Hi there. My name is Mr. Money. Don't worry, I just need somebody to talk to. Seeing as it's just you and me on this bus, it might as well be you.
I'd talk to the driver, but there's a sign right there saying not to. See? Do not disturb the driver. I wouldn't do that, seeing as how the bus might crash and then I'd have to walk all that way. You ever walk in rain like this? Let me tell you, it's freezing! So I'm just gonna sit here and talk to you. You.
Oh come on, don't move! I'm just being friendly. Here, take this! See, we're pals now, right? Yes, it's a diamond. Yes, it's real. You see, pal, I know how friendship works. You hearing me…? What's your name, anyway? Well, hello Dave.
It's nice to meet a smart fellow like yourself. I usually hang around with this group…ugh, you would not believe. They didn't understand how friendship works, no they did not. Not like you, Dave.
I gave them dollars and dimes and fucking diamonds! And all they did is call me a snob! Me, can you believe that, Dave?! Have another diamond, you're a good friend and you look like you could use it.
Seriously though; me, a snob? It's not easy to get all this cash, believe me! Puking out the bills is fine, they come out easy. Even coins are no big deal.
But with diamonds, it's not so easy! You can choke on diamonds! I have a few times, let me tell you. Good thing Ms. Sweetie was there, though. I would have been a goner! She was always very kind, Ms. Sweetie. Even if she just pitied me, just fucking pitied me!
Stop fucking moving, Dave! No, don't go, have another diamond, please! I'm sorry for shouting, I didn't mean to. Must have gotten that from Redd, always shouting. Gave me a headache, I don't mind saying.
What's that? Well, Dave, that is a very good question and I don't fucking know why I can puke money so shut the fuck up! Sorry, diamond, sorry. I'll tell you what I do know, because friends share secrets. We're friends, right Dave?
I have to know what kind of money I want to puke. I couldn't spit out some yen or something for you right now, because I've never been to Asia and I don't know what yen looks like. You ever been to Asia? Suppose not, flights are kind of expensive. So, enough about me, where are you headed?
Me, I'm headed for…well, I don't really know, but I'm getting there before those little shits, I know that. They said it wasn't a race, but let me tell you, Dave, it's always a race. Have a diamond.
Previous: 2. Mr. Clank by Dr Gears

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"Hello, Everett!" Clef called out cheerfully, as he strode through the door into Dr. Mann's office. He immediately hit the floor as a hail of bullets passed through the area he'd just been standing in. He crawled on his belly towards the good doctor's desk, even as Mann continued firing wildly, yelling the entire time.
"I DON'T CARE WHAT SCP-001 IS! I DON'T WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE ORIGIN OF THE FOUNDATION IS! WOULD YOU PEOPLE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!" Mann, a little unhinged, continued firing until the clip went dry, and then continued pulling the trigger, just on the off chance he might have missed a bullet. Clef reached up and, carefully, took the gun from Mann's hand.
"Having a bit of trouble, Doctor?" Clef asked, as he subtly replaced the gun with a flask of home brew. He checked the gun absently, then tossed it into a corner.
Mann chugged on the flask, not caring that it burned, or that the taste of apples was absolutely overwhelming. It was brain death, and it was a welcome relief from the near constant stream of Overseers baring their soul. "They…they won't stop Clef. They keep coming to me, and unburdening. I'm not sure how much I can take. Twelve hours from now, O5-13 comes in to tell me his story. He left ten minutes ago. I can't stand that guy!"
"Relax, Everett, relax. You're with a friend now. Come on, take a seat, take some more drink…" Clef casually closed the door, and locked it. "You know, as long as you're hearing the secrets, what's one more, hmm?" Clef nodded, picking up a chair and setting it so he could kick his feet up on Mann's desk. "As long as you're listening, why don't I tell you where I came from?"
As Mann whimpered and sought solace in the flask, Clef began to speak.

It's so long ago, I can barely remember it myself. I wasn't always a field agent, you know. I used to be a researcher, specializing in humanoid SCPs. It was horrible, Everett, back in the beginning. Humanoid skips got the short end of the stick. I'd begun lobbying for some changes. Trying to help people, just a little bit. So they demoted me. Assigned me to some of the anomalous skips, that we didn't know what they were. So there I am, trying to figure these things out… and, coincidentally, someone fucks up on containment of 76, and next thing I know, Able is bearing down on me with a bloody meat cleaver.
He got me. He got me bad. I shut down, to avoid the pain. Even now, all I can see are flashes of light along the blade… The Foundation fucked up. They thought I was dead. Tossed me in a mass grave, and forgot about me.
But I was alive. I crawled out of a grave filled with D-class. Rotting bodies all around me, and I still managed to crawl out from under all that dirt. Make my way down the road. I killed a man, just for his clothes and vehicle. But I didn't think about it, at the time. Thought I was just, y'know, tough.
I made my way to a hideout my brother and I had set up years before. One of those 'just in case' type of things. I spent a month there, treating my wounds, recovering my strength. And realizing, I was free. I had a mind full of Foundation secrets, and the Foundation thought I was dead.
First thought was MC&D. I could sell all I knew, make myself a billionaire, and never have to worry again. But… I couldn't stop thinking about the humanoid skips in Foundation custody. And about Able. We could have done something about him, could have ended him. But no, we had to contain… I actually even thought about going to the old man, but you know how he gets. So I went to the GOC.
They were skeptical. Who wouldn't be? But, in exchange for some plastic surgery, a whole new identity, I gave them everything. They made me an agent. I made sure I was their top agent, Ukelele. And I chose my new name, Alto Clef.
But it was when dealing with a young lady whose only problem was that she was part goat, that I found out I was immortal. My associate wanted her dead. She was a Green, albeit a weak one. We argued. He shot me, and then her. I didn't die. I shot him back, and held her while she died. That girl… she's stayed with me, Everett.
I digress. The GOC wasn't for me. So, I made overtures to the Foundation. If I couldn't defeat them, maybe I could subvert them from within. No one was more surprised than myself when they sent me to talk with me. But it made my cover complete. None of them have ever suspected me. My tentacles stretch throughout this Foundation. I can take it down whenever I need to.
Just thought you should know.

Clef pried the flask from Mann's unresisting hand. Over the course of the story, the doctor had made his way under his desk, where he now just sat and rocked, whimpering to himself. The Agent smirked, and began to exit, when Mann managed to croak out a response.
"Alto…Why?"
Clef just smirked. "Please, Everett. We've known each other for long enough. Call me Jack."


Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, and looked around, blinking. The sun was still somewhat bright through the wisps of storm clouds, The great city glittering in the distance, as bright and fresh as new silver. Mr. Clank stretched, feeling the smooth roll of clockworks along his spine. It had been a hard choice, but even a flickering life was still a life. The key turned slowly, tapping out like a second heartbeat, a cool reminder that he was, indeed, alive. He started walking, smiling as the gears kept perfect time, the fields and small trees passing by in an easy rhythm. Even if it had taken some questionable steps, at least he was still able to continue to journey.
The city was still far off hours later, but Mr. Clank wasn't worried. He was making good time, and was still able to take in the scenery. The high mountains, the glittering lake, it was all bathed in a freshness, as if seen with new eyes. Which, in a way, might not be far off. Mr. Clank smiled, walking to a tall, wide tree, leaning against the bark and watching the leaves drift and flutter. Poor Mr. Redd, he'd never get to see any of this…maybe Mr. Clank could tell him about it, give him a small sample of these wonders. The clicking slowed, easing down as the key stilled, so tired now…just a small rest, before the road
Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, looking around with a start. A hazy nicotine-yellow sun burned down through sooty clouds, bathing everything in a hazy twilight. The city loomed up across a sprawl of squat, dark homes, a few small gardens, and thin trees standing out in the haze. Mr. Clank stretched, feeling a harsh click as the gears in his shoulders and arms engaged, his spine shuddering hard once before smoothing out, the key clicking time like a metronome at a military march. He started walking, slowly, feeling his steps and watching the homes, wondering why he'd chosen this way, this path, this idea. The thick cogs jutting from his back caught a cool breeze between the homes, chilling him deeply.
The crumbled outskirts of the city were around him, hours later. Moldering heaps of rusted metal made Mr. Clank shiver involuntarily, wondering where the sun was now. Time seemed to be passing like the coppery dust on the streets, everything seeming to carry a kind of crumbling frailness, a timeless age. The silvery shards were streaked with rust and soot, the sound of a sick dog barking breaking the stillness for only a second. Mr. Clank sighed, feeling a shudder in his chest, leaning against a crumbling doorway. Mr. Redd had said something, but he couldn't remember. Mr. Clank worried, his memory feeling a little fuzzy now. There had been a tree, a silver…something. He was so tired, his clockworks shivering and seizing with a jolt. Exhausted, he slid down to rest, eyes flickering over the road
Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, a squealing gasp rising from his lips as his eyes ratcheted open. The endless walls and towers of the city loomed like the walls of an oubliette, a few damaged and sputtering gas lamps the only light along the grimy, uneven street. Mr. Clank stretched, moaning as the flywheels and screws refused to catch, missing their sockets several times before clicking in, his twitching, sputtering arms ratcheting down, chest piston wheezing out of sync with the pitted key. He turned his head, slowly, shivering as timing gears missed, confused about where he had gone, why he had gone there. The thin, gray flesh of his face and legs looked icy, but the squealing of his joints took his mind from it. He hardly noticed the thin, black fluid his feet were leaking as he started his jittering march.
Hours later, he might have been standing still. Mr. Clank felt claustrophobic, the endless walls seeming to shrink after every turn. Mr. Clank ran in a shuddering lurch, unaware of the time, sure he was late. For what, he wasn't sure, the thread of thought scattering as he saw something point at him, its face a black, fuzzy pit. Mr. Clank was lost, his clockworks squealing and sticking deep in his brain, an oily bile leaking from his mouth unnoticed as he panted. Mr. Redd was there…Mr. Redd had been there? Mr. Redd was coming. He whimpered in time to the slipping key, refusing to look behind at the squealing sound far behind him. Mr. Clank tripped and fell, skidding into a heap of oozing garbage, lying there, too exhausted to move. His clockworks locked tight, bringing a soundless scream…then let go, only to lock again moments later. Mr. Clank whimpered, for help or release he wasn't sure, feeling a dimness seep up from the cracked road
Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, crying ashy tears as his eyes slowly clicked open. The twilight was real, the bloated, boiling sun framed around trash fires and burning oil on the open plane. Mr. Clank screamed thinly, trying to cry as his rusted, pitted frame ratcheted up in a squeal of frozen bolts and rusty haze. Trying to grit his teeth against the agony, he found his lower jaw was gone, his exposed teeth dry and brittle in the thick air. The city walls were an unbroken wall behind him, his path from there forgotten, his way forward a stumbling, slow-motion shamble among slag, burning oil pipes, and shifting trash. Forward. His legs dug in on worn spines, steely points fogging rust. Forward.
Hours later, Mr. Clank lay, twitching and clicking, at the edge of the pit. Night had fallen like a slimy sheet, smothering vision, thought and breath in an oily tarp. Time was passing over him like ants, Mr. Clank lying like a dead thing, moaning in a raspy squeal as he watched the searing sun. Mr. Redd was…waiting…needing? Missing. Wishing. Listening? The words were shards, jabbing and freezing his stripped and sputtering gears. Sparks hissed and arched, a belt stretching and going slack, the memory of breath coming in torturous, moaning gasps. The Pit. Mr. Clank twitched and flexed, trying to get in, but his eyes glazed, frozen in a blank stare, watching the slow undulation of the road
Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, lidless eyes fixed on the pulsing walls. The blackness was total, and yet he saw. His body hissed and squealed, a paralyzed mass, brassy orbs mocking sight from the mass of screws. The rust was gnawing cancer, rats in his skin, maggots in his nerves, an endless itching with no arms to scratch. The paths before and behind were obscured, frozen eyes fixed on the leaking, sore-riddled flesh of the ceiling. He hated the softness under him. Hated the easy, sick fluid dripping and seeping. Hated the flexibility. Hated with a mass that had moved beyond feeling.
Hours later, he dropped like a numb, dead stone, landing on a heap of hissing, sputtering hulks. The darkness defied even his endless eyes, the vague humps of rusty, crumbling metal rolling in a sea of black pus. Mr. Redd. Mr. Reeedddd. Reeeeddddddddd. The squealing notes rose in a croaking monotone. He had taken. Given. It did not happen. There had been silver. There had been gold. There is rust. Mr. Clank raged, strained, snapping and shattering as he flexed out, clawing a helpless rage into the fleshy floor, digging for the bottom, for the escape, for the end, for the road
Mr. Clank woke suddenly, as he always did, and refused to open his eyes.
Previous: 1. Mr. Headless by Anaxagoras

Next: 3. Mr. Money by Tanhony

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Hello Everett. You were expecting me? How ha-
Ah. Quite right, I suppose. May I sit? Thank you.
I can only imagine what you must think of us by now. How many have come to you this month- Five? Seven? Enough, at least, to put you in an… uncomfortable position. Half of the O5 council, here in your office, sputtering like mad men and contradicting each other on even the most basic of details. But we're very good at contradiction around here, aren't we? I think you would have found your answers on your own if things had gone differently. The research you were doing was damned close to the crux of it. Problem is, you got caught up on a red herring, and it can't have helped that the old man got to you when he did. If you'd kept looking, you would have noticed soon enough: The Factory isn't the only thing that stops making sense if you look at it for too long. Yes, the other organizations as well, but that's only the start.
Just stop and think about it for a moment. It amazes me how much we get you people to ignore— do you honestly believe that we keep a dozen drafts of 001 as part of some inane security policy? You've never wondered why so many reports and logs for missions and experiments we've never approved- much less written- just happen to spring up on our servers? How so many hundreds of inconsistencies were introduced to our records? Do you really think we're that inept?
…you do, don't you. Ohohoho, you do. No wonder you've held your tongue this long, 'just smile and nod and the crazy old men will shut up and leave me to my work'. You disappoint me Doctor. You've come far enough to know that it couldn't be that simple.
Then allow me to level with you. From the top.
The things we lock away are wrong, Everett. Fundamentally, unequivocally wrong. They contradict everything we know about math, science, religion, life, thought, they violate reality itself.
No, of course I'm not talking about the Greens. They're troublesome, but in they end, they are fundamentally human. In some ways that makes them easier to manage than even our safest objects; but you have the right idea. A mortal mind wielding such power is trivial. But what do you suppose happens when it manifests on its own? You've been through enough of the archive by now to know all three answers. AK, BK, CK. The world twists, and in the worst case we don't even know that it's happened.
Yes Doctor, spontaneous reality shifts. It took decades to determine the cause, but in the end it was laughably simple. On its own, an SCP object merely bends. Gather the right ones together, bend things far enough in the right direction, and sooner or later something breaks. Upon advancing to level 5 we're all trained to notice the signs, when possible. We secure a new item, we transfer an object between sites, and within a day or two we'd know that something was off.
The implications should be obvious; our very existence is jeopardized by even the simplest of operations. We tried everything we could think of- we limited the number of objects per site, prohibited needless cross-testing, minimized transfers, spread out as much as possible, even authorized decommissions for most of the more trivial anomalies. It wasn't enough. And even if it was, it wouldn't stop Dark, the Hand, the Church, and god knows who else. Hell, we have reason to believe that those damned cultists are doing it on purpose.
That's why Ten started pushing for a different approach. We can't prevent the problem; why not turn it on its head? We started to look for ways to use the shifts to our advantage. The potential for knowledge alone… And if we could find the pattern…
Everett, have we had this conversation before?
Never mind. In either case, we built Site Zero in the twenties once we had a better handle on how it all worked. I never understood a lick of the physics, but we were assured that it would deflect the effects enough to preserve our memories and our copy of Central Records between shifts. And it did. The advantage it gave us was beyond anything we had imagined. Before the site was completed, we controlled at most fifteen percent of all known SCP objects. We now consistently control at least seventy percent between shifts, and the protocols we enact from Site Zero can recover most of them in a month or less after even the worst events.
There were problems of course. When any of us leave Site Zero, the re-briefing can take weeks if our timing is bad. But it goes deeper than that. Even those of us that never leave started to notice inconsistencies, internal fragmentation. Database checks began turning up entire unknown files in the shift-safe system, but that was the least of our concerns. It got worse over time, and after a while we started to… well, I think you've already guessed the rest.
I'm not so bad off as most of the others yet, but it's only a matter of time. I can't keep it straight in my head. There's no record of half of the senior staff I've worked with. I don't remember any Insurgency, much less a credible threat from Iran. On more days than not, I don't even have my designation right.
No, of course not. That's the problem; we have the wolf by the ears. We don't have much time left, and we cannot allow our failure to become the Foundation's. Really, though, the solution is quite simple. We need re-
Very good, Doctor. Perhaps there's hope for you after all.
I think we're done here. We'll be seeing you. Soon.
And Everett? Give my regards to whoever arrives as Eight.


By Anaxagoras

Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.
My name's Jeremy Adams and I'm 22 and I'm being chased by a monster. I don't know what's going on. I don't know how this is possible, or what I'm supposed to do. The thing won't stop. I've been running for — oh god — only fifteen minutes. Feels like longer. I'm exhausted and it won't stop.
I didn't do anything wrong. I just saw this guy on the subway. It's night, we were the only people in the car. He looked odd, a bit gray and glassy-eyed, which was odd because from his hands I'd have guessed he was black or Indian or something. We got off at the same stop and I guess I wasn't looking where I was going because I bumped into him and his head fell off. I mean, that doesn't happen. And then he got up and chased after me. That… that… can't happen.
How is it even following me anyhow? It's not like it has eyes. Another door locked. No! Can't someone have left their door unlocked tonight? Please, I just need to get away from this thing and there it is how did it get behind me? shitshitTrashcan! I grab one and swing it straight into the thing's chest and it stumbles backwards and collapses and I'm off running before it can get back up. Thank you adrenaline.
How can this alley be a dead end? It can't be, I need to escape! It's not fair! Walls, walls, damn it. Too high and too slick and it's found me. Anything around? No. I can't fight, but I try to punch it and it's strong and this doesn't make any sense and is that a blade and
~
Much, much better. Could hardly even hear with that old one by the end. But this one is good. Young, healthy, should last me for weeks. Colorblind, but you can't have everything. And let's see… Reasonably bright, too. I just hope I didn't get too far off track getting this one. Mr. Redd, I'm coming for you. And I can't wait to find out what wonderful thoughts I can think with that head of yours.

Next: 2. Mr. Clank from Dr. Gears

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OVAL OFFICE – WHITE HOUSE – WASHINGTON
JUNE 2, 1972 3:27 TO 3:55 P.M.
IN ATTENDANCE:
RICHARD NIXON (POTUS)
HENRY KISSINGER (ASST. FOR NAT'L SECURITY AFFAIRS)
GEN. ALEXANDER HAIG (DEPUTY ASST. FOR NAT'L SECURITY AFFAIRS)
AGENT GREGORY SACHS (GOC)
ADM. THOMAS MOORER (CHAIRMAN, JCS)
GEN. JOHN C. MEYER (COMMANDER, SAC)

NIXON – Tom, John, thank you both for coming over.
MOORER – Thank you, Mr. President. Welcome back and congratulations on the summit.
MEYER – Mr. President, I want to add my congratulations. Frankly, sir, the ABM and SALT treaties are going to make my life easier.
NIXON – It's kind of funny you would say that, John, because if the god-damn peaceniks at the New York Times had had their way, we would have told the Russians that we were ready to get rid of all of your bombers and all of your missiles, and then there wouldn't be anything left for you to do but play golf every day. But, uh, the reason I asked you gentlemen to see me here … uh, Al, where's the binder?
HAIG – Here, sir.
NIXON – Gentlemen, based on some information that came to light, uh, before and during my trip to Moscow, we have a supplement to the targeting priority list for our bombers and ICBMs.
MOORER – A minute, if you'll forgive me, Mr. President. Who is that guy?
SACHS – Admiral, I'm … [unintelligible]
NIXON – Don't worry about it, Tom. He's OK.
MEYER – Mr. President, with respect sir, the Pentagon just usually cables …
KISSINGER – [unintelligible] only a contingency …
MEYER – [unintelligible] … orders over.
NIXON – I realize that this is a departure from your regular protocol. But I wanted to go over this with you in person because this is an unusual case, and I wanted to make sure that there is no mistake. To make sure that you didn't think there was a transcription error or something. Hank, can you start?
KISSINGER – Case COLD HARPER. How you people come up with these names I don't know. These are the instructions to SAC if the balloon goes up on Case COLD HARPER. Here is the list of the bomber wings and the ICBM sites in the usual format and here are the coordinates of the target. You will …
MEYER – I don't understand, it's the same coordinates all the way down the list …
MOORER – Some of these assets, sir, Anderson AFB, uh, that's in Guam, and Clark is in the Philippines. How can they even reach …
MEYER – Hold it, yeah, you're right, Tom. What is this?
HAIG – [unintelligible ] … if Case COLD HARPER goes hot …
NIXON – See, Hank, this is why I wanted them here in person. Admiral, general, this is not a mistake. If we have to call COLD HARPER, then, uh, then this location here is the target.
MEYER – [unintelligible] … somewhere in the Arctic Ocean.
MOORER – Seventy-three point such and such north by fifty four point such and such east. Let me check the map … It's not in the ocean, it's the big Russian island here, Novaya Zemlya.
MEYER – … that fifty-megaton job that Khrushchev dropped back in sixty-one? Tsar Bomba I think they called it? I think that was where they dropped it.
HAIG – … show you some U-2 photographs of the location.
MEYER – So we would be bombing a test range? I don't …
KISSINGER – [unintelligible] … not exactly a testing facility.
MOORER – I'm sorry?
KISSINGER – I said that it's not a testing facility. A garbage incinerator would be a better analogy. If you want to be technical, it's not even a Soviet facility, strictly speaking.
SACHS – Dr. Kissinger, I don't think …
HAIG – Mr. President, I should point out that General Meyer isn't on the list, and Admiral Moorer …
NIXON – Al, they have to know enough to be able to do their jobs.
HAIG – Sir, I agree of course but [unintelligible]
MEYER – What list? Forgive me for not being in on the news that there's a clearance level that is higher than the Commander of Strategic Air Command, but that guy next to Dr. Kissinger who I don't even recognize …
NIXON – I'm going to tell them …
HAIG – Mr. President, I really [unintelligible]
NIXON – … no, not everything. Just what they need …
MOORER – [unintelligible] a little out of the loop …
NIXON – Admiral, General, it will have to suffice for me to say that there is a… there is an object, let's say, at this place on that island. These are contingency targeting instructions. If I … if the Commander in Chief, gives the command to activate COLD HARPER, which would only be done if Christ help us the trigger condition had been satisfied, then …
MEYER – … then that site becomes the priority target.
NIXON – … the only target. It is not just the priority target, it's the only target.
MOORER – Sir, you have us sending three, four, wait … all, all of our bomber wings, and … all of our intercontinental missiles …
KISSINGER – That's correct, Admiral …
MOORER – … targeting just this one location …
MEYER – Sir, the way we run our bombers, when we hit something once with these payloads, the target is gone, so I don't see …
MOORER – … not even LeMay would have … [unintelligible]
MEYER – … [unintelligible] would have to be a one-way trip for a lot of these boys, at this range …
NIXON – Look, Tom, John, I'm satisfied that it's necessary.
MOORER – Whoever is there, you must really want us to get up there in a hell of a hurry and kill it.
HAIG – If it comes to that. I sure as hell hope not, since a lot of the guys up there are ours. Well, his, at any rate.
MEYER – So who the hell are you guys, then?
SACHS – We're keeping an eye on the … object, as the President put it, until we can come up with a satisfactory way to get rid of it.
MOORER – So this is your plan for disposing of the … whatever it is?
NIXON – This is Plan B. Plan A is just holding the line, so to speak, for as long as they can in the way that they're doing it now.
MEYER – With respect, sir, I don't see how we can drill this, with everything that has to be put into place for Linebacker …
KISSINGER – General, first of all, it has been determined for the sake of operational security that the existence of COLD HARPER itself is Foxtrot-level from which it follows that there can be no drills. Nobody, not even SAC command staff, who have not been designated Foxtrot-level are cleared for this. If the balloon goes up, you just do what you have to do to aim your planes and target your missiles in accordance with these instructions. Secondly, if …
NIXON – Where Henry is going with this is that if we're in COLD HARPER, then fuck Linebacker, fuck South Vietnam, it isn't going to matter.
MOORER – But we would no longer have our nuclear deterrence against the Soviets …
HAIG – It doesn't matter because they will have already …
NIXON – I should have told Al not to bother showing you those photos, because if we do COLD HARPER then the location isn't going to look like this by the time your boys get there, John. It will already be hot because the Russians, who are closer, obviously, will have already hit the location with everything that they've got.
MEYER – The Soviets would, uh, would bomb themselves?
KISSINGER – Well, it was their own idea …
SACHS – Technically, they'd be bombing my people, but under the circumstances that would hardly matter.
MEYER – I have to ask because I really don't know the answer. You're on our side, right? I mean, you're not a Russian or …
SACHS – Athens, Georgia sir. Go Bulldogs.
MEYER – This whole thing just doesn't make any damn sense …
MOORER — We would hit this thing with our whole nuclear triad after it's already nothing but a smoking irradiated crater from what the Soviets have?
KISSINGER – Not the whole triad, Admiral. Just the missiles and bombers. The subs …
NIXON – The boomers we will need for Noah, which I'll go over with you and Elmo Zumwalt in another briefing in a few days.
MEYER – NOAA as in the weather forecasting people?
KISSINGER – Noah as in ark. Don't you remember from Sunday School? The animals march in, two by two …
HAIG – [unintelligible] …seeds and frozen embryos, for the most part … [unintelligible] … offload the missiles to make room …
NIXON – We're not ready to talk about Noah yet. I want to get this targeting thing settled. Admiral Moorer, General Meyer, I assure you that I have thought this through. General, you have the order. Thank you both for coming.
MOORER – Thank you, Mr. President. [ADM. MOORER AND GEN. MEYER LEAVE THE MEETING.]
NIXON – That settles that bit. Satisfied, Agent Sachs?
SACHS – Yes, Mr. President. I'll report back to the … [unintelligible]
NIXON – Yes, thank you for coming. Please tell your people … tell them that I appreciate the fine work they're doing.
SACHS – Of course, sir. Thank you, Mr. President. [AGENT SACHS LEAVES THE MEETING]
NIXON – Thanks, Al. Can Henry and I have the room?
HAIG – Yes sir, Mr. President. [GENERAL HAIG LEAVES THE MEETING]
NIXON – Should we get Ambassador Dobrynin over here to tell him? Or do you want to talk to Gromyko directly?
KISSINGER – I'll call Gromyko. I'll call him as soon as I get back over to the Executive Office Building.
NIXON – Our boys here … Henry, it wears on you, how they don't see the big picture.
KISSINGER – To be fair, Mr. President, apart from the GOC and Foxtrot, and whatever the Soviets call their version of Foxtrot, they don't know …
NIXON – They don't know. And it makes you kind of jealous.
KISSINGER – When you had told me, I didn't really appreciate it. I didn't, until Sachs and Marshal Yakubovsky took me up there last week and showed me…
NIXON – I'm afraid that it will stay with you …
KISSINGER – [unintelligible] … not believe it. Even after the number of times they've dropped bombs on it. Even the Tsar Bomba barely … [unintelligible]
NIXON – … including those times in '64 and '65 when Johnson had to give them some of our bombs to use because they had run out of their own …
KISSINGER – … [unintelligible] still see it every time I close my eyes.
NIXON – They brought me up there and showed it to me when I went to Russia under Ike in 1959. This was a couple of days after the Kitchen Debate. … Ike knew, I'm certain of it. He asked me to go over there. I guess he wanted to see whether I was ready. Hand me the whiskey?
KISSINGER – Let me pour us each one.
NIXON – [laughs] I'm going to need a taller one than that, uh, just give me the bottle back. You know, I didn't even use to drink very much before that trip. But you do what it takes and you soldier on …
KISSINGER – Those men at the site, they have to be there every day.
NIXON – [unintelligible] … the god-damn bravest bastards in the whole world. Especially that guy, uh, Vassily, with the eyepatch. Was he still there?
KISSINGER – You had told me, and I asked about him. They told me that he's still on the books as being assigned there, but they keep him sedated most of the time.
NIXON – That's a shame. They told me that he had been through Stalingrad, and Berlin, but I can't … I don't think I'm surprised.
KISSINGER – [unintelligible]
NIXON – You know, knowing that things like that … [unintelligible] … puts the rest of it into perspective, China and Vietnam and all that.
KISSINGER – [unintelligible] … what's important, in the big picture.
NIXON – The big picture, exactly. And that's why it's so god-damn frustrating. Those fuckers on the Hill and those fucking screaming college kids. If they knew the kinds of things that we, what the GOC and our other boys were doing, they'd have a god-damn parade every day. They'd build a god-damn statue, they'd say thank you, they … [unintelligible]
KISSINGER – At least Brezhnev and Gromyko will have something that they can be grateful to you for, for a change. The Russians did admit that they needed our help …
NIXON – Speaking of gratitude, I'll tell you again, whatever we might say about the Russians, at least they, they and the GOC, are keeping that thing in its box. … [unintelligible] you think that COLD HARPER will be enough to deal with it, if it gets out?
KISSINGER – Sachs had told me that it … his people think … [unintelligible] … least bad alternative, so to speak. Now as far as what those other bad alternatives were, you remember that I told you about that cable, from Dr. [unintelligible] … who said they thought they had a way to contain [unintelligible] …
NIXON – I almost can't think of a worse approach than to let those egghead fuckers get their hands on …
KISSINGER – If COLD HARPER isn't enough, well, it wouldn't matter to you and me. It's not like we're going to be on Noah's Ark.
NIXON – What is it with you Jews and the gallows humor?
KISSINGER – Mr. President, there have been too many times when it's all that we have left.
NIXON – Yeah, well we're all in that boat, Hank.

« Memorandum Dated 6 November 1944 | COLD HARPER | Transcript of telephone conversation, August 9, 1991 »

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Spring Cleaning

Transcript of meeting, June 2 1972

Transcript of telephone conversation, August 9, 1991

Memorandum Dated 6 November 1944

Scroll fragment 13Q29

Stray Katz (part 1)

Ad Majorem Bonum
Rating: 24


Alto Clef had been dealing with a lot of shit for the past week, but there was something about sitting on the toilet at 6:00 AM, reading his paper and drinking coffee as his aged bowels struggled to force another turd from his body that made things better. Marginally better.
He sighed and turned the page, reading about how Site-11 would—once again—be taking home the intersite softball championship. It was, of course, because O5-3 had money on Site-11 and got all the best players transferred there, but everyone thought that -3 was crazy, so he got away with it. He wasn't really crazy. None of them were. But that didn't stop the impression from reaching Clef as well.
He stood up, stretching and staring into the toilet. He nodded once in approval and flushed, folding the paper and putting it under his arm as he walked out into his quarters. It was a mess, of course. His most recent assistant wasn't as proficient as the last one. He sighed, throwing the paper in the trash and pawing through piles of clothes until he found a pair of underwear that looked mostly clean, and pulling them on.
He went to his closet, getting out an older pair of slacks, sitting down on the bed to get them on, and then adding a sweat stained white shirt and lab coat to the mix. He sighed, pushing himself up from the bed and trundling out of the room, pushing his hair back from his forehead. ‘I'm going to get a haircut today,' he thought, going to the door and opening it into the quiet corridor.
Seniority had its advantages, and one of them was calling your own projects. Clef had been without one for almost eight months, but no one said anything. Years of service were generally rewarded with placidity in the Foundation, until the shit hit the fan. Then, all the new kids would be running to him, to Gears, to Crow, all begging and pleading, telling them what stupid idea they tried and what moronic consequences it had.
He rounded the corner just in time to see his assistant cleaning dirt out from under her fingernails with a nail file. He'd chosen her for the massive tits she sported, but now… They just seemed like wasted space. He stared at them nonetheless.
“Morning, sir,” she said passively, pressing her breasts together slightly and raising them, believing that they—rather than boredom—were the source of his apathy toward her performance.
He stared for a few minutes more, going on past her, heading toward the site barber. It was the middle of the work day, so the room was mostly empty. “Hey, Ernie,” he said.
“Hey, Bert,” the barber replied. It was an old, tired joke—the kind that people still laughed at politely because the man was old and amicable. Clef did his duty, emitting a dry chuckle, and sat in a creaking chair off to the side. In a moment, the young agent in the chair stood, thanked the barber, and passed him a ten. He accepted it, smiled, and waved the young man on his way.
As Clef got up and headed to the chair, he cocked his eyebrow. “New kid doesn't know not to pay you yet?” he asked, shifting himself into it.
“They never do,” Ernie replied.
Clef's thinning hair made the job quick, and as the barber combed it, he said as much. Clef shrugged. “I'm getting old enough for it,” he said.
Ernie knocked the stray hair from the man's shoulders, undoing the barber's cape, and then holding out his hand. Clef smirked and shook his head, laughing genuinely as he left the room, his stomach rumbling slightly.
He made his way to the mess, entering it to no cheer or pomp, only to the occasional glance and nod from a friend or coworker. Those were both few. He entered the line, taking a roast beef sandwich and a bag of potato chips, as well as an extra pudding cup. It moved forward slowly, a couple of shuffling steps at a time. He yawned as he showed the woman his meal card; she nodded; and he headed to a quiet table.
He sat alone, eating the pudding cups first, then staring at the sandwich. He noted how dry the beef was as he bit into it, frowning slightly and realizing that he'd have to go through the whole line again to get a damned cola. He sat there instead, chewing, eating a dry sandwich and wishing—longing—for a containment breach, an assassination attempt, a god damned green. Anything, really.
But it never came. And as he finished chewing, he got up, threw his plate in the garbage, and headed back to his quarters for his bottle of scotch. Another exciting day ending at noon.
He passed Gears on the way out, nodding to him and the younger agent—who was hanging onto his every word, laughing and trying to joke unsuccessfully with the bald doctor—and decided for the tenth time to fire his assistant. But she really did have such lovely tits.


Okay, so what happened is…
No, sir, I would not lie to you. I will contain myself to the purely factual. Yes sir. No sir. The squid were factual. I have pictures. No sir, there were no squid at the village.
Anyway, so, we were waiting for the skip to show up when those Gock bastards showed up. Forgive my language, sir. I did not know you were sensitive, sir. I will try to be delicate in the future.
Anyway, the Gocks. They showed up. They were tryin' to be sneaky, but we spotted 'em pretty quick. Black is not a good camouflage color. I don't care if it's dark, you want some gray in there, break up your outline. Of course, that was just before Johnson sneezed. Yes sir. I will be sure to mention it to him at his wake. I am sure his widow will be appreciative of constructive criticism.
There were a few shots fired, but no casualties then. More in way of a handshake. Yes sir, I am aware that I do not have sufficient authority to initiate hostilities with a group of interest. We were just shooting at each other, y'know, friendly-like.
The Gock commander inquired as to the nature of our business there, and suggested that it might be best if we left the disposition of the skip to them. I suggested that instead, it might be best if they find another skip to kill, as we had prior interest in the one expected to soon arrive.
The conversation moved on, and he inquired as to the health and quality of my sexual partners. I responded with politely worded questions as to whether or not his mother had studied the field of animal husbandry, as he looked like someone with farming blood. The warmth and politeness we showed each other, sir, it would melt the cockles of your heart.
Our palaverin' ranged to many subjects what are not germane to this discussion, therefore I shall not speak of them further, except to mention that my men have a much larger vocabulary than what I would previously have credited them. They truly are a credit to the Foundation.
It was after about five minutes of this that the windows started bleedin', and we realized that the skip was gettin' close. With nary a thought to our own safety, we assumed positions of maximum tacticality for the skip's expected entry, which were by great coincidence also mostly covered from the Gock's positions.
Then we found out where our intelligence had fucked up yet again.
I am sorry, sir. I did not realize that you were a sp- an intelligence operative. I meant only that despite their great efforts, which surely involved many hours of hazardous duty behind a desk fighting papercuts, they missed the fact that this fucker ate light.
Excuse me again, sir. I meant this fascinating and no doubt valuable specimen.
Anyway, it went pitch dark. The Gocks were apparently fully aware of this ability, a fact I mention only as a curiosity what you might mention to your erstwhile colleagues in intel. They had night vision goggles, and seemed to feel they were fully equipped to deal with said skip. I can only speculate based on their screaming that they were not briefed on its vulnerability to silver. So, y'know, some things are universal.
Anyway, we started firin' blindly in the direction of the noises. Yeah, I think we probably killed a few of them, but you didn't hear 'em. Trust me, I don't think they woulda complained.
After, we did some clean-up, an' pulled out. If the Gock's pissed, well, they jumped into our op. They knew the risks, same as us. If it had gone a little different, we'd've been the ones scattered across Angola, and it wouldn't have been their fault, neither. Excuse my French, sir, but shit happens.
So, who won in the end? Well, most of us didn't die, but we ended up terminatin' the skip. So, y'know, call it a draw.


The first time I came home to an unlocked door, I figured I'd just forgotten to lock it when I went to work. I've done that before.
This morning, I made sure to lock it - jiggled the knob a few times just in case - and thought nothing of it until I returned.
I combed the house. Nothing was out of place, no murderers stashed in my closet, no valuables missing. I slept fitfully that night, hugging a baseball bat to myself. When I woke up, I found conditions to be the same as before: there was absolutely nothing unusual.
That night I slept with the bat again. In the morning, I poked through every nook and cranny of every room in my house. Nothing. I locked my door and left for work. And when I got home, it was unlocked. This continued for weeks.
As weeks turned into months I became used to the state of my door; even got to appreciate it. I liked that if I stayed out late, I didn't have to fumble for my keys in the dark.
One night, when I returned home, my door was locked. After a good deal of messing about with my keys, I finally managed to unlock it and go inside. I clicked on the light - then I spotted the tiny writing on my wall.
"you need me."


“There, it's on.”
“Alright, settle please, settle. Ladies and gentlemen, I call this meeting to order. There are no new faces, so I will forgo introductions and proceed directly to business.”
“All work and no play…”
“Keeps us all alive. May I? Thank you. The last control theory has failed. Again. What's more, it does not appear to be vanishing quietly as was hoped, and may pose a serious issue in the immediate future. I would remind the group that I stated on the outset that Colonel Marshall lacked the self-sacrifice needed for-”
“Yes, you told us so. And?”
“Indeed. The direct identity of his backers are still under investigation, but it appears he intends to utilize his seized resources for simple profit. While unsettling, I think it's agreed that this is one of the more low-impact outcomes. In the light of previous failures, it-”
“Sir, with respect, I think newest members may be unaware of our past…track record.”
“…indeed. While a exhaustive history will be counter-productive, I think a recap of the currently active issues is in order. Our outside control theories break down in to two basic sets, official and independent. Lights, please?”
several seconds of silence, followed by humming
“Our currently longest-running theory was based on several, older theories. It was enacted after a review of the failing modern theories, with the hope that a more direct and simple strategy would be more effective.”
click
“The initial start up was very promising, and the intuitive nature and direct involvement of the small team allowed for exceptional mobility and response. However, there were rapid…complications. It appears the direct involvement with the-”
“English, for pity's sake.”
“…We put too much power in to too few hands. What's more, the concentration created something of a…ah…cross-pollination issue, so to speak.”
click
“Mother of christ.”
“I think not, but who's to say. Yes, this is theorized to be the current force behind the team designated 'Serpent's Hand'. It appears to be self-aware, however it is unknown if it exerts a form of mental dominance, or simply attracts fanatics. It also appears to be out of phase with normal timespace, hence our inability to pin down the location.”
click
“It also appears that certain documents and items lapsed in to the public arena. With this-”
“What are we looking at here? Is that Lydecker standing-”
“Yes, it appears he underwent a…'religious awakening' and attempted to seed a cult of worship. It fell through rather rapidly, thanks in a large part to our suppression efforts, however seeds of this ideology keep cropping up. The greatest of which appears to be rooted near Mexico City, however it is still relatively minor and centered around a decommissioned clockwork device. However, the fallout from the Serpent's Hand splintering lead to the founding of a more strict, focused team.”
click
“These men and women were selected from various agencies worldwide. FBI, KGB, MI5, The Kempeitai, all were tapped for the cream of the crop, the top-class talents. This group was installed to control and suppress any and all anomalous item activity. They were instilled with a 'zero tolerance' stance to any and all paranormal interaction, in the hopes of avoiding the…corruption issues presented by the former Serpent's Hand. However, after the first year, it became apparent that…mistakes may have been made in the choice of recruitment stock.
click
“Oh god…that was the august incident, wasn't it?”
“Yes, that's correct. After a year of operation, on August 19th, the Global Occult Coalition engaged in a armed action in south Africa that nearly destabilized the entire Veil protocol. No less than eight hundred witnesses observed both personnel and anomalous items in a prolonged armed action over several days. When probed for the reasoning behind this action, the GOC reported that they felt the risk to normalcy incurred by their action was less then that of the items. The incident was suppressed, with great cost, and the GOC was officially ordered to stand down.”
click
“However, many of the GOC cells felt that defense of humanity was now a calling above and beyond the conclave command structure. They went rogue, leaving this…rather grim parting message. They now function much the same as their initial form, but with a independent command structure. The new GOC also lend support and command to several other, smaller groups with various political and anomalous interests.”
“Well, it could be worse, right? I mean, at least they didn't flip all the way over.”
“That is somewhat true; however, their zero-tolerance stance has now led to the basic focus on the eradication of any and all anomalous items and activity. They have no review process, no real testing or research branch…just detection, and eradication.”
click
“That fat son of a-”
“And here we have our most recent failure. Colonel Marshall, who had been a original member of the GOC, was tapped to spearhead a new containment theory. This photo was taken shortly before the central records building was looted and burned, with Marshall vanishing at the same time. We may never know the full damage done, but it appears several items, along with the bulk of the documentation, have been stolen. It now also appears that he has found partners, and plans on utilizing his gains for financial advancement.
click
“This is Dr. Carter, his first partner. Not much is known of him yet, however he's been a major mover in London high society the last few years, and appears to have a near-limitless personal fortune.”
click
“W…what are we looking at?”
“This is Mr. Dark. We know next to nothing about this individual, and he has eluded any and all investigation. He has no citizenship, no birth records, on paper this man does not exist. We assume he is a man, however we have been unable to confirm even this. Based on some fragmentary records, he may have been in the entertainment industry at one point. His role in this venture is still unknown. Lights, please.”
small snapping noise, followed by several moments of silence, then rustling paper
“These dossiers detail our current containment theory. It appears the American government has a embryonic containment team formed, and is investigating. We propose to fund and aid this group, and guide its direction and growth, with a eventual goal of autonomy. The major focus is on containment and detachment. Actual interaction outside of a containment area will be extremely limited, massive bureaucratic structure will keep individuals and separate cells well isolated, and enormous resources will limit outside interaction and oversight.”
“This will take ages, you know that, right? Autonomy could take years in a best case scenario.”
“True, however it was determined that this was a minor price to pay. The overall detachment, isolation, and limited individual focus, along with the greatly subdivided command structure, will limit rogue and corruption events to a minimum.”
“…seems to be in order, but I have issue with the name.”
“the…name, sir?”
“Yes. 'The Special Containment Bureau' sounds too…lofty. Give someone a lofty name, they start to have lofty ideals. This is for the safety and security of mankind, and reality as a whole. The name should reflect a sense of self-sacrifice and dedication.”
“…well…sir, what would you advise, then?”
“Something simple, obscure…basic.”
“…such as?”
“…how about…The Foundation?”


"Afternoon, everyone. Have a seat. Get a cup of coffee and a muffin. Also, a reminder: the Seminar Rooms are a weapons-free zone. Please make sure you've surrendered your weapons at the reception desk. I know, it's bullshit, but the last thing I need is an O5 complaining because one of you was walking around the Blue Zones with your piece. Everyone good? Cool."
"Today's seminar is about a subject near and dear to my heart: Reality Benders. Type Greens. Mary Sues. Bixbies, Shapers, Wizards, Gods, Devils, Outside Observers, call them what you will, these are the guys that change reality based on perception and willpower. I've made a career out of both containing and killing these guys. You're here to get certified to do the same thing."
"Want to know my secret? We'll get to that later. First of all, I want you to take a look at the doors to the seminar room. Notice something about them? Look again. What doors?"
"Yes. The doors are gone. Take a closer look if you want. Touch them. They're not there. The doors have literally disappeared. But that's okay, right? You can still get out the windows if you want. Except there's one small problem. There aren't any windows in this room either, are there? All the windows are gone. There's nothing but four blank walls, a ceiling, and a floor. No way out. But how did you get in?"
"Starting to freak out a bit? Don't worry, just take a deep breath. You're going to be all right. Just a bit of a change to the way the room's set up. It's not like anything worse is happening. I mean, it could be worse, right? At least you're safe in here. It's not like the desks are coming alive to kill you now, is it? Oh wait, yes they are. The FUCKING DESKS ARE GOING TO KILL YOU."
"What you gonna do? HOW YOU GONNA SURVIVE? THE GODDAMN ROOM IS ALIVE AND GOING TO EAT YOU. WATCH FOR THOSE FUCKING DESKS, THEY'VE GOT TEETH. GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM THERE, NOW. YOU WANNA LIVE? YOU'RE GONNA HAVE TO FIGHT! DON'T TRY TO DENY IT, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS, THIS IS REAL. THIS IS HAPPENING. THIS IS A REALITY BEND, AND YOU'RE GOING TO DIE UNLESS YOU CAN FIGHT IT NOW!"
"Oh, I see, a real TOUGH guy, huh? What the fuck are you gonna do with that 9mm? That gun really going to do anything? Against a REALITY BENDER!? I can turn your goddamn bullets into sand. I can turn your eyes into jello. I can turn your GUN into a fucking BAGEL, now PUT THAT DAMN GUN DOWN AND LIE THE FUCK DOWN ON THE GROUND, YOU FUCKNUGGET. I AM A LIVING GOD, AND YOU ARE NOTHING BUT A FUCKING INSECT!"
"What do I want? WHAT DO I WANT!? What the shit do I need from a fucking turd like you? I don't want ANYTHING that you can give me except to be my plaything. And that's ALL you fuckers are gonna be! You're gonna be nothing but toys in front of this God-King for all eternity. There is NO escape, NO respite. You will LIVE when I say LIVE, you will DIE only if I allow it. There is NOTHING LEFT BUT MY IMAGINATION, and you are all FIGMENTS OF IT!!!"
"…"
"… all right, hit the lights. Everyone breathe in and out, deep. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out… you feeling better now? Let me tell you what just happened."
"Each and every one of you has just had a bad trip. All of the food on that back table was laced with a powerful hallucinogen. It's my own personal recipe. In addition to hallucinations, it renders one very susceptible to suggestion. Combined with some simple hypnosis and some special effects trickery, the end result is as close as we can get to showing you what a Reality Bender's attack feels like. The support staff are pumping an aerosolized counteragent into the air vents as we speak. It's going to feel like shit in a moment. You'll find barf bags under your chairs. Take a moment to let it all out."
"I want you to reflect back on that moment when you realized what was happening. Do you remember that feeling of helplessness? Do you remember what it felt like to realize that reality no longer existed, and you were nothing but toys for a hostile will that controlled EVERYTHING?"
"Remember that. And hold onto it the first time you're about to go up against a Reality Bender. If you ever think that, maybe, you can contain them? Or maybe they can be reasoned with? Remember what it felt like when you were tripping balls and nothing was real."
"Then kill that motherfucker before he knows you're even there."
"You're all certified now. Class Dismissed."


I've gotten used to them. The feet. You never think about how many feet they have. How they grip at your skin and the hair on your body. How they hold onto you effortlessly. They almost tickle now. Almost.
The smell. It's barely noticeable anymore. At first, it was… It was pretty bad. I threw up a lot. And then they started crawling into my mouth when I was trying to eat… But then I realized they didn't mind when I ate them. I think that was when I started to come to terms with it. They didn't taste good at first. But then… The crunch. Insects have a texture all their own. Thick and sweet and full of… I don't know what. It was like the best thing I'd ever eaten. And they didn't even mind. There was so much I could just reach out and take…
I think they like to sing me to sleep. Hard to ignore it when they get in my ears. Well, everywhere else too. All kinds of things chirping and buzzing around all the time. Constant noise. I mean, it's a lot louder in the summer. A LOT louder. I don't think I mind, though, they just like to sing. It's almost like music.
… I can see them watching me. Not the crawling things, no, the people. I know how you see me. Even in places where the strange people live, people who the world forget. Even they look away. I can see it in their eyes, they pity me. Or they're just plain grossed out. Revolted. You too. I see you trying to look me in the eye. Not at the bits in my hair. Not at my teeth. I've seen that look before. You don't want to, you can't help but stare. I know you can't. They never can.
It's okay… no no, you can sit back. Yeah, it's alright. Your eyes are watering. It's better if you move away a bit. Take a drink of water or something. It'll help your stomach.
I gave up trying to wash them off. Not in a shower or a bathtub, those aren't big enough, not enough water to wash them away. Not that I didn't try, it's just a lost cause at that scale. I mean, I still have scars from scrubbing so hard. Then I started to go swimming to drown them. Like the story of the Pied Piper. You know, he took the rats away and drowned them in the river. I always loved swimming, even before it gave me that little breath of cleanness. Then… then the leeches found me.
Leeches aren't… Ants are the worst. They're so small. They get all over, in my hair, and nose, and ears, in my eyes… Thousands of them, it's… It's just… I can't even… I can't even describe it. Just imagine every inch of your body cov- never mind. I'm sorry. I'm sorry…
… I never even mentioned the rats. Always so, many… But I guess they're not… At least they're warm. There's so many they keep me warm in the cold. Like a fuzzy blanket. A fuzzy, hungry blanket. People keep rats as pets, right? It's no different. Everyone loves pets… I love my pets… I love them all…
… I'll never be alone…


He woke up, momentarily confused as to where he was, and what was beside him. Shaking his head, he made out the softly breathing form of his wife, and on the other side the small, pale outline of his son. He stood, all of three years old, holding a small blanket and fidgeting slightly. His father rolled to his side, looking at the small boy, managing a sleepy smile.
“Hey big boy.”
“I need to use potty.”
He sighed, laying back down. This had been going on too long. Finally potty trained (mostly), the boy had the odd quirk of not wanting to be alone in the bathroom. Ever. His wife kept saying it was harmless, but it still seemed odd.
“Bubba, you can just go use the potty.”
The little boy shook his head with all the seriousness a three year old can muster.
“Need daddy. Come with me.”
He closed his eyes, breathing slowly. He had to be up in three hours, still had to find something for lunch…he was tired, deeply tired. He looked back at his son, whispering in the dark.
“Little boy, you need to go use that potty now. It's-”
“But I need-”
“No buts, go in there, use the potty and go back to bed now. Do you understand?”
The little boy nodded slowly, sniffling and stepping slowly from the bedroom.
He lay back, trying to recover sleep, nearly there when his wife mumbled sleepily “muhp. Wha was that?”. He sighed, closing his eyes harder. “It was just the boy, he needed to go potty”.
She sat up a bit, looking to him. “You didn't go with him?”
“No, I didn't. He's too big to still be doing this, there's no reason.”
“He just gets nervous, you know that. He's still just a little boy.”
He sighed hard, sinking in to the bed slightly, knowing what was coming next. Never mind he had to work, or was tired, or hadn't been able to get to bed until late, or-
“can you go check on him?”
“…”
“Please go check on him.”
“Mrrr…ok, hold on.”
He slid from the bed, the air in the house icy compared to the bed. He stumbled, wedging open the barest slit of one eye, in the hopes of making the dive back to sleep easier. He walked slowly, navigating more by memory and some kind of sixth sleep-sense then any kind of light. He brushed the hallway walls, working down to the dark bathroom doorway, where
Wait. Dark?
The boy wouldn't so much as think about entering any kind of dark room. Even a thick blanket over his head was enough to worry him. Why would he leave the light off? As he got closer, the smell hit him like a fist. He sighed, rubbing his eye. Yeah, there we go…the light burned out, and he missed the potty, or got so scared he just went in his pants…throw him in the tub, maybe? God, he had to be up in like…two hours now, may as well just stay-
The bathroom was a nightmare.
Even in the dim half-light, he could see the walls, floor, ceiling…everything was splattered and oozing with…something. He coughed, gagging slightly on the reeking stink. It smelled like shit, yes, but also something rotten, fermented…and something sharp as well. He reached for the light switch, fumbling through a clump of cold, damp grime to flick the switch. The light was dimmed by the spray of reeking slime, but it showed the bathroom well enough. Everything was coated in gray-black ooze, much of it looking like shit, but some was much less identifiable. He looked around, in shock, trying to somehow piece out what happened when he heard the clunk.
He nearly screamed at the sudden sound, recoiling back in to the hall. He stared in to the room, blinking dumbly in to the sudden silence. Then, again…thunk. The toilet seat flicked up, maybe a inch, and clunked back down. Like it was being bumped from underneath. From inside the bowl. He stared, watching it sit still for a few beats, then bump up again. Somewhere, his brain was chanting “where is my son” over and over, but it seemed remote, distant. Like a dream, he walked across the room, feeling the skin of oily slime ooze between his toes as he stood over the toilet and bent over to open it, feeling oddly resigned.
The bowl was empty of water, with only a thick caking of foul grime and what looked like blood sticking to the porcelain. At the bottom, where the water drained, there was a small, pink forearm ending in a small, pink hand. It was reaching up, grasping in the air, trying to reach anything.
It was missing two fingers, the ragged stumps bleeding thinly.
It was his son's hand.
He fell forward, yelping a inarticulate cry of shock, and grabbed the small hand. It flexed, gripping tight, the sound of soft thumping from deeper in the pipes. He stared, holding that small hand, swallowing and trying to say something, managing only a croaking sound. Suddenly, his son's broken, torn hand clenched down hard, and ripped away, vanishing down the pipe with a scrape. There was a sound from the pipe, it was unclear, but he would swear that it was a wailed “daddy” until his dying day.
He fell to the ground, sitting and staring in to the toilet like a drunk, the reeking, befouled bathroom a million miles away. He started down the empty, blank drain of the bowl, unable to even think of a curse, a question, anything to carve some kind of sense out of this.
He was still there, staring, when his wife rose to check on him.


The following log was recovered from the personal computer of Dr. ██████ on January 23, 19██, as part of a formal inquiry. Access is restricted to Level 2 personnel and higher. Thanks to the work of Agent ██████, only the most significant portions have been retained. A full transcript is available upon request.
It is worth noting that, according to the informed opinions of Dr. █████ and Agent ██████, Dr. ██████'s exposure to SCP-███-█ could not have been the only thing at work here, as the scope of its effect—while extremely hazardous and detrimental—is not this extensive. Dr. ██████ was an extremely disturbed man, with more than mere exposure to an SCP at work within his mind.
All prior evaluations and reports seemed to indicate that Dr. ██████ was a likable, if unremarkable, researcher. Due to circumstances which will become readily evident, his termination on March 23, 201█ has been recorded as a casualty rather than a sentencing.

October 14, 198█:
I finally gained approval for testing on SCP-███-█. Finally. For seventeen months I've requested, explained, and begged Director ██████, and he finally relented last weekend at the Senior Staff party for Dr. Christina ██████. I can't believe she's thirty-five! Barely looks a day over twenty. Maybe I should ask her to dinner sometime? After all, we're closer in age than I initially believed! Hahaha!
February 16, 198█:
Work started today. I think that I'm going to manage to get this round of testing done before July, and then I plan to take my annual leave to visit Site-██. Once I complete this project, I think I should be able to get my transfer request approved. It's not that I don't like the site or the people I work with, but the Australian Outback is just so… dull. Well, I shouldn't say that. Christina (who also accepted my request for a fourth date!) is a herpetologist, and we spent over an hour last night together talking about how many poisonous snakes there were living out there. You wanna know how many? A lot. A whole, whole lot. But she's really more fun than I'm making her out to be. Smart, funny. Sexy as hell too. Haha! I hope she never reads this. She'd kill me.
May 24, 198█:
SCP-███-█ is just as unreactive as it's always been. God only knows why the Insurgency wanted it. Doesn't make any sense. Our containment specialist, kid named ██████, he thinks that it's just to make us waste resources, but I don't buy that. There's something going on there that I'm just not seeing yet. Next round of tests are still being run by Director ██████ for approval, so I get a few days off. Christina and I are going over to Sydney for the weekend. She told me she had a present for me… I think she's just trying to make up for canceling on me on Thursday.
May 28, 198█:
Holy shit. She made up for it.
September 1, 198█:
The sun is shining, the birds are singing! Things are going so well right now that I just want to shout if from the top of a table in the mess hall. Hahaha! And no, it's not just because I'm getting laid, though that is pretty tops. Most recent round of testing was approved, I'm up for a promotion, and Dr. █████ is retiring, which means I'm next in line for his office! It's actually a little smaller than mine, but it's right next to Christina's, so I'm not going to complain. God damn. I am so lucky.
November 8, 198█:
Ugh. Testing shows a null again. They're lowering me from seven to just three Class-D's, and I'm once again loosing Jr. Researchers. I know that it's not the most exciting work. Research on Safe objects rarely is, unless you're lucky enough to work under Gears. But this is part of the job! You've got to get in there, get your chops on something mostly harmless, and learn the procedures! Without that sort of knowledge, you're never going to succeed in this line of work. You're going to end up dead or stranded in an alternate dimension, or doing something reckless that gets a lot of people killed. Ahh, well. They were good kids. I think they'll do fine.
December 22, 198█:
I finally got the news kids broken in, just in time for the next round of testing. I asked Christina if she'd be interested in transferring off site with me, and while she was initially hesitant, the second I mentioned that I'd be aim for Site-██, she jumped at it. Apparently, she's originally from the Ozarks (She never told me! Not a trace of an accent, either), and since SCP-███ is there, she thinks she'll have a good chance of getting approved as well! Of course, there's another way to make sure we both get transferred together, but I'm a little hesitant to ask. It's only been a year and a half, but there is just such a strong connection there… Ahh! I don't even want to think about it! Haha!
January 1, 198█:
She said yes!
March 23, 198█:
Director ██████ actually made me cry a little. I never thought he liked me that much, but the ceremony he performed was probably the most moving thing I've ever heard him say. It's like he's been practicing it for years! We've decided to stay at Site-██ for a little while. I don't want to drag her away from her work, and she has no interest in dragging me away from mine, either. But, we've decided on it. No more than another three years here. It's a dead-end posting, and I think we both know we're better than that, now.
May 4, 199█:
Well, I'm sorry to be ending my research on SCP-███-█ without actually getting any new data. We've got reams and reams of failed test after failed test. I'm beginning think this thing is a safe that's never going to be cracked. But I'm not sure. Maybe I'm just not that good at these sorts of things. Ahh, well.
On the bright side… Request for transfer approved! It was actually Christina's that went trough, not mine, but who cares! Site-██ awaits, and it's got a huge facility in a quiet, rural little area. The best part? Only two hours from ██████ ████, and while that may not sound like heaven, let me assure you that spending eight years in a desert wasteland will make any major site of population far, far more interesting.
July 7, 199█:
We've settled in remarkable well! I've made a bunch of new friends from some of the people living here. Haha. I'm a kept man right now. Christina jumped right in with SCP-███, but I'm still waiting for assignment! On the good side, I've got lots of time to follow my own pursuits. I keep checking my old research on ███-█, and I've found a bunch of errors that my kids made. Nothing to serious, but enough to require resubmission. Director ██████ actually offered me reposting when he saw my revisions. Said that he'd, and I quote: “Never have let me go if I'd shown this diligence before.” Hahaha! I told him that I just had to shake the sand, and dust out of my brains to get them working again. We had a good laugh. It was nice to talk to him again.
September 22, 199█:
Finally, some work. I've been assigned to SCP-███, another Safe. I think they just handed it to me because I wanted something to do. I've been reading the previous research on it, and I've found a lot of problems with some of procedures. Though, considering it was the renowned Dr. ████ who was heading it up, I'm not surprised. I'll be taking over in the morning, if all goes well. Descent sized staff too! Christina says that she's jealous, but I doubt it. She's wonderful, though. So supportive.
November 11, 199█:
Christina just won a site award for her research with SCP-███! She actually managed to fully sequence its DNA, and it looks like we're going to be successful in finding a cure for the “brittling” side effect. Near as she can tell, its poison is effectively turning the bones into chalk. Exciting stuff! I, on the other hand, have ruined seventeen lab coats. But, I'm having fun. A lot more fun than I've had in a long, long time.
December 26, 199█:
She was successful. My God, I am married to a brilliant woman. In less than five years, she's managed to do what senior researchers have been trying to do for twenty. Even better, it looks like it's going to be a valid cure for osteoporosis. She should be getting the Nobel Prize for Medicine, but instead, she's just getting a pat on the back and a transfer to a new project. But, that's the nature of the work, I guess. She's moving over to SCP-███. I can't say I'm not a little worried… This one is a Euclid, after all. But she's smart. Vibrant. Amazing, really. So much more than I deserve.

The following section takes place over the three weeks that preceded Dr. ██████'s final breakdown. While psychological reports, available from Dr. █████, seemed to represent a man with significant self-doubt and an inferiority complex, they did not, in any way, hint at what was to come. Post-mortem reexaminations of these materials, and further reevaluations done in the wake of Agent ██████'s discoveries, seem to point to SCP-███-█ as the primary culprit.

March 11, 199█:
I think something is wrong, but I'm not sure… Christina was pretty sick last week. She says it's nothing, but I've been after her to go an see the site physician. I'm almost certain that it has something to do with SCP-███. She didn't have this problem before the transfer, and I'm worried. I don't know what I'm so concerned about, but… Well… It's a husband's prerogative.
March 14, 199█:
I know something is wrong. She's quiet. Reserved. It has to be that damned thing that she's working with! We barely understand how it works, much less how it reproduces. And she won't listen to me! I'm sure, I ‘m so sure that it's ███, but she's not… Damn it. If I could only convince her. I'm sure. I'm almost certain.
March 16, 199█:
I'm positive that she must be keeping something from me. I don't think there's any other explanation for the way she's acting. She's never done this. Not in the twelve years we've been married. Not that I can remember as least. Am I overreacting?
March 17, 199█:
Christina and Agatha quit talking when I came into the room today. She must know that I know she's hiding something. She must.
March 19, 199█:
Christina came by the lab today during testing, but she wouldn't say what she wanted. She just “wanted to see me.” I'm not sure what that even means. We got into an argument about it when I got home. This is absurd. She must realize the ███ is doing something to her.
March 21, 199█:
Dr. ████ is being dispatched to Site-██ for a week. His lab is perfect. It should be empty, quiet, and it has all the medical equipment I need. Everyone forgets that I have training in something other than metaphysics. I'm going to figure out what is wrong.
March 22, 199█:
I couldn't decide how to get her into the lab, so I had to drug her. She kept rambling about the size of a quarters. And she kept fucking smiling at me. Some sort of stupid little grin. I don't know what's wrong with her. But I have to find out. She's too wonderful for me not to.
March 23, 199█:
I was right. I was right about everything. I've had to keep her sedated. She woke up and started screaming, but that's pretty much par for the course in Dr. ████'s lab, so no one thought anything of it. It has to be SCP-███. It's done something to her body. Something is growing inside her. Feeding on her. She can't die. I love her too much. I have to help her.
March 25, 199█:
Agatha came by the quarters this morning looking for Christina. I told her that we'd had a fight, and she'd left. Agatha looked shocked. Never thought I'd see that look on her face. I'd take her to the lab too, but she shows no signs of infection. I'll make sure she gets examined after I present my results to the site director. They'll have to listen to me then.
March 28, 199█:
I don't have any more time. Dr. ████ is coming back in the morning. I've been pouring over medical texts for the last week, but I'm just not certain I can do this… It's been so long since I've done anything like this… I flunked my medical entrance exam, but… I have to do this. I have to fix her. She'll be fine. I know she will… Dear God. Please let her be fine.

Dr. ██████'s operation to remove the “parasite” was successful, and his wife survived the operation, remarkably. When Dr. ████ returned the following day, he discovered Dr. ██████ carefully dissecting an aborted fetus in his lab and reported it to site security. Dr. ██████ was taken into custody and confined to the care of Dr. █████, the site psychiatrist, for careful observation.
Christina ██████ committed suicide on July 14, 199█ after administration of Class A Amnesiacs was unsuccessful. Dr. ██████ was not informed and, until his termination in 201█, believed that he had saved his wife's life.