In effect, Nathan, nor Doctor Hart, had exactly expected that the residue would react so violently to the chemicals found in a field testing kit. Neither did they really expect that it would cause a sudden shift in reality, displacing everyone in the van approximately sixteen feet to their immediate left. This left them rolling and careening, at forty miles per hour, across the grassy side of the road, just off the edge of the asphalt. A few of the instruments they had been holding were dropped alongside the road as well, and the van swerved and slowed, driving just off the side of East Lake road. It came to a stop in the median between the two sides of the road, with its crew across the way from it, staring back at it. Doctor Hart was one of the first to pipe up about it.
"Well, we're lucky that it only sent us sideways, not down."
Nathan's head was still swimming after the sudden impact, but everyone else was rising. Most of them had experienced worse in their time in the Mobile Task Force designated Green Thumbs, and, most hadn't been leaning over the foldable stand in the center of the van's seating area, which would have caused a near headfirst impact as Atkinson had experienced. There was a hand offered to him, but he didn't realize it for another few seconds, gripping it shakily.
"What… was that? What are we even dealing with here? It's…"
"—been one Hell of a day," Hart stepped in, nodding at one of the task force members. They made their way back across the road to collect the van. "And I think that's all we're going to need from you for now, Mr. Atkinson." Nathan stood and nodded, trying to get a bearing on where he was again. Reaching into his pocket, he checked his phone for the time. 5:00 PM. "Well, does that mean you'll drive me back around to the building, then?" Nathan asked. The van pulled onto their side of the road, and they piled in while Hart answered in the affirmative.

"So, we amnesticize him?"
"No, no," Hart murmured as he and Jacob trailed behind Nathan as he approached his place of work. "Not yet. We may need him yet."
"Why not just copy his resources, and go? Isn't that usually the protocol?"
Hart rubbed his temples and stopped, motioning for Jacob to look at him. He slid his hands into his pockets. "Do you remember the last researcher who joined us?"
Jacob nodded. "Diario, yeah. I remember the guy. He's gone now though, yeah? Didn't even find his body?"
Hart hummed and shrugged. "No, we never found it. I can't operate this alone, though, and… the task force as it is lacks in some of the knowledge we need to run properly here, without Diario. And I can't go running out with the rest of you anymore. I'm growing older, Jacob."
"So, what? You act like you can just shake his hand and tell him 'Welcome aboard'."
"We shoved him into a van and already showed him the shit we do on a daily basis. What else would I do now? Look at him. He's been more fascinated than scared shitless. Do you remember when you were first recruited, Jacob? From the force?"
Jacob began to meander towards the building. Nathan was long inside by now, and Hart followed. "Yes. Yes, I do, but that was different."
"Was it? You couldn't even handle it at first. We almost passed you by."
"Almost."
Jacob stopped at the front door. "Doc, I'm heading back to the van. Don't be long."
Hart gripped the handle on the door, pulling it open, leaving the other with no promise of being quick.

"Doctor Atkinson?"
Nathan looked up from his desk, almost having finished packing. "Yes? I'm nearly gone, just have a few last things. I assume that I shouldn't be telling anyone about what's going on, yeah? Private investigation or something?"
Hart leaned on the edge of Atkinson's desk, his arms crossed abreast. "Not exactly. But, no, don't tell anyone. We will have enough work suppressing these events as it is. We already had another five incidents with those deer reported this evening. Another team from Gainesville slid down to take care of it. We're a tad sparse on staff in this region." Hart flinched internally. He was, again, spilling too much. He couldn't figure exactly why he was doing so much for Nathan. He had broken protocol already in straight up dumping him in the van and bringing him out, even more so to expose information to him, even if vague. What was it?
"I get you, yeah. Not normal. Why is this happening?"
"We're working on it. We sent back samples to headquarters, we're trying to figure out what it is. We might have seen it before, in Mich—" Hart stopped. That was too much for the uninitiated. "Doctor Atkinson, are you satisfied with your current position in the world?"
"I'm hardly a doctor, and that's a mighty strange question to ask. Are you asking if I'm happy with my compensation? It's not like I have many mouths to feed, so—"
"No. Are you happy, now that you know that there's more out there?"
Nathan stopped. He folded his hands and sat at his desk, leaning back into the chair. He let off a sigh. "I've seen too much for one day. It's still processing for me. It's entirely surreal."
Hart gave the other a pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry, it's much the same how I reacted when I—" He stopped again. That was it. That was why.
"How interested are you in this case?" Hart began again. Nathan shuffled a few more papers as he listened, trying to finish the last of his preparations to leave. "Interested?" he inquired, standing. "Very. I also understand, though, that it's dangerous. I'm not sure how close I want to get to that."
"It gets worse before it gets better," Hart intoned.
Nathan shook his head. "I don't know. What of my current job? My coworkers? Are you asking me if I care to join you? For what, even? You never answered my question. Who are you?"
Hart tapped his foot, turning to leave. "I can't tell you that. Not quite yet."
"Are you implying that I'll agree to help you?"
Hart was already halfway out the office. "Maybe. Maybe."
As he left, leaving Nathan in the building, he chuckled. The van was already running, and the horn honked twice as he made his approach. "Just like me, damnit. Just like me," he muttered, albeit not unhappily, as he seated himself in the back.

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They were aiming into the crowd now, utter insanity written in their faces

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Anabasis Key Biscayne
Start here
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

Priss came home late, and found saw her sister wide awake, dressed in one of Priss's bathrobes. She was smirking fiendishly at her. Priss gave her a big smile in return.
"Hey Rhie."
She didn't stop smirking, "You're home early. 9 hours early. Hormone thing?"
Priss sauntered over to her, and tilted Rhiannon's face upwards, "There's nothing you could possibly say that would make me angry."
"Did you hear what happened yesterday morning?"
"No. What?"
"Just a mile or so from here. Protests outside an INS office. Police shot someone dead. Now there's more protests downtown."
Priss stared down at her. She was still smirking. Was this some kind of test, or was she trying to provoke her still?
"They're moving refugees into Key Biscayne. The hotels will be flooded with them. Lots of money involved there. Why are they moving them there? It's a dead end. Or has the great yellow tide risen so high that the rats are being pushed up the wall? Next stop's the ocean, baby girl."
Priss shrugged, "You say it like I'm involved somehow."
Rhiannon shrugged, mimicking Priss's action, "Your bosses have got on suits and ties, clean, smooth-shaven faces. Did you know shaving is a sin in the eyes of God, right there in the same Bible that condemns poor Annie to Hell forever as a sinner?"
"My bosses have suits and ties, the politicians have suits and ties, is this the rant you're going on?"
"Men In Black with your amnesty memory eraser drugs… how do I know your people aren't involved? Where will all the refugees go? There's always a demand for fresh corpses at the SPC, ain't there? 'Class-D' you call them. 'D' for 'Dumbass gonna get yer asses killed'."
"I have…" Priss began patiently, seating herself on the armrest of the couch beside her, "just as much of a problem with using D-Class as you do. I do what I can to keep them safe. I don't ever let any D-Class do something I would not do myself, and I never take their deaths lightly."
"I'm sure they appreciate you for that, the dead ones and all."
Priss smiled, "You're not gonna rile me up, Rhie," She leaned in and kissed her head, "I'm gonna take some time off work soon, and we can finally get a full handle on everything that's happened thus far."
Rhiannon leaned her head back, resting on the couch, "I'm going to a planned protest at Key Biscayne tomorrow night. I want to know if you will be there."
Priss shook her head, "That's nowhere near anyplace I'll be. There's nothing I can say to convince to stay home, is there?"
Rhiannon glared at her, "Just don't go. You don't belong there."

Shi Mingxia was forced awake by a violent series of coughs that ended up filling her oxygen mask with blood. She was choking on it when they pulled it off of her, and started cleaning her. She could see it all through a dark red haze, one which only got worse each time she blinked. She opened her mouth to cry out, only to have a tube pushed down into her throat. She vomited over it, but it kept going down, sucking out blood and phlegm to clear her esophagus.
She woke up again, hours later. She hoped it was hours; she didn't want to believe she'd been out for only a minute, and go right back to coughing up blood. Someone was by her bed, face hardly perceptible through the glare of reflected light on the hazmat suit the person wore. The man in the suit smiled, and held up a hand mirror for her to see. She grinned in turn.
She was drenched in sweat, nude and uncovered, blood trickling slowly from her eyes and nose and mouth. The tube was still lodged in her throat, while two new ones up her nose helped her breathe. She looked like a murder victim. She realized she wasn't going to survive this one.
"Look on the bright side," The man, her handler Wu Xiangdong said, "You'll be remembered as a hero."
"Hero?" She gagged on the tube, and started to wretch again. The man pulled the tube out, and she gasped for breath. Her airways felt clear, but she could quickly feel mucous clotting deep in her throat, with a warm splash that likely indicated blood. She turned her head slowly to one side, noting a blood pack connecting to her arm. She was losing it almost as fast as it was being pumped back into her.
"You warned us the lab was breached as we were en route to check on you. The disease could've spread."
"How heroic! And all before I could put my pants back on."
"They tried to dress you, but you started to scream. You were burning up and your skin started to bleed."
Shi Mingxia leaned her head back, the blood pooling in her throat too thick now to let her speak clearly. She opened her mouth, waggling her tongue, and Wu began to re-insert the tube down her throat.
"You're the last survivor of this thing. I know the hospital will do everything it can to help you, but…" He chuckled morbidly, "We can't have you using all the donated blood in Guangdong."
She shook her head slowly, the motion causing her to wretch again as the tube down her throat moved. She couldn't lift an arm, and so simply pointed, up at the television. He turned it on, and switched it to the news, "Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay."

Key Biscayne was off-limits to protestors that day. The mob instead flocked to the strip of land where the Rickenbacker Causeway connected Key Biscayne and Virginia Key to the mainland. Soon they were swarming onto the Causeway itself, flooding the pedestrian pathways, and starting to spread on to the beach, the marina, and the Old Causeway. Rhiannon Locke wasn't sure why she'd expected nothing but shouting and demonstrating all day; it made sense to her that people would treat it like a day out. People were fishing around the Causeway supports, and on the Old Causeway running low and parallel to it. Others were on the beaches. There were even people out in boats, honking incessantly at beachgoers.
Everyone who was involved had a single rallying cry, "Put your hands up, get out of the car!" They'd taken the words of the officers during the initial incident and used it as a password, as a chant, one that took on a steadily more sing-song quality the more they chanted. The incessant repetition was broken up with a "response", in the form of the victim's reply, "Fuck you, pig!" They'd repeat it three or four times, then go back to the first.
It was a party atmosphere despite that. People were drinking, music was playing, food and drink were being sold by vendors. The ones who spoke only Spanish were the most popular for the mob, but tended to get the least business. The chaos never reached the point of violence. Every time someone seemed close to that point, they were taken away by others, dressed just as casually as them. Rhiannon locked eyes with one of them. They touched their index and middle finger to the bridge of their nose. She returned the gesture.
It was still daylight. Everyone was having fun. There was no sign of police or trucks. Rhiannon wasn't concerned. There was a well-known local militia with a "base" just across the Causeway back in Miami. They'd threatened to shut down the protests if they obstructed traffic when the trucks came. The police hadn't commented on that. Rhiannon smiled. Sweeter than the sweetest liqueur…

Priscilla Locke noticed the great shift in tone that day at work. The technicians weren't talking as much. Sharpe wasn't there. A man she'd never seen before — not an agent, but dressed casually, and calling himself just "Brennan" — was being sent up with the Anabasis. Making it even worse, Dr. Marlowe was there to give her a stern talking-to, in that cool-headed tone she loved to use when condescending to others.
"I get your way of thinking, Agent Locke," Marlowe said quietly, standing over Priss inside Room 119, Dr. Marlowe's temporary office, "Really, I do. Who better than a fully trained agent to put in unknown territory first?"
"Then why am I being censured?" She asked flatly.
"You don't understand," Marlowe smiled, sucking the warmth from the room faster than Anabasis could, "It's a matter of policy and procedure; by your own admission you nearly got killed, and for a period of almost ten hours you could not be fully accounted for. Given that we have test subjects to do just what you did, and the technicians' guarantee that they had found a safe spot to pull them out, this is unacceptable."
"You said you agreed with me that D-Class are untrained, unreliable, and overall untrustworthy."
"I did not say I agreed with you, I said I understood your way of thinking," Again that smile, "I am fully capable of entertaining and comprehending an idea without accepting it.
Priss sneered, "Because you're so fucking brilliant, aren't you?"
Marlowe kept that smile up, unflinching, "Another issue I've been meaning to address. Your attitude."
"You keep talking down to me —"
"As of late, your attitude has been, quite frankly, utterly atrocious —"
"Because you keep treating all of us like shit just because you —"
"Priss," Marlowe leaned forward over her desk, no longer smiling, "Stop."
Priss squirmed in her seat.
"By all rights, I should take you off this project. But I won't, because I made the decision to investigate this item when it first came to our attention, and if I took you off now, that would mean I made a terrible mistake in judgment in letting you be the first agent on-site."
Priss stared at her incredulously.
"As it stands, we can't afford to lose an agent of your experience on this project, especially given that the regional overseer doesn't even want you to stay on the project after we secured the item. I had to fight to keep you on board, and you're starting to making me question my decision to do so."
A long moment passed between them, before Priss opened her mouth to further bury herself, "It's all about you, basically?"
"Yes, Locke," Marlowe replied, the slightest catch in her voice betraying her anger, "It's all about me. And if you persist in trying to make me look bad, I'm going to make sure you're always assigned to me in the future, and then I'm going to make your career a living hell. You're going to beg to be thrown into danger like a common fucking D-Class. Do you understand?"
Priss nodded, and got up to leave.

Priss went to check on Aurianne Sharpe later in the day. She hadn't shown up for work, and hadn't returned any of Priss's calls or texts. She went to her small apartment in Brickell, where Aurianne met her in a t-shirt and bike shorts, her face looking red and eyes scratchy. She looked up and down Priscilla Locke's figure, dressed in black suit and tie.
"You couldn't even skip work for me?" Sharpe shuddered slightly as she spoke.
"I— you weren't at work," Priss shifted uncomfortably.
"You texted me that night. You said you were sorry, and wanted to come over and apologize in person."
"You didn't respond…"
"You never came," Sharpe went on, leaning against the door, "Then you called me this morning, didn't leave a message."
"I got stuck in traffic and figured you'd be there, so…"
"Then you come over now, without calling or texting or asking me ahead of time."
"What the fuck is your problem, Anne?" Priss blurt out, feeling her cheeks redden as soon as she did. Maybe Marlowe was right about her attitude problem. Marlowe's never right.
Aurianne Sharpe smirked, and backed away, "Jee whiz, Priss, calm down. I'm just fucking with you. Come on inside."
Priss blushed and stepped inside, "Sorry. I got chewed out by Marlowe today for that outburst."
"What'd she say?" Sharpe asked as she moved over to her kitchen, fetching some drinks.
"That I have an attitude problem, and if I keep screaming at people, she's gonna ride my ass the rest of my career. Also that she isn't re-assigning me because it'll make her look bad."
"I think she likes you, is all," Sharpe returned with a bottle of sangria and two glasses, handing one off to Locke as they sat on her couch, in front of the TV. A West Civ militia captain was being interviewed by local news.
"It's not like I wouldn't mind being ridden by her if she weren't such a genuinely awful person."
"I don't think she's an awful person. Just… maybe a little self-obsessed."
Priss sipped from her glass, and sighed, "At some point something new will happen, and then they'll bring in someone more qualified, or else just put this thing in storage and let us move on to something with less time-space dickery."
Sharpe didn't respond. Priss glanced back at the television, not sure what to say now. She drank again, and gazed down into her cup. For several minutes, neither of them said anything. Priss kept her eyes fixed on the television, not noticing as Sharpe scooted closer to her.
"Prissy…"
She glanced sidelong, and noticed Sharpe had leaned in closer. She could smell the taller woman's sweat, and the faint scent of a cherry body wash. She turned her head, and Aurianne Sharpe's lips clumsily pressed against hers in a deep, shy kiss. Priss started to quiver. Hadn't Rhiannon warned her about this before? She suddenly felt very stupid for being surprised at this.
Aurianne slowly broke off the kiss, her eyes wide. Priss stared back, dumbfounded. After a long moment, Aurianne Sharpe turned away, sitting upright and wiping at her eyes, "I'm sorry."
Priss shifted uncomfortably, the sangria suddenly not sitting well in her stomach, "Annie, I know what you are and such, I don't mean to… I mean, I've known you as long as I can remember. It's just… you're like a big sister to me. I don't see you in that way."
Aurianne dropped her head into her hands, her shoulders starting to twitch, "I'm sorry."
Priss reached out, awkwardly patting Aurianne's head, "I should… I should go. I'll see you tomorrow, Annie."

The sun went down and there was no sign of the trucks. The size of the crowd didn't diminish; more began to appear, as the heat of the day abated, and most of the boats started shining light onto the water. People were swimming around the Rickenbacker Causeway, near the beach on Virginia Key, where the Old Causeway turned walking path extended out to the bay. Every so often, they would chant "Fuck you, pig!" in response to the smaller group clustered around the walkway or the Causeway itself, who chanted "Put your hands up, get out of the car!" down to them. It was infectious; the more she chanted it, the less it meant to them, and the more passion they put into it.
Some demonstrators had signs which had nothing to do with the protest. Cars were honking at them. Some women were taking their tops off. Others in the crowd got to them and took them aside. Everything the crowd did had to be beyond reproach. Any hint of illegality of any kind and the cops would crack down on them with immense prejudice.
Rhiannon leaned on the metal railing on the walkway, a fishing rod clenched between her legs, as she plucked at the line like the string of a harp. A man beside her was throwing road flares and flashlights into the water. How he'd gotten ahold of them, she didn't know.
"Hey," She said to him. He looked at her in confusion.
"Light," He said, "So you can see the fishies!"
"You're scaring them away," She replied.
He looked at her again, as if he didn't understand. Based on the bra he wore on top of a blazer, she doubted he understood much about the world. She smiled, and leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, handing him the fishing rod, and making her way back to the shore.
She heard low rumbling. The din of noise started to grow. People were cheering, others were booing. The trucks had arrived. The crowd couldn't decide whether to cheer for the refugees, in support of their plight, or boo the men who were taking them to their presumably final destination.
By the time Rhiannon got up to the top of the Causeway, the crowds had swarmed onto the road and were blocking the trucks. Rhiannon shivered and smiled; police were there, but most of the men carrying guns wore camouflage vests and hats and most had some manner of tacky American flag scarves, shirts, shoes, pants, even one woman with red and white straps poking up from her pants. Rhiannon smiled wider; they looked terrified. She wondered if they expected the police to provide more support. She wondered how many actually didn't expect to be there, thinking the crowds would disperse on their own, or at the first sight of shotguns and assault rifles.
Rhiannon was terrible with numbers. She figured the crowd numbered at least two hundred on the Causeway itself… maybe up to two thousand, including those on the beach and in the water. The crowd was frenzied; they'd been preparing for this all day. They'd been screaming and chanting as if practicing for a concert. Now their target audience was here. There were exactly ten police officers, and twenty-seven militia members.
Like the deepest orgasm couldn't achieve. Tears filled her eyes. A few people she recognized came up to her, all wearing heavy backpacks. She touched her index and middle finger to the bridge of her nose. They returned the gesture.
"Everything's fine," She grinned, "Everything's fine like Alpine wine."
An hour passed. People on the beach had moved into the parking lot, closer to the Causeway. The stalled trucks shut off their engines. This drew a great cheer from the crowd, thinking they'd won. They didn't let up, continuing to scream and rage and chant at the militia. The other side of the Causeway was relatively clear; the protestors didn't mind anyone leaving Key Biscayne. A concrete divide prevented the trucks from using the other lane to bypass the crowd.
The trucks opened up, and tired, worn, haggard-looking people began to emerge from them, carrying bags and children. Some were handcuffed. Some were crying. The crowd spontaneously burst into applause and cheering at the sight of them. Then officers and militants started to move them over to the other lane, using riot shields and batons to pre-emptively keep the protestors from blocking off the lane. The refugees began to move, being herded onto the empty lane and down towards the marina, across the road from the beach.
Everywhere one looked, a personal story could be told. An old man with receding hair wearing a dirty white guayabera had his arms draped over the shoulders of two younger men, who helped him move along, while a young boy walked several feet ahead. One woman was sobbing, carrying her tired daughter in her arms, looking just as exhausted as her child. A young man walked hand in hand with a young woman, their faces averted from the crowd. An elderly woman held the hands of two children, while another pushed a stroller with a squealing baby in it.
The most potent drug… Rhiannon shuddered, and ran a hand through her hair, gasping lightly at the sudden rush that went through her. Militia members were looking tense, as the crowd slowly swarmed across the lane, chanting louder now, some screaming directly in the faces of militia. They screamed back, with varying levels of coherency.
"Put your hands up, get out of the car!
"Put your hands up, get out of the car!
A group of protestors broke through the line, causing brief havoc as disheveled refugee and dirty protestor became indistinguishable. The scuffle ended as female refugees and children began to scream. The protestors backed off, but a gap had emerged in the line. A single child stood in the open, sobbing. A militia member, couldn't have been older than Rhiannon, was being yelled at by an older man with a mustache and beret. He then turned to yell at the child. The child — a little girl — was bawling uncontrollably, waddling off in the direction of an older woman being restrained by another militia member. A fiery streak arced from the crowd, smashing directly into the face of an officer, setting him ablaze and shredding his clothes with hot broken glass.
"Fuck you, pigs!"
Rhiannon shuddered again, grasping herself and biting on her knuckles. Tears flowed down her cheeks. It was all so beautiful. It was art.
A stream of blood flew out of the girl's chest from a neat round hole in her blouse. Rhiannon clutched herself tightly and started to wail. The crack of the militiaman's gun barely had time to reverberate before more guns joined in the symphony of murder. They were aiming into the crowd now, utter insanity written in their faces, dealing death in obscene, sloppy spurts.
Music. The crowd played notes in return. Militiamen dropped. Refugees dropped. Molotov cocktails streaked overhead. The Causeway caught fire. Most of the crowd began to run, some leaping off the Causeway and into the bay. Rhiannon Locke recognized most of those who stood their ground, guns drawn, Molotovs being lit, and wounded being dragged to the parking lot. Rhiannon reached into her own backpack, and pulled out a bottle of sangria.

It was past midnight when Priss stepped out of the bar, and gazed up at the sky. The Metro Rail blocked her view of everything but a sliver of the moon. Garbage bags were piled on the sidewalk beside her, one of the bags torn open and pouring onto the street. She sighed, and turned away from the garbage. She heard sirens again. She'd lost count an hour ago of how many there'd been.
"Hey Prissy-bitch!" A voice called behind her. She looked over her shoulder. Rhiannon came running down from the Metro station, coming to a stop by the garbage bags, and dropping onto them with a giggle. Then she bounced back up, and sauntered drunkenly towards her, "Hey. Hey. Hey Prissy."
"Why are you out… here…?" Priss smelled brine on her sister. The closer she got, the stronger it got. Then she smelled liquor.
"Serious talk time, Prissy," She was barely able to stand, slouching over and bracing herself on her knees, "You're going to hear a lot of things about me soon. I want you to know ahead of time, every single thing they say is an absolute stinking fact."
"What did you do?" She heard sirens again. That couldn't possibly be related, could it?
"I did something that I won't tell you, because it's just not as impactful when I tell it. The point is… do you love me, Prissy?"
Priss took a deep breath, "What did you do…?"
"I'm going to assume 'Yes'. I'm going away for a while, Prissy. You won't see me for a bit. Don't worry, I'll instant messy you often. We can set up meetings until this all…" She made a popping sound with her mouth, "…blows over."
Priss was too tired to fight with her for information, "Okay. If you need bail money, just ask, I'll… Just call me in the morning when you're sober."
Rhiannon pursed her lips suddenly, arching a brow at Priss, "Did you see Annie today?"
"Yeah, I did. I went to her house."
"What happened?"
"Nothing… we drank a little, talked."
Rhiannon smiled, "What did you drink?"
"What difference does it make?"
"I always figured Annie for a finer winer and diner. And a real sweet girl. Did you drink something sweet?"
"Yeah, we did. What difference does it make?"
Rhiannon smiled again, and gave a choked out sob. She then wrapped her arms around her sister, and pulled her in to a deep, wet kiss. Her tongue pushed into Priss's mouth, slobbering on her tongue. Priss could taste a liquor-tinged sweetness on her tongue. Priss drove her knee into Rhiannon's gut, shoving her away.
Rhiannon turned and skipped away, laughing wildly. Priss sighed and turned around, walking along the end of the block. She thought about what Rhiannon had said… Hopefully she'd end up passed out back home.
Priss glanced up to see two police officers approaching her. They demanded to see her ID, and asked where she'd been around 7 o'clock that night.
"I… I was drinking with a friend," She muttered as she fished for her driver's license.
"Who is this friend?" One officer asked.
"Her name's Aurianne Sharpe."
"Where's she live?"
"What difference does that make?" She furrowed her brow. They glared at her intensely. She started reciting Sharpe's address. Suddenly her foot slipped on the curb, and she stumbled, flopping onto the side of the street. The officers helped her up.
"Ma'am, have you been drinking?"
"Uhh…" She looked up at him, eyes unfocused, her head still spinning from the fall, "It's… I have."
She didn't notice just how flustered the officers were. One turned away, muttering something, as the other pulled out a pad and started scribbling a ticket, "Ma'am, please get yourself home as soon as possible. Do you need a cab?"
She blinked at them. She hadn't even taken out her license yet. She shrugged, making herself sway a bit, "I can make it I just live… a few blocks that way," She pointed in one direction, then the other. One of them grabbed her hand forcefully, and pressed the ticket into it, "Oh thanks! I'll read this in the tomorrow. Thanks so much officers."
More sirens, and then a police cruiser flew by. What did you do, Rhiannon Locke?

« First Ones In | Key Biscayne | Save Her From Herself »
Anabasis Hub


**FILE 11-A**

Foundation Identification Icon.

Group Name(s): Oneiroi, Oneiroi Collective, Oneiroi Gardens
Group Classification: Non-human, Business(?), Unification, Extra-Dimensional Operation
Known Objects: SCP-1498, SCP-2805, SCP-2028, SCP-2272, SCP-2245, SCP-████
Group Description: Appear to intervene in unconscious thoughts and dreams, and appear to have access to personalities of deceased persons. No infrastructure or organization present in our world, or universe, and it is possible that they primarily operate in other worlds and that we exist on their periphery, although this has been challenged by their apparent knowledge of electronic systems, culture, and significant persons in our universe. Known to the Foundation since 9/18/19█5.
Known Members: No human members have been identified at this time, if any even exist. In addition, investigation has revealed that although business-oriented groups such as Marshall, Carter and Dark and the Factory are at least aware of this entity, there is no evidence of collaboration and, in the case of the Factory, appear to be actively working towards the group's destruction.
Veil Threat Level: Medium. Oneiroi does not appear to want to break the veil of secrecy for anomalous objects, but also do not appear to have any interest in preserving it. Therefore, they are to be considered a passive threat to normalcy.
Capabilities: Interacting with humans in dreams, impersonating or recreating the personalities of well-known persons, creating objects and interacting with human culture and society at will.
Engagement Instructions: Due to the non-corporeal and passive nature of Oneiroi, personnel are not to engage, but collect as much documentation as possible in order to contribute to ongoing counter-anomaly research.
Physical Records

MANIFESTO OF A DREAMER
IF YOU CAN DREAM IT YOU CAN DO IT THAT IS WHAT THE CREED IS BUT YOU SOIL IT WITH YOUR EAR-PLUGS YOU DON'T HEAR THE SW(illegible)GOATS AND BILLYS SINGING TO THE FARMERS SLEEP, BECAUSE YOU DO. NOT. CARE. ABOUT. ANYTHING AND WE ARE TIRED OF IT ONEIROI, GIVE US OUR WAKING LIVES BACK, DREAMS ARE

Research Note: This was found with SCP-1498, in a desk drawer.

imstillworkingtheyrealmostdonewhentheysayimdone
theymightbegiantsletmegrowawakethenighttimedream
sbleedintodayandthesheepbaaohgodwhydotheybaa.

Research Note: Found taped to the bottom of an SCP-2028 instance.

Dear Inspector
In response to your question, I do not know, because I grew up beside the garden of dreams.
It's a beautiful place. Every possibility of fancy is here, and even the blackest pits of fantasy are redeemed with the innocence with which some follow their dreams.
The Oneiroi gardens, they call it. Or that's what my Master called it. I didn't call it anything, because it was before I was with the written word. That was when I was free.
I had a dream, of freedom. We were very good friends, and even though the Collective said I wasn't supposed to mingle with the anchors, as we were called, there was a beauty in knowing how it might feel to be awake, even if you never believed it could be true.
That is the only freedom to this place, they cannot make a prisoner dream of being imprisoned. There was no dreamers police keeping me in check, and one day, it disappeared. In an unceremonious way, I was enslaved.
This is a warning, sir.
Now you think you're hold a cap on the only way for dreams to reach the masses, and the world is suffering for it. How many dreams have you stopped, Inspector? None. Do you think that the bootleg dreamcatchers will keep the sheepeople awake forever?
If what you say is true, the dream harvesters could be dangerous.
Do you think your organization can defeat hopeless bleak despair?

Research Note: This letter was delivered by an unknown party to Dr. Jerry Grant's private residence. As it appears to reference his work on SCP-████, it has been filed with the research for that object. Notably, Dr. Grant had reported difficulty sleeping and a noticeable decrease in dream recollection, however, since this letter was received, this problem has ceased. Dr. Grant now reports a regular REM cycle.


To marry, to rear his daughters, these things were on the surface good. But to have had the long years in his power, to have controlled their lives, to have warped their natures even, these might be evil things. Perhaps, beguiled by custom and order, one's sense of evil went numb.
-Kawabata Yasunari.
Great King Yama, I apologize for eluding your guardians for so long. Even as a powerless shade I could not leave the world of the living until I was certain that my children would be safe. I will not plead for my soul but I respectfully present my statement for your court of justice.
I was born in the savage Eastern Isles, one of the ten demon daughters of the ogress Kishimojin. In my early days, I was known as Muensoku, the Insatiable. Mother relied on my sisters and me to capture young children to feed her countless sons. It was a simple and pleasant life until Mother went crazy with religion. A holy man decided to teach her empathy by hiding her smallest child until she went half mad searching for him. Her anguish turned to remorse when she finally understood the pain she had caused to other parents.
Unlike my sisters, I was not impressed with her new choice of life style. There would have been no problem to start with if my empty-headed mother had not made so many children. I obeyed her command not to feed on little mortals, but that was as much as I could take. I broke ties with my family and survived on my own. I kept my heritage secret from people until the name Muensoku was all but forgotten, except in legends and nightmares.
I adapted to the civilization of mortals and gradually tamed myself. For many generations I lived under various identities. I outlived a considerable number of dedicated and generous lovers, amassing wealth, knowledge and titles. People loved me and people despised me: I was no longer an outcast. Yet I still felt alone and I came to desire a family of my own. Like many women, I swore that I would do better than my own mother.
I wanted ALL the best for my future children. I traveled to the mainland where I finally became Emperor Weng's concubine; one talented and ruthless enough to achieve rapidly the rank of Guifei. There are those who accused me of bewitching the Emperor. It is amusing that mortals only suspected my dark powers based on my perfectly natural talents. In the words of the Empress, I was nothing more than a foreign mule. But I had powers that this desiccated scarecrow did not possess: true love to enslave the Emperor's soul and a womb where his efforts would not be wasted. The Emperor promised secretly that he would feed me the heart of the Empress and make me his first wife after I gave him an heir.
I bore two sons; two babies of exceptional vitality, each in their own way. Ku was a toddler of terrible temper. Glaring in silence at all his surrounding or bawling at the slightest provocation. His cries were never mistaken for sadness or pain. Rage was the only emotion he knew. Sweet milk couldn't satisfy his hunger and, after teething, he would often bite me hard enough to draw blood. A boy after my own heart… Du was calm, gentle and he had a larger repertoire. His cries, coos and mewls could at turn instill joy and sorrow in a wide array of nuances. Servants and warriors alike would gather and fawn over him, commenting and debating the meaning of every little gurgle. Even before he could talk, his voice had the power to warp people's heart.
I thought I had a secure grasp on the Emperor's heart, but it was more fragile than I expected. It crumbled between my fingers like sandy clay. The Imperial Council resented the power I had over the Emperor and they poured poisoned words into his ear. Mistrust tarnished our love. I had fulfilled my part of our bargain, yet his Highness could not muster the courage to fulfill his own promise. Meanwhile, the Empress was plotting to have my babies assassinated. She was crafty and shrewd. Faced with a normal concubine, she could have easily removed the two heirs without anyone suspecting anything. I am not so easily defeated, but I would not have been able to protect my children until they could survive on their own. Without the Emperor's support, doing anything against her would have severe repercussions.
Helpless and desperate mothers pray to Kishimojin, my compassionate Mother. They make offerings for fertility, safe delivery and beg her to safeguard their children. Despicable, cowardly women, unwilling to take responsibility for the well-being of their own progeny. My children were born of my own blood and pain and it was my own blood and pain that would keep them safe.
For a moment, I envisioned seizing control for myself by open warfare. After years in the Imperial court, I realized the Empire was a rotten fruit that would readily crack and split. I had enough influence and power to lead a successful rebellion… and my children would waste their lives rebuilding a broken empire. I had been so focused on my recent path that I had lost track of my goal. Better leave the rotting fruit intact; a safe and nutritious shelter where my progeny could thrive in secret.
One night, when the palace was sleeping, I ordered my ladies-in-waiting to hang themselves from the rafters of my apartment. I had chosen my two most loyal retainers, honorable and wise warriors from my homeland. They disposed quietly of the other guards and servants in my pavilion. One flayed me alive with his sword, while the other played tunes from my childhood on a flute, to cover my muffled screams and to soothe my departing spirit. Sealed with my dying curse, my love and torment was bound to that sword and to my flayed skin. I had instructed each of my retainers to smuggle one of my children out of the Forbidden City and to take them to opposite sides of the Empire. As much as it pained me, my boys had to remain ignorant of their origin and of each other's existence. My servants nurtured their potential until such day as they could make their own destiny.
Ku received the simple blade that killed me and his anger found a purpose. He traveled the Empire, walking in darkness: an assassin and a mercenary. His sword sustained dozens of rebellions of dissident warlords. Nobles or villains it mattered not; it always ended in disaster for all. His blade turned a blood-red so deep it appears completely black, except when the sun shines on it in just the right way. But it hasn't seen sunlight in a long time. Ku has transcended his humanity. He doesn't need mundane reasons anymore to destroy small lives. Children frighten each other with his shadow. ''Tonight, He will come for you in the dark and skin you alive''. In their minds, his blade shines like an invisible sunray, burning black in the night.
Du received a prayer mat woven from strips of my tanned hide, and his wisdom found a purpose. He traveled the Empire, walking in sunshine. He patronized numerous temples and colleges, both as a student and a teacher. He can appreciate the beauty in everything he sees and he leaves his ugly mark on anything he touches. His voice is a powerful current that erode reality into fantastic shapes, like the scholar stones you see in gardens. Du has transcended his humanity. His wisdom doesn't need sanity anymore. Students who follow him create elegant artifacts of diseased magic. Pregnant women who listen to his words bear monstrosities.
I had imagined that my sons would rule in harmony under my loving care. And so they do. Which one is the mightiest, the sword or the word? When the sword gives strength to the word and when the word gives purpose to the sword, each is invincible. The enchantment I weaved into my son's heirlooms makes it so. Every torment inflicted by Ku's blade bolsters the power of Du's words. Every tear of joy or sorrow drawn by Du's miracles sharpens the edge of Ku's blade. So long as they follow their heart, they keep each other safe.
My death remained a mystery. Like the dreaded Muensoku of so long ago, the alluring Guifei is all but forgotten. There remains only the ancient statue in the Imperial Garden, a fossil of my legendary beauty. Of the two imperial heirs, nothing is remembered. To let them live according to their nature was my final gift to my sons.
You can punish me as you see fit. My boys are safe and my mother's heart is at peace.


my mummy bouhgt me a diary I really like it
I dunt really know how to write good yet tough
it has butterflies on it
I like butterflies and green creyons
I writted this with creyon
okay I have to go eat now there is meatballs
bye bye diarey

I heard mr. underbed again
he waches me sleep
mommy says there is nothing underbed
but I saw his hand tooking my teddy
i couldnt find teddy in morning
I cried a lot
he has hairy hands
like dad
mommy said she would get me a nitelight
I think she is lying
underbed is afraid of light
thats why he only comes at night

Mommy says I should get rid of my plushies. She says I am a big boy now. I am at second grade and do not need a nightlight either. She does'nt know about mr. Underbed. I haven't told anyone not even my friends. But he is real. I heard him breathe again last night and scratch the foot of bed
I'm really scared of him but I try to be a big boy and not be scared.
I cannot get up from bed at night. Or he will eat me

I dunno if I should really be afraid of mr. Underbed. He breathes really heavily and scratches the floor often.
It reminds me of our cat that died.
Maybe he is sick.

He wasn't there tonight.
I listened
And I even looked down
But he wasn't there.

30/4/1990
The soccer game went really well. My team scored five times, and I even did one of the goals. Dad took me for a pizza after the match, we got my favourite: pepperoni!
I really should call that girl, Amanda. People say she likes me, and she DID give me her number.
Things are going pretty well.
It has been a year now today.

6/11/1992
Amanda left me.
As it turns out she had been cheating on me.
The whole time.
What does he have that I don't? A bigger dick?
What a bitch she was.
Ugly as hell without makeup anyhow.
Two whole fucking years wasted, and hundreds of dollars on movie tickets and gifts.
I even stole from Dad.
Fuck her.
Just fuck her.

I woke up
There is something under my bed

13/4/1993
Mom took me to a psychiatrist's place again today. Never should have told her about Mr. Underbed, she thinks I have an issue. They all think I am crazy. I don't want to throw away the crayons and plushies and nightlights. I need them, he is afraid of them. The psychiatrist said I just have some sort of mental clinginess to childhood or something, but that's not true! I am going to try and take a picture of him next night. Maybe then they will believe me.

2/5/1995
I really need to get some sleep. I haven't slept properly in… I don't even know how long.
He doesn't leave me alone. When I moved so I could study in college, he followed. I had to buy so many nightlights.
I need to remind myself to buy more crayons too. He shredded a bunch of the pages I used to make the circle. The walls need new pages too.
Plushies seem alright, at least.

17/8/1996
This just cannot go on. I am a nervous wreck. I had a girlfriend at one point, invited her over. She stayed for the night.
I didn't hear him the whole night.
And was more afraid than ever.
It is worse when he is silent. Even when that raspy breath is wheezing in my ear it is better.
Because then at least I know where he is.
She left the morning after.

I got a new psychiatrist. The old one didn't help. This one believes me.
They say Mr. Underbed could be something called a tulpa. A figment of my imagination, made real.
If that was so,
then why doesn't he leave when I don't think of him?

There were large clawmarks on the ceiling when I woke up today, just above my head.
I think he is getting used to me scaring him with all this junk.
He is more active at nights than ever.
I could swear someone was standing over me last night.

i locked myself in the closet
he got out

Recovery log:
SCP-████ was recovered in the suburbs of █████████, in an apartment flat owned by T█████ ██████████. Upon recovery of SCP-████, the remains of T█████ ██████████ were found in the closet. They had seemingly died of sleep deprivation, and were found holding a diary. The entries in the diary detailed a way of containing the entity known as "Mr. Underbed", which is assumed to be SCP-████. Research into the notes is ongoing to succesfully contain SCP-████.


So yeah. He's watching a movie starring Marshall Mathers, switches to an interview with Jimmy Carter, and ends on a show about being afraid of the Dark.
Too subtle? Maybe.
This was inspired by a chat comment about how MC&D just doesn't do advertising right, and how they just sell shit. So I thought up "The Ad-Man", an entity who does work like this for them.
Hopefully this isn't the last you'll see of Phillip Foster. ;)

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

Phillip Foster's wife was away at a teacher's conference, and he had the whole house to himself. Mostly that meant he could walk around in his boxers and watch whatever he wanted.
It was getting late, but 8 Mile was on. It wasn't his favorite movie in the world, but it always struck a chord with him. He'd drifted off to sleep a couple of times in his chair, but this was the big finish. Eminem's character was in the middle of delivering his final verse when he stopped short.
That was strange, and Phillip sat up in his chair. The character looked directly into the camera and smiled. Then it started to talk to him.

Hi. Sorry to interrupt the show but let's be honest. You've seen this already. I win, I flip off Brittany Murphy. The movie's pretty much done. It's over.
Now, you're probably wondering who I am. That's the wrong question to ask. You should be asking: Who're you?

Phillip shook his head and mouthed the words "Phillip Foster" almost as an afterthought. He didn't understand what was going on anymore. This had to be a dream.

That's your answer? You're getting this all wrong. You're more than a name. You're a cog in the machine. You work your ass off, and what do you get for it? Shit. That's why your wife is going to fuck another guy.
That's right. She said she went to a conference in Wichita. But she's still in town. What if I told you she was planning on fucking one of the other teachers from her school?
A man who, and I swear this is the truth, is named Clancy Higgenbothem. A guy who listens to Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" every morning on repeat while he gets ready for work. That's the man you're losing your wife to.

Phillip was certain this was a nightmare of some kind. His rising anxiety making itself manifest. He reached for his remote and changed the channel. The History Channel logo came up, and transitioned into some sort of program about the 1980 presidential race.
The voice-over introduced a post election interview with Jimmy Carter, who looked directly into the camera to answer a question about why he'd lost. Only he didn't answer. He started talking to Phillip again.

Changing the channel doesn't change the truth. You still love her but she stopped loving you a long time ago. You spend your days at your meaningless job and never talk to her when you get home. Still, you're a good man.
I'm not here just to save your marriage. I'm here to save your life. This unremarkable life you lead. One you could lose at any moment. You want success. You want respect. You want people to regret when you're not around and light up when you enter the room. We can give that to you, and at a fair price.

Phillip's lips turned down into a frown. This was more than a bad dream. He changed the channel again. The Discovery Health Channel popped up on the screen. He got up from his chair and pulled out his phone. He wasn't even sure what the program in the background was about, and it didn't matter, because the voice-over was directed at him.

Stop doing that and let me finish.
I know what you're thinking, but we don't want your money. We don't want your firstborn or your soul. My people can ensure your success from now until you die. All you have to do is promise to do us a favor in the future. Consider it a commission on your success.
All we're offering you is the life you deserve. A life in the spotlight. Your wife will come back home, she'll cry and say she's sorry. Over the next few months she'll fall in love all over again. Your colleagues will listen to you more often. Your boss will treat you like a peer rather than a subordinate. Your life will come together the way you always knew it would.
After that, you just have to do your best, work hard, and success will come your way. I guarantee it. If I'm wrong, you owe us nothing.
This is all gain and no risk. Say yes, or change the channel again. Call your wife and tell her you love her. That's all it'll take to bring her back even if you say no.

Phillip looked around him. He knew this was a moment he'd remember for the rest of his life, regardless of his choice. He whispered yes to the television.

I appreciate your time, and we'll be in touch. Don't worry, you'll know when it's us.
In the mean time, I return you now to your regularly scheduled programming, already in progress.

The voice-over paused for a moment, and then began to describe the complications associated with nyctophobia. How being afraid of the dark could prevent sufferers from leading a normal life.
But Phillip never noticed that. He was already on his phone. The click of someone picking up on the other end soothed him.
He took a deep breath before saying, "I love you. I don't think I say that enough. I, uh… I just wanted you to know,"
During the short silence on the other end of the call, he fiddled with his Foundation ID badge on the end table.

« The One Thousand Deaths of Pastor Lewis Robinson - The Ethics of Repeatedly Drowning Baptists | Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer | The Art of Coping with Anomalies in the Gulf Region »


< Seven Vignettes From The Life Of Mackenzie Lee-Crook | DNM | An Overview of Foundation Journals Published in May 2017, So You Can Remember How Fucking Lucky We Were Then >
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OPERATION CANNERY ROW
Keeping Our Friends Close, Whether They Like It Or Not

As part of our continued effort to ensure our partners in SUSEOCT (Southern United States Extranormal Organization Cooperation Treaty) are maintaining integrity and the safety and security of the American populace are protected, the FBI's UIU maintains information regarding our operational partners in the extranormal containment sphere. Our efforts to monitor the SCP Foundation comprise Operation Cannery Row.
The following documents were recovered from Unusual Incident 24,122 (UI-24122), in which a filing cabinet originally located in Foundation Regional Headquarters in Gainesville, Fla. spontaneously appeared in a UIU facility in Omaha, Neb. on Aug 14, 20██. The filing cabinet contained a portion of the Foundation's Regional Print Media Archive, containing newspaper clippings, advertisements, flyers and other print media the Foundation confiscated, censored or otherwise removed from public view in North Florida. The filing cabinet and most of its contents were heavily damaged in the Unusual Incident, leaving only 558 documents at least partially readable.

Excerpts of File

Download Complete File (PDF, 3.7 GB)

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Download unavailable at current user account access level. Please contact a supervisor.

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< Seven Vignettes From The Life Of Mackenzie Lee-Crook | DNM | An Overview of Foundation Journals Published in May 2017, So You Can Remember How Fucking Lucky We Were Then >


Hey, have you read the Adventuring Interlude and the rest of Adventures in Capitalism? You probably should!

Isabel's bright red high-top sneakers crunched through the snow. The shadows had grown long in the pines, and night was falling. She walked with her arms wrapped around her thin frame, attempting to keep warm. Jeremy waddled next to her, less enthusiastic than he had been when they had begun their journey those hours-days-years…forever ago.
Truth be told, Isabel felt her spirit fading as well, sapped out by the cold wind and the darkening shadows. Emma was gone now, and Isabel didn't know where she was.
She was, for the first time in her memory, afraid. All she had wanted was a fun little adventure with her friend, and now…now she didn't know where she was. She had lost her friend in a very bad place, and she kept imagining bad things happening to her. Scraped knees and bruises and even a cut, and one image that kept repeating; Emma lying on the ground and not moving.
Isabel kept walking, though she didn't know where she was going. She couldn't feel her toes. She wanted to go home, and for Emma to come back, and for everything to be all right again. Let the Factory make their games. She just wanted to go home with her friend.
The sun set, and the forest faded to blue, and slipped into black. In glimpses of the sky through the trees, Isabel could see the stars and the moons, but their light was weak. She stopped walking. There was nothing but darkness around her, save the patch of moonsilver snow that she stood in.
Isabel curled up in a ball and lay down in the snow. Jeremy licked her face, and curled up next to her. Being a dog, he did not understand why her face tasted saltier than usual.
*
The sun was black iron, pocked with craters of sickly fire. A halo of ragged smoke drifted from its pores, crackling with aurora bands of lightning. Streams of glistening, burning oil poured from its grinding mouths, into an eternal, abyssal ocean, its water thick with oil and slurried flesh. Shards of bone, the corpses of old gods, rose above the water, fashioned into crucifixes for the ones who were spared. Icebergs, filled with thousands of bloodied souls, melting slowly.
The air, cold and empty, hummed with the distant moans of pain.
Isabel stood on the water, and saw beneath its obsidian sheen the pale, bloated faces of hundreds, packed together tight enough that each bone had been broken. Jellied eyes spun about in crumpled sockets; crushed jaws mouthed without sound.
She didn't know how she'd gotten there. Jeremy wasn't there either. She tried closing her eyes and opening them again, and she was still there. She shut her eyes tighter this time.
“It's just a dream, it's just a dream, it's just a dream…”
She felt something wet and slippery wrap itself around her ankle. She looked down.
It was a hand. It yanked down, plunging her foot into the water, and Isabel felt it go instantly numb. The hand's broken owner pulled itself above the surface, its wailing joined with Isabel's screams.
Isabel beat at the thing's misshapen head, the flesh and bone separating like pudding around her fists. More arms reached up to grab her, to pull her down, to pull themselves up, and their grips did not loosen. She sank into the numbing murk, up to her shins, up to her thighs, up to her waist.
“Emma!” Isabel screamed as loud as she could. “Emma, please help!”
Emma wasn't there to hear her.
Lower, lower, colder, colder. To her armpits now. Her struggling grew weaker, though not for lack of effort. The things were crawling on each other now, attempting to escape, and their weight pushed her ever down. Up to her chin. As she gasped for mouthfuls of air, Isabel saw, in the distance, a throne.
Upon the throne sat a King, all adorned in scarlet. The king had seven spears, which pierced the brides that lay bloodied at his feet, from whose wombs spewed the great Leviathans that teemed around the throne.
The King raised an arm, encrusted with barnacle-gods, and turned his thumb down.
Isabel dropped beneath the surface, and all was cold.

You will not have her.
Return to your abyss.
You will not have her.
Begone.
Begone, all you evil spirits.
Begone, all you ranks of demons.
Begone, all you inhabitants of the Abyss.
You will not have her.
Begone, first of the Fallen Gods.
Begone, Defiler of Worlds.
Begone, Rapist King.
Begone, Usurper.
Begone, Lord of the Throne of Despair.
You will not have her.
I cast you out!

Isabel woke up, gulping in frigid nighttime air. She could feel the snow against her, and hear Jeremy's whimpering by her. She was back in the forest, far away from the horrible place she had seen. Her breathing slowed. Just a dream, she thought, the images melting away from her mind like snowflakes on skin, leaving only impressions. Deep cuts of cold and fear…but just a dream. It wasn't real.
She sat up, and saw a man standing before her. He was short, stocky, draped in furs, with a broad face lost in folds and wrinkles of wind-tempered skin, and a wide bulbous nose like some overripe fruit. A thick mane of tangled silver hair rested on his head and on his chin. In one hand he held a stone-tipped spear. In the other, a torch.
Standing in the flickering shadows behind him was a great grey wolf whose shoulders came up to the man's chin, watching intently with yellow eyes.
Isabel grabbed Jeremy and held him close. The old man smiled gently.
“I am not going to hurt you,” he said. His voice was guttural, rumbling and groaning as if he had not spoken in a long time. Yet, his words belied a great joy in even their very speaking. So different from the vision she had received – his air was of safety, of warmth.
He knelt down in the snow in front of Isabel, placing his spear to the side. “What is your name, child?”
“Isabel,” she said, letting go of Jeremy. "Who are you? Santa? You kinda look like Santa."
The old man's smile creased his face again.
“No, no. I am just an old man. And who is this?” he motioned towards the dog, who had not barked at all the entire time.
“Jeremy,” Isabel said.
“Ah.” He extended his hand, and Jeremy sniffed at it for a moment, before licking it. The old man scratched the corgi behind the ears. “He is a fitting companion for you. And what are you doing out here in the snow, Isabel and Jeremy?”
“I'm…I'm looking for my friend Emma. I lost her, but now I don't know where I am, and I'm worried about her, and I don't know if I can find her or my way home…could you help me?
“Would you allow me to help you?”
“Yes please.” Isabel nodded her head vigorously.
“Then I will help you.” The man stood up, and Isabel followed suit. Jeremy went over and attempted to sniff the wolf's butt. The wolf pushed him onto his side with a lazy paw, then grabbed him with its mouth and proceeded to carry him, like a pup.
“Come with me,” the old man said. “I will show you a safe path.”
Isabel followed him.
They walked through the dark, passing from the woods to the switchbacks up into the mountains. The old man said nothing, but it was the good kind of nothing, Isabel had decided. The kind of nothing that filled up afternoon naps and cloudwatching. The wolf had decided that Jeremy squirmed too much, and now the corgi trotted along beside, nipping at the wolf's heels. The wolf ignored him.
When they had risen above the trees, the old man paused, and looked out over the valley.
“What are you looking at?” Isabel asked.
“Merely where we have been.”
“Oh.”
The path rose higher up the cliffside, before levelling off in a shelf scattered with snow drifts and banks of pebbles. A cave entrance yawned in the mountainside, a trickle of water flowing out of it to freeze as it dripped over the edge.
“This path will lead you homeward. I cannot follow you beyond its mouth,” the man said. “You and your companion must walk it alone.”
Isabel frowned as she gazed into the darkness. She had grown used to the old man's comforting, quiet presence.
“Is it safe?”
“It is as safe as you will it.”
“Can I at least have the torch?”
There was no answer. She turned to see that the old man and his wolf were gone, as was his torch.
“Oh…well he was a load of help,” she said, and she meant at least some of it. “Come on Jeremy. Stick close to me.”
Isabel placed a hand on the wall of the cave, and slowly began to walk.
The tunnel's path was at an incline, though it did not wind about. Soon removed from the light of the moons, Isabel navigated solely by the rough stone wall under her fingertips and the crunch of gravel under her feet. Time did not pass at all, and it did not pass in large quantities. The trickling of water and Jeremy's padding steps were her only accompaniment.
The wall ended. The floor flattened out. Isabel stumbled, righted herself, moved her hand back to where it ought to be and found only open air. She waved an arm in the general direction of where the wall had been. Nothing.
She spun around, feeling out into the blackness.
“Jeremy? Jeremy!”
Her voice did not even echo. The trickle of the water was absent. The empty space closed around her, choking her heart with long fingers. Gouged impressions of that terrible cold, that terrible fear, erupted in her mind, and she could not shake them.
“Jeremy! JEREMY! JEREMY!” her voice snapped. “Jeremy…don't leave me alone.”
She sank into the darkness, and faded.
And she heard a voice. Two voices. More. A chorus, rising up from the dark.
I know of the names of the stars

And sung the animals their names

And discerned the course of the winds

I hold the heart of all stories within my breast

And mark the kinship of the beasts of the land

And know the land as friend

Who first looked up?

Who first loved?

Who held the first child?

It was I.

It was I.

It was I.

Who seeks beyond the horizon? (It is I)

Who makes real the future? (It is I)

Who carries the past? (It is I)

By wonders untold, the gift to create wonder

It was I

Who was gifted in humility

In creation I am made

In creation I am whole

In creation, I create

And the span of humanity rests in me
For I raised up my hand
“And there was fire…” Isabel whispered. A flame, delicate and small, flickered to life in her palm. She picked herself up off the ground, and the fire in her hand grew brighter, warmth and light pouring out, casting away the darkness.
She stood in a vast cave, the hollow heart of the mountain, now illuminated by the fire in her hand. Statues of stone, plaster, copper, steel, wax, clockwork, plastic, wood, refuse, and rubber filled the floor, peeked out of alcoves, clung to stalactites, sat carved in pillars. Paintings were spread across the walls in oil and ash and store-bought tempera, mosaics across the floor in tile and shell and bone. Men and women of the whole spectrum of humanity, from every age, from every place, from every time, thousands upon thousands upon tens of thousands upon more. Among these were other figures. Assistants, apprentices, companions, human and animal alike, all as varied as their employers.
Isabel walked alongside the stream towards its source, and was awed.
In the center of the cave, there was a pool of water, fed by a spring, and a great stone column that reached up to the shadowed dome of the ceiling. A face of the column had been cut to provide a flat face, and upon it, Isabel saw an image of herself, standing there, legs akimbo, fists on hips, grinning goofily. Emma stood next to her, unflappable as always, and Jeremy sat at her feet, chewing on a squeaky toy.
At the base of the pillar was a smaller stone, upon which was, in black and ochre, the figure of a man in furs, holding a spear in one hand, and a fire in the other, alongside a great grey wolf.
“It's me…” Isabel murmured. “It's all me…it's always been me…” She whirled around. “It's all me! Memories of you! You're all me! All of this is me!” She no longer saw statues and paintings, but a vast multitude, their faces as familiar as her own. She knew them. She knew their names, their histories, the twined and bundled paths of their lives. Each facet of their souls was a face of her own.
She knew each and every wonder they had made. She knew them all, the greying bishop with a sack full of toys and his fat, red-coated brother. The girl with deep orange hair and purple thigh-high boots, obscured by a cloud of moths. The dusty woman with a bonnet, sitting atop her medicine wagon. The smirking man with waves of hair and an accordion. The dark woman with a headscarf, who smelled of ink and paper. The serious, pale woman with a worn guitar and a weathered soul. The ancient tinkerer with his clockwork animals. The entrepreneur from the north in her flamboyant blue sealskins. The lanky man in a tacky purple suit, with top hat and cane. The girl with braces and glow in the dark sweater, sitting atop a wild boar. The old man and his wolf, and on and on down through the thousands.
And her father. Jeremy sat at his feet. The corgi waddled over, to Isabel, barked, and she picked him up.
“Don't you ever do that again, young man,” she said with mock sternness. She looked over to where she saw the image of her father – herself – standing. He gave her a nod.
And that was that.
Isabel stood there in the presence of all her other selves, her spirit now unified with theirs, and knew precisely who she was, what she was doing, and where she was going.
She was Isabel Wonder-Maker, and she was going to find her friend.

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Ey, who you callin' bái chī, bái chī?" Qianlong shouted.

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Anabasis First Ones In
Start here
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

The Eight Banner system of the Qing Empire's army had been maintained for hundreds of years, with each banner consisting of men of certain races — Manchu, Han Chinese, Mongol, and so on, until the modern era came and the blending of ethnicities made such a system imbalanced. Now the Banners were utterly indistinguishable, particularly after the Reynesian Reforms of 1890, which mandated that each banner was to be its own self-sustaining unit, with its own complement of artillery, cavalry, and infantry. Each Banner was not to roam further than a day's march from the other, so that if one came under attack, any number of others could rush to its aid against a larger foe. The idea had come from Napoleon, Cpl. Steve Chin had heard. An awful lot of westernization had occurred during the mid to late-1800s in China. He highly doubted China would have survived today if it hadn't.
Today, the average Banner was a heavily armed legion of mobile artillery, tanks, and enough armored vehicles and helicopters to carry all a Banner's infantry at a moment's notice. Meant to swarm an enemy, with a mass of helicopters firing rockets and dropping hundreds of heavily armed men, while tanks blew past at 50 km an hour. Each Banner had been drilled extensively just on loading and unloading as quickly as possible, what was called the "Green Lotus", for the way in which the camouflaged military hardware unpacked from its transport, blossoming like a flower. It was designed based upon Sun Tzu's advice to attempt to break an enemy before firing a shot, by the mere sight of its discipline and èlan alone.
"Not Sun Tzu," Sgt. Sheng said beside him, packed tightly to see Chin scribbling in his diary, "Napoleon said it."
"The fuck he did," Pvt. Qianlong called out from across the trench, "Respectfully, sir. It was Sun Tzu."
"It was Napoleon," Sheng snarled, "'Elan' is a French word."
"Alan who?"
"'Elan'! It means… something."
Chin grinned, "I'm pretty sure every great military mind has said something like it at one point or another."
"Only one that matters is Sun Tzu," Qianlong insisted.
"Because that's the only military guy you've ever heard of, bái chī" Sheng called out.
"Ey, who you callin' bái chī, bái chī?" Qianlong shouted. A faint popping sound was heard in the silence immediately after his words.
Sheng peered up from his trench, "Aaaawww… so much for an ambush."
Chin peered up from the trench, not able to see whatever Sheng was looking at, "We're spotted?"
Sheng shrugged, "Wait for command to decide."
A moment later, Sheng's radio came alive, a voice shouting too fast for him to pick up much beyond names, numbers, and coordinates. Sheng caught it all without fail. He grinned cheekily, the tips of his mustache pointing upward.
"As one. Total silence. Fingers off the trigger."
The infantry group rose from their trench. All along the line, other companies rose in similar motion, ready for the sort of steady advance they'd all been drilled in. They were expecting civilians, so firing at will was out of the question.
"Hey Sheng," Another soldier, Liu Kim called out, "You know in America, a sergeant doesn't command a company? Man who commands a company is called a 'Captain'."
Sheng snorted, "Captain? Captain is a naval rank. Why would a captain command land soldiers?"
"It's — "
"No no no no, don't interrupt me! You speak about the Americans and only further reinforce how backward and barbaric their military is. Are they so stupid as to have naval commanders in charge of their infantry? Are their academies so anemic?"
"Sgt. Sheng use much pretty words," Qianlong grunted out, prompting a laugh from the men around.
"Because I am a Sergeant! We here in China prefer the more civilized type leading you pack of chòubī into combat. Hopefully we can make passable gentlemen out of you."
Civilians started to appear through the foliage, rushing towards the company. Sheng lifted his rifle, prompting the other soldiers to raise them up high as well, so as not to scare the civilians off. Some started to scream, but pressed on regardless, moving through the company's ranks, shuffling and shoving, momentarily disrupting the line.
"Hey," Sheng called out down his right, "Hey! Close the line! Set your blocks down and start pushing!"
Once the civilians had brushed past, the company unslung their backpacks, and pulled out their 'blocks'. A solid gray cube, it was spongy to the touch, with layers of densely packed material underneath it. Freed from its packaging, it began to slowly rise, roughly to chest height, and as wide as a man. It was in effect a makeshift wall, able to be crushed into a portable size for transport. Although the bullets lodged in the layers had to be dug out before it could be re-fit into its packaging.
Once they were on the ground and rising, the soldiers could start pushing it along with their knees as they lowered themselves to a crouch. It offered all the protection of proper cover, while allowing for a solid firing line reminiscent of old Napoleonic line infantry. That didn't mean the blocks weren't obstinate when packed onto the muddy ground.
"This blows," Cpl. Chin grunted, having to reach around the block to keep it from falling over the more he pushed. He could hear other blocks falling over around him, plopping wetly or managing to hit mostly dry dirt and just thud heavily.
The first shot to hit nearly took him in the hand, just as he let go of the block. More bullets started spraying wildly all along the front of the line. He could hear voices shouting, screaming in some language, probably Vietnamese, while soldiers in the company braced themselves against the blocks. Those who had pushed theirs over had to drop face-down in the mud for cover.
"What's it sound like? AKs?" Sheng shouted to someone else. The reply was caught in the middle of a loud blast. Sheng nodded regardless, and started to nod slowly, in rhythm.
"Now, return fire!" He called out calmly, and rose up onto his knees, taking careful aim and shooting in deliberate bursts. There was little to see through the foliage, but the line of infantry firing en masse would have devastating impact in a largely flat, unimpeded jungle environment.
"Down, and keep pushing," Sheng dropped again, pushing his block forward quickly, too fast to allow it to keel over. Return fire came, less heavy than before, and focused more down along the left of the line. A solid white mist was falling up ahead, and as they pressed on into it, Chin could begin to see Dai Viet soldiers, riddled with bullets, staring intently at them as they came within view.
"Stop!" Sheng called out. Most of the soldiers downed were still alive. That meant they were still dangerous. Possums, they would've been called in America. Sheng casually drew his sidearm, and peered up from his block, taking casual potshots at the prone figures to confirm them as dead. Others along the line did the same. After that, they dropped back into cover, waiting to see if a grenade or other explosive had been rigged to go off.
"We got our first snag," Sheng called out. Cheers arose. A 'snag' meant some part of the line hadn't been as lucky as them, and was now stuck in a genuine firefight with experienced militants. It also meant the company could rest for an indeterminate period of time.
Steve Chin pried open his diary, skimming through the entries he'd been putting over the past few weeks. The sluggish advance across wide swaths of land was pure 19th century-style warfare. The Emperor was impatient, and unwilling to commit to a systematic offensive that would see Qing Banners occupying thousands of towns and villages, and spending years more training locals to properly fight the Marxist insurgents. He wanted his army to sweep the ground once, claim victory in the name of Heaven, and set his name in the history books for centuries to come for his military genius in so quickly and thoroughly uprooting the Marxist insurgency.
"Marxist" was what all of them were called — in reality, the insurgents who claimed to be Marxist were less than a third of all non-Qing fighting forces engaged in Dai Viet. The Emperor simply chose to drive his boot into a pile of shit surrounded by people who'd been fighting over that pile for the past three years.
"Cpl. Steve," Liu Kim swatted at his helmet lightly, "We're moving again."

School had resumed, and without any other plans, children were pouring back into the school that was known to Foundation personnel solely as Site-141.
"What you think? Politics or laziness?" Sharpe asked as they pressed through the open doorway, both women well over the heads of the children crowding around them.
"Can't it be both?" Priss suggested. There just wasn't enough money or manpower to handle shutting down a big public school right at the start of the school year. There was no space in neighboring schools, and most of the parents whose children didn't ride the bus couldn't afford to extend their commute by a half hour or more to reach the more distant schools. At some point, the pressures of maintaining every day life outweighed vague assertions and assurances from the Foundation, no matter how much money was offered.
"I like kids," Sharpe reached out to pat one on the head. The boy whirled on her, shouting 'Fuckin' bitch, don't touch me!' and running.
"I want the security footage of that," Priss joked.
"That was really unfortunate wording, wasn't it? Fuck."
At the very least, the school could afford to spare several classrooms and a conference room for Foundation personnel to continue operating. The tons of dirt were shipped to nearby Site-189. Everything worthwhile was happening down in the cellar.
A guard was stationed outside the storage closet, with two orange-coated D-Class. Priss clenched her jaw firm, and saw the black one lower his head towards her, "Ma'am."
"Boo, what…"
"Ma'am, I was picked an' now I'm workin' wit' you's," Boo squirmed uncomfortably, "Miss Marlowe, she ain't had no mo' use for me, so I'm doin' this…"
She shook her head, and looked at the guard. He looked just as uncomfortable. The door opened, and Edgars backed out, clipboard pressing on his gut, "99401, your turn."
Priss glared at Edgars, who looked up to see her, "Oh. Hi."
"No more of this," She nudged him back into the room, marching in after him, with Sharpe closing the door behind them, "Are you a licensed judge or professional executioner?"
"I… what? No… what?"
"I don't care what you think or what Foundation protocol is, I'm not sending people into infinite meat grinders to die until we find someplace that won't kill them on contact," Priss felt her head start to spin, and an ache in her temples, "I didn't join up to be a killer. And if you have, then fuck you, go home and don't come back. This is supposed to be fucking science, securing shit, containing shit, protecting it from us, and us from it. I'm not going to put up with this chickenshit-bullshit just because we have money to shut people up."
Edgars stared at her — everyone in the room stared in awkward silence. Priss felt her hands start to tremble and her chest ache.
"Being a social justice warrior runs in the family, then?"
She whirled on the voice in a blind fit of rage, "Why don't you piss off and go fuck yourself at home? No one fucking wants you here. Do us a fucking favor and leave."
She barely noticed at the time who had said it. Now her anger was sucked out of her like a vacuum as she saw Sharpe staring back at her, eyes brimming with tears. The taller woman backed out of the room, and left.
"So I was about to say… we found a safe area to send shit to. Brought a D-Class back safe and all. Checked out all fine," Edgars muttered sheepishly.
Priss could only take shallow breaths, feeling her chest throb in immense pain any time she tried to breathe in too deep. She undid her jacket and set it aside, trying to calm herself, "Then send me in."
"Uhhh…"
"I don't want to see any more slaves being put through this thing's inter-dimensional reamer. Volunteers only. And I'm volunteering."
Priss wasn't even in charge of the project, but with Marlowe gone and not one of the technicians reporting her to any of the other on-site administrators, she was free to boss everyone around. They still preferred her to Dr. Marlowe.
Sandy shuffled over, and handed Priss a wristband with a built-in tracker, and a small camera to affix to her shirt, "Just hit record once you're in. You've got about an hour of battery, but we're pulling you back after 10 minutes."
"Half an hour," Priss commanded.
Sandy sighed, and glanced at the camera, "D-Class who came back was pretty flustered by what he'd seen…"
"Half an hour is fine," Priss stepped in front of the Anabasis, emptying her pockets and her belt of everything but her pistol. The presence of armed agents still put the techs and researchers on edge. Even the guards' guns were loaded with rubber bullets. Priss's wasn't.
"Stand by," Edgars turned the knobs, and the light started to beam at her, like a weak flashlight.
She kept her eyes open as the world around her dissolved like a heat-induced mirage. The world became hazy, then abruptly cleared. She was still in the room. It was completely empty, and an orange light was shining through the open doorway.
Her movements were sluggish, as if she were underwater. The air was oppressively hot and dry. She made her way out of the room. To her right was a stairwell, just like the school. She made her way up, brushing her hair back and pulling it into a loose braid to keep away from her face. Then she fidgeted with her camera, pressing the red button to begin recording.
The building above was completely barren; no other rooms, walls, dividers of any kind. An empty warehouse, with the front door wide open. Harsh sunlight filtered in from the door, casting everything in an orange pallor. She couldn't tell if it was sunrise or sunset. The closer she got to the open door, the more features she could make out.
The building was at least fifty feet above ground, with no stairwell leading below. Instead, a mound of dirt and sand had been piled up just short of the entrance. The land around the building looked desiccated and flaking, like snakeskin left in the sun.
The sound of footsteps drew her back inside, gun drawn and held steady towards the ground. A figure approached her. It looked like a man, dressed only in a pair of dark blue pants. He looked as though he were missing most of his ribcage and his shoulders — not removed; never there to begin with. Most prominent of all was his head. The upper part seemed to cave in on itself, topped with two fleshy lobes that might have been eyes or its brain, and a mouth that opened and let out a barely audible sound of clicking and croaking. It raised a wobbly wooden stick up at her, starting to croak more audibly as it approached her, jabbing at the air defensively.
Priss took a step to her left, carefully raising the gun up to groin level, finger off the trigger. Then she took another step. The creature stepped to its left as well, preventing her from leaving its direct line of sight — if it even had sight. She continued circling with the creature until her back was to the stairwell she had emerged from. The creature croaked loudly, and lowered its stick, banging on the floor with the bottom of it. The noise it made was surprisingly loud, and almost immediately she heard more croaks echoing around the open space, from other stairwells and openings around her.
She took a quick look behind her, then ran to the stairwell. She couldn't tell if the one with the stick was following her; the croaks didn't let up, and only got louder. By the time she shut the door behind her, she could see movement down the stairs. Several of them must have piled on top of each other, slamming against the door and howling wildly at the door. They probably couldn't move, stuck in the enclosed space against the door.
She sighed, and looked around. There were wooden boxes in the room, nailed shut. She sat on one, and leaned her head against the wall.
"How long was that? Seven, eight minutes…?" She looked down at her wristband. No clock on it. Nothing she could interact with.
At least they couldn't pound on the door. She sighed and shut her eyes. In her mind, she re-played the events that had unfolded. Sharpe… Annie. She'd just been joking, Priss realized too late. She'd never seen Aurianne Sharpe look like that, her eyes so wide, tears welling, shoulders slumped so low. It was terrifying; Sharpe had always been the strong influence in her life, the loving, protective "big sister" she hoped she was towards Rhiannon. Annie had never shown the slightest bit of weakness. Even when it was a genuine time to cry, it was always red eyes and crocodile tears with her, voice never warbling, head always held high.
I bet she has a crush on you, Rhiannon had said to her, derisively, but she doesn't know, does she? Priss lowered her head. She hadn't ever told Sharpe, but somehow she'd found out.
A light shone in her face, and she jumped to her feet. The world became hazy again, and the light grew brighter, with more clear humanlike figures emerging. Then she was suddenly back, the room brightly lit, Edgars standing before her, looking relieved.
"Pulled the plug early?" She realized she was drenched in sweat, and the room was freezing cold.
"No. You were gone for ten hours. We kept trying to bring you back, but… we couldn't risk shifting the controls and bringing back pieces of whatever might've been over there. Or pieces of you," He rubbed his eyes, and turned away, "So we started igniting her every half-hour, just in case. Then every ten minutes. Then everyone went home, preparing for the worst. Some kind of… general relativity thing, I guess?"
She smiled, barely absorbing his words, instead savoring the freezing cold air the Anabasis somehow put out when it started to overheat. She drifted over to the table where she'd left her cellphone, and started to call Aurianne.

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Special thanks to KateMcTiriss for the tale's name. And all of the feedback from 19.

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F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

The following letter was among several similar unsent letters, the initial recovery of which is credited to Dr. Jacobs. Following their recovery, and at Dr. Jacobs' request, a psychological review was ordered.

Hey asshole,
To Whom it May Concern,
Dear Doctor Jacobs,
I've been working for you for 10 years. You've sent me on so many assignments I've lost count. And each one was shittier worse than the last. This site is quite possibly the worst I've ever had to review. You know sometimes I think you forget that I'm a human being with emotions and feelings. Is it possible that while sitting up in your ivory fucking tower you forgot that?
Whatever. I went to Site-88 like you said. I talked to them about 2557. Here's the report: The containment procedures are necessary and appropriate. They are also the worst I've ever seen. 2557 is a baptismal pool. Yeah. I know what you're thinking, you've got the SCP Report in front of you. I don't care. You need to read it again jackass.
So this guy in the pool, Lewis Robinson (SCP-2557-1 in the report), was a pastor at this church in South Alabama. He made a mistake one day and accidentally drowned a kid in the pool. Whatever else happened, we know this for certain, that night the pool brought the kid back to life.
They called it a miracle. He woke up in the morgue and that was supposed to be it. The pastor though, they found him in the pool the next morning. Just standing there and staring. Someone Something in that church decided to take the term "born again" literally. It uses the pastor to kill and resurrect anyone else who gets into the pool. And just like the report says, it doesn't work on dead bodies (that would just be too convenient right?).
For a while the Foundation provided it with new D-Class to keep it busy and to test the effect. But eventually we ran out of things to test, and we still hadn't figured out how to neutralize it. So we tried a new test, we gave it no one. We waited.
Turns out the thing was fine with that too. Every day at 12:45 PM Lewis Robinson gets control of his body back. Just enough control to cry out for help before something pulls him under. He drowns. He comes back every night, and just stands there staring again. This has happened once a day for the last 3 and a half years.
Great right? A simple solution, we don't have to expose any more people to the anomaly, and it contains itself. This is perfect for us, right?
I had to observe several of these incidents among the other shit stashed at Site-88. So when I got the email yesterday congratulating me on being made a permanent liaison to Site-88, I wanted to put my fist through the computer screen. Fuck you. No thank you.
In fact, let me be clear here: I don't want to work for you anymore. I'm done with you, I'm done with the Committee, and I'm done with the Foundation.
Go fuck yourself.
I quit.
Dr. Melissa White, Ethics Committee Liaison.

Dr. Jacobs' psychological evaluation determined no apparent issues which would contribute to the creation of these letters, and he has been returned to service.
However, the complete absence of Dr. Melissa White from our personnel database triggered an investigation of previously unknown secondary effects relating to objects currently under containment at Site-88 (where Dr. Jacobs serves as permanent liaison).
It has been determined through extensive follow up testing that a secondary effect related to SCP-2557 occurs in the absence of provided victims and results in minor reality shifts.
This secondary effect was neutralized by the provision of a single D-Class personnel for repeated use during 2557 events. Except to prevent this D-Class from escaping the containment chamber, no further interaction with 2557 is necessary.
Continued monitoring of reality levels at Site-88 is considered mandatory. Any serious deviation from baseline levels (less than .8 humes) is to be reported immediately to the Site Director.
Given the significant period of time 2557 was without victims, and the current total of catalogued reality shifts being far below the number of expected incidents, this investigation is ongoing.

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