“I-I-I just can't. You can't make me.”
Anguis Salvia leaned back in his seat, tapping a pen against his notepad. The interview room was a comfortable looking space, with neutral colors and no tables or clocks, just a pair of old leather chairs and a wide-screen TV showing a crackling fire. Functional enough for a psychotherapist's office, even if it was a shallow disguise.
“I can't force you to say anything, Jason. We're only here to talk about what you want to talk about.”
Jason Snodgrass, a Level 4 Operator, put his head in his hands and tried to tuck all three in-between his knees. “I-It's been a y-year and I c-can't stop! I have panic attacks. I can't s-sleep. I stutter all the time now! I never used to st-tutter!”
“Take a long, controlling breath,” Salvia said. “It'll help.”
Jason took several desperate gulps of air. “N-no, you d-don't understand, it's all worse, it's getting worse!”
“Since last year?”
Tearful eyes met Salvia's. “Y-you were there! You lost it!” His eyes darted down to Salvia's feet.
“We all lost something that day.”
“Not everyone!” Jason snapped. “I did, and Amy and Shu and that Latino asshole who always had Coronas at lunch. Everyone but you! Fuck's sake, Doc, look at you!”
Salvia held up a calming hand. “I-”
Jason shot to his feet. “But you didn't lose anything! All of us, it didn't just hurt us! It reached in and took something away! Something that made us whole! He took it from us, but he left you alone! Why?!”
The door flew open. A pair of fridge-sized men in cheap black suits appeared and rushed at Jason.
“Woah, woah!” Salvia said.
“Get away from me!” Jason shouted at them, swinging his fists at the empty air.
Alex and Trebek—names Salvia gave them because of their matching mustaches—moved with the practiced ease of professional orderlies. They pinned Jason down, bound his hands in plastic zip-wire and hauled him out, all the while Jason screamed at the top of his lungs.
A moment later Trebek gorilla'ed his way back into the room. “You alright, Doc?”
Salvia tugged off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “This aggression will not stand, man.”
“He was getting violent. Regulations.”
“I can't earn his trust if you hired goons are gonna drag him away every session.”
Trebek's only response was a wordless grunt. He squeezed himself back out the door after his companion.
Alone with his thoughts, Salvia scanned over his notes.
Private-Ryan Sybil Isaac-Clarke Movie-Night.
All code, of course. A patient getting a hold of his notes would be less upset to see random words than “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder” (Private Ryan), “Mood Swings” (Sybil), “Survivor Guilt” (Isaac Clarke), and “Blame Projection” (Movie Night).
Pretty cut and dry, really. Jason was sinking into the deep end. Under normal circumstances, he would be recommended for a stay at a mental healthcare facility, to focus his attention on improving full-time.
But this was the Foundation. Its business was the extra-natural, and its currency was madness. Pragmatic efficiency was considered the only way to deal with the "loose change." The thought made Salvia grimace.
He stood, nearly tripping as his prosthetic slid out from under his right knee. With a bit of effort he wiggled it back into place. Leaning on his wooden, snake-headed cane, he headed for the door.
The therapist's office outside was all blank white walls and grey office carpeting. There was a minimum of aesthetic comfort, designed to keep people focused on their work.
Maria, the receptionist, gave Salvia a sympathetic look. “Wow, huh?”
“Wow, yeah. They taking him upstairs?”
“Probably.”
Salvia sighed, patting his pockets. “Gimme a renewal form.”
Maria handed him the documents and Salvia started down the hall.
“You want me to cancel two o'clock?” She asked after him.
“Yeah,” Salvia said. “Rebook for three.”
“You got it, Doc.”
Salvia wandered the maze of narrow hallways. Site 17's non-research Level 3 Staff were mostly confined to what Salvia thought of as the “Office Complex” floor, which was closer to the surface than the research and containment levels he knew were somewhere far below.
A woman's voice called out to him. “Anguis, I just saw Jason.”
Salvia turned to greet Johanson, one of his fellow psychologists in the Office Complex. Her hands were tucked into the white lab coat she wore when she was preparing pharmaceuticals.
“Took him upstairs?” Salvia asked.
“Yeah. He was shouting about you.”
“He's still having trouble with what happened.”
“Him and almost everyone,” Johanson said. She let the statement hang in the air like a question.
Salvia considered her for a moment, then walked away.
“Shu is up to five pills a day just to get to sleep at night. How do you handle it, Anguis?” Johanson asked.
“White Russians and pizza on Fridays,” Salvia responded.
“What?”
“Comfort in ritual, Sarah.”
He reached his private office and shut the door behind him. The scent of old cigarette smoke and cheap pine air fresheners greeted him. The office wasn't much bigger than a child's bedroom, dominated by a cluttered desk and a couple of filing cabinets. Unlike the hallways outside, Salvia kept a lot of personal trappings on the walls, most of which were pinup girls from a tattoo magazine thumb-tacked above his door.
He swept his hands over the desk and found a pack of cigarettes. “Foundation's Finest” was written on one side. Instead of a picture of lung cancer or a tracheotomy scar to dissuade smokers from their habit, the pack had a photo of a Foundation agent with a missing arm and a torso covered in bloody gashes. His eyes seemed to be accusing the photographer of the deed.
Vigilance Always was the warning caption written in bold white, and below it in gold: Secure, Contain, Protect.
Salvia stared at the picture and tucked a cigarette between his lips. His stainless steel Zippo, marked with the emblem of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, sat atop his pile of “To Do” papers. He flicked it open and lit up while he sank into his chair.
When he held out his hands, they were shaking. He watched them, expressionless, then picked up his cane, pretending to inspect it. The snake-head pommel's plastic ruby eyes stared back at him, jaws wide and blunt fangs bared.
When his cigarette had burned down to a nub, he mashed it into the ashtray and set Jason's papers in front of him. Request for Level A Cognitive Renewal was written at the top, the Foundation's not-so-clever code for “erase this guy's memories.”
It wasn't like it was a rare procedure, Salvia told himself. He didn't know the history, but at some point in early 20th century the Foundation had gotten its hand on some pretty efficient chemical substances that could selectively erase memories. Nothing like "forget dad” or “forget math” or anything, but if you wanted to forget a day, a month, a year, the Foundation had you covered. Salvia had never seen the stuff himself, but his colleagues all agreed it had to be some kind of needle, because exposed subjects were up and about in less than a day. Salvia wasn't so sure about that. He'd seen A Clockwork Orange, and he was a psychologist. The brain didn't necessarily store memories in chronological order.
Didn't matter. The Foundation had it and used it, frequently. Destroyed who you were now and returned you to who you were then. Hard to imagine. Scary even.
Salvia was about to sign his name on the paper, but he felt dirty somehow in doing it. How easy it would be to just wipe away Jason's bad dreams. Too easy. How many so-called psychotherapists in this office had shipped off hurting men and women to the brain-drain? How many in the Foundation had turned their job into a cold, mechanical assembly line? “Doc, I'm hurting,” “Here, lemme wipe your memories.”
How easy.
“-reached into us and took something away!” Jason's words echoed in Salvia's mind.
Something that made us whole.
But he left you alone.
Salvia worked the prosthetic under his knee. “Whole is a matter of perspective, man.”
The walls shuddered, and his office fell into darkness. Moments later emergency lights cast a weak red glow over his desk and the distant wail of alarm klaxons rang out in the hallways.
Salvia froze, his pen hovering over the signature line. Somewhere upstairs he heard the pop-pop of gunfire and angry voices shouting orders.
He went out into the hallway, which was similarly dark. Johanson came out of her office further down the hall, looking perplexed and scared.
Then Alex and Trebek rumbled past them, gripping pistols in their meaty fists.
“Indoors,” Alex said with military crispness. “Security lockdown people, so get in and lock down. We'll signal you when it's clear.”
“What's going on?” Johanson asked, "I hear gunfire!" But the goons kept on their way without looking back.
“And a shudder ‘fore the lights went out,” Salvia agreed. He felt a tinge of nervousness creep down his spine. He fished out another cigarette.
“What do we do?”
“What they say, I guess,” Salvia said. He patted himself down but he'd left the Zippo on his desk. He went back into his office. The gunfire outside was muffled through the door, making the room eerily quiet. The lighter wasn't on his desk. Where'd it go? He sat down and started pulling open the desk drawers.
Tap-tap-tap.
Salvia jumped. “Yeah, hello?”
The door opened, and a short man in a dapper black suit and a bowler hat entered. He carried an umbrella in one hand, neatly bound and with a toucan-headed pommel. Salvia was stricken by the resemblance the man had to the actor Toby Jones.
“Good day,” the man said. His voice carried a careful British inflection.
Salvia's mind tried, but failed to build a coherent reason for a well-dressed man with a funny umbrella to step into his office during raid. “Uh,” came his logical reply.
“I don't have an appointment, but would you have a spot available for me?”
Salvia sank into his seat. An appointment? “Uh, who-?”
“Who am I?”
“Right?”
“A Gentleman.” He tipped his hat and approached the desk. “Forgive the enigmas, but my schedule is a bit rushed as of late. You are Doctor Anguis Salvia, correct?”
“I am?” Salvia asked. He gave his head a shake. “Uh, yeah. I um, yeah. Sorry. The office is a bit hectic today.” He gestured at the door.
The Gentleman—and Salvia suspected the capitalization was proper—laughed, an honest if practiced gesture. “Not at all. That's part of the reason why I'm here.”
“Oh?” Salvia asked. He opened his drawers for another look inside. “You're here, because of that?”
“No and yes,” the Gentleman said. “Not my doing of course, I had hoped to approach you under calmer circumstances. Are you looking for your cane?”
Salvia glanced up at him. “A light.”
The Gentleman reached into his coat and withdrew a long wooden match. “I'm not particular to ignition fluids. Matches preserve the flavor of the tobacco. But I confess I may simply be biased.”
Salvia leaned forward to take the match, but it hissed and ignited before his eyes. He licked his lips, lit the cigarette, and took a long puff to steady his shaking hands. The fire danced in the Gentleman's smiling eyes.
“Better?”
“Comfort in ritual, man.” Salvia said.
“Indeed.”
“You ah, aren't with the Foundation?” Salvia asked. He wondered if the phones were still working. Could he call security if he had to?
“No, but my companions do work with them from time to time, in high places.” The Gentleman withdrew a smoking pipe from his coat and put it to his teeth. The match—still lit—sparked the tobacco within and Salvia caught the scent of fine-aged leaf. It made his own cigarette taste like the bitter, factory-processed coffin nail it was.
The two smoked in silence for a minute, blocking out the uncertain world around them. Finally Salvia sat up. “Maybe you should tell me why you're here.”
The Gentleman puffed a smoke ring into the air. “I like your cane.”
“Made it myself.”
“In China? I noticed the debossing.”
“Part of the joke,” Salvia said.
“Of course. I need a psychotherapist.”
“Strange place to find one.”
“Yet here you are.”
“A lot of them are better than me. Even in this facility.”
“I know,” the Gentleman said. “Though perhaps not at qualified. I know of your record, Doctor. You've passed up opportunities for advancement before. Your most recent promotion after the, ah, unpleasantness last year, was not due to your own efforts. You recognize this, of course?”
“They want to keep an eye on anyone exposed to last year's breach.” Salvia said.
“No and yes. But that is semantics. Your current position cannot be very rewarding.”
“Puts food on my plate.”
The Gentleman smiled. “I admire your capacity to find contentment in your means. Raw ambition—power for its own sake—is best suited to capitalists and warlords. It's unbefitting of a gentleman.”
Salvia nodded. “Far out.”
A loud boom—louder than gunfire or thunder—rang out. The Gentleman pursed his lips, reached into his pocket and produced a silver watch.
“What's going on?” Salvia asked.
“The consequences of ambition,” the Gentleman said. “Dr. Salvia, I ask for a moment of your time. If you would come with me-”
“We can't go out there.”
“Of course you can. I know the way, and I promise you we'll be there and back with time to spare. Perhaps all this unpleasantness will have sorted itself out by then. Shall we?”
“Where are we going?”
Someone ran by Salvia's door, screaming in pain. More gunfire followed after him.
"Away from the danger, I can promise you that. I can't guarantee the same if we stay.”
Salvia weighed his options and stood. “Alright, but you'd better not expect me to run anywhere.” He tapped the cane against his prosthetic.
“Nothing you can't handle,” the Gentleman promised. “Keep that cane close.”
He opened the door and strode out without a pause. The hallway smelled of gunsmoke. Something dark and wet had splashed the wall, almost black in the emergency lighting.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Truthfully, no, but the odds are in your favor,” the Gentleman said. He fell into a speed walk, towards the distant sounds of gunfire.
Salvia followed, knuckles creaking as he gripped his cane. “What about Johanson and the others?”
"They're safe enough staying put. Quiet as foxes, now.”
They hurried down the hall, passing tell-tale signs of violence. Bullet holes dotted the walls, smoke wafted in the air. Salvia didn't even see the corpse until he stumbled over it. Cursing, he backed himself up against the wall. It was Trebek, staring up at the ceiling, his piercing stare seemed to be accusing it of being insubordinate.
“Jesus, man!”
“Nothing to do for him now,” the Gentleman said. “Keep up, please.”
He went to the end of the hall, stepping around bullet casings and discarded ammo cartridges to a door marked “Custodian.”
“The janitor's closet?” Salvia asked.
The Gentleman reached into his coat and produced a long iron key, the kind used to open doors about a hundred years ago. He set the key—too large to fit any modern keyhole—against the door handle and it swung open with a click. “Coming?”
Salvia blinked at him. “Are you a wizard?”
A gunshot rang out. Salvia felt something zip through his long, unkempt hair and thap against wall.
The Gentleman reached out with his umbrella, hooked Salvia's belt with the pommel's toucan beak, and yanked the surprised psychologist through the door. With a fluid motion, the Gentleman shut the door behind him, nodding as it locked itself.
“That was close.”
“You're not kidding!” Salvia said. “Jesus man, who was that?”
“Serpent's Hand. He can't get in.”
Salvia took a moment to straighten his prosthetic. The room was full of janitorial equipment; buckets, mops and jugs of chemicals in all the colors of the rainbow. The air stank of antiseptics and bleach.
“So now what?” Salvia asked. “We're just gonna hide in here? My office was better, man.”
The Gentleman glanced at his pocket watch. “Timing is everything, Doctor Salvia. Tell me, what do you think of the human race?”
“Is this really the time for existentialism?”
The Gentleman was taken aback by that response, but then he smiled. “Intriguing.”
“Can we go now?” Salvia said. “That Hand-guy might start shooting through the door.”
“Unlikely, but yes, we shall be on our way.” The Gentleman tapped the wall again, and with a shudder it opened, the panels folding into the wall.
Salvia froze. Beyond was another hallway, one he was sure did not exist in Site 17. He knew that, because this hallway had floor-to-ceiling windows on its right side, providing a superb view of a bustling city below.
He shuffled towards the windows. “Is this an illusion?”
“No.”
“You're shitting me.”
“Most assuredly not.”
Salvia turned to face the Gentleman. The closet they'd stepped out of was gone. Behind them there was only more hallway. Salvia gave a yelp and stumbled back, the prosthetic slipped out from under him and he fell to the floor. His cane rolled to a stop at the Gentleman's feet.
Panic rushed through him. This couldn't be right couldn't be right couldn't be—
The Gentleman picked up the cane, admiring it for a moment before resting it on Salvia's chest. “Care for a smoke?”
Salvia's hands gripped the cane like a lifeline. “Hell yes.”
The Gentleman produced a second pipe, smaller than his own, and set it in Salvia's lips. Another self-lighting match appeared, and the Gentleman held it to the pipe while Salvia took a puff. The smoothest tobacco he'd ever tasted filled his lungs.
He sat up with a bit of effort. “Where'd you buy this stuff?”
“I grow it, in my garden.”
“You're good.”
“You're too kind. Comfort in ritual, yes?”
“You haven't laced it with MJ, have you? They test me at least twice a month.”
The Gentleman laughed. “No. Too bitter for my nostrils.”
They smoked for a moment. “How is this possible?” Salvia asked.
“It's a long explanation. And I'm sorry to admit I don't know much more about it than you.”
Salvia swallowed. “I've heard of- I heard talk. About groups like the Foundation. But steeped into shit I don't really pretend to understand. Are you with the Wanderer's Library?”
The Gentleman smirked. “No.”
“Chaos Insurgency?”
“No.”
“Uh… the Factory?”
The Gentleman's smile dropped. “Don't even speak of such things, Doctor Salvia.” There was a cold edge to his voice.
“Uh, sorry?”
“Not your fault. No more questions about that subject. Even asking can draw the answer's attention.”
“So who are you?” Salvia asked.
“A Gentleman.” He smiled.
Salvia sighed. “Alright. So where are we—how did we get here?”
“We are in Chicago. The North American branch of Marshall, Carter and Dark. And we walked here.”
“Jesus,” Salvia said.
“Not to worry. Get your leg on and we'll be off before they know it.”
Salvia worked the prosthetic back into place and struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. “Mind if I keep the pipe for now?”
The Gentleman nodded. “You look like a man in need of fine tobacco.”
The hallway led to an open office floor filled with cubicles. People worked at computers, speaking in hushed tones into headsets. No one looked up when Salvia and the Gentleman entered.
“Hard at work,” the Gentleman said, with an approving nod.
“Aren't these guys, like, the bad guys?” Salvia asked.
“Aren't you?” The Gentleman asked. “Shades of grey, Doctor. Mustn't point fingers.”
“Whatever,” Salvia said. He tried to read what the employees were working on but couldn't make anything out from his distance. It was hard to believe the people before him worked for MC&D. Most of them looked like college interns in sweater vests and cheap ties, not the sharply-dressed Luciferan power-brokers Salvia had come to equate with them.
“This way please,” the Gentleman said.
They hurried along, darting through the rows of cubicles in a seemingly random pattern, but it seemed to Salvia that the Gentleman was leading them to a door marked “Hazelwood.”
Before they reached it Salvia was stopped by a pained scream. Heads appeared above the cubicles like gophers. A chubby young man—no more than twenty, Salvia was sure—clutched his scalp like he was trying to pull his own skin off. He fell, smashing his forehead against his desk before convulsing on the floor.
“Jesus!” Salvia uttered. “He's having a seizure!”
A woman whirled, her eyes huge and frightened. “What? Who are you?”
“Get him on his side!” Salvia barked.
Several employees jumped to, rolling the man over. One of them balling up his jacket into a pillow to support his head.
The Gentleman tapped Salvia's shoulder. “We mustn't tarry, Doctor.”
“But—“
“He'll be fine,” the Gentleman said. “They'll take care of him.”
“I—“
“Doctor please, one can't fix all the world's problems at once. And not to be unkind, but I was here first.”
Salvia frowned, but followed. “Make sure he keeps breathing!” He shouted behind him.
The Gentleman produced his iron key and pressed it to Hazelwood's door, which opened obediently. He stepped in and held the door open for Salvia, who entered a spacious, empty office. The door swung shut and locked behind them.
“Okay, what the hell is going on?” Salvia asked, shaking his cane at the Gentleman. “My brain is blowing its rape whistle, man! Don't tell me that kid just randomly had a seizure!”
The Gentleman held up a hand. “Stay calm. Breathe. Smoke.”
Salvia puffed on his pipe, then pulled it from his mouth. “Are you drugging me or something?”
“I wouldn't do that to the tobacco.”
“Then tell me what's going on.”
“We're almost there,” the Gentleman said. “Our destination will have more answers than I can offer.”
“Where are we going, then? The Wanderer's Library? The Matrix? Fucking Oz, man?”
“Of course not. We're on our way to a Foundation facility, by way of a detour. We're almost there.”
“What facility? Site Nineteen? Site Seventeen?”
“Its designation is classified. I'm sorry, but it's better for your continued employment if you don't know it. ”
“Jesus Christ, you'd get better results with honey than horseshit, man.”
The Gentleman frowned, reaching into his coat and checking his pocket watch. “Calm yourself, and try to mind your manners. Comfort in ritual, Doctor.”
Salvia ran his hand through his hair, pacing in the office. “What caused it?”
“Hm?”
“The seizure,” Salvia said. “You know, don't you?”
“Marshall, Carter and Dark does not deal exclusively with we mere humans. Negotiating with some of their clientele requires a measure of mental fortitude. Or an efficient turnover record.”
“Will he die?”
“I'd say not. He can be easily replaced, but in truth the Firm sees greater advantages in keeping its peons hearty and hale than simply… tossing them to the lions?”
Salvia frowned. “Point made.”
"Good." The Gentleman checked his watch again. “Time to go.”
He went to the window and tapped it with his umbrella. The glass slid easily out of place and dropped out of sight.
“Woah, woah!” Salvia cried as the wind rushed in. Papers went flying from the desk and scattered into the sky.
“Mind the step,” the Gentleman said. He walked off the edge.
“Jesus!” Salvia exclaimed. He went to the edge and looked out. The street was far, far below. He couldn't see any sign of the pane of glass or the Gentleman. “Fuck me. Too heavy. Just too heavy."
He white-knuckled his cane, terrified that if he let go he would just drop out of the world like a video game character caught in a glitch. Fear clawed at him, trying to find purchase and drive him into a panic. There was nothing, nothing out there. He just saw down. And at the end of down, a sudden stop.
“Are you coming?” The Gentleman's voice spoke out from the empty air.
“You've gotta be fucking kidding me,” Salvia replied.
“It's quite safe.”
“Nuts.”
“Doctor, we don't have all day.”
“Says the goddamn wizard. This isn't cool, man!”
“If it helps, there is really no going back from here. Marshall, Carter and Dark will not be pleased to find a Foundation employee in the heart of their operations. The employee benefits are exceptional, but you aren't an employee. And the Foundation will not even know you're here.”
“Friggin' rhino's bargain,” Salvia muttered. “Why not just put a gun to my head?”
“Because one way or another, you already had one to your head when we met. I offered you a way out in exchange for your help.”
“This is why I hate you people!” Salvia said, “The Foundation, the Hand, this fucking office Wolfram and Hart bullshit! And you! Fuckin' Arnim Zola in a bowler hat telling me to leap off a building! The fuck do you think I am? I'm… I'm just a guy, man! I smoke a pack a day, I eat poutine, I watch porn, I order pizza, and I just wanna get through life with a minimum of fucking stress, goddamnit!”
The Gentleman's voice was calm, even amused. “You chose an odd profession for a Dudeist. Please Doctor, I'm in need of your help.”
“Why? What can I possible give you that you can't already do with your key and your hat and your tobacco?”
“Results,” the Gentleman said. “The building's security has been alerted to you. Time to make a choice. I'd rather they didn't find you.”
Salvia swallowed and stared at the streets below. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“One step.”
“That's it?”
“I'm not trying to trick you into suicide, doctor.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Indeed, but it is the truth.”
Someone knocked at the door. "Open up!"
“Doctor?” The Gentleman asked.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck it!”
He jumped.
Then stumbled and landed hard on a metallic floor in an enclosed space, brightly lit from the ceiling above.
“Woah!” Salvia cried. “Woah, woah! I'm fucking sick of falling on my ass already!”
The Gentleman stepped into his view, hands on his umbrella, a smile on his face. “See? Nothing to it.”
“Christ man, don't fucking do that to me!”
As he stood, Salvia's eyes were drawn to the odd welding scars that marked the floor. And he saw more on the walls. Long and curved like talons. The air was heavy and acrid in his nostrils.
“Where are we?” He asked.
“Her chambers,” the Gentleman said.
“Her?”
The wall shuddered, and alarm klaxons began to sound. Panels retracted, exposing a large cylindrical canister.
682 was written on the side in flaking white paint.
“Get behind me, please,” the Gentleman said. “She's shy around newcomers.”
Salvia felt the pipe drop out of his mouth, but his mind was very far away from it.
The canister hissed, and clear tubes connected to it drained away some kind of brackish green fluid. The hatch opened, and the mostly-melted remains of a reptilian thing dropped out onto the floor with a wet slap.
Salvia made a sound, somewhere between a whimper and a scream. His mind seemed to pull at him, trying to drag his consciousness away from what he was looking at. He wanted to run, to cry, to bash his own skull against the wall until his brain broke free.
The Gentleman puffed on his pipe.
The mass of ruined flesh shuddered. What Salvia realized was an exposed lung inflated and deflated, expelling green liquid onto the floor.
Not dead not dead not dead notdeadnotdead—
“We,” Salvia whispered. “Shouldn't be here.”
“No,” the Gentleman agreed, just as quietly. “Try not to speak.”
SCP-682 flexed and shivered, then began to take shape. Flesh darkened, blood—if Salvia could call it that—began to pump from what he assumed were veins. Or maybe he just thought they were. Maybe he was just imagining organs, to make sense of something so wrong that looking at it was harmful otherwise. He thought of the boy in Marshall, Carter and Dark his brain short circuiting just for talking to something humanity hadn't evolved to perceive. He realized somewhere in his mind that he was digging a furrow into his cane with the edge of his thumbnail.
What might be a torso sat up, what were probably arms stretched, and what couldn't be a head turned to regard them both. It tilted to the side, like a puppy considering a strange new sound.
Then it leaped, impossibly fast. Claws reached out for them and then came down on the metallic floor, scratching fresh gouges into it. A guttural sound rumbled from 682's chest. “Disgusting.”
The Gentleman offered a weak smile. “Good evening.”
“Disgusting…” 682 started to pace like a caged animal. If Salvia had been a madman, he could have reached out and brushed its limbs with his fingertips.
“We're trying out best,” the Gentleman said. “Baby steps.”
682 snarled, coughing up something that slapped against Salvia's face. Against all sanity, he let out a whimper. 682 whirled on him, teeth bared. Thick rivulets of saliva oozed from long teeth.
“Please,” the Gentleman said. “He's my guest.”
682 didn't seem to be listening. The moment went on for hours inside Salvia's head. Finally it backed away, and its gaze met his own. Raw hatred pulsed from it, beating at his psyche with all the grace of a machete. Salvia felt his bladder give up the fight.
The Gentleman cleared his throat. “We need access to the Archive.”
682 snarled. “Always. Never. I am not your charge!”
“No,” the Gentleman said. “You are not.”
It paced again, back and forth, back and forth. Finally it turned away from them both. “Go.”
The Gentleman nodded. “Thank you, Lady.”
“Disgusting.”
“Yes. But we're trying.”
682 growled. It crawled towards its canister, muttering to itself.
“There,” the Gentleman said to Salvia. “We can go. A Gentleman does not overstay his welcome.”
He led Salvia—by the hand—towards the door. When Salvia realized this he eagerly fell into step.
“Doctor.” 682's voice rang out in the room. The Gentleman stopped and both men turned to regard it.
“When are you going to let me out of this box?”
The Gentleman licked his lips. “Sooner than you might be ready.”
682 chuffed, but Salvia couldn't tell if it was annoyed or amused. It entered the canister, which sealed shut and began filling with green fluid that sizzled away 682's flesh, even as it relaxed into what looked like a sleeping posture.
“Come along, Anguis,” the Gentleman said. “We're at our destination.” He opened the door and pushed Salvia through.
They found themselves in an empty black void. Salvia's feet were touching something solid, but the sheer feeling of vastness almost stole his breath.
Instead, he fell to his knees and vomited. The Gentleman stood a respectable distance away, patiently waiting as Salvia let up his morning Cheerios.
“A natural reaction, all things considered.”
“Fuck me,” Salvia said. “Do you realize what that thing was?”
“She. And yes. This way.”
Salvia shuddered. He wanted to scream and keep screaming. He pressed the snake-head pommel of his cane to his face, taking several steadying breaths until he could finally will himself to stand.
“Where are we?”
“Elsewhere,” the Gentleman said. “An archive for my companions and I. Think of it as a library for things that shouldn't be. Yet. Or otherwise.”
“What?”
“Exactly. There it is.”
A light came on, a Chinese paper lantern that cast a red glow. Below it was a pedestal made from wood, and atop that a folded piece of paper. The Gentleman came to stand beside it.
“Doctor,” he said, gesturing at the paper. “Would you open this for me?”
Salvia blinked. “Are you… are you shitting me?”
“No.” The Gentleman said. His face was flat, but his tone was heavy with importance.
“You brought me through all that… for this?”
“Yes.”
“That's it? No sword in the stone? No Matrix, no Wonderland… just a fucking piece of paper?”
“Yes. Please.”
Salvia wiped his lips. “I can't take these games anymore, man.”
The Gentleman shook his head. “Anguis, I wouldn't have brought you through all of that, exposed you to all of this, if the task in front of you was a mere matter of physical labor. I asked earlier what you thought of the human race. You said it was a matter of existentialism. You have no idea yet how astute your answer was. Every day the human race must make rational sense of an absurd, irrational world. Today you were exposed to a sample of that truth, a truth so many men—including the Foundation itself—have happily dismissed as imaginative insanity, or deluded themselves into believing they simply lack the scientific language to define.
"But the truth is much deeper. You looked into that truth, Doctor Salvia. Lesser men would be consuming their own fingers at my feet right now, or been a meal for the Lady, or a red smear in afternoon traffic. You watched a man try to sell vacation shares to an entity whose language caused his mind to shut down. You walked hundreds of miles with a single step. You lost your leg during a containment breach more than a year ago, and I'm not speaking of a simple separation of flesh. The being you faced reached into your essence and took a piece of you away. Without that piece, your leg simply ceased. Your young friend Jason Snodgrass was correct. You all lost something, and it is driving Jason and the others to madness because they cannot replace it. Yet you did.”
“Me? How?”
The Gentleman smiled. “I like your cane.” He gestured at the piece of paper.
Salvia let out a long breath. “What's in it?”
“Perspective.”
Salvia came forward to lean over the pedestal. The paper looked innocuous enough. His hands shook as he picked it up and opened it, holding it under the light.
“What do you see?” The Gentleman asked.
Salvia set the paper down. “A recipe for White Russians. And a coupon for pizza.”
The light went out, and the paper vanished. Salvia felt its physical presence fade away. Lost in the labyrinthine everything that was the Gentleman's Archive.
“Very good, Doctor. My name is Bartleby. At your service.” He looked at his pocket watch, which wasn't really a pocket watch. “Just in time. You're fortunate.”
“Why?”
“Round pegs don't fit square holes,” Bartleby said. “Consider it a test. And a wager.”
“To what end?”
Bartleby smiled. “Keep a hand on that cane, Doctor.” He tapped his umbrella on the floor.
- - -
Salvia sat up with a start. He was in his office, at his desk. Klaxons were wailing outside. Before his eyes could adjust, the lights came back on and he winced under their glare. Seconds later the door opened, and Alex entered dressed in Kevlar. He trained the business end of a pistol on Salvia. “Doctor?”
“I'm here, I'm fine,” Salvia said. “What's going on?”
“Serpent's Hand,” Alex said. “We're doing a sweep and moving everyone to the mess for headcount. On your feet.”
“Fine.” Salvia patted himself down. His clothes were clean, not a sign of the ordeal he'd been through. The ashtray was empty. The pipe was gone. Had he even left?
His eyes caught Jason's papers, still waiting for his signature. Frowning, he signed them. “Maybe a piece is missing. Don't know if I can replace it, but I can at least give you a decent night's sleep.”
“Doc?” Alex asked.
“Nothing.” Salvia he went to the door. To his relief he saw Johanson being ushered out of her office towards the messhall. She waved at him, her expression relieved.
“I've had enough perspective for today,” Salvia muttered. “I'll thank you not to drop any more on me.”
He shut the door behind him. Bartleby watched him go, and was soon joined by Melinda and Jorgen.
“Well?” Jorgen asked.
“I think I earned that cognac,” Bartleby said.
Melinda rolled her eyes. “This is still a mistake. The man is an utter slob. He soiled himself. Twice.”
“You didn't exactly keep a stiff upper lip when you met her, Melinda,” Jorgon said.
“We were all something rougher once,” Bartleby stated. “But we'll make a Gentleman of him yet.”


…Two (2) pills have been used for Experiment 217-█████-█████. Number of pills is forty-seven (47) at the time of writing.
Request to have SCP-500 investigated for mental compulsion leading to obsessive fixation denied for triviality.
It was hard to be thrifty.
The petitions for SCP-500 usage piled in daily, and every day, the O5 Council sent out a fresh round of DENIED stamps. There were dozens of cases of Foundation agents who got too close to the target, researchers who'd found out the hard way that their protective garments were insufficient, and Site Directors who'd been exposed to too much, and were all suffering for it.
There were only 47 pills. Overwatch said no.
Eventually, inevitably, they would cave. A sob story too gut-wrenching for them to deny, and with it another round of petitions, of more desperate people with hope waiting to be killed. For the answer to all their prayers. The Overwatch council heard every petition. The surveillance machines recorded every dying wish for clemency. Sometimes it was granted.
Soon, there were only 40 pills. Overwatch clamped down, and said no.
Of course, more exceptions had to be made, as they always are. The Foundation endured for decades, and centuries. Years might pass between moments of weakness, but time was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. The more Overwatch tightened their grip, the more the bright red pills slipped through their fingers.
The Foundation would endure for a thousand years. There was only one instance of SCP-500 remaining.
All records were wiped. It was easier, now that they were past paper. The minds of thousands of agents and doctors were wiped out in an instant. Nobody could petition them any longer. Locked safely away, the Overseer Council could keep SCP-500 hidden away for generations to come.
Nobody was supposed to know about SCP-500. The Council knew about SCP-500.
The meeting was called, for the councilors to make their case to the others. One by one, they stood in front of their fellows, and pleaded.
O5-1 was dead. He'd needed SCP-500 longer than any of them, and had suffered for it.
O5-4 had been among the Outsiders for too long. He had been nominated for his position, and it was their fault.
O5-2, for hundreds of years, had been ravaged by the sickness they found to be inherent to cross-dimensional travel. Her flickering, faded form only held out a hand, silently pleading for mercy. How could she be refused?
O5-5 hadn't been as lucky as the others, with their longevity equipment. Unlike most of them, he had once been a young man, and although he could live forever, what was living?
And so, the rest of the council, one by one, made their case. Each member looked at the other, a certainty in their face that their fellows would listen to their plea, and that the last pill would go to them. The votes were counted. A 13-way tie.
O5-6 didn't know who fired first. But he was the only one of the Overseers with an agent's training. Even now, thousands of years past his prime, he knew better than they how to live and how to make death.
He took the bottle, and emptied the last pill into his hand. For a second, the stink of death and black powder burned his nostrils. Then, he pinched his nose, and swallowed. As the pill passed through his gullet, the agent they used to call Cowboy felt his bones slide back into place, the tumors curling up into nothingness, and all of the sores and pains being washed away. Then, he heard a sound not unlike a gumball machine being refilled.
He looked down. SCP-500 was filled to the brim, with a new label. "YOU HAVE [unlimited!] REFILLS REMAINING."


The following is a collection of cases and disturbances investigated by the Unusual Incidents Unit of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. These cases date from the founding of the division, but are in no means comprehensive.

For your eyes only

Disturbance Event Description: A steam-engine locomotive was seen flying above several southern US states. The altitude was too great to get a distinct description, and the train had disappeared by the time flights could be taken to look for it. Possibly an incident of mass hysteria.
Agent(s) Involved: N/A
Date of Disturbance: ██/██/████
Location: Alabama, Missouri, Georgia
Follow-Up: Newspaper articles suppressed, six photographs confiscated as evidence.

Disturbance Event Description: A tin can that apparently cannot become scuffed or damaged was donated to the Bureau by an anonymous source. After being held for 30 days, it took motion and rolled out of the building. Its current location is unknown.
Agent(s) Involved: N/A
Date of Disturbance: ██/██/████
Location: Bureau Offices
Follow-Up: An investigation of the surrounding area produced no results. Currently pending further investigation.

Disturbance Event Description: Residents of Seattle, Washington reported seeing silhouetted figures in their mirrors, with some reports of disfigured humanoids. These figures would usually attempt to mock the viewers, with exaggerated gestures behind them in the mirrors. Agents determined that this was due to pervasive leaks in the gas of each affected home.
Agent(s) Involved: Agent Fredericks
Date of Disturbance: ██/██/████
Location: Washington
Follow-Up: Maintenance tools were sent to the other homes in the area for preventative maintenance of their homes.

Disturbance Event Description: Everyone in Miami, FL, receives a phone call from an unused phone number, asking them for help in a panicked voice before disconnecting. Agents collected records from the phone company, and interviewed every person called. It is possible that this was a prank.
Agent(s) Involved: Agent Fredericks
Date of Disturbance: ██/██/████
Location: Miami, FL
Follow-Up: Literature was distributed to the general population supporting the prank hypothesis.

Disturbance Event Description: Numerous soap bubbles were spontaneously generated in the home of former Congresswoman Jeannette Rankin. After being unable to discover a source, she contacted the police. When they arrived, the entire home was filled with bubbles. When agents were dispatched, the event had largely dissipated.
Agent(s) Involved: Agent Fredericks
Date of Disturbance: ██/██/████
Location: Private residence.
Follow-Up: No action taken.

Disturbance Event Description: A large, animate mass of mud with the voice of Senator Joseph McCarthy appears and attacks people on the Washington D.C subway, talking in a monotone voice about communism. After maiming 11 riders, it escaped into a sewer drain after being confronted by Bureau agents.
Later in the day, it reappeared in a local park, killing 2 people before being destroyed with a water cannon. Witnesses were given non-disclosure agreements and placed under total surveillance. One agent was injured, but will make a full recovery.
Agent(s) Involved: Agent Hart, Agent Burrs, Agent Backstrom
Date of Disturbance: ██/██/████
Location: Washington, D.C
Follow-Up: Plainclothes riders sent on the subway for the next few months, damages were repaired by the Bureau to inspect where the creature may have originated from; no source found.

Disturbance Event Description: A corn farming community in Iowa reported seeing a small child-like figure made out of locusts wandering through their fields, and was seen tearing entire stalks of corn out of the ground and "devouring" them whole. In addition, tractors and other farm equipment were jammed or stolen, small animals and two children disappeared, and "grinding" noises were heard over phone lines.
The dispatched agents arrived at the scene, and were able to find the entity in a cornfield, and confirmed the witness statements. After documenting the disturbance, it was destroyed with insect poison in aerosol form.
Agent(s) Involved: Agent Pena, Agent Byrne.
Date of Disturbance: ██/██/████
Location: Iowa
Follow-Up: New seed issued to farmers with affected crops. Tools were replaced, and missing children were explained as runaways.

Disturbance Event Description: An avalanche of snow suddenly stopped for 11 hours, directly above a small skiing site in Fairbanks, Alaska. After the initial stop, animate snowmen began walking into the town, assaulting residents, and taking them to the ski community. When the avalanche resumed, the fatalities were significantly higher due to these abductions.
Agents who were sent to Alaska found that all evidence of the event had been destroyed by the snow, making suppression of information easier than expected.
Agent(s) Involved: Agent Pimintel, Agent Alleyn
Date of Disturbance: ██/██/████
Location: Fairbanks, Alaska
Follow-Up: Incident was reported to be a mass hallucination as a result of plant spores entering the local water supply. Evidence of the occurrence was confiscated, and several samples of the autonomous entities were collected, then discarded after they proved to be thoroughly ordinary.

Disturbance Event Description: A pear tree in Atlanta, GA, became animate, and began to assault local colored persons, using peaches as projectiles and by crushing them with its branches. When Agents were dispatched, there were 14 injuries, two of them being serious.
The entity was destroyed by luring it to a side road away from the area, and detonating a cache of dynamite that had been planted beneath the street. The injuries were blamed on criminal activity.
Agent(s) Involved: Agent Barrows, Agent James, Agent Garret
Date of Disturbance: ██/██/████
Location: Atlanta, GA
Follow-Up: Remains of tree were collected as evidence.
Note: Tree had been the site of several lynchings between 1899-1918.

For further information, please contact your director.


Moved to Site-19 1993. Origin is as of yet unknown. It is constructed from concrete and rebar with traces of Krylon brand spray paint. SCP-173 is animate and extremely hostile.

Universe 5643-Gamma-Orange-Delta
The Foundation
Universe 7392-Epsilon-Blue-Lima

Item #: SCP-173
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-173 is to be kept in a modified containment chamber at Site-91. Said chamber is to be equipped with a sprinkler system. The sprinkler system is to be activated fortnightly to dispose of waste materials formed in the chamber. If personnel are required to enter SCP-173's chamber, at least 3 personnel are to be present. At least 1 of those individuals must maintain direct visual contact with SCP-173 at all times while inside the chamber.
Description: SCP-173 is a statue constructed of concrete and reinforcing steel with traces of spray paint. It is animate, although it may only move when no individual observes it visually. When animate, SCP-173 tends to attack surrounding individuals in the vicinity. Common methods of attack include strangulation or snapping one's neck.
About once per day, waste materials are spontaneously generated around SCP-173's vicinity. Chemical analysis of waste materials indicates that they are formed from a combination of faeces and blood. The mechanism in which SCP-173 generates waste materials is unknown.
SCP-173 was brought into Site-91 on ██/██/2008 CE by Foundation agents. Information of SCP-173 prior to containment by the Foundation is unknown.
[…]
Addendum 173-746: On 04/10/2045 CE, SCP-173 and other SCP objects were transferred from Site-91 to [REDACTED]. See Document 91/04-10-2045 for more information.

Excerpts recovered from the email account of Dr. James Long

+ 07:30, 06/09/2045 CE

- Relocation of SCPs

FROM: Alexandra Nala, Administrative Assistant, Office of the Overseer Council
TO: Dr. James Long, Director, Site-91
RE: Relocation of SCPs
Greetings, Dr. Long. Writing to inform you that a number of SCP objects held at Site-91 are slated for relocation from Site-91 to an undisclosed location for safer containment; see Attachment for a list of affected SCP objects. The Department of Extra-Universal Affairs shall be in charge of the operations of transfer, therefore please allow them to complete their task. Date of transfer is on the 4th of October this year, 2045 CE.
If you have any queries regarding the operation, please contact Senior Agent Sven Kisch of the Multi-Universal Department. This operation is approved unanimously by the Overseer Council (13:0 ratio).
Secure. Contain. Protect.
Alexandra Nala
Administrative Assistant, Office of the Overseer Council
+ Download Attachment

+ 09:43, 07/09/2045 CE

- RE: Relocation of SCPs

FROM: Dr. James Long, Director, Site-91
TO: Alexandra Nala, Administrative Assistant, Office of the Overseer Council
RE: RE: Relocation of SCPs
Hi, Alexandra. I've noted your email on the relocation effort. In light of massive logistics involved in the effort, I would like to request more data on the site in which the affected SCPs shall move into.
Thank you in advance.
Regards,
Dr. James Long, PhD
Director, Site-91

+ 09:53, 07/09/2045 CE

- RE: RE: Relocation of SCPs

FROM: Alexandra Nala, Administrative Assistant, Office of the Overseer Council
TO: Dr. James Long, Director, Site-91
RE: RE: RE: Relocation of SCPs
Greetings, Dr. Long. Noted your enquiry. Unfortunately, you are not cleared for the information requested.
Secure. Contain. Protect.
Alexandra Nala
Administrative Assistant, Office of the Overseer Council

+ 10:34, 09/09/2045 CE

- Relocation of Site-91 SCPs

FROM: Dr. James Long, Director, Site-91
TO: Senior Agent Sven Kisch, Head, Acquisitions Division, Department of Extra-Universal Affairs
RE: Relocation of Site-91 SCPs
Hi, Agent Kisch. I am Dr. James Long, Director of Site-91. I am aware that you're my point-of-contact for the transfer of SCPs from Site-91. As the operation involves essentially every SCP currently in my site, I would like specifics as to this operation.
Hope you will reply soon.
Regards,
Dr. James Long, PhD
Director, Site-91

+ 17:41, 13/09/2045 CE

- Relocation of SCPs

FROM: Senior Agent Sven Kisch, Head, Acquisitions Division, Department of Extra-Universal Affairs
TO: Dr. James Long, Director, Site-91
RE: RE: Relocation of Site-91 SCPs
Hello, Dr. Long. I apologise for the late reply. From my understanding, the specifics behind our transfer operations are reserved strictly to members of the Multi-U and O5 Council. All that you're allowed to know is that the affected SCPs will be transported to a secured location where their threat to normalcy is significantly reduced.
I hope to see you at Site-91 soon.
Sincerely,
Senior Agent Sven Kisch
Head, Acquisitions Division
Department of Extra-Universal Affairs

An exchange between Dr. James Long and Researcher Nurul Shafiqah binte Ahmad Ibrahim, recovered from Dr. James Long's iPhone

Shafiqah

James, what's with you spamming me with SMSes. Don't you have work to do, Mr site director?

Not since most of the skips were transferred out. The staff and I at 91 are dying of boredom here.

Let me guess, the Multi-U came along.

Yeah.
Shaq, are you sure you're not anomalous?

LOL! Call it a woman's intuition.
But jokes aside, my friends from sites 17 and 754 had told me about the Multi-U clearing skips from those sites. They'll even visit my site next week, I think.
Is everything gonna be alright? There're rumours going on in my site's lounge and cafeteria, that some of us may be laid off.

I don't think so. I hear nothing of the sort from my side.
I will check with the other directors or the O5s and get back to you.

Thanks
But since we're on the topic, you have any idea why it's happening?

Dunno

You don't know or you can't tell me?

I'm not even cleared for info on where they're heading to. Just know the transfer is done and that's that.

So much for your Level 4 clearance, huh?
But look at the bright side, things will be less lethal in this industry for now.

Addendum 2317-58: On 15/12/2045 CE (U 5643-Γ-Orange-D), SCP-2317 has successfully breached containment at Area-179. The following transmission was intercepted prior to destruction of Area-179.

WARNING! Containment breach at A-179. SCP-2317-K escaping SCP-2317-Prime. Breach is imminent. SCP-2317 lockdown initiated. Response team prepare to engage SCP-2317-K. Area-wide lockdown initiated. Prepare detonation of onsite nuclear arsenal. SCP-2317-K is not to escape. Impending XK-class end-of-the-world scenario should SCP-2317-K escape from A-179.

Observation of SCP-2317's activities and its effects on U 5643-Γ-Orange-D shall commence. All remaining Foundation assets in U 5643-Γ-Orange-D have been ordered to focus on collecting the aforementioned data. No engagement with SCP-2317 is required.

Yes sir, all targeted SCP objects formerly housed in Universe 5643-Gamma-Orange-Delta have been recovered prior to SCP-2317's emergence. The remaining objects are either not in the Foundation's possession or deemed impractical or unsavoury for transportation. – Sr. Agent S. Kisch
Thank you for your report. We'd expect you to clean up these SCPs' documentation prior to their redistribution. – O5-10
Of course sir. The usual protocols. – Sr. Agent S. Kisch

An email from Dr. Jack Bright, dated ██/██/1993 AD

FROM: Dr. Jack Bright, Director, Site-19
TO: Dr. William Moto, Euclid Specialist, Site-19
RE: New SCP in Site-19
Moto, we got a new skip in 19 today. It's housed in Euclid Wing, Cell 2. It's supposedly hostile, so bring at least 2 D-class and a research assistant with you.
Also, update on any findings you have on the skip. Its profile is barren right now. Your clearance level for that skip is Level 4/173, for your information.
Jack Bright
Director, Site-19

Hours later, Dr. William Moto had concluded his first day with the new SCP object. Accessing his account on the Foundation database to catalogue his findings for the day, Dr. Moto browsed over whatever that was present in the document.

Item #: SCP-173
Object Class: [PENDING]
Special Containment Procedures: [DATA EXPUNGED]
Description: [DATA EXPUNGED]

"No no, this won't do." he thought while shaking his head, "I don't even know where it came from or who brought it in…"
Dr. Moto began deleting the expungements and typed in whatever is known of the newly-found anomalous object.

Description: Moved to Site-19 1993. Origin is as of yet unknown.


illustrations by SunnyClockwork

It was cold. Not the type of cold that the air conditioners brought into the Foundation every day of every year. It was the type of cold reserved for a dark, winter night. It was a harsh, hostile chill that was capable of freezing blood.
Sitting in this cold, cold room was a woman, or at least, the image of a woman. She was holding a doll close to her chest. The toy looked just like her: clawed hands, rabbit ears, one eye gouged out, and a grin that looked… wrong.
The room around her was coated in ice. She heard some of it crack as the door tried to open. A blast of heat hit the room, and the woman hissed, shrinking away from it, back into the doll.
Unsteadily, something stepped into the room. The doll couldn't see it, but she could hear it. Eventually, the heat passed, and the door shut again. The woman in the doll heard the click-clack-click-clack of claws coming towards her. Eventually, she exited the doll, and stood in the corner of the room, observing the thing that had come in.
It was a cat, or something that used to be a cat. It was simply a toy, now. A stuffed animal, but far more grim than her. It had once been like her. It knew her. She felt it.
The room grew colder.
“She always loved the snow.”
“It's all I can do now.” The woman swallowed, stepping towards the cat. “…a friend of mine made sure of that.”
“Aggie?”
“Aggie.” The woman reached out towards the cat. “…but she didn't catch you this time, did she?”
“…it was… someone who said they were someone I loved.” The cat backed away. “This is a trick. Another trick.”
“Stuart-”
“Don't say my name.” The cat's skull snapped at her. “Who are you this time? Jacquelyn? Another one of those Furies? One of Donnar's friends?”
“…you know exactly who I am, Stuart.” The woman knelt by the cat, offering a clawed hand to him. In the hand was a flower made of ice. A fig blossom. Despite the fact that it was only frozen water, it still smelled of sweet fruit and a summer breeze.
The cat sniffed at the flower, and backed away, before curling up on the icy floor, wrapping its body around the doll. It shook, but not from the cold. It couldn't feel cold anymore. It could only feel sad, and overwhelmed.
“… When?” asked the woman.
“When what?” Stuart replied, voice cracking.
“When did you die? How long did you wait without me?”
“…1998. It never got any easier.”
The woman swallowed, placing the blossom on the ground and rubbing at her one good eye. “Aggie… she caught me right after it happened.” She reached out to pet the cat's skull. “She made the doll for me. It's a…” She laughed to herself. “Crap, I forgot the word.”
“Phylactery,” Stuart said, coiling tighter around the doll. “My mother taught me how to make one, a long time ago.”
The woman sighed, and scratched the cat under the chin. “Stuart?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think that we'll ever… get proper bodies again? Are we going to stay stuck like this?”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Stuart started pacing around the woman, before crawling into her lap. “Shit… its been fifty three years since we saw one another.”
“… Between the two of us, that's a hundred and six birthdays we missed.”The woman laughed a surprisingly full laugh for the body she was in. “And I didn't even get you a card.”
“I can hardly blame you, Sarah.” The cat nuzzled close to her. “..speaking of which, it's New Year's, soon..”
“Yeah, 2014.” Sarah sighed. “We'll be… 126 years old, each.”
“That's a good, big number.” Stuart clambered onto her shoulder and nested himself on her neck. “We probably won't get to see each other before then, though. Protocol and all that.”
“That hasn't changed much since the 50's, at least.” She sighed, holding herself.
An alarm buzzed. The room began to heat up, melting the ice all around. Sarah retreated back into the small, cloth doll, which remained limp on the ground.
A technician approached Stuart, who held the doll close, whispering something to it in its ears. Then, he let go, and Sarah dropped to the ground.
Stuart Hayward looked back as he was taken out of the containment chamber. He saw Sarah Crowley, waving back at him and smiling as the door sealed itself.


To: Director ████
From: Researcher █████████
Subject: Species XC-1105
After 2 months of testing both standard and specialized, my research team and I have come to the conclusion that Species XC-1105 as a whole is entirely non-anomalous and do not warrant any special protocols. Testing has revealed Species XC-1105 to be on par with our own race in terms of intelligence, as was expected, but any meaningful progression in their civilization or technology is not expected to occur if our current rate of societal development is maintained. However, it is of our opinion that the full nature of Species XC-1105 should not be made public at this time, so as not to cause unneeded distress.
As members of Species XC-1105 have shown to be relatively easy to breed and command, we propose for a population to be kept in possession for general experimental purposes. This would remedy the poor turnout of test subjects seen in recent years. Decision is awaiting council approval.

To: Researcher █████████
From: Director ████
Subject: RE:Species XC-1105
The council has officially approved the proposal. All sites will be receiving groups of XC-1105 in order to facilitate experimentation requiring live subjects. You and your research team will be appropriately rewarded for your findings.

Incident Report
On [REDACTED], a breach broke out during attempted transportation of ███-████-██ (a high threat reality-bending entity) from Site 43 to Site 52. XC personnel had faltered while performing procedures, allowing the entity an opportunity to kill the █ agents supervising the process. The entity then caused a ███████ event, causing severe damage to a large portion of Site 43 and killing ██ additional personnel. The remains of the XC personnel present during the event could not be found. See full document for more details.

»at least, thats what he told me
»hmm
»I personally wouldn't trust him. You know how he can be in situations like this.
»true
»i guess ill have to get my own answers then
»That would be the best way to handle this.
»agreed
»well i gotta get some sleep. really shouldnt be up this late anyway. but im glad we got to talk. its been a while
»Sure has been.
»see ya
»See ya
»hold on
»What
»oh no
»oh my god oh my god
»What??
»i see a huge fire outside my window
»Are you being serious?
»yes im serious ill send you a picture
»did you get it
»…Oh my god…
»That's not close to you at all though, right?
»its spreading fast. fire should not spread THAT fast
»What are you gonna do??
…
…
Connection has been lost
»???
»Hello!!??
…
Connection re-established
»my buidng ss hakin g its c omign do wn
»GET OUT OF THERE NOW
…
…
…
…
Connection has been lost

….Attacks on countless cities have been reported worldwide as what appears to be military-grade weaponry is being used by an unknown terrorist organization to indiscriminately lay waste to civilization as we know it. Millions are dying as we speak and global authorities are struggling to scrounge up a reasonable retaliation….

….Nothing seems safe from this sudden assault. World leaders and prominent figures are rumored to be taking refuge in hidden safe havens as they attempt to gain control of the situation. Citizens everywhere are advised to leave their homes and find shelter away from populous areas….

….Within a single day more than half the world's population has been exterminated. Efforts to stop this mass destruction have had little to no effect. With the end seemingly looming over our heads, this may very well be our final broadcast….

Quite frankly, I'm not even sure you'll get this, but I'll feel better if I at least try.
The children and I were able to get to the safe haven you told us about. Only about 9 others here, and it's not the coziest place, but I'm just glad we're done running.
It's so strange. Out here, aside from a few bright lights on the horizon, you wouldn't even know that everything is dying. Complete silence. A sky full of stars. It reminds me of the night we first met each other.
I know I probably won't see you again until all this is over, your dedication to others is too strong to allow that. I'm not mad, it's one my favorite things about you. Just know that we're waiting for you. We always will be, no matter what happens.
I love you.

we forgive you;
given choice for now, not forever;
let us back in


Red pools at night,
Travelers' delight.
Red pools at morning,
Travelers take warning.

Incident 053/682/1129/354 - 1:
On 12/9/20██, at 21:07 hours, escaped anomalies SCP-053, SCP-682, and SCP-1129 arrived at Area-354 and breached containment of SCP-354. Escaped anomalies proceeded to enter SCP-354. Combined exposure to SCP-053 and SCP-1129 caused widespread panic among the staff of Area-354.

Quarseta began to relax for the long trip as she felt the form of Atanti below her, stretching out to form a long neck and streamlined fins, and protected above by tsa-Fanu's twinkling lights. She still wasn't quite sure how Atanti had found this place, but she could still remember the joy on his face a few days back when he burst into the cavern they had turned into a house, saying something about singing with a star and having possibly found a way home. Whether or not they were headed home, the place below all this redness had a definite sense of unearthliness, even from this far off.

Once they arrived, the first thing that Quarseta noticed were the differences. The sun here was huge and bright red, as if someone had set the pool they were standing in on fire and spread it across half of the sky. The land around her seemed perfectly flat, but the horizon still seemed too close. There was so little wind that she almost wondered if there was any air at all. The landscape wasn't the only thing that had changed; Quarseta herself felt like a child again, fragile and naïve. Tsa-Fanu seemed closer together, like someone wearing elaborate robes rather than a twirling cloud. Atanti, giant as he was, seemed dwarfed by the vastness of this place.
Quarseta climbed on Atanti's back as their group waded onto the green padded shore. After traveling for a few hours, they left the mossy ground behind and began walking on a rocky area, followed shortly by a large plain of short grass. Quarseta tried to hop off and walk while the lush, cool grass was underfoot, but hopped back on Atanti very quickly after the grass began to cut through her shoes and feet. The scratches healed quickly, but they stung just the same.

After a few more hours of traveling, they stopped to rest near a grove of what looked like trees where the grass was drier and not as sharp. Quarseta drifted off quickly in the shade while tsa-Fanu kept watch. It took Atanti a bit longer to drift off. A mixture of hope and doubt swirled through his mind, crowding out thoughts of sleep. Everything about this place seemed like something that would fit perfectly in the home that he knew, yet he didn't recognize any of it. The land and sky around him seemed like that had come straight out of one of the tales that his elders used to tell, just impossible enough to maintain wonder, yet familiar enough to be relatable. These thoughts continued to twirl and flow until they became faint and murky in the depths of the behemoth's sleep.
Quarseta was awoken by a small object bumping into her leg over and over again. She groggily opened an eye and looked down to see a fuzzy green ball about the size of a baseball. After a few more tries at rolling over her leg, the ball seemed to give up, just before unrolling itself. The resulting creature looked like an odd combination of weasel, armadillo, and pillbug. Having a small, alien creature climb on your lap is almost as good as coffee, and Quarseta woke the rest of the way up very quickly. Looking around, she saw that there were a few dozen of the creatures all around them. A few were curiously observing the three intruders, but most of them were crawling around, stripping the ground of the dead grass. Wherever they crawled, they left lines of exposed red earth with little bits of green just beginning to poke out. Unfortunately, they didn't get to enjoy the creatures' company for more than a few minutes. A loud, metallic roar echoed across the area from no particular direction, sending the pillweaseldillos rolling into the woods, and at least one scampering into her pack.
"That didn't sound familiar," said Atanti, trying to mask the worry on his snout. "We'd better be on our way again."

They traveled few days, slowly working through the supply of rabbits and water that they had packed. Quarseta had found that she was unable to coax out the creature from her pack when they were ready to depart, and ultimately decided to dub it "Tooki" and bring it along. In an effort to combat the stillness and silence that surrounded them, the travelers constantly swapped stories and riddles. Every now and then, the silence would win out, for stories could only last for so long, and time seemed longer than it should have been in that place.
Eventually, they reached what appeared to be a giant, iron wall. While Atanti and tsa-Fanu could have broken through it with only a bit of work, the group decided to explore down the wall a bit and see if they couldn't find an outpost or guard of some sort. While they never were able to find what they were looking for, they were able to find a rather large hole in the wall. The grass still grew on the other side, but it was all a glossy black color. The most interesting thing, however, was a large triangle of greenish fabric, with what looked and felt like a papery wasps' nest plastered on one side. Atanti identified it as a kind of journal, and promised Quarseta that he would show her how to read it as soon as they reached a town or city.

The travelers began to advance at record speed. Atanti seemed to have been reinvigorated by the scrap of familiarity, speeding the group past rocky towers and strange places where the world seemed to tip upside down. After about a week, they reached a second wall. This wall stood in stark contrast to the previous one; while the iron wall had seemed plain, practical, and foreboding, this wall sparkled in shades of emerald, and was covered in beautiful intricate carvings. This wall even had small tunnels moving through it so that you could reach the opposite side with only a bit of work.
Emerging on the other side, they were greeted by brilliant colors which cannot be found in our world. Reddish-greens and yellowish-blues and colors from light across the spectrum and other colors which didn't even really exist at all. Small plants which tried their hardest to transcend the duality of life and death, wide open meadows, towering palaces. The travelers couldn't help but look at the world around them in awe.
The entire illusion was shattered with a loud, metallic roar which echoed across the area from no particular direction
The group of the three travelers and Tooki turned tail and ran. They were pursued by some giant, grey thing on ten legs. Slithering around its feet were long chains of stone with snapping jaws. If they thought they had been moving quickly to reach the second wall, they now knew that they had been moving very slowly indeed. Yet, no matter how fast they ran, they never seemed to put any distance between themselves and the beasts. It was just before they reached the first wall that they caught them.
The grey beast lunged at Atanti, pinning him down and knocking Quarseta off of his back and into the sharp, ebony grass. While Atanti grappled with the beast, tsa-Fanu focussed on subduing two of the stone creatures, while a third lunged at Quarseta. It closed its jaws around her ankle, not realizing that it had signed its own death warrant by doing so. Something in the creature's mind shattered, and its life simply stopped. Though the stones were dead, Quarseta still screamed in pain, the crystals which were now forming in the wound refusing to heal.

A sharp shriek pierced the air, funneling into Atanti's ears.
Quarseta.
Quarseta was hurt.
Quarseta needed him.
Atanti's tail whipped around one of the beast's legs and threw it into the distance. He turned his attention to his young friend, swung her onto his back, and began to run. Only one thought filled his mind: get her to safety.
He watched as the very world around him twisted, trying to end their lives and their search. He didn't care. The silence tried to slow them. His speed broke through it. The trip in had taken days. The trip out could only take a few hours.
The group reached the red pool just as the great red sun began to set. Tsa-Fanu helped to move Quarseta from Atanti's back. The pinpricks from her fall had healed, and the crystals on her leg no longer seemed to be growing, but she was drifting in and out of consciousness. The two elder travelers began to prepare to descend into the pool just as the grey beast crested the horizon, repeating once again its terrible roar. Atanti knew what that roar meant. It would not stop. It would follow them through the pool.
Atanti nodded at Edrisek-tsa-Fanu, who covered Quarseta's ears. Atanti then turned to face the beast. He had often wondered why the humans feared and imprisoned him. He knew that, to some degree, it was because of how alien their natures were to each other. But perhaps that was not all, perhaps they had another reason to fear him. He was powerful to them. To them, he was death. He was Atanti-ql-Paneu, the Deathless Traveler. And this place had injured his friend.
Atanti roared.

Incident 053/682/1129/354 - 2:
On 12/21/20██, at 03:29 hours, escaped anomalies SCP-053, SCP-682, and SCP-1129 emerged from SCP-354 and escaped Area-354. Combined exposure to SCP-053 and SCP-1129 caused widespread panic among the staff of Area-354. No further entities observed to emerge from SCP-354 as of this Incident.

The group's home-sweet-hole was very quiet the next few days, almost as if they had brought some of that place's silence back with them. Atanti stayed out hunting for most of the days, and only spoke at home when he needed to answer a question. Tsa-Fanu busied themself with small repairs around the cavern, and helped Quarseta with her reading in their spare time. Quarseta spent most of her time laying in bed with Tooki to keep her company, working through the journal that they had found. The crystals that had formed around the bite on her leg had stopped growing, but the wound was still taking a while to heal.
Atanti came in from hunting late one night with a solemn look about him.
"We're going to stop looking."
"What?"
"We can't keep looking for the way back home. I made a single mistake in thinking that place was home, and look what happened. We can't afford to have something like this happen again, so we're stopping."
Quarseta let Atanti's declaration sink in for a moment.
"No."
"What?"
"We can't stop Atanti. Look, this journal was written by someone called Tepur-zin-Umhed. She was just like us, a traveler trying to find her way home. She's already explored several ways that might get us home, which means that we wouldn't have to try those places. She also wrote about some other ways that she had found that might be able to get us home, and others like us that we might try talking to. It's all right here Atanti, everything that we need to know to get back home. You don't really want to give up, that's the worry speaking. But neither of us want to give up either. We need to keep trying."
Quarseta saw that he still hadn't forgiven himself, but her speech seemed to have gotten rid of a bit of his melancholy and self-doubt.
"Very well. But we won't start up again until that leg is fully healed, understand?"
Quarseta smiled.
"Yes, sir."

Red day and night,
Travelers take flight.
Red pool behind,
Travelers' adventure to find.

« Lost Golden Days | HUB | Intermission: Audience of Crowns »


It watched as they got together and tore themselves asunder. And everything in between.
It was a thing that was not there. It did not exist, at least not on the level of narrative. It had no part to play in any of their stories, nor would it ever. Their drama did not concern it, their failures did not harm it, their triumphs meant nothing to it. This left it in a rather unique position.
It could watch.
Such fascinating creatures. It did not recall exactly when it started observing them. It supposed that this is when it came into being in the first place. It did know that its first memory of them was a boardroom. Such an eclectic bunch of personalities. Color-coded outfit on one, a ridiculous hat on another, shadows surrounding a third. From the first, it seemed very odd to it that this bunch should be the bulwark of humanity. Though it was not human (indeed, it wasn't anything, so it was assured), it couldn't help but think that the thirteen figures inhabiting its proverbial birth chamber shared very little with their so-called wards.
See this one, it thought. Number… ten, it believed. Sitting quietly, only raising her voice once, when the vote was called. Observer watched her, and saw a thousand timelines spooled beneath her like earthworms beneath the thin crust of the soil. What did she have in common with the average person? It looked at her eyes, ancient with the knowledge numerous non-existing worlds, and saw very little that was human in them. Not anymore.
It looked further, to number four. If ten had the weight of years behind her, four had space. Observer could see distances spreading behind him, unwinding endlessly. This was a man who could walk anywhere, it could tell. Though the man himself didn't seem to realize it, there was something arrogant in his posture, in the way he seemed to throw his weight to fill every available space. When distances mean nothing to a person, Observer reflected, when one was always free to go where one willed, it was only natural that a certain sense of superiority would develop.
Then there was thirteen. Observer enjoyed this one most of all. Or perhaps it was only grim fascination.
It did not wonder why one meant only to watch should feel as it did.
It needed a name. Even those who did not exist needed a way to refer to themselves. So it was assured.
Observer would do.

Some time later, Observer watched the multi-version man pour himself a cup of weak coffee.
If it had first considered the inhabitants of its birthing chamber strange, it was only because Observer was not yet exposed to creatures of the man's ilk. As the man sniffed and frowned at the contents of his Styrofoam cup, his face shifted and twirled before Observer's keen gaze. The man's ordinary middle-aged features grew sharp and pointed, and his tired frown twisted into an unnatural toothy grin. His white lab coat was now a longcoat and his formerly bare head now bore a strange, wide-brimmed hat. Observer seemed to be the only one to notice this, as none of the cafeteria's other inhabitants made any sort of note of the man's sudden change. A moment passed, and the grinning man's head was now that of a grey owl, wide-eyed and bemused.
Starts with a C and ends with an F. I always start with a C and end with an F. Smash heads with a C and charm with an F. Science with C and death with an F.
Internal monologue. Peculiar. Observer watched all this with muted interest, as it seemed to always do. It had watched the man undergo this sort of transformation many times before. The man was not the only one of his type. Observer has watched the multi-versioned wander around the various sites it chose to watch, twisting and shifting between different forms without them or anyone else but Observer noticing. It seemed odd to Observer that creatures so strange could pass off as human not only to others but even to themselves. To it, they seemed anything but.
Everyone knows I'm C and an F. All that I am is C and an F. If I am not C and I am not F, then I am not C and I am not F.
Their names. They all seemed so fascinated with their names. Almost like they were not truly their own.
Dance in the rain with a C and an F. Eat the whole sky with a C and an F. I do all I do for the C and the F. FUCK ALL THE WORLD FOR THE C AND THE F-
Oh dear, here it went again. Not showing any outward agitation, The owl-headed multi-versioned finished his coffee and turned towards the pastry cabinet as the alarm went off. From the distance came the sounds of gunfire, as well as what sounded like a roar. The multi-versioned (now back to its tired middle-aged persona) did not seemed alarmed by any of this. Instead, he simply sighed, grabbed an errant blueberry muffin, and began walking towards the source of the noise, chewing absentmindedly.
AH. TIME TO GO TO WORK FOR THE C AND THE F. ENTERTAIN IN THE NAME OF THE-
There was a sudden spring to the man's steps. Observer was not surprised. Most of the creatures appeared to lack any real sense of self-preservation. This was, Observer supposed, because they had no true notion of self-interest. Their will belonged to those who imbued them with their names, and those hidden masters cared only for whatever entertainment and glory their namesakes could accomplish in their name. Slaves in all but name. Reality could be so very droll, Observer thought, never stopping to consider its sudden change of attitude. It was not yet time.
C AND THE F! BLOOD FOR THE C-
As the multi-versioned man vanished behind a corner, Observer was torn between pity and contempt for the creatures. They were puppets, it was true, and that alone was no reason to hate them, but Observer has seen all too often what happened to those who happened to get entangled with them in their strings. Their other selves clouded reality around them like a miasma, and sickly light of their masters' will tore at it, a diseased claw about the face of narrative.
AND JOY FOR THE F!
Observer listened as screams joined gunfire and roars, and shook its non-existing head.
What hope could humanity have with such an infection in its midst? Observer did not know. It only knew that it was glad it was not the same.
THAT IS THE NAME. ADD TWO MORE LETTERS AND THAT IS THE NAME!
Poor, wretched things. Observer was free to think its own thoughts.
The irony of this statement was lost on it.

Observer sat on the young woman's shoulder, looking as she did at the enormous, scarred man. He was busy removing bits of shrapnel from one grotesquely-muscled shoulder with one hand while chewing on what appeared to be a whole cow's head he was holding in the other. Observer turned its gaze to the woman and could not quite read the expression on her face. Hatred was there, clear as day, but it seemed to Observer that there was something false about it. The woman was not a multi-versioned in what it considered the classical definition of the term, but she shared some of their characteristics regardless. There was something poorly-defined about her, as if she existed in many worlds at the same time, and yet not really in any of them.
"You enjoying that?"
"Mmm. Good meat. Crunchy."
"Where's your sword?"
"Hmm? Stuck in something."
Observer has been watching the woman for a considerable amount of time now, and little about her truly made sense to it. Much like those in its birthing chamber, the woman had odd powers, and much like them she failed to realize how her possession of them distanced her from being truly human. Unlike them, however, this lack of perception did not seem to be internal. As if she was forced into being as she was by someone else. Perhaps this was so. Observer pitied her. The poor thing didn't even know what she was, not like it knew. Yes, Observer understood her so very perfectly.
"Mind if I take some pictures then? Might need them for later."
"Hrm?"
"Yeah, thought as much."
"Mmm."
This again, Observer thought as it made itself more comfortable on the woman's shoulder. It had heard it so many times before. Observer did not pause to consider that it was now sitting on her shoulder, something it would never have done earlier in its poorly-defined lifetime. Sitting and thinking and pitying were for those who existed, and Observer did not. Truly it did not. Honest.
The woman turned her gaze away from the scarred man and rummaged a small pack she held at her shoulder, taking out a small camera. The scarred man turned to the woman for a moment, muttered something in a deep, guttural voice, and returned his attention to his still-bleeding meal. Observer watched as the comment momentarily filled the woman's mind, then passed over it, leaving nothing behind. She glanced at the man again, shrugged, then returned to taking pictures.
Ah. This was the heart of Observer's trouble at understanding both the young woman and the scarred man. Ostensibly there was a history between them, a troubled past filled with hurt and failure, but neither them nor anyone else involved with them seemed to fully realize this. Oh, people acted as if they were aware of it, often mentioning it and pretending to base their decisions on it, but in truth it was as weightless as a leaf in a drunkard's dream. Observer enjoyed this metaphor. It thought it was clever.
"Right, I'm done here. You ready to head off, big guy?"
"Hrm. I see another cow there."
"God dammit A-"
Observer flew off. Words. Empty words, repeated ad-nausea. Cliched interactions and predictable outcomes. It was as if someone was not even trying very hard. Those two will never change as long as they continued to be used as they were. Their world will always be the same. It was almost enough to drive Observer to despair.
Or to drive someone, at least.

Observer was now high above, watching the blue orb beneath spin lazily as it drifted like an elderly whale in the black depths of space. All of those it watched before could not be seen from here. Observer found some comfort in that. From here, the world seemed almost free. Each spin could bring about something new to it, some new event or place or person who could change everything about it. It was a flimsy illusion, knowing what Observer knew, but one it relished regardless. Observer's time amid the people of this world changed it, it now realized.
It had grown to care about it. Though it still did not truly exist, it was now embroiled in the world's drama, was in some way a part of its grand narrative. Though the world will not change, though its various inhabitants will do everything in their power not to let it change, Observer knew it will keep watching it. Perhaps one day the invisible masters of this world's grand narrative will tire. Perhaps one day the people living it in will once more be free to make their own decision. Observer doubted it, but, as it remembered, it knew very little. It could be wrong. Perhaps one day this world will be truly born anew.
For now, all was perpetual stillbirth.
wait…
Observer paused at the sudden, unbearable drama contained in that last statement. This did not sound like something it would think. It was Observer, wasn't it? A non-existing being, a watcher. Why did it feel so strongly about any of this? Why did it care at all? All that time, it realized, it was passing judgement on those it saw. Pitying them for their lack of freedom, hating them for bearing the names of others, ridiculing them for their… their strings…
Horror filled Observer as it suddenly understood where all that came from. As it looked about its no longer non-existent form and saw the strings hanging from every limb.
Ah. It understood now. Observer has become Avatar. A mouthpiece, like all of the rest of them. An ironic demonstration.
Avatar understood this fully now, and it understood it had nothing to say about it either. Had nothing to say about anything. It was not its place.
As it opened its new mouth to speak, the only words to come out of it were-
Mine.


For want of a nail, a shoe was lost;

For want of a nail, a shoe was lost;

A box of spare parts makes it through a security check. Later on, some of those parts are used to create a makeshift containment device.
Deep inside of the machine, a single airtight seal breaks.

For want of a shoe, a horse was lost;

For want of a shoe, a horse was lost;

"Man, that thing's really banging around in there, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it seems to be trying to increase its momentum to break out of the capsule. Probably nothing to worry about, but try turning on the air cycler the guys in engineering rigged up, see if you can disorient it."

For want of a horse, a rider was lost;

For want of a horse, a rider was lost;

Researcher Bridge once again skimmed over the provisional SCP report which had been sent to the Greyberries of herself and every other person with the clearance at Site-19.
"Gas cloud… can manipulate its own momentum… colorless… can be identified by a faint odor of caramel… inhalation by humans causes irrational and violent behavior… " She looked up at the guard in front of her in shocked disbelief. "This thing caused all of this?"
"Ye-yup," the guard replied as he finished covering the air vent. "At least, it started with one. My guess is that it was able to contaminate a few of the other skips, not to mention what happened when it got into the D-Class barracks. Anyway, hopefully that'll keep the gas from getting in through the vents, and that desk should keep the door from giving as easily."
"So, what do we do now."
"We wait until someone gets here and gets this breach under control."
And so, they waited in silence. When the silence grew too heavy, they exchanged stories. Once their stories ran out, they again waited in silence.
"Hey Doc, wanna know something funny." The guard asked as he began to giggle.
"What?"
"One of us could die in this room, and no one would ever know. We would just be another statistic on a damage report. Isn't that hilarious?!"
Researcher Bridge spun her head around to face the guard. He had a wide grin on his face and a firearm aimed at her chest. Panic and realization hit her like a wall of ice.
"Hey Doc, do you smell candy?"
There was a flash and a bang.
"That felt good," thought the guard as he began to push the desk out of the way. "I think I'll try it again."

For want of a rider, a message was lost;

For want of a rider, a message was lost;

Pete from memetics dove for cover. He wasn't sure who the guard shooting at him was, but one thing was apparent; whoever they were, they were shooting at him.
Pete wasn't sure what to do, he wasn't trained to deal with this. Needed someone to deal with text-based entities who could burn you to a crisp and were afraid of clowns? Fine. A non-existent country which was spread by a phrase? Bring it on! All the staff and anomalies of Site-19? Nope, not a chance.
Pete began to wrack his brain for something to help him as his assailant continued to get closer. There had to be something that he knew that he could use to his advantage. Something to cancel out a mind-alteration or shortwire his opponent's brain.
Then something in his head went 'click.'
Pete from memetics began to shout at the top of his lungs; "Does the black moo-"
And then there wasn't enough Pete left to continue shouting.

For want of the message, the battle was lost;

For want of the message, the battle was lost;

From: AIC Alexandra
To: O5 Command
Re: Site-19 Breach Update
The last unaffected staff member, Peter Edwards, has been confirmed deceased. On-site warheads have been disabled by an unknown party. Approximately 83% of on-site anomalies have breached containment. Six known anomalies have escaped Site-19. Please see attached documents for further statistics. Awaiting orders.

For want of a battle, the kingdom was lost;

For want of a battle, the kingdom was lost;

O5-1 reviewed the pictures of what used to be North America. Sites-19, 17, and a few dozen other strategic points lost. The reset button lying in pieces. Titans battling it out for the apocalypse.
O5-1 turned to his fellow counsel members.
"Gentlemen, I'm afraid to say that the Foundation has failed. We have failed."

And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.


O5-7 arrived to the breached containment unit at the lowest underground level of Site-19. Director Bright waited for her along with a Containment Specialist.
“It's good to see you again, Jack,” said the overseer. “Sorry for the wait, I had to come here all the way from the HQ as per protocols. Let's see what we are dealing with here.”
The man standing next to Bright handed over a dossier to her. “Thank you, Dr. Blackbox,” she said after looking at his ID badge. “If I understand correctly you were the Containment Specialist assigned to this item.”
“Yes, Madam. The containment was breached yesterday. We evacuated all personnel not involved in the recovery operation.”
“I see. Let us start the investigation with the containment unit.”
They entered the grandiose cubical room. It was discreetly embraced by a 3 inch thick layer of pure titanium. The overseer looked into the dossier, and started skimming its contents.
“Scp-7448: Blood Ogre … Keter … virgins to be sacrificed … unparalleled aptitude for martial arts … Scantron Anchors … may freely roam the facility,” she said then stopped for a moment. “I think I got all the necessary information now.”
How could that happen in the Foundation's largest Site? she wondered, unconsciously looking at the upper right corner of the nearest wall as if it could show anything about the validity of her concerns. An empty wall, polished and made from the king of the metals, stared back at her.
“We have to recover it as quickly as possible. Are you in, Jack?”
“Oook,” replied Dr. Bright who was occupying a primate body.
“You might want to arm yourself if you are up against that otherworldly demon,” said a man stepping into the room. He was wearing an orange overall with a 6-digit number on it. “Here, take this gun. They gave me two anyway.”
“I don't think firearms would be useful against it, but thank you nonetheless,” said the overseer showing her smuggest grin to Blackbox. Then she pulled the trigger.

Dr. Bright and O5-7 arrived to the cafeteria following the path of destruction. The monstrous ogre stood at the center of the hall, laughing with arms crossed. The floor was covered in broken tables and chairs, kitchenware and the scattered ashes of MTF Kappa-13 (“Red Shirts”). A screen at the cafeteria's wall was miraculously left unharmed.

Safety First
23 hours, 57 minutes and 45 seconds
have passed since the last containment breach.
Keep Site-19 secure together!

O5-7 noticed a familiar figure lying under some debris. “Alto, swallow this, quick!” she said as she ran to him and handed over a pill from a plastic can labeled ‘500'. The next moment the shirtless Clef was standing in front of the ogre with replenished energy in his muscles and renewed determination in his eyes. O5-7 fainted as she couldn't handle the raw manliness radiated by him.
“Oh, you are up again, just when I thought we were finished. Show me what you got then, human!”
“That's what your mother said too.”
“How dare you mock me, you lowly scum!” shouted SCP-7448. “I shall destroy you with my ultimate technique.”
“What kind of ultimate technique could that be?” asked Clef. “You don't look like you have one.”
“Foolish mortal! This attack is the most powerful of all. You know the guy who can summon any blade he wants? Well, I can wield him!” he said. Able appeared out of thin air, wearing his sharpest suit. The ogre grabbed him by the legs and swung towards Clef.
“You think I wasn't prepared for that?” said Clef and pulled out a Middle Eastern man with metal limbs from … well, no one was really sure from where. He used him as a human shield to reflect the strike back at the attacker. As the fierce battle reached its climax, the banana Dr. Bright was eating started to turn brown.
SCP-7448 pulled out Able's head from his nasal cavity, preparing for another strike. Clef glanced to his right as the screen changed colors.

Safety First
24 hours, 0 minutes and 2 seconds
have passed since the last containment breach.
Keep Site-19 secure together!

“Fourth!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. SCP-7448 was deleted at -50 and four staff votes.

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