Many years ago, when she was a young Cyber Operations Specialist, the site where she stood had been alive, humming with the energy of a hundred servers, buzzing with activity as researchers hurried back and forth through the halls to their classified projects. The faint background noises of generators and servos gave the entire facility the feeling of a machine, no less efficient in its operation for its strangeness. As a nexus between the Foundation and the United States military, it had been invaluable. The electricity of the place seemed to infuse her. When Holman had approached her, had showed her the hidden madness of the real world and offered her a place in the true, secret struggle of their time, anything had been possible. Of course she had accepted the new life that beckoned her.
In the present day, the cold rangeland wind blew the tufts of grass that dotted the cracking concrete of what had once been the primary robotics facility. Changes in leadership and the budget cuts that had followed stripped away any hints of the former nature of this place. Within one hundred miles, there were vast stretches of bentgrass, a few white-tail deer, and herself. The lack of graffiti and trash at the abandoned site added a sense of eeriness to the desolation. She may have been the only person to visit since Fort Charles had been decommissioned. That this was the meeting place was an unmistakeable signal. Proof of knowledge, more convincing than any argument. And, she noted, more unnerving.
She stuffed the fear back down. Four years should have been enough time to move on from the breach at Site-64. She threw herself into other assignments, did her duty, earned recognition. But these things could not erase the wasted years of planning, the ruined careers around her, the humiliation and shame of being at the mercy of what she hunted. The lives ended. All of what she had, all of the successes in preserving the crumbling edifice of mankind's sanity, was tainted. The combined effort of the most sophisticated organization humanity had ever known, and she had been hopelessly outmatched. It was only a matter of time, really, before it happened again. Before something else shattered the thin veneer of control they lived with.
Anderson still haunted her. Every day.
She stepped into the abandoned concrete structure, as the encrypted e-mail had instructed. Unauthorized intervention in a matter deemed officially closed by Site Command could end her. The possibility that she would suddenly wake up in a new town, false memories of a plain, low-profile existence forcibly inserted through a tender spot in the back of her neck, was very real. The only communication she dared was one response to the initial e-mail, delivered from a public library while she wore a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses, any devices that could possibly be used to track her location three hundred miles away, left on her bedside table. If she did not walk away from this meeting, no one would know what became of her. And no one would be able to finish her work. All possibilities awaited in the darkness of the ruined laboratory.
I know how you get him. The words froze her as they appeared on her phone. They urged her forward. The words appeared in her mind periodically to drive off the thousand scenarios unfolding before her in which this went terribly wrong. She stepped completely into the darkness, the path before her lit with her small, head-mounted flashlight.
"I'm here," she called into the now empty chamber. She waited. A low, empty howl as the wind gusted past the entrance to the laboratory. The damp chill and the smell of musty concrete were the only reply to her call.
Suddenly an ear-splitting crack filled the room, the reverberating sound of metal hitting concrete as a vent grating fell from the ceiling. She looked up to see a mass of wires slowly trailing down from the ceiling vent, seeming to twist and move of their own accord as the larger mass lowered itself into the room. She drew her pistol in a quick motion, looking quickly for anything in the mass that looked like it might be vital.
The wires touched the floor. They seemed to stiffen and tense, anchoring into two points in the ground. A larger, central mass now lowered from the ceiling vent. It was shaped like a person. She aimed at where she thought the heart would be.
"Please put the gun down. There's no need for that." An older man's voice wafted down from the ceiling, as the mass of wires began to coalesce around where they had affixed on the floor. In seconds, they took the shape of legs as the rest of the man descended to stand in front of her. The pale skin, the white beard. Her pulse quickened. She raised the gun again.
"Albert Frostman. PoI number 45543. Also known as Phineas."
"Agent Merlo. Please put the gun down."
There were more lines in the old man's face this time around. More veins and capillaries showing through where her light shone on his skin. His hardware, however, looked much the same. If not upgraded. The faint sound of clicking metal came from where he stood as whatever it was that was inside him reset and reconfigured after his descent from the air vent. Beads of sweat started to run down her spine.
"You killed two Agents. Your group has killed a lot more."
Phineas sighed. It sounded like air rushing through a heating duct. "Your people spent years flaying one of ours alive. These grievances are pointless. I didn't come here to kill you, and you're familiar enough to know that if I had, you wouldn't have stood a chance."
Merlo knew this to be true. Of course it was true. None of that changed how dangerous this man was. She held the gun steady. "How can I be certain?"
The old man slowly raised his hands, his palms facing outward towards Agent Merlo. The woven fabric that took the place of skin appeared to ripple with the subtle movement of his fingers. She noticed now that his eyes were red and puffy. Hers likely were too. She had not slept in two days.
"You can't of course. But I think you'll want to hear what I have to say. Now please, put the gun down, it's making me nervous. Neither of us want to get hurt."
Agent Merlo stood her ground as she thought it over. Theoretically, she could bury a slug in his brainpan. Even Anderson's tech was unlikely to work with a good chunk of the nervous system taken out by a hollow point. But it had been four years. A lifetime in the world of mainstream robotics technology. Who knew what the hell that was to Anderson.
Her finger remained on the trigger. The adrenaline ebbed just a bit as Phineas remained where he was. What reason could he possibly have to meet with the Foundation? There had been rumors that things had changed within the structure of Anderson's outfit. The number of questions she had finally tipped the balance of her thinking. She slowly lowered her weapon.
"Talk."
Phineas exhaled, the ductwork inside him creaking again. "I'm going to reach in my coat pocket now to retrieve something. Please don't shoot me. Does Congressman Raymond Caldwell mean anything to you?"
Agent Merlo considered the question. "He's been a giant pain in our ass since he got control of the House Subcommittee on Research and Technology. Funding from the US has been a lot harder to come by lately."
She watched carefully as Phineas pulled a phone out of his jacket pocket. He held it out to her view. "That's not an accident, as you can imagine. Even the Foundation has budgets, it seems."
A video feed of some sort was visible on the phone. A crowd, gathered in what looked like a hotel lobby. Lots of suits, lots of flunkies rushing around. Whoever was holding the camera was moving among the members of the crowd, heading for a dais of some kind.
"This is a live video stream," said Phineas. "Taken from the viewpoint of one of my people. One of the few left."
The camera continued to weave into the crowd. Eventually, the view was of a stage, political banners and flags festooning a podium. A fundraiser. At the podium was Congressman Caldwell.
"What is this? Why are you showing me this?" Merlo's fear was beginning to creep back.
"I am about to do something distasteful in the extreme. I'm about to help the Foundation." Phineas raised his wrist close to his lips. He grimaced, then spoke into his sleeve.
"Do it."
A hand holding a gun suddenly came into view of the camera. Out of the shot, a woman had time to scream briefly before a single shot was fired. Blood splattered on a campaign poster behind the Congressman as the left side of his head seemed to be pulverized. He fell to the ground, likely dead before he landed. The room scattered amid screams and commotion. The camera remained fixed in place.
Merlo's stomach dropped as she watched the scene on Phineas' phone. She stammered.
"What…the fuck? What are you doing? Just…why? Do you have any idea…"
Phineas remained still. "Keep watching, Agent Merlo."
The camera moved up onto the stage, focusing in on the Congressman's shattered head. Blood was everywhere. The first sirens were audible in the distant background. A woman's voice from behind the camera spoke.
"Go on then. There's no purpose in pretending."
The Congressman's body shifted. A few quick spasms, and it began to push itself up. As the camera caught the gaping hole in the man's skull, Merlo saw not the bloody pulp of exposed brain tissue underneath the bits of scalp and flaps of loose skin, but instead a gleaming, white shell. Too smooth and too polished to be bone.
"Holy shit. He's a Saker."
Phineas nodded. He spoke once more into his sleeve. "Go ahead and get out of there. We'll meet up like we discussed. Good work."
The camera feed cut out abruptly. Phineas put the phone back in his coat pocket.
Merlo was reeling. The consequences of what she had just seen were only beginning to take shape. "That…that was a sitting member of the United States Congress. When this hits the news-"
"It won't. By all accounts, that was an embarrassing lapse of security, and an exposure of a clandestine product. Anderson and his backers will see to it that the Congressman is said to have died of a heart attack, or in a car accident. They've likely already rounded up the witnesses. Watch the newspapers. You'll see."
"But…why?"
"Take it as a token of good faith. Congressman Caldwell was quite well-informed for a freshman member, wasn't he? Caused a lot of problems for your North American Command, I'm sure. The House Subcommittee will cease to be a problem for you for oh, about four years or so. Six if the latest polling holds up."
Despite the facility being empty, Merlo instinctively lowered her voice. "Don't you think we've considered the same thing? The kind of shit that would start, even if we could cover up something like that?"
"Had you known that a Saker unit was sitting in Congress, your hand would have been forced."
She had to concede that point. "Still, I don't see how this leads to Anderson. He'll be looking out for us for sure now."
Phineas frowned. "Yes, this is far from ideal. There is no element of surprise anymore, so you'll be running into a buzzsaw. Anderson also knows that I'm the only person who had the means and the knowledge to take out Saker-13. This was an open declaration of war."
Merlo thought of herself as quick to read a situation, but this wasn't making any sense. "What do you gain from this?"
"Now you know I'm acting in good faith. I also have insurance." Phineas cleared his throat. "There are others, you know. If something happens to me, you'll never know where else Anderson has his hooks."
"Jesus." Merlo put a hand to her forehead as she contemplated what that meant. "Then that meeting with MC&D. It's true. It's not a small business anymore."
"Anderson's operation is something else now. Something that I can no longer abide. And it threatens us both."
"Now wait a second." Merlo was beginning to feel things clicking into place. "If you think the Foundation is going to cooperate with you on something like this…we don't even have a full-time MTF assigned to Anderson anymore. I can't imagine how I'm going to take this up the chain."
"You're going to have to find a way to convince them. Our continued survival depends on it."
The sound of a shotgun racking behind Phineas punctuated the end of his sentence.
"You'll have to start by convincing me."
Stepping out from the shadows just behind Phineas, a lanky, unshaven man in a dark suit appeared. Agent Daniel Navarro trained his shotgun directly at his head.

«Ties That Bind | Austringers | Consolidation»


Note: This is part five in a multi-part story. It is recommended that you read the previous entry Paris, Texas, or start from the beginning At the Library.

Carol Paris opened the door. “Hi dad,” she smiled. “Come in.” Her countenance changed when she smelt the alcohol on his breath. “Are you okay?”
Her father stepped over the threshold without replying. He looked dishevelled. A three thousand dollar suit, and he looked dishevelled. She closed and locked the door behind him softly, and waited for him to speak.
“I can't tell you everything,” the man began, then hesitated, trying to find the words. “It's a mess.”
“What do you mean? Are you in trouble?”
Her father shook his head. “You know we've never talked about our respective jobs. Our employers. Loose talk, and all that.”
They walked into the living room; Carol put the TV on mute. “I don't know what you do,” her father said. “I don't want to know. But…”
“But?”
“I don't know. I don't l know. Maybe it's nothing.”
“Dad, you're not making much sense.”
Calvin Paris massaged his forehead as if to push the migraine out. “I need a favour,” he admitted. “A big one.”
Carol studied him for a long moment. He looked washed out, a shadow of his former self. “If I were to say to you, I need information - any information - on a certain individual, could you get me that information? Without compromising yourself?”
“I know you're asking me a hypothetical question - “
“Oh absolutely.”
“ - But I can't use company resources for personal reasons. I'm sorry. You should go home. I think your favourite show's just starting.”
Calvin nodded slowly, and turned to the door. “Yeah. Okay. Stupid question.”
“Say hello to mom for me.”
“Will do,” her father said. And he opened the door and left.
° ° ° ° °
Exactly sixty minutes later, Carol Paris called her father from a new cellphone that she had never used before and she would never use again. She sat in a rental car in a parking lot in a part of town she had never been to before, and would never go to again. She had not been followed.
Her father took the call on a cellphone that he too would never use again. She did not speak; there were no niceties. He played the recording (Monotone Male Voice Number 7) so that his own voice would not be recognised: “Harold Maine. M-A-I-N-E. Lives somewhere in the Beacon Hill area. He knows you work for some “secret organisation” - mentioned the CIA. I don't know how he got this information. Be careful.”
The call was disconnected. Carol took the sim card and battery out of the phone and smashed the screen.
Christ, she thought. Harold Maine. All roads led to Harold Maine. She got out of the car and dumped the phone into the nearest litter bin, scanning the empty parking lot for witnesses. There were none. She climbed back into the rental car and switched on the ignition. The rhythmic hum soothed her a little, like a cat purring, and she felt the gathered, knotted muscles at the nape of her neck loosen.
Within twenty minutes she had driven back to her own car and swapped over. Forty nine minutes after that, she was walking through Harry's Famous Laundromat, an altogether unremarkable and nondescript building in one of San Antonio's less salubrious areas. She walked down the steps that the migrant workers could not see and would not remember, and into the basement. A door shut behind her as another opened in front, and she stepped into the suite of rooms that was not shown on any building blueprints, but was known to her and a handful of others as the permanent office location of Early Warning Unit Wormwood-33.
She sat down at a desk and sighed. Every minute there were indications of the impossible, hints of the fantastical, promises of the magical and unreal; anything deviating from any one of eight million, five hundred and ninety seven thousand, nine hundred and forty five accepted normality patterns were flagged up here, in this little claustrophobic suite. Sightings, rumours, murders, deaths, accidents, freak weather, earthquakes, atmospheric disturbances, geological activity, religious fervour, celebrity ratings, economic well-being, political machinations and deviations from twelve hundred points along the moral compass were all logged, sorted, and monitored from here.
Each one of those eight million plus normality patterns had their own suite of Anomalous Signature Recognition algorithms; if X deviates from Y by Z for N hours, initiate Protocol A. If X is more than 0.007% of Y in Z% of the male hispanic population during televised broadcasts of N, initiate Protocol Q. If Protocol Q has been active for X minutes and ASR algorithm suite G-G790-AVE has seen more than X alerts collectively, initiate Escalation Procedure 697-AntiStar-001. And so on and so on, etcetera etcetera.
In the last four months there had been seventy separate escalations, some of them so apparent that their manifestations had made any form of covert monitoring immediately and permanently redundant.
In a jewelry store, a thirteen year old girl had swallowed three diamond rings, five gold and platinum eternity rings, one ruby and sapphire bracelet and a reproduction Fabergé egg. The girl died eight days later of malnutrition; she said she needed to eat shiny, pretty things and food was no longer any good for her. The jewelry was never recovered from her body.
In a local cemetery, a vagrant who no longer knew his own name was found crying at every grave as if he knew the deceased personally. Those that had died during the wars, old folks who had finally succumbed to cancer, tiny little children who had died as they drew their first breath. Deaths spanning two centuries. The police had come for him, with a view to maybe admit him into psychiatric care; a Sunday afternoon annoyance towards the end of their shift. But he knew all their names, and how they died, and a lot more besides; so much so that when Officer Rooney asked the vagrant where his parents were buried, he was able to lead them there without error. And he was able to tell the officer that John Rooney had died of pneumonia on a rainy day, and that he was a keen golfer, and that Marsha Rooney had never got over it and died three months later of a broken heart. And although Officer Rooney did not recollect ever seeing the man before, the vagrant was adamant that he had attended the funeral, and could recall it in great detail. He had been to every funeral there ever was; he had known, personally, every person who had ever died - or so he maintained. And he cried, and he cried, and his loss was infinite and unendurable.
In another incident, a school bus had crashed without warning into a fire truck. Nobody was injured, but the driver tumbled out of the cab and collapsed onto the highway. He was vomiting fire; and the tarmac was bright and shiny and bubbly and melting where he'd put his hands. The schoolchildren gathered at the windows, watching as his clothes combusted and charred and turned to ash, and the highway liquified beneath him, and all the while he brought up fire. The heat denuded him; he was thrown an asbestos suit, but no one could get near him. The school bus blew up six seconds after the last child was plucked to safety. The man wasn't found.
There were other, more subtle occurrences. Rumours of orthodox Jews becoming militant Islamists overnight. Deaf men regaining their hearing, only to lose their sight. Previously healthy women suddenly developing birth defects.
And in most - not all - most of these cases, one name kept cropping up. The jewelry girl had delivered papers to his door; the fire-man had been a close friend; the vagrant was an ex-business associate and one-time informer. And who had he informed on? Harold Maine.
All roads led to Harold Maine. And now, at the exact same time that the Escalations demanded immediate action, Carol Paris had to hold back.
She switched the monitor and base unit on and stared at the screen as it powered up. The “Gemini Corporation” logo flashed up briefly, and her face was basked in soft green light. She took out her cellphone - her own, this time - and dialled her father's number.
“Hey daddy, it's me,” she said. “Just ringing to let you know I'll be coming for dinner tonight. Yeah I'll bring something.”
She disconnected and put the phone away. She typed in a false username and entered the number generated on her security dongle, and got to work.
Next


"Adrian? Adrian!?"
Adrian Andrews's eyes shot open. Beatrix was leaning over him, a worried expression on her face. His jaw hurt and his teeth tasted like pennies. He sat up slowly, groaning as the world spun around him, the low vibration of the helicopter's rotors setting a counterpoint to his throbbing headache. "What happened?"
"We hit turbulence," Beats said. "You hit your head. I think you're fine, but I want you to lay still for a moment."
"No. What happened?" Adrian repeated.
Beats nodded. "Volcanic explosion," she said. The world outside was on fire, casting a lurid scarlet light into the helicopter's interior. "Yellowstone Mountain must have erupted."
"If it was volcanic, we'd be dead," Adrian insisted. "This was existential." He struggled to his feet and leaned over the pilot's shoulder. "Pilot, switch to channel Theta-Prime."
"Sir? There is no channel Theta…" The pilot took a second look at the comm console, and suddenly there it was. An eleventh channel among the ten marked on the dial. "… switching to channel Theta-Prime," he said, flipping the switch.
There was a burst of static, then a man's voice came in over the comms system. "Hello? Hello? Is anyone there? This is _}¡§¤þ! Can anyone hear me?"
"_}¡§¤þ! Thank God!" Adrian breathed a sigh of relief. "We're on our way. Is iµ²¬® all right?"
"iµ²¬® doesn't exist any more," _}¡§¤þ said. "I'm all that's left. F©r G©¼'s sÀk¿, À¼riÀ£, ¼©£'t ±¿t m¿ vÀ£ish…"
The voice disappeared, and the last thing the man said vanished from Adrian's memory. An entire Foundation site was gone. A man whom he was sure had been a close friend now no longer existed. Had never existed.
He couldn't even remember his name…
The signal disappeared in a burst of eldritch feedback. A brief click, and the dial set itself back to a number that existed in reality.
"Sir?" the pilot said, "what do we do now?"
The only thing we can do, Adrian thought. "Inform O5 Council that we've just had a CK-Class Restructuring Event," he said. "And get us on the ground somewhere safe as soon as possible. There might still be a chance to save something…"

The room was in chaos. It was the distinctly surreal kind of chaos that occurs when everyone knows that something horrible has happened, but no one remembers what it was.
There was, however, one person who did know. He sat in his chair silently reviewing his notes, waiting for the chaos to die down, which it finally did when the nondescript person at the head of the table rapped a gold-plated fountain pen against the mahogany surface.
"Ten. Report," One said, once the noise had died down.
Ten was a slender, bookish man with olive-colored skin and long, ebony-black hair done into a shoulder-length braid. He was known as the quietest member of the Overseer Council, the one who attended every meeting, took notes, and said nothing. Some of his colleagues wondered what his actual job was.
They would find out today.
"Let me start at the beginning," Ten said. "We have established that the likely cause of the event was a researcher at the Site who was doing research into anomalous effect miscability…"
"In English, please?" Eleven demanded.
"… he was combining SCPs and reporting on the results," Ten went on. "He was working on improvements to SCP-2000…"
"Wait a minute. Back up," Nine interrupted. "There is no SCP-2000. The Special Containment Procedures directory only goes up to SCP-999."
"It does now," Ten said grimly. "It didn't three hours ago. We've lost over two-thirds of the SCPs we had in containment…"
"That's impossible!" one of the O5s shouted. "How the hell could there be a containment breach of that magnitude when…"
"… absolutely idiotic!" someone else protested. "You're telling me a single accident at one site caused…"
"SILENCE!" One barked.
Silence.
"For the past thirty years, this man's job has been to watch and wait for exactly this kind of event to occur," One said sternly. "Now that it has, I am ordering all of you to sit down, shut up, and let him do his goddamn job. And maybe, just maybe, listen to him as if he's the expert on a subject that none of the rest of us know a single goddamn thing about!"
The silence continued.
"Ten," One said. "Proceed."
Ten nodded and pushed his glasses back into place with his ring finger. Throughout the entire shouting match, he had remained calm and silent. "All right. Let me change tack." Ten said. He shuffled the papers in his hand until he found the page he was looking for, took a deep breath, and continued speaking. "SCP-2000 is… was… a Thaumiel-Class…" He raised a hand to forestall the obvious argument. "Thaumiel is a containment class that apparently doesn't exist any more," Ten explained. "It refers to anomalies that, in themselves, are used to contain or protect from other anomalies."
"Thank you, Ten. Proceed," One said.
"SCP-2000… was… an emergency system designated "Deus Ex Machina," Ten said, arbitrarily choosing a tense. "The system was designed to trigger upon detection of a world-altering event. The way it works is a bit complicated, but it comes down to a series of cloning devices and mind-control systems that can repopulate the earth after a K-class event with cloned human beings with implanted false memories."
"You're saying a CK-Class Restructuring Event was caused by a human cloning device?" Nine asked.
"Of course not. But SCP-2000 was the final fail-safe in case of human extinction. In order to keep the system safe in case of a temporal or reality-altering event, the entire thing was placed in the single most existentially secure site on Earth: inside Yellowstone Mountain. Right above the Bloom."
Ten raised his hands to forestall yet another chorus of complaints and questions. "The Bloom is a Black Box SCP," he continued. "It's one that, up until this point, has been known only to four Overseers: myself, One, Two, and Thirteen. It's a reset button for the universe."
"Ten is oversimplifying, of course," One said curtly.
"Given the time constraints, I didn't feel that I had time to get into the whole 'trans-universal flower' and 'multiversal observer' aspects of the artifact," Ten said calmly. "All everyone else needs to know right now is that the Bloom seems to be the separation point between several different versions of possibility. The Bloom itself is the most existentially stable point on the planet, which is why we placed our last-resort species recovery system right on top of it.
"Unfortunately," Ten continued, "Yellowstone Mountain happened to also be a massive megavolcano which is tectonically unstable and is overdue to erupt, which is why… Dr. Null… was assigned to find a way to duplicate the Bloom's protective effects elsewhere, in the hopes of either moving or duplicating it at a more stable position. Unfortunately, something seems to have gone wrong. Rather than holding different parallel universes apart, the Bloom is now drawing them together."
"There weren't Scranton Reality Anchors around this thing?" Nine asked.
"The Scranton Reality Anchors around that 'thing' are the only reason why our universe hasn't already vanished," Ten explained. "If I may?"
He tapped a control on his keyboard, and an image appeared on the screen behind him. "This is a false-color representation of the current mathematical reality," he said. "The blue spheres represent adjunct timelines and Schroedinger-type uncertainties. The yellow spirals represent the separate universes and timelines. This image was taken over the course of the past year at one of our temporal research facilities" He tapped a control, and the image began to move. "And now a live feed."
The image, which had previously been mostly static, now swirled and bubbled, like yellow flowers floating in a sea of foam. Slowly, but inexorably, the flowers were starting to come together. "Timelines are like protons and antiprotons," Ten explained. "When two separate but incompatible realities intersect, the result is mutual annihilation. With The Bloom drawing neighboring realities towards ours, the end result is obvious."
Ten tapped a control, and the words "PROJECTED SEQUENCE OF EVENTS" appeared on the top of the screen. "The first intersection of universes will result in collapse of the space-time membranes that surround our reality. Causality will cease to exist. Events will no longer be distinct moments in time. Where Schroedinger's famous cat is only theoretically both alive and dead, the interpolation will force it to become truth. This is, obviously, impossible. The only possible result is mutual annihilation."
Ten grimaced. "This annihilation reaction will result in the release of unimaginable amounts of energy. The resulting energy will accelerate the convergence process, drawing even more parallel universes together at an ever-quickening rate." On the screen, the flowers folded into each other, swirled, and vanished into grey foam, until nothing else existed. "And that," Ten said, "will be it."
"ZK-Class Reality Failure Scenario," One said.
"I don't think we have a term for what's about to happen, but that comes closest," Ten admitted. "Unless we do something within the next few hours, we're going to lose everything. We have a last-ditch contingency plan, but the chances of it succeeding are miniscule. The only other option I see is to activate The Bloom itself, which will entail entering the Yellowstone Mountain facility."
"What assets do we have in place that can respond in time?" One asked.
"Just one," Ten admitted. "Mobile Task Force Omega-7: Pandora's Box. Team Able is currently out of contact, but we've managed to get into contact with the force leader for Team Iris - he was, in fact, the agent who originally called in this alert. They will be ready to enter the facility within the hour."
"Does anyone else have anything to add?" One asked. No one did. "Then deploy them," he continued. "And keep me informed." The O5 Council's leader turned to Ten, his dark eyes flashing intently. "Get this taken care of," he said. "Do whatever you need to. You have full operational authority over all Foundation assets until this crisis is over."
Ten nodded in reply.

Yellowstone Mountain had mostly stabilized. Rather than looking like a poor-quality VHS tape, it was now just fuzzy and somewhat translucent, like an out-of-focus photograph. Every once in a while, it would flicker and change, as some alternate possibility asserted itself upon this reality.
Three Humvees approached the landed helicopter at the foot of the mountain. Twelve soldiers (six men, five women, and Effy) disembarked. One of the soldiers, a huge man with ebony skin and a hint of electric-blue eyeshadow above his intense eyes, emerged from the lead vehicle carrying two kit bags. He tossed them onto the ground at Adrian and Beatrix's feet.
"Good of you to join us," Agent William Abrams said, smirking. "Though I bet you'd rather be alone in bed with Beats right now."
"Hey, what about me?" Beats muttered, as she rummaged through her kit bag for her BDUs. She carelessly stripped off her trench coat and nightgown, trading them for her combat gear. "I was promised breakfast in bed," she said, pulling a slate-grey sports bra on over her head.
"Really? Damn, girl, you've got him wrapped around your little finger," Billy said, grinning.
"It's where I prefer to be," Adrian said. He too had stripped, and was trading in his tuxedo-print boxers for a much more sedate pair of dark grey skivvies. "What's the situation with Team Able?"
"Don't know," Bill admitted. "We're still trying to get in contact. They were inside the facility when the Event occurred."
"Damn," Adrian muttered, pulling on a pair of grey digital camouflage trousers. "All right, guys, load up for close quarters battle. I want you and Effie on rifles, everyone else takes SMGs or carbines. Medium armor: no point in getting killed by some monster from another dimension while trying to fix a temporal anomaly—"
"What about me?"
Eleven pairs of eyes turned to look at SCP-105. The blonde teenager stood in the doorway of the helicopter, clutching her silver pistol case. "I don't have my kit, but I can help—"
"Non-Omega-Seven personnel will not participate in this operation," Adrian said curtly.
"Adrian, those are my friends…"
"Non-Omega-Seven personnel will NOT participate in this operation!" Adrian repeated. "Pilot, get this SCP object back into containment as soon as possible. If it gives you any trouble, you are authorized to taze it and take it back home unconscious."
Adrian deliberately did not look as he heard the girl begin to sob. He kept his eyes locked on his gear as he heard Beats lead SCP-105 back into the helicopter, heard the rotors spin up and felt the vehicle take off behind him.
"Damn," Billy said. "That was fucking cold."
"Right now she's a liability, not an asset," Adrian snapped. "The sooner she's out of the operating area, the better."
"Keep telling yourself that. Me, I think you just don't want to take her into that," Billy said, gesturing to the still-flickering mountain.
Adrian's reply was interrupted by a slender, androgynous figure jogging up, holding a laptop computer. "We've made contact with Team Able," Agent Fatima Workwise said. "He wants to talk to you."
"Fuck," Adrian muttered. "It just gets better and better." He accepted the laptop from Effy. "Go for Team Iris— Jesus!"
That last exclamation was for the scene on the laptop computer. An entire hallway splattered with blood. Crazily swinging fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. Panicked shouts and the sound of gunfire from off-screen. But the thing that had prompted the profanity was the man laying on the lab table: tall, cold, olive-skinned, black haired, skin covered in scarlet tattoos. His body below his waist was an explosion of gore.
"Andrews," Able rasped. "Report."
Adrian breathed deeply, the gorge rising in his throat. It took him three deep breaths to recover. "Team Iris is ready to breach and enter," Adrian said. "All present and accounted for except Iris Actual."
"Good." Able closed his eyes for a moment. "I am done killing for a time," he said at last. "You will take command of this operation."
Adrian felt cold. "Sir? Squire is next in the chain of command…"
"Squire is a warrior, as am I. If I did not succeed, he will not either. This problem requires a scholar. Mind, not muscle will win this." The tall, dark-haired figure on the screen collapsed and exhaled deeply. It did not move again.
The camera shifted, revealing the grime-and-soot stained visage of an older man with ginger hair, shot with silver. "You heard the man, sir," Agent Squire said. "Orders?"
"Shit." Adrian breathed deeply. "All right, where are you guys holed up?"
"Security Station Niner. We're pretty safe here, but there are hostiles roaming the halls. We've taken quite a few casualties and are currently combat ineffective." Squire smiled grimly. "Just another day in Pandora's Box, I suppose."
"All right." Adrian gestured over his shoulder, felt a map being pressed into his hand. "Thanks," he said, unfolding the map on the hood of the Humvee. "All right," he repeated. "Security Station Niner. We'll enter…" Adrian frowned and shook his head. His vision kept getting blurry, and every time he blinked, the shape of the hallways changed. "Damn it. The map keeps changing on me."
"You should try walking through those hallways sometime." Squire grim smile widened. "Real pain in the ass, what with the walls trying to eat you alive."
The seconds ticked by as Adrian glared at the map for a few more moments, then gave up. "All right, wait five," he said to the laptop computer. He picked up the map and carried it out of the computer's field of view, waved his hand in the air in a small circle to rally the soldiers. "Team Iris!" he shouted. "Huddle up! I need some ideas…"

Incident Zero
« Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 »


Iris had been trying to reach through a photograph for the last several hours.
It was an ordinary photograph. She'd taken it with her own camera a few minutes ago, as she had done with the last few dozen photographs. And yet, when she tried to reach through, she had difficulty. Sometimes her hand just wouldn't go through. More often, what came through was a phantom version of her hand: hazy, flickering, difficult to see.
She tossed the photograph onto the desk, groaning in frustration. The nameless researcher assigned to monitor her training raised an eyebrow. "Need a break?" he asked laconically.
Iris shook her head. "I want some answers."
"Well, physiologically, you're fine," the researcher said, tapping the back of his pen against his clipboard. "So the problem must be psych—"
"That's not what I mean," Iris interrupted. "I want some answers. Some real answers. Like, who's in charge of this thing? Who's the new General Bowe?"
"That's… most probably classified."
"Probably?" Iris glared at the researcher. He shrugged back. She wanted to slap the smile off his bland face. "I want to see him," she said.
"I don't think that's really necessary." Researcher No-Name smiled politely. "Why don't we give it another try? Repeat from the top of Exercise November Six?"
Iris shook her head. "No. I'm done here." She stood and walked to the doorway. There was a security camera above it: she looked straight into the dark, unblinking lens. "I know you're out there," she said, "and we need to meet. I need to talk to you, or this whole thing is going to fail."

Somewhere else, 'The New General Bowe' woke up at an unknowable time, a million miles away from her body. The real world was loud, but unintelligible, across a foggy chasm. Light thought her heart might be racing, but it was hard to tell.
What triggered it this time? A dream, maybe. She tried to think back, and only got vague nonsense: images of images of blood and grabbing with faint overtones of you fucked everything up…
The timing could not be random. The announcement about Alpha-9's approval by the Overseer Council came through last night. She'd stayed up for four hours making phone calls, and she couldn't remember what happened after that, so, yeah, that must been it.
For an unknown length of time, she sat upright in bed, arms wrapped around her body, numb and unresponsive even through two alarms and a ringing phone. Funny how she could be the very picture of composure during a crisis, but wait until her brain spat out the wrong image while she was sleeping and the world may as well be ending.
At some point, Vaux, her assistant, knocked on the door to make sure she was alive and to tell her that she was fine, that nothing urgent was happening right now, and that he'd rescheduled aside her morning appointments and would come by later with food and coffee. Then he left her alone to ride it out.
She often wondered what amazingly selfless deed she'd ever done to deserve that man.

At around twelve, Light finally appeared in the office, foggy and raw but mostly in her skin again.
Vaux looked up from a nest of paperwork that he'd been slogging his way through like a champion. "How are you?" he asked politely.
"No unusual symptoms," Light said. "Normal, mostly. The blood test—"
"Medical's expecting you any time."
She nodded. "Good. Thanks. Thank you."
Vaux smiled, and said something she didn't quite process. Light flexed her left hand, hoping she hadn't sprained it again while dissociating wildly. She hated physical therapy. "What's going on?" she asked.
"You still have two meetings today that I couldn't get rid of," Vaux said. "Aktus sent you some files on his latest reports. We have more news from the O5 Council, and you have to meet with the other Directors about those tomorrow. And Kain arrived here early this morning."
"Cain with a C or a K?" Light asked.
"Kain with a K. Dr. Elliott and Director Moose are with him. They wanted to see you, but I told them you were on the phone with an O5."
"Thanks. What else?"
"You were also scheduled to meet with Cain with a C. But Director Moose tried to pull some strings to get herself assigned to bring him in to Alpha-9. I let her succeed. She's already done, and he's on board. The report summary's in your inbox. Your first meeting is with Director Moose. She says she has a concern."
"About what?"
"She wouldn't say. If I had to guess, it's probably about Alpha-9 in general."
Light nodded. "Cain — SCP-073 — I'll need to go see him myself soon."
"Already scheduled for next week."
"Thanks. Who's my second meeting with?"
"Uh." Vaux checked his notes. "Tav-666."
"Fuck."

Vaux turned out to be right about Director Moose, as he usually did.
Two minutes after 1 PM, Director Light walked into the meeting room, dressed in her standard uniform: white oxford shirt, black slacks, neat wingtip shoes, dark circles under her eyes.
Director Moose was already there, pacing on the other side of the room, an ill-fitting suit draped over her too-tall frame. The dark circles under her eyes matched Light's. The woman with the funny name hadn't been expected to last long in her position as director of Site-19 — no one had lasted long, besides Strelnikov, who was supposed to be temporary, and who finally demanded to be replaced. Moose had lasted for over a year so far, but not without the job taking its toll.
The only other thing in the room was a brown, wrapped package.
"I obtained the items you asked about," Moose said, without preamble. "They're… close to your specifications. It wasn't easy. But they will work, even for someone like you, who isn't a Type Blue. I checked them myself. There are instructions with the packaging."
"Thank you so much," Light said. "If there's anything I can do for you—"
Moose shook her head. "You already have. Thank you for letting me approach Cain."
"You should thank Vaux for that. The report says that went well."
"You got a report already?"
"Yet another thing I'm thanking Vaux for." Light took a seat. "What did you do to convince Cain to join?"
"I didn't have to do anything." Moose got a funny look on her face. "He agreed immediately. I admit, I was surprised. Given all the history there, with… with SCP-076-2, and Omega-7…"
Light thought about that. "Maybe the O5s asked him in the first place? I'm not going to complain about things going right for once."
"They won't stay that way," Moose said, dryly.
"Probably not." Light shrugged.
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Moose said. "About Alpha-9."
Light waited.
"They sent me the reports last week," Moose said. "I read them top to bottom. Looking for a good enough reason to recreate something as dangerous as Omega-7. What I found was a lot of political maneuvering, going back years, and Iris shooting some unidentified insurgents during an incursion on this Site. Nothing else. All quiet on the anomalous front. Yet Alpha-9 has been created anyway. As of last night."
"I have my own hesitations," Light said. "But I thought you'd be on board with the Foundation taking a different approach to using anomalies."
"Because I'm an anomaly myself? That is exactly why I think this is excessively dangerous."
Most people didn't know it, but Moose was what they called a Type Blue. A paranormal magician, in her life before the Foundation. Ex-Serpent's Hand.
"Don't misunderstand me," Moose said. "To borrow a phrase from others — extraordinary risks require extraordinary justification. I see the risk here. I don't see the extraordinary justification."
Light nodded. "It's the long-term risk, I think. Maybe even medium-term. Right? Our ordinary resources are stretched to their limits. Our anomalous resources are barely being tapped. And we're still identifying possible SCPs almost every day. Maybe we don't have the extraordinary justification right exactly now, but we will." She hesitated. "Unless the O5s know something we don't."
"You know I'm a Company woman," Moose said. "But for some people, that won't be good enough."
Light nodded. "Why didn't you refuse to participate on Alpha-9? You could have."
"Because I understand how anomalies work, out there in the real world," Moose said. "No one on your current field team even knows what a Type Blue is. I know you're considering Aleksander Foxx — and he also works for Marshall, Carter, and Dark. This is already a risk. If I can prevent it becoming a disaster, a least in some way, I'm obligated to try." She looked at Light. "I imagine that's why you're involved in this, too."
She wasn't wrong. They were both quiet for a minute.
"A Factotum came to see me last night," Moose said, finally. "After the Council voted to approve Alpha-9. Called themselves Loyalty. Not very subtle."
"What'd they say?"
"They told me how Alpha-9 was approved," Moose said. "They told me it wasn't the Council's best judgment that let the vote pass. It was political wrangling. And existential fear, that none of them wanted to say outright. The Council was waiting for something like this to come along, and once it did, they only needed someone to say, well, here's a project we like. We'll run it. We'll take the fall if things go wrong. When things go wrong."
Moose paused again, staring at the table, tapping her fingers on the back of an empty chair.
"Was that me?" Light asked.
Moose shook her head. "Loyalty told me that it was a member of the Council. Who volunteered to take the fall if Alpha-9 turns out like Omega-7. They said it was O5-10."
O5-10? Light was slightly surprised. She'd only heard from O5-7 for the duration of this project.
But then, that made a certain amount of sense. O5-7 never seemed to be the type to put herself on the line for a project like this. That's why she had… well, people like Light. And Clef, before her…
"Why'd you request to bring in Cain yourself?"
"To rip the band-aid off." Moose paused. "And so no one else could fuck it up."
Light nodded.
"This will have consequences," Moose said. "No one's forgotten Omega-7. Don't expect that to be a good thing."
"That's been on my mind," Light said. "We have a lot of preparation to take care of."
"I have to get back to work. Good luck, Director Light. I'll see you soon." Moose stopped tapping her fingers on the chair. "Don't delay. We may have less time than we think."
Light didn't plan to.

The next meeting, with Tav-666, came too quickly.
This time, sitting at the long conference table were the ugliest, most slovenly man in the world, and his polar opposite: attractive, neatly groomed, and female.
Light knew the man well. The woman, she knew of.
"Alto," Light said. "Sorry for keeping you waiting."
"Sophia," Clef replied, that rictuslike grin of his never leaving his face. "Allow me to introduce my former secretary and current protege, Andrea S. Adams."
"Adams," Light said, extending her hand in greeting. "I've heard quite a bit about you. Good work extracting Iris from that GOC snatch-and-grab."
Adams's lip twitched a bare millimeter at that as the two women shook hands. Clef's expression was… much more readable. "Apologies if I kept you waiting," Light continued. "You've heard the news?"
"The Overwatch vote? Yup! God help us all." Clef laughed.
"You weren't expecting it? From the orders…"
"The O5s will order any damn thing they think is a good idea," Clef said. "Or a bad one, if it's a Tuesday. Doesn't mean Last Hope wasn't going to be controversial. You ask me, I bet the vote barely slid past."
Light flexed her left hand, remembering what Moose had said. "Alpha-9 is still widely unpopular."
"You bet your ass. And now everyone's going to know about it."
She nodded. "In that case, we have a growing problem and I need your thoughts." Light opened a file on her tablet and turns it around to show the others. "Dr. Maynard Maddox, Site Director, Site 88. Agent Richard Gillian, Unit 18. There are more, and we don't know who they are."
"What are they?"
"Foxes in the henhouse."
Clef took the tablet and narrowed his eyes, looking them over. "Traitors. Known affiliations?"
"Gillian worked with an undercover op a few years ago that had some questionable encounters with the Insurgency. Maddox, not sure. Both of them leaked planted information, one of which led to an attack on Site-88 by unknown hostiles."
"There are more?" asked Adams.
"Yes. Most of them are biding their time. I was attacked at Site-77. SCP-1501 hadn't breached containment for months before that, and the investigation showed obvious signs of sabotage. It was an attempt on my life."
"No suspects?" Clef asked, passing the photos to Adams.
"Gillespie has assured me that the acting site director, her grandson Ralph Roget, is investigating," Light said.
"Good."
"He's twenty-two." Light made a face. "I mean— I trust Gillespie's judgement— kind of— the point is, there are double agents perceiving Alpha-9 as an unprecedented threat. And they're waking up. It's a threat to the project as a whole, not just me. Can you look into this?"
"We can start with investigating all outgoing communications, plus people going off-site," Clef said.
"Is that feasible?"
"We have an asset that can handle it," Clef said, smirking. Adams flinched.
"Good," said Light. "Anything else?"
"Not much," Adams said, "but if you plan to get shot at more, you should look into buying a bulletproof vest. I hear they come in designer colors these days."
Light snorted. "Oh, sure. I'll look into it."

Clef accompanied her to the third meeting of the day. He kept up a stream of terse commentary all the way there, until they reached the secure conference room in the heart of Site-17. Security, secretaries, and anyone else without at least Level 4 clearance had been relegated outside for the next two hours.
Clef sounded even more displeased when he appraised the buffet spread, provided by site catering.
"There's a perfectly good IHOP in town," he said. "Why aren't we eating there?"
"What's wrong with the food?" Light asked. It had seemed good enough on the online menu.
"It's inedible, that's what." Clef put four biscuits on his plate. "It's not worth having a meeting anywhere if you can't order chicken and waffles, and get coffee spilled on you by a hungover waitress."
"What is it with you and meeting in diners? What is it with all of you and meeting in diners?"
"I don't like the formality," Site-77 Director Shirley Gillespie said, cutting in next to them. "Diners have coziness. You can have an honest chat if it's just two people in a booth. In a room like this…"
"…you have security." Light frowned. "For one."
"Are you that confident that none of our guards are Insurgency moles?" Clef looked at the room — or maybe it was just his plate — with distaste. "Let's just get this over with."
The three of them left the catering table to join the other directors. They were all here, in the expansive Site-17 meeting room, everyone who'd been invited to the first meeting. Besides Light, Clef, and Gillespie — and Director Moose, nodding to Light as she sat down at the table — there were Bright, Aktus, and two directors Light had just met: Jonathan Nardieu and Marcia Cortez.
One was prominent by her absence: RAISA Director Maria Jones was working on a number of secret assignments, and not just for Alpha-9; shortly after the word of Council approval, Jones sent Light a curt yet apologetic message saying she expected to be absent for a while. Light didn't hold it against her; Jones was the woman who'd had to close Omega-7's files, after all. All of this must be hitting close to home.
Clef walked around the table and punched Bright in the shoulder, and received a (mostly amiable) punch in return from the currently thirty-something Indian man. He sat down by Gillespie in a far corner, and took up a slouched pose that clearly communicated his intent to participate in nothing else beyond the substandard food on his plate.
Fair enough. He wasn't technically part of Alpha-9, after all. They'd had their real meeting already.
Clef wasn't wrong about security, Light reflected. Half the directors involved in Alpha-9 in a room together was the kind of thing that security did not recommend, and Light was inclined to agree. It would, however, be a necessary risk for this project. Speed was essential, and there was only so much you could do to protect teleconferences from intelligence leaks.
Light couldn't help but glance at Gillespie. It hadn't been long since the containment breach they'd been trapped in together, but Gillespie wasn't acting any differently at all. Her eyes were closed, and she was sipping her tea.
As for the rest, they were all engaged with their plates to varying degrees, but every once in a while, their eyes would flick over to glance at her. Sometimes their expressions were hostile. Other times, they were pitying. Mostly, though, they just seemed curious.
Light took a moment to slowly chew a piece of potato, swallowing it down despite a dry mouth and closed throat. She waited until a natural lull in the conversation to walk to the podium and adjust the mic. It let out a brief squeal of feedback, and the conversation ebbed.
"Thank you all for coming," she began. "As you know, Alpha-Nine has just been officially approved as a Mobile Task Force. All of you have a great amount of influence in the future of this project. This will in turn influence the future of the Foundation. Our first Asset, Iris, is in training now. There will be more."
She waited for any kind of response. There was none. "So. Um. Anyone have anything they want to discuss to start us off?"
A moment of silence. Then a middle-aged man raised his hand. "Yes, Director Nardieu," Light said.
Jonathan Nardieu nodded, got to his feet, and opened up a well-worn spiral-bound notebook. "Director Light," he said by way of greeting. "I've just been reviewing clips from SCP-105's training sessions," he said. "She's on a level with some of our MTF agents already, with only a month of training. It's almost as she has some form of photographic memory, if you'll pardon the pun. I wonder if it's natural, or some kind of secondary mutation of her anomalous ability…"
"Secondary mutation?" Bright scoffed. "What are you, twelve?"
"I don't see what you mean," Nardieu said, looking surprised to be contradicted.
"That's literally X-Men terminology, and you damn well know it."
Marcia Cortez spoke up. "I agree with Jack," she said. "We need to be careful with our terminology. If this experiment is going to work, we need to stay as professional as possible…"
"If she is a superhero, she's a broken one," Moose interjected. "Her abilities haven't been functioning at their prior baseline in the last few days since the Coalition encounter."
"Spooked, perhaps," Aktus suggested. He'd been the first to arrive at the table this morning, but this was the first he'd looked up from reading the files on his tablet. "That incident was highly unusual. Even more so than that unresolved containment breach which started this whole mess."
"Maybe she's faking it again," Cortez suggested.
"Glass's psych assessment says she's not," Nardieu said.
Cortez shook her head. "Glass was always too sympathetic to humanoid skips." She shot Bright a look that seemed oddly apologetic. Bright didn't seem to notice, concentrating on his meal.
"Iris Thompson is just a girl with a special ability," Nardieu said. "She can't be that dangerous to us. We all deal with worse on a daily basis."
"… nukes disguised as Girl Scouts," Clef muttered.
"Excuse me?" Nardieu asked.
"I said, don't underestimate the damn Skip just because it looks like a pretty girl," Clef snapped. "Iris Thompson is dangerous. The only question is whether she's dangerous to us or the enemy."
"Well, maybe if you didn't treat her like a caged beast—"
"Let's get back on task," Light said. "Iris's performance has degraded. It could just be because she hasn't used her abilities in a long time. It could also be due to the phases of the moon or the alignment of the planets or something else we will never know. As it currently stands, we just don't have enough data. So let's move on." She turned to the other side of the conference room. "Gillespie, Aktus, what's the status on the other projects for Alpha-9?"
Gillespie put down her glass and dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "Most of the usable objects at my disposal, in Site-77, were denied. I have a few…. grey cases, where our previous research indicates a potentially smooth transfer to more violent means. But other than that, a lot of rejections."
Aktus nodded. "My recommendations were largely vetoed as well, despite your sign-off. Unfortunately I don't have much more to add yet, though I've received a new list of anomalies to assess."
"For whatever that's worth," Nardieu said. "I don't mean to complain, but… between all of us, we requested access to over two hundred SCP items. Our list now is… Do we even have half a dozen? Besides Iris, we have Cain, a broken reality bender, a severed hand…"
"I imagine they want us to start small," Aktus said. "We have, however, been promised more SCPs. SCP-1985 and SCP-2099 were suggested to me as possibilities already…"
"Brain in a jar and apocalypse explorer?" Nardieu asked. "All right, not bad, but it's still only two…"
"… however," Aktus continued, glaring at the younger man, "that doesn't include secondary anomalous assets that don't fall under Special Containment Procedures, and can thus have fewer barriers to overcome. Andrea Adams and her suit. Professor Crow and his projects. This Foxx fellow. The Alexandra A.I.. Chelsea Elliott. Everett Mann. Kiryu's butterflies…"
"Technically, myself," Moose said dryly. "Given that I'm a Type Blue." Nardieu and Cortez looked blank. "GOC term. Means once upon a time I cast a whole lot of magic spells. In case any of you didn't know that I'm ex-Hand." She took a drink. "And there's you, Bright."
"No," Bright said. "Neither of us are anomalous weapons, or Alpha-9 assets. I'm here in my capacity as Personnel Director. And I think it's for the best if this… task force… stays small. It's already bigger than Omega-7 ever was."
"Weren't you on Omega-7?" Nardieu asked.
"No, I was not," Bright said. "As Personnel Director, I was part of the group dealing with new additions to Omega-7."
"Omega-7 had so few anomalies, though." Nardieu frowned.
"Yes," Bright said. "There was a reason for that. Just like this task force already has too many anomalies. They're probably going to give us more, but we don't need more. At all."
"But—"
"It's a fairly big vote of confidence that they assigned us Cain," Aktus said, interrupting. "You know how the Council feels about him."
Gillespie looked down at her glass. "I can't say I'm sure that we should return to putting anomalies in charge of anomalies, besides the obvious exception of Dr. Bright. But Iris? One would think with a project like this, we could find someone with more experience to act as Team Leader."
"I agree," Bright said. "But it doesn't matter. The order to put Iris in charge comes from above. Nothing we can do about it."
"She's only in charge of a team," Aktus said. "She's not in charge of Alpha-9. That's us."
"I really think there's no cause for worry here," Nardieu said. "Just look at those videos. She's a perfect fit. I think—"
"We know what you think." Bright didn't look up from his food. "You're practically drooling."
"Excuse me?" Nardieu clenched his fist around his fork. "Are you accusing me of unprofessional behavior? Because if so, I want—"
"No one's accusing anyone of anything," Light cut in. "It was a bad joke. Right, Jack?"
"The worst," Bright agreed.
"Good. Now that's settled, is there anything else?"
"There's another issue on the table," Nardieu said. "Iris… asked to see the 'new Bowe'." He looked at Light. "I think that means you."
Light looked down at her tablet. There was a video clip still playing there, in which a pixelated blonde figure plunged her hand through a polaroid picture, and the ghost of a hand re-emerged several feet away. "I know," she said. "I should have done it sooner."
"I'm not sure we should expand our personal contact with these anomalies so quickly," Cortez said, frowning.
Light shrugged. "Maybe not. But if we can't trust Iris, this project was doomed from the cradle. I'll talk to her."

"Charles Vaux? You're Light's secretary."
Vaux looked up at the attractive woman in the slate-grey suit, who had appeared in the room across from him. "Oh— Agent Adams. I didn't know you were here."
"Oh, sorry. Old habit," Adams said. "What's your dog's name?"
"Mango."
"It's cute. Foundation bred?"
"Yep. She was trained for security and then as a sniffer, but… Too friendly."
"I can tell. She looks like a sweetie. May I?" When Vaux nodded, Adams leaned down and gave the pit bull a friendly pat on the head. Mango grinned and panted, then rolled over onto her back for a well-appreciated tummy rub.
Vaux smiled serenely. "Did you want something, Agent?"
"I had a question about your boss," Adams said, kneeling beside the dog.
Vaux frowned. "About Light?"
"Let me get to the point. You know what Tav-666 is."
"I do," Vaux said.
"You know what our job is."
"Of course."
"Alright. We're aware that you arrange some kind of medical service for Dr. Light on a semi-regular basis, often after she's taken some time off work. You've been careful to keep it off the files. This raises some concerns."
Vaux frowned. "I'm not at liberty to discuss my boss's medical issues."
"She on drugs? Painkillers, something stronger?" No response. Adams charged on. "Charles… can I call you Charles?"
"No," Vaux said.
"All right, then. Mister Vaux, as far as we know, Clef and I are the first ones to learn about this. If she's got something going on, we need to know, because there are people out there who can find out and use this against her."
"Ask her yourself."
"She pregnant?"
Vaux was stony-faced.
"Look," Adams said, "You tell me right now, just between two coworkers, and you won't get in trouble for this. Your boss might not get in trouble for this. Hell, we may not even have to report this to the Overseers, depending on what it is. But if you don't tell me under the table, then I need to do an official investigation. And then people will get in trouble."
Vaux twitched. Mango sat upright, ears low, shoulders raised. She pulled away from Adams and trotted over to Vaux's side, resting her head on his knee. Vaux gently reached out a hand and patted his beloved dog's head. "Dr. Light has a mental health condition that occasionally causes her to become confused about reality," he said slowly. "This is in her medical file."
Adams nodded.
"The effects of this can be similar to mind-altering substances the Foundation employs. So for… a while, Light's been having me run tests for amnestics after her episodes. More recently, drugs and poisons. Either way, you can imagine why she'd prefer not to let the council — or anyone — know."
Adams nodded again, slowly. "Ever had a positive result?"
"Not yet. But Alpha-9's only been in the works for a month."
Adams nodded yet again. "If you ever get a hit, let me know."
Vaux smiled, hand wrapped around Mango's leash, the very picture of compliance. "You'll be the second person I tell."

They took Iris from her containment cell early in the morning, and marched her across the Site and into an office she'd never seen before. The office was barren, but the furniture was nice, and the room large. Someone important, then. A director.
Iris knew that Site-17, like its big sister Site-19, had offices for far many more directors than just the current person in charge. The Foundation's biggest sites couldn't be run by just one person. Last she'd heard, Site-17 didn't even have a single official director. So this could be anyone.
Once Iris was seated, a black man holding the leash of a service dog, opened the office door. A white woman entered behind him. She recognized neither.
"Iris," said the woman. "It's very good to meet you." She was short, scarred, unsmiling, had her hair pulled back out of her face. She could have been from the military, but if this was who Iris suspected, she wasn't.
"You're Bowe," Iris said.
"Not quite." The woman looked surprised, and almost smiled. "I'm Sophia Light. I'm the director of Alpha-9."
They shook hands firmly but briefly.
"I've heard of you," Iris said. "You're a researcher."
"I have been," said Light. She sat. "I have a background in microbiology and infectious diseases. For the last, hm, three years, I've been the director of a small site up in Svalbard."
Those islands north of Norway, Iris recalled. She'd been there. "Do you have polar bears up there?"
"Now and then. The site is mostly underground, so it's not an issue." Light paused. "My assistant told me I should have them trained as guards. As they say in research files, 'This was not attempted.'"
"I could be wrong, but— I don't think there was a site there, when I was in Omega-7."
Pandora's Box had gone there once, and since there hadn't been a local site, they'd flown into Longyearbyen. She'd wandered the streets with the other humans on the team, past the colored houses and flying metal tramways. Sharp, smooth brown mountains and the smell of the sea.
Able had stayed with the plane. He didn't do tourism.
"You're right," said Light. "Svalbard is one of a dozen multi-object sites constructed in the last five years."
Iris took that in. "O5-10 told me that they're finding anomalies at a record rate."
"We have to put them somewhere."
Iris nodded. There was silence for a moment.
Light spoke again. "How, um. What do you think of the training so far?"
"I, uh." Iris stopped. What did she think about it? "It's, uh. I like having my camera back. And all this new technology is amazing. Digital televisions. iPhones."
Light nodded. "What about your recent difficulties with your ability?"
"I don't know." She kind of wished she were back in her cell. It was a thought that had been intruding often lately — she didn't want it, but there with her blankets and books and the heater turned up to a comfortable level, just her — there in her cell, there in her box — it was a strange thought.
She pushed it away, suddenly tired. "Does it matter? I'm not faking it. I know I'm not getting out and I've spent most of my life here now. That I can remember. I'm not trying to get out, I just want to know. Does this team really need me?"
"I don't want to add too much pressure, but you are the reason the team exists. What you can do has inspired the whole project."
"That— that— that's not—" Iris sputtered and cut off, and couldn't keep from shuddering. "That's too much."
Light raised her hands. "Sorry," she said. "That's. Not quite what I meant."
"Isn't it? You brought all of this together, because you knew I would do— I mean, you thought I could—"
She didn't want to finish any of those thoughts here, now. Iris launched herself out of her chair and paced the length of the office. She half expected the guards from outside to rush in and restrain her. Director Light twitched, but didn't otherwise react.
"Iris," Light said, slowly. "What I mean to say is yes. Alpha-9 does need you."
"Why?"
Light sighed. "Because you're the only anomalous survivor of Omega-7. Because you represent what might have been, the first time, if we'd done things right. Because you know what this is like, in a way no one else does. Because there is no one else quite like you in the Foundation. We have to have someone, and you're the best someone we have. We— I— want to help you."
"Help me what? Perform better in the field?"
"That or anything else," said Light. "What do you need? What do you want to know?"
"That's a hell of a question." Iris stopped pacing, and took a few breaths. "When Adams took me out, last month, to those bars. That was real, right?"
"What?"
"It wasn't staged. I mean— No, no, of course it wasn't." Iris ducked her head into her hand, clenched her teeth.
"I chewed Clef out myself afterward," said Light. "Not that Adams shouldn't have done it. She should have told me, and I would have told her to bring additional security. But it certainly happened. What makes you say that?"
"It felt fake," Iris said. She lifted her head from her hands, and stared at a spot on the wall instead.
"No, go on," said Light.
"Like, um." Iris swallowed. "I've spent the last seven years in a box. It's a fancy box, but it's not the real world. And then suddenly you need my help with something, I get dragged out and get to see the real world again, and… it feels like somewhere fictional. A movie set. The moon."
Light nodded. "Not that different from here."
"I don't know. Maybe I was too excited for it. Maybe I just thought it would be different."
Light nodded, slowly. "Sometimes when the Foundation recruits new staff, they give them Class-A amnestics. Wipes them clean. They claim it's cleaner, easier to train the agents, reduces possible objections to the line of work. It happened to friends of mine. I've never liked that approach."
Iris' gut twisted. She'd heard about that, but no one had really wanted to discuss it. Certainly not a director. "Because it's horrific?"
"I don't even think it's very effective. To be a part of the Foundation, you have to protect. To be good at it, you have to have a vested interest in the world out there. Know that it's worth fighting for. When you take that away, they're just following orders."
Iris sighed. "Good thing your agents aren't your objects, then."
"They are as of now," said Light. "Iris, we need to do better by you. And we, the people in power, need to make that work. Hell, even if your abilities went away tomorrow, you have insight into Omega-7 and where it went wrong. You know what we've done wrong by SCPs before. So, listen. It'll be alright."
"How can you be sure?"
"I can't," Light said. "But I can do everything in my power to make it so. And so can you."
"How?"
"You're not just an object," Light said. "We didn't need to make you the leader of an Alpha-9 team. We chose to do that partly because it's where you would be if you were any other agent." She smiled. "Well, any other agent with your unique capabilities. My point is — You're part of the Foundation, as much as we are."
Iris didn't know if she believed Light — in fact, she didn't. This seemed like another manipulation, even if Light herself was genuine. They'd manipulated Able, too, given him control over the makeup of the Omega-7 strike team, let him strut around Site-17, indulged his homicidal desires, so long as he was useful, until they couldn't keep him entertained any longer, and she…
No, no. Don't think about that again. Not now.
Did it matter either way? She didn't know how she felt about all this. Besides tired.
"What are you going to do?" asked Iris.
"First, you're going to take a break. From anything testing-related. Even if you come back and it's back to square one, that's fine. We all need time off."
"I thought you researcher types never did that." Iris almost smiled. Even knowing that it was a ploy for her favor, well, it kind of worked. She could use a respite.
Light leaned back in her chair, fiddling with a pen and staring off. "As for the near future… I have a few ideas."
"Like what?"
"Perhaps you'd like to meet an old friend?" Light asked.

"Iris, this is SCP-073."
"Hi," she said, nervously. She hadn't seem him since… since.
"Hello, Iris," Cain said. He smiled gently. His eyes looked so old and sad, despite the youth of his other features. He was like him, but older, more worn, more warm.
Director Moose was watching them closely. Iris glanced at her. She gave a little shrug. "I know the two of you have met already," she said. "073 is going to be helping us. Among other things, he's going to be interviewing everyone after each mission. Get impressions of how things went, what things went well, and where we could improve."
"And remember," she said.
"We've done this dance before," Cain said. "The tempo's changed, but it's still our song."
"How have you been?" she asked, her voice low and soft. Her eyes stung slighly.
"I've been well. Not terribly busy. I like the quiet. I missed you, though."
Suddenly, the tears fell freely, and she embraced the old man. "I missed you too," she said. "I never got to say goodbye. Not even to you."
He held her, awkwardly at first, then more warmly, or as warmly as his metal arms would allow. "It's okay. We're here now."

"Ready," Iris said.
"Begin," the researcher replied.
She dropped to one knee, raised the camera, and braced her elbow against her knee, thumbing the telephoto control as she did so. A quick snap of the shutter button, and she ducked back behind the wall, waiting for a few eternal seconds as the image downloaded to the iPad.
Once it did, she could identify the keys on the hook. The image was a bit blurry, but she was still able to make out the room numbers on the green tabs. She pushed her hand through the screen and gently unhooked the key labeled "207" from the pegboard. Slowly, carefully, she carried it across the room and dropped it into the mail slot of the hotel room door.
A man in black tactical gear grabbed the keys before they could even hit the ground. Silently, the team made their way up to the second floor of the shoot house, pausing at each door to check for ambush.
Finally, they made it to the motel room marked "207." The point man raised a small video camera up to the window, swore softly. "Claymore mine attached to door," he whispered over the comm.
"Send me the still," Iris said.
"Wait one… transmitting," the point man whispered.
Iris thumbed a control on her iPad, waited a moment for the picture to download. Sure enough, there was indeed a claymore mine facing the doorway, rigged to a wire attached to the door. "Damn," she whispered. "I don't think I can disarm the trigger."
"Should we go loud?" the point man asked.
"Wait one," Iris whispered back. She searched the photo carefully and smiled. "Get me a zoom shot of the full-length mirror," she said. "I can see the back of the claymore from there…"

They were standing in Nardieu's office.
“It worked?” asked Cortez.
“It worked,” said Nardieu. “Very clever.”
Light shrugged. “Her meeting Cain was going to happen anyways.”
“So you allowed it to happen at such a time that Iris thought she was being rewarded,” Cortez said. “For once, Nardieu and I are in agreement— that is clever.”
Light snorted. “That's too clever for me. I may have suspected it would help. And expedited the process.”
“I'm just glad it worked,” said Nardieu. He threw up his arms. “We finally have a success under our belt— Last Hope will fly yet. Could I offer either of you a drink? No? Well, I'm meeting my secretary, you'll have to excuse me. Let me know if you need me.”
They watched Nardieu wave off a security escort as he left.
“Are all the Site-17 directors this unprotective of their space?” asked Light.
“Not really,” says Cortez. “But you have to have a certain amount of trust to co-direct a site like Seventeen. And as far as he trusts me, he trusts you even more.”
“Really?” said Light. “Why?"
“Because you're directing his dream task force. And you're famous.”
“Oh. Jesus. Director Cortez, I just wanted to say that I understand your reservations about Alpha Nine. They're absolutely reasonable. But I want to thank you for your help and resources. Your expertise.”
Cortez shrugged and chewed on her lip. “If the Fivers weren't breathing down my neck, it might be different.”
“Of course. Nonetheless. Also, sorry for turning your site into a zoo.”
“You said it'll move out eventually?”
“One way or another.” said Light. “I'm working on it. Have a good evening, Cortez.”
“And you, Dr. Light.” Cortez sat down to go through files. Light let herself out.
“Escort to Personnel, please,” she told the guard outside the door. Her own two guards, recruited from separate sites and personally recommended by O5-7, did unfortunately have to sleep. If Vaux was around when she got there, she'd have him take notes. If not, half an hour on the treadmill might do her good. Her head was buzzing.
Their draft list of anomalies was ready now. It wasn't set in stone yet, and even if the anomalies themselves agreed, there were directors and researchers and other interested parties to assuage.
“Elevator or stairs, Director?” asked the guard.
“Stairs,” said Light. It was just one story, if she remembered correctly. She'd give Clef or Adams— no, definitely Adams— a crack at the new recruits, too. Let No Name Given prepare. God knows they'd need it.
Something brought her out of her reverie— the guard was behind her, and walking too slow, or maybe too quickly. Light glanced around, suddenly aware that she was a small woman alone with a larger man behaving unexpectedly. Aside from the two of them, the stairwell was completely empty.
Her pace must have changed— he knew that she knew.
The guard muttered “This is for Asher,” before kicking her down the stairs.
She tumbled and bounced. Her skull clattered on concrete. Stars flickered in her vision as she slammed into the wall at the bottom of the landing. It almost hid the jagged line of his tactical knife.
The guard's footsteps were heavy and measured on the stairs, coming closer. She wheezed and coughed. When he got close, she reared onto her knees and knocked him backward.
Back on her feet. He grabbed her left wrist, the one in a brace. Oh, no—
Light's brain flooded with adrenaline. She suddenly found herself cringing and saying “Nonononono–” out loud, which was highly embarrassing—
— then wonder of wonders, maybe out of surprise, the guard actually let go—
By the time she re-oriented, he had moved in and grabbed her upper arm, but that was manageable. She stomped onto his instep (he wears boots so it won't break bone, but he's distracted), kneed his groin (his grip loosens), swung a fist lazily at his head, and reached into her pocket. He reached up to catch the blow—
— and Light pepper-sprayed the shit out of him.
(Run, now— guards are trained with capsaicin spray so I have maybe ten seconds before—)
Light fished in her pocket again and pulled out a small bracelet made of blue feathers, courtesy of Director Tilda David Moose.
She put it on, and turned invisible.

At 6:38 PM local time, Site Security was alerted that one of its guards has gone AWOL and attacked a member of senior staff. They received this alert when said member of senior staff materialized outside their office. The rogue operative was found and apprehended.
Sophia Light was assigned to a saferoom, and her personal guards summoned. A doctor inspected her, and she fielded a quick call from a distracted O5-7, who asked about her health and sounded like she was on the phone with two people at once. Cortez checked in as well, and apologized, which Light was rather touched by. Security for Site-17 launched an immediate investigation.
“Look for Asher,” Light told them. “He mentioned an Asher.”
Light waited in the saferoom for three hours, and tried not to completely space out, with mixed results. Her guards would understand, but it was embarrassing— and what if she couldn't trust them either? That had been entirely too close a call. While she grappled with paranoia, Site Security swarmed out to gather information: on the guard, on his plans, on potential allies or traps at the site.
Then they brought her what they found.
His name was Robert Blankenship, Level Two, and he left a suicide note in his room. He didn't expect to survive his errand. In the letter, he described his brother, Asher Blankenship, recruited at the same time from the Navy in Whidbey Island, Washington, in 1999. They spent most of their careers with the Foundation in different places, but found ways to stay close nonetheless. Asher was an incredibly skilled marksman, Robert was merely adequate- both were extremely loyal.
Asher was recruited to Mobile Task Force Omega-7.
Able tore him in half.
The psych department thought Robert had worked through the trauma. They noted that he was assuaged when Omega-7 was shut down forever.
Light grimaced. “So when he heard it was being reformed—”
“He felt it was necessary to… take some kind of action.” Site-17's security director came personally. He was a short, chagrined-looking man who couldn't stop picking at his shirt collar.
“How sure are you of all of this? If he wasn't working alone—”
“Everything checks out. He wasn't, uh, well, all the weapons he was carrying were standard issue. Knew where you were— that was his clearance too. He used a scrubber to, uh, hide his image from the cameras once he went rogue, but it was a Foundation standard scrubber. So we could de-scrub it easily. The one he was wearing went missing from the site armory four days ago, which he had access to.”
“His plans after me?”
“He was going to take out as much of Alpha Niner's infrastructure as possible and, uh, ‘make it on his own.' His words.”
Light sighed. “So he was working entirely on his own. That's… some relief. I do appreciate your diligence. Do another loyalty check on your current guards when you can, please. I'll be changing my own safety habits. If he were a better assassin, I would be very dead right now.”
“Director? What should we do with him?”
“Who?”
“Robert Blankenship. We're going to let him hang for a few more days to see if he says anything else. After that, uh, what do you want?”
Light squeezed her eyes shut. "Who else knows?"
"Nobody outside this room and three of my best staff. Word may still get out, though."
That sealed it. "Policy is clear. Termination."
The security director looked startled. “As you say, director.”
Maybe it was too far. She could have been merciful, but honestly, what did he expect? Seven's guards flanked her as she went toward the saferoom exit. One of them held the door open. If you play with fire…
She stopped. “Did Asher Blankenship have any other brothers?”
“Uh… No more siblings.”
“Robert, or anyone else from Omega-7? Do they have living family or romantic connections at the Foundation?”
He gave her a long look. “I don't know, Director. I'll have a list sent to you.”
How long must that list be? Would it even be enough? What about friends? Co-workers? Light shut her eyes. She'd be on that list. Several times over.
“Thank you. That will be all.”