PROVISIONAL ENTRY — SCRAMBLE ORDER INITIATED, ALL TECHNICAL ADVISORS AND RAISA STAFF TO SITE-01 — PROVISIONAL ENTRY
This is an automatically generated entry documenting breaking events. Situation type: SCRAMBLE. Affected systems: SCUTTLE. Affected personnel: RAISA, TECHNICAL. This entry was generated on 20██/01/28 15:42 by Maria Jones [mjones06]
Incident #: 20██011300███
Severity: Critical
Possibility of Foundation Casualties: High
Risk of Public Dissemination: High
Incident Status: In-Progress
Affected Sites: Output Error: List object exceeds 10,000 characters.

Access to Ticket History restricted to Technical staff.

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Ticket History

IR#20██011300███-01, Status: Created. User: lrhode02 (IP: 10.101.25.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/13 07:38
We're currently unable to interact with the SCUTTLE computer, system appears totally unresponsive at three-factor auth screen. Are you guys doing anything to it? LR

IR#20██011300███-02, Status: Replied. User: rsmith04 (IP: 10.101.137.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/13 08:14
Good morning Larry. Not to my knowledge. Let me get in and I'll get back to you. Rob.

IR#20██011300███-03, Status: Reply from submitter. User: lrhode02 (IP: 10.101.25.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/13 08:18
Thanks.

IR#20██011300███-04, Status: Replied. User: mdavis01 (IP: 10.119.155.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/13 08:37
Thought I'd add that 19's link to SCUTTLE is down. We'd all appreciate this taken care of as quickly as possible. Mike Davis

IR#20██011300███-05, Status: Replied. User: rsmith04 (IP: 10.101.137.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/13 08:44
I'm unable to get in remotely. Escalating this, stand by.

User rsmith04 has set severity to Medium.

IR#20██011300███-06, Status: Replied. User: tthomp03 (IP: 10.101.147.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/13 09:03
Good morning. None of our tools are facilitating remote access, dispatching a technician to look at SCUTTLE.
Terry Thompson, Sr. Network Engineer

IR#20██011300███-07, Status: Replied. User: bcolli01 (IP: 10.101.254.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/13 10:39
Confirming initial report is as described. Are any of the sites checking in with SCUTTLE right now? If not, I'm going to powercycle this thing. Brandon
Sent at light-speed from a shiny mobile device.

IR#20██011300███-08, Status: Replied. User: tthomp03 (IP: 10.101.147.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/13 10:42
I'm not seeing any heartbeat from any of the sites, go ahead when you're ready. And please find me when you get back so I can show you how to turn that stupid signature off. Terry.

IR#20██011300███-09, Status: Replied. User: bcolli01 (IP: 10.101.254.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/13 12:10
Tried multiple powercycles, no luck. Brought an extra set of peripherals, no difference. How are snapshots looking? They said it was working for sure last Friday. Do we even snapshot SCUTTLE? Also I found where you turn it off, sorry. :)

IR#20██011300███-10, Status: Replied. User: tthomp03 (IP: 10.101.254.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/13 12:27
I grabbed lunch, I'll check snapshots when I get back to my desk. We do weekly snapshots of SCUTTLE and they should be fine, let's plan on reverting at 1700. Get lunch and come back. Be prepared to do this via cold storage to physical media, that thing sounds like it's dead as a doorknob.

IR#20██011300███-11, Status: Reply from submitter. User: lrhode02 (IP: 10.101.25.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/13 13:09
I don't want to be alarmist or anything, but should I be making plans? I've never heard of SCUTTLE acting up. LR

IR#20██011300███-12, Status: Replied. User: tthomp03 (IP: 10.101.147.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/13 13:20
Hi Larry. That's a bit premature, SCUTTLE is resilient and it won't do anything bad without several weeks with no check-ins. If it was working last week we have until Valentine's Day at the earliest. We'll get it taken care of. Brandon, the snapshots look fine as far as I can see, you're set to try a reversion at 1700. Be prepared for a long evening, those can take a while if you haven't done one on a system that old. I can't force a current snapshot so get a system image before you do anything on the ground. Terry.

IR#20██011300███-13, Status: Replied. User: bcolli01 (IP: 10.101.147.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/13 13:42
Sounds good, I'll check in with you this evening. BC

From: Brandon Collins [bcolli01]
To: Terry Thompson [tthomp03]
Sent: 20██/01/13 21:22
Subject: SCUTTLE - Still Broken
Terry,
I did get the old image off the SAN and onto SCUTTLE. Now it just clears the POST before throwing an E0x18 CORR_FS. Are you sure those snapshots were okay?
Brandon

From: Terry Thompson [tthomp03]
To: Brandon Collins [bcolli01]
Sent: 20██/01/14 07:44
Subject: RE: SCUTTLE - Still Broken
That's no good. I'll try and spin up a mini-SCUTTLE on a dead VLAN with these old snapshots. Plan on getting back out there first thing and put that system state you took back on it.

From: Brandon Collins [bcolli01]
To: Terry Thompson [tthomp03]
Sent: 20██/01/14 09:58
Subject: RE: SCUTTLE - Still Broken
What system state? You can't take an image off this RE.

From: Terry Thompson [tthomp03]
To: Brandon Collins [bcolli01]
Cc: Maria Jones [mjones06]
Sent: 20██/01/14 10:44
Subject: FW: SCUTTLE - Still Broken
I'm trying very hard not to lose my temper, but you absolutely can, and should have, as I asked you to. Where you did Image->Disk, you pick Disk->Image instead. It's literally two options down. How did you not know this?
Maria, see Incident 20██011300███ at your earliest convenience and give me your thoughts on a COA. You know SCUTTLE better than I do, and what exactly the ramifications are of going more than four weeks back.

IR#20██011300███-14, Status: Reply by submitter. User: lrhode02 (IP: 10.101.25.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/14 11:10
Good morning gentlemen. I'm seeing a black screen on SCUTTLE I've never seen before. What is the status of this? LR

IR#20██011300███-15, Status: Replied. User: tthomp03 (IP: 10.101.147.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/14 11:42
Larry: We have run into some complications. I'm bringing in higher-ups to help work through the issue. We will let you know when we've found a resolution. Terry.

User tthomp03 has set severity to High.

From: Maria Jones [mjones06]
To: Terry Thompson [tthomp03]; Brandon Collins [bcolli01]
Cc: O5-1 [o5comm01]; O5-6 [o5comm06]; O5-11 [o5comm11]
Subject: SCUTTLE Outage
Importance: High
Sent: 20██/01/14 14:12
All,
I've looked at the incident so far, and worked with Terry via a remote session and looked at the integrity of our SCUTTLE backups. We might be in trouble.
I've sent the last three weekly snapshots (which are, in a nutshell, one big file that contains everything about what was loaded on a computer) to our programmers, but we may be suffering from a corrupted base image. Basically, we start with one large inventory of everything on the system, and then every week we track the changes made and designate it as a new snapshot. This is known as an incremental image, and allows for a much longer history of revisions for the storage. SCUTTLE is a bulky enough system that taking a brand new image of everything on the computer once a week was deemed untenable as the system collects a lot of data and the possibility of data corruption is very high.
I believe everyone is up-to-speed on what the system is and does, but if you need a refresher, please see the RAISA Portal, KB10235, "System to Contain Unsustainable Threats To Life and Existence", and KB10236, "SCUTTLE Dead Man's Switch Protocol."
The base image was checked for consistency when it was created, so I'm not yet sure why we're having these issues. However, the question was raised on what happens if the last good image is from a time further than four weeks back. Theoretically, based on the order in which things are checked and synchronized, there should be no trouble at all. However, this is the first SCUTTLE outage directly attributable to the server itself in the many years that we've used it, and I'm simply not willing to take the risk until we can do more testing.
At this point I am exercising administrative rights to pull Terry Thompson from all other incidents until this issue has been resolved.
Regards,
Maria Jones
Director, Recordkeeping And Information Security Administration

IR#20██011300███-16, Status: Replied. User: wjacks02 (IP: 10.101.121.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/15 10:14
These snapshots look perfect to me. Everything inside is readable and editable when I mount them. I'm aware of the error code but I shouldn't be able to access anything on the image if it were a corrupt filesystem. I'm going to start getting into the deeper code with the team, go through the assembly. We've only got one employee that can make heads or tails of ASM and she's currently on vacation. Did you guys really never test your backup scheme? The structure of this file is absolutely wild.
Wayne Jackson, Senior Programmer, RAISA

IR#20██011300███-17, Status: Replied. User: tthomp03 (IP: 10.101.147.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/15 11:33
Wayne: Good to hear re: image integrity but I don't know what to take away from that as far as a solution. They do not work when we reimage the machine. Regarding testing of backups, I will be honest. SCUTTLE is a very old system and one we have been hesitant to modify due to the ramifications of any extended downtime. The backups we did implement are not analogous to newer systems like XACT or BOUNCE, as you've already seen, there's low-level emulation going on that we've been shoehorned into using for quite a long time, and it doesn't permit much deviation from a set way of doing things. You guys did quite a job even getting us backups on a hot system that old and arcane, but that was implemented quite a while ago and I don't believe anyone involved is still available. See if your employee can be contacted and if she can VPN in or cut her vacation short. TT

IR#20██011300███-18, Status: Replied. User: wjacks02 (IP: 10.101.121.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/16 11:03
I got a hold of Valerie, she's making arrangements to fly back. Can you get an FSET report off the SCUTTLE computer in the meantime? Wayne

IR#20██011300███-19, Status: Replied. User: bcolli01 (IP: 10.101.147.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/16 14:14
I'm on it. BC

IR#20██011300███-20, Status: Replied. User: bcolli01 (IP: 10.101.147.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/16 17:22
See attached. BC
Attachment: FSET.log [4096 KB]

IR#20██011300███-21, Status: Replied. User: vsheld01 (IP: 10.101.121.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/20 09:43
Good morning. I've been brought up to speed on the situation and will begin going over the diagnostics sent and the images provided. Thanks, Valerie Sheldon.

IR#20██011300███-22, Status: Replied. User: tthomp03 (IP: 10.101.147.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/20 10:06
Thanks, let me know if I can assist. Sorry we had to pull you from your family gathering. I know you understand the seriousness of the situation. Terry

IR#20██011300███-23, Status: Replied. User: vsheld01 (IP: 10.101.121.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/22 11:14
I think we've found something. The way these backups try to restore, it's loading an incompatible RAID driver before the correct one, and the system is erroring out before the rest of the drivers load. That could definitely cause a filesystem error, if it can't see the virtual disk. Your FSET report confirms a different RAID controller was installed about six years ago. I didn't even know they did RAID when SCUTTLE was first implemented, I was still in college when this thing was rolled out. I think we have a potential solution here, I'm going to be working with the team and try and replace all the properties of the old driver with the new one. I'll get back to you when we've got something for you to try.

IR#20██011300███-24, Status: Replied. User: tthomp03 (IP: 10.101.147.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/22 13:08
Valerie, that's great news. Let me know when you've got something for us to try to spin up. I can't even get a proper VM set up for SCUTTLE (HW mismatches which coincides with what you're saying) so we'll be trying it on the live machine. Terry

IR#20██011300███-25, Status: Replied. User: tthomp03 (IP: 10.101.147.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/25 07:46
Valerie: What is the status on this? We're already further into the calendar than I'm comfortable with. TT

IR#20██011300███-26, Status: Replied. User: vsheld01 (IP: 10.101.121.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/25 16:47
Hi Terry, I think this should work. Check fs01-006 under SCUTTLE_IMG_3. This thing is a pain in the butt to put back together. Let's talk about overhauling this system when we're not under the gun, nobody on my team wants to sort through this mess again. VS

IR#20██011300███-27, Status: Replied. User: tthomp03 (IP: 10.101.147.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/26 08:00
Valerie, any idea how to reconcile this snapshot to the base? Nothing I'm trying is working.

IR#20██011300███-28, Status: Replied. User: tthomp03 (IP: 10.101.147.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/26 08:12
Disregard, I stuck it right in line after the base image and it took. We're gonna build this up and try it shortly.

IR#20██011300███-29, Status: Replied. User: bcolli01 (IP: 10.101.254.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/26 14:44
No dice. Gets much further along but errors out E0x45 HSHFAIL. Is that hash checking? Brandon.

IR#20██011300███-30, Status: Replied. User: vsheld01 (IP: 10.101.121.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/26 16:02
Let me look into it and get back to you. I'm going to have to work backwards from that message, may take a bit.

IR#20██011300███-31, Status: Replied. User: vsheld01 (IP: 10.101.121.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/28 08:08
We've found what's going on with the message, it is related to hash checking, but whoever implemented it should get taken out back and shot. Rather than use a standard they've done some mess of their own, and I don't have a good system here to check the math. I don't know a faster way to work through it than to send you a couple of images and have you try them one by one. I'll email you and Brandon directly when I've got some options to try. VS

IR#20██011300███-32, Status: Reply by submitter. User: lrhode02 (IP: 10.101.25.███) Timestamp: 20██/01/28 13:10
All, I've been following this and I'm concerned. It's been over two weeks and we're no closer to a resolution? It sounds like this is a guess on Valerie's part to me. LR

IR#20██011300███-33, Status: Replied. User: mjones06 (IP: 10.5.100.█) Timestamp: 20██/01/28 15:52
I will not doubt my own people, but we are indeed starting to run low on time. I am declaring this a SCRAMBLE situation. Terry, please relocate to the RAISA programming office. I will get some correspondence out to my staff today and general staff tomorrow.

User mjones06 has set severity to Critical.
User mjones06 has added situation SCRAMBLE.

Email to RAISA and Technical Staff

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From: Maria Jones [mjones06]
To: RAISA Staff [raisa]; Technical Staff [techstaff]
Subject: SCRAMBLE ORDER — Site-01
Importance: High
Sent: 20██/01/28 16:56
Staff,
Due to the extended SCUTTLE outage, I am declaring a SCRAMBLE order to Site-01. Transport liaisons have been informed and will make arrangements for your flight. If you've never been, don't worry when you see it. The site's much bigger than it looks and you will have sufficient space to set up shop for a couple of weeks. We will be working on the SCUTTLE issue around the clock from now until February 12th at 2300. If no solution has been found, we will evacuate the site and all personnel. Please read the attachments, which include the ticket history of the incident, an FSET log for the SCUTTLE server, and some documentation on the ScuttleOS architecture. The system is totally dead right now so there are no silly ideas. We will have teams trying to salvage the old system, a team working on preparing all Foundation data for relocation, and a team trying to build up something that can send heartbeats to all offline sites. Unfortunately for the latter, SCUTTLE was designed before some of you were even born and it's not as simple as it should be.
If you have questions please contact your supervisor and/or your transport liaison.
We may have made this mess, but let's do what we can to save the Foundation.
Maria Jones
Director, RAISA

Email to all staff from Maria Jones

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From: Maria Jones [mjones06]
To: SCP Foundation Staff [allusers]
Subject: SCUTTLE Emergency
Importance: High
Sent: 20██/01/29 11:11
Good morning (or evening, wherever you are),
My name is Maria Jones and I'm head of the Recordkeeping And Information Security Administration. Some of you are familiar with RAISA, but I'd wager most of you are not. We are a combination of IT, Programmers, Security Auditors and Engineers that keep the Foundation's network secure and intact. We have been dealing with an issue over the last two weeks that affects all currently-staffed Foundation sites.
As most of you know, Site-01 is a green zone, we house no anomalies and instead focus on research, data collection, and administration. We also house a machine called SCUTTLE that is our last resort in the event of an incursion by either hostile forces or an unforeseen anomaly. SCUTTLE is what's known as a "dead man's switch," whereby if your Site doesn't hear from SCUTTLE (and thus Site-01) for a long period of time, that Site's on-site nuclear warhead is detonated, which is provisioned to be powerful enough to vaporize your particular site.
You might know where I'm going with this. SCUTTLE is broken.
I want to be clear that you're not in imminent danger of being vaporized; we know exactly when to move you to safety if we cannot resolve the current issue. As such, please continue with your job as usual until February 10th at 2300 UTC. If you have not received an email from me between now and then, you will receive one automatically indicating the plan of evacuation for your particular site. These plans will be very similar to evacuation drills you've already done numerous times.
Foundation administration is actively working on a suppression campaign to protect our secrecy should the worst occur, but in all honesty there aren't very many credible cover stories for that many nuclear warheads detonating simultaneously around the world. That team is accepting emails with suggestions at [misinfo].
The Foundation will survive, because it must. We all appreciate your cooperation during this situation.
Maria Jones
Director, Recordkeeping And Information Security Administration


Bijou Dashwood sat apathetically in front of the chalkboard, staring at her two lecturers.
The one to her left was a twelve year old boy. The lower half of his face was covered in dusty, yellowed bandages, slightly rustling as he breathed in and out. A small mop of brown hair topped his head, unkempt and windswept. His sharp green eyes moved back and forth across Bijou Dashwood, silently appraising her.
He was Rogues Kant, Retainer of Ciphers, First Decrier of the Hidden Chantries, Shadow Warden of the Worshipful Company of Arbitrators, and Flesh Patron of Seven Eyes.
He was the one writing.
The one to her right was a fifteen year old girl. Her long, red hair flowed past her shoulders, dangling around her waist. She wore a leather jacket over a pink t-shirt and denim jeans; a pair of knife scabbards were strapped to her sides.
She was Scarlet Ninth, Orchestrator of Decryption, Second Decrier of the Hidden Chantries, Shadow Warden of the Worshipful Company of Stationers and Newspaper Makers, and Flesh Patron of Nine Eyes.
She was the one talking.
"Time for a history lesson."
Rogues scribbled a diagram on the board, white chalk scraping off onto black.
"The Livery Companies of the City of London. That's our modern name. Before that, we were the Livery Companies of Great Britain. If we move back past the Protestant reformation, we were known as the Livery Guilds of England. And then, if you kept going all the way back before the Norman conquest in 1066, we were known as The Redeemed Freemen And Liverymen Guilds Of The Kingdom Of England. A bit wordy, that one. Before Æthelstan's unification of the Anglo-Saxon heptarchy, we were the Liverymen Of Wessex And Mercia. All records from before 648 were destroyed; the reason for their destruction was documented, but that documentation was also destroyed. Unfortunate, but there you go."
Bijou stared as Scarlet paced back and forth. Rogues had sketched a complex timeline on the chalkboard.
"Suffice it to say, we have a rather long and well-documented history. Should you wish to learn more, our files are available on request."
Bijou sighed, Scarlet frowned.
"But of course, you probably don't."
Rogues wrote faster, scratching white columns of incomprehensible runes; he snapped his fingers, and the chalk on the board vanished into nonexistence with an audible pop. Scarlet placed her hand on Rogues' head, lightly ruffling the quiet boy's hair.
"Moving on, then. In 1979, a man going by the name of Archibald Mirum was elected our head by the previous Shadow Alderman of the Livery Companies. Mirum was, at the time, known to be a senior member of three other Hidden Chantries: The Foundation, The University of Alexylva, and the Chaos Insurgency. Upon his election, he began to fold the Insurgency into the Liveries, resulting in the modern incarnation of both organisations."
Bijou raised her hand; Scarlet turned to her.
"Yes?"
"Why?"
Scarlet sighed, turned, and resumed pacing.
"I was getting to that. The Liveries were useful to the Insurgency as a covert information net, and the Insurgency had always been a group of concern to the Liveries. With the Insurgency being a subset of the Liveries, we could better restrict their actions. We reformed them into their current incarnation: a global terrorist network for the purpose of stress-testing the other agencies under Mirum's control. The Foundation, Mirum thought, needed an opposing force to thicken their skin. When he rose to power within the Global Occult Coalition, he saw similar flaws, and diversified our goals. Conveniently, we are also an attractive employment opportunity for the more dangerous and subversive elements of Hidden society. This allows us to, unbeknownst to them, heavily limit their reach and potential for harm."
Rogues drew a large diagram on the board, drawing the two points of tangling the arms of the Livery Companies with those of the Chaos Insurgency.
"In our current form, the Liveries and Insurgency are heavily interconnected. Unified, the Livery Companies compose the most diverse conglomerate on the planet. We have people on every street corner and sidewalk; whether they realise what they are a part of or not. When we strike, the origin is never clear; where we infiltrate, a source of the leak is never found. From our side, the Livery Companies are very ordered, albeit an intricate and tenuously-maintained alliance. From their side, there is no origin, no endgame, no rhyme or reason to the seemingly random actions. All they can see of us is the ensuing chaos. And just as Mirum planned, this means that other Hidden Chantries now plan for almost anything."
Scarlet smirked faintly at Bijou, who was again holding her hand in the air.
"Yes?"
"So, before they got folded in with the Insurgency and everything, what did the Livery Companies actually… do?"
Rogues snapped his fingers and the chalk from the Chaos Insurgency side of the board disappeared; he started to draw further tendrils out from the central node of his diagram. Scarlet continued her monologue.
"Since their origin, the Livery Companies have been guilds of tradesmen. We oversaw the operations of our constituents, ensuring that all workers were given free and equal treatment… or, at least, as close as could be obtained in a given cultural climate. At the present time, the public overseers of the Livery Companies are the Court of Aldermen of the City of London; people who also organise the administration of the entire city. The Court of Aldermen has existed in its current form since 1227. The position of Shadow Alderman, however, is a lot older."
Rogues completed his diagram, silently turning to stare again at Bijou.
"While our public face has always been that of a trade guild, we also operated confidentially as… guardians, of sorts. The old legends of pagan rituals in the British Isles were embellished stories of our operations. The title of Shadow Alderman equates to the ancient position of the 'Evil Elder;' the ones who would spend their lives placating the impossible. Modern groups such as the Foundation and GOC are under the faulty impression that the anomalous and the impossible have only started to proliferate within the last few centuries. That's because we've been taking care of the impossible for the last few millennia. The lofty goals of these organisations - to contain, or destroy - were not possible thousands of years ago. All we could do to protect the common man was satiate the desires of twisted monsters, hoping and praying their efforts would be enough. We were the ones who served immortal demons. We were the ones who killed children in their sleep, trickling their blood across sacrificial steel. We were the ones who worshipped evil gods."
Scarlet spun around, smiling.
"So that was what the Liveries did, way back when. Such operations aren't necessary any more. Any more questions?"
"Just one. Why am I in charge, again?"
Scarlet moved closer.
"Because, Miss Dashwood, for better or worse, the previous Shadow Alderman decided that the best way to determine a successor was by lottery. It has long been tradition that no consecutive Shadow Aldermen can ever have met. Your independent resistance to our subversive operations earned you the respect of Archibald Mirum, earning you a place on the shortlist. And above all, Miss Dashwood, because when you were mailed a sewing needle and a purposefully deceptive letter, you willingly shoved it straight through your cornea."
Scarlet looked into Bijou's left eye, staring at the steel glinting from within.
"Good job on that, by the way. Very clean. The guy before Mirum just ended up popping his eyeball open."

« Hub | Three Men Named Con Murphy »


I struggle to put the words together. I'm not really sure there are words to begin with. At this point, my own mind is beginning to fail me. The thing in front of me is something I can't quite fathom, despite the fact I am its creator. How it actually functions is beyond me. All that's left is the thing's existence, and its purpose.
The last thing I can remember with any clarity is the funeral. Having to watch them lower his coffin into the ground. Listening to the sound of nothing broken only by quiet sobs. That empty feeling that dug into my chest since I received the call about his death. I first interpreted that feeling as me questioning my faith. Did I really believe in a doctrine that dictated my brother was to be eternally damned because he loved another man, and possibly additionally condemned for suicide? It was not until I arrived home that night that I realized what had taken root was actually inspiration waiting to flower.
Without regard to cost or practicality, ignoring all responsibilities, I built. Driven by the love of a lost sibling, I birthed this monster. My savings account was steadily emptied over the following weeks, and I turned to cannibalizing other objects to feed the mechanical beast. I realized I could use my car as the frame, use things from around the house for the wires and pipes. I built the heart of the machine using Father's lawnmower, which I had borrowed shortly after the accession of the queen. Mother, sympathetic as she was, could not stand to lose a second son. Instead of food, I used the funds she gave me to purchase glass, which I turned into an array of vacuum tubes. I disemboweled a prototype bombe to build a majority of the monster's innards. I'm unsure where I collected the material for the track the vehicle runs on, but I'm almost certain it was illegal.
It shouldn't work, I understand that. I have no education in mechanical engineering, I have no experience in electrical work. Even I know a lawnmower engine could not possibly move this behemoth. But it will work, I know it. Whatever familiar-feeling force that guided my hands is now gone, but I trust in it. It has to work. I've destroyed my career, eradicated my funds, almost annihilated what's left of my familial ties.
Judging by the noises upstairs, I have managed to gain something in the past weeks. Notoriety. Climbing into the driver's seat, I can hear doors bursting open. People of authority calling out my name, announcing to their comrades that each room they check is clear. But it doesn't matter. The machine will carry me away from this place.
The keys are waiting to be turned, and I hastily oblige them. The beast stirs in response. Its dark heart begins to beat, pumping iridescent madness throughout its system. Two tubes at the front of the frame fill with gas, its blazing blue eyes opening and casting a light upon the track. Similar tubes along the sides fill with multicolored gas, masking the filament within. Copper piping rattles and whistles as it releases torrents of steam. A constant chorus of cogs, gears, and sprockets sing within the confines of the metal hide. With a whirring screech the beast opens its maw, exposing a massive drill powered by the remnants of the original car's engine.
On the wall before me are arcane symbols etched into a semicircular pattern, the vehicle's tracks terminating at the center. The words Abaddon, Gehena, Hades, Sheol, Tartarus, and Hell shimmer within the pattern. The texts are inconsistent in the naming of my destination, as such I've erred on the side of caution and invoked them all.
I grasp the parking brake, the only thing keeping the beast from launching forward. The basement door bursts open, a man in combat gear standing in the threshold. He tells me to step out of the vehicle as I thumb the lever's release button. He brandishes his weapon and restates his command. I take a deep breath, steel my nerves, and pull the lever. An ungodly roar drowns out all sound, my vision blurring as the vehicle rockets forward.
Hold on, Alan. I'm coming. One way or another.


In the wake of SCP-2845…

On a clear orange-and-blue day in October, when the air was not chilly enough to be uncomfortable, Siddhi Sehgal took stock of what was left of her world.
There wasn't a whole lot to be seen. She had found more and more time to herself as the months went on, time filled with empty, slow spaces, dotted with moments of smothering acute awareness at…how little she belonged. Of how alien the world felt around her, of how disconnected she was. Floating and alone, without an anchor. Without a purpose. A leftover crust of bread, floating on the water, waiting for the fish.
There were not even bones left of her world. Bones were too solid, too real. Now there was only that chilling pocket emptiness that crept up the spine, gently silencing words in the throat. Not violent, no. It would have been better had that been the case, rather than the damnable silence.
Out there, past the vast empty space that surrounded her, Siddhi Sehgal saw the world passing from her hands.
It could never go back, and what lay ahead was obscured.
For so long, the future had been two things to Siddhi Sehgal: a continuation of the present, or death. There were no branches from the path, no variations, no choices to make. The path was solid, it was real, it was normal. There was nothing to doubt, nothing that would break the comforting cocoon it formed around her, nothing to assault the belief that she was doing the right thing, that she was serving a purpose.
And now…it was gone. Gone with the chill October air.
The people demanded security. They demanded comforting words. They demanded blood…and Siddhi Sehgal could give them none of that. The name carved on her yoke of twenty-six years was smeared with mud, and there was no comfort to be had in it. Only doubt.
Siddhi Sehgal carried with her a blackened name – The People Who Did Nothing. Her people did not kill monsters. They did not share miracles. They did not create. They merely…hoarded. In immaculate order, all was labeled and tagged and placed in a box. They put the world in many boxes, and then they did nothing.
She could not blame the public who shunned her people. Her people could not say “I have slain Grendel”. Her people could not open their arms and say “I have walked among the gods and written down their words”. Her people could not say “We shape the future by our own hands.”
They could only say “We were there.”
Being there was not good enough. Slander was thrown. Demands were made. Terms were set. Siddhi Sehgal's yoke was chipped down, slowly, slowly until it felt weak on her shoulders. Monsters were killed. Miracles were shared. Men women and children looked up into the sun for the first time in years. The world adapted, though it did not do so smoothly or quietly. A blessing, to be rough and loud and ornery.
Chip by chip, the yoke was broken down, and the hoard was emptied, until…
Until there was nothing left.
Overseer Seven…Siddhi Sehgal…sat on the bench, in the park, by the lakeside, and was alone.


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"The Coalition Memorial consists of three underground facilities. The first is the outer museum, in which a number of relics and memorabilia important to the Coalition are preserved and displayed. The second is the Alpha Mausoleum: a set of four empty sarcophagi reserved for the remains of the first Coalition Strike Team, in anticipation of the day when they shall be returned to us and laid to rest in their proper place. The third is the Grid, the Coalition's columbarium, in which the cinerary urns or relics of every fallen Coalition Operative is stored.
"There are twelve men in a shift. Each shift begins precisely at midnight or noon, Greenwich Mean Time. One hour before the shift change, the doors to the outer chamber will be opened, and your shift will assemble in the hallway leading to the outer chamber. A uniform and weapon inspection will take place at this time. Your uniform will be the Dress Black uniform, and it will be perfectly pressed and cleaned. Your grooming will be immaculate. Your weapon, an M1 Garand that was used during the Second World War, will be in perfect firing condition, it will be unloaded and safed (but a full clip of ammunition will be carried on your person), and it will have a fixed bayonet shined to a mirror polish. Failure to maintain standards may result in your dismissal from the Guard.
"The shift begins with the changing of the guard. The shift that is coming off-duty will verbally report any changes in situation to the oncoming shift. The shift leader will relieve the prior shift of duty, and they will file out of the chamber at a measured and respectful pace.
"The Guard has three duties which they must carry out. The first duty is to maintain the watch. At all times except during the first and last hour of the Shift, there shall be two Guards in the chamber of the Alpha Mausoleum. There is a three-and-a-half meter wide red carpet in the center of the mausoleum, and it is fourteen meters in length.
"The patrol begins with two guards stationed on opposite sides of the carpet, exactly 13.75 meters apart: hashmarks have been placed on the carpet for this purpose. Beginning with the right foot, they will march at a pace of one 0.625 meter stride per second for twenty-one seconds, before halting and waiting 21 seconds. They will then perform a right face, take five steps forward, and wait a further 10 seconds. They will then perform a second right face, take 21 steps forward, before halting and waiting 21 seconds. They will then perform a right face, take five steps forward, and wait a further 10 seconds. They will then make a final right face, returning to their starting position.
"If the circuit is performed properly, it should take two minutes to complete one full circuit. Twenty-five full circuits will be performed each hour, giving ten minutes for a changing of the guard. Each member of the Guard, except for the Shift Leader and Assistant Shift Leader, will perform this duty twice per twelve-hour shift: once while beginning their patrol in the inner position, and a second time beginning their patrol at the outer position. The Shift Leader will assign watches and be responsible for coordinating the changing of the guard.
"In addition to maintaining the vigil at the Alpha Mausoleum, every three hours, beginning at one hour past the beginning of the shift, ten members of the Guard will perform the Patrol of the Grid. The Grid is a rectangular lattice of tunnels cut into the stone. Each tunnel is three meters tall and three meters wide. Beginning at the entrance to the grid, each member of the Guard will walk their assigned Patrol route. If all ten Guards walk their route perfectly, there will be no collisions, and all ten will return to the entrance of the Grid at exactly fifty minutes after the Patrol begins, in time for the changing of the Guard at the Alpha Mausoleum.
"The second duty of the Guard is the maintenance of the facility. The first hour of the shift will be devoted to inspection and cleaning of the Alpha Mausoleum. Any dust or debris must be removed, and the Shift Leader will perform a white-glove inspection at the end of the hour, before the first patrol is assigned.
"In addition, during the last hour of the Shift, all twelve members will inspect and clean a section of the Grid or outer Museum, assigned by the Facility Supervisor. Again, any dust or debris must be removed, and the Shift Leader will perform a white-glove inspection at the end of the hour, before assembling to stand relieved and go off-duty.
"Any damage to the Grid or Mausoleum is to be reported to the facility supervisor as soon as possible.
"The third duty of the Guard is the protection of the facility. The Guard will remain ever vigilant against intrusion, mishap, or natural disaster. They will watch over the Grid and Mausoleum and will faithfully discharge their duty to our honored dead.
"When not actively patrolling, Guards are allowed to rest in the lounge provided in the outer Museum. At all times, they shall act with decorum and respect appropriate to the hallowed nature of this facility.
"Additional duties may also arise due to special circumstances, such as holidays or the interment of a fallen comrade.
"Your vigil will be a lonely one. There are few visitors to this place. The sun does not shine here. The only light you will see will be from the light bulbs overhead. And this is where you will remain for twelve hours every three days.
"But as lonely as your duty is, it will be a sacred one. For you have been entrusted with protecting those of your comrades who have given their lives to protect humanity. Here are the remains of those who have died unknown to the ones they saved.
"Carry out your duties perfectly. Make them proud.
"Training begins at 0500 hours tomorrow. Dismissed."

"Sequence"
« Tempering | Return to GOC Hub | Diplomacy»


Spider had been walking up the mountain trail for a good half hour, and her feet were starting to hurt. It didn't help that she was carrying a heavy backpack: she'd done long ruck marches in training, but she'd been out on rehabilitation for a long time and knew she was out of shape. Hopefully, the rest of this trip would help.
Thankfully, she could already see the small log cabin up ahead. A thin stream of smoke emitted from the brick-and-clay oven nearby. The high, metallic sound of hammer on steel could be heard even at this distance.
She hiked her backpack a little higher, took a drink of water from her camelbak, and forged on.
Hopefully, the blisters would be worth it in the end.

"So you've finally come down to visit, huh, girl?"
Heinrich Guggenheim looked exactly like one would expect a dwarf to look: short, stocky, and massively built, with forearms the size of hams and fists the size of small kegs. He was a middle-aged, balding man with a neatly trimmed, white beard and intense, beady eyes, and his face and arms were marked with dozens of small, pale burn scars. He stepped back and looked Spider up and down once, and laughed out loud. "Looking good. You're wearing that new body well."
"Thanks," Spider said, smiling. "Complete thaumatological identity reassignment will do that. Given that I'm gonna be spending a lifetime working for the Coalition, the least they can do is let me feel comfortable in my own body."
"And now that you're settled in, you've come to visit old Guggenheim for those knives he promised you, huh?" The old man laughed out loud. "All right, girl. Let's see what I can do."

Heinrich let out a low, impressed grunt as Spider unwrapped the heavy, silk-wrapped package she'd been carrying strapped to her backpack. "Is that real?"
"Yeah," Spider said. "It fell over Siberia a few years back. I've been buying up as many pieces as I can."
He picked up one of the fragments of meteoric iron and weighed it in his hand contemplatively. "High iron content," he said. "But are you sure it's going to be enough to make three knives?"
"It doesn't have to be. We can fill in with regular iron if we need to. Sympathy and Contagion will transfer its properties over."
Guggenheim nodded. "I've been saving a good solid ingot for you. From the days back when you were apprenticing with me. Got a lot of history behind it. We smelt it into blanks along with this, and it'll work out great. Which brings us to the question of payment."
"You're not going to bring up Brisingamen again, are you?"
"You said it. Not me. It does have the weight of tradition behind it," Heinrich smirked.
"Unlike Freya, I have something better to barter with than gold." She opened up her backpack and pulled out two corrugated cardboard cylinders.
"18 year?" Heinrich asked.
"25. Two of the Yamazaki. And one 30-year Hibiki."
"… yeah, that'll do nicely," Guggenheim laughed. "You could have gotten this done for 12-year, you know."
"I know. But I want it done quickly, before the Coalition calls me back up again. I'm technically on 'psychological rehabilitation,' but the shrinks think that doing this will help my healing process. Even so, they won't let me stay for too long."
"Yeah, I heard," Guggenheim admitted. "Good on you getting back into the game." He raised the bottles of dark amber liquid to the light. "For this? Yeah, I'll get it done fast. But you'll be helping me."
"Wouldn't want it any other way."

"So you're wanting the full set, then?" the smith asked. He sketched out the broad outline of three knives on a sheet of butcher paper on the roughly hewn table in the cabin's kitchen. "Athame, boline, and secespita?"
"Yeah," Spider said, sitting down across from him.
"Any particulars in design?"
"I'll leave that up to you, as the expert."
"Mmmm. Boline's easy. You want a hawkbill blade. Concave cutting edge. Well suited to cutting mistletoe and tree branches. And the athame… straight blade, double-edged dagger, with a broad fuller so we can carve in some runes. Secespita's the tough one. Some people prefer a clip point: gives you a sharper tip, but drop point's better in my opinion. Less chance of slicing open the guts if you do haruspicy."
"Not much call for that these days."
"Not much call for hand-forged ritual knives, either. But then again, you've always preferred the traditional methods." Guggenheim quickly sketched out the details of the three knives in charcoal, filling out the details. "The athame will be the largest. Boline and secespita will have at least partial serrations. Full tang wootz steel. You'll want sheaths too, right? Leather's the best material for sheaths."
"They have to go onto tactical webbing. Maybe I should see if the armorers can adapt the sheath from an OKC-3S or something."
"Nylon ruins the purity. Leather's better."
"There's no proof that storage in plastic or synthetic fibers can disrupt the EVE signature of a ritual device," Spider pointed out.
"You want my help, or don't you? Leather sheaths. You can attach your nylon loops and stuff to them if you must, but the part that touches the blade must be leather."
"If you insist. Do you have any?"
"I do, but for these knives… hmm." Guggenheim leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his balding pate. "Can you still handle a bow and arrow?"

Spider knelt at the base of the tree, arrow nocked to her bowstring, and took a deep, cleansing breath, clearing her mind of all distractions. She could feel the cool air of the forest all around her, caressing her face and throat. It was soothing. Calming. Still.
Memories of a childhood spent in the woods. Trudging through the forest following her father's orange vest. Listening to him give advice on how to stalk the prey, how to hold perfectly still, how to respect nature and all its living things. The pride in his eyes when she'd shot her first buck: single rifle bullet through the heart. A good kill.
Remembering her father's eyes reminded her of worse days. Angry voices and narrowed eyes. Raised voices. A slamming door.
She hadn't heard from her family in years. Not that they would recognize her. She'd changed too much since then.
She sometimes wondered if they thought of her. She wondered if they'd declared her dead yet.
She wondered if her father had forgiven her.
The sound of a snapping twig roused her from her thoughts. She opened her eyes very slowly, careful not to move from her crouching position in the bushes.
The stag was an old, powerful buck, with twenty-point antlers and greying fur at its muzzle and throat. It scanned the treeline warily before emerging to dip its head and nibble at the berries and salt she had laid out in the clearing.
Spider slowly raised the bow and drew the arrow back to her ear.
She released the string smoothly, and the white-fletched missile leaped from the string with a sharp hiss.
It struck home with a dull thud, penetrating right behind the shoulder.
The deer leaped away, bellowing in pain and terror. It turned to run, but collapsed within a few steps and lay still on the leaf-strewn ground, sides heaving.
Spider drew a second arrow from her quiver and got to her feet. Approaching quickly, but carefully, she advanced to around ten feet and fired a second, precise arrow through the dear's heart.
The beast quivered once and then lay still.
Grabbing the dying animal by the antlers, she drew the blade of her hunting knife across its throat.
Warm blood spilled over her hands and pooled underneath the animal, staining the fallen leaves bright red.

She took a moment to cut a sprig from a nearby tree and place it in the animal's mouth. Breaking off a twig from that branch, she dipped it in the blood and put it into her hair as a souvenir of the day's hunt.
Then, working quickly, she used the knife she'd cut the deer's throat with to draw a circle around the carcass.
She wondered if she should do this next part skyclad. She decided against it: the weather was far too cold to be gallavanting about naked in the woods, no matter what the ritual significance.
She removed the arrows and put them aside: one of them was reusable, the other had broken when the beast rolled over onto it. She then turned the deer onto its back and, starting with the sternum, opened up its belly with a slow sweep of the hunting knife.
The intestines spilled out, warm and steaming, onto the forest floor: she lifted them in her arms and tossed them to the south, trailing out of the deer's belly like a long cord. The lungs she pulled out through the ribs, spreading them open like eagle's wings. The liver and heart she kept, putting them aside for later.
It was long, bloody, tiring work, and the sun was setting by the time she finally got to her feet. The skin, head, haunches, and much of the meat she took with her. The rest she left for the wolves and scavengers to return to the earth. Wiping a few flecks of blood off her face, she bowed once to the setting sun and turned to make the long hike back to Guggenheim's cabin.

Guggenheim poured some of the deer's blood over the chunks of iron, glass, sand, and charcoal inside the clay crucible. He tossed the heart onto the charcoal before sealing up the clay-and-brick oven and igniting the flames.
They dined that night on venison steaks and potatoes, after Spider had cleaned the hide and set it in a barrel with salt to cure. They would stay up all night pumping air into the oven through the great bellows, keeping the flames alight.
Dawn came, and with it came the opening of the oven, and the removal of the crucible. Guggenheim smiled as he saw the glowing ingot emerge from the slag and clay. "Good steel," he said. "It'll make good knives."
"The best," Spider agreed.
He added the deer's liver to the coals of his forge: it sizzled and smoked as he plunged the ingot into the hot coals. Spider helped him to pound the steel into a long, thin blank, raising and slamming down the heavy steel hammer until her back ached and her arms felt like jelly. Then, with chisel and hammer, he divided the glowing steel into three pieces.
Long days passed. While Guggenheim devoted himself to heating, pounding, and shaping the blanks, Spider finished cleaning and curing the deer's hide. She chose one of its antlers, and two of its ribs, and saved them for handles. The meat she cured, salted, and dried into jerky.
The beast had given its life for her, and she would make use of it to the very end.

The first blade Guggenheim finished was the athame: long and slender, double-edged, with slender quillions, a broad fuller inset with silver runes. She carved the handle out of good, solid oak, stained black, carved runes into them and inlaid them with silver. This was the ritual blade, the one that she used to draw circles and cut through the ether.
The second was the boline: curved and short, with a concave edge and a blunt tip. She made this handle out of the deer's antler, carving and polishing it into a smooth hilt. This was the working blade, the one she could use to cut herbs and mistletoe, a tool for everyday work.
Those two blades would never draw blood. But the third was the secespita, the killing blade, the knife of sacrifice. This one Guggenheim made with a sturdy drop point and a razor-sharp edge. She carved the handle out of bone, taken from the deer's ribs, the bones that lay close to the heart.
The night after Guggenheim finished the third knife, she took it with her into his rabbit pens and picked out a big, fat one ready to be eaten. She held the struggling animal down on the oak stump and cut its throat.
The blood spilled out over her hands once more, and she shivered as she raised it to her lips and tasted the life-blood of the dead creature. She drew the circle with the point of the athame and burned the sage that she had cut with boline. She inhaled the smoke and closed her eyes and slept that night under the stars, wrapped in the hide of the deer she had killed, with the knives she had crafted from its body resting around her at three points of an equilateral triangle.
Three knives. One meant for harm. The second meant for harvest. The third for power. The tools of her craft.

"You happy with them?" Heinrich asked the next morning. He'd put a final polish on the blades, and now they lay on a blanket made of soft deerskin: the long, slender athame, the short, hawkbilled boline, the broad secespita. They shone like rippling water, beautifully damascened. Forged from the same steel under the same moon, shining like stars.
"They're perfect," Spider said. She wrapped them in the deerhide and bound them in leather cord. She would have the hide tanned into hard leather, and would bring it to the Coalition's armorers to craft into sheaths for these new knives of hers.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Guggenheim asked.
"… I think so," Spider replied.
"Then good luck down there, girl," the old man said, and he leaned forward to kiss his student on the forehead. "And take care of yourself."
"I will," Spider whispered.
Tears welled up in her eyes, and she sat down hard, silent sobs shaking her body.
Guggenheim sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. They would sit like that together until the pain stopped and she could stand on her own once more.

"Spider."
"Bullfrog." She sat down across from her team leader at the conference table, nodding to him respectfully. "Kitten. Skunkboy."
The four of them took their seats around the table as Bullfrog turned out the lights and brought up a map of a small coastal town up on the projection screen.
"This is Dunwich, Massachusetts," he said. "It's a neutral zone between humanity and the Subpelagics, and one of the few places where cross-breeding between the two species takes place. The town has been neutral ground for both parties for at least one hundred years. And last week, that neutrality was broken…"
He went over the details of the incident, the rising diplomatic tensions, the emergency treaty that narrowly averted all-out war between humanity and the dwellers of the deep. "Our mission is to find out what's actually going on," he concluded. "We'll be seconded to PSYCHE division's investigative team. Our job is basically to be on hand if and when they need someone with combat experience. In the meantime, we'll assist with the investigation as best we can. Are there any questions?"
No one answered.
He took a deep breath. "All right, then one last thing." He turned on the lights, illuminating the room fully and casting the shadows away. "We've been hurt," he said, his voice low and husky. "And this is our first time back out in the field. And what makes the hurt worse is that it was one of us… it was me… doing a lot of the hurting. I still think that our team is solid. I still think we're strong. But… if you need to do anything… to say anything… so that we can put that hurting behind us and get the job down… I'm here. And I'm ready."
There was silence, broken only by the sound of the projector's cooling fan slowly turning.
Spider licked her lips and breathed in very slowly, then out just as slow.
"Bullfrog?" she said.
The big man's mouth twitched once. He turned and looked her in the eyes for the first time in over a month.
"I'll follow you wherever you lead me," she said. Her voice shook a bit, and she cleared her throat. "Even into hell."
Bullfrog nodded at that. For a moment, she thought she could see moisture well up in his eyes, but then he blinked and set his shoulders, and his eyes had returned to their usual cool, calm, flint-like hardness.
"Then let's move," he said. "Meet up in the hangar at 1800. And pack heavy. We may be there for a while."

"Sequence"
« Trauma | Return to GOC Hub | Vigil»


"State your name for the record, please." The voice echoed through the vast space, amplified by the microphone.
"Um, Dr., um, Dr. Robert Feldon, sir," he said into the microphone timidly. It was the first time he could ever recall being timid. Usually, he was the one with the booming voice, echoing out from on high in a dark room.
Of course, this room was hardly dark, in fact it was illuminated as well as or better than some of the rooms in the facility Feldon had worked at before the Masquerade failed. And the man, or rather men and women, accusing him were only slightly higher than him.
He observed the group before him carefully, looking, as he had in the past, for weaknesses, for fears, for anything he could use to his advantage.
They stared back with the same expression.
Feldon began to sweat.
"And your former position with your past employer, Dr. Feldon?" the man in the middle spoke again.
Balding, slightly corpulent, dark clothing, glasses. A dead stare. The same expression many had thought Feldon once wore at similar times. Except that Feldon was slightly younger and more fit. Completely bald, but in his former line of work, that could only be expected.
Feldon cleared his throat and spoke into the microphone again. "Former head of the Foundation's Ethics Committee, sir. Before it was phased out to this body, sir."
"And how long have you held this position?"
"For the past seven years, sir."
Despite himself, Feldon heard a bit of pride creep into his voice and inwardly cringed. A quick glance confirmed his suspicions. They had heard it as well and were less than pleased.
The group murmured a moment before a glance from the man in the middle quieted them. He seemed to be the man in charge, and would presumably lead the entire hearing.
"…I see. And for how many of these…SCP objects…were you involved in devising the 'Containment Procedures,' Dr. Feldon?"
"Well, that depends on what you mean by 'involved' actually. Do you mean objects in whose containment and research I was personally involved before my appointment to the Ethics Committee, or do you mean objects in whose containment procedures I was involved in the approval or revision of following my appointment to the Ethics Committee?"
"Answer the question, please."
"Right," said Feldon, looking somewhat nervously at the other, silent members of the panel, "Um, at a guess, something close to, um, 435. Maybe 437."
"Any particularly…notable…procedures, Doctor?"
"To be honest, sir, they all start blending together after awhile. And when you consider all the information I've been privy to that is above even your paygrade, it's little wonder I remember no specific procedures. Sir."
Shit, why am I back-talking this group, the people who determine my future? thought Feldon.
"Yes, well, that is subject to change. Very shortly, we should have access to all the information. As the UN New Committee on the Ethical Containment of Anomalous Objects, Events, and Creatures, we will require knowledge of all that the Foundation contained and is currently containing. Procedures deemed unethical will be revised. If no revision is possible, containment on the object will cease. If the object itself is deemed inherently inimicable to human life, it shall be destroyed without exception."
Feldon privately wondered how many of them would be left on the board after they discovered some of the Foundation's blacker secrets. Things only the former O5 Command and the Ethics Committee were cleared to know.
"Doctor, please, the question."
"I'm sorry, sir. Could you repeat the question please?"
"Were you involved in the containment of objects numbered, 453, 231, 158, 239, or any objects classified as 'humanoid' by your former employer?"
Feldon looked away, wishing he could lie and deny any involvement.
"Yes. Inevitably, all the members of the Ethics Committee were at some point involved with a humanoid object. We did our best to reduce the object's discomfort while keeping it contained. He or she, I mean."
"You are aware, Doctor, that most of your humanoid containment procedures violate many laws in many countries, I trust?"
"We didn't have a choice! If we hadn't, the world could have ended!"
"Doctor, the general populace still has little knowledge of what your organization terms 'reality benders'. As such, it is thought by many to be highly unlikely that a pregnant woman or a young child could possibly destroy the world. Have you any evidence to the contrary?"
"Plenty," said Feldon, beginning to move from the stand at which he had been placed, before realizing the two rather large men who had accompanied him in wouldn't let him walk around. "Prior to my time as head of the Ethics Committee, I observed testing involving SCP-239. During testing, I saw 239 shift entire rooms in a secure Foundation facility to suit her liking. In this case, a giant doll house. This wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't also shifted the personnel in the rooms into life-size, animate ragdolls, complete with their memories and personalities. When told she had to turn everything back, she told the head researcher to, and I quote, 'go away, butthead'. I trust I don't have to explain what happened to the poor man's head, but suffice it to say, he went away. Walked out the door and disappeared. Eventually, she got tired of playing with her 'dolls' and they simply vanished as well. This was one incident out of many and this was by far one of the least serious."
"And the woman you designated SCP-231?" asked the man in the center, already disapproving of an answer that hadn't yet been voiced.
"Sir, there are some things no one wants to know. I assure you that is one of them."
"So you consistently subject a human being to something so horrible you won't speak it aloud or commit it to paper, and you see nothing unethical in this?"
"Oh, I see plenty that is unethical about that…by conventional ethics, at least," he said with a grim smile, "You see, what most people don't realize about SCP-231 is that it isn't a single pregnant female. What everyone in the general public knows about SCP-231 is, in fact, incorrect. The general public, and frankly most of the enlightened public, yourselves included, are unaware that SCP-231 is actually designated SCP-231-7. She is the seventh and last of the women we contained with the SCP-231-X designation. The others all died. They died either due to a break in the containment procedures we designed, by their own hand, or by our attempts to remove the…fetus. On one occasion, SCP-231-1 actually did give birth. The resulting incident caused hundreds of casualties. Were you aware of this, sir?"
The panel remained silent, absorbing the information.
"And were you aware that each fetus has had the potential to cause or has caused more catastrophic damage than the last?"
The panel sat still, silent, fidgeting slightly. The bald doctor now had the upper hand.
"You can all fact check me when you have clearance, as trite as that sounds."
The panel looked uncomfortable for a moment more before the man at its center spoke again.
"Doctor, this body will determine that for itself. Even taking into account what we now know about what your organization termed 'reality benders,' we find it hard to believe that any being under the age of ten has enough to power to, as some of your peers have put it, 'vaporize my head' despite the information you have provided. Additionally, whatever the hell you're doing to the person that you have objectified as 231 will stop as soon as this body has the official power to do so."
But they were a little less sure, a little less full of themselves, Feldon could see it. He felt the power shift in the room. This was his stage now.
"Very well…sometimes seeing is believing. But if you find out you are wrong, what then do you intend to do?" he asked smugly.
"Dr. Feldon, this hearing is not about what we as a body intend to do. This hearing is about you and your peers and your decidedly unethical treatment of many human beings of many nationalities. As such, this avenue of discussion is closed. Is that understood?"
"Of course. Do you have any further questions?"
"Do you contain anything that doesn't destroy the world?"
"Well, we have a two-person llama costume wearing galoshes. Before we took it into custody, it was being used for psychic-dissociative recreation, but then its users overdosed and died."
"…what?"
"Never mind. Any further questions?"
"Yes. To the extent of your knowledge, do any of the containment procedures you've authored or revised contain intentional harm to human beings?"
"…yes."
The panel as a whole frowned at this.
"And do any of the containment procedures you've authored or revised place other human beings in danger?"
"Yes. But we—"
"And do any of the containment procedures you've authored or revised involve cruel or unusual treatments of human beings?"
"…define 'cruel and unusual'."
"Doctor, that statement in itself is enough to convince this panel that you are of questionable moral judgment. Your actions have been, by your own admission, unethical."
"So, in light of this, in light of the possible deaths of hundreds or thousands or more, that could be caused by one of the entities we contain, what is ethical? What is right and wrong? What is cruel and unusual? Are you prepared to ask these questions every day for the rest of your time?"
The panel was silent for a long moment again.
"As the Ethics Committee, were you not trusted to keep the Foundation ethical? In this, you failed."
"You think I failed? Wait until you know. You'll want me to come back, to take your jobs from you."
"Because of your statements Doctor, let it be known this committee is recommending that you be permanently dismissed from any work with the Foundation in its current iteration. Additionally, we are recommending a full psychological evaluation in an institution of our choice. Should any problems be found, treatment, regardless of length, is mandatory. Remove him."
Two large men, the ones who had brought Feldon into the room, escorted the former Ethics Committee head out of the room to a waiting vehicle that would take him to a mental institution, one of many that former Foundation employees were being sent to regularly following the new necessity of following international laws.
The man who had served as the head of the panel looked at the members gathered alongside him.
"Bring in the next one."
Two weeks later

HEADLINE: FORMER FOUNDATION
"ETHICS" COMMITTEE HEAD
RELEASED, RETURNED TO
SERVICE
May 10, 2014
Today, Dr. Robert Feldon, the former head of the Foundation "Ethics" Committee was released from the institution he was placed in following the UN Committee hearing two weeks ago and restored to his former position. The majority of the panel declined to comment on their decision to repeal their choice and return Dr. Feldon to his former position, replacing panel and Committee head Gregory Rexin as leader of the UN New Committee on the Ethical Containment of Anomalous Objects, Events, and Creatures.
When questioned, Rexin said only, "In this world, this world in which everything we know is turned upside down, what is ethical? What is right and wrong and how do we define cruel and unusual?"
Further comment was declined. Cont. pg. 2A ETHICS.