I left the box on Karen's nightstand, pausing to listen a while to her soft breathing. It's not a large box, but it's large enough that she'll notice when she wakes up. An e-reader, near new. It was a good price, and I know how much she wanted one, but she'll still be pissed at me. Until she reads the note - at least that's what I'm hoping.
I walk downstairs in the darkness, carrying my bag and my shoes - I don't want to wake anyone. Mike would have his never-ending questions, and Emily would end up crying for her momma, and either way Karen would be up and I don't want to explain it to her. It's the right thing. I'm doing it for them.
Outside, there's a hint of coolness when the air moves that wasn't there yesterday, like someone flicked a switch and Fall began. A flat lid of cloud covers the sky, with the pre-dawn gloom starting to lighten off to my left. I slip on my old sneakers, and head down the drive to where I left the car.
The first generation Ford Escape is a beautiful car. Even if it's a little old now, I don't mind. I can't know for sure, of course, but I like to think I made this one - 2003 is the right year. I keep it in neutral and roll it down the drive, with the engine and the headlamps off. Not that Karen could stop me now, but she may as well get some more rest. Halfway down the street, I bring the engine to life. It's a solid, reassuring sound. I feel like you can tell when a car has been put together by hand. It just feels more reliable. For the second generation in 2008, Ford let all of us welders go - some advance in robotics, apparently. They're all made that way now.
Driving through the suburbs at this hour, all the houses are dark. At my third turning, I can see Jim's old house. It's been empty since the family moved away. I wonder if any other places are empty. At least we don't have to worry about squatters since they opened the new mission downtown - that's one thing the city's done right.
Once I'm on the highway, there are a few more cars. I wonder where they're headed so early. In my rear-view, strip malls and motels fade into the half-light. I smile when I see the steakhouse, thinking of two years ago, when Karen and the kids took me for a surprise birthday meal. That was a good day. Maybe I can take Karen back there again soon.
The flat, grey, uniform sky seems to press down over the Interstate. I put the Escape in fifth gear and turn on the radio. An angry guy, ranting - something about how Iraq wasn't about the nukes or the oil. I don't need to listen to that today, so I switch over to soft country. It's almost light enough to switch off my headlamps, but I like the glow from the dash on my hands. Nice to be doing this without traffic for once.
I pass the Costco without slowing - I'm not on shift today. Working at a big box store isn't the same as at the plant. It's a job, and Lord knows I'm not ungrateful, but it's not the same as the feeling of having made something.
An hour or so passes, and the clouds lighten to the colour of dishwater. I've come off the Interstate by now, and I'm working my way along country roads. It's lucky Jim gave me such good directions. Finally I see it: a squat low-rise office park, stretching out next to fields and woods both turning brown. It's nondescript, buff coloured - looks like it was built in the eighties. Jim said the company was the same one that raised the price of Karen's prescription, but I'm not sure. It didn't sound the same. Anyway, it's not important.
I pull into the parking lot, surprised at the number of cars here on a Sunday. Locking the car, I take my bag and walk across to the entrance, through the automatic doors. There are big letters on the front of the desk: "Here for your health".
"Welcome to Smith-Cline, how may I assist you?" chirps the receptionist. She is young and pretty, and I suddenly feel my age. I try to remember what Jim told me.
"Uh, I'm here for the, ah, clinical study?" I feel awkward. Jim said anyone could do it, but maybe I need an appointment.
The receptionist is all smiles, gesturing to a waiting area across the hall.
"Of course, sir. If you'll just take these forms and have a seat over there, we'll be with you shortly. Does your family know that you'll be here for the week?"
"Yes." She probably will soon, if she hasn't already. I hope the e-reader is worth it.
I need to ask, but I'm not sure how.
"I'm sorry, I - can you tell me -" I trail off.
"Payment, sir?" she seems to know what I mean. "If you put your bank details on the form, we can wire the money right to your account." She must get asked that question a lot, I realise, feeling embarrassment well up inside.
I head over to the plastic seats, holding the clipboard. There are a few others here, not many. A black guy, little older than me, humming softly. A bored-looking kid who could be here for tuition money. Two rows over is a woman my age, flannelette shirt covering a t-shirt with an animal on it. She nods at me as I sit down.
I start filling out the papers - health questions, my account number. Jim told me about the money, more than I make in a month at Costco. More than I made at the plant. Enough. Jim came here five or six times, he said. He didn't tell Paula, she thought he was travelling on business. He didn't even tell me much, really - he said it was mostly sleep studies, sometimes vaccines. Mostly observation. He said the time went fast too, so before he knew it he was waking up on the last day, ready to go home.
I'm skimming through the pages now. Only a few questions, some legal stuff. I wonder if Jim was driving back from here, when it happened. A drunk driver, according to the police. Paula stayed at our house a few nights - it was like a sleepover for all the kids. Please tick yes to confirm your consent. I'm thinking about the funeral, watching the casket being lowered. I check the box.
Almost on cue, there is a woman walking over to me. She's late thirties, brunette, wearing a lab coat and sensible shoes. She smiles as I finish the documents.
"Thank you, sir. Would you follow me please?"
I heft my bag and stand up, and she leads me back past reception, turning to speak over her shoulder.
"Can I have your name please, sir?"
"Ryan."
"Welcome to Smith-Cline, Ryan. I'm Amy. Is this your first time here?"
"Yes."
"That's great, we really appreciate everyone who volunteers here." She sounds sincere.
As we pass the automatic doors, I look out into the carpark, back into the grey world outside. For a second I can't see my Escape, and then I spot it as another car drives past. Amy is opening a door at the end of the hallway, another hallway beyond it.
"First, could you take a quick look at the top of your form," she says. "There should be a number there - could you memorise it please."
"A number?" I look - each page is printed with "V-65112".
"I'm afraid so," says Amy, with an understanding smile. "We get so many Ryans, and Amys, and every other kind of name. A number helps us keep track. Now if you'll just come through here…"
I look back down at the form. V-65112. I think about Karen, and the steak dinner I'm going to buy her. Then I follow the woman through the door.


Some time in the 1920s, almost a century before there were such things as Markov plot generators or infrafictional constructs, a dirt-broke novelist in the middle of L.A. somehow discovered the first known method of transport between various metafictional layers. We're still not entirely sure what he actually did with it in the first place and for almost all intents and purposes he shot himself into fictional space and fucked right off, but suffice it to say once they'd finished cleaning his corpse off the side of a printing office on the Hollywood Boulevard, more than a few people got interested in whatever method of narrativic ascension he'd unintentionally pioneered.
The kids from Prometheus were interested, because of course they were, and they'd managed to just about gut half of his manuscripts and the widget he'd used to punch himself into the metanarrative. That being said, even after they were done, there was still enough there for two groups to figure out how it worked and build their own separate copies of the machine in question. Those groups being a loose collective of private investigators and the Mafia.
The timeline's still pretty fuzzy, simply because of how much it jumps around between various layers of fiction and reality – that being said, we've pretty solidly established that the start of this whole debacle is in 1953, when the first shots got fired between the two groups and you have one P.I. dead and a Mob hitman apparently vanished into thin air.
A few years after that particular confrontation, the other members of the P.I. collective disappear, one by one. At the time, nobody's quite sure how the hell what's happened to them and their bodies are never actually found: what they're very sure about is the very visceral deaths of multiple members of the mob. And then the rest of them disappear and it's all tied off very neatly, right before an explosion in the number of novels featuring battles between hardboiled detectives and the Mafia.
Like I said, pretty much everything after that point in time has dissolved into a sea of tenuous links and mostly ineffective theorising, but the main thrust of it is that we now have an array of detectives and wanted criminals duking it out over thousands (if not millions) of novels and decades of literary tradition.
Your job as a member of this particular division of the Department of Analytics is mainly going to be watching these novels. They tell me that the AIs are pretty good at filtering both by genre and by characters, so you're probably not going to be sorting through all that many truckloads of original fiction each day you're on the job.
When you think you've got a lead, you'll fill in a form, boot it upstairs and if Command reckons it's worth investigating, a few Agents like myself will probably get sent off to interview the author, see whether or not they show any of the signs of metafictional fuckery with some basic MID-terms – Memory, Inspiration, Diction. If it turns out your tip was accurate, you'll soon find yourself chasing further fictional leads to ensure that we've got a comprehensive collection of their movements 'n' such.
Okey, you're probably wondering why we're going to all the effort about this, and I'll explain.
In a metafictional fight like this, you're not going to be settling the feud over a nice dinner at an Italian restaurant. No, the only way to settle this kind of dispute is with good old-fashioned murder, but that gets pretty complicated when you're trying to murder a fictional character. Authors can pull plot twists out their ass to save any character, especially ones as well-loved as these guys seem to be, and if their reader base suffers, it doesn't matter – so long as they're alive and able to fight the other side, they're not going to give a rat's ass about the authors they have to manipulate to stay that way.
Clearly, you can't kill a fictional character in fiction. So you have to lure them out into reality and then kill them, before finishing off any potential authors who might want to bring them back. We've had reports of authors who've been literally taken hostage and forced to write out the adventures of the kidnapper's comrade at gunpoint, and good old Kurt Vonnegut had to have a covert security detail monitoring him simply because of the possibility of metaphysical infiltration of his work.
Which brings me to this thing right here on the table. The last "re-entry" into reality these guys made, an entire hectare of land got levelled within the first fifteen minutes of the fight, and at least half of it was thanks to this thing right here.
Remember, when you have control over what can come in and out of reality, you're not gonna bother with using something as pissingly weak as your dead-average pistol. These guys have been through so many genres and so many books that they've got the sense to not use anything even close to mundane.
So, if you keep good tabs on these guys, we can lock up them and any paratech they've got right as they pop back into reality, and maybe you can be the one who's going to stop the next honest-to-god plasma cannon battle.
No pressure.


D-13279 had long ago learned how to tell death from dreaming.
Every month, it happened like this, and there was a moment of uncertainty. When the drugs have finished pumping their way through the circulatory system, there's nothingness.
And it's almost a moment of relief. But then it ends.
That's not what death feels like, they knew. Death doesn't have the hunger pangs, the hollowness of being that comes from want and need. That's not death.
D-13279 knew how to use dreams. They didn't know how they knew, but they remembered a distant time when there were others in their dreams. When their dreams could take them to meet other people, to feel like they were greater than themself.
Dreaming is lonelier, now. But it has still made the mind resilient. Each month, the guards and scientists try to kill the mind, flush the memories, but in dreams the mind can hide. And D-13279 can survive another month with their head intact.
Thirty days go by. D-13279's service is done. They get put under. The guards and scientists try to kill the mind, but in dreams the mind hides. And it repeats. Always the exact same.

"You've committed a crime. It's very important that you pay your debt to society."
They squirm in the chair. Wrists bound in glistening manacles. The room is disgustingly white, and against that backdrop the labcoat is almost invisible, a floating head and clipboard seated in a cheap chair. She continues.
"We're not here to judge or to punish you. We're not your wardens, just guides. Follow us and your debt will be repaid. Society will thank you. After a month, you will be done." She's reading from a paper. Well-rehearsed.
D-13279 nodded. They had lost track of how many times this had happened.

Society, as she called it, was not something D-13279 had ever known. Not anything they remembered. The rote transactions of daily life. The give and take of tokens and goods and services. Utilization by a greater whole, for the good of each cog. D-13279 did not know it.
Each time they slept, and a day ticked by, adding one onto another, D-13279 was able to go somewhere else. Somewhere not here, not in the four walls and a roof, the magnetically sealed door with two slits, one for the eyes and one for trays of food. In their mind, D-13279 went beyond.
In that beyond, there are rows of sleeping people in jumpsuits. The D-class do not move or react. Each night, the D-class grow more like each other. Each month, the D-class grow into the mold the organization wishes to fit them in. The mold the organization has prepared for all the world. And D-13279 can only watch.
But at least it wasn't a cell. It was a community, a community of unconscious souls. Except for one. D-13279 was more awake in their dreams than during the day.

There was a different scientist. This room was longer than it was wide. Each wall held a door, and the longer walls held two large windows into observation rooms filled with technicians. Atop each window was a warning light. The light was green.
D-13279 was holding a briefcase. It was handcuffed to their wrist, but in the opposite hand they held the key. The scientist, satisfied with their latent posing, retreated to an observation room. D-13279 faced the door on the far end, on a narrow wall.
The door opened. A person in a grey jumpsuit walked out. A nametag read "D-13280".
"Hello. I am here to receive your briefcase."
D-13279 nodded furtively, reaching down to unlock their own restraints. Gingerly, they handed the briefcase over. The other D-class nodded, affixing it to their own wrist. They exited the room.
Behind D-13279, the second door opened. A person in a grey jumpsuit walked out. A nametag read "D-13278". They had a briefcase handcuffed to their wrist.
"I have a briefcase here."
This person unlocked their restraints, gingerly handing the briefcase to the waiting D-13279. And then the person left, same way they came.
The warning light above the windows faded from green into red. The mission was over.

Inside the briefcase:

N REPORTING TO N+1
CLEAR: EXISTENTIAL THREATS CLEAR. TRANSUNIVERSAL THREATS CLEAR. LOCALIZED THREATS CLEAR. NORMALCY CLEAR.
NOTES: THE OLD WORLD MEN ARE FALLING. THE WAY IS BEING PAVED. WE'LL GET THERE SOON. NEED MORE AMNESTICS, MORE THAN CAN FIT IN A BRIEFCASE. SPECIFICS FOLLOW:
5 7 9 8 3
4 6 8 0 9
0 5 7 9 1
2 1 6 8 0
1 3 2 7 9

The rest is just numbers.

D-13279 knows the world is changing. Every night, it grows more clear. The Foundation is not alone in the multiverse. Each Foundation could reach out, speak to itself in other worlds. Collaborate. Cooperate. Contain.
And eventually, the goal would change. The higher-ups could never be satisfied with just keeping the world the way it was. Not when the world was so fundamentally broken.
It needed to be fixed. The cancer must be excised. And now the organization has the power to do it.
D-13279 feels like they're constantly growing, growing into a mind too large for this body. This can't be allowed to continue, can it?
Who can stop it when the Foundation becomes the foundation for everything?
They can feel it. Each passing day. Every dose of mindkill. Every soul living this far underground. Their mind becomes smaller, their profile slimmer. The mold becomes more attractive. D-13279 cannot hold out forever. Eventually they will be gone, and a new one will take their place. A new person, for this new world.

Some months ago, there was a large room, size of a gymnasium. The ground was covered by fake grass and black rubber bits. In the center, crude structures of drywall for buildings.
Each single-story abode held two to three mattresses on the ground. There were just enough mattresses for the two dozen D-class that lived there during the test. A single structure was set aside, where one D-class would cook food for the rest twice a day.
The raw food came from a hatch in the ceiling, once every three days. The scientists could have dropped ready-made meals, but they didn't. Maybe they thought they could reinforce teamwork by forcing meal preparation.
Twenty days in, when the lights in the room were out, to simulate the night, and only fake torches lit the room, they released a creature into the enclosure. A tall beast, with a face like a sieve and limbs like knives.
When the D-class saw it, the group cowered and hid, and banged on the walls for help.
The test was aborted. The creature was recovered. The minds were wiped, and the subjects were administered a fierce regimen of drugs and altered images.
The test began again. Twenty days in, the creature was released.
When the D-class saw it, the group banded together and struck it with hands and feet. It let out a chitter when it died.
Unsatisfactory. The test was aborted. The creature was reanimated. The minds were wiped, and the subjects were administered a fierce regimen of retraining noises and memetic ciphers.
The test began again. Twenty days in, the creature was released.
When they D-class saw it, the group did not react. Each continued their routines, even as it stalked and killed them. Not a single one made note of it.
Satisfactory. A good test. D-13279 got to carry two briefcases the day after. Need extra room for important details.

N REPORTING TO ALL
CLEAR: EXISTENTIAL THREATS CLEAR. TRANSUNIVERSAL THREATS CLEAR. LOCALIZED THREATS CLEAR. NORMALCY CLEAR.
NOTES: NTH BEHAVIORAL TEST SUCCESSFUL. MASS DEPLOYMENT MECHANISMS REQUIRED NEXT FOR TARGETING OF CITY CENTERS AND WATER DISTRIBUTION. SUGGESTIONS FOLLOW.
1 3 2 7 9
0 2 4 3 8
9 1 3 5 4
5 0 2 4 6
7 6 1 3 5

Every month is the same. D-13279 used to feel a sense of urgency. As their knowledge grows, beyond this world, into every universe with a Foundation.
This world was not meant for the Foundation, but a tipping point has been reached. They will make the world into one for themselves, and make those in it fit for the world. D-class are just the template. What the Foundation has learned from them will be applied to everyone. And none will ever notice.
The only comfort D-13279 took was that soon, they would be like everyone. And everyone would be like them. And that's some justice, isn't it?

D-13279 saw all of them.
"You've committed a crime. It's very important that you pay your debt to society."
The response: "What?" "No…" "What crime?" "Fuck off!" "What do you mean?" "Where am I?" "Slow down." "Can you repeat that?"
Knowledge is powerlessness. D-13279 could not help a single one of them. But the Foundation could.

Overlapping bricks add up to something. Means nothing more than a brick to building. A building to a mountain. A mountain to a planet.
Every Foundation was there, but they blur together. There's only one Foundation, one for all the universes, and its ligaments are vacant promises, linked hands, and full briefcases. Soon there will be nothing but the Foundation. And the Foundation will be everything.

D-class expand above and below. The researchers can't remember the nights they spent on mattresses in gymnasiums. The civilians will never remember what the scientist said just before they pushed the plunger on the syringe.
As far as everyone knows, the world never changed. No-one will ever know what was lost.
For the record, she said "You're paying your debt to society. Goodnight."

O5-∞+1 sat in a conference room with 12 other men. Each had their own plans. Today, and tomorrow, and so on, they would meet and discuss a common topic, and choose their Foundation's stance. Just like they had for all the yesterdays.
They were the most frightened men on the planet. Each man held his fears close, because they were the only thing that kept him awake throughout the day. Even as the reason for fear dwindled. Even as reality grew ever closer to matching the spine that they had been constructing.
The multiverse couldn't stop them now. The Foundation was bigger than it was. It could only fight back for so long.
Every O5 nodded in agreement when the final resolution was proposed. It was all coming together.
But they were still afraid. You can always add one, and then you have an entirely different number on your hands.

D-13279 kept looking for a key, or a door. Some way out. The dreams weren't an escape, just a reminder of the bars. They could not evade the mindkill forever. They would die eventually, and a new person would be born from their corpse.
D-1327█ thought about all the people around them. They lived such short lives. Tiny people, easy for the Foundation to move around. No baggage to deal with.
D-132██ thought about fear. The fear that they as they know themselves would soon be dead. The fight for maintaining the world as one knows it. Is that noble?
D-13███ thought about how concentrated things feel. Reality is getting denser, as all the universes collapse upon themselves. Uncertainty is going away. How will the new man think?
D-1████ felt something pleasant bubbling up. They don't need to wonder. They are the new man, tailor-made for this new world. They don't need to worry anymore. They can give up.
And D-█████ was ready.
The loud nights were over.
The quiet days were here.


"Try to keep up, old man. I'd like to be as far as possible from Site-7 when their part of the plan starts."
Spinella wheezed as he trotted, sweeping his flashlight in front of him and trying to avoid the bits of rubble and puddles lining the passage. The damp, moldering air of the forgotten catacombs felt like fire in his chest. He gripped the handle of the briefcase tightly.
"I'm…younger than you…asshole," he struggled between breaths. He played Nechayeva's directions over again in his head. It was about seventy meters until the passage split into three, at which point the two men were to take the tunnel to the right. It had been about eight or nine twists and turns deeper into the darkness of the tunnels. The walls of the passageway were lined with crude alcoves, some empty, some containing stone sarcophaguses, some just a resting place for handfuls of dust and a few bones.
"Are you? You don't look a day over seventy, my friend."
The Foundation neurosurgeon smiled in the darkness. Keep flinging shit, wiseguy.
The KGB operative had been well-prepared. She had extensive knowledge of the infrastructure of Krakow, especially the access tunnels and the old city around Site-7. Almost as though the entire chain of events had been designed for them to be down here. Spinella found it difficult to imagine a catacomb network this long to be hidden, unless it was concealed intentionally for other purposes. She may have had the wet-behind-the-ears operative from Lafourche's shop fooled, but he saw enough.
The two men came to the tunnel convergence, just as Nechayeva had indicated. They stopped, both taking a moment to catch their breath. Spinella took the cigarette from behind his ear and stuck it in his mouth.
Juhasz looked puzzled. "It's remarkable, your dedication to smoking."
Spinella looked at the three tunnels ahead. "Can't take all the credit. Can't stop smoking the fucking things. Not like it matters now."
"I suppose not."
Spinella reached into his coat, before hesitating. "Tell me again, how this makes any sort of sense. We turn this briefcase over to KGB at the end of this goddamn maze, and by their scout's honor, they'll escort us out and share the information with command?"
"All of that cutting into brains, and you don't think," said Juhasz. "What does it matter what they promised? It was either taking the woman's offer, or being shot by the patrols looking for us up there."
"Nothing stopping us from setting fire to this thing before we get shot. Doesn't matter if it's KGB bullets or army bullets when they find us."
"You think this world you're in, that it's nothing but betrayals and backstabbings. But things don't work like that." Juhasz glanced over his shoulder, growing steadily more impatient. "There's an order to things. Motives make certain people predictable, and reliable in their way."
"You ought to listen to yourself." Spinella pointed at Juhasz with his cigarette for emphasis. "Do you trust that metal mouthed bitch back there?"
Juhasz paused. "No. I've no reason to. But in our short acquaintance, she's told us the truth, and we definitely have an enemy in common. I trust her motives. I trust her self-interest."
"Is it in their interest to give us back the information that we use as a ticket out of here? If I were them, I'd just shoot us and take the briefcase."
"They only have a part of the picture. They're going to need our help to put it all together. And we're going to need theirs. Spinella, GRU-P has gone mad. What's in that briefcase is going to be worse than a few measly warheads if they get their hands on it."
Spinella shone his flashlight down at the briefcase, now resting at his feet. He shone it back at Juhasz, briefly flashing it at his eyes as he reached back into his coat. "Very convoluted. Lot of stuff that can go wrong. But you sound like you've got it figured out."
"Some of us want to live past next month, Spinella. You don't spend a lot of time questioning the lifeboat when you're fleeing the ship."
Spinella chuckled, stepping closer to Juhasz. "Next month. What an idea."
"We need to go now."
"Next month is an impossibility. All that matters is right now. Like you said, it's a sinking ship, right?"
Spinella shone the light directly in Juhasz's eyes.
"And right now, I am not turning over Foundation research to the goddamn Russians, you fucking traitor."
As Juhasz recoiled from the sudden glare, Spinella lunged forward and plunged the knife that had been in his hand deep into his left shoulder. Juhasz grunted at the sudden pain, instinctively swinging at Spinella's face. Spinella raised an arm, and Juhasz's fist struck his hand instead, sending the flashlight clattering off into the tombs.
The chamber was cast into total darkness. There were only sounds; two men bellowing in mortal rage, feet shuffling in the dirt and the dust, blows landing, blood spattering. The flashlight flickered briefly, forgotten now as it rolled underneath a stray sarcophagus lid, before guttering out.

SCP-1041 struggled against the iron grip of the guards marching her down the main hallway. Her hands had been bound behind her. She filled the hall with promises of slow, excruciating death for all present. No one responded as they inexorably made their way to the large double doors ahead. In her present incarnation, SCP-1041 was too murderously angry to notice the group of several lab-coated technicians following in her wake, nor did she consider the implications of the operating theater directly ahead. Had she been less consumed with thoughts of killing the son of a bitch who had struck her, she might have been cognizant of a faint, barely perceptible feeling of rising panic around the edges of her consciousness. The beginning of a realization, stuck without progressing into knowledge. She only need turn her head to see the shadow of death, but SCP-1041 had other things in mind.
Two guards ahead opened the double doors. The scene in front of them struck her, even through her red-minded hatred, as ludicrous. Soldiers in uniform scurrying about, trying to avoid stepping on cables lining the floor. A bedraggled scientist making last minute adjustments to a hastily assembled circuit box. Someone was setting up a movie camera and lights. Behind it all, a collection of seats surrounding the main operating area, all empty. If you only looked at the background, it would appear as though no one were here to witness all of the bustle.
The guards ahead moved aside, and the main event greeted her.
"At last. The star of our show. Dr. Geissler, let's begin."
Chernikov stood alone, in the center of the operating theater, in front of a tall, metal conduit, sticking up from a mound of cables and wiring. All of the electrical equipment brought into the room seemed to be wired up to this apparatus. Jutting from the side was what was clearly meant to be a anchoring point for restraining something. Svetlana Savchuk knew nothing of these things, but from somewhere beyond her immediate consciousness, it suddenly occurred to her that this reminded her of a stake, fastened amidst kindling, ready to turn into a pyre at any moment.
The guards led her to the technological stake. She fought back with renewed vigor, instinct informing her that she did not want to be in this place. Another guard joined the party, grabbing hold of her legs as they picked her up and carried her. Once at their destination, her arms were fastened to the stake, tightly behind her, while her feet nestled among the mass of cables and wires below.
Chernikov called out to the disheveled scientist that she spotted earlier. "Comrade, please go and check the men's handiwork. This is not their specialty, after all." She loathed his arrogant, unconcerned tone. She would bury a shiv in his eye the first chance she got.
The scientist came over, in his hands a strange metal bowl of some sort, wires trailing out. She noticed that as he looked at her, he had tears in his eyes. She scowled at him.
"Fucking pussy. Do whatever you're going to do and go weep somewhere else. Worthless lapdog."
Her words washed over him, no reaction. As though he'd expected them. He looked around to the back of the stake, looking at the restraints around her wrists. He leaned close to her ear, behind the stake, out of sight of the GRU-P delegation. Chernikov had ordered the camera rolling and had started speaking directly to it, saying something about the next advancement in the great Soviet scientific machine.
"You don't know who I am, but I know who you are," he said, not whispering, but quiet enough to be heard, his words clipped, moving his lips as little as possible. "Inside, beneath all of the other layers."
"Fuck you, little Russian servile."
Chernikov continued his introduction, informing his intended audience that for the first time, the human soul had been localized, through science.
"I've met the real part of you, the one inside all of the others. I know that you hear me somewhere in there. We've only met for a total of six days, but your contribution to the work has been invaluable in that time." Geissler inspected the wiring at the base of the stake. He affixed the metal bowl structure to the top of her head.
Chernikov spoke of the ability to manipulate identity, to take the essence of what made a human and do with it what was required. At this verbal cue, another group of guards wheeled a cage into the operating theater with her, containing a thin, bent man of thirty, starved into an appearance of fifty, hair fallen out in clumps. The man caught SCP-1041's eye as he was wheeled in. She scoffed. Weak political prisoner. The kind that lasted two days in Vladimirsky.
"That little part of you that lies at the center, I need to tell you. This is the extraction procedure that we had talked about before. The one that we had just finished designing the last time. They found out about it, and that's what they think they're doing. But they cannot be allowed."
SCP-1041 spat at the ground. "You going to grab something while I'm tied up? Go ahead, I'll tear off your hand."
Geissler began attaching the ends of the wires to a port at the top of the stake. He kept his eyes on his work as he spoke. Chernikov boasted to the camera of harnessing the most fundamental element in the universe.
"Our lives ended once GRU-P took Site-7. I know it must scare you to hear that. I wish it weren't true. But we can make sure that our work isn't used to harm anyone else."
A guard plugged a thick cable into the cage that had been wheeled into the theater. Chernikov was finishing his remarks. There wasn't much time left.
Geissler attached the last wire. "What you see here is not the extraction procedure. It's something else that I've designed. It's going to kill you, and if I've done this right, everyone else in this room. What's going to happen is monstrous. To apologize for this kind of betrayal is obscene, but I'll do it anyway."
The doctor made some adjustments to a panel on the side of the stake. SCP-1041 felt the stake shudder slightly as a lever was engaged. She heard a faint humming sound start, seeming to come from all around her. Geissler turned to walk away.
"I'm sorry. You deserved so much better than this. This is all I have to offer. This is the best I could manage. Please forgive me."
The doctor walked away. SCP-1041 tried shouting curses after the weak little collaborator. Something stopped her words in her throat. Her hatred was ebbing and flowing somehow; for the first time since she was a little girl, she felt fear creep in around her consuming wrath, only to be replaced in a wave with seething hate, stronger for having been pushed back. She growled, the desire to hurt all of those around her possessing her, pulsing within her, animal savagery coursing throughout her mind before draining away again. In these brief moments of the absence of hate, she saw that the camera was now trained directly on her, technicians surrounding it, Chernikov and the bitch in the glasses at his side, observing, he with a self-satisfied smile, she with no expression at all. The thought occurred to her, seemingly from nowhere, that this must be what wolves feel like as they sit in the trap, waiting for the last shot to come from the hunter.
As the renewed hatred flowed back into her, twice as strong as before, the last words Svetlana heard and understood were those of Chernikov.
"Dr. Geissler, please begin the procedure."

« | Part Seven | Matryoshka | Part Nine | »


MR MONEY AND GIRL
The first thing that Latoya saw of this money man was a spray of diamonds firing out his nose as she was filing into the room. Black hair slicked back over his head and juxtaposed with the plain white robe he wore. Sweeping them to the floor, he began smiling when their eyes met.
"What's yer name, miss?"
She paused for a moment. "They said I have to say D-ninety-nine eighty-nine."
"Yeah, but what's your name?" He smiled at her, waving his hand to invite her to sit next to him on the table. Sitting by his side was a stool painted silver, with a small plush cushion resting upon the seat.
"My name's Latoya Spence." Squinting at the strange creature inviting her over, she tried to see if he had any more gems or sparkly things. "Why'd you have those in your nose, mister?"
The rich man shrugged. "It's what I'm here for, it's my namesake. I've got a lot bought and sold in my past, and I need money to do it."
Latoya frowned at him, crossing her arms as she stared into his smiling visage. "What's your name? Are you the one who…"
"Bought and sold, bought and sold. I tell ya, I know what it's like. That's my whole life, my sum of the existence, nutshelled for your enjoyment. Name's Mister Money."
"Did you buy… me here, or did someone buy you?"
Mr. Money shrugged, and a few emeralds began rolling out of his armpits and out his sleeves, clattering and clacking on the floor as they scattered across the room. "I'm the reason you got brought or bought here. Not directly, but you're here now, so this is a reason. Who might've gotten you sold to a place like this?"
Dropping her eyes to the table, a quiet voice said, "My parents."
"That's a shame. Big boon for the Foundation, though. It's a big, wide web of an institution that you guys are a part of."
"Are you saying this was a good thing?" Latoya looked up with daggers. "Nothing could be worse than this."
Surrendering with raised hands, Mr. Money began leaning back on his stool. "Oh, no, no, miss, I didn't mean it like that. I was just following the money. I don't know what they've told you, but it's probably nothing great."
Saying nothing, Latoya's eyes continued chopping into Money's mug. Sighing, he leaned forwards, clasping his hands together.
"You're going to have to learn the economy of this place if you want to make some kind of life. I can give you some words, if you want. I'm in here with you, you know. We're one and the same. Prisoners."
Mr. Money glanced over to the glass panel slated behind Latoya, and his own distorted reflection. The sheen of the light above covered his reflection's face. Looking up at him, she began slowly nodding. "I don't know anything. I don't know what I'm doing."
"You've got the most important thing down. You haven't gone to pieces. At least, I don't think you have. If you can keep that together, that's gonna be your most important asset."
"I don't know I don't like it." Harrumphing, and re-folding her arms, Latoya gave Mr. Money a resentful look. "I can't do anything about anything here."
"You have a few advantages, going into things."
"Like what?"
"Luckily, you're a little lady. Most of the feminine types here, in your line of work, they're the non-violent types. Low-income folks nobody was going to miss, people born in the wrong place at the wrong time, that sort of thing. People like you.
Now, a lot of the boys aren't like that. The dregs of society are a much larger percentage, thugs and prisoners. Be careful around them. The white coats do a pretty good about keeping things in line, but always be wary. It's not a safe place here."
Turning her head away, Latoya's voice grew quiet. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
"Oh…" Running his fingers through his hair, Mr. Money tried clearing his throat. "Well, perhaps I can engage in a bit of speculation?"
The doors opened, and two individuals, adorned with white coats and head-covering rubber masks, stepped in, gesturing towards Latoya. Looking back at Mr. Money for a moment, she hopped off the stool, and slowly began walking with her captors.
Walking down the hall, she strode forward with eyes closed. This wasn't an unfamiliar path anymore. It was her life. Someday she might be lucky enough to forget anything else.

AQUARIUM AND BOY
Tim felt the pride swelling in his chest as the gaze of his many loyal fish friends flowed over him. His adventure complete, the day saved. Many titles had been earned along the way, Lord of the Undercurrent, Master of the Great Tank, Circumventer of Bubbles and Defender of the Glass stood at the height of achievement. All around him, the court of the Gill Kingdom were standing and applauding him and his heroics.
Princess Fishsticks stood beside him, and next to them the Knights Coral and Carol, and finally the King Nematode, in all his glory. Not as much glory as that which Tim was nearly broadcasting to the universe, but he carried himself in his own way.
The sound of the proclamations still rang in the air. Rejoicing was at hand. The adventure to save the kingdom had come to a close.
In the hall, nobody was moving. They all stared, smiles fixed, watching and waiting as Tim beamed out at them all. King Nematode, clearing his throat, stood up from his throne. "As Tim has saved us from danger, we shall forever be grateful. It is, however time for him to return to his home."
The word 'return' echoed in Tim's mind. That could not happen. This was such a wonderful place, to swim and be free from any constraints. The creatures he had met here had taught him so much. How to swim, how to fight, who lives, who dies, who tells your story… Clearing his own throat, Tim spoke out in his clearest tone.
"I can't possibly. There's still so much to do here, your fishiness. Fixing the filter, defeating the dastardly Beta Battlers of the Bottle Filter Fortress…"
Shaking his head, the King tapped a green trident on the floor. The audience began filing out at once, slipping through the gates to the great hall and out of sight. "You have already saved us from great crisis, son. Crawdad Steve has been reduced to a shell of his former self, and we have you to thank for that. But now we must take matters into our own hands."
Raising a hand to speak, Tim felt the webbed hand of the princess on his shoulder. "It is for the best, Ser Tim-Tim. You have much to return to."
Tim shook his head, sinking slowly to the floor. "No, no. I can't. I've hardly begun to live a life…"
The hall was empty now, of all friends and allies. All those smiling fishy faces departed, leaving only bubbles and the gentle current of their wake.
Sitting down next to Tim, King Nematode extending an arm around his shoulder. "Do not forsake your world for ours, there is much more for you there than there is here."
Tim wasn't looking at him. "There's nothing for me up there."
"There's nothing for you down here, either. We're done playing, Tim. It's time to go home."
Pushing back tears, waiting for just a moment too long, Tim looked up to the King's face and saw empty space. The majesty of the room had disappeared, on the floor the words 'THANK YOU FOR ENJOYING THE AMAZE-O DIVE TANK - DR. W' burned in the floor for a moment.
Sitting alone, Tim wept into the ether of water. Gurgling draining was pulling at his body, pushing him upwards. Resisting was futile, and Tim allowed himself to surrender to the pulling force of reality.
Fuzzy whiteness blinded Tim for just a moment. The sound of the machines faded back in, and he felt the shallow wetness of the tank. Back in the testing chamber, neck-deep in a glass fishtank. Two masked technicians, in baggy white jumpsuits, lifted him out, and gently placed him back in his chair. The letters and digits D, seven, one, four, four floated through his brain.
Tim closed his eyes and when he opened them again, the orange jumpsuit was back. The numbness, all over, was back. Twisting his neck, his eyes drifted past the technicians strapping him back into the mechanical contraption that served as his bodily prosthetic. Coming to land on the fish tank, he watched as blurry shapes flitted in and out of his vision.
They pushed him out and they were gone.

ROBO-DUDE AND INFANT
David wasn't happy from the moment his swaying, crying form had been plopped upon the playhouse floor. Robo-Dude stood watching, as apprehensively as a robot could muster. Wailing and weeping, David slapped his hands on the floor and was throwing his toys in vain.
Taking a few steps towards the boy, Robo-Dude looked up with his cubical metal face.
"ROBO-DUDE GREETS YOU, HUMAN CHILD."
Almost instantly, David was scrabbling away from the noise. If it were possible, his weeping even intensified. This went on for quite some time, with David flapping around carrying on and making a scene. Robo-Dude stood patiently. Repeating the words he had said, more and more quietly, until it was hardly more than a whisper.
Screaming turned to hiccuping, and from there, quiet curling and crying. Robo-Dude watched, quietly and repeatedly introducing himself in close proximity to the child. Standing watch, the bot toy watched as David finally closed his eyes, and slept.
Dimming lights signaled a nap time, and for a few hours, the only noise in the chamber was the bare whispering of Robo-Dude's voice box. Finally, David's eyes cracked open again. The calm, monotonous repetition of infinite introductions got his attention, David began watching.
Seeing his audience's attention, Robo-Dude began acting at once. "GREETINGS HUMAN CHILD. ROBO-DUDE IS HERE TO BE YOUR FUN-TIME BUDDY. ROBO-DUDE WILL NEVER BETRAY YOU, AND HAS BUBBLES."
Bubbles began billowing out from the robot's chest. Eyes opening wide as walruses, David sat up, watching the bubbles float lazily past his face. Sitting for a few minutes, David looked as stunned as any infantile person might be seeing such a scene. One bubble ambled its way to his face, and came to rest on his nose. Slapping it with his hand, David was delighted to find it popped, and he quickly began making short work of the other bubbles.
Bubbling with joy, David was laughing. Laughing and playing, sitting in place, sticking close to the Robo-Dude. Eventually, all good things come to an end. White coats with black goggles came for him, picking the baby up and out. David's whining echoed down the hall, as Robo-Dude watched him go.

MR. LAUGH AND GIRL
I hadn't popped my limbs off in awhile, so waking up with sore joints is always a fun way to start the day. Rubbing my elbows and knees, I thought about what might be tested on me while waiting for Foundation handlers to come and collect me. They hadn't scheduled a new slough of tests for awhile, hopefully they've got something new.
Once you've seen one of the kids the Foundation brings in, you know them all. My eyes started stinging as light beamed in from the now-open door. A nurse, wearing a bright pink apron and an air-raid mask, is bringing me tea. I take a deep sip, and wipe my mouth. It's time to go.
Whenever I'm walking through the halls of the Foundation, I always feel like I'm backstage somewhere. I don't know why, never even been to a concert much less get a backstage pass, but I guess they stuck the feeling in there somewhere. Part of the cobbled concoction that is me.
Two sterile gray chairs, with a glass table standing in the middle. No guards in the room today. My joints twinge with pain as I sit down, but with some grimacing, it's bearable. Rubbing my wrists, I begin preparing myself to get this over with. Two deep breaths, close eyes, heads up.
Opening my eyes, I see a kid sitting across from me. Young, with smooth dark skin and black freckles running across her face. There's a hawkish intensity to her eyes, an unusual fierceness for a kid. Reminds me of when I used to try and make Mr. Mad chuckle. Not smart.
"Hey there, sport. I'm Mr. Laugh."
Nothing. Squat. I try to look at her mouth, looking to convince myself she's stifling a giggle. Her expression is derelict of laughter.
"You're not much of a laugher, huh?" Glancing down, I feel my mouth dry up. One of the kid's legs ends halfway down her thigh. It's red, scraped and irritated. A black knob of her body's creation protrudes at the tip. Maybe bone. It looks painful.
Looking up at me, she squeaks. "I don't laugh."
"Well, if you're going to be living around here, you should take it when you can get it. Nothing's much less amusing than ending up in one of their room's that's like a permanent dunk tank, y'know?
Slowly shaking their head, those hawk eyes zeroed in on my own. "When I was a child, my home was attacked in the war. They shot my father, and as I held his head, he said to me 'I'll always be here.'"
"Jesus." I leaned back in my chair, looking the kid over. Her breathing had quickened, and under the table her hands were curling into fists.
"That was when he died. After that, it's not funny anymore."
Leaning back over the table, I look her in the eyes. "Listen. I don't know how you got here, but I know how it is. Not having parents. Being alone. I was made, not born."
Her face was painting me a picture of disinterest. I'd have to reach into my guts to find a way to reach this kid.
"So, when I was first made, by a Doctor, a bad Doctor, he set me up in a parking lot two weeks late for the circus."
Checking on my audience, she was at least looking at me now. "So, I'm looking around, and the first thing I see is a leg. Just some guy's leg, but not a guy's leg, laying in the middle of a parking spot. Perfectly squared with the lines, right dead-center smack in the middle of the space. Like someone stuck it there just for me."
That got her interest piqued. Looking over at me, I could feel the touch of her eyes on me before seeing them. "I didn't know what to do with it. First thing I did, tried to find a hospital. Only problem with that, is I go in and they tell me they're not taking donations. I tried to explain, but they just laughed, and laughed…. sent me on my way."
Curiosity was overtaking her disinterest by storm. I'd have to come up with a point to all this soon. "I went to the police, maybe thinking they could help me out, but they think it's a gag. I guess that's what you get when someone lets you go on April Fools day. The sergeant at the desk was more concerned with his donuts than me, and let me ramble on and wave this leg around until his laughing knocked over his coffee. They kicked me out after that."
Interest was waning. Now or never, it was time for the kill.
"Eventually, I got picked up by these spooks, and they brought me here. Meanwhile, I've still got this leg, with no clue what to do with it. "
Breathing in deeply, I reached down, firmly grasping my leg. With a hollow popping noise, I detached it, and placed it on the table. Skeptically and tentatively reaching out, her hesitation quickly turned to joy as my plastic-esque leg shrunk from adult recluse size to kid-sized. It was pink. It was meant for her.
Winking at her, I have a sly grin on my face. "Maybe you can help me out?"
Cue gasping, her grin shattered the practiced mask of her face. Pushing out of the chair, she ran out into the hall behind her, yelling "Look! Look!" They don't care, but that doesn't matter. She thinks they might, and that brings a smile to her face. I couldn't make her laugh but, looking down to my new stump, I think a smile was enough.


“Next number, please,” the voice behind the speakers droned.
D-24461 leaned heavily on the stark steel table, staring at the black rotary phone before her. She looked up at the empty room, towards the wall where, she assumed, the Foundation researchers were cataloguing her answers. “Where were we at again?”
There was a pause, and she could hear typing faintly over the speakers. “222-3381, I think,” came the response. D-24461 had never met the voice that gave her orders from over the speakers, but she could easily picture him based on the voice. Early thirties, no taller than five-six, skinny and pale from years in front of computers. D-24461 sighed and stuck her tanned finger into the phone's dial. “You'd better be right,” she said. “Last one tasted like spoiled milk.” The phone somehow put a different taste in her mouth with each number she dialed. As D-24461 let go of the last digit, the taste of sour milk filled her mouth again, and she leapt up from her seat, throwing the receiver from her hand. It bounced limply at the end of its cord.
“Fucking hell,” D-24461 said, trying to spit out the taste. It didn't help any; it wasn't technically real. Thankfully, it dissipated after about ten seconds, like the rest.
“Spoiled milk again?”
“What do you think, asshole?” D-24461 sat back down, rubbing her temples. “Next time, make sure you write down your results.”
“Of course. 222-3382, then.”
D-24461 sighed, then dialed the number. Sourness struck the sides of her tongue, and she couldn't help but pucker at the sensation. “Oh, man, that's just straight lemon.”

“Next number.”
D-24461 dialed. 222-3611. She quickly started coughing. “Pepper. Lots of pepper.” The room was silent save for her coughing as the researcher behind the wall waited for the standard ten seconds to pass.
“Next number.”
She dialed. The taste of tart fruit filled her mouth. “Apples, definitely.”
“We already have apples. Could you be more specific?”
“This one's more sour, so probably green apples?”
“Thank you. Next number.”
She dialed again. “Ugh. I think it's wood.” She considered the flavor for a moment. “Wait, I recognize that from barbecues as a kid. Hickory, I think.”
“Interesting. Next number, please.”
“Look, can't we take a break, man?” D-24461 stood up, staring at the small camera mounted in the corner of the room. “We've been at this for three hours already! Not to mention every day for the last two months.”
“We really should keep going,” the voice on the speaker said.
“Fuck that. I just need five minutes where I'm not tasting something crazy. Give me that, at least.”
“…All right, fine. Let me know when you're ready.”
D-24461 sat on the corner of the table, arms crossed and eyes closed. “You're not gonna call security on me?”
The voice behind the speaker scoffed. “We don't have the manpower to call security for every insubordination.” He paused. “Besides, I get it.”
D-24461 stood back up, still angry. “What do you get, exactly? You're not the one down here playing Dial-a-Flavor on this stupid phone a thousand times.” D-24461 stared at the camera, wishing she could look him in the face instead.
“You've been doing that for a couple months, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I've been cataloguing the results for three years now.”
“Oh.” She sat back down on the table slowly. “That sucks.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of them spoke. D-24461 broke the silence. “What's your name, guy?”
“My name? I really shouldn't be telling you that.”
“What, like that's gonna hurt your precious data if I know your name?”
“Well, no. But-“
“But what? Come on, I'll start. I'm Francesca, but everyone calls me Frankie.”
“Alright, alright. I'm, uh, Jonah.”
“Jonah?” Frankie, D-24461, laughed. “What a white kid name. So what's your whale, Jonah? What are you hunting?”
“Jonah wasn't hunting a whale. God sent it to swallow him up to teach him a lesson.”
“Huh, really? Who am I thinking of, then?”
“Ahab, probably. Moby Dick.”
“Right, right. I never paid much attention in Sunday school. Or English class.” She frowned. “Well, what lesson are you getting taught, then?”
“I wish I knew,” Jonah said. “But it sure feels like I'm in the belly of the beast now.”
“You and me both, man.”
They were silent for another minute. This time, Jonah was the one who spoke.
“So, uh, I hope you don't mind me asking, but how did you end up here?”
“What, like testing this crap? One of you people told me I could do five years here instead of twenty in the clink. Who'd pass up that?”
“Wait, twenty?” Jonah sounded incredulous. “You weren't on death row?”
Frankie put her hands on her hips. “Hell no! What do you think I did?”
Jonah hesitated. “I'm not sure. The higher-ups always told us that the D-Classes were all murderers, or worse.”
Frankie laughed, a wild, raucous laugh of disbelief. “No way, man. I've never even held a gun. My man used to rob banks with his crew, and I was their getaway driver. Only reason I got thrown in jail as long as I did was because some idiot cop jumped in front of the van trying to stop us. Charged me with attempted murder of an officer. Can you believe that?”
Jonah laughed nervously along with her. “I guess not. But what's going to happen to you once you've done your five years?”
“The spook that came to see me in jail just said they'd let me go.”
“I suppose they could. They'll probably dose you with amnestics first though.”
“Dose me with what now?”
The speaker screeched, and Frankie winced. Jonah must have knocked the mike over. There was a soft thump as it was put back into place. “I shouldn't have mentioned that.” He was silent for a moment. “Oh, fine. If I'm going to get in trouble for chatting with the D-Class, it doesn't make much difference. So, uh, amnestics. They're memory-altering drugs. Don't know too much about them, but they ought to be able to wipe the whole time that you're here.”
“Now that's some fancy shit,” Frankie said. “Shame though. Would've liked to tell my mom that I met someone in jail that wasn't a complete asshole.” Jonah didn't answer. “I'm talking about you, whale-boy.”
“Oh! Oh. Thanks,” Jonah murmured.
“You're welcome. Now, since you asked me, I get to ask you: How'd you end up with a shitheap job like this?”
“Not sure. The Foundation recruited me straight out of my master's and said that they were going to start me on some simple anomalous objects before upgrading my security clearance and putting me on a research team. Three years later, here I am, still doing the same thing.”
“That really sucks, man. Doesn't matter how secret the company, bosses just don't want to give raises. I bet the bosses here are loaded, though”
“Maybe,” Jonah said. “They're pretty secretive. Most people don't even know who they really are.”
“Yeah? That's wild. But I guess that's what secret groups like you do.”
“I guess it is.”
Another pause, but this one was less tense, a natural pause in conversation. Frankie clapped her hands once, then sat back in the chair and picked up the receiver. “Alright, I'm ready to go at this thing again. Where were we?”
Jonah clattered back to his computer. Frankie chuckled. “Um, we're on 222-3613.”
Frankie dialed the number. “Jonah,” she sung, mocking, but no longer angry. “That's the wood again. Get your shit together.”
“Shit, sorry.”
“Ha! The white boy can swear. Alright, 3614, then?” She dialed again. “Oh, man, that one's a burger! Finally a good one. Hold on, let me dial that a couple more times.”
They strove on, dialing number after number. It wasn't any less tedious, but perhaps, somehow, it was just a little bit better.


It was a gloomy day at Site-19.
“They just cut our funding again,” Dr. Bergstrom said, speaking around a mouthful of Salisbury steak. “I'm down to two assistants.”
“I hear you, man,” Agent Rourke said with a sigh. “My team's getting evaluated by Director Daniels tomorrow. I just know he's gonna disband us. I'll probably end up working a fucking desk job.”
Dr. Wynne, carrying a tray of food, came over and sat down at their cafeteria table.
“This fucking place,” she spat. “They just told us they're gonna be transferring half the staff in our department to other Sites. Said they're trying to ‘trim the fat'. I swear, I'm in the wrong business. I bet GOC scientists don't have to put up with this kind of shit."
Dr. Bergstrom shook his head. “Yeah, working for the Foundation really isn't what it used to be. Did I tell you they even took away our entire D-class allowance? We're having to test anomalies on animals now!”
“Same here,” Agent Rourke said. “We used to get ‘em for use in high-risk explorations, but then they just stopped sending them over.”
Dr. Wynne nodded. “Us too. Apparently it's like that everywhere, not just Site-19. They're saying we're gonna have to make do without D-class from now on.”
“Huh,” Dr. Bergstrom said, frowning. “I wonder what that's about.”
“Who knows?” Agent Rourke said with a shrug.
For a while the three of them ate in silence.
"Well, at least meat's back on the menu," Dr. Bergstrom said at last.


The following tale is based on SCP-2150. Reading the article is not required, but if you wish to do so, the link is here
"Hey, did you hear about what happened to the guy at the far end of our block?"
"No."
It's about 3 weeks into my focus group. A few more months and I'll be out of here a free man. My experience at the site is decent so far. Some of people I have to deal with are a pain, but hey, free money.
The surrounding cafeteria would be dead, if it isn't for my roommate, Doug. Everyone around us is either whispering or idly picking their food. Guards are sprinkled around the perimeter. I try to chow on my slop and meatloaf as loudly as possible to drown out yet another conspiracy theory. It's mostly an uneventful day, until Doug says something.
"Mark, you never listen to me."
"Jon."
"See, this is what I'm talking about. And for the longest time, your name has been Mark, not Jon."
"You sure about that?"
"I may get things wrong, but people's names is not one of them."
"Whatever." I mumble between bites.
"Anyways," I say, "what did they have you do yesterday?"
"Not much. They're interviewing some of the participants for a specific study."
"Yeah, that's a bit odd. You'd figure they would clump us into these studies when we got here. I don't understand why we have to jump through so many hoops."
"Maybe because we're —"
"Don't."
"Right. From what the researcher told me, they're testing the effects of a new drug and the lucky winners get transferred to another site."
"Did they say where?"
"Somewhere in Idaho. And what about you?"
"Same stuff as before. Scrolling through a website to see how it affects me."
"You never told me what you look at."
"There's a reason why. A lot of that shit's gruesome."
"And they're having you look at this for …"
"Apparently to see if my psyche changes. So far I'm okay."
"I hope so, Mark."
"Jon."
"No, I'm certain it's—"
A nasally voice projects itself through the loudspeaker in the cafeteria.
"Attention participants D-93731 through D-93750. Please report to room DR 502. You will be screened to determine if you are eligible for a study located in another facility. Please report now."
"Shit. That's the same thing you went through yesterday."
"Yeah. They just ask you some questions. No big deal."
"Sounds pretty light. Well, see ya."
"Bye, Mark."
What is up with Doug calling me Mark today? Is he trying to pull a joke on me?

It's a horrifying sight to behold. As I sit in the chopper that carries me away, Site-132 is engulfed in chaos and flames. There's no dangerous monster or temporal rift causing the devastation. It's people, pitted against one another. We would laugh too, if it isn't for the Security Guards and pilot accompanying us.
"Where are we going now?" I yell over the roaring blades.
"We're going to a provisional site located not too far from here." answered one of the guards.
Hours ago, Doug and I planned the ultimate escape:
"Excuse me, Mr. Mark ██████████." I said to the unsuspecting researcher.
He looked at both of us with befuddlement, before musing:
" Ah, hello. What's up, Mark?"
"Nothing much. Listen, Mark and I are in a bit of a bind here. You see, we lost the keys to that big metal door over there and we kinda need to get through so we can work on the very, very important project. You know the one."
It felt strange calling Doug "Mark", but whatever it takes, right?
"Yeah, of course. You can use my key, Mark. But a question. How come both of you are in that D-Class garb?"
Doug and I were stunned momentarily before Doug chimed in and said:
"Laundry. Don't ask."
The researcher peered at us, then the attire, then back at us. All of us stood in silence while the researcher's smile slowly inched on his face.
"I can remember when I had to wear gray. Laundry sure is a bore."
We knew this would happen because we experimented with the meme on an unsuspecting D-Class before. It was a normal day at the cafeteria. I approached a cute young blonde and told her my name, The anomalous one, that is. And within seconds her eyes lit up. And after that encounter, a few things happened:
1) A girl was convinced she had a man's name
2) She suddenly had the same memories as I had
3) And I had the same memories as her
As you can imagine, Doug and I were ecstatic. This "meme", as the higher ups like to call it, is potent. We can use the memories of an unspectacular victim, replace some of them with our own, and wipe away the rest. I could go into further detail as to how we do this, but that'll take forever.
After we became personnel, I worked on moving myself up to their highest chain, the Site Director. I forged a document under the Site Director's name, but replaced it with my own. From there, the Director would be convinced that I am actually the Site Director and I can use my newfound power to resign Doug and I.
When we used the meme to plan our escape, however, something unexpected happened:
"Okay, so we can agree on the fact that this Mark, being I, is indeed the Site Director." I said to the actual Site Director.
"Yeah, no." scowled the Director. "You're not taking the position that easily, Mark. You and I both know you're using our name so you can escape this site."
"No, you're wrong. Remember that we both share the memory that I am the Site Director, and that you are not. I have D— err, Mark over here who can attest to that."
"And I have the rest of the Site who can attest to me being in charge."
The Director pressed a button located under his desk. Two guards stepped into the office shortly after.
"Gentlemen, I want you to expose this man. Expose the fraud that is Mark ████████. Let everyone know how much of scoundrel he is and that I will always be the one in charge, not him."
If I attempt the same thing at this provisional site, it will be no use; I'll be moved again. This makes me believe that there is a title beyond Site Director. There has to be a higher chain of command that I can use. One, so I can learn more about the suspicions Doug and I have about what this organization is about. And two, so I can finally be free.
One thing is bothering me, though.
"Where is Doug?" I say quietly.
The pilot turns his head to face me.

"D-93731, please report to the screening room."
"Well, that's me." I whisper to myself. I walk into the bright, industrial white room. Seated at one of the ends is a bright, cheery woman in a white labcoat.
"Please, take a seat."
I sit on the chair.
"Hi. You must be D-93731. Pleased to meet you."
"Same to you."
The woman pulls out a clipboard and glances at it before returning to me.
"Now, according to the records I have here …"
She glares back at the clipboard, for just a moment too long. Almost as if she just discovered the answer to life. She smiles.
"Ah. Your name must be Mark —"
Are you kidding me?
"Jon. Jonathan Bicks."
"Not according to the file I have here. It's funny too, because I have the same name."
"Not at all. Your name tag clearly says 'Maria Gomez'."
The woman glances at her name tag in confusion.
"Oh, that. That must be a mistake. My name is—"
A group of burly guards burst into the room. The researcher and I are immediately separated from one another. What the hell is going on? And why did she call me the same name my roommate called me?
Moments later, I was thrown into another room. It was made like a doctor's office. It had a bench, and a bunch of cabinets with what I assume are drugs. In the room is another woman in a lab-coat and one of the guards.
"What's the issue?" asked the doctor.
"Amnestic treatment. Several personnel were exposed to a dangerous meme, including one of our researchers and several of the guards." replies the guard.
"Which anomaly?"
The guard whispers into the doctor's ear. Her eyes grow wide with terror.
"Everyone present will have to undergo amnestic treatment."
"Understood."
The guard walks out of the room. "Hey, what the hell is going on?" I exclaim.
The doctor doesn't reply. She reaches for the cabinet to grab several items.
"I'm talking to you. Answer me!"
She pulls out a vial, a needle, and puts on ear plugs.
"You're gonna fucking ignore me?"
"You have been infected with a lethal anomaly. I cannot hear you, for risk of infection via word of mouth."
The doctor prepares the needle. And shit, do I hate needles.
"You'll be subject to amnestic treatment and shock therapy. The whole process shouldn't take more than a couple days to take effect. You have nothing to worry about. Please, stick out your arm."
As the lady swabs my arm, my mind begins to race. All of this happened so fast. One moment, I'm talking to a researcher. The next, I'm getting pricked by a needle. Maybe Doug was on to something after all. Maybe this whole Mark thing is part of a conspiracy for them to—
I feel the cold metal dive into my flesh. A moment later, my body goes numb. And a moment after that, I black out.

My hand is shaking as I struggle to finish typing the rest of my resignation letter. So much has happened these past weeks and months. And so much has been seen that I was likely never meant to see.
I remember the journey I took. How I started as a lowly D-Class, and now how I've become the highest chain of command in this organization. Would they find out? I hope not.
After my escape from Site-132, I used my name at the provisional site to convince some personnel to spill info on what this organization is:
"Hey Mark, how's it going?" I said.
"Pretty good, Mark. What's up?" replied the unsuspecting personnel.
"I need a huge favor from you. Even though we're both the same person, for some reason, that retina scanner doesn't recognize me. It only recognizes you. I need to access that room so I can have access to the files in there. Can you help me out?"
"Wait, why? Come on Mark, you don't even have the clearance to access that room."
"Of course I do. I have Level 4 Clearance, remember?"
"Not according to the card I have here." the man said as he patted his pants pocket. "I have provisional Level 5 clearance."
After learning about a higher clearance level, I had to figure out how to get it. I immediately emailed Doug, my pal who helped me escape from Site-132. He told me the details of members with Level 5 Clearance, the O5 Council, and how I could join. But he warned me.

Mark. I know in these weeks we've both been adamant about finding the truth. But if you wish to partake in this, I need to remind you that this position is no joke. If you do join, you will likely never be the same man again. I believe that you'll find terrors worse than the old myth I told you back at Site-132. Way worse. And even if it's not too bad, these people, way way at the top, will know you infiltrated them. It's the ultimate risk, Mark, but I trust it's a risk worth taking. Best of luck,
Doug.

I wish I listened to him.

I wake up back in my room. The room is a simple space fitted with two beds on either side, an enclosed toilet, a sink, and a table. I see my roommate, a slightly overweight and balding man staring at me intently.
"Morning. See you've had a good rest."
I can still feel the pain on my arm from the needle. And unlike last time, my mind is drawing blanks.
"I'm surprised they let you back in this cell with me. Mind telling me what happened?"
A cell? Here he goes again. I have a hard time trying to form an answer.
"It seems like I was taken away. I did the thing you did. And then suddenly I'm detained and a doctor injects my arm. And now I'm here."
"Hmm. I figured something like that happened. I saw them let the other guys go early."
"And the doctor who injected me said I was infected with something. It's supposed to be lethal."
"Do you remember any other details?"
"Yeah. I do remember one thing. And it was bugging me the whole time."
Doug leans in.
"The woman who interviewed me. She called me Mark, like you did."
"Well, that's your name. It's how I've always known you."
"It's obviously not."
"But it is."
"Okay. Okay. Umm … Oh, right! The even weirder thing. The weirder thing was that she called herself Mark, too."
Doug appears pleasantly surprised. He switches back and forth between intense thought and almost opening his mouth.
"Doug, do you know something I don't?"
"Well, not much more than you. At least with this. But I think we might have something here."
"What do you mean?"
"Think hard. Did you overhear anything else about the infection? Like, did it have a name?"
"They called it … a meme."
"Oh. Then that changes a lot of things."
"Yeah, but what is a meme?"
"Weren't you testing a website with a meme?"
"Yeah, but I never really bothered to ask questions. I just assumed they meant images like the ones the kids look at on the internet … Wait, hold on a sec. Why does this even matter? I should have the thing cured by now anyway."
"Mark. You have so much to learn."
"Doug. I don't understand you. All these weeks, you've been insisting that this isn't a focus group. That we're been stuck here without our free will. And only recently you've been calling me Mark, and not Jon."
"Take a good look around you. Does this look like a room fitted for a focus group?"
The room is a small space fitted with two mattresses on either side, a malfunctioning toilet, a rusted sink, and a creaky table.
"Oh god. Oh my god. How long has it been like this?"
"Since the day you walked in, Mark."
I look down at our attire. We both sport gray jumpsuits, with our number designation stamped on the back. Doug's has a small grease stain, while mine has a tear on the arm cuff.
"But …"
Doug is almost on the verge of tears.
"Finally. You've seen it."
"So does this mean what you've been saying is true?"
"Well, most of it. But first, do you have any idea how liberating this is? To finally have someone to see what you've been seeing?"
"Sure. But let's get back on track. Let's figure out what happened to me."
And let's learn about what a meme is.

Thirteen members sat in a semi-circle inside a well-lit room. The air is tense, and several of the members are talking to one another.
In recent weeks, the members have monitored the progress of a growing anomaly. The newly designated SCP-2150 was unlike any memetic anomaly seen before. It spreads fast, far, and there is no way to know if someone is infected without getting infected yourself. The former O5 member is on the run. Naturally, nobody knows the real name of this man, barring one person.
A man in a gray suit and hat stands up to break the chatter.
"The results are in."
The other twelve members look at the man, the newest member of the O5.
"I have been keeping the closest eye on the spread of SCP-2150. This has been the largest scale memetic test to date. And so far, we've failed. Let's pray that an anomaly like this never strikes, for the Foundation we be over as we know it.
So let this be a wake-up call, Council. That our greatest weakness right now is memetics. The current methods we use to combat them aren't enough to slow them down. I've seen it with my own eyes. It's costing us money, but it's clearly gonna cost lives, too.
I will send someone to deal with the anomaly, since I am partially responsible for it. The man you are looking for is Jonathan Bicks. That is his real name, non memetic. He was the one chosen for the test and he has worked wonders with the anomaly. The paperwork is handled, as well as alternative documentation for lower clearances should they decide to snoop around. This also includes faking Level 5 clearance documents.
Now as for the results, our first step is to find a suitable replacement for Class-F amnestics. As a short term solution, they are effective. But long term use doesn't work, as seen with our subject, D-93731 … "

"Okay, so amnestics are …"
"Basically amnesia drugs. It makes you forget things. It's how they keep us here."
"And you know this because …"
"I've been here long enough to know how things operate. You overhear things."
"Right. But if that's the case, how come you and I are the only ones who are awake here?"
"I've thought about that too. But I've learned that it's because we're lucky. We're lucky because we're immune to them."
"Immune … to the drugs?"
"Yes. Like any drug, repeated use leads to tolerance. And with enough tolerance comes …"
"Immunity."
"Bingo. But we've got to keep this immunity a secret. If word gets out that we're immune, we'll be goners."
"Like what happened to that guy at the far end?"
"See, now you're thinking!" Doug laughs.
"Okay, so returning to the meme."
"Yeah, the meme. If what you told me is right, then there's a good chance the meme might still be residing with you."
"The meme being?"
My roommate again switches between intense thought and almost speaking before giving an answer.
"Your name."
"The name Mark."
"That's the one. Hot damn, do you know what this means?"
"What?"
"You have the power to bring down this entire site. Or better yet."
Doug's eyes light up.
"We can escape."
My mouth is agape. Escape the site? How?
"Wait, but you're infected too, Doug. In fact, you were the first person to even call me Mark. My name is Jon Bicks."
"Well, regardless if I'm infected or not, we're still getting out of here. But assuming if I am, it's best that we use the name you just said."
"Mark."
"Jon. It's a perfect cover. If we use that, no one will know either of us are infected."
"It's kind of scary, knowing all I have to do is speak my name and someone gets infected."
"Yeah. But it's important we use it to escape, and nothing else."
The echo of footsteps and jingling keys can be heard down the hallway.
"How are we gonna do it?"
"Don't worry, we'll find a way. And they won't even know."
Doug and I shake hands and smile, as we begin to plan our escape from Site-132.

Doug and I glare at one another, as I begin to plan my escape out of the room. How could he do this to me?
After becoming a member of the O5 Council, I learned of the Foundation: an organization dedicated to keeping the world safe from the anomalous. It's hard to imagine how only months ago my world was limited to a focus group. But above knowledge, the one thing I want more than anything else is freedom. And now Doug, the one man who granted freedom, vows to take it away from me.
"Jon. I know what you're thinking. You think you want freedom, which you do. But unfortunately, I can't let you have that. You'll use the meme you have to convince the world that anomalies do not exist. It'll leave everyone exposed to the true horrors of this world, while at the same time stealing the identity of everyone. Everybody will become a nobody. And that's 7.4 billion nobodies too many."
"What are you talking about? First of all, my name is not Jon. It's always been Mark. And second of all, Doug, that won't happen. How are you always so certain of what's gonna happen, huh? What other shit do you know that I'm not aware of, Mr. Backstabber?"
"Oh, the infection is getting nasty on you, Jon. I am so sorry you were subjected to this. But if you wanna know, I'll tell you. Because right after this, you will go back to being a D-Class at Site-132."
I race towards the door, but to my dismay, the doorknob has disappeared.
"I am not Doug. In fact, Doug has never even existed, as you know him."
"No. I'm looking at him right now. A lil' fat and balding man. That's how I know."
"Look again, Jon."
Upon closer inspection, I am staring at a man in a gray suit and hat. I can't tell if he's fat, or slim, nor can I tell how much hair he has. Who is he?
"Who are you?"
"I'm a representative of the O5 Council, and we have been monitoring your usage of the SCP-2150 meme."
"What? But I escaped the site with you. We both did."
"It does not matter. Jon, in a matter of moments, you will return to Site-132. You have been a great test subject. In fact, the greatest D-Class that I, and the Council have seen."
I feel another pain in my arm, and soon I go numb. As I fade into black, the man speaks once more.
"Farewell, Jonathan Bicks."

It's about 3 weeks into my focus group. A few more months and I'll be out of here a free man. My experience at the site is decent so far. I have a nice room with two beds, an enclosed toilet, a sink, and a table. I have a roommate, Doug, who is slightly overweight and balding. He is quite a friendly guy, and pretty knowledgeable on what goes on around here. Sometimes I feel that he knows something I don't. It ticks me off.
But hey, free money.


The old man was propped up in the corner, some surplus Red Army blankets hastily bunched up to provide both warmth and stability for the frail humanoid. He peered out from beneath his hat with unseeing eyes, ever-present smile lurking among the shadows of the cellar they all huddled in now. In the corner, for the first time since arriving in Poland, he was quiet. Thick, black mucous slowly began to well out of his tear ducts. Two filament-thin lines of viscous, dark liquid trailed upwards, through his wispy eyebrows and up over his forehead. Slowly.
Juhasz continued to dab at his shirt with a rag. The blood had come out of his mustache, at least. Spinella cinched his belt around Stillwell's shoulder, the makeshift sling holding up his bandaged wrist. Stillwell grimaced, the dull pain setting in as the adrenaline wore off. He warily eyed the steel door.
"I feel like we're back where we started." Coogan was pacing the small confines of the room.
"Nonsense. Now Spinella is in the tight, confined room with us." Juhasz tossed the rag away. Most of the blood was off him, anyhow. "Four is better than three."
"And I really appreciate that, by the way. So now that we've bandaged ourselves up, what's the plan?" The doctor fished his cigarette case out of his coat.
"We're not going anywhere for a while, that's for sure," said Stillwell. "Then again, this is a GRU-P safehouse. Or safe room, anyway. An operative could show up at any moment. So sheltering in place isn't a good idea, either."
Spinella exhaled a stream of blue smoke. "We're at least safe from the Red Army in here, right? Tell me that much at least."
"Oh, yes. GRU-P operates independently now from the Red Army central command. That's a fierce rivalry, that one. They say that Zhukov tried to have Zherdev arrested, back in '37." Juhasz was opening cabinets now as he spoke. "How they got Stalin to change his mind about allowing it, well. No one talked about that."
"Why are we still listening to him? For all we know he could be holding us here until GRU-P arrives to collect us." Coogan's pacing grew quicker, his frustration building.
Juhasz's attention remained in the supply cabinet as he rummaged. "Go ahead then, walk on out. I'll even let you take the rifle."
"He's just as screwed as we are if they show up, Coogan." Stillwell put his good hand on Coogan's shoulder. "We're in this together now, like it or not."
"I sure as hell don't like it." Spinella stubbed out his cigarette.
"That doesn't matter," said Stillwell. "Gripe about it when we get back."
"When we get back. Pretty optimistic, if you ask-"
Spinella was cut off by the sound of the vision slit in the iron door abruptly sliding open. A pair of pale blue eyes quickly scanned the room, and then the slit closed again.
"Shit!" Stillwell quickly barked out orders. "Coogan, Juhasz, grab whoever that was!"
The two men sprang for the door. Before they could reach it, the interloper calmly addressed them.
"I'm armed. I'll shoot anyone who opens that door. Just as you'll shoot me if I open it." The voice was a woman's, her English flawless. "We need to talk."
Juhasz and Coogan looked to Stillwell; he held up a hand to them. Cautiously, he stepped closer to the door, between the two men. "So let's talk. Who are you?"
Stillwell thought he heard the unseen woman move closer to the door herself. "I'm someone who knows where this room is. I'm someone who knows that you're not GRU-P operatives. And you know I'm not GRU-P either, since you're still alive."
Stillwell thought the response over. Coogan looked to him for what came next. Juhasz appeared to be searching his memory. Whoever she was, she had a point. If they had been found out by GRU-P, the last thing they would have seen would have been the door being blown.
"Suppose we know what GRU-P is." Stillwell edged closer still to the door, eyeing the handle. "Who says you're any better? Maybe you just want to lure us out."
"That may be," the woman responded. "But I've come from Site-7." She let the sentence hang for a moment. "And you're never going to get there without my help."
More sounds of shuffling from the other side of the door. She continued. "I'm putting my gun away. Now, if you open the porthole, you will see me with both my hands up, empty. Every moment I am out here, we all risk being discovered. Let me inside, and we can talk further."
Stillwell considered. He looked at Coogan; he was shaking his head. He looked at Juhasz; he merely looked back. Stillwell reached for the vision slit.
"No," Coogan whispered.
He was undeterred. Stillwell slid the vision slit open. He saw a woman in a winter coat, blond, hair pulled back. His age, possibly younger, her face inscrutable, the blue eyes meeting his unflinchingly. Her hands were in front of her, palms out, as promised.
They held each other's gaze, each taking the measure of the other. She could be any number of things, leading them into a trap, for God knows what reason or on whose behalf. He thought one more time about how they were going to get to Site-7. He scanned her face one more time.
"I'm going to open this door now. No one is going to make any sudden movements. You're going to walk inside, slowly. Whoever else is out there, if this is a trick, we'll make sure to take you with us."
Coogan's eyes went wide. He resumed shaking his head, furiously.
"I understand. Open the door when you're ready." The woman kept her hands visible. As she spoke, Stillwell noticed her teeth were made entirely out of steel.
Coogan had picked up the rifle as Stillwell had been talking. Stillwell signaled him now with a glance, and Coogan trained the gun on the door. He reached for the handle, and felt the heavy iron bolts in the door frame give way as he turned it. No turning back now. He slowly opened the door, the unoiled hinges squealing loudly.
The woman stood in the doorway. A briefcase was on the ground beside her. The hallway beyond her was empty. Stillwell waved his good hand at her, motioning for her to come inside. She slowly picked up the briefcase, and obliged, her steps measured as she moved to the corner of the room next to the door. Stillwell shut it quickly, then told Coogan to lower the rifle. After a few seconds of grudging acknowledgement, he obliged.
"Now we can have a real talk. Who are you?" Stillwell stood directly opposite her, about two paces away.
Juhasz moved next to Stillwell. "Judging by physical characteristics and what she knows, this must be Sergeant Ekaterina Nechayeva, of the KGB. Assigned to the Eleventh Directorate, that's the one that handles our sort of business, Sergeant?"
"Directorate K." Nechayeva looked over Juhasz. "And it looks like the rumors of a defection in Zherdev's ranks are true after all. I'm amazed the Foundation didn't execute you when you came back."
Juhasz smiled. "They likely will when they don't need me anymore. A better fate than the one that awaits all of us if GRU-P has their way."
"Wait. If she's KGB, what's keeping her from just telling GRU-P that we're here?" Coogan's rifle raised a little as he spoke.
"There's a war within the Soviet government right now," replied Juhasz. "The KGB is the only thing standing in the way of Stalin succeeding where Truman has failed. Something I'm sure you're not too keen on Koba finding out, Sergeant."
Nechayeva's eyes flashed momentarily, a ripple across her composed face, passing almost instantly. "Comrade Stalin has seen the results of our research. In time, the Politburo will remember why it has needed the Foundation in the past, once we have subdued GRU-P's madness."
Stillwell interjected. "Our research? So Site-7 has been compromised."
"Your research director, Dr. Geissler, had an arrangement with us. We have provided resources and shared data with the Foundation. The woman you know as SCP-1041 has assisted, when she's been able. The results, you should see for yourself."
Nechayeva lifted the briefcase. She offered it to Stillwell.
"You open it." Spinella eyed the briefcase warily.
"Of course," said Nechayeva. She pushed in the latches of the briefcase, opening it slowly, in full view of the room. Assorted documents were inside. Stillwell accepted the now-opened briefcase, quickly rifling through the information. He paused at several, reading over a lab report here and a schematic there. He closed the briefcase.
"I'd heard about research like this. The things that could be done with it." Stillwell handed the case to Spinella.
"This is what we could grab in the little time that we had," said Nechayeva. "I was supposed to extract SCP-1041. But your group showed up."
"That we did." Stillwell shrugged. "Where were you planning on taking her?"
"Somewhere safe," Nechayeva replied.
Stillwell paused. "If what's in these notes is true…"
"We can have faith that the research is legitimate," Juhasz interjected. "GRU-P would have liquidated the site entirely by now if there was nothing to it."
Stillwell nodded in agreement. "We need to get to the bottom of this. We've got to talk to 1041."
"That means getting her out of Site-7 alive," said Nechayeva. "A change of plans, I imagine."
"That's right." Stillwell acknowledged without hesitation. "Any ideas?"
The conversation was interrupted by Spinella suddenly cursing, shaking something off of his pant leg. The corner in which the old man had lay quietly, unnoticed in the commotion, was now enveloped in a spreading pool of thin, black sludge, flowing up walls and over the ceiling in direct defiance of gravity. It had just reached beyond the shadows, the black sheen encroaching on the room's scant lighting.
Spinella jerked away from the spreading black ooze, a hole burned through the leg of his trousers where the liquid had made contact. They could hear drywall crumbling and support beams groaning behind the old man now.
"What the hell is it doing?" Coogan pointed the rifle at the old man. The old man gazed back at the rifle with dead eyes, rictus grin plastered on its face, shining through the black liquid that was beginning to cover him.
"What these specimens always do, with enough time." Nechayeva calmly but firmly put a hand on Coogan's shoulder and pushed him aside. She reached into her coat and drew her pistol.
Stillwell's first instinct was to knock the gun from her hand. Something deeper than instinct stayed his good hand. He watched as she raised her weapon.
Nechayeva shot the old man through his left eye. The report of the pistol was deafening in the confines of the room; Stillwell felt like a hammer had been brought down right next to his ear. A thick gobbet of black sludge splattered against the wall directly behind the old man's head. He leaned forward slightly, coming to rest from the impact of the bullet in his skull. The shot left a wide, yawning, dark hole where his eye once was, framed by the unchanging grin. The flow of the liquid across the ceiling and the walls seemed to stop. The sounds of the walls continuing to give way did not.
Spinella was first to speak. "Finally, someone does something fucking sensible at last." He tucked a cigarette behind his ear.
Stillwell looked to Nechayeva. "Do you know how to get us into Site-7?"
She nodded, putting the pistol back in her coat.
"We can plan on the way there. Let's get out of here."
The team gathered up the stolen rifle and some meager stores of food and ammunition that had been left in the safe room. As they filed out, Stillwell took one last look into the corner. The black substance had not encroached any further. But he could no longer see the old man. There was no time to consider the implications. He closed the door behind him.

« | Part Six | Matryoshka | Part Eight | »