Serra almost walked past him, she was so distracted.
When she was on duty, she could ignore the worries of day to day life. She could section her thoughts away, focus only on the mission, whether that was containing a new SCP, where she'd be staring down the scope at a ‘bender, or acting as back up on a diplomatic case, which usually involved staring down the scope at a GOC agent. When you're a sniper, most of your work involves staring down a scope, and hoping you don't have to pull the trigger. Unless you're one of those that does hope you can pull the trigger, but those types didn't tend to last long in the Foundation.
But when she was off duty, that was a different story. Her brain constantly replayed recent events, trying to figure them out inside her own head. As things currently stood, it was such a series of ups and downs.
She wasn't actually an orphan: Good!
Her father was a mentally incompetent man child, and her mother was officially MIA: Bad.
She had a family that wanted to be involved in her life: Good!
It was the Bright family, who had their hands in every aspect of Foundation culture and every other GOI from the looks of it: Bad.
She had received a promotion, directly from O5-6, who was apparently her uncle: Good!
The promotion was to a job that officially didn't exist, as the Foundations' hitman, well, hitwoman, with the unofficial title of Hand Sinister: Cool, but, you know, technically bad.
The job came with a pair of pearl handled six shooters, that had been forged from the first reality bender the Foundation had ever dealt with, and made her all but immune to other skips reality bending abilities: Awesome, but also super creepy.
An aunt she had never met had given her holsters for the guns via a video will from beyond the grave, and the holsters felt so right on her hips that she sometimes forgot to take them off to shower: Okay, at this point the scale of good to bad just reads TILT.
And it was on these matters that she was thinking when she almost walked past the blind man with the tin cup. Her mind was always working, however, and it noticed the little details. An actual tin cup was weird, usually the beggars had plastic cups, or a discarded coffee cup. The beggars clothing looks a little too kempt to be homeless. Holy fuck what the hell breed is that dog, if it can actually be called a dog?
So she stopped, rewound her recent memories, and turned to look at the dark skinned blind man. It didn't surprise her to find that he was watching her. “We've met, haven't we?” she said to him.
“We have, Agent Argent,” David said, sunglasses turned towards her face, as if watching her. “It was a family event.”
“No, I know you're one of the… other side of the family,” she said. Her hand fluttered in front of her face, waving that away. She flushed, embarrassed at making hand signs for a blind man. “No, I was referring to before that. It took me a while to place it, but I saw you once, in my room, back when I was just a cadet in training.”
The blind man hurumphed to himself. “You saw me when I saw you. I suppose that's to be expected, when dealing with our tribe.” He shook himself, and offered her his hand. “Care to help me up? I'd like to chat with you, if you don't mind.”
She reached out without even thinking. “Of course. I'd love to have a chat with my cousin who is also a leading member of a rival organization.” Even as she said it, she realized the words were true. If anyone could understand what she was going though, it was the blind man. “There's, ah, a Starbucks around the corner. Would you like some coffee?” She eyed his beastly companion. “I'm not sure they allow pets.”
“It's okay.” David reached into a pocket, pulling out a brightly colored vest. He held it out, as the animal shrugged into it. “She's working.”
The two walked in silence to the coffee shop, neither of them looking at the other. Once inside, they ordered, a vente pumpkin spice latte for David, and a large black coffee for Serra. They took a booth in the back, where they were unlikely to be overheard. David's mountain of a service animal laid down in front of the booth, providing an effective barrier from anyone who might want to stumble close.
They both sat there for a moment, hands wrapped around too hot to drink beverages, and looked at each other. Well. Serra Looked at David. David faced towards Serra. It was the equivalent.
“So welcome to the family,” David said, speaking first.
“Thanks,” was all she could respond. “It's, well, it's a real trip.”
“I know Jack and my father have been talking to you, filling you in on all the peculiarities of their personal histories. I figured you might want to hear something from the other side.” He smiled, his hands clasped before him. “Or possibly I'm sounding you out for weaknesses, to be exploited by my associates when the time comes.”
“…” Serra's hands crept towards her pistols, checked only when the mound of fur beside the table began to growl. She glanced at it, then at the smiling face of her cousin, and, somehow, found herself relaxing. “The thought had crossed my mind. But that's not what this is about, is it? This is about family.”
“Anything for the family.” His face contorts, as if he had smelled something horrible. “Some of the family takes that to the extremes. And, we all have our own view of what is in the best interests of family.“ His hand crept towards his sunglasses. With obvious restraint, he placed his hand back on his coffee, and took a sip. “So. “ A lazy smile spread across his face. “I figure the best way to do this is just to let you ask questions. I'm sure you're full of them.”
“I am, actually.” Serra said as she smiled back. It was hard to dislike this friendly face across from her. True, it could all be an act. It wasn't. She'd know, if it was. “But, shouldn't you already know what I want to ask?”
His face contorted in a grimace, and that was before he sipped the coffee. “Ah, the typical stereotype of the precognitive. Always ready to answer your question before you ask them.” He crossed his arms over his chest and intoned in deep, oracular tones. “The answer to your next five questions are yes, no, bees, dong, and only when covered in ketchup.” His mask of seriousness slipped into a chuckle, and Serra could not help but giggle along with him. “It doesn't really work like that.”
“So, how does it work?” Serra asked, to break up the monotony of a too long monologue.
“Well, it's actually quite easy to see the specifics of an upcoming event, or even just a chat. The problem is finding the RIGHT specifics. The future is constantly branching. You'd drive yourself insane, trying to pin down exactly what words a person is going to use. Sometimes, it's easy. When you say hello to someone, they will most likely say hello back. When you ask them their favorite color, that can get a bit more complicated, a simple distraction can do wonders to change that. And, if you ask them their theories on life, well, good luck!” He threw up his hands, then stopped them on the way back down to rub his temples. “It's enough to drive most people mad. So, I just, you know, keep a general eye on the future. Task different parts of my brain with looking for different things. Like, I've always got my spider sense on, looking for anything dangerous that might happen to, or near me. Like, there's a good chance the barista is about to burn herself on that coffee.” He paused, head cocked to one side, and was rewarded with an exclamation of pain from behind him. Serra winced in sympathy. “On the other hand, there is also a very minor chance that a rogue GOC agent is going to burst through the door and hose the place down with bullets.” He sipped his coffee again as Serra gaze turned towards the door. The minutes ticked by in silence, until David said, “Well, I guess that one isn't happening.”
”Okay, you say you deal in generalities, but Claire, uhm, Aunt Claire I guess, her will was VERY specific.” Her hands rested on her guns, not out of threat, but for comfort. Guns were safe. She had learned that from a young age as a Foundling. Guns stopped the bad things, as long as you treated them right.
“Because, one, Aunt Claire was a LOT more powerful than me,” he said as he held up a finger, then flicked up a second to join it. “And two, she was focused HARD on that moment. Like, she used up a shit ton of power to cut through the various possibilities to find the true future. It was her masterpiece, really, that one great prophecy that will outlive her.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Damned if I know why she wasted it on us.”
“All right. Okay,” Serra said, organizing her thoughts, “but, then, if you don't do the great prophecy thing, what is it you do do.” She pulled a face at herself. “Sorry, my phrasing there was shit.”
“I like movies. Science fiction, for the most part. Explosions are easier to understand without seeing them, nuanced emotions you get in drama and comedies, less so. Books on tape are a godsend, let me tell you. I've been experimenting in the kitchen, trying to find a good use for curry in everything. I do a curried pot roast you would not believe. I have a couple of boyfriends, but nothing serious. Most guys seems impressed I can actually find their cock, like, Jesus dude, I'm blind, not dumb, it's going to be in the same place on EVERY guy, unless you're alien, and even then, I've blown enough of those to get the idea of where it might be.” He sipped his coffee nice and slow, as his cousin splutters through hers, trying to laugh and swallow at the same time. “But I feel like you meant what do I do for my side. The answer to that is rather simple. I'm just like Uncle Jack. I'm a recruiter.”
“Jack isn't-“ She starts to say, but cuts herself off. She remembers when he came to her, to tell her about, well, everything. She recalls chatting with Alice, and Yoric, both of whom mentioned that Jack was the one who brought them in. “He is, isn't he?” she said, quietly, almost to herself.
“I'm pretty sure it's one of the reasons he keeps his spot as a personnel director, instead of taking a better, higher paying job. From there, he can direct your recruiting tactics, make sure the right agent is in the right place to pick up a useful, normal family member,” David said. He gestured at her with his cup, almost like a salute. “The ones who fit in, anyways.”
“And the ones who don't fit in?” She said, encouraging him to continue.
“Well, that's for me. I take care of all the lost, misplaced souls that have a drop of Bright seed in them somewhere. The half human hybrids, the ‘talented' byblows of born on the wrong side of the sheets, the genetic experiments trying desperately to escape their creatrix, the bear.” He shrugs. “Anyone of the family who doesn't have a place to be, I find them one.”
“With the Serpents Hand.”
“With anyone that makes them feel like a real person, and not locked away as a puzzle to be taken apart, dissected, and used!” His hand slammed against the table to punctuate the point. Serra almost drew her gun.
“All right, all right, I understand you-“ She held up a hand, eyes closed, replaying the conversation. “The bear?”
“You'd have Jack to blame for that one,” he said with a smirk. “Apparently there was some kind of testing to see if his willpower was enough to over-ride certain natural drives, and the end result was he knocked up a bear.”
“Is…” She bit her lip, worried at it. “Is it a supernatural bear?”
“Nope. And he, not it.”
“Extra smart then?”
“Nope. Just a bear. But still family.” He shrugged.
“So, you put this bear, who is a family member because there is apparently nothing our family will not stick its dick into, where exactly?” Words she never thought she'd say.
“Oh, he's in a zoo.”
There was a moment of silence between them. David simple sipped at his coffee. Serra tapped her fingers on the table, wishing that he could see the look that she gave him.
“Not locked away, huh?” She finally said.
“He's actually very happy there. We offered to let him out in the wild, but our animal speaker said he was much happier in a zoo, being able to watch people go by, and sleep with a bevy of sexy bear-ettes. I do drop in on him, every couple of months, with an Doolittle, to see how he's doing,” David said.
"Doolittle?"
"Common slang for anyone who talks to animals, and can understand what they say back."
“All right, fine.” She sat back. “Okay, then, tell me this. Aside from that, who's the weirdest member of the family you know?”
“I have an uncle who's-“
“Green, right?” She interrupted. “You know, I've heard that from the uncles. ‘I have a brother who's green.' I always thought it was some kind of obscure family in joke or something. I mean, what's so odd about green skin?”
“If he just had green skin, it wouldn't be such a big issue. He's actually the color green.” He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Legend has it, old grandpa Adam was involved in some kind of space civil war, between entities that were concepts of colors, or some shit. Blue vs Yellow. Well, Adam is just as much a Bright as any of them, and so he came back from this excursion with a weird new STD, and a child that only exists as a shade of green. It works for me, mostly. It seems to be happy.” David paused. “At this point, if you don't leave within the next ten minutes, someone will stumble upon us who we don't want to. Now that you know me, we can always meet again, but I figure you'll want some time to corroborate my story, make sure I'm telling you the truth, yeh? So come on, give me one more question, and then we can go our separate ways.”
She pondered a moment. She could draw this out, see who caught them. But it might not be her side. So, with only one question left, she went for one that had been bothering her. “I had an odd experience last week. Kinda like this. A guy came up to me in the middle of shopping, and started gushing about how glad he was to meet another member of the family. He was super shady, could barely get a word in edge wise, called himself Joshua-“
“Bright.” David snarled. "Really handsome guy? Talks a mile a minute, without ever saying anything? Always dropping little hints about other family members, or projects he's working on?" Serra nods silently. “Oh, I fucking hate that guy. Most of the family refers to him as Darth Maul Bright. ”
“Wait. Darth Maul?”
“Oh, because of how he looks and acts cool, but is completely useless. He's… he's a poser. A Bright wannabe. Somehow he stumbled onto evidence of the family, and immediately convinced himself he was one of us. He shows up at the weirdest times, throws everything into confusion, and then fucks off, scott free. He's got the damndest luck, as evidenced by the way none of us have managed to kill him yet. If you get a chance, please shoot him.” He checked his watch. “And with that, you need to be going.”
She found herself on her feet, empty cup heading for the trash without even thinking about it. He followed her, far enough back to not be a threat. “It was nice talking to you.” She said over her shoulder.
“It was nice to be talked to, and not yelled at.” He replied.
She paused as she reached for the door handle. “Your… pet.”
He smiled, head cocked to the side. This question, he'd been expecting. “Yes?”
“Is that really a seeing-eye-"
"Chupacabra/poodle crossbreed? Yes, her name is Misters Snuggles."
"Her name is Mister-"
"Do you want to argue with her about it?"


The words went straight to his heart, shattering what little self-confidence he still had.
The cluttered, shadow-filled room seemed like a perfect reflection of his own inner being at that time. Dark, unkept, illuminated by a single, dying light. Stacks upon stacks of discarded items - sculptures, paintings, tools, resources - lay scattered around the room, like forgotten ideas. In the middle of it all was him, a shadow of a man turned to stone, but weak to influence and control like clay.
"That's a bit harsh, especially considering he's right there."
The man wasn't alone of course. One of the other three with him spoke up, their masculine voice surveying anger at the underhanded attack at Adam.
"Oh come on Yokim, he knows it's all in jest." The second voice was masculine too, but laced with a hint of malice. They would defend their previous statement regardless of any facts arisen - even if Adam were to prove themself superior, he would still be overlooked.
Adam made no attempt to respond, not even feebly mouthing any words. He simply stood still and dully stared at the other three, no motivation to attack or respond spurring him to action.
"I'm choosing Adam. Donny, if I hear anything like that again I'll break your damn jaw." The leader of the club was audibly feminine and extremely assertive in nature. If the lone guider for the group of only thirty-seven wasn't as strong willed as she was, the group surely would have disintegrated long ago. There were still cracks amongst the members, as was being observed between Donny and Yokim, but the glue of their collective goal was strong enough to hold them together. For now, at least.
"I'll help. I could make a statue using it - I'll name it Donny Douchebag the Dumbass," Yokim growled at the grinning bully. He gently rested his hand on Adam's shoulder as a show of confidence. "Congrats Adam. I'm sure you'll do well."
Adam didn't respond, still sore from Donny's blunt statement. He felt a brief sense of pride, but it was quickly washed away by the overwhelming feeling of worthlessness. The words echoed in his head, silencing everything else and demanding all of his attention. He felt no reason to stay, to continue burdening these people with his caustic present, stealing and wasting their heat, light, air. He turned away from them, mindlessly walking and weaving betwixt the piles of abandoned artwork, following the dim trail to the doorway.
"Are you ok?" Yokim had followed Adam, human nature spurring him to ensure Adam's wellbeing. Unknown to him, the action was futile - the question had been asked countless times, but always received the same answer.
"I'm fine," came the parroted, false response. It had become second nature to Adam, to lie about his emotional wellbeing. It was all he could respond with anymore - he had no motivation to say otherwise, to go through the trouble of sharing his burdens to another. No good would come from the truth anyway, other than brief pity before everyone stopped giving a shit.
"You sure? You sound unhappy." Yokim was unconvinced by the dull response.
"I'm fine," repeated Adam, briefly showing a faked smile to deceive Yokim. "Just tired."
Tired was an understatement. Anxiety and depression wreaked havoc with Adam once the moon arose, its pale light strengthening the emotional werewolves and vampires. His world became vast and hollow once depression arrived, reminding him of the immense distance between him and his closest of friends. It whispered failures in his ears endlessly, finding fault in anything and everything he had done in his life, dredging up long-forgotten memories if needed; remember that kid you punched in primary school? His nose will always be slightly off, thanks to you. Remember that addiction you had? You'll never be free from it. You'll give in eventually. What good have you ever actually done?
In its wake, anxiety bloomed. There was no greater pestilence, no hardier weed, than the constricting growth that was anxiety. It would sprout from anywhere and everywhere, wrap its roots around anything it could, and refuse to wilt or leave. Your rent is due. The air-conditioner needs fixing. Your sister needs help. Your grandfather will die soon, you haven't seen him in years. Flights aren't safe nowadays, you can't go see him. Your friends might have been killed. Your heart is pounding - this is bad. You're having an anxiety attack. Will you recover? What if this is it? What if this kills you?
The two would dance around him endlessly, keeping his mind racing throughout the night. Simple tasks for others had become perilous quests for Adam - he hadn't slept in his own bed for months, defaulting to the uncomfortable couch in the superstition that he was more likely to sleep on it. It rarely helped, leaving him sore and exhausted in the morning; all the more susceptible to the twins that tortured him.
Adam struggled to open the stubborn metal door of the warehouse, taking a brief run-up before bursting out into the light. He didn't bother to close the door behind him, simply starting the long trek home. His mind and thoughts were hardly his own, puppeteered and toyed with by depression's spectre.
Donny is right and you know it. You're worthless. You fumble everything you do. Nothing you do will last. You're not even a good artist - you just stumble over popular ideas at the right time. You're pathetic.

Adam sat in his collapsing chair, staring blankly at the screen before him. Colourful, energetic characters jumped and ran across the screen, but the man watching barely noticed. His eyes followed them, but his mind was elsewhere.

GrayPhaser: You there?

He wasn't. Even if he had, a conversation with Gray would be unlikely. In their childhood they had been exceptional friends, though they had never truly met. A chance encounter within a digital realm, one that neither remembered anymore, forged the beginnings of their bond. Limited only by their imaginations, the two travelled through all kinds of lands simply to tell their stories; towns were established, governments rose and fell, new worlds found, species exterminated. Fun was the goal, and by any means it was achieved.
But the friendship was superficial and shallow. Time brought change, and change pulled them from the realms they had established to a place where their relation could do nought but fade. Though Gray remained forever close with the others of their group, their homes sharing the same region, Adam grew distant from them. Eventually they simply stopped talking. Eventually, they simply forgot about Adam. But Adam didn't.
Without the bridge to his past, Adam could not retreat to his childhood. Without the ability to speak to others, he could not make a bridge forward; all he could do was stand still, and watch as his world collapsed.
Adam spun his seat around, surveying the bland and empty apartment that was his home. Featureless white walls and halls on all sides, bland grey carpeting across all floors. Furnishings were minimal to the point of nonexistence; a single-size bed sat undressed in his room, covered only by a coverless pillow and a thin sheet for his blanket. A small couch sat in the living room, directly opposite to the thirty-five inch television. His office consisted of a store-bought computer, a bland desk and the chair he sat upon. Adding in the outdated fridge in his kitchen, the list of Adam's possessions became complete - there were no paintings, no plants, no statues, no prizes.
He had gone shopping several times in the hope he would find something to liven up his home. But every time he looked, every time he pondered upon them, he simply found them… boring. They did nothing useful, they looked uninteresting, so he simply never bought them. Income was no issue for Adam - he tossed enough garbage works into the void to more than make up for his expenditure. Worthless art fuelled the boring life of Adam the anartist, who lived only to make more worthless art. Some life that was.
His true works went overlooked and ignored by the community at large. He was an anartist, yes, but not the sort one would expect from the name; he was neither painter nor sculptor, not a maker of physical or visual arts. He was a wordsmith, a man who forged places and events with information and strokes on his keyboard, moulding them into the mind of the reader. And yet, the same dismissive comments came in, time and time again - "words are not art," they would say. "Anart is physical, visual, tactile, experience. Stories are not. Go make some real art."
Few even feigned an attempt to defend him. Yokim was one of them. "This is fantastic! How do you do this?" Nothing but false words, half-assed comments to continue his misery. Adam could tell. He couldn't prove it, but he could feel their condescension, their pity for an inferior lesser. They were right - words were no art, and Adam's works were less than words. Art made a point, was remembered, stood out. Stories were read, then forgotten. Adam's probably weren't even considered.
Adam had no hope of succeeding. He had no hope to represent his group, Donny was right - Adam was worthless, incapable of achieving anything worthwhile, meaningful, purpose filled. His work was less than filth, utterly valueless.
Your existence is an insult. There is only one worthwhile thing you can do. Do it.
Adam did as his mind told him, opening a word document. He knew what he was supposed to do, the only way he could give his existence some semblance of purpose he could experience.
Tap tap tap. He wrote.
Tap tap tap. He wrote down the experience of his last few hours.
Tap tap tap. He spilled his mind, his disgusting, worthless mind, onto the page.
Tap tap tap. He remembered, and explained. The lifeblood of his soul explained his feelings.
Within half an hour, the document was host for 1,970 words. The story of a worthless, forgettable man occupied the data of the page, wasting the space on his hard drive just as he wasted the atoms comprising him.
Minutes later, the task was completed, the art now anart. A short time frame for a simple task, the page adopting a poor man's gimmick - once the file was saved, fiction would become fact, all the events within becoming true. A mediocre ability for a mediocre writer.
It was ready. All he needed to do was finish it, add the last little bit, and it would be done. The only work of his that people would care about, the only one that did something worthwhile. The only impact he could ever make upon the world.
With no reason to avoid the inevitable, Adam wrote the final four words - the most important words he had ever written in his entire life - before saving the file:
And
Then
He
Died.


It's just one foot in front of the other

In front of me, the shadow of Olympus Mons turns the already lichen-blackened clay a much deeper black — almost velvety, like a clear night sky. In the distance, the lights of Station 00 (also known as "Carl Sagan Station," or, more colloquially, "Clean Slate Station,") are slowly turning off as the sunlight reaches them. Behind me, the sun slowly rises over the mountain. Above me, the sky is slowly turning from violet twilight to its distinctive rust-red. Beneath me, the engine of the buggy rumbles, keeping it warm. I'll have to explain the extra engine hours, but some irrational part of my brain tells me it's worth it.
I'm happy I found this spot — good view, good lichen outcrops for sampling (my go-to cover story for these outings), but not too far from the Station. I'm settled in, so it's time to get down to business. I unzip the bag hanging at my right thigh and pull out the packaged black-and-cherry-red filter cartridge, 7 centimeters across and maybe one centimeter thick. Big blocky letters warn that "NICOTINE MAY CAUSE ADDICTION," while slightly smaller letters advertise the Earth-based corporation whose executives are making a killing off dupes like me. I tear the package open, take a deep breath, close the valve at the mouthpiece of my mask, pop the mouthpiece off, pop the filter into place, pop the mouthpiece back, reopen the valve, and exhale. The process takes maybe four seconds but it always feels like forever.
As I inhale the "black cherry" flavored mist, I notice a set of lights roll away from the eastern airlock of the station. Probably sampling crews getting an early start. I put it at the back of my mind and let my thoughts drift.
The sampling crews set me on a train of thought about the colony. Station 00. Carl Sagan Station. Clean Slate Station. Part of a massive international effort, and no small portion of the Earthside scientists and engineers were Foundation. Founded in 2348 on what was essentially the corpse of the failed Elon Musk/NASA attempt of the 2030s, it had two official names: Carl Sagan Station was the International Standard name, while Station 00 was the name adopted by the Church. "Clean Slate" was made up by the colonists sometime in the early 2350s, 30-some odd years ago, because that's what the slowly-terraforming planet was supposed to be: a clean slate for humanity. And for the colonists themselves. Colonists like me.
Even though I'm focusing on my breathing so I don't waste oxygen, I laugh at that last thought. Clean slate, my ass. By now the term's become one of semi-affectionate sarcasm for me. My slate on the Red Planet was no more clean than the one I left on Earth. I ran away with a girl I thought I loved to be some sort of space cadet, leaving behind a bunch of shit I thought was just baggage. I think back to Thomas; I wonder if he can see me, even with all the millions of miles between here and Earth. I hope that kid's doing ok, wherever he is.
My thoughts drift back, like they always do these days, to Ophelia. What the hell went wrong? We went up through training together — we were in the cadet program with the Foundation since before uni, and we were dating pretty steady until the trip here. I thought we were gonna last forever, but I guess forever only counts where the air doesn't have to be manufactured or farted out by lichens and algae farms.
Just as I'm losing myself in my thoughts, a gust of cold wind chills me through my isolation suit and brings me back to reality. The nicotine's mostly numbed my mouth and nose and I'm almost positive I got a bit of the local soil in my mouth when I had the mask open. The sun's risen over the colony and it won't be too long before the sunlight reaches here. The headlights I'd seen earlier didn't roll off to one of the more geologically or biologically interesting sites; they were rolling right towards me. No idea who'd come looking for me, but I guess I'll know in just a few minutes.
As the new buggy rolls up, I get off the hood of mine and dust myself off. Not that anyone's gonna care about a little dust on a spacesuit, but it always feels better for me to be doing something other than sitting on my ass when I get caught fucking around. The buggy pulls up a few meters next to mine before the lights turn off, followed by the engine.
"Freeman, that you?" The respirator mask covers most of Quentin's face, but I was able to tell it was him by the way he dismounted the buggy, even if I hadn't recognized his voice over the radio.
"Yeah, Storms, it's me." I try to sound friendly but I know I probably sound bitey. I feel bitey.
"What the hell are you doing out here? I've been looking all over for you." He sounds frustrated, but legitimately concerned. I probably couldn't ask for a better boss.
I hold up the package from the vape filter and say, "Just feeding my inner demons someplace quiet, sir."
He nods in understanding briefly, then asks, "How many is that this week?"
"Five. Ophelia quit, so she lets me have her ration."
Another short nod, awkward in the isolation suit. "You know those things will kill you, right?" His voice has the slightest hint of friendly sarcasm.
"No faster than the radiation or the dust storms or the little green men." I can't help but crack a smile at my own shitty joke, even if Quentin can't see it. But from the look of his eyes through the mask, he chuckled a bit, too.
"Something eating at you?" The same almost-big-sibling frustrated concern.
"Yeah." No point in lying.
"Wanna talk about it?" At least he seems sincere.
"Nope." No point in lying.
"What's the cover story?"
I point around us. "Lichen samples."
"All right. You brought bags, right?"
"Yeah." I point to the small storage compartment at the back of the buggy.
"All right, let's get to it."
He goes back to his buggy, where he presumably has his own equipment. I go back to mine, where the familiar sealed-and-sterilized toolsets and unopened sample bags wait for me, turning off the engine while I'm at it.. We're done after about an hour and a half, so we hop in the buggies and head back West.
As we're driving, I hear him say over the radio, "When I was a kid, back on Earth, my grandpa used to take me hiking. And a lot of times, we'd hit rough patches in the trail but there was no real way to turn around. And he always used to tell me, 'When you can't go back, the only way you've got is forward, no matter how rough it gets. Just grit your teeth and hold on tight, you'll get through and find your way home.' Not sure if that means anything here, for whatever it is you're going through, but it's something to think about."
I nod for a moment before remembering that he has no way to see it. "Yeah, thanks. I'll try to remember that." It isn't too much later that we reach Clean Slate Station and I have to tell myself, "One step at a time. Just keep moving forward."

That wasn't the last time I went to that spot, but it turned out to be the last for a real long while.


Agent Adams walked down the hall of the Lanthanide Hills Task Force dorms, swiped her card on the lock, readied her parka around her face, and stepped into the cold, Siberian night, manila envelope in hand.
Tonight was not a snowy night, but the cold wind still whipped up around the mess hall to her left and blew snow in gusts across the pavilion; she saw lights bobbing in the distance, and dogs barking, the night patrol wandering in snowshoes and parkas down the road to the main facility a mile down the road with a Humvee rattling along behind them. The watch lights circled lazily in a long, cold circle, waiting for sun that wouldn't come for another two months.
She started off, hand on the rope guiding them through the dark, carefully watching her step. Snowshoes were tricky; her worst fear was having to fight in them one day. High heels she could do. Not snowshoes.
The rope led past the mess to the training facility, the armory, the other dorms for the poor saps that were stuck on winter Lanthanide training assignment against their will. Finally, she came to the old log cabin she was looking for, and trudged up the three steps to the door with “FUCK OFF” written in permanent marker on the window, both in English and shaky Russian.
In the few years that Adams had spent at Lanthanide, she had never visited Clef's small house on the edge of the training facility's grounds. Part of her hesitated a moment on the doorstep, like she was doing something profoundly wrong; her mentor was not necessarily a private man, but also wasn't one to invite others into his life at all. There was no backstory to it; no reasoning or sad reason why. It just didn't happen.
Because Alto Clef was a fucking repulsive little man.
She looked at the envelope, wondered if it could wait until morning. Maybe it could; she could just leave it here-
Suddenly, Clef started screaming.
Clef screamed a lot. One could argue that Adams had heard, actually, nearly every possible sound that Alto Clef could make. But this one started at a low-pitched whine, and grew into a slow, unearthly howl, like a car starting, and increased in pitch and volume until she found herself frozen in place on the doorstep, clutching the envelope tighter.
What the fuck?
She caught herself about thirty seconds into the unholy roar of the damned, and pounded on the door.
“Clef! Are you okay?”
The house dropped silent. She waited. A few minutes passed. Adams considered knocking again, or doing away with chivalry altogether and just busting in the door, in case he had hurt himself or something-
CLUNK.
The sound of a lock unlocking.
SHHIIICK.
CLUNK.
THOCK.
The sound started at the top of the door, and worked its way down, the sound of about ten heavy-duty locks being pulled away
CLICK
THOCK
THOCK
CLICK
CLUNK
The door opened an inch, and Adams found herself with the tip of a shotgun in her face.
“Leave. Don't tell anyone what you heard.” His voice was cold, and broke near the end.
“Hey, are you oka-“
“I'm fine. Go away.”
“Look, I brought these files-“
“It. Can wait. Don't tell anyone what you heard.”
“Clef, what was that? Are you okay?”
“I'm fine. It happens.”
“What happens?”
“Dreaming. I've seen a lot, Adams. Please give me privacy on this."
There was a pause. The barrel stayed where it was.
“Okay. I won't tell anyone. Um…I'll…I'll see you tomorrow.”
In a moment, the gun was gone, the door was slammed closed, the locks relocked, and Agent Adams was left on the porch, alone.
Clef watched her go from the window in the other room. Waited until she was down the road, back to the main facility and the dorms.
He grinned, pretty damn proud of himself. That was quite a show! God damn. Good cover. Alto Clef, a fucking repulsive little man who had been, in fact, enjoying himself immensely for the past few hours, took his underwear back off, took a Viagra, and put another waffle in the toaster for round number 14.

« | HUB | »


Site-19 Ancillary Research Wing

Agent Donnarson hadn't really expected to have to do a debriefing of this particular sort. As an information retrieval specialist, his job was to figure out the difference between report briefs, and the truth. However, "Dr." Magnus' file was several hundred pages long, and had started to become a little excessive, not to mention the content. A level 4 had made a request to figure out what the hell was going on, and the task fell to Rex.
As he walked through the halls of the Ancillary Research Wing at Site 19, he flipped through the case file, each entry more stupid than the last. This was going to take forever, and he could already imagine the headache this would cause.
The door to Magnus' office was open, and two men were sitting at chairs across from each other, making idle chatter. He hadn't met either of them before, and knocked softly on the wood of the office door. "Hello? I'm looking for Viktor Magnus?"
The shorter man stood up, and gestured to the blond man sitting on the drawer side of the desk. "Well, you found him. Here to finally terminate the idiot?"
Rex hesitated for a moment, caught off-guard by the joke. "I- What? No. Debrief."
The man grinned, and took a couple of steps, reaching across the distance. "I'm kidding. Sorry, I'm Researcher Kensington. Level 3. May I observe the interview?"
Rex shook the man's hand, and looked down at the directive sheet. "Anyone level 3 or higher could observe, technically, but this isn't being recorded. It's just a debrief I'm supposed to report on."
The other man, in the chair raised an eyebrow, and smiled. "I don't mind if he observes. I'm Dr. Michael Viktor Magnus."
Rex frowned for a second, then looked down at the personnel file. "It says here it's Researcher Magnus, as you don't have a—"
Magnus threw his hands up. "My degree is real dammit! Just because the subject isn't, doesn't mean anything! Doctor. Magnus."
Rex could already feel his pulse in his neck now, a surefire sign a headache was coming. When it rains, it pours. "Alright. May I sit down?"
Kensington moved out-of-the-way, and grabbed a third chair from the corner, pulling it up to the desk on the short side, leaning back. "Just pretend I'm not here. I'd love to hear this."
Rex sat down. "Right. My name is Agent Rex Donnarson, and I'm—" An upraised hand interrupted his speech, and Magnus leaned forward, his face incredulous.
"Rex. Rex Donnarson. Seriously? That's your actual name?" The look on his face was one he was intimately familiar with.
"Yes. That's my actual legal name. No I did not change it." Rex tried to smile, but ended up grinding his teeth instead.
Magnus leaned back in his chair and shrugged. "Right, sorry. I just couldn't not say something. I'm sure your parents thought it was a lovely name."
Rex counted back from five in his head, then opened the case file in front of him. "Right. Let's get started. I'm here to clear up some… unusual reports that have come through as after-action reports. From what this says, you've taken part in an unusually high number of combat missions for a non-combatant, and several circumstances of your… reports, have been suspect. I've been ordered to find out what actually happened."
Magnus leaned back, shifting downwards in his chair. "Alrighty then. Shoot."
Rex flipped open the first envelope, breaking the wax seal. "Right. Okay, 20 April 2017. There was a mission flying over Kansas, delivering SCP-3000. The plane reported distress, and we lost communication with it. You arrived at Site-27 sixteen hours later."
Magnus nodded. "Yes, that's right."
Rex pinched the bridge of his nose. "Could you recount how you survived this plane crash, as you did in your report?"
Magnus looked at the ceiling, and then nodded speaking with his eyes on the paper tile to the right of the overhead light. "Right. Plane was going down, but luckily for me, there was an alligator in the back."
"An alligator. In the depressurized section of a cargo plane? Seriously, you expect me to believe this?"
Magnus nodded again. "Yeah, and good thing too, it was a pretty good pilot."
Rex looked down at the sheet, with notes about the plane crash. SCP Flight 2557 was found twenty miles from Site-27, having gone through an apparent guided emergency landing on to a small uninhabited island. Most of the plane had deteriorated. One Nile Crocodile was found in the co-pilots seat. There were elevated hume levels in the area for six hours following the investigation.
Rex's mouth became a thin line. "You do realize how insane that sounds, right?"
Magnus tilted his head to the side eyes blank for a moment, before smirking. "That's a relative term, considering about two hundred yards away is an entity capable of reshaping reality at will. Assuming 343 is still kept in the same section this week."
Kensington snorted across from the two of them. "Seriously though, alligator, Magnus?"
He shrugged. "It might have been a crocodile. I can never tell them apart, I really should memorize the teeth thing."
Rex flipped the documents back in to the packet, then broke the seal on the next report. "Okay, that's… I'll note it down that your story is consistent with presented events. This one is from April 22, 2014."
Kensington held up a hand. "Wasn't that the rocket over Antarctica?"
Magnus nodded. "Yep. Six Russians, and an airlock. Man, that sucked."
Rex scanned the file, and looked up, annoyed. "Okay, come the hell on. You survived re-entry from orbit?"
Magnus nodded, taking off his glasses, and cleaning a lens, his eyes focused anywhere except on the Agent. "Yep! I mean, it was painful, but I was pretty okay. Burnt my eyebrows off though."
Rex let the file fall to the table, and sat up. "Eyebrows? It would have burned you to death!"
Magnus pointed at the file. "Snowstorm. We were in Antarctica, and there was a whole fuckton of snow that day."
Rex held his hands up in exasperation. "That… that isn't how convection works! You should have died on reentry, and slammed in to paste on the ground!"
Magnus shrugged. "Look, I'm a meta-physicist, not a physicist—"
Kensington cut in, "No you're not."
Magnus glared over at Kensington . "It's on my degree."
"Yes. Your fake degree. From the 'University of Deleware'. Delaware has two a's in it."
Magnus rolled his eyes, "As I've said, just because the subject is false doesn't mean the degree is. The University of Deleware is a perfectly accredit institution in the reality I got the degree in."
Kensington waggled his fingers. "I think that's literally the definition, 'cause—"
Rex's voice rang out: "Gentlemen! Either way, you can't survive an orbital re-entry." The pounding had spread up to his temples now.
Magnus spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness, his eyes roaming the room. "What can I tell you, it was really windy, and there was this big snowdrift, and—"
Rex slammed the file down. "You're not taking this seriously at all! You expect me to believe these ridiculous lies about how you apparently keep dodging death?"
Magnus' face grew serious, and he looked Agent Donnarson clear in the eye. "All I can say is that Legends Never Die." His expression softened, and he winked.
Kensington sighed heavily, and reached over to a side table where a stale cup of coffee was sitting. He took a sip, and shook his head slightly. "That's all he ever says. Annoying isn't it."
Rex took a moment to compose himself, and set the file on the stack of finished files. "Whatever. Let's continue, if that's alright with you." He pulled out the last of the sealed files. "Okay, this one you're going to have to give me more than just some nonsense explanation. You were in Louisiana during a hurricane and got washed in to the sewer system by a storm surge."
Magnus' eyes grew distant for a moment, before remembering the incident. "Ahh. Right. Yes, we'd been tracking SCP-4733, and discovered it had holed up in Golden Meadow. I was there with an MTF, I can't remember the name."
Rex nodded, and continued, "Zeta-22. Clockbots or something like that. So the hurricane hit, and you were swept in to the sewers."
Magnus grimaces for a moment, then continued. "Right. I was swept in to the sewer system. I got a melon barb stuck in my throat which—"
Rex dropped the pen he was holding. "I'm sorry, repeat that for me?"
Magnus shrugged. "Melon barb. It's a fish. Got it stuck right in my throat. Thankfully it kept taking in water, so I could use the gills to not drown."
Kensington leaned forward. "Hold on a second. The melon barb is native to India, not Louisiana. What the hell are you on about?"
Magnus turned to face Kensington. "Hell if I know. It was definitely a melon barb though. Someone might have had it as a pet or something?"
Rex couldn't help but just stare at the two of them. "That. That is what's incredulous about his story?! The SPECIES OF FISH!?"
Rex slammed the file shut. "Fine! Jesus fucking christ, enough! I can't believe you're wasting my time!"
He shoved all of the papers in to the overstuffed case file. "The only other question I have, that I've been specifically instructed to ask, is after the… 'plane crash', you claimed a pair of 'sea turtles' carried you to Hawaii. How did you get to the shore, smart guy? You reportedly crashed near the south pole."
Magnus shrugged again, as if the answer was obvious. "Well, I'd worn my Heelies that mission, so moving long distance wasn't really an iss—"
Rex slammed his hands on the table, and stood, grabbing up all the case file. "Fuck it! Fuck you!" He pointed to Kensington. "Fuck me! Fuck you all, and fuck your shit!" He stomped out of the room, slamming the door.
Kensington sat blinking. He looked at Magnus, confused. "What the hell did I do…?"
Magnus looked up from his phone, and shrugged. "Whatever. I told him everything I could about every single event. Not my fault he didn't believe me."
Kensington shrugged, and stood. "True. I'll catch you later Magnus."
Magnus waved vaguely. "Later bro."
Dr Kensington adjusted his glasses and walked out of the office, passing through the Ancillary wing in to the main facility grounds. He pulled out his phone, swiping a few times, looking up the map of the facility, idly pressing here and there.
He dipped his hand in to his pocket, and pulled out a tiny bottle labeled "Hand Sanitizer", squirting a bit on his right hand, rubbing it into his palm, and forearm.
Kensington followed the map to the wing labeled 'Intelligence'. He walked in to the main reception area, and called out: "'Scuse me? I'm looking for Agent Donnarson?"
An older balding man scooted his chair back out of the nearest cubicle. "Third office on the back wall. Name's on the door."
Kensington nodded, with a smile. "Thankya." He took a dozen steps to end up in front of the door to Rex's office. He hesitated a moment, and knocked.
"Come in," the agent's voice called out.
Kensington braced himself, and walked in. Agent Donnarson sat at his desk, typing away at a laptop, several stacks of documents on his desk, as well as the case file he and Magnus had fought over. He put on a sunny smile, and tried to sound cheerful, "Hey, Rex. I just wanted to say sorry about Magnus before. He's… flippant, but he's good at what he does."
Rex narrowed his eyes and sighed. "Oh. Doctor Kensington, wasn't it? It's fine. I'll report this, and my boss will probably order a full investigation. We'll get to the bottom of this." Kensington's neck involuntarily tightened, and he sighed internally.
He held out his right hand. "Just call me Kens. No hard feelings?"
Rex stood after a moment, and walked over. "No hard feelings." He took Kensington's hand in a firm grip.
Kensington's left hand moved to the bracelet on his right, touching the small stud. A barely perceptible swoosh of air escaped the heavy clasp. Rex's eyes fluttered for a moment as the Class B amnestic took hold through the topical.
"Hey, it's no biggie. This is all classified anyway, right? Don't worry about it. There's no need for a formal investigation. It's all just as Magnus said."
Rex's eyes fluttered for a moment more, before mumbling out: "But… who classified it?"
Kensington looked him dead in the eye. "O5-2." He released his hand, casually peeling away the flesh tone polymer covering his palm, and forearm, dropping it in to Rex's trashcan where it turned into less than fifty grams of unidentifiable gray dust. He turned, leaving the office, and out to the main research wing, his face an inscrutable mask.

Dimensional Site 4, April 20, 2017
The small transparent case in front of O5-2 crackled with whorls of light, which she knew her brain interpreted as colored purple, for lack of a way to really interpret the sixth dimensional distortions.
"When?"
The technician beside her lifted a squarish device. "Soon."
O5-2 glanced down at her watch. 11:59 PM. The plane had gone down less than 20 minutes ago, and he should be emerging any moment.
The technician looked at the Overseer. "Hume readings increasing."
The bones in front of her in the clear plastic case vibrated slightly, moving forward, a purplish after image emerging out from the case. A series of unpleasant flashes depicted the after image slowly coating in fibrous muscles, nerves, eventually skin, tissues, hair… even clothing.
Dr. Michael Magnus fell to the ground in front of O5-2, the last of his screams fading into the chamber.
O5-2 took a step forward. "Welcome back again, Michael."
Dr. Magnus' bloodshot eyes lifted from the floor to hers, terror filling them, the pain slowly receding.
O5-2 smiled, and handed him a typewritten report. On it was more insanity and gibberish about sea turtles. "Why? Why do you keep making me do this?"
She tilted her head slightly. "Simple, Michael. You were a liar when you were just a Foundation employee, and everyone thinks you're just a liar now. And, frankly, you were the only personnel at the right time, who was expendable enough to qualify. What do you say if anyone presses you for what happened, and won't take that for an answer?"
Magnus skimmed the sheet a few more times, before rising to his feet. With a heavy sigh, he repeated the words that had been drilled in to his head death after death after death, "Legends never die. Where are you putting me back this time?"
O5-2 nodded to the door. "Just outside of Site-27. A little over twelve hours from the current chronographic time. You know the routine, Michael. The evidence has already been back-filled in to reality."
Magnus' head hung down. "Fine. What happened to the anomaly?"
O5-2 smiled slightly, "We're not sure. You've never died so close to a reality bending object before. We're still investigating what happened."
Magnus took a shaky step towards the door on the far wall, opening it, to reveal a peaceful island scene. Hawaii, home of Site-27. "Answer me this. Is it worth it?"
O5-2 thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yes. Completely. You've seen the combat reports from the Senior Research staff, yourself."
Magnus grimaced. "So be it." Then he stepped through the door, out of his own personal hell, and into the salt air of paradise.

« When All You Have is a Hammer | HUB | SCP-3621 »


Drone in place. Sensors are green. Readings stable.
ROGER, MOBILE STATION. CONFIRMATION TO DRILL.
Confirmation received. Drilling now. We're getting more resistance than expected. Estimated Mohs coming in high.
ROGER, MOBILE STATION. READ YOUR SEISMOLOGY.
We're running zero.
ROGER; YOU ARE CONFIRMED TO PROCEED SO LONG AS READINGS ARE STABLE.
Drone is progressing into the object. Drill is optimal.

Drill has entered the object. Repeat. Object is hollow; gas present. Possibly air, reading nontoxic. We have minimal spatial distortion. Tether is holding steady. Zero pull.
ROGER THAT. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION.
Activating pulley; lowering drone.

We have slack on the tether. Drone is on level footing. Descent depth approximately 39 meters. Activating low-light vision.
ROGER. DO YOU HAVE VISUAL OF INSIDE THE OBJECT?
Yes. Low-light is returning images of a building at the approximate center of the object.
PLEASE REPEAT MOBILE STATION, DID YOU SAY “BUILDING”?
Affirmative. Two-story, residential appearance, at least one tree on either side. Ground is soil, plant, dead plant. Likely grass. The entire interior has the appearance of a residential building plot. Building, tree, lawn. All plant life is dead, building is in disrepair… Are you receiving this central command?
NEGATIVE. IMAGES ARE STILL IN INFOHAZARD PROTECTION. STANDBY.

IMAGES RECEIVED. WE CAN CONFIRM THAT DESCRIPTION MOBILE CONTROL
Roger. Drone to proceed clockwise around the structure.
PROCEED AT YOUR DISCRETION
Drone is proceeding without difficulty. Rear left area of the house severely damaged. Initial impressions are of an explosion; burn marks are present, wall is in pieces… We have visual on inside the building. Room contains remnants of a couch, cabinet, household furniture. Geometry is stable. Room contains a structure in the approximate center.
PLEASE ELABORATE MOBILE STATION
Structure appears to be a statue, black. Possibly made of obsidian, stone. Statue depicts two humanoids, one average height, male, the other about half height, likely a child. Man holds a stone tablet, child appears to have been depicted falling backwards.
DESCRIPTION RECIEVED. PLEASE CONTINUE WHILE IMAGES ARE PROCESSING
The surface of the structure is smooth, not clearly deteriorated or dirty. Stone slab is of a different material, apparently just stone. Engraving is visible; it is written in English.
YOU HAVE CONFIRMATION TO REPEAT TEXT: ANTI-HAZARDS ARE FUNCTIONING NORMALLY
Roger. Repeating text: "[DATA EXPUNGED]"
HAVE YOU DETECTED ANY OTHER ABNORMALITIES
No, Central Control. Readings are stable.

Do we have confirmation to continue exploring the anomaly?
NEGATIVE, MOBILE CONTROL, INITIATE A FULL EXTRACTION
Roger Central Control. Drone is moving for extraction. Pulley is prepped. Removal initiated. Pull is solid, no interference, should reach surface in T-1 minute.
ROGER, OVER AND OUT

"Yes, and?"
Agent Carter sat in stunned silence. "And?! What?"
Agent Henderson was slightly confused. "What?"
"I'm not getting this."
Agent Carter compulsively pulled his hair back. "Everything about it is wrong!"
Agent Henderson stood up from the computer monitor. "Well okay, it's not strictly by the book, but what do you suggest?"
Carter paused, almost as if for effect. "It's twenty-fourty-six."
Henderson paused. "What?"
"I mean, twenty-four-fourty-six. It's the corpse thing! The reality bender!"
Henderson put his fingers to his lips, processing this information. "We don't know that it's a reality bender."
"It's so obviously a reality bender!"
Henderson raised a finger. "There is nothing connecting these two cases, except the location."
"Oh, no yeah, totally. Something spontaneously appears in San Jose, without warning or alert, inside of the ground. It's connected."
"Underneath San Jose."
"Underneath San Jose, yes."
"Also, based on the description, it was hollow. 2446 manifests inside matter without moving it. They're completely different appearances."
"He could have moved all the dirt and then transported the sphere."
"So you're suggesting the 'reality bender' we don't know exists did this for… Why?"
Carter was silent. "I don't know, but it could be anything, and that statue and that house definitely have to do with why."
"It kind of has to."
"It has to!"
"Look," Henderson put a hand on Carter's shoulder. "I very much appreciate you looking into potentially connected anomalies, but you're going to go mad looking for connections that aren't there. What does the format of the document even have to do with this? Do you think the reality bender took over central?"
"Halfway through they stop ending with punctuation. I've submitted elaboration requests on these docs, but they've been rejected. We still don't even know what twenty-four-fourty-six is!"
"We know what it is."
"No, we don't. We don't know what the bodies are, but the containment procedures have something to do with us!"
"Is it a conspiracy?"
Carter was taken aback. "I mean… It has to be. There has to be more here, more that we aren't privy to. We haven't been told anything."
"We're being told what we need to know. I'm sure we'll be briefed on 2446 when we need to be. I'll put in my own request on this doc, but for the time being, just don't worry about it."
Carter sighed. "Okay. I'll try to put it out of my mind."
"Thank you. Now, go work."
Carter stepped out of his superior's office. He looked back before leaving around a corner in the hall.
Henderson was disappointed in himself. Sitting behind him was the topic of his previous conversation. "That's very upstanding of you, agent. Sparing his feelings."
"Please… Don't talk to me, now."
"Tut tut tut, how very unladylike."
Henderson closed his eyes. Every time they talked, he felt ashamed. "What did you have to do with that record?"
"Doesn't matter."
Henderson gritted his teeth. "It kind of does matter."
"Don't worry about it. I just… Gave a little hand, in the record keeping."
"Why are you here now?"
"What? I can't stop by one of my very best friends?"
Henderson wanted to bite someone's nose off. "Who was it that said we don't negotiate with terrorists?"
"You always say that."
Henderson turned around. "I've never said that before."
Charles Hull leaned forward and smiled. "You always say that."
Then he was gone. Henderson sat down and tried to forget.

« 2525 North Waterworks St. | A Man Beyond Himself | Assured Loss of Life »


Ilias Kantos was going to get some fucking answers.
Three days. Three days since his world had been shredded. Three days since they'd put him in this call-it-anything-but-a-cell. Three days since he'd last seen Cipher. And in that time he'd learned exactly nothing. No idea why he was here, or who these people claiming to be the Foundation were, or how the fuck he had been partnered up with a goddamn reality bender to bodyguard a missing O5.
They kept telling him he wasn't a prisoner, something he'd have been inclined to believe if there wasn't a tail on him every time he left his quarters. It was difficult to spot among the heavy traffic of the Site 19 hallways, but at this point checking was as natural to Kantos as carrying a weapon, and they weren't trying very hard not to be seen. Or if they were, they were really bad at it. They stayed a constant 10 meters back, matching Kantos' speed exactly. He suspected it was more for show than anything else.
His mind still reeled a bit as he stepped into the hallways of Site 19. Every other the site he'd been unobtrusive, out of the way. Tucked underground or hidden inside some abandoned office building or just too far in the middle of nowhere for anyone to give a damn it existed. Even the largest facilities he'd worked at hadn't had more than a thousand people working in them. Here, he passed that many on the way to the mess hall. Walking through the facility was like navigating a New York sidewalk. The map of the sub-wing of the floor he was staying on looked like it could hold every site he'd worked at once with room for a new research wing besides.
Size aside, it wasn't too different from any other Foundation facility he'd worked in. The same undecorated, blindingly-white walls and harsh lighting. None of the rooms in the hallway or on the map were named. It was just “research lab 14.07”, “administrative office 4.001”. Standard Foundation security measures. Made it difficult to navigate if you didn't know where you were going, but not impossible. Like all field work, it came down to recognizing the pattern. He tried to look aimless as he walked through the halls, like a restless guest just going out to stretch his legs. But his eyes darted from person to person, noting everyone he passed, evaluating, cataloging. He stopped briefly in the mess hall, observing the flow of traffic through the five entrances. Watching the patterns begin to form.
He didn't know what he was looking for. But that wasn't important. What was important was the looking. Sifting through the details until what looked like noise revealed itself as something more. He tossed the rest of the Jell-o and set out into the hallways. Hopefully to his tail his route would look like mindless wandering. But the route he'd planned, though circuitous, would eventually take him through every bit of the wing.
And slowly, the pieces came together. A picture began to form, one that had been hinted in the map and was now displaying itself in full. He saw it in the way people turned their heads when they walked. In the way traffic flowed to avoid certain sections of the wing. In the expressions of the guards as they watched the scientists and agents. It took another two days of observation to confirm, but then he was sure of it. None of these people were real.

A fly crawled across the ceiling. Donna Cipher, who had once been known as Emily Vakes, watched it as she lay on the bed. She waved her hand and erased it from existence. She flexed her wrist again, and it reappeared, crawling along as if it had never left. Seventeen years since she'd used her abilities, and they still felt as casual as swatting a bug. But why wouldn't they? They were as much a part of her as sight or smell or taste in others. She'd spent so long trying to ignore them, but they'd always remained. Waiting for this day.
Whoever these people were, who called themselves the Foundation, were putting on a big show of trust. Taking the color off. Saying she could do as she wished. All fake. If she actually tried anything, they probably had a dozen stopgaps in place to separate her brain stem from her skull in a millisecond. At least, the real Foundation would. And though these people were pretenders, they seemed to be doing a good job of it.
The room they'd given her was nice. Clean carpet. Queen sized bed. A well-stocked bookshelf next to a nice desk. It was the type of room you only gave to someone as a symbolic gesture. Cipher hated it. After twenty-six years of operating with the Coalition and Foundation, anything more comfortable than Motel Six made her suspicious.
The door opened. The woman from the car strode in. Sam, as she'd introduced herself. She smiled at Cipher. For a second, Cipher considered just unmaking her. Sure, she probably wouldn't live another eyeblink if she did. But that moment in time would be satisfying as hell. Still. Probably not worth it. She settled for an annoyed sounding grunt.
“I hope your accommodations are to your satisfaction,” said Sam.
“I hope that isn't a serious statement,” said Cipher.
Sam laughed in a way that sounded practiced. “We care about your comfort, Emily. We want you to understand we don't mean you any harm.”
“What about O5-4? Is what that what you told her before you killed her?”
“We didn't kill her, Emily.” Sam pulled the chair from the desk and sat across from Cipher, legs crossed.
“So who did?”
“O5-7.”
“Bullshit.” Cipher watched the woman's expression. She had a damn good poker face. Her muscles didn't even flinch as she stared back.
“It isn't, and I'm sure he'd be happy to tell you himself, when the time comes.” Sam's eyes darted over Cipher. Cipher wandered what she was watching for. Suddenly, the woman's expression hardened. “Don't try to pretend you're a woman with loyalties.”
“Excuse me?”
“You worked for the Coalition because they could keep you from being consumed by your own power. And when they turned on you, you fled for the Foundation. That's what you do. That's what you are.”
“This is you asking me for help? It's not a great strategy.”
“I'm making sure we understand each other.”
Cipher stood, took a few steps towards the door. “And what happens once we understand each other?”
“Then we can fight the real enemy.” Sam pointed at the bed. “Sit down, please. I want to tell you a story. So you understand just what the stakes are.”
She said it like it was a choice. Cipher sat. Sam began to speak.
When she was finished, Cipher knew the world would never be the same.

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This was more than he'd signed up for. The New Agent Manual - SCP Object Classification Standard listed Keter as the most dangerous type of object. They eat, kill, and drive people crazy. If left unchecked long enough, they could destroy the world. T.D was supposed to go decommission a keter today. First, though, he answered his supervisor's insane question.
"Uh, according to the documents SCP-3542 is a memetic reality-bending hostile object. Possibly Abrahamic. It says here that it 'disappeared' two dozen D-Class death squads and three fully armored decommission machine squads."
The supervisor remained impassive. "That's correct. The Squads were, ironically, about to be decommissioned anyway so it saved us some processing costs."
T.D. fumbled with the security ID hanging by his side. It gave him a level 1 security clearance. He'd been recruited as a specialist. He'd been training for a year. He had life insurance, year-end reward goals, and retirement benefits. This sort of thing happened to D-Class didn't it? Why were they doing this to him?
"So, I am going to deal with this on my own. With a shotgun."
"Yes. Standard issue for this kind of work. If you're worried you can requisition heavier equipment. I wouldn't though; any damage comes out of your paycheck."
T.D. didn't respond.
The supervisor smiled for a moment. "Look. This is your first assignment, and you need to trust that we know what we're doing. It's fine to be little worried. That shows you're ready for this. When I did my first decommission I had to kill a fucking sea monster. But you'll figure out pretty quickly that the classification is less important than the rating. Yes. This is a Keter object. Be careful. But it's also got a negative rating."
T.D. nodded along as his supervisor continued.
"Look." The supervisor pulled a thick book from the top drawer of his desk and tossed it to T.D. "Open that to page 88, start on the 2nd paragraph."

New Agent Manual - SCP Object Rating Standard
To analyze if information relating to SCP Objects attracts roughly consistent positive evaluation from observers, the Foundation has established the "Ratings System" for all anomalous objects incorporated into our mainlist. As mentioned in the New Personnel Guide, the existence of the anomalous has a direct relationship with a high evaluation from the Foundation itself. Essentially, how positively the Foundation views an object has a directly determinative effect on the object's permanence.
This connection is not currently fully understood, but has shown its veracity in all cases. No exceptions to this rule have been detected. For this reason the Foundation holds a significant advantage over other GOIs. We exist as the inherent judges of the anomalous. If other groups or persons wish to utilize anomalous creations or discoveries, those objects must either remain outside of the Foundation's knowledge (and therefore have little effect on the world at large) or be subject to this evaluation effect.
As a result, an SCP Object's rating is an integral part of an object's containment. Ensuring higher ratings will ensure the continued existence of and (generally) containment of an object. For an object which is highly dangerous and/or difficult to contain, a lower rating is a safe and effective method of neutralization.
The Foundation Ratings Committee is in charge of this evaluation task. Current rating procedures ensure that contained SCP Objects are not interfered with by any organization or individuals. While evaluation can theoretically be carried out by any group of 10 or more foundation staff, the ratings committee are the only personnel allowed to assign evaluations to an object.
After an object's anomalous nature and danger level is determined, the Foundation Ratings Committee will begin their evaluation of an object. In principle, the committee will evaluate the object's value to the Foundation. All objects receiving a negative rating from the Ratings Committee may be ignored or eliminated dependent on the level of danger they represent. All Keter level objects are to be neutralized within 48 hours.
The Foundation Ratings Committee standards are as follows:
Negative — More members of the committee than not have given this object an unfavorable evaluation.
Positive — More members of the committee than not have given this object a favorable evaluation.
Highly Positive — More than two thirds of the committee members have given this object a positive evaluation. Note: Outside of procedures already carried out prior to evaluation, these objects do not appear to be susceptible to neutralization.
Heritage — Special rating. All objects in this ratings class are added to the heritage list. These objects will not and cannot be neutralized.
All Foundation personnel who wish to join the Ratings Committee must possess a level 3 security rating and at least 5 years of service to the foundation. Ratings Committee members are required to adhere to a strict set of rules that will be outlined upon your application. If you're interested in joining the Ratings Committee please inquire with your supervisor or with the committee directly.

T.D. handed the book back to his supervisor without a word. T.D. had already read this a dozen times. It didn't make him feel any better.
His supervisor leaned back in his chair. "I remember my first mission. A green octopus a few thousand meters long was casting some sort of ‘dark magic' on the Three Gorges Dam. It could talk but all I remember it saying was 'fuckton, fuckton!' over and over."
T.D. cocked his head to the side. "Wait that sounds like-"
T.D's supervisor nodded. "One and the same. The Ratings Committee call those 'Pop Culture Resemblance' and it's basically a death sentence for the object. Sometimes they can last, if they've got a good tie in to a particular culture or ancient myths. We've even had basic pop culture ripoffs that lasted because they had a touching backstory. Lucky for me, this one was about as bland as it gets. One 9mm round to the head and it was all over. I read a report once about a man-eating giant that one agent took out with a single kick to the groin."
The expression on T.D.'s face was one of disbelief.
"You're still pretty new though so, uh, use the shotgun we gave you. This is cleanup work, I promise. It only looks scary."

T.D. came trudging back into his supervisors office with his eyes wide.
"Hey." The supervisor began. "You use the gun?"
"No." T.D. slumped down in the chair opposite the older man.
"Figured as much. What happened?"
"It was an angel. I… I think. Twenty wings, six arms, three faces. It was screaming like you wouldn't believe but I couldn't make out a word. The thing had these blue swords that looked impossibly sharp. When it saw me these weird golden things came up out of the ground and started to fly around me. I thought it was over."
"Yeah?"
"It turned and screamed at me. This white hot fire flew out of its mouth and in my direction. My instinct said I'd have one shot at this. I threw the gun down and ran straight at it."
"And then?"
"I punched it in the face. The whole thing shattered into a million pieces that disintegrated into nothing before they even hit the ground."
T.D.'s supervisor nodded. "So we'll call that your first successful decommission." His supervisor stood up from his chair and grabbed his coat. "Come on. Let's go celebrate."

"Are we gods?" T.D. moved the food on his plate around into various shapes.
"Sure." The supervisor nodded his head. "And we're the good guys. We still don't know why it's like this, but it doesn't really matter as long as we stay in charge."
"But the world could end based on how much we like an object? And every other group and person just has to live with that?"
"Basically. I mean most shitty objects are just dangerous. Violence is all they really have going for them. If they're actually interesting then you gotta be careful."
"What's the standard?"
"If you prefer to pretend there is a standard it's 'you think this is great'. But it's not a fully qualitative judgement. There are intangibles to consider. The Ratings Committee only exists so we can record these judgements, not so we can create our own standards. If there were basic standards 682 would fail them all. But it's still there and unkillable."
The supervisor sipped on a cup of tea before continuing. "And sometimes an object is incredibly useful to us somehow and we'd like to keep it. Think about the perpetual motion machine, the spring of rejuvenation, and the Panacea. Their value to us is self-evident, yet some of my strictest colleagues hate them anyway."
T.D. nodded along. "That's why the Panacea is on the heritage list?"
"It's a bit more complicated than that," the supervisor responded, "but that's the short version, yeah."
"What's the long version?"
"We can't force people to like an object. But if you add a good story or two as an addendum, well, suddenly the object has a better chance of surviving. Like, take SCP-500. Like you said it's useful and on the heritage list. When it was first being evaluated it wasn't exactly winning people's hearts. At the same time Agent A.A and Iris had just dealt with two Keters and were both pretty miserable.
"The O5's had a big ceremony. Gave them the 'Star of the Foundation' and plenty of public praise. Then the two 'heroes' came in and took two pills for themselves. It started an investigation and got the Ethics Committee and O5 council involved in a shouting match. It was all very dramatic. Most importantly it was all very exciting. That was enough to get SCP-500 on the heritage list."
"So are they heroes or just pawns?"
"Both."
The supervisor paused as his cellphone dinged. The man looked at the phone for a few moments and dismissed the text message. "Back to work. There's an X-Man with fire, ice, and mind control powers hypnotizing girls and making them attack other civilians at a nearby college."
"Again? I just got back."
"When I had your job I personally dealt with like four Mary Sues a day, and I did it bare-handed. Finish your waffles and get back to work. It's up to you if you wanna bring the shotgun."