containment's goin' well. We got some psyche immunes watchin' it for a while, just in case."
"Big P?"
"Gawk had intel, so they might come after it. Can't break into here though under the Anom treaty."
"Right. Who's testing?"
"We got Doc James on the go. Y'know him. Did some work with HTD Rep."
"Oh yeah."
The radio crackled in at the center of the desk. "Got the dash E in our sites. Ready to big C. Requesting permission."
Frank leaned over and pressed a button. "You are go to contain Alpha-23."
"Roger that."
Frank looked over at me. "Another one in the bag, Ralph."
I nodded and watched the map behind him blip for a minute or two. The radio voice crackled on again. "We got a successful contain. Returning to base."
"Roger that, over and out." Frank turned off the radio.
I looked around. "Good work men. Lunch?"
They all nodded and we departed. I got a BLT.


Drip, drip, drip. Blood fell from Harold Jacobs' shattered nose onto the polished, tiled floor. He feebly tried to look up as he heard a rasping cough, but Valley's thugs did their job too well. A ticking noise came from the man restraining Jacobs. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Valley coughed again, and Jacobs saw the old, wizened figure nod to the ticking man. His voice was like his cough, hoarse and sudden, as if every sentence that came out of Valley's mouth could be the last. With his current state, that was probably true.
"Show our guest to his seat, Mr. Tick."
Jacobs was surprised at Mr. Tick's strength as he slammed him into the wooden chair. He had scoffed when Mr. Carter told him about Valley's manservant. The man was diseased, for god's sake, how could he be a threat? As Jacobs tried to gaze at Valley through the ruined remains of his left eye, he realized how wrong he had been.
"Mr. Jacobs." Valley's tone was mocking. Using his stick-like arm, he gently placed one of Mr. Carter's notes on the table. "You are here to cheat me?" Next, he placed a tiny camera in front of him. "Or to spy on me?" As he placed the last item on the table, Jacobs knew that he was as good as dead.
"To kill me?" said Valley, inspecting Jacobs' gun. "A good effort, I'm sure, but Mr. Tick does not miss a tick." Then he laughed. It was the most awful sound Jacobs had ever heard. Valley stopped and grinned at him with rotting, yellow teeth. A drop of blood slid down from his cracked lips from the exertion of the act. "Who are you working for?"
Jacobs remembered what Mr. Carter had told him to say. His voice was a whisper, it was a miracle he could even talk with the beating he has taken. "Global Occult Coalition…mass liquidation of known threat entity…"
"Liar," snapped Valley. Mr. Tick's hand closed around Jacobs'. He had time to look up for a moment before Mr. Tick squeezed. Jacobs screamed in agony as he heard the loud crunching from what used to be his hand. "Who do you really work for?"
Jacobs was sobbing now. The pain was unbearable. "Marshall…Carter and Dark!" he screamed. Mr. Tick let go.
Valley looked worried. "They know of my operation here?"
"Yes." Jacobs struggled not to look at the crushed lump at the end of his arm.
"This is…highly unfortunate. We will have to think carefully of our next move, I think. Thank you, Mr. Jacobs. Mr. Tick, you may kill him now."
Jacobs opened his mouth to protest, but was cut short as Mr. Tick grabbed the back of his head and slammed it into the table. He was killed instantly and the table collapsed from the heavy impact. A cleaner stepped forward and began to wipe Jacobs' brain matter off the wood as two members of security threw his body off the balcony. A few seconds later, there was a far-off splash.
"Our old associates have discovered us, it seems," said Valley.
"Yes," said Mr. Tick.
"Nevertheless, I believe we can continue our operation here. There must be some demand for those things."
"Yes."
"We'll need to raise security, Mr. Tick. I don't want this happening again. I'll run out of tables."
"Yes."


Disclaimer:
This is (more or less) a story related to me by a friend a few months ago. He's ok now, if that helps. Not sure if it's really all that creepy…but it's weird as all hell.

I was on the roof about two weeks ago, with the full intention of ending my life. My girlfriend of three years had broken up with me, after cheating on me for six months. What's more, she might have given me a STD from that little encounter. I was unemployed, and my meager savings was not going to cover much of anything next week. And to top it off, most of my friends were not in the area, and my immediate family was still rather pissed at me for my decision to start work rather then attempt an associates degree.
So, yes, I was not seeing a lot of good reasons to keep going. I sat on the ledge, swinging my feet in to space off the top of my fourteen floor apartment building, feeling that giddy, self-destructive tingle in my feet that I always get when I'm near a steep drop-off. It was cold, and I could see a few cars slipping along the dark streets…oddly, I worried for a second I would hit one on the way down, and thereby go from tragic suicide to an asshole. I was laughing at how dumb that was to worry about when I heard the guy behind me say “The hell you doing?”
I whipped around, kind of wobbling for a second, and saw some big guy in a blue suit smoking a cigarette. He had dark hair, was really pale…I hadn't seen him on the way up, and didn't really remember hearing the door open or shut…then again, my mind was kinda elsewhere. He gestured to me, saying “you gonna jump or something?”
“uh…I mean…yeah, I guess. Are…you like a cop or something?” I felt stupid asking, but he had that weird aura of authority I always associate with cops. That's all I needed, to get arrested.
He kinda chuckled, taking a deep drag. “Naw, just up for the view. Got nobody to live for, nothing to stick around for?”
I sighed, and gave him a nutshell of what was going on. It felt somewhat good to tell someone, but at the same time it made me feel like a even bigger loser.
He laughed at me. More of a chuckle, but still, it seemed kinda misplaced for the situation. He lit a new cigarette off his old one, and nodded at me.
“Ok kiddo, that's pretty bad…but let me make you a deal. You go ahead and jump, and you'll get loose of all this. However, as soon as I finish my smoke, I'm going to go downstairs and wait for you to hit. Before anyone else gets there, I'm going to steal your wallet, and I'm going to use your driver's license to look up who you are. I'm going to hack in to your social networking stuff, and find everyone who you have loved or has ever loved you, and I'm going to hurt them for a while, then kill them.”
I just stared, somehow positive I'd just hallucinated that somehow. I didn't even speak, just stared at this psycho.
“I'm going to kidnap some, and torture them out in the woods for hours before I gut them and leave them for the wolves. I'm going to shoot others in their cars, letting them roll on in the wreckage as they try to figure out why their lungs won't expand anymore. I will butcher loved ones, class mates, every friend you've known.” He didn't even sound excited while he said this, like he was telling me the time.
“W-what the fuck is wrong with you? You can't….you can't do that, you fucking psycho!” I was shaking, and not at ALL from the cold. This guy…I mean, I didn't know him from anyone, it was possible…It was insane, but this guy had a…weird aura around him. As I watched him, I didn't for one second think he was telling a lie.
“The hell do you care? You're going to be dead. You're opting out of giving a shit about the world, you don't get to bitch about what happens after you leave.” He just kept staring at me with this blank expression.
I freaked out. I jumped back on the roof and just ran like hell for my apartment. I called the cops, saying some guy had been on the roof, threatened my life. When they showed up, he was long gone. Nobody in the apartment knew him, I'd never seen him before or since. I ended up not getting a STD and managed to find a (shitty) job at the local grocery store, but I did have to move to a much smaller apartment. Still not really over my girlfriend, but it will take time.
I still think about that night, now and then. It was just so incredibly odd, I don't think I'll ever really forget it. I have no idea if the guy was bullshitting, but I really don't think he was. It looks so dumb on paper, but if you could have seen him…heard him…you wouldn't really question it either. How sick of a person do you have to be, to save them from suicide by threatening them with something so horrible they don't dare leave the world unsupervised. Every time I see a unsolved, horrific murder on the news, I wonder.
People ask me what I think happened that night. I tell them I think the devil saved my life.


Good afternoon, Doctor. Sit down. Your schedule has been cleared. Do not attempt to leave the room until you are told that this session is over. The door is already locked, but it is crucial you pay attention. Good.
You are now part of the SCP Foundation's Ethics Committee. This is not a demotion.
Sit down.
Yes, you're terrified. You think you're being punished for some failure, some lapse of judgement, some horrible disaster that you were involved with. You think that your career with the Foundation is over. You might even have thought that 'transferred to the Ethics Committee' is a euphemism for 'killed'. This is not the case.
You'll notice I said "killed" instead of "terminated". That's a deliberate choice. On the Ethics Committee, we don't use euphemisms.
Because of the work that the SCP Foundation does, a lot of personnel think that the idea of the Foundation having an Ethics Committee is just a bad joke. Or they know that the Committee exists, but they've got the impression that we're an ineffectual laughingstock. A bunch of purposeless seat-fillers who wave a rubber stamp that says APPROVED, and never dare to voice an objection.
Yes, I see you've heard the jokes. Here's one - 'how many members of the Ethics Committee does it take to change a lightbulb? None! The Ethics Committee can't change anything!'
No, it's all right. You're meant to laugh.
We make an effort to sustain the impression that we're useless, because we are the secret power within the SCP Foundation.
Sit down.
Yes, there are the O5s. They judge what is and isn't safe, and that's a vital and important function. But we are the ones who advise the O5s on what is and is not acceptable.
You've done horrible, awful things while working for the Foundation — don't try to deny it, Doctor. We've all done horrible awful things while working for the Foundation. That is one of the unavoidable consequences of working with SCPs. And on occasion, you've wondered if we are the, quote unquote, bad guys. Well… we're not. And that is because of the Ethics Committee. This is your first lesson. Do you understand?
Remember this: the Foundation is not evil. We do not torture people "just because". We are against unnecessary cruelty. Which means somebody has to decide when cruelty is necessary. And that somebody is us.
Stop trembling.
It is important that you remember this. It is your second lesson. The Foundation does not rule the world. The Foundation serves the world. Do you understand what that means? Regardless of what the general population might think it wants, what we do, what the Foundation does, is in the overall best interests of that general population. Yes, I'm sure you did realize that already… but you haven't thought of the deeper implications. You've consoled yourself by thinking that all the torture and murder is for the greater good. This implies that there is a greater good… and a lesser good. It implies that there are multiple distinct goods, and that these can be quantified and compared. This is what we on the Ethics Committee do.
We are the ones who balance the moral costs of everything the Foundation does. And in order to balance those costs, we must know those costs. Do you realize what that means, Doctor? It means that we know everything the Foundation does, has done, and will ever do. Everything that has ever been redacted or expunged, we know it. Every last detail.
Including Procedure 110-Montauk, yes. Everyone always asks that. Yes, we know exactly what it is.
We should. We're the ones who designed it.
No, it's quite all right. It's a common reaction. Perhaps we shouldn't schedule these meetings directly after lunch, I suppose. Here, wipe your mouth.
You will no longer be participating in active research. You may consider yourself a researcher at large, flitting from one project to another, from one site to another, at will. This is not a secret; you are welcome to tell all your friends that you have been transferred to the Ethics Committee… if you can deal with the jokes and the pity. You will observe what is done, and ask the participants — and yourself — why it is being done. If at any point you feel that something is excessive or unnecessary or wrong, you inform us. We will summon the people involved, and ask them questions, in that meek ineffectual way that your coworkers have mocked.
And then, word will filter down from the O5s, through the many levels of our bureaucracy. And those who are unethical will be given reprimands which will be noted on their permanent record. Or their pay will be cut, or they will be demoted, or they will be transferred to another project.
Or they will be shot for crimes against humanity.
This is your third lesson. Remember it.
The 'P' stands for 'Protect'. The Foundation protects humanity from SCPs, and we protect the Foundation from itself. We judge what is and is not acceptable for the Foundation to do. We balance evils so that on the whole, and in the long run, evil is minimized.
No, you don't have a choice about being on the Committee.
…Yes, the irony is lovely, isn't it.


“I was hoping this could wait, gentlemen,” O5-1 said, sitting back in his chair and sighing heavily.
“I was afraid that was what this was…” replied Eleven, running her fingers over her ear, pushing her hair back. “Are we sure we want to do this? There's a good chance that the ramifications could be far further stretching than we originally considered.”
“Perhaps, but then, we'd also run the risk of something worse. Stagnation is always better than deterioration. I wake up, look at the notes, and realize that I've got new memories… New things that I've done that I couldn't have. I just… couldn't.”
Three glanced up, his face ashen. “I… Do any of you remember me… being Hitler?” he asked.
Seven raised his hand, nodding a little bit to the ashen-faced man, then slowly lowered it. “Just as much as I remember recruiting Thirteen,” he said, jerking his head toward the other end of the table.
One glanced up at the room, his assembled friends and family, everyone who had meant anything to him for the past century. “We're in agreement then?” he asked. “In spite of the consequences?”
Everyone sat silently.
“Well,” he said. “Let's update our records…”

Additional Information On Protocol ZK-001-Alpha

Do Not Attempt To Resist

MEMETIC KILL AGENT ENGAGED. THAUMIEL INITIATIVE ACTIVATED.


<<
it's been almost three days since i last saw you
come on
it's not safe here
"Up you get, agent."
Wight drew a sharp breath as Doctor K thumped her on the forehead with the flat of his hand.
"Nngh - what?"
"We've landed. Come along."
She followed him, her foggy head largely unable to parse the white light of high noon that she had hidden her eyes from during her nap. She climbed off the motorboat as Doctor K was speaking, but she wasn't really listening. Her ears were still filled with indistinct words.
The "gate" of Site 78, lined with barbed wire, yawned before them as she presented her badge to the man in the booth.
"…a lack of words for certain concepts. At any rate you ought to familiarize yourself with the place." Without waiting for a response, Doctor K strode off towards the largest of the site's watchtowers.
Wight rubbed her eyes and took in her surroundings. Site 78 surrounded this entire cluster of islands, all of them covered in the crumbling ruins of a dead civilization. She decided her explorations may as well begin from the center.
As she approached the foundation of what must have been a very spacious building, she spotted a pair of figures in the distance, standing on a very small island that bore an archway. She crossed the big island, pulled off her boots, and waded to the small one.
One of the figures was a scrawny brunette - she crouched on the ground before the arch. Every few seconds there would be a click and a flash as she took photos of the pictograms etched into the worn stone. The other figure, a tall woman in a long red dress, was easily recognizable as SCP-900-1 - she had fairly plain features, aside from lengthy white hair, covered mostly by a thin shawl. She averted her eyes and spoke a few words to the other woman, who stood up and turned quickly.
"…Agent Wednesday Wight, yeah? New sniper?"
"That's right." She nodded to the boa constrictor draped over her shoulders. "That's Rob. Who are you?"
"Liddell. I'm one of the zillion linguists you'll probably meet here. And by zillion I mean three." She gestured to 900-1. "This is 900-1. Required designation, obviously."
900-1 addressed Liddell. The tongue she spoke was smooth and graceful, interrupted every once in a great while with a harsh consonant.
"Curious," said Liddell.
"What?"
She shook her head and spoke to 900-1. Liddell's way of speaking the language, Wight thought, was very obviously an American stumbling over unfamiliarity.
"There's a few words she's using I don't recognize," she said, pulling off her shoes, "so I'm going to have to have her repeat herself to Dr. Vanheissen. He's the site head and, uh, our most storied linguist. You can come if you like."
The three sloshed across the shallows to the big island.
"Our office is kinda small, but there's not a lot of us anyway." Liddell paused to put her shoes back on. "Oh, and we're pretty much completely analog."
"'Cause of the electronics disruptions, yeah?"
"Mmhm. It's sporadic and usually not that bad, but it's kind of a pain to deal with, so we just avoid using very advanced electronic stuff altogether. Except for our fans, and our lights, and that fence." She gestured to the walls enclosing the islands. "Oh, and we have a radio. Most of the time it's just static but sometimes you can hear indistinct voices."
"Neat," Wight said. She hoped she wasn't coming across as a bitch. Her voice just sounded so dead all the time it was hard not to.
Liddell opened the door of the office for Wight and 900-1. Wight looked around - the place was dark and cool, tiled in that weird mottled grey that had been ubiquitous in offices a couple decades ago. A guy in a Hawaiian shirt sat at a desk covered in paperwork as he fiddled with an old radio - Wight felt her insides clench reflexively, though when she realized the thing wasn't on, she exhaled with relief.
"Ugh, power's out again," Liddell muttered. She started towards a door on the left when she noticed the Hawaiian shirt.
"Sup, midget?" he said, nodding to Liddell.
"Don't call me that, and don't mess with the radio when there's a blackout. Doc V said."
"He also said not to be a sycophant. Midget."
Liddell stalked off, 900-1 in tow. He set the radio on the desk and turned to Wight with a grin. When he was looking at her full in the face, she could see that his eyes were of mismatched colors. "Delacroix. Emergency medicine and demolitions."
"Er." Wight had checked the report - there was a grand total of 32 people in the whole Site, counting 900-1. "How often do you get work around here?"
"Pretty much never. 'S why I'm always listenin' to the radio." He gave the little plastic box a hard thump with a closed fist. "Or I would, if this place didn't keep fuckin' with my stuff."
"Oh. I don't like radios anyway."
"Bad experience?"
"You could say that." She rubbed the back of her head, feeling a little awkward. "Um, where did Doctor K go?"
He gestured to the door Liddell had disappeared through. Wight approached it. For a moment, she was almost proud of herself for doing something right for once.
The lights flicked on, and so did the radio, and so did the Noise. Rob curled around her arms; only moments later her hands filled with tiny cuts as she brought them up to guard him from an explosion of window glass. She blinked a few times against the warmth that was filling her left eye.
"Jesus Chr - "
She attempted to respond to Delacroix, but consciousness left her before she could make a sound.


Okay people, sit your asses down and shut your pie holes. I've got places to go and people more important than you to see, because I happen to be a scientist and we scientists have a tendency to be very busy and important people. If you're out there in the folding chairs, that means that you're the new guys. Bottom of the totem pole. But, it also means that you passed the entrance exams. Welcome to the SPC. From this moment onward, your job is very, very simple: you are going to punch sharks.
In the face.
You will punch sharks. When not punching sharks, you will be planning on punching sharks. You will be developing new ways to punch sharks. You will read about punching sharks. You will write about punching sharks. You will study punching sharks. You will dream about punching sharks. You will jump the shark. You will collect and contain paranormal objects, and then use them to beat up sharks.
Punching sharks is your life.
You may be asking yourself “Self, how am I to punch these sharks?” With your fists.
And you may ask yourself “Self, what if I am bitten by a shark? I am unsure of what to do.” Go see an alchemist.
And you may say to yourself “Self, my teeth have become shark-like, in the sense that they have all turned into sharks!” Good, now start punching them.
It's an important job, mark my words. There are people out there, many people who just don't understand why. They don't realize how important our job is. You will be challenged, you will be mocked, you will be insulted, but you cannot lose sight of the goal: your fist in a shark's face.
Several years ago, a former employee asked me “Why do we punch sharks?” You know what I said to him?
“Sir, do you hate science? Are you a science-hating shark-hugger? Do you approve of the non-science shark agenda?" He said no, he wasn't.
I punched him in the face anyway, because he was clearly a closet shark. Because that's what we fucking do at the SPC.
When you all came in here, there was a copy of Sun Tzu's The Art of Punching Sharks on your chair. You are all to have read that by the time you report in tomorrow morning. Now get out of here. Those sharks aren't going to punch themselves.
Because they don't have hands.


Everett, my good man. Please… Sit down. No, I insist.
It's time we had a chat, the two of us. No, I think this is the perfect time. It's not like we're going to get another. Not with the way things are now. We've got a possible plan, but I don't think Stimson will be successful. He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, you know. Not at all… Not at all…
You see, my boy, I understand you. I understand you quite perfectly. All the rest think you're varying levels of sinner and saint, that you somehow understand something special about us, that you might make the next, logical successor for one of us… They're all quite right, to some level. You certainly are passionate. I could see you doing anything to uphold the mission of the Foundation. Anything at all.
You should have done it already, Everett. You should have found all thirteen of us, pulled out a gun, and shot us in the head. Don't pretend that you hadn't already considered it. I know that you've got plans for us, for each of us, that would be at least moderately successful. You'd probably have eliminated the bulk of them. Probably. Not me, though. Not that it matters now, anyway.
But now, it's too late. Far, far too late. We let things go on too long. Let them snowball. I don't doubt that you'll struggle to the very end. You strike me as the sort to, honestly. Admirable. One of the few admirable things about you, really.
Do you know when I realized I wasn't playing God, Everett? I'll tell you. It was when they wouldn't let me bring my son back. Do you know how long it took me to get to this point? This point in my life? I don't age, Mann. I may never die, if all things go well. I wanted a family, though… Silly of me, wasn't it? Wanting a family. I had one. They took them from me, though. One at a time. T.J. Elliot. Jack… Poor Jack.
When did you first figure it out, Everett? What we were really doing?
Heh. I suppose that makes sense. The Insurgency always was our biggest hole. Could never find a way to explain it away… Agatha tried a few times, but… Ahh, well. Makes sense, I suppose… And when did you find out that we were—
Really? Hmm… Well, it's too late for that to matter now. They've done it, whoever they are. Whatever we called forth through that blasted chink in the universe's armor. You want to know the best part, Doctor? I don't regret any of it.
None of it, Everett. Not that ridiculous lizard or its brood, not those little crabs that slice and cut like they're nothing, not the madmen or the demons or the cakes—the god damned cakes! We were trying to feed the world, Mann! We didn't realize what we were doing! We never realized what we were doing! NEVER!
We just… we didn't realize… We wanted to make the world better, and then… Things fell apart. Things always fall apart…
Yes, I know. I'm completely mad. We all were. We'd have to be, for what we did. But we were mad with a purpose. Creation… Blissful, glorious creation. We were God in the garden, Everett. And we wanted you to join us so badly. You had so many fantastic ideas… Why, the Thaumiel initiative you proposed was sheer brilliance…
But it's too late, Everett. Far too late. And now… Well, I know you keep the gun in your top, left hand drawer. If you don't mind? On your way out?
Thank you, my boy. And try to enjoy the last few moments you have. Rage, my boy! Rage against the dying of the lig—


"Wait in the car. I've got this one," Harken said.
Kramer fixed him with a cold, hard gaze from her oscilloscope-green eyes. "I can't back you up from out here," she said.
"If I need your brand of backup, it means that I've fucked up badly enough that getting killed would be preferable to telling the O5's what happened. Wait in the damn car. I'll be back in half an hour."
Kramer turned away from him and looked out the passenger side window at her reflection in side of the burgundy-red minivan in the next parking space over. Her internal cybernetics whirred and clicked as she moved. Fingers with too many joints flexed and relaxed, inch-long razor-edged blades snapping in and out from under her fingertips. She looked like a tensing cat getting ready to spring. She always did.
Harken liked Kramer, he really did, but his partner and fellow agent was a hammer who saw everything around her as a nail. Some situations, like this one, needed a little more finesse. Thankfully, finesse was what he did. "Don't worry about it," he said. "This should be simple."
A man in a dark blue uniform, wearing a waist-length cape, opened the front door for him as he approached the front door of the hotel. Harken strode past him straight to the elevators, showed the bellman the black card with the gold lettering and the fractal pattern along the edges. The bellman nodded and touched a control on the sixth elevator, the one that never operated except for a very select few.
Though the hotel had thirty floors, there were only two buttons in this elevator. He pressed the top button and checked his pockets for his smokes. They were still there. Thus reassured, he leaned back against the wall and whistled a jaunty tune as the elevator headed to the thirty-first floor.
The elevator doors opened, and Harken was faced with a massive man with biceps the size of footballs, who looked like he could pop a man's head like a pimple. The giant waved a scanning wand over the agent's body, frowned when the wand beeped. Harken very carefully reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his Zippo. "Just this," he said, flipping the lighter open and igniting the flame. "For my smokes."
The giant shook his head and held out a small silver tray. Harken nodded and left his lighter behind. "I'll want it back on my way out," he said, with a small smile. The giant seemed unamused.
Past the doors was a dining room with white walls and marble-tiled floors. In the dining room was a cadaverously slender man dressed entirely in white. He held a silver fork and knife in his delicately fingered hands, and he was cutting into a grilled chicken breast: small, precise pieces which he transferred to his mouth and chewed with all the delicacy of a ballet dancer. There was a crystal goblet in front of him which, Harken knew, contained distilled water. Distilled water was the only thing Mister Cutridge ever drank.
"Agent Harken," Cutridge said, as he put down his knife and fork and patted his lips with a silk napkin. "I was wondering when I would see you again."
"Cutridge," Harken said. He flopped down into one of the high-backed chairs and pulled out his smokes and a book of matches. "How goes it?"
"It continues as well as can be expected. My division is expecting to acquire some new merchandise in the near future, for which I believe I have your own people to thank."
"Not my division," Harken said, lighting up a cigarette. He took a long drag and blew a big puff of smoke into the air. "No blood off my back. Ask me if I care."
"You may not care about the losses suffered by your company, but I do care about you smoking in my home. I dislike…"
"Oh, bite me, Cutridge. I've had the shittiest week of my entire life. The least you can do is let me have a smoke while we shoot the shit." Harken took another deep drag of his cigarette and blew a smoke ring at Cutridge's face, was gratified to see the man screw up his face trying not to cough at the acrid vapors.
"Very well," Cutridge said, in a brittle, angry voice. "I will allow you to indulge this once. But speak quickly and leave even more quickly. My patience is limited tonight."
"Then I'll make it simple. My guys have taken a hit. A HARD one. Simply put, there's blood in the water, and the sharks are circling. Now, I know you've been looking at a little warehouse downtown filled with all sorts of fun things that could make a certain Mister Cutridge very popular with his higher-ups at Marshall, Carter, and Dark. I know you've mentioned this to said bosses in the past. I want you to show some prudence. Keep your boys at home for this one. Keep quiet. Don't stir up trouble. The artifacts that got loose are fair game. Don't get greedy and try to set loose a few more."
Mister Cutridge was quiet for a long time. "No," he said, curtly.
"Seriously? After all I've done for you? After all the times I've pointed you towards artifacts that could make you a tidy profit?"
"You've pointed me to trinkets that your organization is unwilling to make the effort to secure for themselves. No, Agent Harken, I believe that this time, it is I who am arguing from a position of strength. Your Foundation cannot even protect themselves from a small group of college students with delusions of grandeur. How can they expect to defend against us?"
"Fine," Harken sighed. "In that case, wait three minutes and we'll see who's arguing from a position of strength then."
"What?"
Harken stubbed his cigarette out onto a tea saucer. "My smokes are laced with a nerve agent. I'm inoculated. You're not. The dose you took should be lethal in minutes."
Cutridge's eyes bulged out, and he leaped up from his chair, knocking it over in his haste. "GUA—"
There was an explosion on the foyer. Harken smiled. "It's amazing how much plastique you can pack into a cigarette lighter when you really try," he reflected.
Cutridge gasped and turned purple, grabbing at his throat and making nasty wheezing noises as Harken leaned over him. The agent pulled a small vial filled with a bright blue liquid from his coat pocket. "Now, there is an antidote," Harken said, "But if you want it, you need to agree to my terms. Stay at home for this one. All right?"
Cutridge nodded. Harken handed the man the vial, and he snapped it open and swallowed the blue liquid in one gulp. Harken smiled and patted him on the face. "See you around, Liam," he said.
He was walking past the still-smouldering body of the big guy (slumped over the reception desk with a surprised look in his lifeless eyes) when he heard the familiar but unpleasant sound of a handgun being cocked behind him. He sighed. "Can't let it go, huh, Liam?" Harken said.
"Can't let you live, not when you've managed to waltz into my home and nearly murder me," Cutridge said, in that cold, reptilian voice. "It's not good for business."
"Yeah, I can see that," Harken muttered. "People might think there was blood in the water."
Cutridge laughed. Harken laughed too.
Cutridge was still laughing when he shit himself and died.
"That was blue Kool-Aid, you asshole," Harken said.
He tried the elevator button and was surprised to see it was still working. "God bless the Otis company," he murmured. The trip down seemed very long. He forced himself to walk out of the hotel at a measured pace.
Kramer was still staring at her reflection in the minivan as he climbed back into the car and started it up. "How did it go?" she asked.
"Not well," Harken said. "It's sad how few businesses are willing to do a little charity work nowadays. Who's next?"
"A couple of agents from the UIU are investigating a warehouse fire. We need to make sure they don't investigate too much."
"Ah, Wolfram and Uecker. Pair of good kids. This should be simple."
The car pulled out of the hotel parking lot and drove off to its next destination.


I know my eyes look sunken without actually touching them. They always do, now days.
I can feel them—them—both pressed against my chest, just above my heart, and for the first time in eons, I push a smile onto my face. This will be it, then. One last swipe, one last… Ending. But it was worth it, wasn't it?
I have to believe that it was. If I didn't, I'd have put a bullet in my head a long time ago. Or a knife in my gut. Or a grith behind my ear. Depends on the universe, after all. As I drum my fingers along the ark, I allow myself to reminisce. I only do it now, at the end. It's the only time I dare to. Because I'm sure that—at any other moment—my conscience would get the better of me. It's odd, I admit, thinking like that. I'd thought it was gone, along with Alyssa, but it's still there. It nags at me.
Leaving home was hard, after all. Quite hard. Not just for me emotionally, but… the science there, I couldn't begin to fully comprehend. Imagine, just for a moment, you're floating above the world. Now, imagine it suddenly being stabbed open by some invisible, incomprehensible thing. The world cracking open like a filthy, blue egg—oceans falling down the sides helplessly, the lava generating huge gouts of steam. And an uneven keening sound. You may imagine that it's the sudden steam, but I've lived long enough to know better.
It's screaming.
Now… imagine falling into that. Falling and falling and falling until you hit the ground. And when you get up… it looks like the same, damned place. The same people. Evolution is, if nothing else, remarkably consistent.
Now, do that for a thousand lifetimes. And tell me you don't feel guilt.
I feel old. And I am old. But I'm also nearly done. After this one, I should be able to put my work to use… To change things for the better. Which made it so much worse when you walked in my office. And I knew, when you looked at me, what you were about to do.
"I can explain," I say. But the gun is leveled at my chest. And I know that I'm out of supplies. I reach into my pocket quietly, pulling out the key card and my diary.
"You don't know what this means for you," I say.
"It means you aren't going to kill us all," you respond.
I stand up. I look at you closely and shake my head. "No. It means that you'll have to. The key code is Thaum—"
The shot echoes in the small room, and I feel the hollow point hitting my chest like a sledge hammer, feel ribs splintering and sinking into my lung, my organs being ravaged. And I smile. And I laugh. And through bloody spittle, I manage to barely gasp enough breath to speak.
"Good luck," I say. You're not smiling.
And I hope, for the millionth time, that all universes share one heaven. And I hope, for the millionth time, that I can see you in it from my special hell.


Timothy Dalton's young hands shook with the exuberance that only a child can feel. It had been two weeks to the day. To the day! And now, it should finally be here! He ran home, grinning the entire way, dragging his backpack behind him.
He rushed to the mailbox, opening it and peering inside, his smile falling away. It was empty. He sighed, slowly dragging his bag after himself, walking up the step of his house. He dropped off his backpack on the kitchen table and got a glass of water, sipping it as his mother walked into the room, leaning over to kiss his head. When she stood back up, she frowned gently. "What's wrong, hun?" she asked. She only called him 'hun' when she wanted to be sweet to him.
"Did I… get any mail today?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Were you expecting something?" she asked. "You didn't sign up for something, did you?" she asked, more sternly.
"N-no…" he lied. "I was just… hoping to hear from my penpal…"
She didn't believe him, but his disappointment was enough to ease her anger. 'Probably just a stupid mailing list again…' she thought. Already, he'd gotten Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, Scientologists… Ever since he'd learned his address, they'd been getting mail and fliers.
She kissed his head again. "Maybe tomorrow…" she said. "Now, head up to your room and take care of your homework."
He nodded, taking his bag and heading up the stairs, tossing it onto his bed. He walked over to his desk and sat at it, turning on the old computer his parents let him have, almost not noticing the box sitting to the left of it.
It was wrapped in brown paper, with a string around it. It looked like a package out of a movie. With trembling hands, he reached for it, taking it and pulling off the paper quickly, stopping and tugging at the string, frustrated until it broke with a quick snap, opening it and seeing…
It was beautiful. Shining silver—who cared if it was plastic?—with lights running up and down either side. It looked exactly like the picture. He pointed it out the window, pulling the trigger and grinning as all the lights flashed and a high pitched sound, just like from a movie, issued from it. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he slipped it into his pocket, hurrying out of his room and down the stairs again, shouting to his mother as he flew out the door: "I'll be at Johnny's house!"
"What about your homework?" she shouted back, but he was already gone, running down the street, eager to show off his new acquisition.
When he got there, he found Johnny in the yard, playing with his imagination, running and gunning. Tim smiled, jumping out from behind a tree and shouting loudly, intending to scare as he pulled out his new toy. "I'll fix you, Space Man!" Johnny jumped, turning and then frowning, angry at having been sneaked up on.
"That's not funny, Ti—"
His voice died away as Tim pulled the trigger. He stopped for a moment, then slumped to the ground, falling in a heap. Tim smiled a little, laughing and running to him. "Johnny! Johnny! Isn't it neat?!" he asked, laughing and smiling.
But Johnny didn't respond.

Simon Hayden opened the box, smiling and grinning as he took out the toy, eyes wide and expectant. He turned, showing to his little brother who's face practically glowed with envy. "Hey! No fair! Where'd you get that?!" he said.
"Isn't it cool!" he said, smiling. "It's free! You just have to go to this website and give them your address and they send you free stuff!"
His little brother got a greedy glint in his eye. "What is it?! What is it!?!"
Simon smiled, ruffling his hair playfully—and because it annoyed him—and grinned. "Just go to www.thefactory.net…"


The muffled sound reminded her of fireworks. A dull "boom, boom" in the distance that echoed over the landscape. She was half-asleep when it happened, before her phone rang. Groaning, she rolled over, vaguely noting that her husband wasn't in bed, and placed it to her ear.
"H'lo?" She grumbled, musing over the cottony mouth she got from sleeping. Gears' voice answered, dead as always.
"Doctor Rights, we are requesting that you return to Site 17 for immediate safehouse procedure Gamma-Phi-18."
Her brain sluggishly tried to recall what the hell that was. There was a long silence. Fireworks again. Finally, he repeated himself, monotone.
"Gather your family, and come to work." He hung up.
"…Kay, Gears."
Was this a weird dream? She looked at the clock. 4:15. Nope, just really goddamn early. And who the fuck was shooting off fireworks? The dull booming was constant, now, and she struggled to get up and pull on sweatpants, making her way downstairs. The TV was on, her husband before it, and she went to put a hand on his shoulder.
"Christopher, hey." She squeezed his shoulder. He didn't look up from the TV. She glanced at it, and froze, instantly awake. It was the local news channel, video of brilliant white fireworks in the sky. The camera panned down, to where the reporter, in a panic, was gesturing and shouting to a perfectly whitewashed sculpture of a human being, frozen in mid-run. It could have been a statue, were it not for the impossible detail. And the many other white-coated items in view. A house, cars, a bird in mid-flight.
She hauled Christopher to his feet, snapping him out of his stupor. "Get the kids!" She barked, in his face, and he stared at her.
"We….we should stay inside."
"Nope!" She released him, and motioned to the kids' rooms, turning to the door. She had to get the car started, dashing upstairs to grab her phone and keys, returning downstairs just as the cries of an interrupted toddler started to go through the house. Christopher stepped out, carrying the little boy, and she nodded to him, hustling to the garage. She waited in the car, checking her phone again. Low signal. Finally, he stepped into the garage, carting the still-bawling toddler and a frightened five-year-old girl behind him.
"Ophelia, you get in the front seat. You're riding like a big girl for this!" She shouted out the window, and the girl perked up, a bit, hurrying around. "Christopher, get in the back. You can put Chester in while we're moving." He nodded, and did so, frowning at his wife.
"…I promise, I'll explain later," she said, softly, making sure Ophelia was buckled in and Christopher was getting the boy into his carseat before pulling out of the garage. Outside, the neighborhood was a mixture of panic and reserve. Most people were hiding inside. Some, though…were out, sitting on rooftops, standing in yards, frantically packing cars.
The second she heard Chester's restraint belt click into place, she floored it, steering the family van wildly around people and cars alike in the street. They came across a massive white splatter on the street, and she curved around it. Out of the neighborhood, out of the suburbs…into the surrounding fields.
The little boy fell back asleep. Christopher and Ophelia stared out the windows, uncertain and horrified. There were white items everywhere, splatters over cornfields, perfectly preserved white trees. A few people, here and there, cars, stopped in the street, the people inside frozen perfectly.
Rights tried not to look, until she barreled through the gates of the compound, slowing only to roll down the window so the guard could see her. He waved her through, and she pulled into the parking lot, where several others were waiting, being led in. There weren't that many, actually, when she looked over it. Only a dozen or so, but there were several white splatters on the asphalt, a handful of white cars…
She skidded to a stop. "Get the kids out!" She shouted at Christopher, hopping out and looking around, finding herself face to face with Gears. He looked at her impassively, and checked her name off of a list. "What the fuck is going on?!"
"We believe SCP-7843-1 either breached containment, or was released by a hostile group."
Dr. Rights gestured emphatically in the arm, trying to work up words, though now her lack of sleep and preparation were catching up to her. Christopher called from behind her.
"Honey!"
"One moment!" She shouted back. He must've been struggling with the child restraint, still. Ophelia opened the car door and sat there, legs swinging, looking around uncomfortably. Rights glanced at them, then back to Gears, wincing as several of the booming sounds grew louder, then faded again. She looked up, the white fireworks were starting to leave cracks in the sky, she could see them in the distance. Like cracks on a windshield, centered and spreading.
"Please make your way inside, to the designated shelter areas," Gears said. Rights glared at him.
"What are we doing?"
"I am not certain what you mean by this question."
"This is nationwide, isn't it? Worldwide? What the god damn hell are we doing about this?!"
"Mom! Mom!" Ophelia shouted, upset.
"…There will be a controlled release of SCP-7778 into the upper atmosphere, once the satellites reach optimum height." She stared. "This will occur in thirty-seven minutes, approximately. Please retrieve your family and-"
BOOM
BOOM
BOOM
He didn't finish his sentence, and she almost didn't see him react, so focused she was on his impassive, unmoving face, when his hand fisted in her shirt, and dragged her forwards, roughly. She hit the ground at his feet, hard, and cursed, tensing as she saw white splatter here and there, meters away but still too close. A scream was cut off, and she saw one of the splatters hit another researcher, and in a moment he was nothing, a blank white statue of himself, in mid-stride, his coat billowing behind him.
Gears looked behind her.
She didn't hear anything.
She got to her feet slowly, taking in a very, very deep breath.
"Doctor Rights, please go indoors."
"…" She stared at him. The remaining few in the parking lot were bolting their way inside.
"…Please go indoors, to the designated shelter area. Do not turn around."
She didn't listen, and turned on her heel. The white had hit the van head-on, and it, and the short area surrounding it, were completely washed. Inside the open doors, she could see Christopher, hunched over Chester's peacefully sleeping face, his hands locked in mid-struggle with a twisted belt. Ophelia's mouth was open, mid-yell, brows low and fingers gripping the edge of her seat with concern.
Every last detail of them, down to their eyelashes, perfectly preserved, and washed white.
She was not entirely certain what happened next, other than that it was exceedingly rough, and she knew bruises were going to form on her arm where he grabbed her and hauled her inside, ignoring her kicks and screams. It wasn't until she was flung onto a couch that her thoughts seemed to catch up to her, and she decided to stop screaming and fighting and start curling up and crying. Going through the emotional training was not anything like the real thing, she thought in the back of her mind.
A quarter-hour passed, and she felt good enough to sit up and look around. One of the lower lounges, re-purposed. The doors were shut, and there were a few dozen individuals waiting around.
"…Where is everybody?"
"There are nineteen designated safety areas for staff in Site 17." Gears was sitting next to her, looking over a checklist. She stole a glance and rubbed her bleary eyes. Names. Very few of them were checked off.
"What about the skips?"
"SCP Containment is self-sealed under Emergency Protocols. They should remain unaffected, as us."
She sat back against the couch, going over every question in her mind, trying to pick the important ones.
"…When is the reset set for?"
"The first instance of SCP-7843-1 was detected at Midnight, Central Time. The reset is set to return to one minute before the first detonation occurred, and the phenomenon became self-propagating."
She forgot her questions, and another jag of crying hit her. A few of the other researchers looked at her with mixtures of pity and empathy. She caught her breath, and Gears handed her a pen.
"…What's this for?"
"Do you remember the report you submitted while applying for your current position? It was about the possibility for physical evidence to remain after preternaturally memetic or reality-altering events." She stared at him, blankly, as he stood and pulled more pens from his pocket, handing them out around the room. "We are presented with a unique opportunity here, to retain information of an information-erasure event. While the Foundation already has pre-set means to record these hours, this will serve as a baseline test for the possibility of personal information retention."
Everybody else seemed to get it at once, with a collective series of "oh"s and "ah"s and "this is retarded"s.
Rights looked down at her hands.
"There are four to five minutes remaining until SCP-7778's release. Please take this opportunity to manufacture evidence." Gears announced, and sat back down, all out of pens, looking over his sheet again.
Rights stared at her bare arms, still in her pajama top. She looked up. One researcher was frantically scrawling on the walls, another was opening magazines and writing inside of them, on every page, methodically and quick. One of them started writing on the inside of his labcoat. She looked at her arms again…and began to write.
Over the next several minutes, many things happened. Most importantly, though, the walls began to fade. They could be seen through, and before long they could see all the way to other saferooms. There was some waving and gesturing back and forth. She looked down, between her feet, and saw SCPs peering back up at her. The furniture went next. Some items were retaining, but many things, including the edge of Rights' slippers, were started to fade as well.
She kept writing, they all did. There was little else to do. Dr. Gears' list disappeared out of his hands, and he sat there, eyes closed, arms at his side like a puppet with no strings. Finally, Rights ran out of important things to write. She had started at the elbow of her left arm, and extended down to the back of her hand, with her tiny, neat handwriting. Names, dates, appearances…
"Hey, Gears?," Rights asked, looking down at her feet. Her ankles faded, revealing yellow fat and red muscle beneath. Her toes, just rapidly-fading bones, flexed. So weird.
He didn't look at her, but opened his eyes.
"…what about you?"
"Erasure events typically use manipulation of the emotional connection with memories to alter an individual's perception of events, rather than manipulating the events themselves."
"Ah…so…will you be affected?"
"In the case of an erasure event, I often am not. Other times, I am. It is variable."
She sat back. Wait.
"Has this happened before?," she asked, suddenly.
"Yes."
She stared at the ceiling. Maybe it would be okay.
"One minute." He said. Everybody sat down, tired…and waited.
It was the longest sixty seconds in the whole of her existence. Everything was fading to white. She couldn't feel her arms anymore, and when she glanced down, they were gone. The tip of her nose disappeared. She saw another researcher, fading faster, reduced down to bones and nerves and a cluster of half-there organs, before he vanished altogether.
She closed her eyes.
The darkness itself faded to white.
And then.
GOOD MORNING. DO DOO DOOO…BUH BA BOP BAH BA DA DA DA DA BA- GOOD MORNING! DO DOO DOOO…BUH BA BOP BAH BA DA DA-
She flopped her arm to the bedside table like it was a dying fish, and managed to knock her alarm clock out of reach before she finally rolled across the empty bed and reached it, jamming on the off button violently. With a soft groan, she checked the time. 5:31.
It took considerable effort to get out of bed that morning. Every thought seemed to drag like concrete, every movement ached. She stumbled to the shower, and winced at herself in the mirror after turning on the water. It was only after she stuck her hand under the flow to test the temperature that she noticed the smeared ink rapidly washing off her skin, and quickly pulled her arm back. Weird, had she been writing on herself in her sleep? She looked over the remaining words, smudged from sweat and sleep.
"…Ophelia, November 1st, five years old, brown ha….hair? Is that hair?" She read and mused aloud, squinting. "Huh…okay, more…uhm…Topher…October 24, oh, well, that's easy." Her brain chugged to life. She heard her husband stir in the bedroom, and groan, rolling over in his sleep. As if on cue, she could hear her daughter darting around the hallway downstairs, to the TV. Weekend! Time for cartoons!
After several minutes of squinting, she realized that there was nothing else decipherable on her arm. Why had she been writing about her husband and kid? There were only other words that didn't make sense. Daysitting? No, Ophelia was in kindergarten…Blonde? No, everybody was Brunette.
She shook her head. Probably not important, she rationalized, shuffling into the shower and scrubbing her arm clean. The rest of the morning went featurelessly. She complained to Christopher that the toddler bed was still set up in Ophelia's old room, now relegated to storage, and he asked her why there was a box of diapers in the closet. They didn't think about it.
She didn't think about it until she arrived at work, smiling at the guard as she pulled through the gate leisurely. The only thing odd about the day was when they called for a meeting and announced that SCP-7778 had been released last night, and to report any suspicious behavior or items found, as they could be classified as evidence.
She was glad she must've slept through that. Sounded like a real clusterfuck.


Hey there, guys. Uh… Right. My name is Lament. Don't call me doctor. I'm not a doctor. I work for a doctor, sometimes. Anyhow, they asked me to come and talk to you guys for a little bit today. Normally, someone else does this, so… just bear with me, I guess. Right? Right. So… Listen. I'm going to do my level best to get this across to you in the nicest way that I can.
A lot of you are going to die. And it's going to be your own fault. I'm sorry, but that's just how it is. And there's a really good reason for it, too. I hear it in the lunchroom every day.
‘Have you seen 682? Man, that thing will annihilate you!'
‘Dude, I saw 173 snap a guy's neck during the last security breach. Scariest thing I've ever seen…'
‘You hear about 835? Fuck, man, it's disturbing…'
You care about the SCPs you guard. You will. It'll happen, because it's what always happens. You get an odd, possessive quality to yourself, something you can't easily describe. When you guard 914, it is yours, damn it. There's pride, there. You'll love your SCP, just don't, you know, love your SCP. Heh… Little… Little joke there… But… uh… but that's a good thing. You get into arguments about what would be the worst one to break free or who would win in a fight. You care about what you guard. You care about what it can do. On some level, you start to love them. And that's how we know how precious all this shit—even that fucking mirror who talks to you—how precious it is.
And really… that's where you fuck up.
See, the problem is this: we don't really give a damn what an object can do. Essentially, at the root of it all… We don't. We like to know, though. Hell, we have to know. But that's not as important.
Containing it is what's important. Doing what we have to do to keep people safe. It's why the containment comes first in all the files. It's the most important thing. You guys can still remember your parents, right? Them. We're keeping them safe. Your grandparents, your old friends… We contain these things to protect them.
See, this is where we always fuck it up. The second they make you forget about everyone… Ahh, well… It's not important. Just remember. Right now, remember this feeling. Hold on to it.
Because eventually, you're going to slip.
Eventually, some of these carefully crafted procedures, something that dozens of people died so we could make sure it worked… You're going to fuck up.
People will die. Maybe even you. Don't let that happen, if you can. Remember the feeling of your parents. The emotions that are tied to all those people out there. You can forget memories, but it's hard to forget the emotions tied to it. You ever hear of Little Albert? Same thing.
Anyhow, sorry to be such a downer. Doctor… Rights? Is that right? Doctor Rights is going to make sure you're all good and healthy, give you some drinks. Don't bite the pill, just swallow it.
And remember, alright? Especially for the next little bit? Try?
I… Uh… Yeah. Sorry, Doctor. Your show now. I'll see you guys around the water cooler, right?


"What am I even doing here?" Sol muttered, watching the man in the wolf suit walk by. "I don't have anything in common with these people."
"These people happen to be our most faithful customers, man," James said. "It's a big hit among furry audiences."
"I know," Sol sighed. "I've seen the fanart. It's not like anyone gives a crap about the writing, anyway, they just want to see the guy who draws the sexy animal girls."
"Not true! The comic gets twice the number of hits that my art does. People come back for your writing, man. We're a team, remember?"
"Whatever, dude. All I know is I'm down the cost of a plane ticket and hotel room, and no one's buying shit."
James rolled his eyes and grinned. "Hey, don't worry, man, we'll at least break even before the con's over. Tell ya what: let's go clubbing after this. Grab a couple of beers and forget about this whole thing. You'll be happy again in no time, man."
"Is it going to be a normal club or one where everyone wears fursuits?" Sol griped.
"It's going to be a furpile. We'll all yiff and scritch each other, then lick each other's fursuits and die of poisoning like in that one episode of CSI."
"Really?"
"No."
"Damn, you got my hopes up."
"Sorry to disappoint you." He glanced down at his watch. "I've got an artist meetup to go to. Hold the fort, try to sell a few books, kay?"
"See ya." Sol gave his friend a lazy wave and leaned back to watch the freaks. Most of them were clustered at the other end of the artist's alley, where the more risqué artists were hawking their wares. He sighed and cursed the day that James had ever convinced him that, "We should totally do a comic together, man." On the whole, he would much rather be sleeping in.
He was startled to realize that someone was standing at his booth, flipping through Volume 1. Her brow was furrowed, and her lips were pursed together as she scrutinized the pages. "You are the writer?" she asked.
"Yeah, that's me. SolKid."
"A strange name."
"It's my internet handle. My friends call me Sol. My parents call me Solomon."
"Mmm." The girl frowned and held the book up to the light, shaking her head. "And so, this is what we've been reduced to," she said. "Masturbatory fantasy fodder."
"It's what the people want. You gonna buy that or not?" Sol asked.
"No," the girl said, putting the book back down in its wire stand. "I think I shall give you something better." She smiled, revealing long, sharp canine teeth: a feral, animal grin. "I think I shall give you something better to write about."
It was only then that Sol realized that the girl was naked.
She had vaguely Asian features: almond eyes and long straight black hair stretching to her knees. Her eyes were yellow, and their pupils were thin slits. Her fingers were tipped with sharp, hooked claws. Nine red, foxlike tails flared behind her.
There was a brief hush. Everyone turned to gawk at her. A few camera flashes here and there. She stood silently, her head tilted back, eyes closed, hands clenched tightly at her sides.
Then an overweight man in a red vest ran up, yelling, "HEY HEY HEY, NONE OF THAT, THIS IS A FAMILY CONVENTION!"
Her hand flashed out as he reached to grab her, plunged into his abdomen with an unpleasant squelching sound before he even touched her, stepped aside and kicked at his shin, sending him sprawling to the ground screaming and grabbing at his spilling entrails. She opened her mouth unpleasantly wide and swallowed the gory thing clutched in her hand in a single gulp.
Then the screaming started.
Once, when he was a kid, Sol had taken a trip to the Holocaust museum with his high school class. They had seen an image of the inside of one of the gas chambers, where the prisoners had been executed. There were deep gouges in the walls where the desperate people had clawed at them to try and get out, places where they had trampled each other to death trying to crawl over each other to climb higher, in a blind panic. It had been terrifying enough to imagine that happening to emaciated, shaved-head prisoners in a Nazi death camp.
It was even worse when happening to a bunch of brightly dressed fans at a convention.
And then the madness began. He saw a skinny girl wearing cat's ears and a bodysuit screaming and pounding at a wall when an unlocked door was a few feet to her left. He saw a big, tough-looking guy wearing a black t-shirt go berserk and beat a teenage boy to death with a steel chair. A chubby girl walked up to him with empty eye sockets, her crushed eyes weeping blood and fluid. "Maggots in my eyes, get them out, maggots in my eyes, get them out," she wailed.
And while this happened, the girl with the yellow eyes stalked through the crowd like a shark through a school of fish: never stopping, always killing. Here she tore a man's liver out and ate it whole. There, she tore a girl's throat with her teeth. Then she was no longer eating, just killing in a berserk frenzy, screaming mad, animal cries as she curbstomped a slightly overweight guy with bad acne to death against the concession stand counter.
It was the most beautiful thing Sol had ever seen.
And then it was still. The doors of the hall swung back and forth on broken hinges where the panicked crowd had smashed them down in their mad, panicked exodus. A few unfortunates, trampled under the crowd, lay groaning in pain on the hard concrete floor. She stood in the center of the circle of gore, skin stained scarlet, and she looked up at the hard, stark light of the fluorescent tubes, and said, in a voice made low and harsh with anger and frustration: "It doesn't help. Nothing helps."
She turned to Sol, and there was murder in her eyes. "Go write about this," she said.
And then she left.

"And that was when I understood the truth," the man said. "Just as humanity has tried to sterilize our cities of wildlife and our lives of germs, we've tried to sterilize our minds from the supernatural. The hard light of science has tried to drive the things of myth out of our lives and into the corners of the world. And just like any cornered creature, they are fighting back."
"While this continues, there can be no peace. The only solution is peaceful coexistence with the supernatural, as in the old days before the rise of the worldwide global scientific conspiracy, but as long as organizations like this Foundation exist, there can be no peace. For the sake of peace, they must be destroyed."
"The Serpent's Hand tries, but they are bound by the shackles of their own morals: they are useful to us, in a way, but they have not the will to do what needs to be done. The C.I. is content to lord over their Third World backwaters: like Mengele, they are interested only in their own grotesque experimentation. The Church is interested only in rescuing their "Broken God" from this Foundation. Only we of the Freemind Nation are willing to put our lives on the line for the sake of peace."
"Will you help us?"
The man stared intently at the girl sitting across the table. She had vaguely Asian features: almond eyes and long straight black hair stretching to her knees. Her eyes were yellow, and their pupils were thin slits. Her fingers were tipped with sharp, hooked claws, which she tapped against the hardwood table, where a plate with a liver from a freshly slaughtered, grass-fed, organically raised cow lay on a clean white plate. Nine red, foxlike tails flared behind her in a peacock's fan of swaying reddish fur.
She reached out one hand and, without a word, swallowed the gory chunk of meat in front of her in one gulp.
The man smiled. "Let me tell you about our plan, then…"


Excuse me, please. If you would all just turn your attention… Okay, settle down now, I need to… If I could just have your-quiet! I said quiet! I said-will you all just please-I said-SHUT THE FUCK UP!
Ahem. Now that I have your attention, we may begin. I am Junior Assistant Researcher Doc-I SAID SHUT THE HELL UP! Okay, like I was saying, I will be leading your orientation today. Now, you may all be wondering where you are. That's classified. You may be wondering who we are. That is also classified. However, I can tell you that we are a form of a research facility.
As you may remember, one of our agents approached each and every one of you and gave you an offer. You could either wait out your term on death row, or you could volunteer to participate in our testing facilities for the span of one month. Obviously, you agreed to cooperate. This entails-what? What do you mean you didn't agree? We told you that if you participate, you're free to go at the end of the month, who wouldn't take a deal like-guard, excuse me, guard, please take him-yeah, that one-to the, yeah, the third door on the left-thank you. Like I said, if you can make it through the testing procedures, we-no, I don't hear any screaming. If you can make it through the testing procedures, we let you go at the end of the month. You know, provided you cooperate fully. Sounds like a good deal, right? Was there anyone else who didn't agree? Okay then, moving on.
Like I said, provided you can survive the entire month, you get to go free. No, of course it's not a death sentence. I-no, see, when I said "survive" I meant it like, "cooperate with us" you know? I mean, yeah, it's dangerous stuff, that's why we're using death row inmates. No, no, most of the stuff here is pretty harmless, I meant dangerous like, you know, the way a bomb is dangerous if you fuck around with it. I mean, you will be fucking around with it, but you should be pretty safe if you just do what we tell you. Worst thing that'll happen is your toes will tingle a few minutes afterwards. Last batch of D-Class? Not a single one died, all got to go free at the end of the month. I was there, too. Watched'em scamper back into the wilderness myself. Like a bunch of adorable, homicidal kittens. Just do what we tell you and you'll get to go home to see your loving wife and kids. Well, not you. Says here you killed your wife and kids. Must have been awkward to explain to the in-laws, eh? Heh, no, I really don't want you to tell us how you did it, I can guess.
Right. At the end of this orientation you will be directed down the hall where you will get your numerical designation tattooed on your wrist and chest. This will be mostly painless, and once you-Hmm? Why your chest? Well, in the event of an explosion, it's most likely that it'll be the largest intact chunk of meat left.
Hahahaha! I'm joking! Of course I'm joking! Yes I'm sure! That is very, very unlikely to happen. We haven't had an explosion for the past two months! Ha, look at him! He thought I was serious! Heh heh, but, ah, no. You will actually be getting your designation tattooed on your chest. I was not joking about that. Well, if you want, you can get it removed at the end of the month. No, no charge at all. It's a pretty painless procedure, actually.
Okay, once you get your new tattoo, you will be escorted to D-Block Alpha-6. This will be your new dormitory; you will eat, sleep, and bathe there. No, you were spoiled in prison, you will not be getting your own cell. I don't even have my own office, and you want your own cell? Anyways, you will be under constant video surveillance to ensure no shenanigans. We don't want any of that funny jail-time business here; you shank someone, you will be escorted behind the chemical… back to death row. Pretty much, if you piss us off, you get sent back to death row. Yeah. Seriously. A month of testing, and you go free. Don't screw it up.
Okay, that pretty much wraps it up. Any questions? You, with the-good LORD, man, did you take a round of buckshot to the face? Yeah, your question. Sure, we have a fantastic team of doctors here, best in the world. Don't worry about your medical insurance here, it won't matter anyways. Next?
Uh… you, second to the back. No, it's too late to choose death row over here, I don't know why you would want to in the first place. Well, you've got a giant swastika carved into your face, so I don't think you're the best at making life decisions.
One more… ahh… yes, you, the one missing the ear. That's not really a question. No, phrasing it to ask how many she can fit doesn't count as a question. You-my mother was a saint, if you say one more word-guard, please, if you could-there we go… No no, it's fine, I'll send the janitor down later. See? Just stay in line and cooperate. One month, and you're gone. Never have to see this place again. Really, that simple. Alright, the next batch of D's are coming down now, guards, if you could escort them out please. That's right, Alpha-6. Okay, thank you very much. Really, I don't care what he said, she was a saint. Yeah, let me know when this batch gets released this month, I want to watch.
Ahem. Welcome! I am Junior Assistant-really now, please, quiet down…