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#header h1 a::before {
    content: "SCP Foundation";
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    content: "Secure, Contain, Protect";
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Evening, everyone. Tough luck you all had your orientation at this hour, but it's not like the average Foundation employee's sleeping schedule is any better. Just take your seats. Looks like you're all here— Ah, someone just came in late! Let me guess, you didn't hear the knocking on your door. Just sit down, no need to embarrass yourself any further. Alright, looks like everyone's here.
I'd like to welcome you all to the Foundation's Research and Development Department. I'm Senior Researcher, Dr. Michael Meyer─ did I just hear a chuckle? And before anyone starts thinking they're the funniest member of this department, just know that you're not the only one who has come up with the Michael Myers joke. I've heard it enough.
Now, if you've been transferred to R&D, it's because of one of three reasons, and only these: one, you were caught doing unethical experimentation. Two, you had a grudge against a high-ranking member, and he or she sent you here. Three, you were so painfully average that they sent you here for replacement. That's it. And if you think your case is special, trust me, it isn't.
You may be wondering why you're still wearing a lab coat instead of an orange uniform. My answer is that you're still somewhat useful, yet not completely. You won't be under constant threats of anomalies like D-Class, you're just the middle ground between respected personnel and test subjects. That's the whole point of R&D.
Let's see now… you, the one with the buns. Do me a favor and check under your seat, please. You'll notice there's a control duct-taped, grab it and push the button. Oh, don't worry about the GPS location standing where you are, just do it. I'll just move a bit.
You hear the UAV, as well?! Whoa, careful with your eyes, everyone! It's great that they let us the conference room since there's a lot more space for the drone to fly. By the way, miss, grab the paper that's going to be delivered on the air! There's a question written on it.

It had been a week since he was transferred from that humanoid site on the outskirts of Boulder to the most important site in the Foundation, located at Omaha – Site-19. That in itself wasn't a bad deal, combined with the redaction of his involvement in the experiments he participated in. The bad thing was that he was transferred to a department even he didn't know about: R&D.
The first time he entered the sector, he didn't receive any welcome – just a short orientation in the middle of the night, and tomorrow morning his work started. There were constant footsteps, the mumbling of researchers in front of an interactive whiteboard, and doors opening and closing every few minutes. But it was silent - like there wasn't much work to do.
And there wasn't, because he was playing with a colleague he met recently, Samuel, along with a buddy of his – yet he couldn't remember his name.
Something with L. Meyer wondered.
L is for a lake, yet this guy is never quiet, nor can he sit for two seconds, he's constantly flying – moving, that's right, moving. He's more like a river. There's a river with L in Nova Scotia… the Larry River.
Larry, Meyer remembered. He never liked forgetting things, no matter how trivial they were – even if it wasn't useful, he didn't like that feeling. He threw the paper plane, it flew across some cubicles, passed above some heads, then turned around, heading back to Michael.
Before he could catch it, Larry busted it in grabbed it for him, then threw it again.
“Did I tell you about this mission we went on just a couple of days ago?” Larry asked as he turned around.
“Which of them all?” Michael asked.
“So, we were on our way to this hidden base in Pierre, Montana” Larry started – Meyer listening to the worst possible way to pronounce a French descending town. “Our mission was to look for any Chaos Insurgency technological complex and wipe them over.”
“But by the time we got there, we saw something odd: a squadron of flying men, using wings to fly all over the sky, with missiles attached to them. In self-defense, we fired against them – yet these bastards were extremely fast, it was like fighting an actual eagle.”
Larry kept rambling on and on about his adventure – Michael focused mostly on his paper plane flying back, right in time for Larry's story to end.
“The last terrorist standing, or flying that is,” Larry winked. “Was taken down by me, he fell so high, that when he landed it sounded like this.”
He turned around, whistling, simulating how the Insurgency soldier sounded as he fell, and the moment Larry was about to mimic the explosion, the tip of Michael's plane pinched Larry's left eye.
Larry stiffed, covering his eye with his hand. Michael's plane fell to the ground, in front of Larry's feet. Samuel stood up and rushed to check on Larry – Michael did the same, yet he went to pick up his plane.
“Myers, what the hell are you doing?” Samuel demanded. “We need to check Larry's eye, he might be blee─”
“He's not,” Michael responded, showing the tip of the plane to Samuel. “It doesn't have any blood spilled on top of it. It's just a minor pain, it'll go away.”
Larry slowly took off his hand and blinked several times.
“Yeah, I think I'm good.” Larry sobbed.
“Get a grip, Larry, you're a pilot – you can kill a man at high speeds in the air but not stand the tip of a paper plane?” Michael said as he looked at Larry, returning his view to his paper plane.
“What the hell are you even looking at that thing for?” Larry asked. “It's clean.”
“Larry,” Michael stated. “How would you feel about losing your job as a pilot?”

… And we thought: why not record the pilot's movements during combat, instead of controlling them from HQ? However, the project's development stopped. I'll talk about it later, but in the meantime: ma'am, care to read the 'purpose' section of the pamphlet.
‘Activities that are undertaken by the Foundation for the development, production, and innovation of new technologies beneficial for the containment and maintenance of the Veil'.
Thank you very much. Let's see now. You, Wade. Yes, you're the only Wade I'm looking at now. Which department did you work with before your transfer? Ontokinetics - ouch, it must hurt to be demoted from such an important department to R&D. Anywho, here's a question: what's the purpose of Ontokinetics?
‘The study of reality-bending anomalies.'
And before studying those anomalies, your department had to contain them. Specifically, with SRAs, am I correct? Damn, right I am. And who do you think fabricated those SRAs?
That's right, R&D did it. Has anyone here worked at Memetics and Infohazards? One, two, three. Alright, who do you think produced the countermemes and the highly controversial SCRAMBLE goggles? That's right, R&D did it. Now, at the time when the SCRAMBLE goggles were used in the field, R&D wasn't so proud of her work – but with time, you grow fond of something that reminds you of the old days. At least that's what the senior officers tell me.
Nowadays, there isn't much work. At best, you'll all be working with minor technological machinery that won't revolutionize any field, or writing research articles on new discoveries that won't be used any time soon. If it does, then just wait for the project to be transferred to its respective department – like with the SRAs. I must admit, there isn't much future for any of you here. At best, you'll be promoted to medium-rank. All high-ranking personnel, from head researchers to on-site directors, to the General Director – Karl Rosenbaum – are controlled by the O5 Council.
Scary, right? Oh, come on, don't give me those looks. As much as I hate it myself, that's the reality of the situation. Of our situation, that is.
Clap.
Yet that's about it. Do any of you have a question so far?
You, Baldo. How much will you get paid…? Look behind you, mister. Now, do you see a table full of donuts and warm coffee? Of course, you don't see it - it isn't even entirely full, only half of it is filled with water bottles and crackers. Now, take a look at my suit. Do you really think I can buy Armani or Gucci with this salary? Of course not. And that'll be the same for you. The Foundation will pay you just enough for you, your family, and your loyalty to survive. Next. Woah, raise your hand when you want to participate, but I like your initiative. Can you ask for a transfer to another department? Sorry, pal. You were explicitly told that unless you need a good enough reason – and no, working at a dying department doesn't count – you aren't allowed to transfer. Anyone else?
'Where's Director Rosenbaum?'
Do you already want to kick his ass right before your first day? Professor Rosenbaum doesn't leave his office, and nobody enters – not even his secretary. Did you notice the screens attached in some hallways? Whenever Director Rosenbaum transmits a message, an image of his face appears on-screen - it doesn't even move, it's just static.
I don't see any more hands raised, so this orientation is…
Who asked that? Whoever asked, don't play the fool. Stand up and ask again. So, it was you. Did I hear that right?
'Was it always like this?'
The golden question of every transfer, huh? Long story short, no. It wasn't always like this. I didn't live during the golden years if that's what you mean. If you want to know about them, search for those who have greying hair. I was transferred when it was still thriving, yet I saw its first vestiges, and finally the cracks.
'Why was I transferred?'
I'll let your mind wander on those three options I said at the beginning, but I can assure you that my hands aren't clean – nobody's hands in this room are.
Anyway, back to R&D. The creation of R&D was born after a task force defected from the Foundation - you'll know about them in the meantime, that's if you survive their raids. Ever since then, the Council has tried to find a way to use and weaponize anomalies to maintain normalcy. Of course, they knew the risks; they needed people, resources, and space – that's when R&D was born, along with its first site, Site-150.
The construction started in 1916, and it took an entire decade to complete. But once it did, everything changed. The project was so successful that more sites began to implement their own R&D departments. Site-19 was one of the first ones.
Wherever R&D went, it thrived. You could hear the footsteps of countless personnel, smell the air of novelty as if it was the plastic of a new book, touch every single invention that we came up with – that was our sweat, our blood, and our hard work. We were the foundation for technological advancement in the anomalous world. As former Director Foster said: "it was progress."
However, our progress was halted. I don't why or when, but I guess it started some years before I was transferred, before mid-2013. Supposedly, Dr. Tabitha Foster had problems with some members of the O5 Council – rumors say it was five and ten. Sanctions came in, projects were halted or entirely terminated, and the Ethics Committee began to finally do their work – by that meaning, they started to label anything as “unethical experimentation” and shutting projects down.
Remember the UAV from not too long ago? Well, we used the best pilots the Foundation had at its disposal, equipped them with an advanced flight suit that would analyze their movements, and then store it into an AI inside the UAV - we wanted to install the "gut feeling" of an actual, professional pilot into drones for air support, with the goal of replacing them for combat. However, that's where the Ethics Committee came in.
Apparently, because of the high speeds and situations we were putting these pilots into, their bodies began to deteriorate, so they decided to put an end to the project - despite the pilots knowing the consequences that may occur and consenting to experimentation, the health insurance we provided after finishing the project, and the many reasons we gave that it could be beneficial in the long run, they did not care. This UAV is one of the prototypes, and it has its flaws. We mainly use them now for packaging and delivery inside the department.
Here's another example. Wade, when you arrived in America, you were transported from Site-45, right? Alright, now ask for your partner next to you to look under his seat. There's a controller that is for this projector. Now, Wade, move to the third slide. Know what that is? Yes, it's the map of the continental US, but there's a catch: Foundation High-Speed Rail for North America Proposal. The purpose of this proposal was to connect all the Foundation's sites with one high-speed rail that would transport both personnel and resources in a precise and efficient manner and further expand to encompass the entire North American continent, from the Rio Grande to Nova Scotia. Ambitious, am I right?
Want to know why it was canceled?

To: ten.pics|reyem.leahcim#ten.pics|reyem.leahcim +23
From: ten.pics|llabmik.p.j#ten.pics|llabmik.p.j
Subject: Review of the Foundation High-Speed Rail for North America Proposal

Good afternoon, doctors and researchers,
The proposal was received by the Board of Foundation Projects and Proposals (B.O.F.P.P) for the approval of the Foundation High-Speed Rail for North America Proposal. After initial analysis and discussion, and considering the magnitude of the project, the board decided to include members of the following departments: the Accounting Department, the Engineering and Technical Service Department, the Ethics Committee, and the Logistics Department.
After peer-review, a unanimous election was held between the twenty-six board members of the B.O.F.P.P. and a representative of each respective department, resulting in the following resolution: 10-6-14. Therefore, the proposal was DENIED.
The board members and representatives that chose to deny the project gave the following reasons:
1. The mere cost of a project of such magnitude and reach would be too expensive, even for the Foundation's budget.
2. Because the project is directly linked to sites and areas, some of them being in large urban areas, it would need to be constructed in public - affecting the safety of the Veil.
3. Even if the proposal was successfully created, it would be under constant attack by antagonistic GoIs (mainly the Chaos Insurgency and the Serpent's Hand).
4. Finally, currently the Foundation runs effectively with the use of trucks and airplanes, so there is no necessity to invest in a project of this size with no guarantee of its effectiveness.
The B.O.F.P.P. sends their regards for the resolution of the proposal, and they wish good luck for any future projects that the Research and Development Department may come across.
Sincerely,
J.P. Kimball
High Secretary for the Board of Foundation Projects and Proposals

The man, with his blank and tired eyes, finished reading the copy of the email above his desk. He looked up to the twenty-four employees that stood up in front of his desk, surrounding him - their eyes, unlike his, were full of light and tireless, waiting impatiently for his input.
He shoved the copy away from him, returning it to the group in front of him.
"What is it that I should feel offended about?" He asked.
One of the researchers frowned, stepping up from the rest of the group - Meyer was standing behind him with his fists clenched, to his right.
"Did you even read the damn reasons for the project's denial?" Samuel asked.
The man at the desk nodded.
"It sounds reasonable enough, it's too excessive even for us."
"Bullshit," Samuel answered, some of the group gazing at him, surprised. "Our site literally has a fucking undercover story, as well as many other ones - we can't even make a fucking railway to connect all of them?"
"Samuel, you need to understand that we can't do much when a project is denied - the B.O.F.P.P. has their reasons."
"And their reasons are stupid," Samuel stated and began counting with his fingers. "First, we receive billions and billions of dollars from governments and private enterprises across the world - money isn't a problem. Second, we have a site in goddamn New York of all places - every day we risk the protection of the Veil. Third, our sites and areas have raids and containment breaches almost consistently. Fourth, this will help alleviate resources that could be used in other areas in the long run - need I remind you that the government built a transcontinental railroad in the fucking XIX century?"
Samuel lashed out against the desk, looking straight into the man's eyes.
"I'm the Supervisory Researcher of this project, sir. And I say this is horseshit."
"Woah, Sam," Michael grabbed Samuel's shoulder. "Tone it down, will─"
"And I'm your Head Researcher," The man said as he looked up, disappointingly, at Samuel in the eyes. "And if the board says a project is denied, it's denied - there's nothing I can do about it, especially yourself."
"You damn bastard," Samuel said as he was about to jump on him - Michael grabbed him by his arms, pulling him back.
As Michael pulled him out of the room, the rest of the team who were eager to talk to the Head Researcher piled up - but unlike Samuel, they didn't assault him. Finally, Michael drew Samuel out of the room, releasing him. Samuel turned around, facing Michael.
"Why the hell did you do it?!" Samuel shouted.
"Listen to me here," Michael responded, grabbing him by the collar of his lab coat. "You punch our Head Researcher, you're not the only one who gets sent to Keter Duty - the entire team! We can't invent anything if we're dead! Now, tell me, what the hell did you think you would win by punching him?!"
"That project was my ticket to leave this fucking department, that's why!" Samuel barked. "If I could just push him around a bit, maybe he might actually stand his ass up and demand for a second peer review - but no, there goes my lottery ticket, to the fucking trash!"
Samuel shoved Michael away, walking down to one of the hallways before Michael missed him out of sight - Michael wouldn't see him for a while after that incident.

Do you want to know the worst part? A year later, they built a section for the Northeastern sites - with the exact same model as Sam's blueprints.
Of course, people weren't happy about all of this, but we could take the punches – we always did. However, two events marked the end of that era: the redirection of research and development technology to their respective departments – starting with Ontokinetics, Wade – and the isolation of new technologies during Project Resurrection.
I understand if you're confused and somewhat surprised, which leads me to believe that most of you don't know anything about Alpha-9 or Project Resurrection. As a policy of so-called “transparency”, they've decided to open low-rank classified documents regarding Mobile Task Force Alpha-9, a task force with the mission to "train and utilize" humanoid SCPs. Do you want to know what it's called? “Last Hope”. Cheesy, am I right?
You may ask what this has to do with R&D. Because Alpha-9 had the goal to weaponize new anomalies, it also meant the creation of either classified, halted, or even incentivize the creation of new technology – and the one selected for this mission was Professor Kain Pathos Crow. Who's he? A genius dog in a lab coat that can talk, in a nutshell. Professor Crow had a great influence on both R&D and the Foundation - he was one of the most brilliant minds the department had. Since most projects would be headed by Crow, he couldn't do everything by himself - and that's when we came in. We believed R&D would get a slice of the pie, that we would return to the technological progress we had before all the sanctions from the Council.
Our optimism increased when Dr. Alto Clef, then director of R&D at Site-17, was also appointed to work alongside Professor Crow. With these two individuals, along with Foster, not only could Alpha-9 weaponize the anomalies it had on the plan, but potentially create an overflow of technologies that could rival other technologically advanced Groups of Interest.
Some weeks passed, and those weeks turned into months and then months into a year. We spent an entire year waiting for work, for new projects. Foster knew something wasn't adding up, so she contacted the Council. Until now, we didn't know how the Foundation responded to her, nor gave any reason why we didn't have a voice or participation in this new project – but whatever they told her was not pretty, nor what she was going to do about that.
It started with a strike - for a whole week, nobody at Site-150 worked. Nothing was designed, manufactured, or shipped. We got no response. Foster sent an email to all the sites that had an R&D division, calling for a general strike on December 5, 2015. Several sites decided not to, but most did. It was a massive hit, that it was broadcast on Foundation radio, and media outlets - even appearing on the first page of the Foundation's journal. However, it didn't succeed. For one last time, Foster contacted the Council, demanding the lifting of sanctions and the participation of R&D in Project Resurrection - and for one last time, she got no response.
Foster remained diplomatic, thinking that with enough pressure, she would set the Council and the Ethics Committee on the bargaining table. Then, Foster received an unpleasant gift on Christmas Eve.

Incident Between R&D and SD Ends In 13 Deaths And Many Injured

December 26, 2016
On Christmas Eve, R&D's Assistant to Director Tabitha Foster, Eric Henderson, was killed - along with nine other R&D employees and three security guards, while injured personnel on both sides reached thirty-four. Eric Henderson flew from Site-150 to Site-19 to meet with the Chairman of the Ethics Committee, Dr. Robert Feldon, who was at the site to celebrate Christmas Eve with other members of the Ethics Committee - Assistant Henderson was sent as a representative to Director Foster, hoping to open a dialogue with the Chairman to compromise between R&D and the Ethics Committee, likely to put pressure on the Overseer Council.
However, Dr. Feldon left earlier than expected, along with the site's liaison Jeremy Schmidt, leaving the Ethics Committee's office complex closed and empty. According to witnesses, a pair of guards detained Assistant Henderson at the entrance of the office complex and questioned him. Some members of R&D went on their way to support Henderson in his defense, while the guards tried to deescalate the situation. Eventually, gunfire was heard, and both sides began to attack and shoot at each other. The noise brought attention from members of both, escalating the situation - multiple R&D personnel went after the guards unarmed, resulting in more casualties and injuries. R&D employees that disarmed the guards took their weapons and shoot back, quickly falling down due to security reinforcements.
At the end of the massacre, R&D members were detained while injured ones were transferred to emergencies alongside security guards. The incident resulted in thirteen deaths, nine of those from R&D (including Eric Henderson) and four guards - thirty-four were injured on both sides. Witnesses vary, those saying that either R&D members or those of the Security Department fired the first shot - the results are still on hold.
Director's Foster reaction was quick: she ordered the imprisonment and even termination of the guards involved in the incident, as well as compensation for the death of R&D employees. Dr. Foster took advantage of the situation as well, once again demanding the lifting of sanctions against the department. The Overseer Council's response is still on hold.

To say that Foster was mad would be an understatement - she was enraged, using the incident as her way to rally more support for those members that still were skeptical of her scheming. And she would use it to take the next step.
Foster gathered the high-ranking officers of R&D, those who were loyal to her. The idea was this: to overthrow the Overseer Council and replace the new one with members who were both of R&D and those who wanted to utilize and weaponize SCPs for the betterment of humanity. All of them agreed with the plan, and they added as many people to the conspiracy as they could. I don't have information on what the specific plan was, but I suppose it may have to do with a revolt along with a coup-d'état – I wouldn't discard the possibility of other departments or Groups of Interest being involved, either. The conspiracy went from Foster to the youngest low-ranking member of R&D.
'Was I involved in the conspiracy?´

Michael had the night shift until Samuel pulled him out of his “work” – which consisted in seeing emails rejecting many of his proposals – and led him somewhere. Samuel and Michael crossed hallways, went through doors, and walked by several guards - then they reached a certain area, which Michael was convinced that his poor Junior Researcher clearance didn't allow him to go in.
“So, where are we going?” Michael demanded.
“Just a couple more minutes, and we'll be there,” Samuel answered, rushing through what looked like the exact same places as before, only rustier, older, lonelier – abandoned. No lights were on, and Michael doubted they worked.
However, he noticed a small beacon of light shining from a gap – most likely it was a door that led to the room Samuel was leading Michael to. As they drew closer, he noticed the figure of a man standing outside the door, guarding it. When Samuel and Michael arrived at the front, the man said:
“When the madness of the Veil engulfs us.”
“We bring reason to the anomalous.” Samuel completed.
The man nodded, stepping aside. Samuel pushed the doors, the beacon of light becoming a full ray, almost blinding Michael. Michael blinked a few times, his eyes adjusting to the brightness of the room as he walked in. Then, he was halted, feeling a slam above his lungs. He saw Samuel's arm - he was about to complain, but when he saw what was in front of him, he understood why Samuel did what he did.
He stood in front of a railing and had he kept walking he mostly would've stomped into it and fallen to one of the thousands of members of the rally. Michael was standing on a balcony that extended in a form of a square, down him was the center of the building, the main hall: thousands of people in researchers', engineers' and doctor's uniforms stood, stuck together, murmuring and whispering, waiting impatiently for someone to step on the stage.
The stage was decorated with two posters hanging on the wall, showing the emblems of R&D: it was the Foundation's emblem, the arrows pointing at the center with R&D's insignia – a lightbulb with a gear inside it, instead of the Tungsten filament, emitting brightness. The second one showed the slogan of the department in golden letters:
“When the madness of the Veil engulfs us, we bring reason to the anomalous.”
Michael looked at Samuel, his hands gripping the railing - Michael raised an eyebrow.
“What the hell is this place, Sam?” Michael demanded. “This is madne─”
Uproars and claps began to sound everywhere, echoing throughout the entire building, followed by the hushing from Samuel.
“It's her!” Samuel pointed out.
Michael looked where Samuel was pointing, where a woman was slowly approaching the center of the stage. Her tall figure walked straight, each step calculated and with purpose - for Michael, the most interesting thing was her face: her chin was up, her sight looking forward, but Michael couldn't tell completely what her eyes looked like.
Tabitha Foster stood at the center, looking at the first row. She put her hands behind her back, looking at the second, then at the third, and so on. After finishing with the main hall, she looked up. When it was Michael's turn, he finally figured it out: Foster's eyes showed a penetrating gaze, a tenacious one - Michael's back shivered. When she finished looking everywhere, she smiled to herself and looked at the audience - likely appreciating that she had control of everyone's attention.
"I want to thank each of you for coming down today," Director Foster started - her voice echoing, loudly and clearly, throughout each corner of the building. "In these harsh times, we need to remain together."
"We've given a tough fight against those who have tried to halt our work, against those who cannot see the path to progress - those who believe that their petty, personal beliefs think that their actions justify the derailment of the Foundation's technological advancement. But I know, and all of you too, that this is not only ignorant but idiotic."
A bunch of uproars, claps, and yells came from Michael's left.
"For one hundred years, we've been the backbone of the Foundation - their Atlas, weighing on our shoulders the destiny and survival of mankind. In all those years, we've been the pioneers of technology to shield both ourselves and those outside the darkness we're fighting. We swore, just like those who are trying to stop us, to secure, to contain, and to protect mankind - like those thirteen researchers, who stood up for my assistant, Eric. And I'd like to ask for a minute of silence for those that gave their lives for R&D."
The entire room fell silent. Michael assumed that's how it sounded like when no one was on the lowest level of Site-19.
"During these last months, we've done the impossible to resist the sanctions, rejections, and interventions of the Overseer Council and the Ethics Committee - we've given a good fight, too. We've struck, protested, and stopped doing what we most care about - our work. From Site-150, to here, my audience of Site-19, we have punched a good blow to the Foundation. We never wanted to, but we were cornered, and we had to fight back."
“Yet, the O5s, like the cowards they are, have not answered to our demands, to our voices. Instead, they've hidden behind their masks of silence and anonymity. But we haven't, right?!”
Like a wave, a massive “yes!” was yelled in unison – Michael noticed Samuel joining the crowd, yelling at the top of his lungs, consumed by rage.
"Of course, we haven't! We've shown our faces and broadcast them live to the entire Foundation. We are thousands, even millions of us that are proud members that we can say with our chests pumped up that we are Research and Development! That we won't be chained by the orders of Neanderthals of the future we're building - and most of all, that we are not going to take this anymore!"
The people of the rally screamed and clapped in a furor, and Michael did the same – he didn't want to be hit on the face if someone didn't see him following the horde. Director Foster opened her arm to the right, with some people stepping onto the stage behind her.
"But site one hundred and fifty cannot fight alone, it needs every single one of you to join our case." Dr. Tabitha Foster turned around and stepped back, letting the audience catch a glance at the people she wished to demonstrate. "That's why I want to thank this site's director, Dr. Juliana Richardson, and assistant director, Professor Karl Rosenbaum, for giving full support to my… no, our cause. And I want you…"
Dr. Tabitha Foster took the center of the stage again. Michael didn't know her, but he knew that she felt like she had taken control again - not of the stage, not of the audience, but of something greater.
"To follow my lead. Heed my words! The Overseer Council has become a threat, not only to this department but to the world. They are no longer capable of seeing past their own sight - they must come down, and we will do that job! Once we do, we'll take control of the Foundation, and reshape its philosophy and archaic methods - we'll utilize anomalies not only for the protection of the Veil but of humanity's progress! We will retake our former pride, and construct a new way forward. Members of the Research and Development, unite!"
Chants, whistles, cries, claps, and yells resonated across the entire building. Everywhere Michael's eyes looked, everybody had the same reaction – a fanatic enthusiasm, their eyes shining at the words they had just heard. And Michael did as well. But as he chanted, whistled, and clapped like everyone else, the back of his mind knew, and repeated to himself:
This won't work.

… What I'm mostly pissed about is that they never told me that I couldn't get a position beyond Senior Researcher after dismantling the conspiracy… so many ideas I had.
Sigh.
In the end, Foster's plan failed - it didn't even unfold. Not because of any counterintelligence or espionage, but because a certain someone revealed it to Internal Affairs - we still don't know who it was to this day. They quickly came in, and arrested each member one by one - they didn't even bother with interrogating or finding any evidence. By the end of the day, Site-150 was sieged. Some higher-ups fled to the Chaos Insurgency. Apparently, the Insurgency's ideology matched that of the conspirators. Others weren't so lucky, and nobody knows what became of ex-Director Foster - no doubt she's dead, though.
Former high-ranking and medium-ranks loyal to Foster were terminated, and replaced with those loyal to the Council, to ensure that any conspiracy of that size may never happen. Site-150 was completely revamped and became Site-120 – it has the same purpose as ours, yet is now owned by the Department of Ontokinetics.
Foundation archivists and historians named this event the “Foster Conspiracy”. They're not that creative with names, but it's fitting. After that, R&D personnel working at Site-150 were scattered across different Foundation sites, completely separated from each other, so that they could never organize on a large scale again – even some sites decided to completely shut down the department. Site-17's R&D became Training and Development, Site-43's went from a department to a section and renamed to Research and Experimentation, and some other examples that I can't recall now. Site-19 remains the last instance of Research and Development, completely forgotten compared to other departments and divisions – just like we are.
And here we are. How's that for a bedtime story?
Oh, don't give me those looks. You knew that there would be consequences if you crossed the line, yet you've all decided to do so.
‘So, now what?'
Well, what can you do? Please, tell me. I'm so eager to listen to the next conspirator lunatic. If you want my advice; patience, that's all I can say.
Well, I think that's more than enough time for an orientation. The guards will take you back to your quarters, and tomorrow you'll start your work. Night everyone─
'When was I promoted?'
I was promoted to Senior Researcher just a couple of weeks after the conspiracy was dismantled. If nobody has any further questions, I have places to be.


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“Okay, you have your magic scroll?”
My son rolled his eyes “Mom, please.” He said.
My handsome, solidly built 17 year old waved the roll of paper under my beak. I nodded, but I still felt more than a little bit uncertain.
We were standing in a well decorated hallway outside of a classroom in a section of the Main Office I'd only seen on school tours. The Main Office had a shocking number of schools for children of all species and grade levels. It was potentially very dangerous, but not considerably more so than the Milwaukee school district.
I put my talons around his tiny human hand and squeezed the scroll into it. “Just open this, and you'll pop right back home, okay? You don't need to use the Ways.”
He stared at me, impatiently. "Mom, look at me." He raised his hand to cover his face. "I am already a magician, and outside the secure areas, I can-"
He snapped his fingers and vanished.
Instantly I panicked. Oh god! What had he done? Was he-
“Boo.” came a voice from behind me.
I let out a terrified “YAAARP!” and wheeled around to see my adolescent magic prodigy grinning like an idiot.
I staggered back, trying to get my heart to stop pounding, “Johnny, don't do that!”
Johnny looked like he was going to laugh for a moment, then his expression sank. “Sorry… Sorry mom.” He did his best to compose himself. “My point is, I was mastering apportation magic for months before you even knew what magic was. The magic stuff is about the only thing I'm confident in in this place. But whatever I end up using, I'll head back to the house if something bad happens. Scout's honor.”
I raised whatever I had on my wrinkled face that passed for an eyebrow. “You got kicked out of Boy Scouts.”
He scratched at the back of his neck. “Actually it was Cub Scouts… And in my defense, they were super culty. The point is, I'll bail if I need to, but I really want to make this work.”
He seemed sincere, but I was guilty that he had to be. I know he was, by his own actions, as thoroughly banned from Earth as I was, but I still felt like I'd dragged him here. "I really hope it works for you, too. Just… know there are other options, if it doesn't."
He nodded. “So, aren't you starting class today too?”
I shrugged. “Yeah… maybe I'll get perspective on all the newfangled stuff you've been playing with.”
He snorted. “Mom, if anything, thaumaturgy is oldfangled-”
“Excuse me?” came a voice.
I looked over and saw a large lime green slug with a tiny phonograph hanging from a carved wooden chain on its waist. It was poking its head out of the door to the classroom.
“Were you joining the class?” came a voice from the phonograph. “You didn't come via the Way…”
I blinked at the slug, forced myself to accept them as normal through sheer force of will, and replied. “Oh! I was just dropping off my son.”
I gave Johnny a hug. “Try to make friends?”
He nuzzled into my feathers. “You too.” He looked pretty serious about it.
I smirked. “Don't worry kid, I'm way ahead of you.”

My new friend puked violently into the toilet.
I rubbed Terra-2 on the back as the poor eagle finally stopped heaving. I offered her a tissue and she wiped down her beak. Once she was cleaned up, she signed back to me “Sorry about all of this.”
I shook my head. “It's okay,” I signed back —I was really getting the hang of sign language— “those things are hard to look at. And, glass half full, your stomach held out a lot longer this time.”
Terra gripped her now tightly-rolled Map and slipped it into its case. When I first saw the silver map cases the staff handed out to us, they seemed kitschy and cumbersome. Now they seemed critical and if anything, massively unsecured.
A Map of the Multiverse was an incredibly powerful magical item. All you needed to do was whisper the name of anywhere listed in the countless mapped dimensions it would take you there. There were a few exceptions to that, as some particularly dangerous dimensions were marked in red and apparently required a key of some kind, but the access the maps provided was unparalleled.
Unfortunately, maps have serious drawbacks. The Multiverse was big. Really big. Even looking at a sketch of a fraction of it was like staring down a canyon and up a mountain at the same time. It was living inside a centrifuge. It was like having your inner ear smacked around by a professional boxer.
In short, staring into the abyss will fuck you up if you ain't used to it. And Terra wasn't there yet. Apparently her vector (a hotshot magician with the social skills of a toddler) had rescued her from a two dimensional reality, so it was hardly a surprise that the poor eagle was having trouble processing her Map's spatial distortion.
There was a knock on the bathroom door. “Are you okay in there?” said a familiar voice.
“We're fine, Sirt-235!” I called out. “Also, you don't have to wait outside.” The Main Office's bathrooms were all gender neutral. It was just easier that way.
My favorite pigeon slipped in behind us with a nervous look on his face. He had a bag of chips in his foretalons and looked down on Terra with fear. “Oh dear. Do you need help?”
Tera shook her head, flashed a thumbs up, and picked herself up off the tile floor. She preened her feathers back into place with rapid, mechanical precision and went to the sink to rinse out her beak a bit more thoroughly.
"You're all good? Okay, good, then. That's… good." Sirt coughed, and turned to me. "So Earth-5, how are you? You have the son, right? Everything, uh, go okay with him?"
I flinched a bit internally —I still wasn't used to that name— but I nodded. “He got off to school okay at least. I dunno if I'll know much more for a while.”
He cooed in understanding. “I have to say. You're really brave joining the Wandsmen with a kid to take care of.”
I sighed. “I really didn't have a choice.” Considering the state of my old human body, if I hadn't joined up, there would be no one left to take care of him.
“Johnny's older though, right?” Terra signed from the sink. “I mean he'll be an adult soon?”
“In just a few months he'll be 18, yeah.” I said, trying not to look in the mirror. “He's a good kid, smart, talented… but this whole situation is crazy and he's definitely not prepared for it. I feel the most and least needed I've ever been.”
“I mean, I think he'll be okay.” Sirt said, shoveling more chips into his beak. “Maybe someday he'll even sign up and join us. Take the map and all that.”
This time I actually did look in the mirror. The hideous, bald, wrinkly vulture head stared back at me. “God I hope not…"
I shook my head. I didn't have time to throw a pity party. "We should talk about us. How long do we have before our class starts?” I asked, changing the subject as quickly as I could.
Sirt pulled out his map and read off an annotation. “About six minutes?”
I tried to center myself. “Great… off to see the wizard I guess.”
Sirt put a talon on my shoulder and cooed softly. "Oh, hey… you're going to be fine. You're already floating pebbles."
I chuckled ruefully. “Yeah, the gods themselves do tremble at my power.” Floating pebbles was the thaumaturgy equivalent of finger painting and I'd barely gotten that down in the past two days… with way too much help from Sirt.
“You're doing better than me.” Terra signed.
It was technically true, but not the whole story. “Don't sell yourself short,” I reassured her. It wasn't just empty pablum either. She may not have floated any pebbles, but she had a mind like a steel trap and could speed-read like no one I'd ever seen. I was sure once she got over the initial “hump” of accessing her power she'd be a name magician in a week.
“So,” Said Sirt, “Any word on who's teaching Thaumaturgy 101 this week?”
Terra looked very nervous. “Sadly, yes,” she signed. “My vector.”

So it was that Terra, Sirt and I ended up sitting together in the middle row while Terra's vector, the infamous Dr. Bright, paced the bottom of the lecture theater with an unimpressed look on his beak.
He had far from the most intimidating bird form. Cuckoo Wandsmen forms looked a lot like Sirt's pigeon form. Just grey feathered quasi-humanoids with a few stripes on the belly and tail feathers and not much else.
But Dr. Bright was no ordinary cuckoo. He had this look in his eye that reminded me of a combination between a drug lord and a Chief of Medicine, both of which were the bane of my existence during my medical career. He wore a tight labcoat fitted carefully around his wings and had the most cursed ruby on his breast that I'd ever seen in my life.
I had a suspicion he summoned demons with it in his spare time. It was the kind of thing he'd do.
“So,” he began, looking us up and down. “You all want to learn magic.”
The class didn't contradict him.
“Okay then!” Dr. Bright began, clapping his talons together and grinning. “How about we start with something classic eh? How about a big old fireball!”
Before anyone could react, the front of the room exploded.
It was no mere firecracker either. Dr. Bright whipped his wing out and a straight-up biblical pillar of flame burst out of it, filling the room with the sickening smells of burning flesh and melting feathers.
The room was in uproar. Everyone was squawking and reaching for their maps, hurrying to the back seats and rushing for the exits in a flurry of feathers and blind panic.
And then all of a sudden, it just stopped.
The fire went out. Dr. Bright was left in a small crater with a charred stump of a right wing. “Sit down.” he said, making the strangest little wave with his unburnt talon.
Everyone sat down. A sobbing shoebill's eyes dried immediately. A starling who'd burst through the exit door calmly closed it and walked back in. Every single Wandsman in the room stopped their fleeing, stopped their shouting, walked back to their seats and just sat down, sporting glassy eyes and vacant expressions.
Dr. Bright grabbed his blackened right wing with his left and snapped it off with a crunch of bone and charcoal. “Make no mistake,” The cuckoo said. “You have all been handed a loaded gun.”
He reached into his labcoat pocket and produced a small flask, popping the cork out of it and downing the contents.
Slowly, with a sickening crackle of shifting bone and slop of growing muscle, the wing grew back.
He reached it out. “Right now, every single one of you is a ticking time bomb. Most of you aren't sociopaths, but for the few of you who are, I guarantee the blast is just as likely to rip you apart as everyone else around you.”
He narrowed his eyes at the crowd. “You are not here to learn magic because it's some brilliant ancient art practiced throughout the ages. You're here to learn how not to tear open a hole in the fabric of reality when you want to conjure up a plate of pancakes.”
He pulled up a slightly scorched chair and flipped it around, sitting down. “Let me tell you all a story. Once upon a time, in a dimension far, far away, I was a researcher at a little place called the SCP Foundation.”
I felt Terra tense beside me. I'd heard that name before. Sirt was just silent, glassy eyed like all the rest.
Bright continued, “We had an interesting gig. We'd lock up anything that we thought was a threat to the planet and try to make sure it didn't hurt anyone. Make no mistake, were I still affiliated with that organization, I'd lock every last one of you up in a cage before you could even blink.”
Terra let out the tiniest whimper.
“But, lucky for you, that planet, and that dimension's Foundation, is ash. Almost no one escaped.” He looked away for a moment. “I watched everyone I care about get dissolved into dust. And you know what did that? Magic.”
Terra was crying now, soft, silent tears dripping onto her feathers. I looked to the cuckoo in the chair and felt a little flame light inside me.
“The only one left who I could save was in a tiny space between spaces on a half burnt scrap of currency drifting in the winds of a dead world. That's what-”
"What the hell is your problem!?"
Someone had stood up and shouted, fully snapped at Bright, and I realised with horror that it was me.
Bright paused. He blinked, slowly, and titled his head, to take me in. "Huh," he said. "You stood up."
“Don't you ‘huh' me you, you… lunatic!” I snapped back. I gathered myself up and made my way down to his chair. I was done with this of this piece of shit's abuse. “You could have killed everyone in this room! And now you're sitting here rubbing in how much we all need to be afraid. As if any one of us didn't already know that! Not only that, but you're rubbing salt into the very specific wound of a very specific person who has had more than enough of your shit! So yeah, I'm standing-”
He pointed over my shoulder. I paused.
I looked back at the crowd. Everyone but me was stock still, listless, and unresponsive.
Bright clapped his talons together and the class stirred back to a semblance of life, looking confused and disturbed. A low murmur filled the room as all of them stared down at me, wondering why I'd been spared.
Dr Bright, unphased, just continued his lecture. “Congratulations on breaking an elementary enchantment, Earth-5. Another fun fact about magic: it's ludicrously unfair and biased, favoring some people vastly more than others.”
He gestured to me. “Most of you are sticks of dynamite. This one's a hydrogen bomb.”

<--Prev|Next—>


뭉냥뭉냥 @moongnyangmoongnyang · Apr 3

북쪽에서 큰 폭발음이 들렸는데. 뭔 일 났는지 아는 사람?

Translated from Korean to English
Just heard a big explosion from up north. Does anyone know what happened?

NASA @NASA · Apr 3

Our satellites above Asia are currently offline. We are trying to solve this problem as soon as possible.

Washington Post

Democracy Dies in Darkness

Washington
April 3rd, 2013

NORTH KOREA HAS DISAPPEARED

Military experts call on the United States to move to full nuclear readiness

The New York Times.

All the news that's fit to print

NORTH KOREA'S DISASTER IS AN "ACT OF NATURE", SAYS UN

The UN Peacekeepers along with the South Korean army have been dispatched to look for survivors.

Fox News

foxnews.com

Harold Camping Claims North Korea's Disappearance is a Sign of Judgement Day

NPR

World News

Pope Francis Claims that the Loss of North Korea Does not Have a Religious Meaning

The Sun

Scientist Says that the Destruction of North Korea was 'Due to Aliens'

DailyNews @DailyNewsTwit · Apr 5

Pope Francis holds a mass at St. Peter's Square to remember all of the victims in North Korea.

truecodder @zach6969 · Apr 5

@DailyNews damn im sorry this is happening ):
my condolences to all the victims of piongang
#SaveNorthKorea #✊🇰🇵

Corriere della Sera @Corriere · Apr 6

Il governo italiano sostiene che l'incidente della Corea del Nord sia una "distrazione" dalla crisi dei rifugiati siriani (1/2)

Translated from Italian to English
The Italian Government claims that the North Korea Incident is a "distraction" from the Syrian refugee crisis (1/2)

Corriere della Sera @Corriere · Apr 6

Il Ministro degli Interni ha dichiarato: "Siamo molto dispiaciuti per la Corea del Nord, ma cosa volete che facciamo, disesplodere il paese?" (2/2)

Translated from Italian to English
The Minister of Interior stated, "We are very sorry for North Korea, but what do you want us to do, unexplode the country?" (2/2)

Washington Post

Democracy Dies in Darkness

Washington
April 7th, 2013

PROTESTS BREAK OUT GLOBALLY

People want to know, could they be next?

War on the Rocks.

National security.
For insiders. By insiders

The Disappearance of North Korea is due to an "Australian Superweapon", According to the Defense Think Tank NCD

The New York Times.

All the news that's fit to print

GRAND OCCULT CONSPIRACY?

An alleged document leak from the Japanese Diet seemingly indicates a massive supernatural conspiracy behind the disappearance of North Korea.

stuff

stuff.co.nz

"Formation of a Quantum Singularity May Be the Cause for North Korea to Disappear" Claims a Scientist

Reuters

April 8th

The United Nations Blames the Mysterious "SCP Foundation" Mentioned in the Diet Leak for the Loss of North Korea

Press Release from the United Nations' Global Occult Coalition on the North Korea Event

Washington Post

Democracy Dies in Darkness

Washington
April 9th, 2013

Magic and the Paranormal are Real, According to the United Nations

WSJ.

The Wall Street Journal Magazine

S&P 500 Down 15% Amid Concerns Over the North Korea Incident

Announcement From the SCP Foundation on the North Korean Event

NPR

World News

The Disappearance of North Korea Could Have Happened to the Entire World, Claims the SCP Foundation

The New York Times.

All the news that's fit to print

The Paranormal Papers

The Cuban government releases wide swathes of documents relating to what they call "The Anomalous World".

theguardian

guardian.co.uk

GENOCIDE UNDER OUR NOSES?

The Cuban documents indicate a program of unlawful imprisonment and genocide against magical beings conducted by the United States and the European Union.

C▪SPAN
Created by cable in 1979
Watch: Emergency Meeting of the US House of Representatives About the Revelation of the Pentagram

theguardian

guardian.co.uk

MKULTRA 2.0?

The Cuban documents allege mass brainwashing of the population via mind wiping "Amnestic" drugs.

Reuters

April 21st

The Global Occult Coalition Starts to Declassify Documents "In Show of Good Faith"

The New York Times.

All the news that's fit to print

A Look Into The Magical World of the Wanderer's Library

Jacobin

Protests Break Out Outside of the SCP Foundation's Sites

Financial Times

What does the Revelation of the Occult Mean for Obama's Second Term?

The Hill

thehill.com

The FBI's Secret "Men in Black" Program

Corriere della Sera @Corriere · Apr 23

Il Ministro degli Interni si dimette a seguito dei suoi commenti espressi sulla Corea del Nord

Translated from Italian to English
The Interior Minister resigns following his statements made about North Korea

NPR

Podcasts/This American life

Hidden Worlds Discovered, Three Portlands and Backdoor SoHo

Reuters

April 29th

Republicans Blame Chinese "Eigenweapon" for North Korea's Disappearance based on a report by NCD, China and CIA Denies

stuff

stuff.co.nz

Secret Interstellar Spaceship Revealed

WSJ.

The Wall Street Journal Magazine

Anderson Robotics Listed on the New York Stock Exchange

Google @Google · May 3

Memetic scrambling update released for Google Chrome. Please update ASAP.

Miami Herald @MiamiHerald · May 4

The Florida government requested people to stop trying to discover Ways after the 18th consecutive incident in a week.

…

California
10:42 AM

"Hey Jack, sweetheart, are you okay?"

Jack blinked. His eyes were dry. He was suddenly very aware he needed a glass of water. "Yeah. Just, you know… Twitter," he said. "Have you heard about the Squirrels?"
Barbara was smiling weakly at him, eyes full of concern.
"You gotta stop reading those things, babe."
In the other room, the kids were making a racket. "I got you!" screamed Will, gleefully.
Jack sat down next to Barbara and took her hand. "Yeah," he said. "It's just…"
He turned his face away, to stare at the wall. "I'm worried about the kids," he said.
Barbara squeezed his hand. "I know, honey," she said. "I don't want them to ever meet some… I don't know, demon, who might kidnap them. Or what if they decide to learn some kind of dark magic? Maybe we should be keeping them off YouTube. Or at least keeping more of an eye on what they watch."
"At least we don't have to teach them to Duck and Cover," he said.
She pulled him into a hug. "You're right," she said. She gave him a gentle kiss, on the lips, and smiled.
She reached out her hand to stroke Jack on the cheek and leaned in, conspiratorially. "Hey, if the kids are busy, do you—"
Will and Sabrina burst in, a tangle of limbs and excited babble. "Mum! Dad! Play Space Cowboys & Psions with us!"
Jack and Barbara both winced, but not so the kids could see, and then turned around with big grins.
"Let's do this!" said Jack, springing up from the bed.
"Yay! You can be the Sheriff of the Space Cowboys!" exclaimed Will.
"And I'll be the Queen of the Psions!" replied Barbara in turn, as dramatically as she could.
Jack and Barbara, the new Sheriff and Queen, held their hands as they headed toward the living room, with the kids running ahead. They held their toy laser guns aloft, ready to face with bravery the uncertain future ahead of them, with the knowledge that, all they could do was to live the present as best they could.

Site-19, Undisclosed Location
11:50 AM

"—and now, we have to decide on how to make the new commercials for the European Branches, to improve their public image. The PR Team at Site-34 of the Spanish Branch is making sure that—"
The new Department of Public Relations was abuzz with activity. Junior Researcher Tommy Adams walked past the conference rooms, listening in as he scrolled his news feed on his phone.
"—feedback from social is showing a lot of anti-Foundation sentiment in the 15-30 year old demographic. The new campaign will be targeted through YouTube and social actions in Third World countries. In addition, we could start a Twitter hashtag challenge called 'SCP4u', in which—"
"We're really fucked," thought Tommy, as he walked away down the hall.


I sit in the bathroom stall on floor 13 of Site-88. I cry for a little while and try not to vomit.
The problem started small. A few beers after work. I took a drink. Then another. I didn't know this feeling was possible, I was warm. I was happy.
Midnight became dawn and I was still chasing it. Long since thrown out of whatever dive bar we'd haunted. I was in someone's house. With people I don't recognize in the mirror. We laughed. I had another drink.
I drove to the site. I sleepwalked through my workday. Back to the start. I was there in the bathroom for a few minutes to get myself together. Time to go home.
I carry everything with me. This time I don't bother going out with friends. My brain releases the same endorphins in the presence of my dining table as it does with people who might care about me. I forget. I wake up an hour after. I drink again.
Warm. Happy.
Hours become months. People know I have a problem. I have to get it under control or else I'm useless to them.
I'm useless to them anyway. That's why I have a problem.
Later that night. I drink some more. It doesn't keep the voices out, but it does take the edge off. This is impossible to carry.
I go to the sink. I pour out all the bottles. I can be good. For a few hours it's true. Then I see the empty bottles in the garbage can. I'm not drinking because I can't, not because I'm better.
I go to bed. I cannot sleep. I cry for a little while and try not to vomit. Minutes become hours. I'm staring at the ceiling and feeling like I'm dying. This is torture.
I've made a mistake. I know facts and figures about this. I just need to push through. The muscle shakes, the nausea, the pure distilled pain in my head. If I can just get to the other side I'll be alright.
I won't go into work tomorrow. I'll call and say I'm sick. They'll accept the shared lie.
Shivering. Hurting. This is my own doing.
Of course there's a bottle in the end table. Of course I failed to find them all when I was good. I'm not good anymore. I pull it out. There's no struggle. I drink it immediately. Before it even has time to hit my bloodstream I feel better. Never good. But better.
I go outside and lay on the damp green grass. The deep black sky and cool night air suffuse my being. I am alone and wondrous and this feeling is beautiful. The stars twinkle in the night. I want to be here always. I drink again. And again.
I wake up on my side. The light is blinding. People are yelling. A tube is down my throat. Concerned people are trying to look into my eyes.
I want to skip this moment in time. They try to fix me. They save my body. They don't know where the rot is.
The next day I make a decision. No more. Everyone knows now. I can just live. I don't get out of the hospital for 2 weeks. I'm 14 days sober.
I'm not alone at home. The Foundation sent someone to monitor me. To make sure I'm good. To turn 14 days into 15.
A month later I'm back at work. Light duty for a while.
Day 63 was not a particularly rough day. We had pizza and pasta for lunch. I laughed with my friends. The drive home was peaceful. Beautiful music on the radio. I go up to my apartment. I nod to my neighbor. The one that called the ambulance for me. She smiles back.
I close the door and lock it. I go into the kitchen. I drink until I feel love again. I cry for a little while and try not to vomit. I pass out on the kitchen floor. I wake up in the morning.
No one comes to save me.


by stormbreath

crewtime 11/12/07 (Mon) 14:07:13 #09843702

In January of next year, death row inmate Dante Lawrence McKnight will be executed by the state of Texas for the 1988 murder of his girlfriend, Christine Elizabeth Glenn. His case is well known for the absolutely bizarre defense he used on trial: he blamed Bigfoot for the murder. The jury, obviously, did not accept that defense and sentenced him to death, and the trial is regarded as little more a strange legal footnote to most.
In truth, I'm not convinced. I've always thought that McKnight was doing nothing more than using Bigfoot as a scapegoat. It's a pretty absurd legal argument, and the evidence for it wasn't particularly compelling. But, I try to cover every paranormal true crime around, and this is definitely one of them. So for the sake of the spirit of Parawatch, I'll look into his argument.
On June 10th, 1988, Dante McKnight and his girlfriend Christine Glenn left their shared apartment in Fort Worth, Texas to go on a camping trip. Both were Bigfoot enthusiasts, and had frequently told their friends in the weeks leading up to the trip that they hoping to use the trip to spot the elusive creature.
The plan had been to drive to New Alton Campground, four hours outside of the Fort Worth/Dallas area and to spend a few days in the wilderness. There had been recent Bigfoot sightings in the area, and it looked promising that they would be able to have a spotting of their own. According to McKnight, they did.
McKnight and Glenn left their apartment around eleven am on Friday. They had both taken the day off from work, and were able to leave early in the day. Before leaving, they called a friend — Maxwell Mantell — and told him of their plans, including the campground they were going to and when they planned to return.
They set off, and arrived at New Alton Campground at five o'clock the same day. McKnight later said that it took them longer than four hours to arrive because they stopped for barbecue along the way, which was later corroborated by a witness who worked at the barbecue place. Upon arrival, McKnight and Glenn checked into the campground. Christine was seen alive at this point, for the last time.

crewtime 11/12/07 (Mon) 14:14:09 #57593019

Three days later, a disheveled and bloody McKnight walks out of the woods and up to the door of the check-in cabin at the campground, where parking and sleeping permits were obtained. He frantically bangs on the door and — in a confused and contradictory state — claims that his girlfriend was attacked by Bigfoot. He alternates between saying she is already dead, and begging the park workers to help save her.
Police arrive shortly thereafter, followed by an ambulance to take McKnight to the hospital.

Scanned photo from a newspaper of the ruined campsite.

The officers proceed to Glenn and McKnight's campground, where they find Christine's dead body. She has been beaten to death with a blunt instrument. Nothing that matches the wounds is found at the scene of the crime. The campground as a whole is a mess, with all of Glenn and McKnight's things strewn throughout it.
The autopsy report confirms the initial suspicions of death by blunt trauma. The coroner further determines it is likely that Christine was beaten to death by an assailant who had choked her in a struggle, and that the murder instrument is likely to have been a large branch or stick, based on the presence of sap in her hair and the shape of the bruising.
Back at the hospital, McKnight's wounds are determined to be consistent with minor blunt force trauma. He has taken at least one head wound — likely inflicted with a branch, similar to what Christine was killed with, and also beaten with fists. His injuries, however, are not life threatening.
When the police arrive to question McKnight — and place him under arrest — his story is simple: Bigfoot attacked him and his girlfriend. He claims they had been trailing the creature for a few days, when it had grown violent on their interactions, charged them and attacked. It had beaten him with a stick, leaving him on the ground, then choked Christine and bashed her head in. He was was taken down by the initial blow, and then — being unarmed — felt he couldn't fight Bigfoot and ran for help.
The police, obviously, didn't believe his story.

crewtime 11/12/07 (Mon) 14:16:45 #53420217

To be perfectly frank: I don't either.
I know, I know.
Normally, I'm the one who presents a case of true crime that might have some paranormal element, and then investigate all the little details that indicate the case is in fact beyond the pale. To hear me reject the supernatural outright must be a shock. But this case is different: the supernatural was debated in a court of law. This gives more room for the case to become clear. The evidence was looked at (semi-)seriously and refuted.
And yes: This was actually brought up in a court of law. State of Texas vs. McKnight was a real trial, and the "Bigfoot Defense" was a real defense. For as absurd as it is, it's odd that the case never got much media attention. McKnight couldn't afford a lawyer, so he got a state-appointed public defender. His public defender was — like most public defenders — overworked and unable to devote much attention to the case.
So when his client told him that "Bigfoot Did It!" and refused to cooperate on any other line of defense or invoke an insanity defense or take a plea deal… He simply gave up and went with the Bigfoot Defense. There wasn't any good forensic evidence to acquit his client, and it didn't seem like any better defense would materialize — at least, for the amount of work he was putting into the case.
The prosecution alleged that Glenn and McKnight had gotten into a physical argument, wherein she had taken a nearby branch, attempted to use it as a club, and then he took it from her and used it as the murder weapon. This was the source of McKnight's injuries — inflicted by Christine in self defense from her attacker.
McKnight used the same story he had given the police as defense. It boiled down to two key pieces of evidence: photographs that McKnight had allegedly taken of Bigfoot while at the campground and long coarse black hairs found at the scene of the crime.

Clearest photo produced. "Bigfoot" circled.

During the course of the trial, several photographs were produced, allegedly of Bigfoot. However, none of these photos are particularly clear. In the majority, the supposed "Bigfoot" is either out of frame or passing behind a tree. In the clearest, Bigfoot is standing at a considerable distance from the lens. It looks vaguely clear, but could be another camper or a wild animal. It is not conclusively Bigfoot.
The coarse black hairs that were presented at trial were determined to not be of human origin — but the evidence came back that they were actually goat hairs. There is a small population of feral black goats in the nearby area and — although almost never spotted in New Alton — it seemed apparent that the hairs were from such an animal.
In response, the prosecution pointed out various flaws with the defense's argument. Christine's body was found at the campsite and didn't seem to have been moved. If someone other than McKnight killed her, why did the killer ambush the pair there? McKnight protested that Bigfoot had followed them after being angered, but if that's the case, how did Bigfoot sneak up on them?
Finally, the prosecution pointed out the footprints left at the crime scene. Two sets of tracks were found, and only two: those that corresponded to Glenn and McKnight. The namesake footprints that you would likely expect from Bigfoot were nowhere to be seen. Beyond the shoe prints, there was only a small set of hoofprints — apparently left by the shedding goat that had walked through the crime scene.
The jury found McKnight's defense unbelievable and ruled him guilty. He received the death penalty for his actions, in large part because of his refusal to accept any kind of plea deal in the months leading up to trial (as he insisted upon his innocence). He has been on death row since.


Cydhra

Find more by Cydhra

35 Seconds
"Do you sometimes think about going away?"
She looked at him. Smiling lightly.
"Sometimes. But we couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Who would do our job?"
"Does it matter?"
She stopped smiling, turning her eyes towards the ceiling, the greenish light reflecting in her iris.
"Not anymore…", she sighed.
"So why not go now?"
Her smile returned.
"Where do you wanna go?"
"I don't know. Just… very far away."
"It wouldn't be far enough."
"It could be… with a little imagination"
He held up a small inhaler. Fifteen milligrams.
First, he took half the dose, then he offered the rest to her.
18 Seconds
The lights shifted to a red tone.
"But this isn't enough. Time does not actually stop with that."
"Yet, we can buy days, even years if we wanted to."
"How? How many of those things do you have?"
"I raided the Temporals storage and diluted it with about every Mnestic we have on site. We have enough for –"
He raised his arm, painfully slowly. Then looked at the watch, the seconds hand barely progressing forward. He waited until it made a step, before continuing:
"– at least two minutes. More than enough."
"But look! You can barely move. We won't get far."
Now he smiled, almost mischievously.
"Why would we move? This cot seems comfortable enough to spend an eternity or two. We can go anywhere from here. We have us, after all"
A light giggle was all reaction he got.
"So? Where do we go first?"
"Sweden."
"Sweden? Just Sweden?"
"Yeah why not?"
"I don't know. What's it like there?"
"I don't know, I've never been there. Probably a lot of forests. Maybe even a few dragons."
"Are there dragons?"
"It's classified."
"So?"
"There were. At some point."
A few minutes of silence.
"And do you enjoy the forest?"
"It's a bit cold."
"We could go north."
"To escape the cold?"
"No, to see the northern lights."
"I've never seen them"
She sighed.
"Isn't it weird"?
"What?"
"We've seen so many secrets. So many impossibilities, so many wonders and horrors, buried under meters of concrete and kept from everyone else. And yet, we've never even seen the northern lights."
He held up an inhaler. Twenty-five milligrams.
"Nothing is stopping us now."
11 Seconds
The lights got significantly darker. Only a deep, heartless red was left. It had stopped blinking. The alarm sounds were gone, too.
"We should hurry up, it will be dark soon."
"Isn't that advantageous when you wanna see the northern lights?"
"Well, we won't see anything anymore, once the lights go out… And stay out!"
She paused for a moment, contemplating on the implications.
"Forever!"
"Then I want to see your eyes one last time."
She turned towards him again, a tear running down her temple and vanishing in the cheap gray pillow.
"Don't cry. We have so much more to discover."
"How much more time?"
"What does it matter. We have all the time we want."
"It isn't the same. Without the light. Or the wind."
"Then let's visit a storm. A big one."
She curled up closer to him. Then silence followed, maybe for five minutes, maybe for five hours.
"Are you afraid?"
He didn't answer at first. Thought about it, watching a mote of dust frozen in midair.
"No."
"Then why do we run?"
He held up another inhaler, toying around with it. Sixty milligrams.
7 Seconds
The lights went out. When he stared at the LED bulb for a few minutes, he thought he'd seen a small dark-red twinkle. He wasn't sure, though. More like the idea of light than any real illumination. They were just lying there. In silence. For hours. Sometimes, he could feel a tear running down her cheek, lightly touching his face and reminding him that they were still there. As if that held any meaning. Somewhere in the back of his head, the counter was nagging him. Constantly. Unyielding. Counting every last second down, one by one. Very, very slowly.
He had started it, so many days ago. A last resort option thought of by some people in gray suits. Faceless demons. If only they could feel what he was feeling. If only they could understand their sacrifice. And for what? For the shale idea of seeing the northern lights. In his head. Not even a picture. Not that a picture would be very useful without light reaching his eyes. And for a few hours – stolen off Foundation time-dilation-drugs. Sixteen years of service for a few hours spent in total darkness. What a waste.
"I am not afraid", he concluded, hours later.
His voice was dry.
"Just… sad."
"I know."
"Was it worth it?"
"What?"
"Our work. Was it worth it?"
"I –"
Silence.
6 Seconds
Finally, he reached for her hand with another inhaler. Eighty-five milligrams.
"I don't want to run anymore."
Her voice was quiet. But he could hear the resignation. An eternity was much shorter than he anticipated.
He sighed, pulling back the inhaler.
"So this is it?"
"I guess so."
5 Seconds
Silence. An hour passed. Maybe four, maybe even a day.
4 Seconds
"I think it was worth it."
"I know."
"We may not have saved everyone. But we have saved some."
"I know."
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
3 Seconds
2 Seconds
1 Second

On June 13, 2017, at 20:42, the on-site nuclear warhead of Provisional Site 146 detonated. On-site personnel had triggered the warhead 10 minutes prior, according to protocol 146-CONTI-3. Due to a previous breach event, only minimal personnel was physically present. Agent Nathaniel Teller and Agent Ana Morales had volunteered to perform necessary staff contingency efforts. At the moment, their reasons for the detonation of the on-site nuclear warhead are unclear. An investigation is underway. In the name of the Foundation, I want to express my deepest gratitude to Agent Teller and Agent Morales for their service and their sacrifice.
– We die in the dark, so you can live in the light.


After a long day of saving the world, dinner should be the easiest part. Yet, Jim is late for dinner. There's a probably a fifty percent chance that he's got a good story to tell, but also a chance that he won't. Anything is more interesting than the third re-run of whatever the television in the lounge is showing right now, so she gives it a try, "How was work today?"
"Hey, hon." Jim kisses her on the cheek. "Classified. You?"
"I spent an afternoon preparing data for the neural networks because there's a flu going around in data entry. Putting my degree to good use, aren't I?"
Jim cringed. "Fun. Got no interns to do that?"
"Also flu. How have we not yet developed a cure for it? All those employees are off work because of the common flu… A waste of money, if you ask me." She shakes her head. "Spaghetti for dinner?"
"Fine by me." He drops his work bag on the floor. "Remind me to take you to that diner from the clean-up. They make the best pasta I've ever tasted. Super friendly owner, too. I think it's family-owned. Support local, you know?"
They're probably not local to where we live, but details, she thinks. Xenia grabs a saucepan and the pasta. Turns on the kettle. Adds water only afterward and hopes she hasn't broken yet another one. "You made a friend on the mission, I hear?" she chuckles.
"You could say that, but she doesn't remember me, so are we really friends?" Jim replies, taking off his shoes. "Should've gotten their sauce recipe, now that I think about it."
"Maybe it's in the skip's file? Who knows, maybe someone had the same idea?"
"Eh, doubt it. Wasn't exactly a case of ‘anomalous spaghetti carbonara sauce'," he replies, "though that would've been a trip."
She laughs. "How'd you contain that?"
"How would you?" Jim challenges her. He drops onto the couch, exhausted.
Xenia rolls her eyes and turns on the stove. "You know, anomalous culinary arts isn't exactly my specialty." God, we probably do have specialists for that.
"Nor is containment mine," he reminded her. "Maybe I should suggest that to my boss—do some strategic exercises on how we'd remove the evidence of an anonymous spaghetti carbonara sauce monster… Now I'm hungry."
"Already on it." She shakes her head. If he wasn't on the opposite side of the kitchen-living room space in their apartment, she'd lovingly slap him with the soup spoon she's using to make the sauce. Should she be using something else? Probably, but it's disappeared and neither of them is about to go and drive to a store just to buy that. Improvise, adapt, overcome. "When did it become a monster? Maybe it's a cognitohazard? Or a friendly spaghetti carbonara monster? Like 999?"
"Aren't they always some sort of monster?" Jim shrugs. "I'd say, eat it all. Contain it in your stomach."
"I'm sure that you'd be following all the Foundation regulations with that," she laughs. "Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes. Take a shower. I can smell the twelve hours flight and it's certainly not helping my stomach." She smiles at him, teasing all as usual.

Devi and Lopez are exhausted. At six o'clock, two lab coat-clad researchers sit at a table in an empty breakroom. Neither of them is talking. After an hours-long meeting that went an hour past the scheduled time—and still could have been an email, going by Devi—they need the break from all that.
Devi checked the notice board earlier; the football match against Site 23 has been rescheduled and he plans to watch it because he's betting on said site (over his own, much to Lorenz's dismay, but Devi knows better) and he—Blearing.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BREACH IN SECTOR THREE. LRC 106-C-GREEN. BEEP BEEP BEEP.
Lopez sighs. "Are they doing Keter testing today?"
"Maybe. They tend to do that later at night when there are fewer people on Site."
"Do you know which one? Do we have to hurry? I've been looking forward to dinner…"
"I mean, it is a C-lockdown code? We could take the food to the Breach Shelter. Probably should hurry a bit though."
"Ooooh yes."
The rest of their dinner is equally quiet; just set in the slightly more sticky aired and louder breach shelter, among other employees working overtime. They hunch over their food like goblins. Least anyone gets ideas of sharing is caring. It's his food, and he is eating it alone—as alone as you can in the Foundation.

Ibrahim is nervous. He hasn't been on a date in a while, but every conversation he's had with this particular man has implied a match. That's what they did—match on a mere, non-anomalous app. Weird to think about, everything is so ordinary. So much, that it feels strange and foreign to him now. He smiles, as awkward as a high schooler at prom, at his date when he arrives.
"Sorry for being late," his date says. "Traffic was a mess."
"It's all good," Ibrahim replies. "If I hadn't gotten off work early, I would've been stuck too."
"Would you? You never mentioned your job," he notes, surprised. "You're an engineer, aren't you? What are you working on?"
"Just structural work. But let's not talk about that—I spend my nine to five with it; I'd prefer my evenings focused on something else."
A waitress comes by and hands them menus. The restaurant they chose to meet in is a lovely one. Great reviews, too. If it wasn't so far from the facility, he'd come here more often. Ibrahim orders a glass of water and wine. His date only chooses water.
He asks, almost concerned, "Aren't you driving home?" Good impression, Ibrahim! Now he'll think you're an alcoholic!
He tries to clear his throat. "I have an apartment in town," Ibrahim replies, "in fact, within walking distance."
He nods.
"For when I get to visit the kids," he quickly adds.
"Not visiting a lot, then?"
"No, not really. We're still not on good terms. Plus, with me living so far out on the base, it makes no sense for a fifty-fifty split custody. There's no school, you know? They're just getting to that age."
His date frowns at that. "That's unfortunate."
"It is. I do love the kids. They're the joy of my life, but they're better up with their mother and step-father. I want what's best for them, and that's for them to grow up there. How about you? You mentioned being married before?"
They talk about this and that, their history and hobbies. Both bonded over Lego, which brings them to talking about which sets they have and want. It's a nice conversation; Ibrahim wouldn't mind a second date, especially if it's at this place. It's a good recommendation on his date's part. He's got good taste. He orders a steak. It's much better done than the ones they tried to do in the cafeteria once. He isn't surprised at that either, though.
"How is the steak?" his date asks.
Ibrahim replies, "The best I ever had. Maybe it's the company though."
His date would never realize the double meaning in his words.

D-3828 receives a tray with food through the little window in the locked door.
"You know, the thing with the cafeteria is, have you noticed, that those arrogant shills upstairs are always there, like vultures?" he complains as if they've been talking for hours. They haven't. "They, like, never leave anything good for us!"
The guard—or whoever it is; D-3828 can't see them—doesn't respond.
The D-class is left alone in his cell to eat his dinner. It's not bad per se, but he's heard of what the cafeteria has to offer for non-D-Class. Like always, the chicken is fresh and doesn't taste like plastic and elastics mixed together. He's able to recognize every vegetable. He's not too fond of broccoli, but they made it taste good. That alone is a miracle! The sauce tastes like something. It probably has a name, but he doesn't know it. It's definitely not "an ambiguous chemical that's vaguely food safe". It's fucking good! If this is what this shady place serves their literal guinea pigs, he can only imagine what the cafeteria has.
Then again, this is still a universe better from prison food. Being a human test subject aside.
After dinner, he goes back to staring at the ceiling, waiting for this month to end. He's gonna miss the food, but can't wait to taste freedom again. D-3828 grins.

"Hey, Alex?" Deepak asks his co-worker. The lights in her office are still on, and the new Site policy is to turn them off when you leave. Apparently, the Foundation needs to save on electricity. A very strongly worded email had been sent out earlier on the subject. No way she'd forget. Not after the last time.
Alex doesn't look up. As Deepak expects, she's the only one left in her team's office, and the floor is covered in her jacket, shoes, and a half-eaten apple that she probably had for dinner. Great!
"How long are you planning on staying?" he asks, but he's already got the answer. Maybe it's the literal mountain of folders on the agent's desk or her tired expression. Maybe it's the third coffee cup that's adding a circular, brown stain onto a freshly printed report on a colleague's desk. "Want some food?"
The clicking of the keys pauses. Food is worth interrupting work for, after all. "Yes, always." Alex smiles. "What are you getting? Please don't tell me you're raiding the leftovers in the fridge. Fairly sure that some of them are biohazards by now."
Deepak shakes his head. "Gonna try and talk a janitor into letting me into the cafeteria kitchens. Planned to get whatever I can find there."
"Bring coffee."
Maybe, he should make a subtle hint about her obvious caffeine addiction. Not that he isn't guilty of the same, but it's not his dirty cup staining a report on potential-anomaly-that-got-investigated-and-turned-out-to-be-photoshop. "You've had three already." The cup on the report is a touch of personality to the cold, white office and hallways. A photo of an elderly couple, smiling and on the beach, has been printed on it. Most people don't bring personal things to the office. It's probably discouraged because of secrecy or something. Deepak didn't listen too much at orientation. Nerves, you know?
"Nah, not three," Alex replies. "Four."
"Oh."
"Jones wants this report two hours ago."
"Yikes." No wonder she's still at the office, on a Friday night. Deepak doesn't have the statistics, but he's fairly sure there are twice the anomalies reported this year than last year–and there's definitely not been enough new hires to match that.
Alex tilts her head. "Do you think," she sipped, "that IT could make the time look different on the email? Retroactively change it?"
He shrugs. Sounds like something that could get her in trouble with someone. "No clue. Ask?" Then again, he also knows that Jones got off three hours ago because it's his anniversary. He made sure to tell everyone. It sounded like he was fishing for something, but Deepak doesn't have a clue what. Compliments? For being married? Maybe that is a success in our field…, he thinks.
"Will do." She continues typing. "Ask Janitor Joey for help. Tell him that tomorrow's dessert is strawberry shortcake and that they arrived at eleven o'clock. Let him have one and he'll help. Cafeteria staff snacks on them early all the time, nobody will notice."
"How do you know?"
"I do it all the time. I'd miss them if not. Research always pounces first."
"Valid. Want one?"
Alex points to a plate with crumbles on it, balanced on a stack of filing boxes. "Oh, Joey already got me one earlier. But yes. Always."
Why am I telling him about the— Deepak shakes his head. He's too tired and hungry to question it. "Gotcha." He replies and leaves to find the janitor. "Hey, Mr. Joey?"

Ahmed misses dinner. Testing has revealed new properties that require further research. The odd, missed dinner is a small sacrifice for the pursuit of science.

Long's grin is sheepish. He's up to something. "Hey, Dr. Jules?" She has a suspicion of what it is.
"… Yeah?" There's a one in two chance between him having messed up bad and needing her help, and him wanting her car again. On-site quarters mean nobody owns a car. Jules doesn't live on-site, but with her family. She's got a car. That's made her the designated Uber Driver for everyone in her division.
"You done with that test proposal yet?"
She pauses and re-reads the last sentence she typed. Technically, she is. Practically, not. "Almost. I just want to double-check it for errors and typos."
"You always triple check. It'll be fine." He rolls her eyes. "When you're done, wanna go to McDonald's?"
Jules looks up because she knows exactly why her co-workers are asking her. Getting a Foundation car just to drive to the nearest town for McDonald's is probably not a high priority in getting one from Vehicle Logistics. Especially not on short notice. Jules tried, back when she was new and unmarried.
"I'll buy you nuggets?"
"Sure." Jules sighs because she knows that Long knows that nuggets could convince her to do anything. "We really need an on-site McDonald's," she mutters. "But you drive. I'll do the double-checking on the way."
Long's smile widens. "Thank you! You're the best! Let's go!" He grabs her, without letting her even grab her coat. Thankfully, she's got a Foundation-issued laptop in the car that she can work on.
Therefore, Minutes later, in the car, he lines up to leave the site, ID in hand to show to the guards. "You know what? I wish McDonald's was a front company."
She shrugs. "The Foundation can't own everything." (Then again, they probably could, if they tried.) "Maybe, one day, we'll find an anomalous McDonald's and buy it off them? Like they did with that one Ikea?"
"I wouldn't be surprised if there already is one, but it's classified," Long replies and passes through the checkpoint. "Do you know anything? You're Level 3."
"If I knew anything, I couldn't tell you," Jules hums. "Now, let me read this." She starts a secure connection and begins to reread her proposal.
She finishes that and two replies to more extensive emails from Containment asking about the anomaly they're studying right now. Slow and steady wins the race, so she takes her time in responding with suggestions on how to resolve a potential future containment issue. It's just a safe anomaly, but they've considered classifying it Euclid for some time. Long complains about her being a workaholic.
"At least I don't live on-site," she reminds him with a laugh. She only works so diligently, so she can spend her time off with her partner and child. Thinking of them, she should take them out for a romantic dinner. "Why did you bring three cooler bags?"
"Oh, I've got orders from the entire division."
"… The entire division?"
"Yeah."
"We're going to spend the entire evening at McDonald's if that's true."
"Probably, yeah, but employee morale?"
Thank god, she'd brought her laptop.
(Lies; they're doing it every week. This is an act that Long promised to agree to, to absolve Jules from any "skipping work to drive to McDonald's" faults. It was the only thing that could convince her to agree—besides her own desire to eat more nuggets.)
It's the little things, you know?

"Take some more potato. What did you do at work today?"
"… Huh. I don't actually remember. Weird."
"Must've been a boring day, then?"
"Must have… but you know, sometimes, I do wish for a more exciting job."
"I mean, you are just a cleaner in the admin building, Andrew. I didn't expect James Bond explosions."

Dr. Scharf has fucked up again, and she knows it. This is just damage control.
The door is still unlocked, and the lights inside are on. It's a perfectly ordinary suburban house, with mowed lawn, a pretty bush cut perfectly circular and a clean letterbox indicating the house number, 42. Inside, the smell of wine and candles fills her nose. She feels just as deflated as the dying seven- and four-shaped party balloons.
Her parents sit side-by-side at the dining table, opposite her sister and the empty seat reserved for her. "Andrea, you're late."
Even today, when she is a leading epidemiologist studying illnesses that the public isn't allowed to know of, hearing the disappointment in her mother's voice makes Dr. Scharf feel like a seventeen years old teenager being scolded for staying out too late.
"Sorry. We had some problems at work."
Damage control fails. That excuse stopped working twenty years ago. "Andrea, what sort of issues does a pharmaceutical lab—which produces flu vaccines—have that stop you from coming to your father's birthday dinner on time for once?"
A suspected breakout of 6090, but she can't say that. They wouldn't understand anyway.
Sometimes, she wants to tell them, because it's hard coming home late and seeing the disappointment in her family's eyes. That's a sacrifice she has to make when she's saving the world with her research. She's doing it, so her beloved family can live in safety, after all.
"Look, I'm sorry. I got carried away."
"Aha." Her mother doesn't hide her disapproval. The Scharf's Family First motto has long been replaced with Secure. Contain. Protect. in Andrea's mind, and even if her mother doesn't know with what, she knows it's been replaced.
So, she comes along and merely joins them for dessert. They must have waited for her as if this wasn't the third birthday this year she either missed or came late to. She politely eats while the questions come. Her dear little sister, Veronica, must have gone through this already—she imagines, or rather, wishes—because all the attention is on her.
She tells them her lies, all the while trying to enjoy the ice cream. It's home-made, by her mother, who'd been making it since her childhood. If it wasn't for her parents' disappointed faces, she would have enjoyed it. Memories of an easier time, when she didn't know how close the world is to ending every day.
"Veronica is driving your father to the hospital tomorrow. It's very kind of her, don't you think?"
"The hospital? Why—?" She frowns–why does dad need a hospital?
There's an ambient feeling of discomfort and frowning. "Andrea, I have cancer."
"What? Since when! Are you–"
"They found it three months ago," her mother interrupts, curt. You should've known, it feels like she wants to add, and you would, had you come to your own birthday dinner—two months ago. We've been suffering.
"I– I'm sorry to hear that. What kind? I know a very good—" Heaven, she has studied medicine herself. How come he never called? (Maybe he did, all those missed calls went unanswered in favor of work…) She knows a lot of good people. Maybe could get him linked up with Foundation healthcare, even.
Her father clears his throat. "I already have a very capable doctor, Andrea. It's fine."
But ours would be covered by my contract, she wants to say, but that would involve explaining why a simple pharmaceutical company like Samson & Coulson Pharmaceutical has whole hospital systems set up to treat their employees…
"I… I see. I'm sorry," she replies like a scolded child.
Her mother sighs. "How has your life been, Andrea?"
She tells them about her husband and how he's away on a mission. Claiming that he's military explains why he's not here—that's easier than saying that he was potentially exposed to an anomaly and has been in quarantine for four weeks already. She mentions a breakthrough at work but doesn't go into the details.
Later on, she'd think that she sounded like she believed that they wouldn't understand. They wouldn't, yes, but that's not the point. How arrogant of her, they probably thought. We didn't raise you like that, Andrea.
She closes her eyes and finishes with a simple. "It's been busy, but I enjoy work." As if that's the reason that'll magically convince them. At this stage, even thaumaturgy won't help.
"You only ever mention work," notes Veronica with a bitter voice—the first thing she's said to her. "I'm thinking of taking the kids to Disneyland next summer. Delilah has been consumed by Frozen, you know." Veronica continues telling the tale of an ordinary life, ordinary dinner with parents, and the implicit message: your life is only your work. "I think, it'd help her get out of her shell. What do you think?"
She has no idea. No idea about the girls' life, her father's health, or her mother's days. She could list countless diseases that could cripple humanity in days, but she can't advise her little sister on what to do with a video-game-addicted third grader.
But she loves her work in the Foundation, you know? Andrea loves it.
Andrea leaves as early as she reasonably can, without risking outright confrontation. When she eats on-site with colleagues, with her husband, or on her own, she doesn't feel like this. She isn't left out, as if she lives in a different world. Of course not—they live in a different world together—but it hurts nonetheless to sit here and feel like she's the odd one out. She's the anomaly to her family's normalcy.
Unlike in the real world, there's nobody to contain and protect her family from her.
It's just dinner, she told herself before she came. You work with monsters every day. Dinner is easy.