[Excerpts on life during the war from the view of a civilian]
1/22/19
It's already been a year since The Foundation was revealed to us. Times are tough, and the war has no signs of stopping. My cousin, Daryl, has been getting sicker by the day, and I have to devote all of my free time to taking care of him. And the President's televised reassurance isn't helping at all, hack. Going to try get more rations soon, but times are tough, and there aren't enough to go around.
1/30/19
There have been more people signing up for the military as of late, which means more food to go around. It's become easier to take care of Daryl, but his condition isn't really showing any improvement. I heard about 10 miles from here is a town with an old medical university. Maybe if i'm lucky, there could be some kind of medical professional there. Going with Daryl in about a week or two.
2/6/19
We arrived at the university town, and found a nice B&B to stay in temporarily. Also found someone who could help us. Robert, a junior at the university in town before the war started. He said he had a hard time diagnosing Daryl's condition, and might need another opinion on it. Hopefully we at least get Daryl's condition diagnosed soon.
2/14/19
Robert contacted his friend named Justine a week ago, but we never heard back. Daryl's condition is getting much worse, and I'm really worried about him. Rations are starting to become sparse, but we manage. The owners of the B&B are allowing us to still stay, despite me being low on cash. It's important to remember that not everyone's an asshole.
2/16/19
It's clear to us that Daryl is in alot of pain, and Robert suggests assisted suicide. He is leaving the decision up to me. I hoped that i'd never have to make a decision like this.
2/17/19
I decided to put him out of his misery. He was always like a brother to me. Fuck this stupid war, it's pointless.
2/28/19
I don't have much money, but we tried to give him a modest funeral. Robert apologized and gave his condolences. I'm not mad at him, he did his best, and right now, that's all he could do. I'll be heading home soon.
3/21/19
All we have left is water, stale bread, and shitty soup. We'll throw whatever we can find in a big pot and boil it in water. The President keeps assuring us that the war will be short, but it's obvious BS. I hope I at least get to see the war end before I die of old age.
10/31/19
It's already Halloween, time went by alot faster than I expected. Some more SCPs got leaked recently, and people wasted no time putting together costumes. Some of them are even pretty damn terrifying too. But since we don't have any treats, there's bound to be alot of tricks this year. Too bad cleaning supplies are a rarity, my house is going to look terrible.
12/23/19
This is my first second Christmas alone. It's cold as shit outside, and my heating's busted. At least I have a ton of bed sheets I can use as blankets. Even though this year has been horrible, there's still some of that Christmas magic. All I can do now is hope for the future.
9/17/20
No one is making progress in the war, it's just an elaborate draw.
11/12/20
Because of rations getting even lower, people are getting desperate. I've seen people pick up frogs, snakes, and even their own pets to throw in a stew. Their own fucking pets! At least send us some food for gods sake.
12/3/20
My neighbors went missing the other day, and nobody acted like it was strange. I'm worried about them, but I stopped asking questions about them, I don't want to go missing too.
12/5/20
I was asked to clean up the soup kitchen today. Found my neighbors bones in yesterday's stew pot. I'm getting the fuck out of here.
12/9/20
I've been locked in my own home. My keys are missing, and all the doors and windows are locked and boarded up. I think they know I know. I'm fucked.
12/11/20
There was a fight or something yesterday. Heard alot of yelling and a gunshot. This town has truly gone to shit.
12/20/20
Been here 10 11 days. Food is being put in my home when I sleep. They don't want me boney when i'm thrown in the pot. Hope help comes soon.
1/1/21
It's very quiet, too damn quiet.
1/2/21
Heard the boards being broken today. Thought I was done for. Then the weirdest thing happened. These, things, pulled me out of the house. They were tall, humanoid bees. I thought I was having a strange dream or hallucination, but it was real! Thank god i'm OK.
1/5/21
I've been feeling great lately, and I bet it's because of all the wonderful bees people that saved me. I live like a king compared to last year, It's amazing!
1/8/21
I felt kind of terrible yesterday, but still overall had a great day. They told me that I was fine, and I believe them. I mean, after them pulling me out of that shit hole, Why wouldn't I?
[Unintelligible]/21
I feel like fucking shit today
[Unintelligible]
10/12/21
Found this old notebook from before my transfiguration. I didn't know it was so painful for him, but oh well. He was sacrificed for our noble cause.
10/29/21
There's been reports of unidentified armed soldiers in the area. I hope to god they're with us.
[Addendum]
Excerpt was found in a small town in [DATA EXPUNGED]. Town was subjected to assault, and arson. It is unknown at this time who perpetrated the attack.


Provisional Site-136/LARPA "Boromine Branch"
Boromine, Nevada - Site-136, Section Twelve
07/25/2022, 10:24 AM

"Containment breach in Sections Twelve and Ten. All personnel evacuate the West sector. I repeat, containment breach in Sections Twelve and Ten. All personnel evacuate the West sector. Over." crackled the intercom.
Researcher Petahn overrode the G4 fire door leading back into Section Twelve. On the other side stood the captain of the MTF team δ-17, waiting for the researcher. Twelve could only be described as a hellish inferno; the fires licked and toyed with the walls, drawing dancing shadows like a fiery kaleidoscope.
"What's the status, Captain Quayle?" Petahn asked as he approached the suit-clad MTF member.
"There's fire everywhere. It's helping to contain the instances, but that also means our team can't contain them ourselves." replied Quayle.
"What about the safety team?"
"We've got some of them helping, but most of them are dedicated to the evacuations."
Petahn stopped and turned toward Quayle.
"Look, Quayle. This could possibly exacerbate the status to an ARBH-Class Event. Can we re-contain the instances?"
"At this rate we can indeed, Petahn."
"Thank god. I'm manually aborting PLAN-X."
"I'll keep you updated on the situation. Here. Take these." Quayle took a beat before he unclipped a shortwave radio from his belt, then kneeled down and pulled out a S&W Model 36 from his ankle holster. Pettan received the amenities and tucked them in his belt.
"Thank you. Good luck and godspeed." Quayle disappeared in the rushing glow as Petahn made his way to Section Twelve's local control room. When he arrived, it was deserted. Filing cabinets were left in a disheveled mess. Papers were scattered like dust. Most of the electronics were fried. Obviously whoever had been in there was in a rush to leave. He didn't blame them - meat-eating locusts were no joke. Petahn made his way to small panel with a lever and a keypad; he punched in a number and turned the lever.
"West PLAN-X Outer Door overridden." a distorted voice announced. Petahn was uneasy about the whole situation. PLAN-X was the Boromine Branch's fail-safe device: once a certain amount of instances escaped containment, or if it was manually activated by a senior Site personnel, Boromine would be reduced to a pile of smoldering, radioactive ash. Because it was a fail-safe, the amount of instances that triggered PLAN-X hadn't been disclosed to anyone - save for the O5s, but Petahn highly doubted they would disclose that amount to him. He quickly made his way into the heart of the West Sector to the closer PLAN-X control room.
"May whatever god there is help us all." muttered Petahn.

-~-

"Have you ever seen Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds?" asked Administrator Simmons.
"Uhh, yeah." replied Vice Administrator Nelson.
"Do you remember that one scene where they're at the school, and all the crows are on the playground?"
"Yeah."
"Well this is just that… except they're murderous locusts." Simmons pointed at the locusts resting in the hallway corridor. "Kahching, kahjough, let's go."
Simmons and Nelson peeked around the corner towards the exit area for Section Ten. The corridor led to the G7 Fire Door, which on the other side was Section Nine. The corridor's floor was blanketed in resting locusts, one of swarms caught up in the containment breach. There was no way to get around the locusts without going directly through them in some way. Simmons went first, looking at small openings where he could fit his feet in. The concrete floor contrasted with the brown locusts so spotting any openings weren't too difficult. The two men tried their best to keep quiet, and it was easy for Simmons. Nelson, who was right behind Simmons, was having a little problem - he wasn't as agile as the thinner Simmons. Nelson had always complained about being pudgy, and certainly didn't want to be a burger for locusts.
"You good? We can make it out." whispered Simmons.
"Yeah, I'm doing fine."
"You think we can make it in time to the control room?" asked Simmons. Nelson had no answer, because he had just stepped on several locusts with a sickening crunch. A soft buzzing noise started to emit from the floor as the two men gunned it down the hallway.
"G7 Fire Door locking down." announced the VOX.
The noise, akin to someone crunching on raisin bran, echoed throughout the hallway. The locusts at this point were sufficiently disturbed enough to start picking at the two hapless men. Simmons made it through the door first, Nelson had to crouch underneath the falling door. There were still some locusts clinging on to the two men, which they promptly swatted away.
"Let's not ever do that again, Nelson." Simmons complained.
"Agreed. Now let's get to that control room."

-~-

The control room antechamber was a small rectangular room that really served no purpose than to act as a second verification step for the control room. It was made out of concrete, like most of Site-136, but covered in plaster and made nice. When Pettan arrived at the control room's antechamber, he found the door open as he had expected. What he had not expected, however, was the dead body on the antechamber floor. It was awkwardly slumped in the corner, the corpse's hand still on an identification card. Blood was permeating on the floor, all around the body. Petahn cautiously turned over the corpse. What greeted him was the sight of half a face blown off.
"Oh, fucking Chri-", said Petahn, gagging. "Bloody hell. Ugh." The best course of action, Petahn thought, would be to check whose face had gotten so distorted.
"Ph… uhh.. Phi… something?" Petahn asked himself. He tried to wipe the blood off of the card with his soot-stained lab coat. He managed to wipe off enough to reveal the name.
"Phillip Nelson? Vice Administrator Nelson?" he asked himself yet again. The mangled corpse looked nothing like the decent-looking man that was - or had been - Vice Administrator Nelson. Petahn patted Nelson's body to find anything remotely useful. He felt a bulge under the corpse's arm and pulled back its brown jacket to find a revolver encapsulated in its holster.
"Well, well. What do we have here, Dirty Harry?" Petahn quizzed the corpse. He had the unusual quality of questioning the obvious, but that also was valuable in research at the Foundation. He had dilly-dallied enough with Nelson, an unfortunate loss. Petahn laid the body down gently, then placed Nelson's keycard in the administrative slot, just left on the antechamber's inner door. He subsequently scanned his own card in the activation slot.
"Voice identification required." the VOX commanded.
"James Alexander Petahn."
"Voice password required."
"Bu-", Petahn started in protest, before hesitantly relinquishing the password.
"I like cheesecake." Petahn leaned into the speaker and muttered.
"Voice control accepted. West PLAN-X Inner Door opening." When the iron barrier that separated the main chamber had lifter, Petahn entered gun drawn. But no sooner than he had walked five steps he heard a spectre from the shadows.
"Put the revolver down, Petahn."
"Who's there?"
"Put down the gun, Petahn."
"Why should I?"
The answer he received was a bullet whizzing past his ear. "That's good enough for me." admitted Petahn. He threw the revolver down and it clattered loudly on the tile. A gun barrel extended from the shadows, followed by a hand, then an arm, then a familiar suit-clad figure. He kicked the revolver before sitting down in an available swivel chair. The figure motioned to Petahn to move over opposite him, near a control panel.
"Of course it's you, Simmons. Not like I'd expected anything better of you." stated Petahn.
"Not like anyone else could. Look at what your damn locusts did to my arm." Simmons lifted it up; it was wrapped in a bandage, but Petahn could clearly see that Simmons's right hand and most of his right forearm was gone.
"Jesus, what happened, Simmons?" Petahn asked, concerned.
"I got a bit too close to the action. Where were you when the breach happened?"
Petahn was a bit taken back by this question, but he answered nonetheless; "I was in the East Sector. Taking care of business."
"What business, Petahn? Creating a containment breach so you get rid of me? Because you knew I was going to shut you down?
Petahn remained silent to this question. It looked like Simmons hesitantly wanted an answer, but he was not going to get one.
"But anway, Petahn," continued Simmons, "I can't do any justice with this. I'm going to need your help."
"Help for what, Simmons?" asked Petahn.
"Help to turn this godforsaken place into a nuclear crater."
"A nuclear crater? Simmons, I came here to tell you - or whomever, for that matter - that we can recontain the instances. We don't need to use PLAN-X."
"I don't trust your word. Can someone back that up?"
"Captain Quayle."
Simmons looked questionably at Petahn before making a statement. He started to say something, paused, then finally said: "If you can get him to tell me, I'll consider it."
Pettan reached for his back to pull out the radio when he felt the Model 36. He still had a backup plan, in case things went wrong. Simmons lifted the gun and aimed it right at Petahn's chest.
"I'm just getting a radio." Petahn said, before unclipping the radio all the way. He turned it on and to the correct channel band, before pushing the PTT button and sending out his message.
"Researcher Petahn to Captain Quayle, come in, over." Nothing but white noise. Petahn tried again.
"Researcher Petahn to Captain Quayle, come in, over." Again nothing. Simmons chuckled as Petahn reclipped the radio to his back.
"I expected that. I'm sure you came here to stop me personally."
"Shut your damn trap, Simmons, or I'll do it for you. You're still spouting bullshit like you're some goddamn movie character."
"It's really not good to threaten people with guns, Petahn. You'll only get yourself killed."
"You're the one who fucking shot Nelson then? You psychopath. If I had known that was you I would have shot you myself."
The two men stood in the awkward air, stagnating around the silence in the room. It remained this way in every light and every shadow for several minutes. The two men were at a loss for each other, and stared intently. Eventually, the men couldn't bear to gaze at each other and looked at their twiddling thumbs. Their emotions had reached its melting point but neither man wanted to admit it. Simmons finally broke the silence.
"Alright, I thought he was trying to attack me. He wanted to abort it, just like you, and when I said I was going to blow the place up, his hand slipped into his jacket and then I just… I just pulled, alright? I had nothing against him."
Petahn sighed. He realized that getting angry and throwing insults wasn't going to help the situation they were in. His best bet was to reach some sort of a compromise, where everyone was happy and alive. Petahn knew it was never in Simmons's intention to hurt anyone. Although he didn't trust his temper that much, he knew he could reach something in the Administrator to convince him to not just blow up the place.
"This isn't going anywhere soon. Goddammit, Simmons, I can fix this. Just don't blow up the place because you're…"
"Because I'm what?" Simmons demanded.
"Because you're afraid that there isn't a hope. I'm here to tell you, even though things have been rough, you've got to still keep a sliver a hope, Simmons. Somewhere. But I've been wrong too. I've been too confident. We'll leave it up to the fail-safe. How long do you think those things will take to overrun Site-136?"
"Thirty minutes. At best." admitted Simmons. He finally realized his nervousness as well the futility of forcing his way.
"Then we'll wait thirty minutes. If nothing happens then, and we have confirmation everything's contained, how about we honor everyone whose gone so far by kicking the ass out of these locusts? Does that sound good?"
Simmons smiled, plopped down in a green chair, and adjusted his watch.
"That's the Petahn I know."

The Morality of Insects

Insect Hell

Zero Hour


Episode #: 083
Transcript Provided

Guest Stars: Dr. James Petahn, Mr. Michael Simmons
by 3N Network

TRANSCRIPT - 8:00 PM, 3/19/2022

DALY: Hello, America. I'm your host, Daniel Daly, and welcome to America Ahead!
DALY: As you probably know, the recent locust swarms have been absolutely debilitating to the enviroment and agriculture in general. Recently, thanks to the company Sotherby-Charleston & Partners, the government has created the Locust Active Removal and Prevention Agency, known as LARPA for short. I know the American people are probably wondering about this new organization, so without further ado, I welcome Mr. Michael Simmons and Dr. James Petahn!

[ AUDIENCE APPLAUSE ]

SIMMONS: Hello, Mr. Daly. Pleasure to meet you.
PETAHN: Same here.
DALY: Now, for those who don't know these gentlemen, Mr. Simmons is the Administrator of the LARPA HQ, and Dr. Petahn is the Lead Researcher at the same site. So, onto our first question. What does LARPA do?
SIMMONS: Well, um, it's pretty much exactly in the title, Mr. Daly. Locust Active Removal - we're trying to find pesticides that can limit the locusts, and Prevention - we're trying to find a way to make sure this won't happen again.
DALY: How do you find these pesticides?
SIMMONS: I can't answer that, I'm really only the manager. I'm sure you could though, right?
PETAHN: Totally. We just take some of the locusts, and we expose them to different ranges of pesticides, then we analyze the effects of them. Mostly the results turn out nega-
DALY: Sorry to interrupt you, Dr. Petahn, but why are these locusts so resilient to standard pesticides?
PETAHN: These locusts are akin to a different strain of locusts, so to say. It's similar to an evolutionary step - the pesticides just don't have the same reaction to the locusts anymore.
DALY: A strain of locusts? Is it like a different species, or is it like a-
SIMMONS: It's the species Chortoicetes terminifera, commonly known as the Australian Plague Locust.
DALY: The Australian Plague Locust? In America? That's quite a far-fetched, isn't it?
PETAHN: Not at all, Mr. Daly. It's highly likely a small populace was brought over and they replicated.
DALY: Who would bring a small populace over besides scientists?
SIMMONS: Even two locusts were enough to start something like this, Mr. Daly.
DALY: Were?
SIMMONS: Were, are, could have been, whatever. You get the point.
DALY: Anyway, what is the estimated impact of LARPA?
PETAHN: The impact of LARPA on what?
DALY: The enviroment and the economy.
PETAHN: Well, if LARPA does its job, the US won't need the Ration Acts and eventually there will be much more jobs in agriculture. We're working with LUBILOSAD to ensure it happens soon.
DALY: That takes care of the environment, but what about the locusts?
SIMMONS: Let me use an old FBI term. Terminate. With extreme prejudice.
DALY: You want to kill all of them?
PETAHN: Most certainly not, Mr. Daly. That's why Mr. Simmons here is not a doctor.
SIMMONS: I may not be a doctor, Dr. Petahn, but I am still the LARPA Administrator.
DALY: Since we're on that topic, Mr. Simmons, do you think it's ethical to drive a species to intentional extinction?
SIMMONS: It's not about ethics, Mr. Daly, it's about the job. I was appointed to save lives and that's what I'll do.
PETAHN: And you'll do that by eradicating all the locusts from the face of the Earth, I assume.
SIMMONS: I'll do whatever I goddamn have to, Dr. Petahn. You surely understand, Mr. Daly?
DALY: I'm inclined to agree with Dr. Petahn here, Mr. Simmons. The Earth will already survive, but will it be the same at cost of a spe-
SIMMONS: Now's not the time to be an enviromentalist, Mr. Daly.
DALY: And now's not the time to commit genocide, Mr. Simmons.
SIMMONS: You can stop giving the American people morals and start giving them cold, hard facts. You call the spraying of locusts genocide, Mr. Daly? When you step on an ant do you cry murder?
PETAHN: I think he was just trying to make a point, Simmons. We shouldn't be too harsh to our host.
SIMMONS: Too harsh, Petahn? Too harsh? You get off your high pedestal. You would rather make the choice to sacrifice lives - American lives - just so you can collect some more of your locusts, doctor? A few locusts for an economy? A few locusts for 21% unemployment? No, Dr. Petahn. I will not stand by and watch as these bugs destroy the way of life.
PETAHN: These few locusts for a solution, Simmons. You try eradicating these locusts, and they will just pop right back up - maybe even worse than before. This testing will help guarantee we can contain them, so that they won't be a problem. Look what the original LUBILOSA did. They helped find the effects of the fungi Metarhizium on locusts. It's still being in use today. Just think about what LARPA can do. Also Simmons, calm down. Take a vacation or something. I know you're stressed and you're seriously not considering what you're saying.
SIMMONS: I know exactly what I'm saying, Petahn. I will exterminate those locusts to save the human race. I will give every single United States citizen a flamethrower and tell them to burn if I have to. I am qualified to do that, Dr. Petahn. And I just might do it.
DALY: I'm not too sure that you're qualified to make that decision, Mr. Simmons. Just as General MacArthur wasn't qualified to make the decision to drop atom bombs on Korea. And he didn't, Mr. Simmons, because the people in power respected ethics enough to tell him "No."
SIMMONS: You want to sit here and discuss ethics? That's the problem with you people. When the line is drawn in the sand you sit there in disbelief that it exists. This isn't about the winner of the next Super Bowl or the Republicans vs the Democrats. This is about the future of humanity. We are down to the the line. We are down to the line! And I will not sit here and discuss ethics. I am leaving. Good day to you, Mr. Daly.
DALY: Well. He's got one hell of a temper. Maybe even has a couple of screws loose?
PETAHN: Sorry about that. It may be so, but he's very qualified for the job. We'll keep him in check - he's extremely stressed right now. Err… just a word to all the Americans who just watched that: I promise you that these few locusts will not be at the cost of the American people.
DALY: Indeed. I believe you all are making headway with this.
PETAHN: Thank you, Mr. Daly.
DALY: We'll talk a bit more about LARPA after the commercial break. But for now, stay put America!

[ AUDIENCE APPLAUSE ]
< END TRANSCRIPT >

-~-

Site-121/LARPA HQ
Mesa Verde, California - Site-121 Break Room
03/20/2022, 1:09 PM

Two men stood in the corner of the break room at Site-121, sipping on iced coffee and talking to each other. One, who uncannily looked like a young Walter Schellenberg, was dressed in a knee-length white lab coat, slightly dirty, as well as long black pants and a red inner shirt. This man was slightly angry at the other, who was often compared as a Robert Kennedy-type fellow. The Kennedy fellow was wearing a light-grey suit, complemented by a white shirt and purple tie. After a few minutes of silence, the man in the lab coat spoke up.
"Yesterday was a goddamn disaster, Simmons. What were you thinking with the Colonel Jessup act?"
"I know, Petahn. I'm sorry. I got agitated and way too defensive. I know it makes me look bad."
"Not just you, now the citizens think a whack job is running LARPA. It makes us all look bad."
"You did alright."
"I had to save what reputation we had. You owe me."
Simmons sighed. "Well, the least I can do is advance your testing. That sound good?"
"It'll do for now."
"Are you sure, Petahn?"
"It'll be fine, Simmons. I promise you. This will all be over in a couple of months. Maybe even by July. I'll take care of that… thing."
"I believe you. I've got to go; I'll see you later. We're having an opening banquet later. You coming?"
"Sure. I'll be there."

ARBH-Class Debrief File

Insect Hell

The Last of LARPA


At this point, it seems likely that the Golem reactivated, grabbed the Lieutenant's arm and bent it backwards, forcing the knife through his left eye and into his brain.

A black sun rises.

|| Black Sunrise || Archival Document — HSA-008-Advent »

NOTICE
from the
RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION

This file contains information on one or more physical components of SCP-3457. In accordance with the terms of the Köln Agreement, this file and all enclosed documents are to be transferred to the Office of the Undersecretary-General, GOC High Command, at the soonest available opportunity. Redaction of information pertaining to the ritual component of SCP-3457 should be performed prior to this transfer.
All Foundation personnel involved in the recovery and handling of this file are required to report to their RAISA supervisor for evaluation and targeted amnesticization. Failure to comply may result in disciplinary action.
No copies of this file should remain in Foundation archives after 1949-12-31.

RAISA FILE COVER
Do Not Remove This Page

Record ID:
1944-09-01-BR-04

Source:
Part of a cache of documents acquired from Konrad Weiss (PoI-018747) during Operation BLACK ROPE

Contents:
Translated Obskuracorps (GoI-023) communications regarding the Prague Golem and the Rite of Solomon

From
Konrad Weiss

To
Hermann Schmitz

Subject
The Seventh Key

Commander Schmitz,
Unfortunately, I am unable to tell you what the Key looks like, as that is information which I do not possess. As with many such items, there is little about it in the historical record, and what information is recorded is fragmentary and contradictory. I have dedicated half a century of my life to studying these artifacts, and in that time all that I have managed to learn of the Keys would scarcely fill a pamphlet. Gods, men, and vermin all alike have conspired for millennia to conceal this knowledge; history itself works against us. But we shall prevail. There are none left who can oppose us.
Despite the scarcity of information, I am confident that you shall find the Key in the Bohemian Protectorate. The last reliable records of the Key say that it was stolen from Constantinople and smuggled to Prague during the 4th Occult War, in order to keep it from the Ottomans. It is likely that it remained in the possession of the city's Judenmagier1 until the latter part of the 16th century. According to local lore, this was when the Maharal2 constructed a golem to attack the German population of Prague on behalf of the city's Jewry3. Of course, being animated by flawed Jewish magics, the golem inevitably went mad and turned upon its creators, forcing the Maharal to deactivate it. I managed to acquire copies of the Maharal's journal which indicate that he did create such a golem, but that it was also meant to serve as a repository for a powerful artifact which he possessed. He does not explicitly name this artifact, but I strongly suspect that it was the Key — as we have learned in our other acquisitions, it was not uncommon for the Key guardians to conceal them within another artifact or construct.
Therefore, your directive is to locate and secure the Golem of Prague; even if it does not contain the Key we seek, having such a tool in our possession would be more than worthwhile. I recommend that you begin your search at the Altneuschul4, where the Golem is rumored to be interred — and if it is not there, you will likely be able to find some record of its true location stored within. All other SS and Wehrmacht resources within the region are at your disposal until this task is completed. Do whatever is necessary to secure the Golem and the Key. Burn Prague to the ground if you must. Nothing is more important to the success of the German nation than acquiring that Key.
HH

From
Hermann Schmitz

To
Konrad Weiss

Subject
Loss of the Golem

Director Weiss,
It is with great shame and regret that I must inform you of our failure to secure the Golem. It managed to evade our agents and escape the city with the help of our enemies. I take full responsibility for this failure. I offer no excuses, only an explanation of events as they transpired.
As you predicted, our agents found the Golem in the Altneuschul, stored inactive and perfectly intact in the attic of the synagogue. It is difficult to say what next occurred with certainty, but forensic examination of the scene indicates that Lieutenant Dunst approached the Golem and attempted to break open its chest cavity with the end of his knife. At this point, it seems likely that the Golem reactivated, grabbed the Lieutenant's arm and bent it backwards, forcing the knife through his left eye and into his brain. The remaining agents in the attic managed to fire a combined total of 14 shots before the Golem also killed them. With the exception of the Lieutenant, the cause of death in each case was extreme blunt force trauma to the head or chest. While shocking, such excessive brutality is only to be expected from the construct of a Judenmagier.
After murdering our agents in the synagogue, the Golem fled the building and began moving through the streets of Prague, wantonly attacking all Reich assets and personnel it encountered. No apparent pattern could be divined from its movements, and all attempts to establish a cordon to contain it failed as the Golem broke through any resistance in its path. It rampaged through the city almost entirely unchecked for nearly 17 hours before a team of Thule Society Kriegsmagier5 were brought in to neutralize it. Despite their prowess in combat thaumaturgy, the Thule were unable to destroy the Golem; however, they were able to stall its rampage through Prague. Over the next three hours, the Thule team bravely battled the Golem to a standstill, sustaining significant casualties in the process. During this time, I began mobilizing all available Wehrmacht units in the area, including a column of anti-tank guns, in preparation for a final strike against the Golem.
However, before this strike could be launched, a force of enemy commandos — tentatively identified as Templar Knights — apportated into the city and attacked the Thule team. With assistance from the commandos, the Judenriese6 slaughtered the remaining Thule thaumaturges. Reports from surviving witnesses indicate that upon concluding its butchery, the Golem conversed with the commandos for several minutes, before fleeing with them through a Way. Backlash imprints in the local background aura confirm that a Way was opened, but attempts to reopen it have met with failure. It is likely that the commandos collapsed the Way behind them to deter pursuit.
At this time, the locations of the Golem and the Templar commandos are unknown. It is extremely likely that the Golem is now in the hands of our enemies. Given the extent and intensity of its actions against the Reich during its rampage through Prague, it is probable that it will act against us again in the future. Additionally, given the speed with which the Templars were able to respond to this incident, it is reasonable to believe that our enemies have succeeded in compromising our communications or command structure. If such is the case, you are surely aware of the implications it would have on our operations.
Once again, I offer my apologies for failing to secure the Golem and the Key, and take full responsibility for this disastrous incident.
HH

From
Josef Boller

To
Konrad Weiss

Subject
Analysis of Enemy Commando Operations

Director Weiss,
In the 18 months since the Prague Incident, enemy commandos have undertaken 23 actions within Continental Europe which can be conclusively tied solely to the ongoing occult conflict and not the conventional war effort. The efficacy of these raids are such that there is often little data available for analysis, but based on what information there is, I have been able to draw the following conclusions:

There is great diversity in the composition of enemy forces. In addition to Templar Knights, commando teams have included agents of the British Occult Service, runemasters of the Order of the Æsir, antimasons of the Gormogons, zealots of the Eternal Temple, and janissaries of the Brotherhood of Auspicious Survivors. This list is not comprehensive.

This is indicative of an expansive and cohesive coalition within the global occult community, one which seeks to oppose our operations — said coalition is almost certainly wider in scope than the great powers arrayed against us in the conventional war.
Increasing diversity of enemy forces is an indicator that this coalition has expanded rapidly in the last 12 months (possibly coinciding with the execution of Fall Weiss7).
The basis of this opposition is likely rooted in the pre-war resistance to our archaeological efforts, further inflamed by the outbreak of open hostilities and the expansion of the conventional war.

In 19 of the actions analyzed, apportation was used for insertion by enemy commando teams. In no actions was apportation ever used for exfiltration. Enemy commandos have demonstrated their ability to apportate over long distances with a high degree of precision; only 1 enemy casualty from a failure of apportation has been documented by our forces.

The frequency with which apportation is used suggests that the enemy coalition possesses a novel method for generating large amounts of orgone8 in a relatively short period of time.

This conclusion is based on a comparative analysis of our own apportation capabilities, which, despite the abundance of subjects provided by the concentration camps, are still extremely limited by the inherent logistical difficulties present in conducting several dozen ritual sacrifices in rapid succession.

While it is possible that our enemies are relying on a more traditional source of orgone, such as mass orgies, it seems implausible that they have been able to overcome the logistical issues involved. Thus, a new method of orgone generation is more likely.

Based on the use of apportation in the Prague Incident, it is likely but not certain that this method was developed by one of the initial members of the enemy coalition.
The absence of apportation in exfiltration attempts suggests that our enemies are either unable or unwilling to use this method in the field.
The accuracy of enemy apportations may indicate that commando operations are launched from a base within Continental Europe; the reduction in real space distance between origin and destination would allow for a corresponding reduction in the uncertainty errors inherent to apportation.

This is merely conjecture, but it is possible that the ICSUT9 is a member of the enemy coalition, and that their satellite campus in Zurich is being used as a staging ground for commando raids. If or when Operation Tannenbaum10 is executed, I would strongly advise that a battalion of Waffen-SS be deployed alongside a force of Thule Society thaumaturges to secure the campus.

In 14 of the actions analyzed, the presence of a stone or clay giant among the commando forces was reported. Descriptions given by survivors are consistent with the known appearance of the Golem of Prague. The golem has been reported to possess some degree of occult ability, most notably a form of offensive necromancy. There are also unconfirmed reports that the golem is able to make itself invisible or imperceptible to the human eye.

It is extremely likely that this golem is the Golem of Prague.
Based on its reported occult ability, which is extremely atypical for a golem, it is likely that the Judenriese possesses a powerful artifact which is the source of its apparent abilities. The most obvious candidate is, of course, the seventh Key.
Given their repeated use of the Judenriese as a field operative in high-risk commando missions, it is likely that our enemies are unaware of the presence of the Key within the Golem, are unaware of the Key's function or strategic value, or are unaware of our intentions with the Rite.

It is unlikely but also possible that the Golem simply does not contain the Key as we originally believed.
Assuming that our enemies are unaware of our plans, it would seem unlikely that they have succeeded in compromising our communications or infiltrating our command structure to any significant extent, as the late Commander Schmitz11 proposed.

The timely arrival of the Templar Knights during the Prague Incident can thus be attributed to simple coincidence; given its cultural significance and utility as a weapon, it is not surprising that our enemies would also have attempted to recover the Golem following the establishment of the Bohemian Protectorate. That they succeeded in doing so can be attributed to the failure of Commander Schmitz.

In all of the actions analyzed, the apparent target of the enemy commandos was one or more occult artifacts. 10 raids targeted Obskuracorps storehouses, 8 raids targeted artifacts in transit, and 4 raids intercepted our agents during acquisitions; 1 raid succeeded in securing the target artifact prior to the arrival of our agents, who encountered the commando team during their exfiltration attempt.

It is likely that our enemies have performed additional recovery operations which succeeded in avoiding detection by our forces. It is difficult to guess how many such operations may have been performed.
Given their ability to locate Obskuracorps storehouses and convoys, it is apparent that our enemies maintain an extensive network of informants across the continent — likely drawn from local partisans and other criminals. Additional efforts should be made to disguise or conceal Obskuracorps assets.
The enemy focus on acquiring artifacts corroborates the earlier assumption that they view the present occult conflict as an extension of the pre-war archaeological competition, and lends further credence to the theory that they are unaware of our plans involving the Rite.

I sincerely hope that you find this analysis useful.
HH

From
Richard Wege

To
Konrad Weiss

Subject
Exploration of the Parisian Catacombs

Director Weiss,
My team has completed the survey you ordered of the catacombs beneath Paris. The structure is expansive and, for the most part, uninteresting. A forensic anthropology team may find some value in studying the endless bones that fill the crypts, but our only discovery of note within the main structure of the catacombs was a significant number of dormant Ways with unusually high orgone emissions. If additional assets can be spared from the Grecian front recently opened by Mussolini, I would recommend that a further exploration and study be made of these Ways — they could hold significant strategic value if they connect to a nexus.
However, the most important discovery made by my team was the find of a buried chamber just beneath the lower levels of the catacombs. The architecture of this chamber is significantly different from that of the structures above it, and I estimate that it predates the catacombs by several centuries. The walls are covered with inscriptions in an unfamiliar runic script. A copy of these inscriptions has been included with this report.12 Perhaps your scribes will have better luck translating them?
While potentially intriguing, these inscriptions are of trivial importance in comparison to our other find within the chamber. Located on a raised dais near the center of the chamber, and half-buried under rubble, was a humanoid automaton of brass and bronze. Although slightly damaged by the partial collapse of the chamber, and clearly dormant for centuries, the advanced clockwork machinery appears to still be fully functional.
Based on the runic inscriptions on the walls, the apparent age of the chamber, and the complexity of the automaton's inner mechanisms, it seems clear to me that the construct is of Germanic origin, likely dating back to the time of Clovis the Frank — and possibly constructed with the aid of the vanished dwarven race.
My team is currently working on excavating the automaton so that it may be shipped back to Germany for further study and repairs. I will write again to inform you once it is in transit.
HH

From
Konrad Weiss

To
Werner Schuhmann

Subject
New Asset for Experimentation

Herr Schuhmann,
While I am in full agreement with your theory that the Judenriese would serve as a capable conduit for Tyrfing, it continues to evade our efforts to capture it. However, I have recently come into possession of a new asset that I believe will allow us to continue our experimentation with the sword regardless.
One of my survey teams in France recently uncovered the remains of an ancient Germanic structure, buried beneath the Parisian Catacombs. Stored within the chamber was a clockwork automaton of Aryan-Dwarven construction, damaged but still functional. I had it excavated and returned to Germany, where the best engineers in the Reich worked to repair it and fit it with a control device. It is now active again for the first time in centuries, and fully obeys my orders. I am having it shipped to Facility 12 tomorrow.
It is my hope that you will find this automaton valuable in your experimentation with Tyrfing. I believe it will even prove more useful than the elusive Judenriese would have been — there may yet be some sympathetic link between the automaton and the sword, given their common Germanic origins.
I eagerly anticipate the results of your research.
HH

From
Konrad Weiss

To
Heinrich Himmler

Subject
Alternative to Capturing the Golem

Reichsführer13,
I write to once again inform you of the latest failure to capture the Golem. The details are unnecessary, but suffice to say that the recovery team we sent to ambush the Judenriese in Istanbul were butchered to a man. I have already directed that they be buried with full military honors. Closed casket funerals, of course.
At this point, I do not believe continuing this course of action will bear fruit. In all of our combat engagements with the Judenriese, its sheer destructive power has become painfully apparent. It is a clumsy, crude weapon created by vermin to strike against the strong, but it is brutally effective in this role. It would take at least a full battalion, reinforced by our best Kriegsmagier, to disable it. Such a force could only be brought to bear if we could locate and overrun the enemy coalition's base of operations, and with the opening of a new front in Russia last month, it seems unlikely that Operation Seelöwe14 or Operation Tannenbaum will be implemented in the near future. Unless our enemies have been operating from Moscow the entire time, I doubt we will be recovering the Golem anytime soon.
Instead, I propose that we redirect our efforts towards developing a replacement for the missing Key. If a Judenmagier such as Solomon could create the Keys in the first place, then it should prove trivial for our superior science to replicate and even improve upon them. And what better way to prove the superiority of the German race than to take the inferior magics of superstitious vermin and refine them to perfection with Aryan science?
I have been studying the Keys already in our possession, as well as all available reports of the Judenriese's displayed abilities, and I now have a theory on the nature of the final Key. Given the Golem's extensive capabilities in the field of summoning and binding shades and spirits, I believe that the Key it contains is a powerful necromantic conduit. This is in keeping with the natures of the other Keys, which have been various talismans for summoning and binding demons, angels, djinn, and other occult entities. When used in combination in the Rite, they can even be used to summon and bind a god.
With your permission, I would seek to create a new Key to replace the missing seventh. We have amassed one of the greatest collections of occult artifacts in history. Surely one of them could serve as the basis for an ersatz Key.
HH

From
Heinrich Himmler

To
Konrad Weiss

Subject
Progress on the Rite?

Kord,
I know I need not remind you of the importance of your work on the Rite. However, given the recent developments in the conventional war, and the failure of the Portlands Assault15, I feel it is important to stress the newfound urgency of its implementation. I understand that we are ready to constitute the demiurge, but what progress has been made in regards to the Keys? And what of the failsafe? Are we any closer to deciphering the designs for the weapon?
The Führer does not believe we will need the Rite. He tells me that the natural superiority of the Aryan race will allow us to defeat our enemies, numerous as they may be. But I have seen the strategic reports. If the Atlantic Wall falls, this war will not end in our favor. If we are to secure a future for the German people, we must have the Rite.
HH

From
Konrad Weiss

To
Heinrich Himmler

Subject
Clean Implementation of the Ritual

Reichsführer,
With the recent defeats on the Eastern Front, you will be pleased to hear that I have, for once, some truly good news. Our efforts to replace Solomon's Keys with Aryan artifacts of our own devising have finally borne fruit.
Initially, we focused our efforts on merely producing an ersatz Key to substitute for the missing seventh. However, we were unable to get the other Keys to recognize our ersatz copy; I now believe that the Keys are somehow linked through the Law of Contagion, making it impossible to replace any individual key. While this may have been an intentional security measure instituted by Solomon, I find it far more likely that it is the result of simple happenstance. Regardless, it forced us to take a new approach.
Taking cues from the functionality of the original Keys, I set about designing an entirely new set of Keys with which to perform the Rite. There are 9 in total, and each one is meant to exert control over a different kind of occult entity. Once constructed and combined in the Rite, they should fulfill the same function as the original Keys of Solomon — binding the new demiurge to our will.
The first of these 9 Aryan Keys has already been completed; it is the ersatz Key that we intended to replace the Seventh Key of Solomon, and its functionality is identical — using it, one may summon and command any spirit of the dead, be it human or animal. I have already directed the research team to begin work on the second Key, which will have power over Asuras and other demons. It will take some time to complete them all, but I predict that we will have finished construction of the Aryan Keys by this time next year. After that, it will be a trivial matter to adjust the Rite to incorporate them. Then we shall finally be able to achieve our apotheosis over the lesser races and put an end to this and all other conflicts. Truly, our future will be glorious.
As for the weapon… my scholars have finally succeeded in deciphering the code used by the Godless16. While I do not believe it will be necessary, I have already dispatched a special courier to your office with the designs. Should we need it, it will be available to us as a failsafe.
HH

Footnotes
1. RAISA Annotation: Literally "Jew mage". A derogatory term used by the Nazi regime to refer to Jewish Kabbalists.
2. RAISA Annotation: Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel, also known as the Maharal of Prague, was one of the preeminent Jewish scholars and mystics of the 16th century. Although widely dismissed as folklore by modern consensus normalcy, his exploits as a Kabbalistic occultist are widely renowned.
3. RAISA Annotation: Most descriptions of the Golem of Prague say that it was created to defend Prague's Jewish minority from pogroms performed by the city's German majority.
4. RAISA Annotation: The Old New Synagogue in Josefev, Prague. Built in 1270, it is Europe's oldest active synagogue, and has long been associated with the city's Kabbalists.
5. RAISA Annotation: Literally "war mage". A term used by the Obskuracorps to describe the elite battlemages of the Thule Society.
6. RAISA Annotation: Literally "Jew giant". A derogatory term used by members of the Obskuracorps to refer to the Golem of Prague. Throughout the course of the war, its appearance in official Obskuracorps documents steadily increased. This is the first apparent use of the term.
7. RAISA Annotation: The codename for Nazi Germany's strategic plan to invade Poland.
8. RAISA Annotation: Orgone is the term used by Nazi occultists to refer to what is commonly called Elan-Vital Energy, the underlying power source behind all thaumaturgy.
9. RAISA Annotation: The International Center for the Study of Unified Thaumatology. One of the foremost magical colleges in the world, the ICSUT was an initial participant in the Allied Occult Initiative, and contributed early prototypes of the Everhart Resonator to the coalition war effort.
10. RAISA Annotation: The codename for the proposed Nazi invasion of Switzerland.
11. RAISA Annotation: German records recovered after the war indicate that Hermann Schmitz died shortly after the Prague Incident, when he spontaneously combusted in his sleep.
12. RAISA Annotation: Internal analysis by Foundation experts indicates that the inscriptions are likely Mekhanite in origin.
13. RAISA Annotation: Literally "Reich Leader". The title of the head of the SS. There is no corresponding rank in the Anglophone militaries, although on paper the head of the SS was equivalent in rank to a Field Marshal.
14. RAISA Annotation: The codename for the proposed Nazi invasion of Great Britain.
15. RAISA Annotation: The Foundation currently has no records pertaining to the incident referenced here. It is believed that it refers to an Obskuracorps combat engagement with the AOI in the vicinity of the Isle of Portland.
16. RAISA Annotation: Believed to be the name of the cabal of German occultists who destroyed the original demiurge during the 6th Occult War. Almost nothing is known about them with any certainty, and there are few records of their existence.

|| Black Sunrise || Archival Document — HSA-008-Advent »


WARNING: THE FOLLOWING FILE IS LEVEL 3/ARBH CLASSIFIED

ANY ATTEMPT TO ACCESS THIS FILE WITHOUT LEVEL 3/ARBH AUTHORIZATION WILL BE LOGGED AND WILL LEAD TO IMMEDIATE DISCIPLINARY ACTION.

» INPUT LEVEL THREE CREDENTIALS

« LEVEL THREE CREDENTIALS ACCEPTED

ARBH-CLASS "INSECT HELL" EVENT SCENARIO
IMPENDICITY1: LOW | ABORTIVITY2: HIGH
PERSONNEL DEBRIEF FILE | FURTHER EDITS DISALLOWED

Introduction
"World turn into an insect hell? We've got one heck of a bug repellent for that." - Researcher James Petahn
Hello to any new Level 3 Foundation personnel reading this. You're reading this because either your site head asked you to read it, or you're interested in what an ARBH-Class Event actually is. Well, you came to the right place. This is the debriefing and training file, where you will find answers to all of your questions as well as basics for dealing with and preventing this doomsday event.

What is an ARBH-Class Event?
"I hate spiders. Especially big, furry, anomalous, world-ending ones." - Researcher Nicholas Crawford
Insect life accounts for most of the animal life on planet Earth, at roughly around 200 million insects per person. With such a large and diverse amount of insect life, anomalous instances of some insects are bound to turn up eventually. However, these anomalous insects could have disastrous effects on planet Earth, so the Foundation created the ARBH-Class Event Scenario to deal with such a problem.
An ARBH-Class Event Scenario, nicknamed "Insect Hell", is where any species or instances of insects, by anomalous means, becomes a direct threat to the human race and its environment; additionally, the insects must be able to have a significant impact worldwide. 'Insects', in regard to the Event Scenario, are defined as any species under the phylum Euarthropoda.

ARBH and You (1): How to Prevent It
IMPENDICITY: LOW
The ARBH-Class Event Scenario is ranked a low on its impendicity meter, meaning that there is a slim chance of an event happening. Although the Foundation may not know of all anomalous instances of insects, we can easily contain and/or misinform the public should any new instances arise. If push comes to shove with a subset of anomalous insects, specialized pesticides can be used to reduce the subset's population to allow for proper containment. Complete extermination of a species of anomalous insects is only reserved for an active ARBH-Class Event. Some notable SCPs that could initiate an ARBH-Class Event are:

SCP-456
SCP-820
SCP-851
SCP-3004
SCP-3035
SCP-3916

Currently, the Foundation has adequate containment and documentation on these SCPs; emergency protocols are in place as well for a possible containment breach.

ARBH and You (2): How to Abort It
ABORTIVITY: HIGH
The ARBH-Class Event Scenario is ranked a high on its abortivity meter, meaning that there must be an extremely large effort - not just by the Foundation, worldwide - to reduce or exterminate the number of anomalous instances responsible for the ARBH-Class Event. More than likely, the Foundation will be hampered by the physical/environmental damage caused by an ARBH-Class Event. Heavy usage of pesticides is the most probable way to end such an Event; other ways are estimated to be not enough to reduce the Event's severity. The last resort would be to use existing SCPs to combat an event, although the O5 Council would have to approve it, meaning the probability of a doomsday combat team is nearly null.

Frequently Asked Questions!

— ~ —

Q: Why is it called an ARBH-Class Event?
A: It's named after the biblical 8th plague, the plague of locusts. ARBH is the phonetical translation of the Hebrew word for 'locust', אַרְבֶּה.

— ~ —

Q: How do I pronounce "ARBH-Class Event"?
A: "ahr-BEH klas əˈvent". Although you probably knew how to pronounce 'Class Event'.

— ~ —

Q: What is the difference between an XK-Class and an ARBH-Class Event?
A: While an XK-Class Event is more relative to a SCP directly breaching containment and ending the world of its own accord, an ARBH-Class event is more relative to a breached instance replicating, then subsequently causing environmental and physical damage that ends society and the human race.
If one anomalous insect ends the world, it's most likely a XK-Class Event - if it's a whole populace, it's most likely an ARBH-Class Event.

— ~ —

Q: Could <insert SCP here> cause an ARBH-Class Event?
A: If the SCP is an anomalous instance of a species of insect, could replicate to a massive scale, and cause enough damage to end the human race; then most likely yes, it could cause an ARBH-Class Event.

— ~ —

Q: Is <insert species here> under an ARBH-Class Event?
A: There is no real solid answer for this, but if the Foundation containing anomalous instances of that species, and the species is related to the phylum Euarthropoda probably so. Site Directors will know for sure which subsets and species can be classified under an ARBH-Class Event.

— ~ —

Q: When does the Foundation recognize we are in an ARBH-Class Event?
A: The Foundation officially recognizes we are in an ARBH-Class Event Scenario under an executive O5 Council order. The order is proposed to be based off of how much damage the anomalous insects cause.

Conclusion
"We're screwed if anomalous ladybugs caused an ARBH-Class Event. Those things are too cute." - Researcher Phil Shipherd
This concludes the training/debrief file on the ARBH-Class Event Scenario. Any additional questions can be answered by your local Site Director, or by Researcher James Petahn through Foundation WebNET at 'pcs.noitadnuof|jnhatep#pcs.noitadnuof|jnhatep'. Thanks for reading and hope you're one step closer to getting settled at the Foundation!

AUTHORED BY: Researcher Joe Fynegan

SCP-3916

Insect Hell

The Morality of Insects

Footnotes
1. Estimate of how likely an Event could happen.
2. Estimate of the difficulty of preventing a Doomsday Event once the conditions are present.


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He sat alone on the apartment building's stoop, watching people go in and out of the building across the street. He was almost certain that it contained a Foundation presence and was curious to see if his research and tracking were correct. The last Site he'd infiltrated had had some unique anti-telepathy gear, which he had of course liberated, and he wondered what delights this one might hold. He could write entire books about what he'd seen them contain.
The morning turned to afternoon turned to evening and he still jotted down notes in his Moleskine. Such a handy size. Finally, he stood from his perch and ambled over to the other building's doorway. A buzzer system, but he entered the door code he'd observed. Standard issue slightly decaying lobby, wall of mailboxes on one side, creaky elevators on the other, flyer-covered corkboard hanging on the far wall flanked on one side by a stairwell leading up and on the other by a closed door with a plaque reading "Superintendent."
Most likely the elevator. Either a hidden basement or an otherwise inaccessible floor or something. Fairly standard for urban Sites, or so he'd found. He called the elevator and waited as it slowly rumbled down to the ground floor. Hmm, the mailbox doors all looked dusty. The Foundation really ought to pay attention to the little details if they were going to hide in plain sight.
He turned back to the elevator as it groaned to a stop and opened to reveal a pair of men carrying handguns, who swept the hallway as they exited. Neither paid any attention to the man standing in front of them, which wasn't unusual. He brushed past them into the open elevator while they finished.
"Nobody here, Command. Totally empty."
"Yes, I'm sure."
"What do you mean tha—"
The Foundation agents swung around and aimed at the elevator just as the doors finished closing. Nobody smirked a little and held down the "close door" button while he quickly thought over his options. How about choosing— Oh it couldn't be that easy. The floor buttons skipped straight from 12 to 14. He pressed both buttons and waited as the elevator trundled upwards.
The Site well and truly knew he was here by now, even if they couldn't find him. A shame, but it only made his investigatory expedition a little harder. Still, better safe than sorry. He crouched down as the elevator dinged past the 12th floor and pressed the stop button. The door creaked open and a fusillade of bullets struck the back wall.
Nobody scuttled out of the elevator, under the line of fire. The guards in the surprisingly spacious lobby had stopped firing after the first round, but still looked ready to resume at any moment. Once safely away from being immediately killed, he stood and surveyed the room.
A lobby that had to take up a good fifth of the floor, with keycard-protected doors set in all the interior walls. A modern-looking glass-and-chrome receptionist's desk sat in the middle of the room with an open laptop and phone sitting on it, along with a few loose papers paperclipped together, a few pens and highlighters, and a large 3-ring binder. Four guards in plainsclothes stood in a semicircle around the elevator, standard Foundation-issue handguns pointed into it. Oh, wait, one of those was a stungun. Well, at least there was the possibility that someone wanted to catch him alive, so there's that.
Nobody kept an eye on the guards as he investigated the open laptop. Looked like a duty roster, a logbook, a— hello, what's this? An email alerting the whole Site that Director Kondraki was going to visit the Site tomorrow. No details as to why, but those wouldn't be in a general email, anyway.
Two of the guards had started sweeping the room while the others remained focused on the elevator. One pressed her finger to her earpiece.
"No visual contact on the intruder. Elevator appeared to be empty on arrival. Please advise."
Nobody only paid partial attention while he flipped through the papers. Requisition form, requisition form, requisition form with doodles in the margin, photocopy of a barley stew recipe? Hmm, looked tasty. Might as well keep it.
Now to get past those doors. No keycard conveniently hidden under the laptop and he didn't see any dangling from lanyards. Really, all he could do was convince them to come out.
Nobody crouched back below the line of fire and leaned into the open elevator, pressed the button for the ground floor, then quickly backed out and away from the killzone. A second later, the elevator dinged and the doors slid closed. He heard it start clacking away down the shaft.
The guard with the earpiece holstered her weapon. "Are you sure it wasn't a malfunction, Command? It just closed and headed back down. Nobody was on it."
A pause. A nod. "Yes, sir."
She jerked her head towards one of the closed doors.
"Everyone, return to stations. Command is letting the lower floors handle it from here."
She fished a keycard out of her pocket (oh, there it was) and swiped it through one of the readers. The door unlocked with a clunk and she pushed it open. The one armed with a stungun sat at the desk and the other two left the room. Nobody slipped in behind them, managing to get in without touching the door.
The next room was small. A mesh-fronted weapon cabinet on one side and a long desk with a trio of monitors showing the downstairs lobby, the room they'd just left, and what looked like an interrogation room. No one in there, but intriguing. Why in the world would they put a security station this easily accessible to the main area?
The guards settled into a couple of chairs, looking alert. They were definitely still on edge about the intrusion. Another door in the opposite wall promised further secrets to plumb, but getting through it without notice was going to be tricky.
Nobody pulled out a small tablet that had a Factory logo stamped on the back. It'd been a bitch getting a hold of this prototype and the cost to use it was distasteful, but it had its uses. He brought the optical sensor up to his eye and strained to keep his lids open as it scanned his retina. He hardly noticed when the tiny needle almost painlessly stabbed into it to get a DNA confirmation sample. The screen turned on, showing a set of icons, glyphs, runes, and other arcane symbols. Everything that the tablet could do was technically possible using non-anomalous technology, but the speed and precision that it delivered results hinted strongly at retrocausal effects.
Nobody tapped one of the glyphs, typed in a short series of commands, and hit "enter". Immediately the lights and monitors turned off. He also heard a kachunk as magnetic locks in the inner door deactivated. As the agents scrambled in the darkness, Nobody slipped through the now accessible door.
The other side was a hallway lit by emergency lights, mini-floodlights illuminating every 30 feet or so. Not enough to see well by, but enough to set the mood. People were beginning to flood the hallway, a cacophony of excited voices starting to build. A second after Nobody entered the hall, the overhead lights flickered back on and a recording started playing over a hidden intercom overhead.
"Security Drill Active. All Personnel Proceed To Designated Areas. Security Drill Active. All Personnel—"
Nobody tuned it out quickly and proceeded up the hall against the flow of bodies. He peeked into the doors as he went. Most were just boring looking cubicle farms, but when he glanced in the window set into the door at the end of the hall, he saw racks of computer drives. A server room! Jackpot! Another keycard access, but… another eye poke and a few commands later, the light on the access lock blinked green and he pulled open the door.
Inside stood a dozen racks with row after row of servers and routers amidst a tangle of cables. At the far back was a small workstation with the monitor still on. Looked like… Samuel Johannsen forgot to pull his access card from the keyboard before he skeedadled. Bad luck for Sam, good luck for Nobody.
Looked like it was a standard Foundation OS, nothing Nobody hadn't seen before. Click, click, click, and there was the list of projects managed by this Site. Hmm… keys to other realms, data crunching results from some kind of world-building sim, logistics reports for the rest of the state… nothing unique enough to really capture his interest. Would be a shame if this was all for naught.
Hmm, wait. O5-access only files hiding in a folder labeled RI-class? What in the world would those be doing in a minor Site like this? Nobody pulled a cord free from the Factory tablet and plugged it into the workstation. Operating systems might be proprietary, but USB ports were universal. Another eye sampling to unlock the device (three times in quick succession was a bit rough, this was probably the last he could use it for a few days), a quick tap tap tap of a special app and… yes, files copied and password attack ongoing. This was probably all he was going to get and he shouldn't press his luck, so he tucked his gear away and left the room…
Into a squad of fully-equipped MTF agents. With perceptual filter goggles on. Damn.
Nobody raised his arms slowly and smiled sheepishly. "Nice day, isn't it, fellas?"
The crackle and jolt of the stungun's probes discharging into him weren't really a surprise at that point, and he fell to the ground, jerking uncontrollably before mercifully passing out.

He awoke strapped down to a chair in the middle of the interrogation room he'd seen on the monitor, or one very like it. He checked his bonds, secure, and then stretched and popped his neck while he waited. He was stripped down to his underwear and the chill of the room was making his muscles stiff.
A one-way mirror extended the length of the wall to his left, but he was able to see through it with little difficulty. No-one in there at first, but a few trickled in over the next few minutes. Someone must've noticed he was conscious. Labcoat, labcoat, military uniform? He snuck a closer look under cover of stretching his neck. Lots of badges, shoulder insignia indicated a US Army major general. One last glance and yes, a lanyard with ID card. General Mulhausen. Now why was that name familiar?
He was distracted from his ruminations as a quite angry looking man with a pinched face entered the room and rushed up to Nobody. Labcoat (he never understood their fetish for unnecessary labcoats), lanky, thinning brown-gray hair, essentially interchangeable with any number of other researchers he'd seen over the years. Nobody caught a glimpse of a small woman at the door before the man blocked his view and started shouting at him.
"Who are you! Who are you working for! Why were you after the files for Project Palisade?!"
The man's breath smelled of fish and mint, a combination which sent a mild stab of nausea through Nobody's stomach.
"I'm Nobody. I would've thought you'd already know that."
The man's (oh, let's call him Ratface) eyes narrowed and he spat back, "Nobody isn't real. Just an urban legend that agents tell to spook rookies. Who are you really working for?"
Nobody sighed internally. Great. One of those.
"I'm not working for anyone but my own curiosity. You guys always have the most interesting tidbits. You didn't hide this place all that well, by the way. Much easier to find than Site 19."
Oh, that got a response from the people behind the mirror. And sure, he was provoking Ratface, but that could lead to sloppiness. Besides, it was a little fun.
Ratface grew more livid, face flushing a bright red. He stabbed Nobody in the chest with his finger. "Nobody, and I mean nobody, has ever infiltrated 19."
"Exactly." Nobody smiled sardonically.
Ratface cocked his fist back and the woman spoke quietly.
"Agent Mitchell."
Ratface, Mitchell, stopped and lowered his still-clenched fist.
The woman gently pushed Mitchell to the side and looked down at Nobody, expression blank. Well, maybe vaguely curious, in the same way that you'd wonder whether or not a fly was going to bumble its way out of a partially cracked window.
"You're an odd one, Mr. Nobody. That Notice-Me-Not lattice woven into your coat is making some of our lab boys excited and we've been trying to get a copy of the Factory's latest generation of tech for quite a while. Thank you for bringing us these gifts.
"But I too am wondering why you bee-lined straight to our secure files if you were just wandering around sightseeing. What exactly were you hoping to find?"
She folded her arms casually, tapping her exposed fingers against her arm. Nobody shrugged as best he could while tied down.
"Luck on my part, I suppose. Bad luck, given that you immediately caught me, but still, just random luck."
He cleared his throat and continued, in a slightly different timbre. "I take it those files were about this Project Palisade. Wouldn't you like to tell me what that is?"
Mitchell growled disdainfully at him. "Yes, of course we're going to tell you all about our reality firewall program. Everything about using alternates for research purposes. That makes total sense."
The woman narrowed her eyes as Nobody smiled apologetically and said, "Well, you can't blame a guy for asking."
"Yes, I rather think I can. Agent Mitchell, report to CH&P and get a level White regimen. You've been compromised."
Mitchell looked shocked and angry. "What?! I have not! I'm perfec—"
"Agent Mitchell, you just disclosed sensitive information to an individual with unknown capabilities. Go before I file a reprimand." The woman's voice remained steady and calm.
Mitchell darted his gaze to the mirror, flushed an even angrier red, and stormed out. The woman waited until he was out of the room and the door closed before addressing Nobody.
"I'm naturally immune to most anomalous compulsion effects, Mister Nobody. It's part of why I have my job. Now please, continue. What were you planning to do with those files?"
Nobody briefly furrowed his brow and flicked his eyes up and down the woman, seeking some clue in her body language of how to proceed. She looked… well, she was… her eyes were…
Fuck, he couldn't keep any impression of her in his head other than her gender. That wasn't a good sign. At least he retained the metacognition to recognize that he was missing details. He hated antiperceptuals. Well, ones that he wasn't using himself, anyway.
He sighed. "I don't suppose that you'll believe anything I say at first."
"No, probably not."
"Well, I'm telling the truth anyway. I had no agenda coming in here other than to poke around and see what stood out. Thanks to Mitchell, I now know about the existence of this special project of yours that sounds very interesting. I copied those files because they looked special, not because I was looking for them specifically."
The woman nodded slightly. "That seems plausible, at least. A good story to start with. Now let's dive a little deeper."
She pulled a capped needle and vial from her pocket and proceeded to fill the needle with a yellow-tinted fluid. Nobody tried to jerk and flail as she drew closer with it, but the chair was bolted to the floor and his bindings held him tight. She injected a vein in his right wrist and he felt a cold sensation surge up his arm.
"Now, I want you to know that I don't want any harm to come to you, Mister Nobody, but we will find out what you know. So let's begin at the top. How did you find out about this facility?"
Nobody's head spun as whatever she'd shot into him started to take effect. The rest went predictably from there.

Nobody woke up on a park bench with a splitting headache and the taste of copper and cloying roses in his mouth. Blech. He hated amnesiacs.
He sat up and rubbed his temples, three circles forward, three circles back, two forward, two back, one, one. Memories of the past, goodness, week? filtered back slowly.
The woman really was good at her job. He didn't remember ever being interrogated quite that thoroughly before. She had been meticulous in not sharing any information, too. He had been able to glean a little from lip-reading people behind the glass, however, and they seemed particularly excitable when he accidentally used the word "variable". One of them started shouting a bit and a hint of it filtered through the glass before the general shoved him out of the room. Something like "extermination" or "escalation".
It was hard to read the body language of someone he could barely concentrate on, especially while drugged, but he had the impression that the woman had been moderately bothered that he hadn't given her any other conspirators. He would have to assume that he'd be under surveillance so long as he stayed in the city, probably until he used his abilities to completely and deliberately disappear off their radar. Fuck. He rather liked this place. Some really good street food vendors.
He stood and stretched, feeling stiff muscles creak and joints pop as his long-constrained body settled back into free movement. Well, time to go. He patted himself down. Looked like they'd given him back almost all of his stuff, but he'd have to trash what was left of it in case there were trackers. Swap clothes at a store, burn the coat, smash the tablet (last-gen; did they think he wouldn't notice?) and other toys and distribute the parts around town, hit one of his caches to confirm nothing implanted and resupply, then to the Library for some research.

A month later, Nobody sat in a coffee shop in a different city, browsing through a laptop that he'd liberated from a careless Foundation researcher a while back. At least half of his methods just consisted of taking advantage of other people's natural tendencies and common quirks. Like every IT drone's nightmare: an employee with zero sense of hardware security or understanding that no, they weren't the exception to the "don't take sensitive data home with you" rule.
He had snagged it for the technical specs on that telekill helmet, but it had some other files on it that he hadn't looked through much until now. Files about MTFs Omega-8, -9, and -10, nothing terribly interesting there, standard exploitative crap. What looked like a standard database of their disaster classification system. CK, SK, TK, XK, GH, RI, LO, wait. RI? Those O5 files he'd found were in an RI labeled folder. Let's see…

…
RG-class: Reality collapse
RH-class: Reality overwrite
RI-class: Reality incursion/invasion
RJ-class: Reality de-reification
…

Well. That certainly explained a few things that he'd overheard in the Library. Let's see, what else lurked in here…
Huh. He skimmed through the helmet's documentation again and noted a memo he'd previously disregarded.

The nature of SCP-148 in Fencepost cluster MNT-9T3-___ (key variant SCP-682) makes utilization difficult, as it deadens cognition rather than merely blocks intrusive telepathy. Deployment of protective equipment is not recommended in this cluster. Do not retrieve samples of SCP-148 from these Fenceposts, as there is evidence that it contaminates mainline material. Utilize variant assets from Fencepost PQ4-99R-DD6 for infiltration purposes. They have the greatest natural Psionic Resistance Scores of currently available subsidiary assets.

A slow grin grew across Nobody's face. He'd started with slimmer leads than this. It was going to be a wonderful day.


I lay on the hill and stare at the sky. The stars dance underneath the patchy clouds, casting no light above or below. I was on the committee that made the stars up. We had two days to figure out what they should look like, reconstructed from the shattered allusions and metaphors that remained. Did they look like eyes? Like glass? My proposal was for numerous suns, dimmed to a crystalline glow, close enough to see their ripples and motion across the sky. We chose Brandt's proposal: thin tendrils of elastic light. Occasionally they reassemble themselves into memetic triggers, self-reinforcing projections. I think that was what got it the greenlight in the first place. It certainly wasn't its aesthetic value. Did Brandt know that? Is that what I could see in the stars in his eyes?
"Why would he think my name was Jenkins?" I ask Annette. They are laying next to me, finishing a protein bar. I have already eaten, though I have already forgotten what. "We don't even have a Jenkins in the memetics department."
I KNOW.
They're more relaxed now, out of the site. We walked for one or two hours towards the city, me complaining the whole way. Finally they agreed we had gone far enough from the danger for the night. Now they are taking their time with their messages: full words, punctuation, little pauses in between words or for emphasis. I have never seen them like this, but it makes sense. Communication cannot be purely functional; it must have some art to it. Annette must compensate in other ways.
I DONT THINK HE CARED.
"I cared, though. I can't believe he didn't recognize his favorite employee!"
WHO WAS THAT?
I sigh. Beside me Annette gives a raspy cough.
Another day. We walk again. To keep busy I start assembling the deconditioner, piece by piece. If I do it slowly, and never look at the final product, I'll be fine. It will end up bundled into a little box. It is opening the box that is the problem. I think Annette knows, but they haven't said anything. Why not? Do they even care that I'm going to die because of them? My head begins to ache. What's the use of a heroic sacrifice if no one sees it? I allow myself to imagine the moment—the box opened, the world fading away to black. Annette standing over me, the pain gone at last. My selfishness sickens me.
About halfway through the day we stop at a road that leads to the city. I collapse gracefully.
YOU WILL NOT MAKE IT UP THE HILL.
Annette points beyond the city, to the hill. "No," I gasp. "God no."
WE WILL GET A CAR IN THE CITY.
Practically a novel for Annette. I continue to pant on the ground. Annette rolls their eyes at me, I swear. I don't know where they picked that up.
I WILL GET A CAR IN THE CITY.
"Thank you Annette."
YES.
And then they're gone, running off like a cheetah. The pain returns. I can feel tears leaking from my eyes. I allow myself another fantasy of blackness closing in. I shut my eyes and see stars.
Annette is shaking me. I sit up, bleary-eyed.
"Is someone here? Is something wrong?"
Annette hooks a thumb over their shoulder. I follow it and see nothing. I look around and, behind me, see a car, slightly used.
"Borrowed?"
STOLEN.
In the car now. The road is empty, even this close to the city.
"Who is this for?" I ask, looking out the window.
NOW YOU ASK?
"I had assumed it was an O5," I say.
YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT ASSUMING.
Another long one. "I'm surprised you know," I say.
ENGLISH IS MY NATIVE TONGUE.
I blink. Annette gives a long rasping cough. Finally I realize they are laughing. I laugh too. The laughter cuts off.
ELIZABETH WILLIAMS. DID YOU MEET HER?
I close my eyes and lean back. "I don't think so. Not a memeticist?"
NEVER. APPLIED TOPOLOGY.
"No, I never had much reason to." I open one eye. "What's she to you?"
WHAT IS IT TO YOU?
I let my eyebrows shoot up and close my eye again. "I see."
I feel like an intruder on these roads. They should be congested. There should be people living under the overpasses. There is no one. The roads haven't had time to decay yet; when the end finally comes, I imagine it will happen bit by bit, as little plants and shoots probe for cracks in the surface. Will gravel be left, in little strips? My headache has gotten worse. I can feel something stressed, deep in my head. Some girder or platform that is bearing more weight than it should. Little creaks. I think things are getting too bad. Already the surroundings are less clear, less vivid. I try to think back to where I slept earlier. Can I remember anything about it? What was there? I don't know. I look over. Annette is as solid as ever, at least. Black combat fatigues. Little black disc on wrist. Clear glass eyes. In a week, maybe two, they will be the only thing left.
Entering the city. There are people here, now. They just appeared, in the space between moments. Everyone is out today. There is lots of light, all of a sudden. I don't remember there being so much light before.
Everyone is in threes. Sometimes two men sandwiching a woman, sometimes two women sandwiching a man, sometimes no order at all. The shapes of the people are vague; I find my eyes sliding off of them, and my headache keeps ratcheting up in intensity, bit by bit by bit. The road is choked with abandoned cars. The walkers don't ignore themdon't even notice themand walk over and around them in ways that hurt my eyes to trace. My headache has turned into a screaming migraine. Inside one of the cars I can see still blurs.
Annette tries to nudge the car through.
WE HAVE TO WALK.
I nod. I can feel sweat pouring off my face.
We get out of the car. I can't feel any attention from the blurs. That's good. I stagger a few steps and start to fall before Annette catches me. We can make it a few blocks if I lean on her shoulder. I don't know if that will be enough. Every step feels like it's taking more and more out of me. I want to throw up. I want to lay down. I'm thirsty. My headache is worse. We continue. We continue.
I am on the ground. A blur is above me now. They stretch down an arm and say something. I do not understand them. They appear to be modulating in and out of English. They speak again. Where is Annette? I haul myself to my feet. A weight falls on my shoulder.
—I just want you to know that if we never see each other, I love you very much.
Those are my own words. I thought that was a good idea, over a month ago. That even if the end came fast, there would be no regrets. Stupid. It was a stupid idea. My own words.
"Annette?"
I fall down again.
"Annette?"
Something strong grabs me around the armpits and I almost scream. I feel something on the end of their arm tap on my chest.
INSD
They haul me along the sidewalk, heels dragging. Not good for my nausea. I feel my heels catch once, twice, three times on something, and then we're inside. Annette drops me. I try to stand up and vomit.
The floor is cool and smooth. It is bringing my headache down. I think the vomiting helped. I haul myself up on the ends of my arms and look around. I am inside. It must have been a house. Gaps in the walls let fresh air and light in. I run my arms along the walls. They are rough and textured. The wind whistling through the holes in the walls creates a happy melody. A bird flies from my teeth. I emerge into a large common area. There are people all around, coming in, coming out. Most of them are lounging, though, on the floor, on the walls, with each other. There is laughter, like the tinkling of the wind. I shut my eyes and see stars. Where is Annette?
I am being led into the room. High above I look down and see the space continue. The people (person?) lead (leads?) me to food. I am famished. I eat. There is music. How long has there been music? But there is music. They are making music.
Someone grabs the end of my arm. It is Annette, solid and real.
GO
The ground is shaking. They yank me up behind them, hard. That thing on the end of their arm starts tapping me again.
"What's happening?" More taps.
There is a roar, and a flash of light. Annette hits me and we hit the floor, wind rushing over us, blasting us. There is nothing but sound. It stops. We stand. Off in the distance, where the Site once stood, there is the slowly-rising mushroom cloud. Inside of it, I see stars. I close my eyes and see stars.

« Hello, Little Girl | It Takes Two | Children Will Listen »


After decades of service, there wasn't much that could faze Dr. Gears any more. He had adapted to his career as a Foundation researcher by becoming unusually stoic, to the point that many of his colleagues thought him to be completely emotionless, and possibly even some type of advanced robotic automaton.
And if that bothered him, he gave no sign.
He walked into his office, sat at his desk, booted up his computer and logged in to scipnet. He was about to update the report on the recent CK reality shift that had so substantially altered SCP-049, when something on the screen actually caused him to arch his eyebrow ever so slightly.
The Foundation logo was filled in with a Rainbow Flag, along with a brown and black stripe on top of it.
Slightly surprised and mildly concerned, Gears reached down and pressed the intercom button on his desk.
“Dr. Clef, please report to my office,” he said, staring quietly at the screen until his fellow senior researcher arrived.
“What's up, Chuck?” Clef asked nonchalantly.
“I'm afraid the Foundation's intranet may have been hacked,” Gears reported, gesturing towards the altered logo. “We'll need to have the maintenance technicians run a full diagnostic to determine the extent of the damage. Most likely the perpetrators only wanted to download the database and left this as a calling card to mock us, but we'll have to check for malware and edited files regardless. Do you think it might have been that GoI that's opposed to recreational cannabis use because it impairs their ability at online gaming?”
“Ahh, have you been hitting the ganja, Gears?” Clef asked in mild disbelief. “We haven't been hacked. That logo's just for pride month.”
“ 'Pride month' ?”
“Yeah, June is LGBTQPIA Pride month, man.”
“LGBTQP-”
“Gay pride, Gears, gay pride. The rainbow in the logo is to show our support for our non-heteronormative employees.”
Gears looked at the screen in confusion, and then turned back to Clef.
“We're a clandestine, international Non-Government Organization focused on the study and containment of paranormal phenomena. What does that have to do with gay rights?”
“Everything is political these days, Gears. If you're not for something, you're against it. Seriously, where have you been the last thirty years?”
“Working at Foundation black ops sites, with little to no extraneous information about the outside world,” Gears replied matter-of-factly.
“… Fair enough.”
“I admit I may be somewhat out of touch with current sociopolitical dynamics, but surely we do still retain a nontrivial number of culturally conservative staff members. Doesn't this logo risk upsetting them? Wouldn't it make more sense to remain neutral on this issue, as it does not directly affect Foundation operations?”
“There is no neutrality on stuff like this any more,” Clef replied with a sad shake of his head. “We're living in a very polarized time. June's pride month, and if we don't openly support it, then we're against it by default. Being against it means we're on the alt-right's side, which means we might as well put rare Pepes all over our intranet instead."
…
"What are rare Pep-"
"Nazi Frogs, Gears. Nazi Frogs."
"Nazi Frogs?"
"Nazi Frogs. Memetics on the internet that turns the friggin' frogs Nazi!" Clef said, doing the best Alex Jones impression he could manage. "Now, if there's nothing further…”
“Actually, I am curious as to why there is a black and brown stripe at the top of the rainbow?”
“For inclusivity. It shows our support for people of colour. Just because it's gay pride doesn't mean other injustices stop existing. We're all in this together, or some hippy crap like that.”
“But real rainbows aren't-”
“Well, real rainbows aren't inclusive enough any more,” Clef interjected. “It's not supposed to be a real rainbow Gears. It's a symbol of support and solidarity for equality and inclusivity.”
Gears took another careful look at the screen.
“If that's the case, shouldn't there be a pink stripe for women's rights? That's also a fairly significant political movement at the moment, is it not?”
Clef shrugged indifferently.
“Gotta draw the line somewhere. There's only so many pixels inside the logo we can colour.”
“I see,” Gears said, still sounding uncertain. “Dr. Clef, if I may be so bold, I am somewhat perplexed by how well you're taking this. You do, after all, own a mass stockpile of firearms and have offended virtually every woman you've ever come into prolonged contact with. I would honestly think you were the sort to view any form of political correctness as an infringement on your First Amendment rights.”
“As long as I got my Second Amendment rights, I don't need to worry about the rest,” Clef replied. “And… Draven said that if I can't stop being such an alt-right troll all the time then I'm not going to be invited to his and Talloran's wedding. I can't not be at that wedding, Gears. It would be embarrassing. All the big names will be at that wedding.”
“Yes, it will be an excellent opportunity for our enemies to terminate a large percentage of our senior staff in a single strike. There should probably be a designated survivor,” Gears remarked thoughtfully. “So, just to make sure I've got everything strai- or, clear rather; we haven't been hacked, we're supportive of gay pride, and our logo is now an inaccurate but ethnically inclusive rainbow? ”
“Yep, happy pride month, Chuck,” Clef smiled, slapping him on the back and taking his leave of the office.
Gears turned back to the computer, but his eyes lingered on the altered logo for a moment before he began typing.
"Who would name a frog Pepe?" he asked himself quietly.
"Nazis!" came Clef's distant reply from the hallway.