Dr. Ersen sat on the tram, idly flipping between pages on his laptop, not really reading anything. The shuttle whirred softly, the lights of the tunnel slashing past windows that really had no reason to exist on a purely underground vehicle. He wondered what the tram was powered by: it was incredibly fast, though he couldn't say exactly how much so. It was taking him from Vancouver to a site he was pretty certain was under the Northern Canadian Rockies, coming up from somewhere South of Seattle; the trip took less than an hour from his end. In the corner of the hushed, fluorescent-lit car, another commuter sat with his head leaning against the window, a visible trickle of drool running out the corner of his mouth. Two Agents, Turing and Ueno, sat near the front, laughing together softly. Ersen wondered idly if Ueno had asked Turing out yet, and if he ever would. That took his thoughts somewhere he'd been trying to avoid, and Ersen stared at his laptop futilely for a few more minutes.
The tram came to a scheduled stop. A Foundation squad, clad in nondescript grey security uniforms without any identifying labels, silently checked every member of the tram and all the compartments. One of them ran a small, humming sensor of some kind around the chassis. Ersen blinked involuntarily as one of the squad members flashed a camera-like device in his face without comment. After a moment, the sergeant in charge of the squad nodded, and gave the order to clear the tram.
Commuting was a nuisance. Ersen was almost looking forward to living on-site. In the long run it would be a good change. He wouldn't have to keep track of a 'real life' name and a 'Foundation' name. Plus, he'd get to work with some of the potentially infectious SCPs; it had a higher risk factor, but it was more in line with his training and interest. He pushed down a morbid thought, mentally laughing at himself for being "emo". Maybe he'd meet a girl he didn't have to lie to, living on-site. The thought didn't seem right, at the moment, but the scientist in his head drily pointed out that he'd get used to it.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the tram slid to a halt at the site. Ersen left with the other commuters, submitted his laptop bag for the daily security check, and submitted himself for the daily strip-search and shower. Cleaned and freshly re-clothed in a Foundation uniform and lab coat, his personal effects save his laptop stowed in his locker, he mused for a little while on how normal the idea of getting stripped and probed every morning had become.
A few minutes later, coffee in hand, he flopped down his office chair. He took a moment to stare blankly at a face-down photo frame and shove it further back across his desk before checking his mail. His email account had several messages, mostly cruft about various research seminars he didn't really care about. There was an anonymous note from administration; he had to go for an interview about on-site habitation in… he checked his desk clock. Five minutes ago.
As he rushed to the meeting room, cursing Agents and their lack of other priorities, his coffee sloshing painfully over his hand, Ersen decided today was another shitty fucking day.
It wasn't until he'd closed the door on the 'meeting room' that he realised what kind of a meeting this was. One wall of the small white cubicle was a one-way mirror, reinforced with a semitransparent mesh of some plasticky stuff. SCP-protected, even. That was probably because of the stone carving sitting on the table in the middle of the room. Ersen looked around for a moment, unsure if he should sit at the table.
"Have a seat, Doctor. The face is quite harmless unless provoked." The voice, distorted by some kind of software, came from all directions. Ersen noted he could not actually identify where the door he'd come in from was. In the bright ambient light of the room, even the walls, floor, and ceiling were difficult to recognise. He found his eyes adjusting to the glare until it felt like all he could see was the chair, the table and carving, and the mirror. He wished this was an unfamiliar sensation.
"What's the occasion for all the pomp," Ersen inquired, keeping his voice as steady as possible. "I thought this was about getting an apartment." He wasn't frightened, really, just annoyed. For the last few weeks he'd managed to lose himself in his research, and something in his gut told him he wasn't going to be allowed to shove his memories away for this.
"Living on-site comprises more than a simple apartment, Doctor Ersen, and we need to check for that. More to the point, however, your supervisors have requested a performance evaluation in light of recent events in your life." The voice was so dry it could have been a computer. For all Ersen knew, it was.
"Oh for fuck's sake. It's trivial. My work's been fine since… that. I've nearly cracked that fingernail SCP. Surely my work speaks for itself."
"Doctor, please examine the SCP in front of you." Ersen did. It was a face with a sunburst effect around it, carved into some kind of stone, marble maybe. Looked Italian, and old. It had a wide, gaping mouth; Ersen was pretty sure he could see flecks of blood around it. "You're right handed, yes? Please place your left hand inside the mouth of the SCP."
Ersen hesitated. He was pretty confident there was no reason for them to try to trick him. He really had been doing good work, and he didn't think he'd stepped on anyone's toes. Sighing, he complied. The face didn't react.
"You are presently compelled to tell the truth. Should you attempt dishonesty, the SCP in front of you will remove your hand. At any point you may remove your hand without harm. However, be aware that this will reflect on your performance report."
Great. A hand-chopping lie detector. Where the hell did they get this stuff? At least that mind-reading camera didn't dismember you. Ersen blinked once, slowly, then nodded. "I will tell you the truth, then." After saying it, he panicked for a moment, wondering if the thing was meta enough to punish possible abstractions like that, but nothing happened. Good.
There followed a dry battery of tests much like he'd expect from a normal lie detector. When were you born, where do you live, what's your office number; nothing interesting. Finally they got to the meat of the interview. Ersen's hand was tingling from the awkward position he was holding it in.
"How long have you worked for the Foundation?"
"Good question, Voice. I suppose in practice, probably over fifteen years. I didn't realise I was doing SCP-related research when I worked for the Department of Fisheries and Oceans during my postgraduate work. I've been an active Foundation researcher for eleven years, though. Put me through med school."
"What is your security clearance?"
"Level three."
"Do you have any family outside the site?"
"Just my wi—" Ersen stopped, realising he'd almost lost his hand. "My ex-wife. I was divorced last week. Jesus. Are you trying to make me an amputee?"
"Oh, Doctor, calm down. I'm sure the SCP would have understood your mistake." The voice had a touch of amusement that faded almost instantly. "What was the nature of your relationship to your wife, before the divorce?"
"What the fuck, Voice? It was a marriage, what do you think?"
"Please answer the question."
"I was married to her. I saw her most evenings after work. She thought I still worked for the hospital. Couple of months ago, she found out I didn't. I guess the Foundation didn't want to spend the cash to maintain my cover story." Ersen almost spit the words. "Or maybe their story just wasn't good enough. She thought I was using the job to cover an affair. My supervisors refused clearance to inform her of what my real work was, so she divorced me. It sucked. I have a diary if you want to read the names of all the girls I like out loud in front of class, too." That one was carefully chosen: he really did have a diary.
"That won't be necessary, Doctor. How do you feel about your divorce?"
"Angry, obviously."
"Please elaborate."
Ersen snarled quickly at the mirror. "Have you ever been married, Voice?"
"Please stick to the topic at hand, Doctor."
"Fuck you. I'm angry. When I entered the Foundation, I was led to understand it would have my back. There was a cover established for me at my old job. I could come and go from work at normal hours. Aside from a few twitches, there wasn't supposed to be anything different. I mean, sure, I'm autopsying the creature from the black fucking lagoon, but that's the only difference, right? I've toed the line, I've done my bit, I haven't acted on my concerns about this job, and as soon as I need help from the Foundation, it bails on me. How the fuck do you think I feel?"
"Please elaborate on what you said about 'acting on concerns'."
Ersen knew that would come up, but he didn't care anymore. Maybe they'd terminate him, maybe they'd dose him with Class A's until he forgot how to piss and turn him out on the street, it really didn't matter. "Take a wild stab. I took the Hippocratic oath, you cocksucker. You think I'm happy putting D-classes into a sealed room with something that's going to make… make jam out of their bones or something?" He was running out of clever phrases, that was bad. He tried to cool down. "I do what I have to because I know the Foundation's goals are vital to the survival of humanity. Not because I like what the Foundation does."
The Voice was silent for a moment. Ersen imagined a faceless interrogator in the dark room on the other side of the mirror, quietly flipping through his files, making notes. Circling decisions. Finally it spoke again.
"Would you consider it accurate to say you hate the Foundation?"
It was Ersen's turn to be silent for a moment. Finally, he shrugged. "Yes, I think I would. I hate it, and what it has made me into."
"Under what situation do you see yourself betraying the Foundation?" That was it. Not 'would you', but 'when would you'. Ersen wondered who'd carry out the termination. Maybe they'd feed him to that chocolate fountain… he'd been wondering what that thing tasted like.
"If I was offered a position by a similar group, capable of carrying out the same work but without the violence and sacrifice, I'd betray the Foundation in a heartbeat."
"Would you betray the Foundation if it meant getting your ex-wife back?"
Ersen frowned, thinking. They'd blindsided him a bit, he hadn't really expected that, but now he realised he should have. "No, I don't think I would." Admitting it out loud left him with a dry taste in his mouth and a strange feeling in his gut, like his organs were falling off a precipice. The Voice was silent for what seemed like a long time, although it may only have been a few seconds.
"Doctor, are you aware that your ex-wife was interrogated by Foundation agents one month prior to the events leading to your divorce?"
That was a surprise. Yes, he was. He remembered her coming home, fuzzy on how she'd spent her day. Needlemarks in her neck and arms. A migraine for two days. Other side effects: dizziness, cramps, consistent with repeated dosage of class-A amnestics in combination with Formula 3614-10, a truth serum he'd helped design. Of course he was aware.
"Yes."
"Under interrogation, your wife was informed of your employment. Would you like to know how she responded?"
"You asswipe. You fucking asswipe. You fuck…" Ersen took his hand out of the SCP and stood up, looking for the concealed door. Some perverse part of his brain decided to focus on his hand being on pins-and-needles from the SCP's mouth.
"Doctor, this interrogation is not over."
"Yes, it is. What else do you want from me? You ruined my marriage, and you already know I'm not going to spill your secrets. Terminate me, pump me full of amnestics, I don't care. We're done."
"Doctor," the Voice, irritatingly, just sounded faintly amused again. "I apologise for any misunderstanding. I had meant to offer you that information as a reward. The Foundation is willing, in light of this interview, to approve your request to live on-site. In addition, you will be promoted to probationary level 4 authorisation and given command of a small research group, under monitoring for future permanent promotion to level four."
Ersen stopped, glaring at the mirror. "I don't know who you are, but you're an ass."
"Dislike of Foundation supervisors is considered a tradition of the organisation."
"Do I want to know what she said?"
"I honestly don't know, Doctor."
"Fine. Spill."
"Under interrogation, your wife was disturbed and frightened by your employment. It was clear you had maintained complete secrecy; she had absolutely no idea what you really did. Despite the administration of amnestics, she remained disconcerted. We believe this caused her prying into your work; although your cover was perfectly secure, she continued to pry in an obsessive manner. In order to preserve Foundation security and your ex-wife's mental health, we created a secondary cover, that you were cheating on her. Since discovering this, her mental health has returned to normal and she has shown no further obsession with uncovering your secrets."
Ersen mulled silently over the news. Finally, wordlessly, he kicked the area where he was sure the door was. It swung open. On the other side, the hallway looked dark compared to the interrogation room. The Voice didn't try to stop him.
Waiting on his computer was a memo with his new office number and a list of researchers under him. He didn't pack much.


Welcome to Ask Doctor Mann, where I will be answering any questions that you, the reading public, have for me. If you have questions you'd like answered, please submit them via the discussion page.
"Dear Doctor Mann, what's it like working for the Foundation?" —Eager in Site 19
I'm so glad you asked! Working for the Foundation is full of exciting challenges and fascinating puzzles. You will travel to exotic locales and work with some of the most intelligent, experienced researchers in the world. Get ready for a professional working environment where you'll be given responsibility and fast promotion opportunities.
Take advantage of this opportunity now, before we're forced to erase your memory or kill you.
"Papa Mann, my next door neighbor has a creepy boyfriend that comes over fairly often, and the combination of stupidity and nausea he radiates is destroying my will to live and bothering the cat. Any ideas?" —Creeped Out in Calamazoo
Have you considered that this poor fellow might have a problem? Many people seem disturbing, but quite often there's nothing wrong with them that drug-enhanced electro-shock conditioning can't cure. In rare cases, direct neurosurgical intervention may be necessary. Consult your neurologist before making any incisions.
"Where am I?" —Concerned in Laboratory 14
Strapped to a table in my laboratory.
"Who are you?" —Still Concerned in Laboratory 14
Doctor Everett Mann, surgeon and researcher.
"What are you doing here?" —Very Concerned, Actually, in Laboratory 14
Operating on you.
"What's this syringe doing in my foot?" —Growing More Concerned by the Minute in Laboratory 14
Sedating you in three, two, one…
"Where do babies come from?" —Naive in New York
Well, you see, Naive, when a mommy and daddy love each other very much, they're kidnapped by black helicopters and transported to Site 84, where they're rendered down into their contituent tissues. Their reproductive organs are harvested and used to create a zygote inside of a test-tube. It's grown in a vat of nutrients until it's ready (four to nine months, depending on the necessity of organ integrity), at which point it's used for whatever experiment requires babies.
"Is dropping me into a general processing pit via a previously hidden trap door in the floor upon demotion to D-class really necessary?" —Falling Fast in Site 23
No, but really, who doesn't enjoy a good laugh now and then?
"Is there porn here?" —Licentious in Laboratory 14
Do anatomical diagrams count?
"How long does it take to make the perfect al dente pasta?" —Hungry in the Site 23 Kitchen
Anywhere from around 13.6 to 13.9 billion years (for the purpose of inventing the universe), plus 7-10 minutes depending on the amount and altitude.
"Dr. Mann, why won't the Foundation let me use my own personal firearm?" —Second Amended in Site 23
Because nerf munitions are insufficient against all known enemy groups except the Church of the Second Hytoth.
"Dear Dr. Mann, since my arrival at Site-023 I've learned that you are Director of Human Resources and a respected member of Site-023. How would you suggest I go about encouraging cooperation among our peers? They've been terribly belligerent despite my best efforts."-Distressed About D-Class
Dear Distressed, I find that it helps to remove the part of their brain that allows them to be uncooperative.
"Dear Dr. Mann, what should I do about this ukelele in my living quarters? I'm certain that it belongs to somebody else, but it's certainly a very nice instrument." —Curious in Cell 23.
Curious, the first thing to do is not to panic. It won't do any good and will just lead to you dying in a tizzy. Unless that's how you would like to die. I just want you to know that you have options, and should choose one in the next few minutes.
"Dear Dr. Mann, shouldn't you be working on project Beta 12 right now?" —Pondering Pressing The Button, Three Floors Up
I am working on Project Beta 12. That's why the potatoes in the cafeteria taste different now.
"Dear Dr. Mann, what are your views on the sovereign debt crisis in the European Union? Please be concise." —Foundation News at Eleven
I blame the decline of proper, well-maintained facial hair in the general public. It leads to degeneracy and general lack of moral fiber.
"Dear Dr. Mann, what is your view on the so-called 'Serpent's Hand'? Do serpents really have hands? How does that even make sense?" —Susurrus from Site Sixty
These long-haired recalcitrants oppose the natural order of progress. They believe themselves enlightened but are unwilling to make the sacrifices necessary for mankind to take its next step into the cosmos. Their bleeding-heart philosophy combined with their guerrilla tactics make them dangerous. As to the handiness of serpents, I maintain that while it is a well-known feature of the suborder Serpentes, it is by no means an essential one. A point my snake-men will make at the next Herpetology Super Expo. This year, the blue ribbon shall be mine!
"Dear Dr. Mann, what's up with teenagers these days? Why are they so wierd?" —Curmudgeonly in California
There are a number of theories, but perhaps the most likely is malevolent control by the Chaos Insurgency. Knowing full well that the battle of the future will take place in the hearts and minds of our youth, they've prepared the battlefield by sprinkling their nihilistic propaganda into the media. This has twisted their minds, turning them from once-happy children into something dark and unrecognizable.
Well, it's that or their dratted rock-and-roll music that they seem to fancy. One or the other.
"Dear Dr. Mann, could we potentially use the labyrinth to store Euclid but immobile SCP's?" —Amazed in Anchorage
The proposal was briefly considered, but ultimately cut because of twine shortfalls in the budget.
"Dear Dr. Mann, what does 173 look like on camera? —D-Class tasked with cleaning 173's pen
About ten pounds heavier.
"Dear Dr. Mann, my name is Abayomiolorunkoje, and I am a prince in my home country of Nigeria. I need to get ten million dollars to the US, but my bank accounts do not allow it. If you you let me store it in your account by giving me full access, I will give you twenty percent. Would you do this for me?" —278hd3q81n5zd at hotmail.com
A prince of a republic? What a fascinating accomplishment. I am of course very interested in helping you. However, I feel it would be best to do business face-to-face. Fortunately, I will be traveling to Nigeria in a month on business. I've a few questions first, however. On a scale of one-to-ten, how healthy are your organs? And do you have any friends with particularly healthy or otherwise interesting organs? If so, please feel free to bring them along to the meeting. Thirdly, do you have any unusual reaction to chloroform? Please respond soon. I look forward to discussing business with you.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I've recently discovered that I have a third kidney. It's fully functional, and my doctor tells me that I don't really need it. I was wondering if I could donate it to you, and in addition, get a day pass? Thanks." —Agent ██████, Site 14
Naturally! And I hope your colleagues remember your example the next time they request time off.
"Dear Dr. Mann, What is the difference between a duck?" —Pair of Docs at Site 19
That depends. Are we talking about, say, a rosy-billed pochard, or a baikal teal?
"Dear Dr. Mann, An SCP is offering me magical powers if I release it. What should I do?" —Gullible at Site 19
Please report to Medical Station 13 for a new brain. The one you're using it clearly defective.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I am glad to report that despite breaching containment no less than twelve times over the past week, SCP-███ has been temporarily incapacitated and moved to Storage Site 49. However, during the last containment breach I and a number of my staff suffered minor to severe injuries as a result of SCP-███'s area of effect, including [DATA EXPUNGED] nitrogen narcosis. What first-aid methods do you recommend?" —Rapidly Bleeding Out at Site 49
Immediately lower the temperature down past freezing. With luck, at least some of your more useful organs can be salvaged.
"Dear Dr. Mann, What can I do to be more like you?" —Jealous in Jersey
A noble and worthy goal, Jealous! The first thing is to obtain a medical degree. The second, and this cannot be stressed enough, is to find a good, reliable mustache wax. Now, dabblers will use pre-made mustache waxes like Mr Natty Twizzle Moustache Wax, but I find that the best result is to learn to create your own mix, so that you can fine-tune it to your own hirsutorial needs. You'll need to find a supply of bees wax, gum arabic, oil soap, and human stem cells. Add in any essential oils for scent purposes.
"Dear Dr. Mann, Is craving for human flesh normal? I mean, ever since that D-Class jerk bit me, all I've done is to crave for it." —Dr. Brians at Site-19 Cafeteria.
While not strictly normal, the Foundation is accomodating to a wide variety of dietary needs. However, it seems as though your cannibalism may have a medical basis. Therefore I recommend a treatment of 1 CC of lead applied directly through the forehead.
"Dear Dr. Mann, The other lunch room girls at Area-14 tell me that Mr Fernand is a great kisser. Do you think it would be alright for me to accept his offer of a dinner date?" —Shy Ronery Lass
I would recommend that you find other plans for your evening. While dinners with Fernand are indeed lively and "happening," they inevitably end up as dinner-for-one affairs.
"Dear Dr. Mann, In your professional opinion, if we released all sentient Euclid and Keter SCPs into a pocket dimension and let them fight to the death, who do you think would come out on top, assuming 682 lost?" —Needs to Settle a Bet at Site-19 Break Room
Dear Need, the obvious answer is SCP-1013-J. Think about it.
"Dear Dr. Mann, Is it OK to use D-class personnel to fill in paperwork, provided I terminate them before they can leak the information? That short snotty guy from Ethics Committee keeps bugging me about it, and I'm in need of some serious arguments." —Busy from Bio-Containment Unit-21.
Let me make sure I understand your plan correctly. You intend to have Class D personnel fill out your paperwork. These are, by and large, condemned criminals. They are largely from the lower rungs of society, with poor educations and often broken literacy. They tend towards sociopathy. They tend to hate those who hold them here. And you will trust them with your paperwork, which not only contains information that they might use to attempt escape or sabotage, but has to be filled out correctly and completely to Foundation standards, or else will reflect poorly in your performance reviews.
Well. Good luck with that.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I bet 682 would be jealous of your 'stach. You should challenge it to a good round of fisticuffs." —Curious in Site 19
Sadly, 682 refuses to abide by Queensbury rules.
"Dear Dr. Mann, Which employee of Site 17 would win a dance-off?" —Bored in the Break Room
Dear Bored, the current champion is Agent Yoric. However, once I've completed work on my electronic trousers of cybernetic funk, it shall be I who will be crowned the true lord of the dance!
"Dear Dr. Mann, HAVE MY BABIES!" —Bromance in Bermuda
Dear Bromance, WHAT HAVE YOU HEARD?
Er, ahem. That is to say I'm quite flattered, but I have to politely refuse your offer at this time. Good day.
"Dear Dr. Mann, Help." —Locked in an empty cell at site-19
Dear Locked, we are helping you. That's why we have you restrained, and have removed most of the parasites.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I have been working for the Foundation for six years now. In that time I have received precisely one cost-of-living increase, four years ago, that even at the time was not commensurate with the actual cost of living. Who should I talk to to amend this situation, and if talking doesn't prove effective, do you recommend blunt trauma or shallow incisions?" —Below the Poverty Line in Site-19
Dear Below, if the cost of your living is too expensive, please come see me so we can discuss alternatives.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I was born a human but I want to be a robot, do you know who I have to ask to get this done and if I do it can I give you my organs afterwards?" —Metal Curious from Sector-28
Dear Metal, I'm afraid your insurance won't cover full-body cybernetic replacement. The best we can offer is to transplant your brain into this blender's control unit. I realize this is something of a step down from your current goal, but you'll have six settings and stainless steel, dishwasher safe blades.
"Is it possible to chain breed SCP-504's joke-hating qualities into other vegetables? Like, say, peppers?" —Vegetariable in Vegas
You're not the first to attempt this project, though so far Foundation horticulturalists have little to show for it, aside from a few potatoes that quiver at the sound of knock-knock jokes.
"Dr. Mann, how much wood could a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?" —Chuck from Site 23
The average woodchuck (or groundhog, Marmota monax) is capable of chucking approximately 700 lbs of dirt over the course of digging its burrow, which suggests that it could chuck a similar amount of wood. However, SCP-████, a hitherto unknown species of marmot, is capable of chucking as much as two tons of wood with its tentacles. Its ability to do so has cost the lives of five Foundation agents to date.
"Dr. Mann, what is your favorite organ, and why?" —Nineteen at 19
The brain, naturally. It is the seat of sapience, the center of thought, and it makes a rather nifty paperweight when preserved in a jar.
"Dr. Mann, when did you do your first dissection, and on what?" —Nosy in New York
Oh, fond memories there. My first dissection was on a frog, when I was eight years old. Oh, excuse me. There's not very "PC." I mean a Frenchman, of course.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I'm pretty sure this is my first time. Why is there so much blood?" —Just Asploded A Man in Denver
Well, when a man is "asploded," the blood tends quite naturally to exit the body, often at high velocity. This results in quite a lot of coverage, which tends to make it seem as though there's more blood than is actually there, compared to when it's seen to simply pool. However, please consult Foundation forensics to ensure there is not an anomalous amount of blood in the victim's body. It would be a great pity if an extradimensional circulatory system were so crudely damaged.
"Dear Dr. Mann, what's cooler than being cool?" —Andre in Area 3000
Quite a few things, if one interprets "cool" as weather around fifteen degrees or so. That's still well above the freezing point of water, for example. So I would look to tundral regions, ice floes, the black heart that lies at the center of time, or your icebox.
"Dear Dr. Mann, in your professional opinion as a high-ranking member of the SCP Foundation, what do you consider to be the cause most worth fighting for?" —Philosophical in the Break Room
Science. What other causes are there?
"Dear Dr. Mann, I was in the middle of getting intimate with myself when the containment breach siren went off. Do I stop and rush to check on the situation or continue and hope it doesn't break into my quarters? Also I'm out of lotion, what do you recommend as an alternative?" —In a sticky situation at Sector-28
An appointment has been made for surgery. If you can't be trusted with genitalia, you'll simply have to do without.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I have a tomato lodged in my skull, please help!" —Unfunny in Site 03
Oh dear. That's really wedged in there, isn't it? Well, I hope you enjoy vegetables, since it's going to be there for a while.
Also, you're going to be one. It's interrupting the blood flow to your brain, and there's nothing we can do. Dreadfully sorry.
"Dear Dr. Mann, I am currently being stalked by a caucasion male of indeterminate age in a trenchcoat and fedora, what do I do?" —Somebody in Site 14
I'm sure it's just your imagination. Nobody would bother stalking you inside a Foundation Site, I'm sure.
"Dearest Dr. Mann, I'm a new hire to the Foundation and most certainly not a member of The Church of the Broken God. Could you please eMail me all compromising information you have on yourself or your colleagues, particulalrly any assigned to hunting The Church of the Broken God (which I am not a member of)." —Heathen in New Orleans
Please open and run the executable file attached to this message. I have been assured by our IT department that it contains the files you've requested, and not a tracking program designed to lead our kill team directly to your location.
"Dr. Mann, am I likely to get demoted for fabricating potato-based ammunition for SCP-516, would testing get approved, and would you like to watch?" —Spudchucker in Site-84
Demotion is unlikely. While in the whimsical, chaotic Foundation of yesteryear, you would have found yourself either demoted to Class D or else given your own cleverly-named MTF and wise-cracking bonobo sidekick, in the new, more modernized Foundation, we'll simply have your superior smack you across the forehead and tell you to get back to work.
"Dr. Mann, what would be the best method of using SCP-504, SCP-786 and one of the Lizard's teeth in tandem for a prank? I want that monkey!" —A man in green
Sir, if you require someone to tell you how to pull a jape, then the current holder of "the cleverest" probably needs not fear losing the title anytime soon.
"Oh Ultimate Ruler that is Dr. Mann, what is SCP-055?" —Mystified in Milwaukee
I already told you. Don't you remember?


“I'm telling you Gears, this is going to be the best year yet."
“That would be a matter of opinion, Crow. However, I can not be the only one present who finds the situation ironic: we, as researchers of an institution whose sole purpose is the containment of the paranormal and unknown, are observing an over-commercialized holiday celebrating distilled and often completely fictitious versions of such.”
<Gears, this is no time for analysis. Just drink your punch.> Bright signed rapidly with one hand.
The three doctors were all taking part in the time-honored party tradition of standing by the punch bowl, engaging in what could be called “conversation”, if the definition was stretched. In one way or another, each one was arrayed in costume: Crow had donned a black greatcoat, specially made of course, accompanied by a red sash and a matching high-peaked hat with a silver eagle pin on the front. Bright was in the body of an adult male orangutan. Gears was still wearing his lab coat, but someone had placed a floppy, oversized wizard's hat on his head and he had yet to take it off.
The Site 19 D-class cafeteria had been converted into the main party center, and the effort was admirable. There was a considerable amount of black and orange streamers hanging from the ceiling, along with dozens of jack o' lanterns which sat grinning on the long metal tables. Of course, there was also the general mishmash of fake spiders, bugs, skeletons, bats, ghosts, neat glow-in-the-dark doohickeys, a fog machine, and a sound system currently running through volume two of “Halloween's Best Hits”. The cafeteria line was laden with a sizeable assortment of foods, mostly sugary and very little otherwise. The crowd was still small, consisting mostly of those in charge of the party. The night was still young, and most staff members were still spelunking their way through the haunted house.
The haunted house was, easily, the crown jewel of the event. All five floors of the adjacent D-class barracks had been cleared out and converted into a maze of terror, ending in the cafeteria. While some in the Foundation would question the wisdom or point in making a haunted house, the fact that the senior staff was in charge was usually enough to strike an appropriate level of fear in the average staff member.
Needless to say, what went on within was classified.
Clef stepped out of the shadows right next to Crow, Gears and Bright, wasting no time in helping himself to a plate of pumpkin cookies and a cup of red punch. He was dressed in a sharp tuxedo, with a pair of plastic devil horns and a Guy Fawkes mask.
“Rights, you're up.” He nodded to the approaching doctor, who was plastered with zombie makeup and had a very large and relatively convincing meat cleaver stuck in her head. “You should probably tell Doctor Glass that his office will be pretty busy come tomorrow. And word from Ghost at the front says that Dr. King just entered the maze. Get the apple seeds ready.”
“I'm on it. Wish me luck, guys.” Rights sauntered off through the secret entrance to the maze, chainsaw in tow. Someone was going to get a very nasty surprise in a few minutes, of the dropping-right-behind-you-from-the-trap-door-in-the-ceiling variety.
Clef turned to the three punch-drinkers.
“So, how ‘bout them Rangers?” Clef managed to take a bite of his cookie without seeming to move his mask.
<Continue that statement and you are contending with three hundred pounds of ape.> Bright downed another cup of punch.
“Eh, I don't care that much myself, anyway. Though I am curious what happened to you, Bright. Last time I checked, you were going as Nyarlathotep. You even had an Egyptian host and everything.”
Bright's expression was one of pure simian unamusement.
< If I ever find out, you'll know. Because you'll hear them screaming from the other side of the site.> He snarled as he signed, with fangs far larger and more intimidating than he usually had.
Seeing now as an excellent time to shift the conversation away from the Rage of Bright, Kain made a strategic interruption.
“So, uh, how's it looking in there, Clef?”
“Let's just say that there will be some people who'll need a new pair of shorts."
“What'd you do to them?”
Clef leaned forward and whispered. Even with the mask on, it was obvious he had a smug smile of satisfaction. Kain and Bright nodded, understanding. Gears' expression was blank.
“You did…nothing. I do not believe that I understand.”
<Okay, look. Most of the lower staff are terrified of Clef. Half of them believe he's the devil for crying out loud. Now, can you imagine walking around a corner and seeing him just standing there and staring at you?>
“Interesting. You took the deep-seated fear most lower personnel have for you, and built upon it so that you would have to exert only the minimum effort for the maximum effect.”
<I just said that.>
“There is no harm in repetition of the conclusion.”
“It's good science.”
The set of thick black curtains that split the barracks from the cafeteria fluttered open, revealing the form of Agent Yoric, who was clad in enough voodoo paraphernalia to make every witch-doctor in the western-hemisphere sigh heavily at the absurdity of it all. Ignoring the cookies, punch, and the “Monster Mash”, he walked over to the four doctors with the steely intent of someone about to speak their mind and the expression of someone who had very nearly had a heart attack. He jabbed an accusing finger at them.
“Why on God's green Earth did you install an animatronic 682 head in the janitor's closet?”
This statement was followed by an incredibly awkward silence. Kain, Clef, Gears and Bright all looked at each other, then at Yoric, then at each other again.
“Oook,” Bright said.


Personnel involved: Agent Byrd, KIA; Agent Vospur, MIA assumed dead; MTF Chi-1 ("Golden Retrievers")
Date: 19/██/20██
Background: Agents Byrd and Vospur were deep-cover operatives assigned to investigate 'W██████ P█████████ Haulage, Ltd.' operating out of ████████, NY. The company came to the attention of the Foundation following anomalous high-power transmissions seemingly aimed at [REDACTED], abnormal employee turnover rates and chemical purchases matching [DATA EXPUNGED].
Description of incident: On 19/██, two weeks after insertion of the agents, Site-19 received a transmission from Agent Byrd, a transcript is provided below.

This is mobile twenty-nine. We were right about this place. Oh, God, they got Vospur. I woke up yesterday and he was just gone, no note no body, nothing. They probably took him to the crates… I've got proof of what they're doing here, and I ran it through their machine. The fuckers a…. Shit, they're gonna find me. Twenty-nine requesting extraction, ASAP. <signal terminates abruptly>

Following the receipt of this message, O5-██ ordered that Mobile Task Force Chi-1 ("Golden Retrievers") be sent to recover the Agents and any evidence they may have collected. Use of lethal force against employees of W██████ P█████████ Haulage, or any other personnel attempting to interfere was approved.
Upon arrival at the location, they found the warehouse that served as the company's HQ inexplicably abandoned, with little to no sign of use. On the lower level which housed the power and sewage infrastructure they found the body of Agent Byrd. The corpse was riddled with small puncture marks and heavily dehydrated, and the outer layers of skin had begun to disintegrate. Searching the body the team recovered a document written in an unknown script along with a small flash memory drive (see Addenda 1 and 2). Agent Liasi, leader of MTF Chi-1, ordered the body incinerated after samples of blood and skin tissue had been taken.
Although the MTF performed a full sweep of the warehouse and surrounding areas, they found nothing of any note save for two heavily damaged metal cages, roughly 2 m x 1 m x 1 m in size, and returned to Site-19 to deliver their report.
Addendum-1: The following pictures of the document recovered along with Agent Byrd's body (Document-WP-1) were taken by Agent Liasi at the scene of recovery.
Whole document:
Top (detail):
Bottom (detail):

The document is written in a script bearing little resemblance to any known reference samples, although superficial analysis does lend credibility to the hypothesis that it is a form of language. The glyph circled is labelled 'Seen this on crates'. It is theorized that the 'crates' referred to here and in the transmission are, or are related to, the metal cages found by MTF Chi-1.
Addendum-2: The flash drive contained a file titled 'OUTPUT-3121.txt'. The contents of the file appear to be a machine translation of Document-WP-1. A copy is provided below.

OUTPUT FILE 3121
REQUESTED BY <ERROR NULL REFERENCE>
KEY: <NO EQUIVALENT>, <NEQ> - translation not possible, (?) - approximate or idiomatic translation
TRANSLATED TEXT:
Status of the second operation <NO EQUIVALENT> as of 99FG5.
Processing of entities has accelerated, owing to an increased need for derivative 3. Approximately 1000 entities have been processed this month(?), for an output of 130 <NEQ> of substance.
Entity restraint and control continues to be a barrier to large scale production, especially given entities' extreme resistance to <NEQ> bodily poisons. Substance 34 has proven somewhat effective in pacifying entities, however physical incapacitation using appendages still remains the primary method of control.
Processors(?) are reminded that permanently pacifying entities is now a Level-16 offense due to current conditions. Entities are to be kept alive at all costs. For this purpose a delivery of Substance 91, a high-activity stimulant, will be made shortly.
Processors are also warned not to come into contact with any fluid or solid exuded by the entities. Most are highly toxic and exposure can lead to death within minutes. Ensure that entities not being immediately taken for processing are fitted with the standard restriction devices to prevent any contamination. Furthermore processors should stand at least 60 <NEQ> away from entity processing equipment when active as poisonous substances are likely to leak, especially from seals 1 through 18.
[DATA EXPUNGED]
Several requests have been made for raw entities to be made available to beings on <NEQ>, in addition to the derivative. These requests are being assessed for feasibility. In this case further processors will be required and transport arrangements will be made.

No subsequent activity has been detected at the warehouse in New York, nor have any more transmissions to [REDACTED] been detected. However, the Overseers are adamant that if these operations are continuing, terminating them is a top priority, as is recovering any items worthy of SCP classification. As such they have authorized raids, disguised as [REDACTED], on several similar businesses throughout North America as a preemptive measure.


The last living man on earth smiles to himself as he touches the silver crucifix at his throat, lifting it to his lips to kiss his savior, then looks around his small bungalow, checking to ensure that his lamps are brightly burning and will remain so until he returns, then steps out into the shadowy suburban streets. The moon is full and bright, of course, and white as the bleached teeth in a broken skull.
He does not know yet, as he tugs at the lapels of his corduroy coat and adjusts his left ear bud petulantly, that he is the last living man. Certainly, he thinks, in a world so vast there must be others. Pockets, perhaps, of civilization remaining even untouched by the myriad otherworldly taints that have left him bereft of company. On optimistic days he keeps a weather eye on the horizons and glances curiously down side streets in hopes of spotting someone, anyone… There is no one.
It's a cool October evening, and he chuckles as he sees the usual assortment of flapping bedsheet ghosts hanging from well manicured ornamental trees, and winks conspiratorially at a grinning jack o lantern. The soft guitar of his music blends neatly with the hiss of wind, and the sound of harsh laughter somewhere to his right. Grinning to himself, he takes a left, toward the park.
This is not the first such evening walk he's taken, casting away the protection of his fortified home and meandering in the twilight, dodging the dangers of what the world has become, but it is the latest he's yet dared to do so. Already the distant streets echo with the occasional crash and shatter of the night's early merriment. The last man quickens his step and checks the small pistol in his pocket. One bullet, as always. He'd have no use for more than one, not anymore.
The last man pauses by the buckled gates at the park's entrance to remove his crucifix, hanging it by the chain from a strangely tilted wrought iron fencepost. He makes a note to retrieve it on the way back, and delves into the deeper dusk of the park.
Under his feet crunch leaves and gravel and what he suspects was once bone as he idly ambles down a path leading to the tennis courts. It's a good night. At a certain point he pauses, reaching to his throat to ensure that he's left his crucifix behind, then plunges forward into a small clearing where the air is filled with a strange clicking rumble and the smell of grease and the battery acid tinge of electricity. He winces as one of the buttons of his jacket frees itself from the material with a gunshot crack and flies into the darkness, its edge nicking his cheek in passing. He'd forgotten about that one.
Deeper still down the path, and his nose fills with a cloying sweet scent, floral and subtly entrancing. Lovely. He inhales deeply and quickens his pace as the slithery sound of lace rustles the leaves to his either side, and turns up the volume on his music before the soft singing can reach his ears. Laconic, he pulls a fistful of now worthless bills from a pocket and lets the wind carry them back like leaves over his shoulder, a tip for a performance he'd have died if he'd heard.
Coming around the circle, now, back toward the park's entrance, a barely glimpsed movement in the distance makes him pause. He steps into the bright glow of a streetlamp and leans against its post to wait.
He doesn't have to wait long. Soon enough they round the corner, eyes flashing, and stop at the edge of the circle of light. The last man nods to them, friendly, because they cannot reach him. The older one, dressed for the chill he cannot feel in a fuzzy down vest and cowboy hat, smiles wryly. "Good evening.". The younger, female, who by looks was once his daughter, simply hisses in anger and crouches to throw a pebble at the light. "Evening." says the last man, pleasantly, and he smiles at her as he puts his pistol to his temple. She shrinks back, making a face, denied the prospect of a meal, and tugs at her elder's coat, pulling him away.
When they've gone, the last man shrugs, pocketing his gun, and strolls out of the park, pausing to retrieve his crucifix and put it on. He heads home, flush with the exhilaration of danger, already planning his route for the next night's walk. There are so few things the last man living has left to make him feel alive.


There is a man
In my attic
Walking around
With a soft patter
With a loud clatter
They brought my cat back
With an espionage bug
So I wrung its neck
With a harsh crack
And a soft snap
There is a man outside
In a lab coat
Talking into a cell phone
In German
And he uses words like
‘Eindringen'
‘Geheimnis'
And ‘termination'
And I know what that means
Oh yes, oh yes
I can see his cigarette through the dark
And the smoke
Of the monkey
At his side
Who peers in through my window
When he knows I'm looking
There are at least a thousand men in suits
All over town
Waiting for me to pass by
And to look down
They have a laser device
To scan my eye
And a pill
That will make me forget
Everything
That I have learned
About them
And their evil
Their experiments
And unwarranted merriments
They throw people to the lions
For science
But I know words, my dear
Words that they fear
Words like
‘Gears'
‘Kondraki'
‘173', ‘231', ‘343'
And ‘682', too
And I chant
While I wait
For them to leave
They know that I know
And I know
That they know I know
So I will pray and pray and beg
For them to go
They're digging a tunnel up through my basement
I have heard them, down there
I have put down caltrops
And a Winchester rigged to fire
(I hope they feel lucky)
If they try to come up the stairs
They will be in the crosshairs
Of my Ruger
And my Luger
I have a knife
Oh
How did you guess?
It's the one they used
To kill my wife
She knew too much
There is a man across the street
He has a moustache
And a sniper rifle
I painted the windows black
And I hid in my bathroom
But I am safe nowhere
A man with tattoos
Was peering up from the bottom of the bowl
I slammed the button, listened for the flow
And wished he would go
I can hear them
Walking around
Above and below
And outside
But I will no longer hide
What I did is for the best
And the people must know
Of these men and their doings
They can come in, slow and steady
I have my gun
I am ready.

Agent McPhelty washed a few splatters of blood from his night-vision goggles in the sink. He shook the droplets off his hands and toweled them off, turning around. The living room in the stairway where clearly visible through the open door. His partner on this specific operation, Agent Konnicker, was standing over the prone corpse of the man he had taken down, his heavy sniping rifle slung over his shoulder. Blood and splinters of skull were alternatively splattered over and embedded in the fine oak planks of the stairs, and the stink of freshly-sheared copper hung in the air like a cloud of miasma.
"Hey Tom," the hefty Texan sniper mumbled through his impressive mustache, "check this out."
He was waving a sheet of A4 paper around. McPhelty snatched it from him, frowning as he looked it over.
"…now what in God's blue heaven is this shit, Bill?"
"I do believe he snapped and wrote hisself a little poem. Found it in his pocket."
McPhelty looked down at the fallen corpse of Richard Daublin, the dead spy. Their hacker would later discover there was at least half a terabyte of sensitive information pertaining to the Foundation scattered on various hard drives through his five laptops, but right now, with most of the top half of his head missing, he didn't look so smart.
"Wouldn't quit my day job, if I were him."


**BEGIN LOG**

Document 84-█████
*The trailer opens up in a burning building. Camera slowly zooms up to a folder marked “SCP”. A conversation between Dr. Gears (Ben Stein) and Agent O-5 (Tommy Wiseau) goes on in the background, with Gears talking in monotone and Agent O-5 having a ridiculously strong accent.*
DR. GEARS: How bad is it?
AGENT O-5: Oh… it is very bad.
*Show men in ski masks carrying a wooden coffin down the street in broad daylight.*
AGENT O-5: A bunch of terrorists ‘ave stolen *obvious jump in dialogue* zee coffin, of a *another obvious jump* vampire overlord.
*Show footage of people in robes praying to the unconscious body of SCP-76-2 (AKA Able), played by Robert Pattinson.*
AGENT O-5: If they are not stopped, the world… no, the universe, could be in danger.
*Fade to black.*
DR. GEARS: I'll get my best team on it.
*Cut to three people marching down a sparsely-decorated corridor, wearing sunglasses and trenchcoats. From left to right: Yoric (also played by Tommy Wiseau), Dr. Clef (played by Samuel L. Jackson), and Dr. Bright (played by Bobo the monkey, voiced by Richard Simmons). Generic rock music loops in the background.*
NARRATOR: From the creative direction of Uwe Boll…
*Cut to scene of people with guns wearing armor that “D-Class” being mowed down by “Marshall Carter" (played by Keven Spacey) using a machine gun labeled “Dark. LTD”*
M. CARTER: THIS. IS. SPARRRRTAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
*Dr Aeish (played by some no-talent spanish guy) jumps in from out of nowhere wearing a puffy suit and holding a sword.*
Dr. ALEPH ASASH AEGEAL AEISH: My name is Dr. Asphalt. You killed my father. Prepare to die.
NARRATOR: …and one of the two directors responsible for “Epic Movie”…
*Cut to scene of Dr. Bright and Dr. Gears in a car, driving.*
DR. GEARS (still in monotone): Can't you go any faster, damn it?
DR. BRIGHT: *Thumps the wheel, screeching. Dr. Bright's voice is very badly dubbed in.* WEEEE! NO HANDS! *Farts*
NARRATOR: …Comes this year's blockbuster romantic comedy sci-fi action thriller, that will knock-
*Cut to scene of Yoric loading a shotgun…*
NARRATOR: -You-
*…Clef strumming the Ukulele…*
NARRATOR: -Senseless!
*…and Bright just standing there, while an obviously fake pair of monkey hands rises in front of him, and cracks their knuckles.*
*Cut to scene where Dr. Edison (played by Brad Pitt) is walking away from an exploding SCP-682.*
DR. EDISON (voiceover): It's showtime…
*Fade to black, and then fade into the words “SCP” in silver letters, with a large number of obligatory movie credits at the bottom of the screen. Text below the logo says “Thanksgiving Day”*

“Well, I suppose that's one way to handle an information leak…” O5-█ turned away from the screen. “How on earth did you pull this off?”
“Eh, no big deal.” Dr. Edison smugly replied, “I just wrote up a script, sent a crack team of mercenaries to track down and kidnap Uwe Boll and Friedberg, told them who was going to be in it, and gave them an hour each with SCP-721. Now everyone thinks that the leaked documents are part of some sort of Alternate Reality Game for a horrible Uwe Boll movie. With any luck, Marshall, Carter and Dark will also be more hesitant about doing business, what with their name being associated with that wisecracking Lex Luthor ripoff.”
“May I remind you that bringing civilians here was a serious breach in security…”
“Please, that guy has less credibility than a neo-nazi at a bar-mitzvah. If ‘Zhee best fucking genius in zee business' ever said anything, he'd lose whatever shred of credibility he still has.”
O5-█ gave Dr. Edison an unamused look.
“…Yeah yeah, I gave them both A-Class Amnesics.” Dr. Edison nervously tugged at his collar. “Um, I mean, do you think I'm an idiot or something?”
“But what about the actors? How did you-”
“I had a talk with our legal department to help me with the cover story. They forged some paperwork saying that they had signed over their ‘Digital Likenesses' to Boll at some point, and got “Popular Science” to do an article about the technology the movie was supposedly made with. Plus, I sent everyone large checks to get them to stay quiet about it. You know how celebrities are. And even if they do say something, Boll and Friedberg would be the ones to blame, not us.”
“I see.” The O5 looked unpulsed. “I also understand you've taken some… ‘liberties' with the source material.”
“That was understandable; If I stuck too close to the truth our entire operation would be compromised.”
“Actually, I was more concerned about the portrayal of yourself and your fellow co-workers. We've received a number of complaints… Dr. Rights, for instance, is upset that you've made her a into one-dimensional love interest, Dr. Bright was upset that you've made him out to be a complete idiot that can't fend for himself that constantly makes fart jokes, Yoric insists that he looks nothing like Tommy Wiseau, and Delivery Agent Roadrunner is accusing you of slander. Which is understandable, as his only scene involves him yelling obscenities at the elderly, punting a baby into a wood chipper, insulting all major religious and world leaders by name, selling out the Foundation to the Chaos Insurgency for pocket change, and then being gruesomely dismembered at the hands of SCP-682.”
Dr. Edison chuckled. “Oh yeah, I remember that scene. God, that was fun to write…”
“Anyway… Dr. Iceberg has put out a bounty on your life, Dr. Aeish says you pronounced his name wrong on at least seven dozen occasions, Dr. Gerald hates how you've made his poor driving skills into a running gag, Able would like to have a very violent word with you about your casting choices, Dr. Gears thinks that your characterization of himself was spot on but is repulsed by everything else in the movie, and Dr. Clef thinks you portrayed him as a sexist, chain-smoking alcoholic bigot with a hair-trigger temper.”
“So? I'd say that's a pretty accurate description.”
“The problem is that he insists you owe him royalties.” The O5 nonchalantly shuffled a large stack of papers. “Oh, and absolutely everyone hates the fact that you cast Brad Pitt as yourself, and made him the most blatant Mary-Sue possible.”
Dr. Edison shrugged. “Yeah, well, that's show business for ya.”
The O5 sighed. “Personally, I ought to terminate you for gross disrespect and neglect of the rules. However, since you did defuse a potentially catastrophic situation with minimal casualties, I'm willing to let you keep your current position, on the condition that you transfer to Keter Duty in our Antarctic base at Site-██ until people stop demanding your head on a stick.”
“Don't I have some sort of choice?”
“Certainly. You could always [DATA EXPUNGED]”
“…Right. Antarctica it is, then.”
**END LOG**


Foreword: This film and several documents were recovered during the acquisition of SCP-████-01-c. Though the documents did not survive prolonged exposure to the tropical climate, the film provides excellent insight into the effects of SCP-████-01. Irrelevant footage has been removed for time considerations but may be viewed by request.

Incident ████-c/A/001 Recovered Material-1: Transcript of 8mm Film, First Segment

[Camera is angled downward, pointed at a large stone slab roughly 1.5 meters lower than the surrounding area. The slab appears to be a block of roughly worked limestone. The stone is covered with hundreds of insects of multiple species, moving as a group in a complex pattern. The insects appear to be unaware of external stimuli and biological imperatives; predators ignore prey species and vice-versa. A male voice, designated Subject #1, speaks.]
Subject #1: I think I finally got this damn camera working! Alright, this is-
Off-camera Voice, designated Subject #2: [overlapping] I'll take it from here, James. This is Dr. Aaron Meier speaking. It's, ah, seven thirty-one A.M. local time at the [REDACTED] University Archeological Expedition to [DATA EXPUNGED]. We woke up this morning and found this. Phenomenon. On top of our next work project. I'm not a biologist, so from here on I'm just going to let the camera roll and interject with any observations.
[The insects continue to move in increasingly complex and intricate patterns. Filming continues for an additional twenty minutes without any input Subject #1 or #2. Foundation archivists unanimously report feelings of intense revulsion during this period, with four having gone so far as to attack their monitors. After roughly twenty-five minutes of footage, a shovel is violently swung from out of frame into the largest concentration of insects. The next four minutes of footage consists entirely of a pair of shovels repeatedly swung at the insects on the slab until interrupted by another male voice, designated Subject #3. Subject #3 positively identified as Professor Mitchell Romansky]
Subject #3: What the hell are you doing? Stop that! Goddamnit, stop that!
[Shovel impacts slow and stop.]
Subject #1: What?
Subject #3: I leave you two alone for half a fucking hour and what do you do? You start hitting a previously unknown behavior. A behavior to which we are, as far as we know, the only witnesses. With shovels. James, what the hell were you thinking? Actually, no. Meier, what the fuck were you thinking? You know what? Don't answer that. I don't even want to hear it.
Subject #1: What was his problem?
[Recording ends.]

Incident ████-c/A/001 Recovered Material-2: Transcript of 8mm Film, Second Segment

[Camera is in an environment confirmed to be the interior of the so-called "Catacomb". The "Catacomb" appears to be a room, roughly five meters by five meters, constructed of a dull gray stone, presumably limestone. The walls are covered in engraved symbols, consistent with those associated with the Killke civilization. The center of the room is dominated by an object now classified by the Foundation as SCP-████-01-c. Several rectangular stone constructions, roughly two meters long and a meter tall, surround the center object. On each construction is a mummified cadaver. A significant area of the far wall is dominated by what recovered documents refer to as a "door". It is heavily decorated with symbols similar to those on the other walls, however, the symbols are interrupted at regular intervals of images of [DATA EXPUNGED], which is now understood to be associated with death and calamity in the Killke religion. The entire [REDACTED] University Archeological Expedition team is present, and appears to be in varying states of readiness for a group shot. Professor Mitchell Romansky, designated Subject #1, is in the center of the group.]
Subject #1: Are we rolling? We are? Finally! Christ, almost ten minutes to set up a camera. Okay, everyone get together for the group shot!
[All members of the █UAE team attempt to take their places. This process takes several minutes. Subject #1 steps away from the group, considers their arrangement for some time, then returns to his place, nodding.]
Subject #1: Well, here we are! I am Prof. Mitchell Romansky, team lead for the [REDACTED] University Archeological Expedition to [DATA EXPUNGED]. This is what we're calling the Killke Catacomb, found underneath the ruins at [DATA EXPUNGED]. Won't you join us for the tour? [Group laughs. Subject #1 begins to move about the "Catacomb".]
Subject #1: This structure is well preserved to a degree almost unheard of in the field of archeology. The walls, as you can see, have many engravings. We've identified several as Killke in origin, and are confident that the rest are also Killke, implying that they had a writing system similar to the hieroglyphics of ancient Egypt as opposed to the pictographic system once believed to have been standard. We're all very excited.
[Subject #1 motions the assembled █UAE team away from the center of the "Catacomb". The group scatters.]
Subject #1: And this is the pièce de résistance. This appears to be an altar of some kind, perhaps sacrificial. Note the presence of the cadavers. They were placed here purposefully, with ritual significance. This is a huge insight into Killke funerary rights! As for the altar itself, we're not sure what. It's.
[Subject #1 and the rest of the █UAE team slowly stop whatever they were doing and turn to stare at SCP-████-01-c. They remain motionless for the following seventeen minutes and thirty four seconds. The film quality progressively degrades during this period, becoming so distorted at seventeen minutes twenty seconds that any identifying features are lost. Distortion ceases at the same time the █UAE team "wakes up".]
Subject #1: Made of, or how it was constructed. Um. Hey. Joseph? I think we're done. My eyes are really starting to hurt. Might be the dust or something. We'll try again later. Turn the camera off and someone get me an ice pack.
[Camera is obscured by a human figure (presumably Joseph Asta, a doctoral student at [REDACTED] University) and switched off.]

Incident ████-c/A/001 Recovered Material-3: Transcript of 8mm Film, Third Segment

[Camera is in an environment confirmed to be the interior of the lab tent at area designated "Dig" for the duration of Incident ████-01-c/A/001. Seated in front of the camera is a male Caucasian, approx. 50 years of age, with brown hair and dressed in a off-white button-down shirt and khakis covered in dust. He is designated Subject #1. Subject #1 later confirmed to be Professor Mitchell Romansky, a tenured archeology professor at [REDACTED] University. He is rubbing his eyes. An off-camera female voice (believed to be [REDACTED], a doctoral student at [REDACTED] University) begins speaking. Voice designated Subject #2.]
Subject #2: Professor? We're rolling. Whenever you're ready.
Subject #1: My eyes are fucking killing me. Hm? Oh, right, right, just a moment. We'll just edit this out when we present our findings to the AIA.
[Subject #1 stops slouching and hurriedly brushes his hair back with his hand, attempts to smooth his shirt, etc. After several seconds, he begins speaking in a more professional tone. Amusingly, it appears his Standard Received English accent in the remainder of the film is feigned.]
Subject #1: We've made. A discovery. This could change everything about our understanding of Killke society. About our understanding of all ancient peoples on the entire continent! Exploratory digging at [REDACTED] unearthed a previously unknown structure directly underneath the site. It appears to be a tomb. Or perhaps a temple. It wasn't very far down, four or five meters at maximum, and I don't think it was buried. Well, I do think it was buried, but intentionally, by the builders. There's a long entrance hallway that slopes upwards, like a surface access, that was hidden by a large stone slab, and what appears to be an exit tunnel, presumably leading further underground or to a secondary room, but it's blocked by a large ornate door that we can't shift at the moment.
Subject #2: [Indistinct. Comment appears to be directed at another person, also off-camera. Subject #1 appears not to notice.]
Subject #1: [Subject #1 begins punctuating his speech with increasingly frantic gestures.] It's definitely not Incan, it's too old, and the interior is riddled with what we believe is a complete Killke alphabet. Dr. Meier is already attempting translation as we speak. And the tomb itself! There's a supremely well crafted stone polygon, maybe an altar in the center of the structure. We're not sure what it represents, or even what it's made out of, but I. Believe. What? Why are you staring at me like that?
Subject #2: Um. Professor. You're bleeding.
Subject #1: What? Where?
Subject #2: Your. Um. Eyes. I think I'm gonna be sick.
Subject #1: Don't be ridiculous, girl, I'm not bleeding-
[Subject #1 touches his face and looks at his fingers.]
Subject #1: Oh. Oh my.
[Subject #1 gets up. Several seconds later, recording stops.]

Incident ████-c/A/001 Recovered Material-4: Transcript of 8mm Film, Final Segment

[Camera appears to not have moved since the recording of the third segment. Seated in front of the camera is a distraught looking east Asian male, age approx. 30, designated Subject #1. He is believed to be Park Sung-Joon, a post-doctoral student at [REDACTED] University. Subject #1's clothes, a [REDACTED] University t-shirt and blue jeans, are filthy and torn. There appears to be significant retraction of the bulbous oculi into the orbit, and Subject #1's face is coated in what appears to be dried blood. The source of the blood appears to be a combination of superficial wounds and Subject #1's tear ducts.]
Subject #1: Uh. I don't know how to. Christ. How to start. We were doing an archeological study of the Killke ruins at [DATA EXPUNGED] and we. Found something. Buried. Oh fuck my eyes hurt.
[Subject #1 violently rubs his eyes for nearly a minute.]
Subject #1: It was a temple or something. I don't even know how we found it. Professor Romansky just kept pacing around the same area of the site, this empty area. Then he made the guides and a few post-docs grab shovels and dig until they hit something, maybe five feet down. We didn't know what it was, but I'm pretty sure it was trying to keep whatever's happening to us. In. We cracked the thing open anyway. We shouldn't have. We should've seen the fucking bugs freaking out and left it alone, but we're scientists. We have. Had. An obligation. To fuck things up.
[Subject #1 pauses for some time, apparently lost in thought. He intermittently rubs his eyes.]
Subject #1: I wasn't even supposed to go on this fucking trip. Carl got sick. And they needed another post-doc. My focus is fucking Hellenic architecture.
[Subject #1 alternates between manic laughter and sobbing for several minutes before composing himself. Archivists note that no tears are produced during the sobbing portions.]
Subject #1: God. Whoever finds this. If anyone finds this. Don't go down that fucking hole. It's. It's probably killing us. And. Just. If you find this, just cover the temple back up. Or bomb it. Just, don't. Don't go in. And. Tell my moth-
[Subject #1 convulses violently for nearly two minutes, falling off his chair and out of frame in the process. After three minutes and thirty seconds, he stands up. His eyes have completely retracted into his skull, leaving only empty sockets, and is at this point, considered a specimen of SCP-████-02. Frame by frame analysis of this section of the film is disallowed following the unexplained illnesses of three Foundation archivists. Subject #1 stiffly walks past the camera. Recording continues for three more hours before the camera runs out of film.]


Please refer to [DATA EXPUNGED] for briefing about Agent Waters and Event [DATA EXPUNGED]
These 432 pages of documents were recovered on ██/██/████ from the residence of Agent Waters (KIA) in ██████, South Africa, three months after his disappearance. It is unknown whether the partial translation of the documents was done by Agent Waters or his partner, Agent Laker (MIA), or by an unknown third entity. The handwritten notes on the documents match the handwriting of Agent Waters, and the questioning of the other residents in the building leads to believe that Agent Waters was the only occupant of the residence for at least two months. Indeed the only evidence towards Agent Laker ever arriving in South Africa are short references to him in the handwritten notes in these documents.
Examination of Crash Site B1 has found only destroyed remains of the craft, and the irradiated metal object classified as SCP-███. An entry in the personal voice diary of Agent Waters (see file [DATA EXPUNGED] ) confirms the theory that the documents were somehow extracted from SCP-███, which makes further research into it crucial. It should be noted that Agent Waters claims the date to be 25th September at the time of the entry, but the actual voice file was created two weeks after said date. Evidence collected by Agents ██████ and ████ suggests that Agent Waters located and secured the Crash Site as per his original orders, but after his final report to Foundation staff on ██/██, destroyed the craft and isolated himself into his residence in ██████ to translate the extracted data.
Because of the large amounts of data in these documents, only the most coherent and notable parts are collected here.
Page 52:

Page 54:

Page 99:

Page 312:

I am going to personally supervise the investigation into the information leaks apparent in these documents. All that information about the Foundation should have never been accessible to a single person. Class-A amnestics will be administered to all agents and other personnel who have had access to the original documents.
O5-██


Document # ███-002: Excerpt from the "von Reiter Collection"

Interviewee: Obersturmführer Waldemar Strasser, formerly of 2.SS Panzer-Division Das Reich
Interviewer: Captain Albert [REDACTED], ██ Infantry Division, British Army
Foreword: Interview occurred 09/02/1945 and was conducted by non-Foundation personnel. Interview is one in a series conducted by Allied governments of personnel attached to the "von Reiter Group" in order to ascertain its purpose and gather additional information on SCP-███-01-b. Document seized by Foundation personnel 06/30/1947, edited for security and appended to the Von Reiter Collection.

<Begin Log>
Interviewer [REDACTED]: Please state your name, rank and service history for the record.
Obersturmführer Strasser: Obersturmführer Waldemar Strasser. I served in France, Yugoslavia and Russia with 2.SS Panzer-Division Das Reich as a panzergrenadier. I was awarded the Ritterkreuz in recognition of my service near Kharkov in January, 194█ before being transferred to SS Sonderforschungsgruppe-von Reiter for garrison duty shortly afterward. I served there until the end of the war.
I: For the record, Obersturmführer is an SS rank roughly equivalent to the British rank of army Lieutenant. Is SS Sonderforschungsgruppe-von Reiter the name of the concentration camp you were transferred to?
S: I recognize your accent, I think. You are from London, ja? Perhaps north London?
I: Why, yes. Your ear for English is remarkable, Herr Strasser.
S: I spent about a year in London, studying abroad for university. Wonderful place. I suppose I should apologize on behalf of the Luftwaffe. The damage to London is a tragedy.
I: I've seen Berlin and Dresden. Perhaps we deserved at least a little of it. [Captain [REDACTED] pauses for several moments.] No hard feelings, old boy. But please, answer my question. Was SS Sonderforschungsgruppe-von Reiter the name of the concentration camp you were transferred to in the spring of 194█?
S: Concentration camp? [laughs] No, no, SFG-von Reiter was a research laboratory.
I: You say that the facility you at which you were stationed was not a concentration camp, despite the presence of over ███ Soviet POWs? And a mass grave ███ meters away, containing the incinerated remains of some ████ people? That's pretty hard to believe, Herr Strasser.
S: SFG-von Reiter was strictly a research laboratory. I would never work in a Konzentrationslager, I don't have the stomach for it. But to answer your question, Dr. von Reiter went through the prisoners very quickly. The prisoners were for research.
I: Medical research?
S: I'm sure you know all this already, I don't see why-
I: Please, for the record.
S: No, SFG-von Reiter was not a medical testing facility. It. Was. I'm not sure. I don't. Know. I'm not certain how to put it.
I: Mein Deutsch ist ziemlich gut, Herr Strasser. Bitte, fühlen Sie sich frei auf Deutsch fortzufahren.
S: [S laughs.] Wunderbar! Ein bayerischer Akzent!! Sehr gut, Captain, sehr gut! But no, that's not what I mean. I'm unsure exactly what kind of science went on there. There were medical tests on prisoners, of course, but that wasn't the function of SFG-von Reiter. It was a very odd place.
I: Could you elaborate, please? What was the purpose of the Leipzig facility if not extermination of Soviet prisoners of war or medical testing of the same?
S: Let me tell you a story, Captain. It involves a Wehrmacht artillery company and a Bolshevik position near [DATA EXPUNGED].
[Redundant information removed by Foundation censors. See [REDACTED] for the full interview, or [REDACTED] for a full report on the recovery of SCP-███-c by Wehrmacht personnel.]
S: Shortly thereafter, the object was sent back to the Fatherland in a sealed train car for further research.
I: I see. So this "artifact" was then transferred to the Leipzig facility for von Reiter to work with?
S: That's correct.
I: I'm afraid I don't understand. That's a lot of effort for what amounts to an interesting archeological find. A curiosity, yes, but did it really warrant its own subterranean bunker system? Or a garrison the size of an infantry company?
[S remains silent for some time.]
S: May I trouble you for a cigarette?
I: Certainly.
S: Danke. I don't know what that verdammt thing was, Captain. A curiosity? Perhaps. You haven't seen it. Dr. von Reiter was convinced it was the most important scientific discovery, period. Himmler was convinced it would win us the war.
I: Himmler? You mean Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler?
S: Yes. Within SS formations, even Waffen-SS combat units, Himmler was known for his ridiculous mysticism. Apparently, he thought die Auge-Stein could be used as a Vertraulichwaffe-
I: For the record, Vertraulichwaffe roughly translates to esoteric weapon. Please continue, Herr Strasser.
S: Ja, an esoteric weapon to smash Bolshevism and the decadent Western democracies and win us the war. And all future wars. The SS sponsored all sorts of absurdities of course, like that Ahnenerbe expedition to Tibet. But this was something else completely. He wrote von Reiter a- Verdammt! Wie Sie tun Sie zu sagen? Ah, yes! A "blank cheque". Himmler handed von Reiter a "blank cheque" from the SS. Money, materials, test subjects, personnel, whatever von Reiter asked for, the Reichsführer made sure he got. When I was first transferred to SFG-von Reiter, I thought the whole idea was Scheisse, but I kept my mouth shut because it was certainly better than another tour on the Ostfront. But over the █ years I was there, I'm. Ah. Not so sure now.
[S is silent for some time. Stenographer notes that he is idly playing with his Knight's Cross.]
I: We'll come back to this subject later, if you'd like. [S nods.] Tell me about your duties at the Leipzig site.
S: Danke, Captain. I was in involved in general security under Standartenführer Konrad Boch. And I oversaw the disposal of die Leeraugen. The. Ah. The test subjects.
I: For the record, Standartenführer is an SS rank equivalent to the British Army rank of Colonel. Please describe your duties in the latter capacity, if you would?
S: [DATA EXPUNGED], and after the experiments were over, my unit was tasked with killing them. It was very disturbing at first, because they are much harder to kill than a man.
I: Were there any special procedures for this "disposal"?
S: Not really? They would be chained to the wall in a sealed room somewhere in the complex, and five or six of us would go in and shoot them until they stopped moving. In the beginning, it was harder because we kept trying to kill them, you know, like Einsatzgruppen? Once in the back of the head with a pistol. We wised up after we lost Schrier and Lustig, and started using automatics. Afterward, von Reiter or Dr. Eisen would collect them for dissection or incineration.
I: Eisen? He's not on our roster.
S: [laughs] Yes, I would imagine! That's because it's not his name. We gave him the nickname Eisen [lit. iron -Ed.] because he was such a hard bastard. I'm not sure what his name was. He was very high up within the research staff and the scientists tended to keep separate from us soldiers. So von Reiter and Wilhelm Jührs, his adjutant, were the only ones we really knew. We figured Eisen was from Himmler's personal staff. Dr. von Reiter absolutely adored him, probably because they were both bloodthirsty Arschlöcher. Eisen was probably responsible for most of the deaths, since he insisted on "fresh subjects" after each experiment.
I: Were there any uncommon occurrences while you were there?
S: Yes, of course! You can't garrison a bunker complex studying some rock that no one can figure out without some fucking uncommon occurrences.
I: Are you alright, Herr Strasser? We can stop if you'd like.
[S seems to consider this for some time.]
S: There was an air raid on Leipzig. A few bombs landed right on top of us. No one knew we were there except the Reichsfürher and some members of the OKW [Oberkommand der Wehrmacht, the German High Command -Ed.] and presumably Hitler, so I don't think it was intentional.
[S pauses for some time. He motions for another cigarette.]
S: The raid did severe structural damage to the complex. This was very early, you know, maybe █ months after we found the thing. We didn't know what we were doing at all. Our procedures for this were. Lacking. A group of Soviet Schweine escaped in the confusion and tried to flee the complex, but kept getting cut off by debris or locked doors. They ended up. They were funneled into the. Ah. Der Auge-Stein Eindämmungraum. The containment room.
I: How many? Prisoners, I mean.
S: I don't know, maybe a dozen. That psychopath, von Reiter, the one thing I will say about him is that he was always very prepared. Prisoners were always restrained, and never more than one at a time. This was ten. At least. There were no chains this time, no cages. The damage to the bunker had ruined the interior of der Auge-Stein Eindämmungraum and all the preventative measures Dr. von Reiter had spent so long perfecting.
I: What happened?
S: I don't know. I want you to know, Captain, that I hate Bolsheviks, to the very core of my being. I killed dozens of them in combat, I killed dozens of them out of combat, and I would continue to kill them now given half a chance. They are a plague on this world, and their complete eradication can only make things better. That said. What happened to those men in der Eindämmungraum is unspeakable. I would not wish it on anyone.
[S takes Captain [REDACTED]'s pack of cigarettes and spends several minutes smoking mechanically, apparently lost in thought. He stubs out his fourth cigarette and looks up.]
S: Es war sehr schlecht. I'd. Ah. I'd like to stop now, Captain.
<End Log>

Closing Statement: Interview continued in [REDACTED]. Authorization from clearance level 4 personnel required for access.
Although no new information was unearthed regarding properties of SCP-███, this insight into alternate testing and containment methods is invaluable for SCP-███ researchers. As of 02/28/1996, this series of interviews is required reading for all research staff involved in SCP-███ by order of SCP-███ Project Lead Dr. Feldmann.
Obersturmführer Strasser was recruited by the Foundation on 08/22/1947 in Argentina, due to his previous experience with SCP-███-01 and ███-02. Herr Strasser served with distinction as a Taskforce Leader (operational designation "Adamant") in Mobile Taskforce-███ Team Seven.
Waldemar Strasser died of lung cancer unrelated to the Foundation on 06/19/1979 in his home in Gelsenkirchen, West Germany.


Professor Ferreiro allowed himself another sigh as he swiped his access card across the barcode scanner. Today had not been a good day. Not that this was a particularly unusual experience for Professor Ferreiro. Ever since he had accepted employment at the SCP Foundation's spacious Site 19 complex he had been subjected to mountains of paperwork, casual abuse by his colleagues and little to no acknowledgment by his superiors. Of course, he mostly brought it on himself. Too timid to speak up every time someone else took credit for his work, Ferreiro had been consistently passed over for promotion and after 13 years of loyal service his co-workers couldn't even remember his name! He was simply the guy that everyone dumped their menial chores on and forgot about.
It therefore came as no surprise when he entered his tiny, windowless office and saw yet another enormous stack of papers in his in-tray. As expected, his desk was plastered with the usual post-it notes basically telling him to "get on with it" and a couple of unmarked boxes had been dumped on top of his "World's Adequatest Dad" mug, chipping the handle. His heart having already sunk to its lowest depths untold years ago, he simply closed the door behind him, checked his chair for any thumb tacks his "hilarious" lab assistants might have placed, and sat down to do his job.
Not feeling up to the task of sorting through his in-tray at that moment, he decided to start with the boxes. The first one contained a new, unclassified SCP in the shape of a thermostat. Pinned to the SCP was a hand-written note by Dr. Gordon telling him to deliver it to research lab 5a for experimentation. Ferreiro rolled his eyes. Research lab 5a was on the other side of the compound, right next door to Dr. Gordon's office. Well, that one could wait. Knowing better than to actually touch an unknown SCP, he carefully resealed the box and put it on the floor next to his desk.
The second box was long and rectangular, and bore the stamp of a fully classified SCP with the words "SCP-572: FOR CONTAINMENT" printed on the side in large, intimidating letters. A small envelope was sellotaped to the lid and marked for the immediate attention of "Professor Donald Ferrari". A thin smile crept across Ferreiro's face as he plucked the envelope off and thumbed it open. They'd finally got his first name right!

Doctor Fernando,

SCP-572 has been reclassed as Euclid and therefore requires transferring to the special containment facility behind Research Laboratory 5a. As you are not currently assigned to any other projects and therefore have nothing else to do, I expect this to be done without delay.
It is absolutely vital that you read the full containment procedures for this SCP before handling it. They should have been delivered to your in-tray a few days ago.
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO HANDLE SCP-572 UNTIL YOU HAVE READ THESE PROCEDURES AND KNOW THEM INSIDE OUT AND BACK TO FRONT!
Your performance to date has been lacklustre at best. Let's see if you can get this one right!
Regards,
Bernard Fulham,
SCP Laboratory Assistant,
Clearance Level Pending

Not for the first time that day, Ferreiro sighed.
"Don't let him get to you, Don - punk kid like that'll be assigned to Keter duty before he sees thirty!"
Ferreiro nodded absently. He was probably right. Arrogant, abrasive types like Fulham did wind up on Keter duty more often than…
Wait a minute…
Who was probably right?!?
Ferreiro looked around his office to see if anyone had entered without him noticing. He was all alone. Suspecting another practical joke of some sort, he began to check under his desk in case someone was hiding there.
Nothing.
A quick search of his desk drawers completely failed to yield evidence of any tape recorders or other such devices. Jesus, perhaps he'd been working too hard lately. He had been under a lot of stress, true, but he was used to stress by now, surely? Still… working in site 19 could get to anyone after a while. "Wonderful", he muttered, "Now I'm hearing things".
"You sure are, Don - you have AMAZING hearing! Just look at those ears of yours - the very pinnacle of creation's work and no mistake! Why, I bet you could hear a gnat piss into a hurricane from a hundred miles away with those beauties!"
Ferreiro fought down a wave of panic as his eyes sought out the source of this bizarre flattery. "Alright, wh..who are you and where are you hiding?" he demanded.
"Relax, Don, you'll find me. That impressive brain of yours isn't going to take long to work out where I am! Just follow the sound of my voice! YODEL-AY-YODEL-AY-YODEL-AY-HEE-HOO! YODEL-AY-YODEL-AY-YOD.."
"Enough!" cried Ferreiro, covering his ears with his hands to block out the piercing ululations. "You've had your fun, just tell me where you are and I promise not to file a complaint with Dr. Bright's office!"
"Hah! Like a rough-and-ready, no-nonsense hombre like yourself needs to go running to some other doctor for help! Oh Don, your incredible wit knows no bounds. But seriously though, I don't want to make you angry - I'm in the box! Come and check me out!"
Ferreiro felt the hairs begin to rise on the back of his neck. Sure enough, the voice did seem to be coming from the long, rectangular box on his desk. His hands shaking like a Class D on nerve toxins, he gingerly broke the seal and raised the lid. Lying there in front of him, snugly contained in its packaging, was an ornate sword. He was no expert in weaponry, but it looked very much like the replica katana he had purchased for his son's 16th birthday, back when his family still lived with him. Although the only source of light in his office was the sterile neon bulb mounted on the ceiling, the blade glinted as if struck by a brief flicker of sunlight.
"Found me! I knew you would, though. There's no hiding from the Donimator! Right, Don?"
The hapless scientist recoiled in alarm at the sword's cheerful, steely voice.
"Holy Mary mother of Thor!" he exclaimed incorrectly, "You… you can talk?"
"Sure I can, Don! But only to people worth talking to, like yourself. You see, you're special, Don. Really, really special. There's no one else in the entire universe like you - you think anyone else would be able to hear a sword talk?"
Ferreiro had to concede it had a point.
"You have a great destiny ahead of you Don. You ever hear the legend of King Arthur and his sword Excalibur?"
"You.. you mean you're…"
"Correct! I'm a sword just like Excalibur was! And I'm all yours, Don. Go on, pick me up - try me out! You'll soon see we were made for each other!"
His mind reeling with the shock of this discovery, Professor Ferreiro reached into the box and wrapped his fingers around the handle. Some part of his subconscious began to scream at him, telling him there was something he was supposed to remember - something important - but it was immediately drowned out by the feeling of raw power coursing through his arm. Although he could barely tell the difference between a bastard sword and a butter knife, he marvelled at the exquisite balance and weight of the katana. He felt strong and capable - confident, even! For the first time in years, he felt there was nothing he could not do. The world was his oyster, and he could crack it open and steal the pearls any time he wanted!
"Whoa, easy on the grip there, Mighty One! I'm the sturdiest blade you ever will see, but that super strength of yours could grind me into dust!"
Ferreiro loosened his grip slightly - of course, how could he not have known that? He was a TITAN!
"Phew, thanks! Okay, boss, try me out - give me a little whirl!"
Ferreiro swung the katana around in a clumsy semi circle, knocking over his stack of paperwork and smashing his mug into little ceramic pieces. Part of him knew he'd only done so by accident, but it felt right - like that had been his intention all along. He smiled, and this time it wasn't a thin, mournful little smile but a full fledged, ear-to-ear grin of triumph!
"OH HELL YEAH, DON! Look at us go! Did you see what we did to that mug? There is NOTHING we can't do! Nothing YOU can't do! All those years of working for other people when they're not even fit to lick the ground you walk on! Well, NOW they'll know who the real master is!"
"Yeah!" Ferreiro cheered, "NOW they'll know"!
He paused.
"It's Gears, right?"
"Hahaha, oh Don, you're the funniest, most talented man in the universe! No, of course it's not Gears - it's YOU, Don! You should be running this place by now! All those punk kids and worthless labcoats ordering you around, treating you like dirt - it's not on! And did you see how disorganised this place has become without you at the helm? You know the kind of dangerous, extinction-level events this place is supposed to contain, and yet it's run by the kind of people who won't even promote the most intelligent man who ever lived! No, Don, this place is too important not to be yours. I think it's time you promoted yourself, don't you?"
Donald Ferreiro, PhD, Clearance Level 1, Smartest Man Who Ever Lived, did think it was time he promoted himself. He'd never thought he'd really deserved it before, but then he'd never noticed how awesome… how badass he was before! It all made sense now.
His mind was made up.
He was going to take site 19 by force.
Hoisting the blade into what he knew was an extremely effective combat-ready position, he leapt to his feet and strode purposefully towards the door as bits of fluorescent light rained down around him. "YES! THE TIME OF VENGEANCE IS AT HAND!" screamed the blade, "GO ON, DON, KICK THE DOOR DOWN! SHOW THEM YOU MEAN BUSINESS!". His face set in an expression of grim determination, Don raised his leg and slammed the heel of his foot into the lock. There was a satisfying crack as the door completely failed to burst open in an explosion of reinforced metal. A crippling pain shot up his leg and a feeling of nausea overwhelmed him as the source of the cracking sound became apparent.
"Whoa-ho-ho! Look at that, chief! You've managed to shatter the bones of the universe's most powerful man! Only YOU could have done that, Don! Well done! You're so dangerous! I'm glad we're on the same side here! Now come on, let's go share the pain with those ungrateful bastards who employ you!"
Four more door kicks, half an hour's fighting-back-the-pain, and a reluctant barcode scan later, The Right Honourable Professor Donald Ferreiro, PhD, Clearance Level whatever-he-damn-well-chose, Smartest Man Who Ever Lived and God Amongst Men hobbled into the clean, empty hallway outside his office. "SITE NINETEEN", he bellowed weakly, "I AM YOUR NEW MASTER - AND YOU'RE ALL FIRED!"
"That's telling 'em, Don! Now find us some meat!"
Ignoring the pain of his broken foot and howling obscenities at an uncaring world, he rounded the nearest corner and came face to face with his nemesis.
"Ah, Fernando!" Doctor Gordon said, "I was just coming to check on you and see if you'd managed to deliver that… oh my, is that 572 you're holding? You know you're not supposed to - "
"FOOLISH WRETCH!", Ferreiro screamed, eyes wide, veins bulging, "YOU… HAVE… NO… POWER… OVER ME!!"
Gordon ducked as 572's dull blade swung over his scalp, missing him by a good half meter and causing a small dent in the overhead piping. Thrown completely off balance by this failed decapitation, Ferreiro spun awkwardly on his injured heel and collapsed to the floor as once more the pain overwhelmed his senses. Recognising a long-suffering scientist with a flipped switch when he saw one, Doctor Gordon scrambled to a nearby alarm panel and hit the button marked "Containment Breach".
"He's calling for backup, Don, don't let him get away with it! They'll be here any minute - FINISH HIM! Come on! On your feet! Get up! You can do it!"
572's voice continued to shout its encouragement as Ferreiro mustered all his will and pulled himself up onto his feet again.
"Don't be an idiot, man!" shouted Gordon as he backed away down the hall, "This place will be swarming with agents any second now! You can't win!"
"I am winning", snarled Ferreiro as the facility-wide alarm klaxons echoed through the corridor. "I'm the guy with the unstoppable blade!"
True to his predictions, the security team arrived in record time as Gordon fled past them. Six Kevlar-armoured SCP agents, their features hidden by the black visors of their helmets, came to a halt at the end of the corridor and raised their standard issue firearms. Ferreiro knew less about guns than he did about swords, but even he knew that the type of ammo and the range of the weapon meant nothing at such a short distance. For the first time since he'd decided to elevate his position, he began to feel a bit uncertain.
"Don't worry Don - they might have the firearms, but you have me! With my strength and your skill, we can stop every bullet they fire! Now let's show them what you're made of!"
His fears allayed, he swung the blade in a crude figure-of-eight, barely noticing the wet smacking noise his severed thumb made as it hit the tiled flooring. He damn well would show these bastards what he was made of! Unleashing 13 years worth of impotent rage in a single scream, he limped as fast as he could towards the security team, swirling 572 in whichever direction felt best at the time.
The security team, being well trained, released a volley of hot metal. But Ferreiro was ready. Flicking his blade from side to side, as if the bullets were little more than flies to be swatted, he continued his advance. Out of the 18 bullets fired, only two made it to the far wall behind him.
"That was AMAZING, Don!" 572 exclaimed triumphantly, "16 bullets stopped cold! And you didn't even need me at all! You truly are The One, Don! You're the greatest!"
Ferreiro looked down at his bullet-riddled torso, noting with detachment the shattered bone and distended muscle poking through his wounds. Moments later, when it realised what had happened, his body went into shock and he collapsed on the cold hard floor, bleeding profusely in every shade of red. 572 clattered onto the floor beside him, cackling playfully and singing his praises.
As the alarms went silent and the world began to fade from him, Donald Ferreiro, PhD, Security Clearance Terminated, was aware of a friendly voice singing "Wow, look at that blood! The blood of a king, that is! You really did show them what you're made of! You're the greatest, Don! The greatest!"
Don smiled.
He was the greatest.


I am followed by fire.
It sounds really, really weird, I know, but it's true. Every house, every apartment I've ever lived in has burned to the ground. Even stranger—it's predictable. If I lived somewhere for six years, six years after I move out it goes up in flames. It's not exact, but it's close, usually accurate to within two or three months.
It's true. I'm not sure when I noticed the pattern for the first time, but it's always been there. When I was just a kid, right after I was born, my family lived in an old house behind my grandmother's house. We were there until I was two, when we moved. I remember visiting my grandmother's at four, watching the smoldering embers of the little house and the curling smoke rising into the air. Old wiring from the 50's finally gave out.
From the shack, we moved to a farm. We weren't well off enough to own it or anything, but we did run it for the local doctor. The farmhouse wasn't that big, and most of my childhood memories come from the cozy, family setting it engendered. Here, I remember Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays. I think of it whenever I think of “back home.” We lived there from when I was two until I was nine, when the doctor we worked for died. At fifteen, it burned, an old tree struck by lightning sparking off the blaze.
The third house I lived in was the second to burn to the ground. We only lived there for around two years, so it happened when I was thirteen. It was an old house, a very old house. What I remember most was its shape. We called them “shotgun” houses, because you could fire a shotgun from one end and it would pass all the way through to the other. One room after another, all in a straight line, built as needed. It was, honestly, very old and dry. I'm not surprised that the heating stove in the front room sprung a leak on the tenants after us.
Other than where I'm at now, the only place left is my parent's current house. When they asked me why I was moving all my stuff stored in the basement out, I didn't have the heart to tell them, so I made up some excuse about having my old books and stuff closer to college. I didn't know what else to say.
When I turned nineteen, I moved out of my parent's house, and went to college. Before renting the house I live in now, I stayed in an apartment in the city. I shared it with a couple of assholes that seemed nice enough before I moved in. Everyone knows the type. Won't pay their bills on time. Eats whatever they can lay hands on. It got worse and worse until I made up my mind. When I'd finally had enough, I left. We were four months into a one year lease. Now I'm just keeping an eye on the news. Waiting for the sparks. A gas leak, a stray match… Sooner or later, they'll burn.
They always burn.