D-2172 squinted one eye and then the other, trying to figure out which one had the least amount of sleep gunk stuck in the corners. When she finally decided it was the right, she rubbed a fist into that eye for a moment and then tried to focus on the two guards standing outside her door.
"Hey, guys," she said in between yawns. "Bit early for this shit, ain't it?"
"Late for us," the one she recognized as Officer Grady told her with a shrug. She didn't know the other guy, either a new hire or a transfer.
Rubbing the other eye and wishing for an energy drink, she sighed and leaned against the doorframe. "Lemme guess, I'm about to get my walkin' papers?"
"If only you were so lucky," Grady chuckled. "Come on, '72, we ain't got all mornin'."
"Yeah, yeah."
'72 turned around and slumped back into her room, the solid security door sliding into place behind her. Trying to find the perfect balance between taking enough time to annoy the guards but not enough time to legit piss them off, she stripped out of her standard (and, for some damnable reason, mandatory) orange D-Class pajamas and started slipping into her standard orange D-Class jumpsuit and accompanying underthings. Not in that exact order, though it amused her for a few moments to imagine stepping out in full homemade superhero regalia.
As she sat on the bed and laced up her boots, she looked up at the mirror on the opposite wall and let out a quick huff at her reflection. "Another day in paradise," she mumbled, pulling the knots tight and standing up.
New Guy and Grady flanked her the moment she stepped back out of her room, then silently led her out of the D-Class dormitory. The hallways of Site-272 were quiet but not completely dead, even at such an awful hour in the morning. Researchers and the occasional guard or administrative drone would pass by, sometimes giving '72's escorts a nod of recognition but completely ignoring the petite woman between them.
Better than jail, I guess, '72 reflected not for the first time. There had been plenty of instances during her previous incarceration that she'd wished the people in charge had ignored her, treated her like a non-entity. Not that her time at the Foundation had been all wine and roses, but it beat the alternative.
Her jaw tightened slightly as she remembered just how close she had already come to going back to that alternative. It tightened further when she looked up and realized where they were heading.
"Hey, guys-"
"No talking," New Guy said, perhaps harsher than he'd meant and almost certainly tougher than he actually felt.
"Yeah, but-"
"Come on, it's been a long night." Grady's shoulders sagged a bit as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Don't make this any harder than it's gotta be, alright?"
"Jebus fuckin' cripes," '72 cursed under her breath, but she kept any other misgivings to herself as they crossed the dreaded security checkpoint into Site-272's Keter wing.
The air beyond seemed actively oppressive. Given the experience she'd already accumulated with the Foundation, '72 assumed that the feeling probably wasn't entirely psychological. Fortunately it also seemed that their little trip wasn't going to last much longer. They turned down the first hallway to the right, and just a few doors down the hallway stood the familiar face of Dr. Anna O'Neil, one of the site's senior researchers.
Despite the situation she was undoubtedly walking into, D-2172 felt her spirits rise just a little bit. Dr. O'Neil was watching them approach, obviously waiting for them, and she was still filling out a lab coat just as nicely as usual.
"Thank you, gentlemen, that will be all," the researcher told the guards, giving them a nod of dismissal.
New Guy seemed to hesitate for a moment, a natural reaction given standard operating procedure as '72 understood it. Grady swatted New Guy's shoulder and offered to buy the first round of coffees in the breakroom, however, so no objections were raised as they went on their way.
'72 raised an eyebrow and smirked once she and the lovely doctor were alone. She opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by O'Neil holding up a hand.
"Please keep your inappropriate advance to yourself today, D-2172," O'Neil said brusquely. '72 loved it when she used her full designation. "We have a job for you."
The mood was immediately killed as '72 remembered where she was. "Oh, yeah," she said, glancing over at the door next to them. "Uh, about that. Keter duty? Really?"
O'Neil frowned deeply. "You've read the D-Class operations manual as well as the D-Class sensitivity training module, '72. You know there's no such thing as Keter duty."
"Okay, you get that I can read. So ya know I read the sign back there that said this is the Keter wing, and we're standin' right next to a door with a sign on it that says 'Class: Keter', right? I mean, I know you guys think I'm just some hick chick from the sticks, but I ain't stupid."
"D-2172, just become something can easily cause a containment breach does not mean it is inherently dangerous to human life."
"Right, but-"
"Stop." The doctor took in a deep breath and released it. "I understand. Believe me, I do. Given your particular situation and the pervasiveness of the 'Keter duty' rumors, it certainly would seem reasonable to think we're going to try and kill you off in some horrible testing 'accident', but I assure you it's not the case. Trust me."
'72 crossed her arms and shrugged as she looked away from O'Neil's hard gaze. "Okay," she said. "Fine."
The tension that had been filling the taller woman's body visibly eased away. "Good. Now, seriously, this is quite an important task you are being charged with, but it's going to be a great deal easier and safer than you might imagine. For one thing, we aren't going to be doing any testing today. Instead, you'll just be performing a little guard duty."
"What, like, just standing around with a thumb up my ass?" '72 laughed despite herself. "Grady ain't gonna like the competition."
"Well, not quite that easy, I'm afraid. This way, please."
Dr. O'Neil turned and moved over to the containment chamber door, which '72 only just noticed was slightly ajar. Without any need to put in a passcode, swipe a security key, or scan any part of her body or DNA, O'Neil was able to simply pull the door open and step inside.
"Y'know, maybe this thing wouldn't get all breachy if you tried locking the door."
A long-suffering sigh escaped the doctor. "You'd think," she replied. "Come along, and please leave the door cracked open behind you."
'72 restrained herself to a roll of her eyes and a quick shake of her head as her only complaints about the bizarre nature of the situation, then stepped inside and complied with the request. She turned away from the door and had the words Okay, now what? on the tip of her tongue, but she stopped short and frowned at the sight before her instead.
The chamber wasn't exactly large, she figured, but it certainly seemed larger than it actually was due to all the empty space within. Stairs led down to a sunken concrete floor illuminated by light panels in the ceiling high above. Aside from Dr. O'Neil and '72 herself, the only other person in the room was another D-Class sitting in a folding chair near the center of the room, just in front of a tall stepladder with a lock box balanced on the top. The doctor's footsteps echoed lightly from the bare walls as she approached him.
"Thank you, D-92368, you may go now."
The man closed the ancient magazine he was reading, stood up, and grunted as he audibly popped his back. "Thank Christ. Uh, the thing did its thing just before you came in, so it oughta be a while before it does it again."
"Excellent. Please take the chair and your reading materials with you when you go, and remember-"
"Yeah, prop the door open. No problem, doc." He quickly folded the chair, then picked it and a small stack of magazines up, hefting them slightly at '72 as he passed by. "Sorry," he told her with what sounded like genuine sympathy.
"Okay, I'm confused. Just what in the hell is goin' on here?" '72 asked, more with confusion than vehemence. "Ditchin' the guard escort? An unlocked containment room? I'd ask if I was on some kinda really fucked up hidden camera show, but that's pretty much SOP around here."
O'Neil looked up at the lock box and took in a deep breath before answering. "Ironically, you can add a lack of hidden cameras in this room to your list of unusual circumstances. Trust," she said, turning around to face '72. "Trust is something in very short supply in the Foundation, and with good reason. We deal daily with objects that can twist your senses, leaving you unable to trust what you see or hear. We regularly employ criminals, a generally untrustworthy lot, to be used as guinea pigs, which naturally doesn't lead them to trusting us very much in return."
"Oy, the grand lecture, oy," '72 interrupted, rolling her eyes. "Ma'am, if you could just shoot me instead, I'd really-"
"You are on thin ice, '72," O'Neil interrupted in turn. "There are very few people here willing to trust you after the incident with SCP-3053, which was bad enough. Trying to break into SCP-3147's locker with D-42271 last week has raised questions of your suitability to work with even the Safe anomalies. If it were up to Supervisor Kelly and the Site Director, you would already be rejoining '71 back at Broken Cliff Penitentiary."
D-2172 clamped her mouth shut and swallowed hard.
"Fortunately for you, I am one of the very few who believe you still have the potential to do good work for the Foundation," the doctor continued. "Dr. Markaby and I lobbied hard to keep you here, and this assignment is your last chance to prove that our trust is not misplaced. Fail this and you will be sent back, your memories erased and your sentence reinstated."
"Yeah," '72 said, her voice even raspier than usual. "Yeah, okay. So what's the job?"
The doctor pushed her glasses up on her nose. "Just wait a few minutes and you'll see."
'72 crossed her arms and looked everywhere but at the other woman. Crooking a finger into the collar of her jumpsuit, she tried to get a little air circulating. Everything about the room had become uncomfortable, a feeling she just couldn't shake even though she knew it was mostly a psychosomatic response. It didn't help that she was just standing around, waiting for whatever awful thing the object stored in the chamber was going to do.
Her train of thought was suddenly interrupted by movement in the corner of her eye quickly followed by the sharp clack of something hitting the floor behind her. She turned her head sharply around, eyes scanning first for the source of the noise, unsuccessfully, then over to the lock box, the lid of which she was surprised to see dropping back into the shut position.
"What-?"
With a long, slender finger, Dr. O'Neil pointed behind '72, who slowly turned to look. Still not seeing anything, she started stepping hesitantly in the indicated direction.
"Look down," the doctor prompted. "A little more to your right."
The confused D-Class knelt down when she finally spotted what she assumed she was supposed to have been looking for. She reached out, picked it up, and turned to present it to O'Neil.
"Okay, so what is it?"
"That," O'Neil replied, "is SCP-3284. It's a ball bearing."
'72 shifted the small metal sphere from one hand to the other. "Yeah, I see that. I mean, like, what does it do?"
"Something a little annoying for an organization like ours, I'm afraid." O'Neil rubbed a hand across her forehead. "It can't be contained. Put it in a box, it will open the box and roll out. Put it in a block of concrete, it makes the concrete crumble and then rolls out. Watch it with a camera, the camera malfunctions and it teleports away, and so on and so on."
D-2172 let out an amused snort. "Okay, I can see where that might tweak your noses a li'l bit," she said. "Guess I shouldn't go stickin' it in my pocket, then."
"That depends on if you like having pockets with holes in them," O'Neil said with a shrug.
"And if I just hold onto it real tight?"
"D-92368 wouldn't recommend it, I'm sure. He said his arm is still a little sore from the muscle spasms."
"Chuck it in a field and ignore the hell out of it?"
The doctor wagged her finger. "Very clever, but just because 3284 wouldn't move itself somewhere else, that doesn't mean somebody couldn't just come along and pick it up when we're not looking. Allowing it to be uncontained simply isn't an option."
"I guess y'all've thought this through." '72 held the ball up to the lights and squinted at it. "So what should I do with this thing before it starts makin' my hand dance around like a dyin' spider?"
"Put it back inside the box. Close the lid but leave it unlocked. 3284 has never been observed to move beyond ten meters outside of its containment, which is why we have it sitting in the exact center of a twelve cubic meter room with an open door, so it won't consider that part of said containment. Your job will be to locate and replace 3284 after every breach."
'72 paused halfway up the ladder. "Ah. That sounds-" She felt her heart sink a bit as the true nature of her new assignment started to settle in. "-incredibly boring," she finished quietly.
An enigmatic smile crept across Dr. O'Neil's features. "Don't worry. It happens at random intervals, and you'll only be in here for five hours."
"That is not reassuring."
"If you need a bathroom break, the restrooms are just down the hall on the left. Make sure you only go immediately after you put 3284 back in the box, and you have to be done and back within fifteen minutes. There aren't any cameras in here, so feel free to do whatever else you want as long as you don't damage anything and it doesn't interfere with your guard work. If you need any assistance, just go out and wave at one of the cameras in the hall."
'72 put the bearing back in its box and jumped down from the ladder. "Riiiiiiight, and if I feel like just takin' a walk?" she wondered aloud.
"A morning stroll through the Keter wing?" Dr. O'Neil asked in return as she tried to suppress a sardonic smile. "One of the most securely locked-down parts of this facility? Filled with some of its most dangerous and breach-prone anomalies?"
D-2172 shot fingerguns and a wink at Dr. O'Neil. "Just testin' ya," she said.
"Trust, '72." O'Neil held up a finger in warning. "This exercise is meant to help build it back up. Please take this seriously and don't abuse the chance we're giving you. Remember that it's your last one."
As O'Neil turned to go, the smaller woman licked her suddenly dry lips. "Hey, uh, just one more question?"
The doctor stopped and looked back over her shoulder expectantly.
"So … why didn't '71 get the same treatment?" '72 asked. "I mean, she ain't even fucked up as many times as I have."
A pensive look stole over Dr. O'Neil's face as she seemed to consider the question carefully. "Two reasons," she finally said. "First, her protective feelings toward children aside, the former D-42271 is a purposefully destructive, vindictive, and murderous individual, thus completely unsuitable for our organization as anything but a test subject. The Foundation is cold, not cruel."
"Ah. Okay. And second?"
"She didn't actually want to be here."
With that, Dr. O'Neil turned and was gone, leaving D-2172 to her work.

The first hour went by quickly. At least, '72 could only assume it had been an hour since she didn't have any way of keeping time aside from counting off the seconds herself. SCP-3284 had escaped from its little box seven times, each time getting quickly located and then relocated by its new guard.
'72 had spent the time amusing herself by doing a few impromptu tests of her own on 3284. The first time it had gotten out, she had been staring directly at the box. The second time, she had very carefully studied one of the room's corners. She had tried standing under the ladder, sitting on the steps, watching the hallway through the propped-open door. For a short while she had even gone so far as to sit on the lock box's lid, but mental images of it flying open and flinging her down to the concrete floor below cut that particular test short.
It was all very exciting.
One of the more interesting parts to her was that the lid of the box always opened with every escape. 3284 apparently had to teleport itself out of the box since it couldn't just roll over the box's lip, but it still needed the open space to get out. Strange.
The second hour went by a little slower than the first. It turned out that the uncomfortable feeling she had been getting earlier hadn't been purely mental after all. Due to the vents in the room being small, high up on the wall, and barely putting out the smallest whiff of cool air, the temperature had started off a little warm and was gradually getting warmer. Even the open chamber door didn't seem to be letting much fresh air in.
'72 searched the very few nooks and crannies in the chamber over very carefully before deciding that Dr. O'Neil had been telling the truth about there being no hidden cameras. With a heavy sigh of relief, she unzipped the top half of her jumpsuit, peeled it down, and tied the sleeves around her waist. In her life on the outside she usually wouldn't have cared much if anyone had been looking, but the thought of a bunch of guards ogling her regulation Foundation undershirt without her even knowing kind of creeped her out.
Since she was already a little sweaty, she decided to spend the rest of the second hour going through her usual morning routine. Toned, wiry muscles flexed and relaxed as she performed a series of stretches to limber up. When she felt sufficiently stretched, she kicked it into higher gear with push-ups, sit-ups, and more. She considered moving the lock box for a bit to use the ladder in her routine but thought better of it.
As the presumed third hour came down, she began to see the true insidiousness of her assignment. SCP-3284 had continued its own routine, getting a little more irritating each time as the sharp clack of metal on concrete forced her to stop what she was doing. And since she couldn't exercise the entire rest of her shift, she was left with almost nothing else to occupy her time except for waiting for the next clack.
clack
Pick the ball up.
clack
Put the ball back.
clack
Grind teeth and repeat.
By the time what was obviously the fifteenth hour rolled around, '72 was absolutely convinced that her assignment wasn't a test of trust but a punishment meted out by a god or gods that actively hated her. It was like water drip torture, only with a clack instead of a drip. More than once she stood with SCP-3284 in her hand, glaring at the open door and imagining herself hurling the fucking thing into the hallway, out a window, into the brainpan of Dr. O'Neil and Supervisor Kelly and the Site Director and, and, and …
Well, whoever the hell it was that actually ran the Foundation. She didn't know who that might be, but she knew she wanted to hunt them down and shove 3284 deep into an intimate part of their anatomy.
Instead, she dutifully turned, stomped her way up the metal ladder, and put 3284 back inside the lock box, every single time. Then it was back down to sit on the hard floor, to pace from wall to wall, to stare at the ceiling, and to wait for the next clack to come.
thump
For a moment, '72 figured that she must have imagined the noise. There weren't any thumps in the containment chamber, nothing that could possibly sound like a heavy weight hitting fabric. And there definitely wasn't anything in the room that could have hit her in the waist as she laid stretched out on the floor.
Lifting her head and looking herself over, she couldn't at first process what she was seeing. Perched right over her waist, sitting in the folds of her jumpsuit sleeve, was SCP-3284.
"Uh," she grunted intelligently. "Hey there, little buddy. The fuck you doin'?"
The ball bearing, whatever its motivations might have been, stayed silent.
'72 groaned and pressed her palms into her eyes for a moment before grabbing the bearing and standing up. She took the climb up the ladder slowly, popped the box lid, and put the source of her torment back inside.
Or, at least, that was what she had intended to do. Instead, when she tried to drop 3284 inside, it clipped the lip of the box and bounced outward. Still not quite up to speed, it took '72's brain a moment to register what had happened, by which time 3284 had clanged against two of the ladder's steps on its way down. She cursed, suddenly alert, and jumped off the ladder in pursuit of the rolling ball.
3284's recapture seemed a certain thing for a moment as it lost momentum, '72 snarling and grasping at it. Just as her fingers were about to close in, however, her foot seemed to think it would be a great idea to slide in ahead and kick the bearing further away.
"Shit!" she swore again as she nearly tripped in a second desperate lunge to halt the bearing's forward movement. It shot ahead of her while she tried to regain her footing, then right in front of her disbelieving eyes, it hit a slight imperfection in the concrete floor, bounced up into the air, and collided with the containment chamber's door.
The door, which was still slightly open as per orders, swung further open as 3284 dropped to the floor and slowly rolled into the hallway. '72 stood and pushed herself forward with what felt like agonizing slowness as she watched the door hit its apex, swing back inward, and shut with an audible click.
"No!" '72 shouted, clearing the steps in a single leap and slamming into the solid security door with all the force she could muster. The door was unimpressed and, to '72's complete horror, locked. "No fucking way! Oh … oh, you son of a bitch!"
Her wide eyes stared through the tiny reinforced window that ran along the door's left side. Right there, right in the middle of the corridor on the other side, was SCP-3284.
"Fuuuuuuuuck!" '72 slammed her fist against the window. "Don't you do this shit to me, you little prick! You open this door right now!"
Nothing happened, and it continued to happen for several more moments as '72 fumed, glared at 3284, and tried to calm her racing thoughts long enough to figure out what she was going to do.
Someone was going to come down the hall eventually. She couldn't remember any part of the site she had been in remaining empty for very long, especially when it was so close to a security checkpoint. So someone would come along and get the door open, let her out and put SCP-3284 back in and-
Her temper flared back up as she realized the next 'and' would be 'and see how D-2172 has fucked things up again'. Her last chance to stay out of the pen, to get her sentence reduced to nothing, to truly be free again, and it would all go down the drain because she couldn't accomplish the simple task of putting a little metal ball back inside a box properly.
She scowled through the window and pointed at SCP-3284. "You stay put," she ordered it, then turned and glanced around the room. Again she wondered if there really weren't any hidden cameras anywhere. She hoped there weren't or she was about to get into even more trouble.
Reaching down into the right leg of her jumpsuit, '72 ran her fingers along the fabric until she found the small bump she was looking for. She moved carefully so as not to bend or drop the small sliver of metal she had secreted in the tiny pocket there. It had cost her quite a bit to obtain the tool, taken time and effort to sew the secret pocket without the guards noticing.
Kneeling down in front of the door, she carefully slid the tool between it and the frame until it touched up against the bolt holding the whole thing closed. She then tapped the free end of the metal sliver with her finger, and waited. Just when the first drop of panicked perspiration had started to roll down her temple, she heard a sharp click as the bolt moved aside.
Unlike many of her fellow D-Class, '72's had never harbored any intention to escape the Foundation, but she was still a big believer in being prepared. She wasn't entirely certain how the little tool worked. The guy she had traded with had told her it was some kind of little magic trick that he had learned while testing some anomaly or other. All she knew for sure was that it could unlock any door and could only be used once.
Even though it was spent, she also knew there was no reason to just leave it sitting around to be found and prompt questions she didn't want to have to answer, so she carefully put it back in its pocket before pushing the door open and stepping out into the hall. She tried to look as nonchalant as she could as she stepped out, forcing herself not to look up at the security cameras that were undoubtedly zeroing in on her.
It didn't occur to her until she had walked past SCP-3284 and into the women's restroom that her earlier worry about the guards seeing her stripped to her undershirt had become moot. She leaned over one of the sinks to rub water on her face and pulled her jumpsuit back up into place while she reviewed her plan in her head. All she had to do was walk back down the hall, surreptitiously kick 3284 back into its chamber, and then walk in after it with no one the wiser.
Easy. Simple. Elegant.
A panicked knot rose in '72's throat when she stepped out and glanced down to find that SCP-3284 was no longer where she'd left it. Instead it was rolling slowly down the hall away from her. Hoping that she wasn't drawing attention to herself, she picked her pace up a little.
Her stomach sank as the bearing started to roll just a little bit faster. She leaned forward and sped up, and again it did the same. Within seconds, they were both well past the containment chamber door, the plan completely forgotten.
"No no no no, come on come on come on!" '72 was snarling under her breath as she broke into a jog and then a flat-out run. "Don't you do this to me! Don't you fucking do this!"
SCP-3284 rocketed along the tiled floor of the hallway as if it had been set on a steep incline. D-2172 was hot on its trail, her legs and arms pumping as adrenaline dumped into her system. Security doors passed by in a blur, barely noticed as all of her attention focused down a long tunnel at her quarry.
They came up on a T-intersection abruptly, the ball bearing curving along the floor gracefully as it rolled down the new corridor to the right. '72, caught off guard, barely managed to slow down enough to avoid breaking any bones when she slammed into the wall. Without missing another beat, she pushed herself away and was back on track, lesson learned. Her eyes immediately seized upon the silvery sphere as it sped away, but they also widened focus to take in the surroundings.
This wasn't going to be easy after all, but she could feel the switch click over in her brain, felt the adrenaline seeping deeper into her extremities. She was in the zone. She poured on the speed.
Another sudden turn came up as 3284 dodged into a hallway on the left, and there were the other Foundation personnel that '72 had expected to see eventually. Six white coats accompanied by two guards and two D-Class were either heading to or coming from an experiment, and they all looked up in surprise as they saw her barreling down the hall at them.
"Catch it!" she screamed at them. "On the ground! Catch it!"
Most of the researchers and both D-Class scrambled out of the way. Two white coats and the guards moved in reflexively to catch either SCP-3284 or D-2172 herself. Both targets were safe, however, as one of the researchers slipped and tumbled into a guard, causing the other doctor to jump back while the other guard fumbled around with his taser, which had apparently gotten stuck in its holster.
'72 had all of five seconds to take the entire scene in before 3284 had threaded its way through the group and it was her turn to do the same. The guard with the faulty holster tried to reach out and grab her arm, but she twisted away and used her altered momentum to roll her back along the back of the researcher still on all fours on the ground. She straightened back up the moment her feet hit the ground, and she pelted away from the confused crowd.
"Call in a containment breach, asshole!" she yelled over her shoulder at the idiot that had tried to grab her.
Another left turn, then another right along with another barely-squeezed-by research group, and finally the alarm was sounded. Red lights streamed along the walls as an automated voice alerted everyone to both a containment breach in progress and an escaped D-Class running amok.
Luck finally seemed to be on '72's side as an emergency bulkhead started to close ahead of them, complete with two guards standing on either side. But luck was a fickle bitch, '72 decided as the bearing seemed to gain even more speed and shot between the closing doors without the guards noticing a thing. One of them reached for his taser while the other pulled out a nightstick, and '72 simply did not have time for this shit.
The taser leads flew through the air, aiming straight for '72's chest. With a herculean effort that she figured she would never have been able to accomplish if not for the reflex-enhancing chemicals soaring through her arteries, '72 twisted her body to the side to let them sail by harmlessly, then slammed into and rebounded off of the wall at just the right angle to send her careening into the guard with the nightstick.
The wind was knocked out of the poor guy as he got sandwiched between her and the bulkhead, allowing her to pull the club from his suddenly weakened fingers. She spun around, swinging the stick at the head of the other guard, forcing him to back away as she continued her spin between the bulkhead doors just before they clanged shut.
There was another guard further down the hall on the other side, and she was completely ignoring SCP-3284 in favor of '72, just like the others. The major difference was that this guard was pulling an actual pistol out and yelling something about stopping or getting shot. '72 pulled her arm back and flung the nightstick end over end.
The guard had her gun out but didn't have time to point it in '72's direction. Instead she pulled to one side almost as if she was attempting to emulate '72's earlier miracle dodge, and the D-Class was on her before she had time to recover. Her wrist was bent back as '72 wrenched it, causing the pistol to drop into the other woman's hand.
'72 didn't stop, couldn't stop. She elbowed the guard in the face to get her out of the way and was back after SCP-3284. There was no time to aim as she ran, but she still gave shooting at the bearing a try, hoping to at least halt its progress with a bullethole in the floor. The effort was predictably futile, and after the slide clicked back but not forward, she threw the empty gun aside with a snarl.
The yellow-painted steel of another bulkhead loomed, this one already almost completely closed. '72 let out a primal scream of frustration as she watched 3284 slip through a crack barely wider than it was, then she skidded to a stop as the doors completely closed.
D-2172 had just enough time to notice that a handprint scanner sat in the wall next to the bulkhead before a thick line of pain lit up across her shoulder blades. She fell forward, rolled to the side before another blow could come, and came back up in a crouch. The guard was there, nightstick in hand, advancing on her again.
With a sudden burst of speed, '72 launched herself forward so that she would be inside the guard's swing radius, then drove the palm of her right hand into the taller woman's gut. Reaching down with her left, she hooked the back of the guard's knee and pulled, sending her down to the floor.
"Sorry about this," she told the breathless guard as she pulled her over to the scanner. "Seriously, I'll send you a gift basket later or something."
The guard struggled as '72 grabbed her hand and slapped it on print scanner, then squawked in surprise and pain when the D-Class stepped down lightly on her other hand to keep it from going for a taser or handcuffs. The light on the scanner turned green as the doors started rumbling open again, and the moment the opening was wide enough, '72 kicked the guard away and was gone.
The emergency lights glinted off of 3284 just enough for '72 to notice as it turned another corner far ahead. The spot where the nightstick had hit her was starting to ache and a small stitch had begun working its way up her side, but still she pushed forward as fast as she could to catch up. She turned the corner and found herself right near a security checkpoint heading back into the Euclid wing.
The fickleness of luck had turned her way again. There were guards at the station, naturally, and both of them had gotten suited up in their riot gear, but they were both facing away from her, their heads turning this way and that as they tried to figure out why one of their metal detectors had sounded an alert.
"Comin' through!" she called out as she slammed into the back of one guard, pushing him onto the already-unlocked button for the checkpoint's emergency shutters. The other spun in her direction but couldn't react before she had rolled under the rapidly-descending shutters and popped out the other side. There she found two more guards, both of which were too stunned by her sudden appearance to stop her from legsweeping one, grabbing his taser, and tagging the other with it before running off.
Turn after turn, she barely managed to keep up with the bearing as it tried to shake her. The halls had become almost entirely empty as most everyone had headed to their designated cowering areas, and it seemed almost as if 3284's serpentine pathway was allowing it, and therefore '72, to avoid any further encounters with the site's security officers.
Sweat was pouring off of '72 in waves. She could feel her limbs start to grow heavy as the adrenaline was used up and broken down inside her muscles. Her breathing was starting to turn into sharp gasps, and she wasn't sure how much more she could do.
Then, a light at the end of the tunnel. She followed the bearing around another corner, and instead of the maze she had been running through before, the new hallway was a simple straight shot. Doors lined the walls and another capped the other end, but '72 felt her second wind coming on. 3284 would have to cause one of the doors to open, which would tip her off to which direction it would take and give her a chance to dodge ahead.
All the way down the hall she chased it, slowly gaining with each step thanks to the new vigor flowing through her. The door at the end of the hall opened, the bearing headed straight for it, and a man in a white lab coat stepped out, running right into '72 as she tried to dive down for SCP-3284. The two of them slammed into each other and tumbled first into the wall and then onto the floor, their flailing legs pushing the door closed after the ball bearing had passed through.
"No no no, dammit!" '72 spat out as she disentangled herself and grabbed onto the door handle only to find it locked. "Who the fuck-"
She turned on the doctor she had collided with and grabbed him by the collar, then jumped in surprise as she noticed the familiar face.
"'72?" Dr. Markaby groaned as he rubbed his sore head.
With no time for further pleasantries, '72 shook her head to clear it, snatched the ID card clipped to Markaby's belt, and frantically slid it through the reader on the door. When the light turned green, she released the card, which was pulled by its tether to snap back against the doctor's waist with a painful-sounding smack!
A cafeteria undoubtedly meant for researchers and administration only was on the other side of the door. SCP-3284 was there as well, rolling its way down the middle aisle between the tables, headed for a set of double doors on the far side of the room. A sign that softly glowed EXIT in block letters was hanging from the ceiling just above them.
'72 reached deep and pulled out everything she had left. She moved, one foot in front of the other, arms pumping in time, pushing ahead like all the demons of hell had been let loose behind her. She couldn't let this happen. Wouldn't.
The double doors opened, because of course they did. '72 didn't know how, didn't know why. Perhaps some fault in the latch. Maybe an automated door opening system suddenly decided to turn on. It didn't matter anymore, because what she saw on the other side had suddenly become the most important thing in the world.
The cafeteria exit led out to a balcony. Beyond the railing edge of that balcony was a drop three stories to the ground. She could see the treetops of the forest that surrounded Site-272, and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that if SCP-3284 managed to roll off the balcony, it would be lost out in those woods. Gone, and with it, her memories and everything she had gained while working for the Foundation.
Everything seemed to be going to painfully slow, every second passing by like hours dipped in molasses. The bearing reached the doorway, hopping a little as it bumped its way over the lip. '72 dove through the door after it, hit the floor, and slid across the patio tile with her arm and hand stretched out far enough that it felt like she was about to dislocate her own shoulder.
SCP-3284 went under the railing, over the edge. D-2172 thrust her hand out after it and came to a sudden stop as her shoulder jammed up against the railing.
Her fingers closed on empty air.
Everything seemed to freeze around '72 as she stared at her clenched fist. Her mind was blank, wheels spinning uselessly as she tried to process what had just happened, tried actively not to think about what it meant.
Her joints and muscles aching from exertion and stress, she slowly pulled her arm back from under the railing and got back on her feet. She forced her fingers to uncurl, forced herself to look at the empty palm scored by four small dips where her fingernails had dug in. And then she screamed.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrr, fuck dammit! You piece of … you shitting-ass piece of fucking garbage shit!"
She jumped up in the air, then stomped down with as much force as she could muster. She stomped again and again, turning in random directions and punctuating each impact with a hurled invective. When her legs started hurting enough to make her stop, she grabbed onto the railing and leaned over it to thrust a quivering but forceful middle finger out at the forest.
"Fuck you then!" she screeched at the top of her lungs. "I hope you rust out there, you worthless fuckshit! I hope you stay uncontained for-fucking-ever, and these fucksticks here never find you, and you never get found by anybody else so you can't do your stupid, shitty trick to anyone ever again! You fucked me! You fucking fucked me, and I hope you rot in hell!"
'72 breathed in fire and heaved out smoke. Her hands clenched around the railing so tight that her knuckles turned white. Tears of mixed frustration and despair started welling in the corners of her eyes as the last of her strength left her. She felt her body begin to sag, and all she wanted to do was fall down right where she was and fall asleep.
Before she could do just that, however, she felt a small weight suddenly drop into her hip pocket.
Her eyeballs felt like they were creaking in their sockets as she cocked her hip out and looked down at the clear plastic pocket. There, sitting in the very bottom, was SCP-3284.
"Hah," she laughed once without mirth. She reached into the pocket to fish the ball bearing out. "No," she said quietly. "I don't want you anymore. Go away."
She pulled her arm back, then snapped it forward, sending the bearing flying back out toward the forest. It wasn't quite going to reach the facility's fence line, but it also didn't matter. The second '72 wasn't able to track the tiny sphere anymore, she felt the same weight as before fall into her left breast pocket.
"D-2172! Stand down! Now!"
'72 turned to face the source of the new voice to find two fully geared members of MTF Delta-10 standing in the doorway, their rifles aimed directly at her. Way behind them in the cafeteria, she saw Dr. Markaby frantically talking on his cellphone and occasionally glancing in their direction. The task force goons were still yelling orders, telling her to assume the position and such, but it all just sort of melted together.
It hardly mattered. She knew the routine. She dropped to her knees, put her hands behind her head, and just let everything wash over her.

By all appearances, the room seemed warm and inviting. Dark-stained wood paneling, thick carpet, beautiful potted plants, the works. Even the long table that she sat chained in front of had something of an inviting, inclusive look. The reason her blood felt frozen inside of her regardless was that she knew what the purpose of the room was.
On the side of the table opposite her, three people sat in judgment. Her fate was in their hands, and she didn't care much for her odds.
D-Class Supervisor Donald Kelly was the only one that allowed his personal opinion of the proceedings show clearly on his face. A deep scowl creased his dark features, his arms crossed against his broad chest, and every time he looked in '72's direction, the muscles in his jaw started to twitch.
Dr. Anna O'Neil sat with her hands clasped in front of her on the table, staring impassively at '72 from behind her glasses. The only indication of what she might be thinking was the occasional glance down at the clear breast pocket that still held SCP-3284.
The third and, it seemed, most important figure at the table sat between the other two as he silently sifted through files on his tablet. '72 didn't know his first name, but he had introduced himself to her briefly as Site Director Yarborough when he had come in earlier. It had been about that point that it fully sank in just how much trouble she had gotten herself into.
Director Yarborough let out a long but gentle sigh as he set down the tablet, took off his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. When he had finished, he leaned forward and looked her directly in the eyes.
"D-2172," he said, his voice heavy with authority and just a hint of weariness, "I'm sure you know why we're here today. The investigation into Incident 3284/72 is complete, and this is to be the final review on the matter."
"I understand," '72 said hoarsely.
The director nodded. "Good. Now, Dr. O'Neil and Mr. Kelly here have both already put in their reports and recommendations, which are being taken into account for the final decision, and they are here now in an advisory capacity. I will be asking you a series of questions about the incident, which you are to answer truthfully and to the best of your abilities. Are you prepared to do that?"
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent, then let's begin. During the incident, you displayed a great deal of skill in both combating and evading our security officers, skills that you have shown some propensity for in previous testing environments. This was something on a quite different level, however. How did you manage to do what you did?"
'72 shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "I … don't think it was all me, sir," she said.
Director Yarborough raised his eyebrows. "Are you saying you had some kind of outside help? Why didn't you mention this during your debriefing?"
"'Cause I'm still not really sure about it," she told him with a shrug. "I mean, it's kinda crazy. Some of what happened was probably just luck, but the rest? I think maybe 3284 had something to do with it."
Supervisor Kelly scoffed and looked like he was about to say something, but Yarborough held up a hand to cut him off. "How so?"
"Well, it's just a feeling, but looking back on it, it seems like 3284 wanted me to catch it. Like the whole thing was some kinda game. I just took advantage of the way it set stuff up."
"Are you saying SCP-3284 is sapient?" asked the director.
"Like, can it think or whatever?" '72 shrugged again. "I dunno. I'm not a researcher or nothin'."
"The idea that SCP-3284 is aware of its surroundings and can, to some degree, selectively effect them is a hypothesis we've been planning on testing," Dr. O'Neil chimed in.
"I see." The director pursed his lips thoughtfully. "So, if it hadn't been for the anomalous uncontainable effect aiding you, you don't believe you would have been able to accomplish everything you did that day?"
'72 looked down at her hands while she nervously fingered the chains hanging from her wrists. "Probably not?" she finally said.
"Mr. Kelly?"
The D-Class supervisor cocked his jaw to the side and glared thoughtfully at '72. "She could have," he said grudgingly. "Maybe. It would have taken her a little longer, she would've gotten beaten on a little more, and she probably would have lost SCP-3284 in the end … but I think it'd be a close thing. If I had known it was relevant, I would have sent you the security footage of her taking down three men twice her size in the mess room a couple of months ago."
"Ah. So it's not just our guards she has a propensity for punching in the gut."
'72 flinched at the director's words but stayed silent.
"Which I suppose leads us to the next question," Yarborough continued, "which is, why did you do what you did?"
Confusion and a strange feeling of dread settled over '72. "I'm sorry, sir? I'm, uh … I guess I don't understand the question. I told Officer Oaks-"
"Yes, I am aware of what you told Officer Oaks, D-2172," the director said, shaking his head. "And I do believe you when you say you got into 'the zone' while trying to help with a containment breach. That's not what I'm asking. I'm asking, why did you set out to try and re-contain SCP-3284 on your own in the first place? You could have flagged down someone via the security cameras in the hallway, as you had been instructed to do. When you first ran into the security guards during your pursuit, the footage clearly shows you calling to them for assistance, so it would appear you were not yet zoned out enough that you couldn't simply stop, explain the situation, and let them handle it from there. So again I ask, why?"
Even if she hadn't been chained, hobbled, and attached to a floor anchor, '72 didn't think she could possibly feel any more trapped. At least two of the other people at the table knew her reasons, but the words still stuck in her throat, refusing to come out. She didn't want to have to say it out loud. But she did.
"I don't want to go back to prison," she told him, her voice small and quiet. "I don't … I don't belong there. I killed those people. I did. But I don't deserve … that. That place. And I knew that if I stayed here, got through everything y'all wanted me to do, I could get out of there for good."
Tears began to well up in the corners of her eyes. She blinked them back, wiped at her nose. "And, I mean, this was my last chance, right?" she continued. "So I couldn't screw it up. I couldn't let that fucking little ball get away from me, and it just got in my head that this was it, I had to do it on my own and that was the only way I could prove I could do what y'all wanted. It just kind of … popped right out of my head that beating up a shitload of people doing some property damage on my way to get the ball back probably wouldn't look any better than losing it completely.
"I, uh … I did the wrong thing. Again, I guess. And I'm sorry."
Silence fell around the table as '72 put her face in her hands and took a deep, ragged breath. Her thoughts tumbled one after the other, dark and disjointed. It was over, and she knew it.
The director cleared his throat. "Well then, one last question," he said. "Do you know or have any thoughts on how or why SCP-3284 came back to you, or why it seems to be unable to be removed from your person?"
'72, face still hidden, shook her head.
"I see. Thank you for cooperating with this inquiry, D-2172." Director Yarborough picked up his tablet and started typing on it. "It may not surprise you to hear that I had already made a tentative decision based on the facts as they had been presented to me. Your answers today have not changed that decision, and now it will be made official. D-2172, stand up."
The chains rattled, pulling '72's arms down in front of her as she stood, revealing the wet trails streaking across her cheeks.
"You are hereby released from the Foundation's D-Class program," he told her, still typing. "You will be reassigned as an E-Class employee on a temporary basis as a containment specialist, specifically assigned to the containment and testing of SCP-3284 until such time that other arrangements for its containment can be found. This assignment begins immediately, and you will begin receiving payment and other benefits appropriate to your new position as of now."
After giving the tablet one final tap, he motioned to the guards standing by the doorway. '72 stared at him agape as they stepped in beside her to remove her shackles.
"Wait, hey," she said once she had regained her voice. "No, no, hey, this isn't what I want."
The sour look on Kelly's face as he and the others stood up told her that he was thinking the exact same thing, if for different reasons. The director folded his glasses and put them away, then stuck his hands in his suit pockets and shrugged at her.
"Would you prefer to go back to jail?" he asked.
"No, of course not," '72 said, waving her hands helplessly at her sides. "I mean, I want to be free, dammit. Actually free. I just wanted to do my time here and then get out, but now you're pulling me in even more?"
"Temporarily," Supervisor Kelly reminded her.
"We can't send you back to jail now anyway, not with an anomaly attached to you," Yarborough said. "The only other alternative would be to designate you SCP-3284-1 and contain you along with your new little friend. Would you prefer we did that?"
'72 blanched. "No," she replied. "No, I would not."
The director gave her a smile. "Good. It would be a terrible waste of a potential resource. Now, you're going to be attached to Dr. O'Neil's research team, of course. We'll get you through your new orientation tomorrow, but for now she'll be giving you a quick rundown and showing you the way to your new quarters. Have a good evening, Miss Masters."
She flinched at the sudden use of her real name, then again when she noticed that Dr. O'Neil had already rounded the table and was standing beside her. Everything was suddenly coming at her too fast, too much, and the fact that she couldn't tell whether things had worked out well or not was making her jumpy.
O'Neil put an understanding hand on her shoulder to help calm her down. "Miss Masters?" the doctor said gently. "Or would it be alright if I called you Samantha?"
"Sam," the former D-2172 said reflexively. "Yeah, it's fine."
"Then you can call me Anna, if you wish. Outside of testing chambers and official reports, at least." She gave a conspiratorial wink as she started guiding the dazed woman out of the room.
"Cool."
Anna smiled. "Welcome to the Foundation, Sam."


“Hello, and welcome to Spicy Crust Pizzeria. How can I help you to… oh shit.”
Tyrone, formerly D-23545, was rendered speechless by the sight of the ageing, ragged man standing across the counter from him. He looked older than Tyrone knew him to be, like the ten years that had passed since they last met had somehow made do for thirty. Ill-groomed, ill-dressed and ill-shaven, eyes heavy and sunken, bloodshot from a chronic dearth of sleep. His cheeks were hollow and gaunt, to the point of near starvation. Tyrone didn't know exactly what the past decade had been like for this man, but he did know that he was the cause of it.
“Hey Mr. Clines, what are you doing out here?” he murmured so softly it was barely audible. The man just shook his head in disgust.
“Heard you were out of prison. I had to see it for myself,” he sneered.
“Yeah. I'm out.”
“How is that possible? You were serving twenty-five to life. You shouldn't even be eligible for parole for fifteen years! Did you break out?”
“No man, this is all legit. They let me out early. Good behaviour, and all that.”
“Horseshit. You're a fucking kid killer, they don't just let -”
“It was manslaughter, actually. I didn't mean to… look, I can't say much about it, but I cut a deal, alright?”
“What sort of deal gets a piece of shit like you out of prison fifteen years early?” Clines demanded, disgusted with the injustice that the man who had killed his child was now free.
Tyrone had to suppress an urge to smirk at the irony of it. Many times during his decade of service to the Foundation, he and his fellow D-Class had often debated the ethics of what the Foundation was using them for. Never once did any of them claim that the fact they were getting time off their sentences might be the unethical part.
“I literally can't say much,” Tyrone said truthfully, his implanted memetic compulsions preventing him from speaking of the anomalous to civilians. “But there are some people who need convicts to do some shitty, high-risk work for them. You do the work, you get time off your sentence. It's kind of fucked up, yeah, but you keep your end of the bargain, they keep theirs. I'm in a half-way house now, here as part of a work-release program.”
“How wonderful for you,” Clines sneered. Tyrone quickly glanced down to see that Mr. Clines was fingering something in his pocket.
“You got a piece on you Mr. Clines?” he asked calmly as he surreptitiously hit the silent alarm.
“Do you really think you deserve to be free, after what you did?” Clines asked, his voice cracking as he held back hot tears. “You killed her, took her life, and you were supposed to pay with yours! Every day until you die, rotting away in prison, and some government assholes decided that because you did some dirty work for them ten years is good enough? Do you know what I would give for ten more years with her? Do you think that what you did is worth anywhere near the life you took?”
Tyrone's first instinct was to say ‘of course not', but then he thought of everything he had been through in the past ten years. All the extra-dimensional and anomalous locations he had explored, all the magic objects he had interacted with, all the monsters he had fought and ran from and stared down, and all the other D-class who hadn't been as lucky as him.
“I… you know what? Yeah, I do actually. I accept that I got your daughter killed, but it wasn't murder, and I've lived with that guilt every day for the past ten years and I'll live with it every day until I die. But during the past ten years, I've almost died myself, more than once! I've risked my life, and the work I was doing saved more lives than I can count. That sounds like the scales of justice are balanced to me.”
“You really think that?” Clines asked, eyeing the security camera and the customers and employees who were staring at them while giving them a wide berth. He knew that if he shot Tyrone he'd be convicted of murder himself. He just hadn't decided if that was worth it or not. “This hole you've left inside me and everyone else who cared about her hasn't been filled. There's nothing, nothing, you can do that will ever bring her back. No amount of lives you save can ever make up for the life you took!”
Again, the irony was almost funny. The Foundation always justified what they did through cold utilitarianism. Tyrone had even known a researcher who had estimated the ratio of babies the Foundation fed to demons to the number of people saved by doing so. He kept that ratio pinned to his work tablet, as a constant reminder that what they were doing was, according to some ethic systems at least, good.
That researcher had still hanged himself.
Was this really how it was going to end? After ten years, surviving everything the Foundation had put him through, he was going to be murdered working the cash register at a pizzeria? Was Clines right? Maybe. He did have a point after all; saving the living can't bring back the dead.
“Mr. Clines, you're right that nothing I've done will bring your daughter back, but killing me won't fix that either. You shoot me, she's still dead, you take my place in prison with that hole inside you still there, and my mother who's so happy to have me back after ten years will feel just as bad as you do now. Is that what you want to do? The lives I saved may not do you any good, but it sure stopped a hell of a lot of people from feeling what you do. If you really don't think that's worth anything, and that making my mother as miserable as you are now will make your burden easier to bear, then take your shot man. I won't stop you. Otherwise, either order something or get out of the way. I recommend the Mozza sticks.”
After a moment of hesitation, Clines pulled out his gun - but holding it by the barrel instead of the grip. He placed it on the counter.
"I'm going to leave that here. I don't trust myself with it. I shouldn't even have it."
"This country, right?" Tyrone smirked, desperate to break the tension. "Man, you look like hell. If you need help I can -"
"You can help me by keeping yourself out of trouble. Best of luck to you, Tyrone."
"Take care of yourself Mr. Clines."
Throwing up his hood, Clines ran past the bystanders and out the front door. Tyrone handed the gun to his supervisor, but remained at his post.
"Ladies and Gentleman, I'm sorry you had to see that. My supervisor here is going to be handing out free pizza coupons as compensation for your disturbance."
"Dude, that was awesome!" a teenage boy swooned. "How'd you keep your cool when you knew that guy could've shot you at any second?"
Tyrone laughed, the answer being all too obvious.
"Kid, in the service I was in, the first thing everyone learned was 'Don't Blink'."


Moon Champion hardly had a moment to check his visor before he abandoned his squishy friend in search of the old man he had seen in a dream. The old man's instructions were cryptic, but Moon Champion knew his way from another dream he had experienced.
"The visions of slumber have aligned in my favor, I know exactly where I must go!" remarked Moon Champion, as he propelled himself toward a large crater upon the Moon's surface.
He was reaching velocity never before accomplished by himself, his capabilities being pushed to the max. As he began reaching closer and closer to the ground, he could see a spot of green in the distance.
"A bubble of vibrancy in my grey humble abode, this must be the location of the man in robes!" shouted Moon Champion, before crashing into the spot.
Stumbling through his crash-site and finally gaining his bearings, Moon Champion finally had the ability to see his surroundings. Moon Champion was overwhelmed. Beautiful tall structures of brown and green stood before him, a layer of soft green blades carpeting the ground.
"Are these magnificent structures the fabled highlighters of humankind?" pondered Moon Champion aloud, before hearing the footsteps of another figure within the area.
"No, these happen to be oak and ash trees, though they are quite popular on Earth," said a weary old voice. Moon Champion turned around to see the old man, still in his robes, step out of a peculiar structure on the other side of the grove.
"Great old man in robes, plea-," Moon Champion shouted, before being interrupted by the elder.
"Please, my name is Nyperius, and I am not just an old man but a great wizard of the Moon!" exclaimed Nyperius. Moon Champion stepped back in shock.
"Please, I am quite bewildered at the moment, but you are Nyperius? The Nyperius?! Ancient wizard and Moon king?" questioned Moon Champion.
"Why yes, it's been a while since I've met a Moon warrior. That's why I let you in," told Nyperius, who sat down on a mossy stone, "Those other people over at their high-tech facility just don't seem to comprehend the Moon's history quite like us."
"But wait," said Moon Champion, "why have you called upon me to meet you at your base of operations? Most have never even gazed upon this land."
Nyperius gazed down at the ground before saying, "Please, join me in my home, there is much discussing to do." Nyperius stood up and walked back to his tiny establishment, and Moon Champion followed.
Nyperius and Moon Champion both sat down on stools within the house, and a cat soon entered the small house with a piece of meat in his hands.
Nyperius gladly accepted the meat, saying "I hope you don't mind Commodore Buckles staying with us," as Commodore Buckles curled up in a corner of the room.
"Not in the slightest," answered Moon Champion. Nyperius began to tell a story, and a cloud began to form above their heads.
"Near the facility where the Earthlings lay base, there exists a cavern, within it a face."
With the wave of Nyperius' hand, a cavern appeared within the cloud, with the cavern containing a swarm of flying objects, changing shape and orbiting the darkness inside.
"The face is ancient, a different time, and different space, and while those like it remain as patterns, the face is entering our place."
A figure suddenly appeared within the the confines of the cavern, tentacle-like appendages extended in and out from within.
"He changes all he touches, destroys all he can see, and with enough exposure, the Moon will be debris." The cloud suddenly extends out to a view of the whole Moon, subsequently disappearing in a flash. Moon Champion flinches a bit, his hands quivering.
"While Moon people remain in hiding, the Old Guard attempts an attack. Each and every member is absorbed into the black." The cloud reforms to show the Moon warriors from Moon Champion's dream charging into the cave, each one disintegrating and turning into nothingness.
"You're the only one left, you were the only one away, and although you've been gone for far too long, it's here where you will stay." The cloud forms into a sword, falling into Moon Champion's hands.
"This weapon is from ages past, a different universe, it can do most anything when worse comes to worse." Moon Champion raises the sword, revealing it to have the weight of a feather; yet, Moon Champion could sense great power from the sword, as if forged from the fabric of the universe.
"The guardian of our universe, one of previous seven, is growing old and tired, and ready to ascend to heaven. It's called upon multiple knights, some you have seen before, to care and defend their planets in case of cosmic war."
Moon Champion recalled his friend, C-C-C-P, circling the Earth, struggling in an invisible battle. He was Earth Champion, defending against the unseen menace of his planet, the monster of the cosmos.
"The knight calls upon you now, sir, the remaining Moon Champion, to defend the Moon against cosmic foes, as new Moon Guardian." Nyperius suddenly grabbed Moon Champion's arm.
"The time has come, to depart this land, and guard the evil cave. With your grand sword, you'll defend the Moon against an untimely grave. And though this may seem sudden, and you seem most unsteady, I have one last question: are you ready?"
"Yes I am," proclaimed Moon Champion.
In a split-second, the humble structure had been displaced by the sight of the grey Moon and black sky. Behind him he could sense a powerful force, like a giant hurricane was swarming over his head. He had the urge to look back, but Nyperius took his gaze.
"Remember," Nyperius said slowly, "don't look back. This is your fate." In a breath, Nyperius had disappeared, and Moon Champion was left alone, sword in hand.
Moon Champion had a chance to breathe, yet he was constantly on guard with the cavern at his back. Any moment and all hell could break loose. In a way, it was the worst fate to have. Stuck in a position of no return, on the edge of cosmic chaos, left to defend the world against a monster he couldn't even understand. Yet, Moon Champion felt satisfied.
He had long searched for a companion to do battle with Moon Monsters, yet he had never considered that he had to search within himself the courage to go back. The courage to fight the monsters directly. Though he was left in a constantly still position, and always facing away from the monster, he had, in a way, tamed the greatest Moon Monster of all.
Through it all, he had wondered where he came from, and why he was made. But in the end, it didn't matter, all that mattered was that he was a hero, and he had made the ultimate sacrifice to become Moon Guardian. The sacrifice of freedom, to allow the freedom of others.
Through the radio came the voice of a man, speaking in Russian, far away from the Moon. It said "You've done it, comrade, you've done it."
And Moon Guardian was content.

« I Dreamed a Dream | Waiting in the Sky


Previous: Us and Them

FROM: ID# ERROR <435eA1osTP.Kked1ukm4J|jjOtZ1q9nu#435eA1osTP.Kked1ukm4J|jjOtZ1q9nu>
TO: Robert Malthus <noitadnuof.pcs|suhtlamr#noitadnuof.pcs|suhtlamr>
SUBJECT: RE: Mendel Mercer

Here's what I've got so far:
Mercer quit his job as one of Prometheus Lab's leading engineers in 1962 to start his own business — Myrmidon International. They're a private military company that dabbles in anomalous research. We've even hired them a couple of times (under the table, of course). As for Mercer himself… well.
He had an associate once — a lawyer by the name of Harold Rosenthal. In 1995, Rosenthal embezzled money from Myrmidon. Mercer went after him, but Rosenthal found a way to tie him up in litigation that would last for decades. Two weeks later, Rosenthal was reported missing.
They found the exsanguinated corpse in his New York City office. 85th floor. No witnesses, no puncture wounds, no explanation.
Mercer had an ironclad alibi — meeting in Paris to push some sort of anti-piracy law. Convenient, right? His life is plagued by happy coincidences like that. Unsolved disappearances, weird deaths, disasters that benefited him financially.
Investors love him — he eats shit and shits gold. He loses a little money here and there, but never a lot. Just enough to avoid kicking up red flags. GOC has a file on him. They figure him for a Type Blue. I'm not so sure (besides, we both know their taxonomy is full of shit). But whatever he's got going on, I'll bet my left nut it's more than just "the luck of the Irish".

TRANSMISSION INTERCEPT LOG

DATE: 07-09-2016
SATELLITE ID: JE6-LA5J671-3GMNAZ
CALL LENGTH: 00:02:26

[BEGIN LOG]
» — not sure about this. We really ought to call — we really ought to call the National Guard, or something like that. You know?
» I understand your concern. Nevertheless, you should consider all your options.
» My options?
» Your options. You and your deputies are not equipped to face down something like —
» My deputies are good men.
» Of course.
» My deputies are good men.
» Of course. Of course they are, sheriff. I have no doubt your deputies are some of the finest men you could ask for. But you don't want them getting hurt, do you?
» No. No, no.
» No. Of course not. And they haven't been trained to handle things like this. You weren't trained to hunt monsters, sheriff.
» No.
» We can handle this for you.
» You can?
» Yes. We just need you to sign some papers — temporarily deputize my men, let us do our job, and we'll put this whole sordid affair behind us.
» It's — the damn thing has tentacles. It's like something out of a goddamn horror movie.
» Do we have an agreement, sheriff?
» I just don't know. I just don't know. Bill, he says he's seen something like this before, a few years back. The government sent — there were people they sent down to handle it, then. And you ain't with the government. Right?
» Sheriff, do you really want the government sticking its nose in your business?
» I don't know. I don't — is this even legal?
» If you deputize us, yes. It will be perfectly legal.
» I — Christ. Christ, all right. The goddamn thing tried to eat Perkins. Christ. Whatever you have to do. Just take care of it.
» Excellent. We'll have our men down there to contain the situation within the hour.
» Just — I wanna know. Who the hell are you people?
» We're just a small business working to provide a helpful service, sheriff. Think of us as a privatized containment agency. My men will be in touch.
[END LOG]

FROM: ID# ERROR <ibMLtgYrIh.wTkWoOqx7G|91TGytTAx4#ibMLtgYrIh.wTkWoOqx7G|91TGytTAx4>
TO: Robert Malthus <noitadnuof.pcs|suhtlamr#noitadnuof.pcs|suhtlamr>
SUBJECT: Myrmidon International

Strap on your tinfoil hat, boss — I'm taking you for a ride.
On the surface, Myrmidon International looks like your average scuzzy private security firm hiding a little anomalous tech under the table. But once you peel back the skin, you start seeing their rotting core. They've got their fingers in just about every pie out there. And their favorite flavor? Parascience.
They're involved in everything from anomalous pharmaceuticals to paraphysics. They stay hidden beneath a labyrinth of shell companies, but the connections are there if you know where to look. Remember Dr. West's research on improved amnestics? Guess who provided consultations during the R&D stage? Myrmidon. Remember that bullshit with Daniel DeVorn? Guess who helped design the Sommerfeld's SRA array? You guessed it — Myrmidon. They've even got some history with Anderson.
And here's where things start to get really squirrely: In just about every case where Myrmidon was involved in Foundation activities? Calamity struck. And in all of those cases? Myrmidon walked away clean as a whistle with a fat wad of cash in both hands. It's like they keep seeing the writing on the wall.
Or maybe they're doing a little writing themselves.
Something else to chew on: A lot of our people end up working for them. They love to headhunt Foundation personnel — they offer more money, cushier jobs, and I even hear they stock a pinball machine in every office.
I'll keep at it.
PS: Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. Especially not if I find a pinball machine waiting for me in my office (hint, hint).

INTERNAL OSWORTH TRANSCRIPT (#206DJX)

NOTES: Subject exhibits highly divergent morphology from baseline humans (multiple appendages, hemocyanin blood plasma, atypical brain structure, strength disproportional to its mass, etc). Extremely hostile. Restraints required.
Initial interview was performed to determine sapience, intelligence, and ability to communicate.

█████████
Shall we try this again, then?

SUBJECT
[Chittering]

█████████
If you cooperate, we can see to it that you receive more water. You like being in the water, right? I could have a tank installed in your room.

SUBJECT
[Chittering]

█████████
All I'm asking for is a little conversation. That's all. I know you can communicate. You've been evading us for far too long to just be some senseless animal.

SUBJECT
[Chittering]

█████████
Your neurology extends through your body. Your ability to regenerate these cells could provide critical insights in fields studying chronic neural degeneration —

SUBJECT
[Chittering]

█████████
Sargeant, increase the voltage.

SUBJECT
[Screeching]

█████████
All right. That's enough.

SUBJECT
[Growling]

█████████
All I want is a dialogue. I want to understand how your body works. If you won't talk to us, we'll just have to figure it out the hard way.

SUBJECT
[Chittering]

█████████
Turn it up. All the way, this time.

SUBJECT
[Several minutes of screeching]

█████
Doctor █████████ — he's close to flat-lining. If we keep going, he might —

█████████
Understood. Turn it off, Sargeant.

SUBJECT
[Gurgling]

█████████
This entire procedure has been a waste of everyone's time. Can you even understand what I'm saying? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you can't communicate.

SUBJECT
[Gurgling]

█████████
I suspected as much. All we've learned is that you're just another senseless, monstrous brute.

SUBJECT
[Subject makes several gestures]

█████████
...what did you — what was that?

SUMMARY: Movement later determined to be ASL (American Sign Language); roughly translated to 'AND I LEARNED YOUR NAME'.
Sargeant █████'s contract has been terminated for violation of protocol (stating a staff member's name during an interview). Dr. █████████ has been transferred to another facility as a safety measure.
Subject to be transferred to PROJECT ECLIPSE pending approval.

FROM: ID# ERROR <Mp1ymmXH5T.YShW1sBdGf|MkiKWDiM9N#Mp1ymmXH5T.YShW1sBdGf|MkiKWDiM9N>
TO: Robert Malthus <noitadnuof.pcs|suhtlamr#noitadnuof.pcs|suhtlamr>
SUBJECT: Mendel Mercer

The deeper I dig, the more concerned I get.
Prior to his work in Prometheus Labs, Mercer didn't exist. Now, when I say 'he didn't exist', I don't mean his paper-trail goes cold, or that he never got a social security card. I mean that as far as I can tell, he didn't fucking exist. He either literally materialized in 1952 — fully grown and ready to go to work — or this is some antimemetic bullshit.
I really hope this isn't some antimemetic bullshit.
Another place Myrmidon is doing a lot of investing is in America's privatized prison system. That sent up a red flag, so I dug a little deeper: One of their subsidiaries is involved in some minor litigation regarding a handful of missing prisoners (including a number of juveniles). I pulled their records. Everyone missing is either estranged from their family or didn't have one.
In other words, they're all the sort of people you can make disappear without much fuss.

INTERNAL OSWORTH TRANSCRIPT (#361CAQ)

NOTES: Subject possesses an extreme form of hemokinesis. This ability is limited to oxygenated blood (including its own). Subject is capable of subsisting on a diet of blood from anomalous and/or anomalous-adjacent organisms; reports experiencing euphoria during its consumption.
Interview performed to determine results of extended denial of blood from anomalous and/or anomalous-adjacent organisms.

██████████
You look sick. Have you been eating?

SUBJECT
Please. I need it.

██████████
What is it that you need?

SUBJECT
You know what. Give me some. Just a little. Please.

█████████
Are you talking about -

SUBJECT
I'm fucking dying, here.

█████████
- right. We've been over this. We need to learn your limits — if you can survive without it.

SUBJECT
[Lunges toward Dr. █████████]

SUBJECT
I CAN'T FUCKING SURVIVE WITHOUT —

SUMMARY: Security team intervened to protect Dr. █████████. Interview terminated.

FROM: ID# ERROR <WIps8UZeOi.RXENCFYv3Q|rEKvjimN0t#WIps8UZeOi.RXENCFYv3Q|rEKvjimN0t>
TO: Robert Malthus <noitadnuof.pcs|suhtlamr#noitadnuof.pcs|suhtlamr>
SUBJECT: None

Figured out why Mercer didn't even exist prior to 1952. It's because prior to 1952, he was one of ours. It took some doing, but I managed to pull a little bit of his history with us out of the IntSCPFN.
Apparently, he worked in your department, boss.
Something you're not telling me?

INTERNAL OSWORTH TRANSCRIPT (#791BBP)

NOTES: Interview occurred approximately an hour after the subject attempted to exsanguinate Dr. █████████. Sedation and full-body restraints applied.

█████████
Are you feeling calmer, now?

SUBJECT
Yes, doctor.

█████████
Good. Now, I want to talk to you about your addiction.

SUBJECT
Okay.

█████████
What does it feel like? When you're consuming it?

SUBJECT
Good. Like, really good.

█████████
Can you be a little more specific?

SUBJECT
It's like an orgasm. But it doesn't stop. It just keeps getting bigger, and better. It's almost scary, how good it feels. But then you get used to it. You need more. To keep it going. Make it bigger. Never enough. Never fucking enough.

█████████
What's the most you've ever had?

SUBJECT
[Shudders with pleasure.]

SUBJECT
Once managed to get ahold of two freaks at once. It was... incredible. Fucking heaven. I would kill for that, again.

█████████
Interesting. If I agree to discontinue this experiment, would you be willing to work with us on a —

SUBJECT
Yes.

SUBJECT
[Growing increasingly excited]

SUBJECT
The one who glows. Give me that one.

█████████
Please calm down.

SUBJECT
[Taking several deep breaths]

SUBJECT
Okay.

█████████
Thank you. We have a project that we'd like to make you part of. You'd have to undergo some dangerous procedures first, but —

SUBJECT
Okay. I'll do it.

█████████
I haven't told you what the —

SUBJECT
I'll do it.

█████████
All right, then.

SUMMARY: Subject approved for PROJECT ECLIPSE.

FROM: Mendel Mercer <mmercer@myrmidon.███>
TO: Robert Malthus <noitadnuof.pcs|suhtlamr#noitadnuof.pcs|suhtlamr>
SUBJECT: An Offer.

I'm flattered you've shown such an avid interest in my extracurricular activities. Have you been tracking me since I left to work for Prometheus? Of course you have. The Foundation is a bit like the mafia, isn't it? No one gets to leave our little family. Not forever.
But you've got this all wrong, Robert. Myrmidon isn't your enemy.
I'm actually glad you've been spying on us. I've been meaning to catch up with you for some time, now. Have you enjoyed what you've seen so far? No doubt it stirs familiar feelings in that withered, blackened heart of yours. Nostalgia for the good old days — back before our precious Foundation lost its way.
Do you remember what they offered me? After I made the decision none of them had the courage to make? After I saved them — after I saved us all?
Forced retirement. A pittance of a pension. A garish little wristwatch. My name on a wall.
Look at what our Foundation has become: A sanctuary for effete, over-sensitive dullards who extol the virtues of appeasement and immobility over swift, decisive action — over advancement, over strife, over progress. Men paralyzed by endless moral bickering, Christian timidity, and maudlin sentiments. Their glassy eyes are forever fixed backwards, gazing upon the imagined sins of the past.
But you and I know better: There is no past. There is no present. There is only the unbound future, stretched before us in all its infinite potential and glorious promise. It is only through momentum that this potential can be realized. It is only through power that this promise can be secured. The meek shall have their earth — once the bold have abandoned it for the stars.
You linger in the dark. We accelerate toward the light. You are driven by complacency and security. We are driven by a feverish insomnia, exulting the beauty of speed and the sublime poetry of violence. You are a mausoleum, your graves maintained by ghosts; fixated on a history that is long dead and gone. We are your legacy — bright and burning, racing forward to eclipse even the very sun.
But make no mistake, Robert: I did not forge this company to quarrel with crumbling museums and their decrepit curators. Myrmidon is not here to destroy the Foundation.
It is here to replace it.
I think it's time you came over to the winning side, old friend. The one that can calculate precisely what a man of your resolve is worth — and offer you triple.
Shoot me an email. We'll talk stock options.
Aut inveniam viam aut faciam.
- Mendel Mercer

Next: Any Colour You Like


PARASPORT DOSSIER
Parasport Drag Racing

Overview
APDRA
Parasport Drag Racing Groups of Interest
Operation GLEIPNIR
Footnotes

OVERVIEW OF PARASPORT DRAG RACING

Parasport drag racing is a form of motorsport wherein specially designed motor vehicles compete to cross a predetermined finish line first; unlike regular drag racing motor vehicles, however, parasport drag racing vehicles extensively utilise anomalous enhancements, thaumaturgic alterations and/or paratechnology to increase their performance far beyond any feasibly normal bounds.
Officially discovered by the Foundation in 2011, the parasport finds its (earliest known) origins in an incident at a race event in 1999. Competitor John Whyte was (retroactively) discovered to have been using paratechnological enhancements in their motorcycle during the event; during the second semi-final Top Fuel Motorbike match, John Whyte's motorcycle suffered a catastrophic anti-karmic shockwave, believed to have been caused by an unintended interaction between an active U-Space gateway used for retrocausal deployment of the braking system and Type-A ectomorphs present in the vehicle's nitromethane supply.
While John Whyte (and multiple nearby spectators) were killed in the immediate aftermath,1 the event nonetheless inspired other thaumaturgy-aware competitors to begin (or unofficially continue) augmenting their vehicles with paratechnology.

AUSTRALIAN PARANORMAL DRAG RACING ASSOCIATION

The Australian Paranormal Drag Racing Association (APDRA, unofficially codenamed 'Snapdragon') is the only P.D.R. organisation recognised as compliant to the Foundation. Established in the months following the 1999 John Whyte incident, the APDRA is recognised by most P.D.R. Groups of Interest as the progenitor of the parasport, and is frequently cited as a motivating factor or catalyst in the formation of other P.D.R. G.O.I..
Following frequent interference due to Operation GLEIPNIR, diplomatic negotiations with the Foundation were initiated in March of 2013 by the APDRA. These negotiations culminated in the establishment of the Snapdragon Treaty, which allows for the APDRA to continue functioning unimpeded (and, under some circumstances, protected) by the Foundation, as long as strict guidelines are followed and extensive monitoring by Foundation personnel is allowed. To date, these terms have been upheld.

Snapdragon Treaty (Abridged)

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As outlined in the Snapdragon Treaty, the APDRA is authorised to operate uncontested by the Foundation as long as:

The APDRA, and all members of it, prioritise the preservation of the Veil above all;
All locations used by the APDRA are reported and registered with the Foundation;
All events held by the APDRA are reported and registered with the Foundation at least two months prior to their commencement;
All members of APDRA, and all competitors in APDRA-sanctioned events, are reported and registered with the Foundation;
All registrations with the Foundation are renewed annually (registrations twelve months or older are considered null and void; registrations must be updated within one week if the information is rendered incorrect by a change in circumstances);
All paratechnology used during registered APDRA events is not used outside of these circumstances;
All APDRA members provide detailed and accurate logbooks (Details of owner, details of crew members, details and source of enhancements, etc.) of their vehicles when requested;
All Foundation personnel functioning in an official regulatory capacity are granted unrestricted, universal free admittance to all events; such personnel can only be ejected and/or banned from events if their official regulatory capacity is rescinded by Foundation liaisons (Foundation personnel not functioning in a regulatory capacity at any time during an event can be charged and/or banned at the behest of the APDRA);
Personnel involved with containing SCP-████ are allowed to utilise it in, at minimum, a single demonstratory race at each APDRA event despite the use of banned paratechnology, as long as containment personnel do not add further banned technology to SCP-████;
That all bans on paratechnology imposed by the Foundation are strictly and immediately enforced by APDRA officials (with penalties including: vehicle impoundment, disassembly and/or destruction; indefinite registration revocation, apprehension, and/or amnestisation of the owner; and/or termination of Foundation-APDRA relationships and the Snapdragon Treaty).

Registered Locations (Abridged)

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The following is a list of several significant and/or repeatedly used locations registered by the APDRA.

Location Name: 9 & 6/4ths.
Entry Location: Hidden Valley Raceway, Darwin, Northern Territory.
Method of Access: Accessed via a camouflaged extradimensional manifold covering the supporting wall of Pit Bay 10. (Note: This manifold is only accessible from Pit Bay 10. Entrance from Pit Bay 11 is not possible.) When not in use, the manifold is blocked using an installed bulkhead; the locking mechanism, a double-cylinder vertical deadbolt, is composed entirely of beryllium bronze to prevent anomalous tampering.
Description: Identical replica of the Hidden Valley Raceway.2 Entrants emerge from a manifold on the supporting wall of Pit Bay 11.

Location Name: Two Blackbutts.
Entry Location: Blackbutt, Queensland; Blackbutt, Wollongong, New South Wales.
Method of Access: (Accessing Two Blackbutts is currently not advised. See Description.) Accessible by burning a ring of Eucalyptus patens, Eucalyptus pilularis and Eucalyptus todtiana; all objects and entities within this circle will be transported to Two Blackbutts.
Description: Location is an immense region of dense Eucalyptus bushland. Entrants spontaneously appear within an artificial clearing, a short distance from the main facilities. As of May 27th, 2013, Two Blackbutts has been designated a high-hazard location due to an alleged hostile enclave of Joogabinna3 taking residence at the location — no personnel entering Two Blackbutts following this date have returned from the location.

Location Name: Lake Gairdner Salt Flats.
Entry Location: Lake Gairdner, South Australia.
Method of Access: Located 440km north of Adelaide, South Australia. Accessed via normal means.
Description: Location is an irregularly-shaped salt lake with a maximum length and width of 160 kilometres and 48 kilometres, respectively. Due to the isolation of Lake Gardner and the low population surrounding it — the two closest locations, Yardea Station and the town of Glendambo, having a collective population of less than 100 citizen — scheduled use of the location by the APDRA is not considered a threat to secrecy.

Location Name: 1881.
Entry Location: Perth, Western Australia.
Method of Access: Accessible via the 'Eternity' Einstein-Rosen Bridge Generator currently stored at Provisional Facility 2439-ARC-EX. Both the Generator and Provisional Facility 2439-ARC-EX will be decommissioned following the conclusion of the December 30, 1881 racing event. Current predicted year of decommissioning: 2366.
Description: Location is the interior of the ‘impassable dome' (as recorded by Foundation agents) that encompassed the entire city of Perth, Australia during the year 1881 (See: SCP-2439-ARC-EX). Each successive racing event at the location is held on each successive day of the year 1881, and never takes longer than twenty-four successive hours (starting from midnight); because of these precautions, attendees do not encounter past or future versions of themselves, and residents do not inadvertently create temporal paradoxes by surveying information that attendees would not know at their (relative) point in time.
While these precautions necessarily limit the number of uses of the location to the number of days in the year 1881, the location has yet to be used more than once each year. (Note: Foundation personnel have already attended the location during December 31, 1881, executing a mass-amnestisation and memory implantation operation upon all residents of the city at that time; this was conducted in order to ensure such residents emerged from SCP-2439-ARC-EX as described in documentation.)

Location Name: Castlereagh Dragstrip.
Entry Location: Castlereagh, Sydney, New South Wales.
Method of Access: Accessed by a topographically anomalous road splitting from Sheredan Road half-way between the Jolly Street and Hinxman Road intersections;4 the road can only be located when approached from the south, and travels north-west for one kilometre between residential fencing.5

Description: Location appears to be the Castlereagh Dragstrip (formerly Aerodrome) prior to its closure in April of 1984, and the subsequent development of Castlereigh, Sydney, New South Wales on top of it.6

Location Name: Lovecraft's Locker.
Entry Location: Unknown/None.
Method of Access: Accessible via any functional U-space gateway.
Description: Location contains all facilities required for drag racing events constructed and styled in a close-packed minimalist fashion, and nothing else; objects dropped beyond the edges of the location fall until observation is impossible. No forms of natural lighting are present; for all intents and purposes, the location exists within a featureless, otherwise empty void.

Banned Paratechnology (Abridged)

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Foundation Banned

Runcible technology;
Retrocausal technology;
Ectomorphs (of any type) from unlicensed suppliers (The Foundation does not license suppliers stocking Class-A or -B ectomorphs);
Memetic, Info- and Cognito-hazards;
Alkahest;
Naked, contained and/or uncontained singularities;

APDRA Banned
Pre-Snapdragon Treaty

Spatial displacement/replacement/compression technology;
Retrocausal technology;
GT-type temporal dilation technology;7
Memetic, Info- and Cognito-hazards;
Uncontained singularities;

Post-Snapdragon Treaty

All paratechnology banned by the Foundation;
Spatial displacement/replacement/compression technology;
GT-type and Lesser Geared ET-type temporal dilation technology;

NON-COMPLIANT PARASPORT DRAG RACING GOI'S

The following is a list of known P.D.R. groups that remain non-compliant to the Foundation, and/or are suspected/confirmed to have been disbanded. All active groups should be apprehended when possible, as per the mission statement of Operation GLEIPNIR.

Group of Interest
Native Region/s
Status
Additional Note/s

King Chimera Racing Association
United States of America
Active/Hostile
Members are frequently armed with enhanced firearms; extreme caution is advised.

Disaster Kidz
South Africa; Lesotho; Swaziland; Namibia; Botswana; south Mozambique
Active/Hostile
Information from recovered documents and ex-members strongly suggests the street racing club is a front for a cult focused upon initiating a XK-Class Reality Ignition scenario; group has been designated as high priority target in Operation GLEIPNIR.

Yarrawonga Racing Club
Australia
Active/Evasive
Functions as an unofficial and unendorsed splinter/subsidiary of the APDRA.

International Para-Racing Association
Global
Defunct
Destabilised by multiple Task Force interventions; disbanded by members.

Racers of Caerbannog
United Kingdom
Defunct
Apprehended and disbanded during anti-IPRA operations.

La Fédération Française Paranormale en Courses Automobiles8
France
Defunct
Apprehended and disbanded by the Global Occult Coalition.

Sangoma Boyz
Namibia; Botswana
Defunct
Disbanded due to repeated clashes with Disaster Kidz.

OVERVIEW OF OPERATION GLEIPNIR

Operation GLEIPNIR denotes all past and ongoing operations focused upon the management, disruption and/or disbandment of P.D.R. G.O.I.. To date, over 300 successful (official) operations have been performed, disrupting the operation of multiple known G.O.I. and preventing the formation of more.
Since its initiation in October of 2011 following the discovery of Parasport Drag Racing, the mission statement of Operation GLEIPNIR has been altered twice: in March of 2013 the APDRA was officially excluded as a target in Operation GLEIPNIR, as per the terms of the Snapdragon Treaty; and in July of 2016 the Global Occult Coalition was officially included as cooperative faction following the dissolution of La Fédération Française Paranormale en Courses Automobiles.
While under normal circumstances the Foundation would adopt a stance of universal confiscation in regards to paratechnology, the willingness for the APDRA to submit to monitoring presented a rare opportunity; by enabling the APDRA to continue functioning as long as information is provided regarding who, what, when and where all paratechnology is obtained from, the APDRA willingly functions as an invaluable source of information about paratechnology supply routes and production sources. In addition the disruption of all other P.D.R. G.O.I. functions as an incentive for P.D.R. persons of interest to join the APDRA, further expanding the scope of the information source; furthermore, in the event that action must be taken to permanently end all P.D.R. activities, the Foundation would already have extensive information about an immense portion of P.D.R. P.O.I. and would be significantly more effective in such actions.
As per the second amendment of the Operation GLEIPNIR mission statement, Foundation agents and assets are authorised to be used by the G.O.C. to disrupt or disband P.D.R. G.O.I., as long as such assets are not misused and the G.O.C. takes no actions (direct or indirect) against the APDRA. To date, these terms have been upheld — however, it is suspected that the G.O.C. has disbanded or destroyed in excess of 40 active P.D.R. G.O.I. without officially informing the Foundation of such.

Footnotes
1. John Whyte's motorcycle, however, survived the event. (See: SCP-████.)
2. Exploration beyond the boundaries of 9 & 6/4ths has confirmed that the location is an uninhabited replica of the entire Darwin City region as it was on an indeterminate past date; a replica of the satellite city Palmerston has also been located to the south. Further exploration has been impeded by a complete absence of functional communication infrastructure.
3. Also referred to as Jurrawarra; commonly known as the Yowie or Yahoo.
4. The exact positioning of this road varies, but is universally located at whatever location an observer deems to be half-way between the two mentioned intersections.
5. This road cannot be located from within residential properties; all properties within the area are bordered by singular, unbroken fences.
6. Of note is that most, if not all, attendees of events at the location — including events hosted or managed by other P.D.R. G.O.I. — wear black armbands while present, and all flags at the location are kept at half-mast.
7. GT-type (‘Greater Than') temporal dilation decelerates the flow of time relative to the user, causing them to significantly speed up relative to observers. Other types of temporal dilation include:

ET-Type (‘Equal To'): Alters the flow of time in a manner that causes all observers and users to perceive the same relative flow of time. All such technology falls under one of two sub-classifications:

Greater Geared: All observers experience time at a slower rate to the norm, without themselves being excluded from the effect.
Lesser Geared: All observers experience time at a faster rate to the norm; this frequently results in observer actions becoming over-exaggerated, due to their consciousness becoming incapable of reacting at the same rate as their physical body.

LT-Type (‘Lesser Than'): Accelerates the flow of time relative to the user, causing them to slow down relative to observers.

8. French Paranormal Automobile Racing Federation.


You know how some places just have feelings attached to them? Like, emotions associated with the actual physical location. Like whatever transpires in a place influences its aura.
To start with, there is no camping except for back-country camping inside the Petrified Forest National Park in Arizona. Too much theft of the jewel-like fossilized trees. But there's a "Free" campground right outside.
Don't stay there. It's an evil place. The energy is just bad. All the cars in the parking lot had been there a long time. They're 1950s and 1960s models, all. Every one of them has dusty windows and flat tires. What happened to the owners? The only person in the store, a middle aged Hispanic or Native American cashier, looked and spoke like a dead woman. The store was full of taxidermies and insects in amber, as well as unidentifiable rusty tools and other 'frontier antiques.' The campground was full of giant petrified logs being used to mark parking and hideous fake wooden teepees with strange pseudo-Indian images on the outside and big spiders and scorpions living inside. Both seemed vaguely sacrilegious.
We couldn't decide what to do. We had been on the road with our kids about two weeks at that point, and until then had had plenty of pleasant camping experiences. Stephen and I both lost our confidence. Jack wanted to go back to Holbrook, 20 miles away. Larry was just scared. For the first and only time on the trip, we were all fighting and having meltdowns.
There was a foul stench in the air emanating from an open ditch and the wind was howling, with strong gusts over 40 mph. The strange woman in the shop had flatly assured us it would die down at dusk. She lied. The only shelter from the wind was behind a big concrete sign up on a little rise. But both Stephen and I immediately had a bad feeling, like something or someone had been buried there.
Just as the sun began to set two RVs pulled into the campground. Their lights were gleaming inside and the occupants seemed content. We made a decision. We'd stay and just sleep in the car since the wind was blowing too hard to put up the tent on what bare, hard desert ground remained. I tried to cook dinner in the dark on a picnic table, but the food just wouldn't cook. The noodles for the stroganoff started to turn to glop. The stench from the ditch whipped on the wind over our dining area, causing us to lose our appetites. Jack and Larry saved the day, or at least the dinner, by rigging the tarp around the picnic table with duct tape while I struggled with the camp stove and Stephen rearranged the car for us to sleep in. Eventually the food was warm and edible. We ate in the dark. I tried to do dishes, and then we climbed into the car to sleep.
And that's when the place really started to get to us. Larry couldn't settle down. Jack felt weepy and began to openly cry. Stephen, sleeping in the driver's seat, and I tried to keep spirits up by telling funny camping stories from when we were younger and made a similar trip, before they were born. But eventually we lost the battle. It was a long, long night.
Around two in the morning, Stephen woke up. Talking about it to me later, he describes hearing a low moaning on the furious wind.
Eventually the dawn came. We felt petrified ourselves. We had a quick breakfast of coffee, chorizo, potatoes and eggs, and then repacked the car and left. I went in to complain to the zombie-cashier but she wasn't there, and there didn't seem to be any evidence she ever was.
It had to have been the place because as soon as we left and went into the park, we were all happy again. It's just a bad karma place. There's something actually wrong with it. As we pulled out I remember looking at those RVs again, wondering if they had a similar experience as us.
Their tires were flat, their windows dusty.