Part 5: Breaking Point
"You Can't Go Home Again"
Eighteen Months Ago
"So, if you'd let me finish my question?"
"Mmmm? Sure, sure…"
"Okay, here it is. Let's say that you've got a choice of two different prizes. One is an all-expenses paid, three month vacation in Europe."
"Ooooh, that sounds nice."
"The other is ten minutes on the moon."
"Hmmmmmmmmm."
"Which do you choose, and why?"
"Okay, quick question. Can I take you with me?"
"What? Mmmm… sure. Yeah, you can take one guest along."
"Then it doesn't matter. Nothing matters as long as we're together."
"…"
"… are you crying?"
"Men don't cry. We just get things in our eyes."
"Liar."

There was a moment's hesitation. It was enough.
Andrews-in-Valentine looked into the face of his own death, in the form of a HERF grenade held in the hand of the smiling Assistant Director. The object, a Foundation original, was a variation on the classic flash-bang grenade, specifically intended for use against electronic threats. Pull the pin, release the spoon, count to four, and a pulse of high frequency electromagnetic radiation would fire, destroying any circuitry more complex than a lightbulb and battery.
Clef casually dangled the pin from his left finger as he held the grenade in his right hand, spoon still pressed inwards. Andrews lowered the second spear he had lathed from Maddox's bed frame. The point of the weapon gently touched the bloody tile floor, where the paramedic's blood slowly flowed towards him.
"You know," Clef said, idly, "I always suspected that this entire facility was built on a slight slant. It always did make me feel off-balance."
"Are you going to kill us?" Maddox whispered. She was resting her head on Andrews' shoulder, body still weak from her long months spent comatose. A few bedsores were visible on her back, the open hospital gown framing the angry red friction uclers on her skin.
"Well, that depends," Clef said. "I've already got two containment breaches in progress. One involves your old friend the nanomachines, and that's bad. The other involves Kondraki, and that's really bad. So, taking a look at things from a "big picture" perspective, two agents walking out of a half-destroyed facility and never being seen again… that sounds like something that I could prioritize later." He sighed. "Especially since this grenade has a four-second fuse. There's a lot that Andrews could do to me in those four seconds. It would end in him… and you… dying painfully when the EMP fries those clever little connections between your brain and body. It would be a horrible death, laying there still able to think, but unable to breathe, unable to make your heart beat. Probably one of the worst."
"So we have a deal?"
"No," Clef admitted. "But I'm willing to walk right out the door right now and live to see another day."
"You won't have any trouble from me," Andrews said. "I'm not planning on keeping these damn bugs any longer than I need to. The moment that B's cured, I'll be pouring the rest into a jar and sticking it in the microwave."
"Suit yourself," Clef said. The assistant director turned and walked out of the room, casually stepping over the bloody body of the slain paramedic. "It's not really my concern any more."

On the way over to help deal with the mess Kondraki was making, he ran into the erstwhile Director Valentine, who was slaughtering a lot of hapless researchers, using the severed spine of Lieutenant Takahashi as a bludgeon. Clef casually popped the spoon of the EMP grenade and rolled it down the hallway. It popped, and the nanomachine colony that had been SCP-784 dissolved into inert slime.
He nudged the sludge pile with his toe until he found Director Valentine's brain, lifted it up out of the pile. Andrews, he had to admit, did some good work. The brain had been neatly severed from the spinal cord, the connections to the nanomachine colony made so cleanly that it was almost identical to Andrews' own connections. Not bad for someone with no medical expertise at all.
He wondered if some of the neurons still fired, weakly, even now: it wasn't necessarily clear what kinds of changes the nanomachines made to the actual brain structure when it replaced the glial cells. He wondered whether Valentine would feel her mind go if it were damaged, or whether she was already gone and dead.
Just to be sure, he carried the brain with him (pulling off bits and pieces and throwing them away like a child pulling petals off a flower) as he walked to the area where Kondraki was, currently, riding SCP-682 like a pony. He felt much better by the time he found out where the Ball of Sharp had ended up.
It was, all in all, a good day.

"So, any reason why Italy?"
"Mmmmm… I was just thinking. About that question I asked you last year."
"The one about the Moon and Europe?"
"Yeah, that one. It just seemed to me… I can't give you the moon. But I can at least give you Tuscany."
"That sounds wonderful. Wine, food, and music…"
"You sure you want to spend it with me?"
"It's gonna be a bit weird, I'll admit, but… it's still you under there, right?"
"As much as I can tell, yes."
"Then, remember what I said? Nothing else matters…"
"… as long as we're together."
"And nothing's changed that at all."
"…"
"… are you crying?"
"Yeah, I guess I am."
"I thought that men never cry."
"First time for everything."
Part 7: Conclusion


Tales From The Bright Side
Chapter 1: Waiting on God… oh!
"I wish to again formally register my objections to this line of experimentation." I said, addressing my comment to the turned back of one Dr. Samet, an up-and-coming new researcher here at the Foundation. He seemed to think that the appropriate methods for advancement within our ranks was to insinuate himself with the Overseers. No one likes an ass-kisser.
"And, again, your objections are noted, 963; however, I have the full support of O5-1 on this matter. SCP-682 is simply too dangerous, we must try all possible outcomes." I bristled when he called me by a number. Why do they always make the same mistake?
"Mister Samet, my name is Dr. Bright. This," and I held out the amulet currently glued to my palm, "is SCP-963. Please refrain from mixing the two up, or I will have Grangan there shoot you in the foot. No hard feelings, but I'm sure you understand." A small smile crept across my features as I spoke, gesturing to one of my small crew of assistants. Unlike certain other members of the Senior Staff, I had never actually named the Junior Staff who had fallen under my wing, but the other staff had taken to calling them the Lucky Bunch, and it seems to have stuck. The name seems to reference the fact that researchers under my care tend to live longer, my own obsession with games of chance, and, quite possibly, a dig at my sometimes simian nature. Amusing, I'm sure.
Samet glanced uncomfortably at my underling, before turning his attention back to me. "Nevertheless, Ni-" I cleared my throat, noting from the corner of my eye as Grangan slipped his hand into his inside coat pocket. "- Bright, We must-" Again, I interrupted his speech, in an effort to correct the fellow.
"Dr. Bright. Only those who work with me on a regular basis are allowed to drop the title. And you will not be here long enough to work with me on a regular basis." Samet paled visibly at my words.
"Is that a threat?" He questioned, anger in his voice.
"No, merely good odds. You see, this ridiculous undertaking of yours has little to no chance of succeeding. The odds are-" I glanced sideways where my primary assistant already had the book out and waiting. English had been working for me long enough to anticipate my needs. A quick glance at the numbers was all I needed to refresh my memory. "Five hundred and twelve to one against this first plan of yours working. In fact, the only one who seems to have put any money on this working is-" I paused to recheck the numbers. "- A dead man. Ha, ha, very funny. It doesn't matter. 343 will not-"
"DR. BRIGHT! I do not need your negative attitude, or your predictions of doom. What I need YOU to do is go in THERE, and ask your fellow SCP to assist us in this manner. Will you or won't you do your assigned job?" The cracks had begun to show in Samet's armor. Not someone who would last long. I had money on him leaving within the week. But, for this situation, he technically, barely, outranked me. So, I would do it.
"Of course." I nodded my head, steeled myself, and walked through the door into 343's domicile. Just being in his presence, set my teeth on edge. The feelings of calm and contentment attempted to flow into me, but I resisted. It's hard to be gloomy when the world is trying to make you happy, but I've had longs years of practice. Especially with… him.
I think the bit that most disturbs me about 343 is how, no matter what I try, no matter how much I tell myself it's a trick, he ALWAYS looks just like George Burns to me, cigar in one hand, martini in another. He says it's to put me at ease, but nothing about this creature puts me at ease. He's too much, tries too hard.
"Jack," He said to me, sad eyes watching as I entered the room. "I'm glad to see you back. Are you ready to talk some more?"
"SCP-343. You have been held by the Foundation for several years now, and have yet to prove yourself worth the effort." I ignored his question. "Therefore, it has been determined that you be used to attempt the decommissioning of a more dangerous SCP. Do you understand?"
"You know Jack, I had such high hopes for you. You were created so bright, ha ha, so gifted. There were plans, still are plans, for you to do great things. But you need to get out of here. They're destroying you, Jack. You used to be such a good boy." He had the mannerisms down perfect, even the gruff George Burns voice. The voice, the smoke, even the current look of his room, all designed to make me receptive to him. But I wouldn't have any of it. He was an SCP, a creature, a monster, and by God, he would not take me so easily.
"You may refer to me as Dr. Bright. No one calls me… that any more." Not for decades. "Will you assist in this endeavor, or will I have to impose sanctions upon you?" I stared into his eyes, refusing to look away. The longer I held eye contact, the smaller his smile became, until there was no trace of it left. He took a deep drag on his cigar, almost but not quite frowning.
"You have become an abomination Jack. More monster than human, bound to that thing." He gestured at 963, and I could have sworn I felt it tingle. "I should remove you from it, return you to your proper thread. Make you human again." For a moment, my thoughts lifted, hope at the thought that I might be rid of the curse, that I might finally die. But no. I clamped down on my emotions, refusing to break eye contact. He would or he wouldn't, but I doubted he could. "No. You'll do so much more with it. Very well, Jack, I will help you with whatever this is. If you say please."
I could tell he thought I wouldn't. That it was beneath me. But I wouldn't have Samet claiming I undermined his efforts. "343, please assist us."
His eyebrows raise, a fraction of an inch, but I saw it. I had surprised him. Good. He needed it. Needed to be shook up a little bit. "Very well."

Later, I stood in the observation booth, watching 343 in the containment room below. He had not asked what he was to do, and gave every indication that whatever it was, he would deal with it. So, I had chosen not to tell him what he was dealing with. Let God do what he will.
Dr. Samet stood smugly at my side, gloating without saying a word. He believed he had won the argument, and I felt no need to disabuse him of that notion. This would still be a failure. 343 did not have what it took to take care of 682.
"Are you prepared, 343?" Samet spoke into the microphone. Below us, 343 gave a thumbs up. Without any further to do, Dr. Samet pressed the button on the console, and the airlock cycled open, releasing 682.
The reptile roared into the room, charged straight through the center to throw itself against the doors opposite. It had escaped often enough to know the drill, and the most likely chance of escape. The only surprising event would be the fact that in so doing, it charged straight through 343, without seeming to touch him at all. 343, for his part, continued to stare at the open airlock door, expectantly. He glanced from the door, up to us, and then back at the door, before speaking out. "Well? Are you going to send this thing out, or should I head in?"
I smiled to myself, watching as 682 continued its assault upon the second airlock. With a smirk of my own, I took the microphone from the slack hands of Dr. Samet. "Close your mouth, you'll get flies," I advised my fellow researcher, before addressing 343. "343, am I correct to understand that you see nothing in the room with you?"
343 turned in a circle, eyeing the room, before looking up towards me once more. "There is nothing in the room with me, Jack. Are you feeling all right?"
With a grin firmly planted on my face, I turn to Samet. "682 not neutralized. As predicted."
"682?" 343 called out, a brief flash of anger in his eyes. Between one moment and the next he is standing in front of me, somehow taller than me without changing his size, glaring down at me. "You brought me to 682?" I motioned behind his back at English, who quickly began the 682 containment procedures, flooding the room with acid.
"Sure did, 343. Got a problem with that?" Anger, from God. With luck, he'd off me, and I wouldn't have to go through with the second part of this test.
Instead, 343 simply turned his back on me. "He's not one of mine. Deal with him yourself." And stalked off through the wall.
Dr. Samet, having regained his composure, turned to me with a snarl. "Fine. It didn't work. Doesn't matter. Get yourself ready 963, you're going in."
I nodded to Grangan as I turned away to change bodies. The last thing I heard as the door slid shut behind me was the pleasant sound of a handgun going off in closed quarters.
Next Time, on Tales From the Bright Side:
We're Off To Be The Lizard!


“Explain to me why we're hiding in somebody's old, abandoned crap-shack, son.”
Neil R. Ghost (age twenty-eight) had never imagined that he would find himself in the situation that he was in presently. Sitting on a patch of rotted floorboards, with his back to the equally rotted door, he was regretting some of the decisions he had made with his life. However, there was no time for introspection, as his companion, a field researcher by the name of Kevin Starnes (age nineteen), replied, “That would be because of Two-Sixty-Nine, sir.”
“Yes, and what exactly is Two-Sixty-Nine?”
Quickly checking a paper from the sheaf of files that he was holding, Starnes read, “The files aren't very clear, as no one's been able to catch the thing so far, but this one says, ‘What has been determined is that the large creature was roughly humanoid with distinct moose-like features. The creature was described in a wide range of attributes, as with many cryptids, although all reports indicate the creature is bipedal with two arms, moose-like antlers, and a towering stature.'”
“So, basically, what we're looking at here is a moose man?”
“Yes.”
“And we haven't tried just shooting it, or drugging it, or anything like that?”
“Well, we opened fire with the tranquiliser darts when we found it, but then it just started chasing us. We ran back the way we came, right past your research team, and then scattered.”
“And that's how we ended up here. Fantastic. I'm going to go urinate in the corner now, before I have a chance to actually get the piss scared out of me, eh.”
Trundling over to what he assumed to be the corner of the dank former dwelling, Neil went about his business with gusto, humming a jaunty tune as he relieved himself. Turning his head just enough to keep an eye on both Starnes and the door, Neil inquired, “So, as long as we're here, do you think you could tell me why there were multiple research teams sent to investigate this thing? I mean, maybe an armed Mobile Task Force would be able to handle a man-eating monstrosity better than a bunch of nerds in lab coats and hiking gear.”
”Well, technically speaking, with the dentition of a moose, it's highly unlikely that Two-Sixty-Nine would be able to properly consume any kind of meat, much less human flesh.” Unfortunately, this was all that Kevin Starnes had a chance to say in reply: a particularly large hoof impacted the opposite side of the door, splintering the damp wood, and driving itself through four tenths of his spinal column, five ribs, and several of the more important organs in his thoracic cavity.
Bursting through a previously unnoticed back door into the twilit woods, wang in hand, Neil ran as fast as he could manage from a grisly array of odours, and what he was sure would be an embarrassingly moose-related death. Hastily repackaging his groin-bound goods, he tried not to focus on the approach of the oddly-proportioned creature, its swift hooves making dull thuds in response to the moist squishing of his feeble-by-comparison footfalls on the mossy, rain-damp ground. Cursing with what little breath he could muster, it came as somewhat of a surprise to the other people in the pit when he fell in with an astonished “Assnugget cuntface.”
Neil R. Ghost had found the rest of his original research team. Well, they had found him, but no one was about to play semantics. He had, in fact, been pulled into a hollow formed by the roots of a long-dead cedar, by one Doctor Owen Hamilton (age thirty-nine), and silenced with a hand over the mouth from researcher Andrea Barclay (age thirty-two), two of his initial five-man group of scientists and researchers. The three waited for Two-Sixty-Nine to pass overhead before even breathing.
Once they could no longer see its shadow, Barclay pulled her hand away. “Where is researcher Shekhar?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper.
“Beats the piss out of me,” Ghost replied softly. “Is Doctor Tjaard dead?” Catching a shallow nod from Hamilton, he continued, “Right. Either of you have a gun?”
“Just this thing,” Hamilton said, motioning to a not-very-new rifle at the edge of their hiding place. “Though judging from the past few hours' experience, I'd say it's not going to do much good.” Before he'd even finished the sentence though, Ghost had grabbed the gun and leapt out of the pit.
“Hey you,” Ghost yelled. “You smelly, belligerent pile of crap, come on over and kick my face in. Hard target to miss.” He didn't have to shout; Two-Sixty-Nine had only passed the hiding place by twenty-five metres, and it had excellent hearing. It lowered its head to charge as Ghost raised the rifle, and after only four of the familiar thudding hoofbeats, there was a resounding crack, and the long-hunted moose man fell, a slow trickle of red running down its muzzle.
“Congratulations, you're a hero now,” Ghost quipped, passing the warm weapon to Hamilton. “ And if you tell any of the investigating Foundation personnel anything else, I'll have you dropped like Rancid McGee out there.”
“Is it dead?”
“Nope. Your average moose has a pretty thick skull, but I don't think I could've cracked that one even if I'd wanted to, eh.”
“Alright then. Doctor Barclay, call the base monitoring station, if you would.”
Two hours later, Hamilton was driving a rented subcompact, Ghost in the passenger seat, down one of those long stretches of boring woodland highway that traced the mainland. The trip had progressed in utter silence until a muted crackling from the dash mounted two-way radio snapped them both from their torpor. From what they could gather, the U-Haul truck that the Foundation had rented as an impromptu transport for the unconscious Two-Sixty-Nine had crashed. None of the crew that had gone with it, including Doctor Barclay, had been heard from, and it was to be assumed that the creature had escaped into the surrounding woodland.
“You know, Hamilton, I hope they had the sense to actually secure the thing. With rope or chain, preferably.”
“I have the niggling feeling that they didn't, Neil.”
“Me too, eh. You know, I saw it kill Starnes. I don't think it even planned on eating him or anything. It just wanted him dead.”
“Do you want to turn back and finish it off?”
“Fuck no. Get me an elephant gun and a bottle of whiskey and we'll talk.”
“Why did you shoot it? You knew about the skull, but why take the risk?”
“I'm sure you want me to tell you that I was overcome by a sudden swell of bravery, or that having so many of my teammates brought down made me angry enough to unleash my inner Rambo, but honestly? I was just fed up with its shit, and the smell. Let a properly equipped team deal with it.”
“Back to base, then. Do you think the Foundation's going to consider this a huge loss?”
“As long as we don't have anything to contain, the Special Containment Procedures Foundation isn't going to give a shit, eh.”
“I guess the first drink's on Barclay.”
“And the last one's on Starnes.”


It was a dream, or at least it felt like one. Hana had been invited to the ocean god's palace. She went there in a banana-leaf canoe, drifting through an orange ocean, the sea melting into the sunset, without beginning or end. When she reached the horizon, the canoe took her down, down into the realm of the ocean god. Big ocean animals stand guard outside the palace, and they let her in the diamond-studded coral gate. As she drifted in, through halls made from granite, painted with red ochre, palace servants and guards look on. They were wearing vivid seaweed clothes, with indigo lining and bangles, unlike her tribesmen, which wore linen sarongs and simple accessories. And then, she was led to the throne room, to meet the ocean god. The ocean god sits on his throne made from coral, pearl, and insets of gold doubloons, majestic and towering. Behind the throne was the ocean god's guardian creature, massive and powerful, yet calming and soft at the same time. The ocean god rose and spoke, "Little girl, I have waited long for you."

Hana's village was in an uproar. The local shaman had said a week ago that something big would happen, but nobody had expected it to be this. The shaman's house was crowded, over something that happened last night. Hana had been questioned by the shaman all morning, over the dream she had, a rare pearl of the night. The shaman, wearing her sacred forest-fowl feather garb, went out of her house and exclaimed to the crowd.
"Hana had been chosen by the ocean god! Hana had been chosen by the ocean god!"

Menehana Mauaki's parents were worried. They couldn't bear the thought of sending their only child to the open sea. But, the ocean god's will must be fulfilled, or their village will suffer. The shaman had already pointed out that this dream had occurred rarely in the past; few had dreams about the orange sea, and even fewer had the chance to see the ocean god himself. But almost nobody had been directly invited to the ocean god's palace. Her mother was worried about what could be so important about her daughter, to be chosen by the ocean god. True, she learned to swim earlier than the other girls, and learned how to row canoes earlier than the boys, but she had not thought it to be special. "Mother, why are you so worried?" Hana asked. "Oh, dear child, I am afraid." "Afraid of what, mother?" "I am afraid that I will never see you again. I am sure your father thinks the same, even though he is now catching fish in the ocean." "Don't worry mother! I will ask the ocean god about this."

That night, again Hana rowed the banana-leaf canoe through the orange ocean, into the gates of the ocean god's palace, through the hallways and the corridors. At last, she reached the throne-room, and there, still sitting in his throne, and still as majestic as the last time, the ocean god. "Child, have you considered my offer? There is not much time left." "I would do it, but I do need something, o ocean god." "Then speak. I would grant that which is in my power." "My parents were afraid that they will never see me again. I am concerned about them." "Let go of that concern, child, and give them this." The ocean god stroke his hands, and at once the creature behind the throne produced a pair of something. Something made from limestone, with red ochre lines. "You will know how to use it. Give one to your parents, and keep one to yourself. Save your future worries to the journey ahead, child."

And that morning, Hana woke up with the two objects the ocean god gave her. The village was again in an uproar. The village shaman ran to Hana's house as soon as the story of the recent dream reached her ears. "You are truly blessed, child. From what the ancestor spirits tell me, these are a manifestation of kindred ocean spirits. They will enable you to connect with faraway people, even through the spirit world. Only the first ancestor had seen something like this! I am proud of you, child of the ocean." The shaman trembled with joy. "The Ocean God said I will be able to know how to use it." "Yes, child, you will know how to use it, the Ocean God had said so." Hana then gave one of the objects to her mother. "Mother, this is for you, when I reach the Ocean God's palace, I will try to contact you."

Six days before Hana departed, some shamans from the neighboring islands came to the village. "We wish to give her gifts, for she will depart from our world into the realm of the Ocean God." The shamans then brought a large cloth bundle, intricately sewn with divine patterns, and opened it. There were rare magic stones, the likes of which only exist in the stomachs of giant centipedes which appear only every hundred years, colorful feathers of a bird said to be able to disappear into the forest, various herbs stuffed in a hollowed-out branch said to be able to cure any disease, and other magical aids and amulets. "These are to remind you of the land, child. If the Ocean God wills these to be his memento, do not worry. Our prayers and blessings will always be carried with you."

The day comes when Hana had to leave the island to the Ocean God's territory. The whole village went to the beach with her. The village chief, shaman, and aides were there. Hana's parents were there. The yam diggers, the fishermen, the taro harvesters, the cloth maker, the ironworker, and the rest of the village was there. Some people from the other islands also came to witness the event, even from islands three or four days away. Everyone watched Hana, the child who is summoned by the Ocean God, board her canoe. The shamans' gift is on board the canoe, as well as the object the Ocean God gave her. The sky was turning from a dark blue to yellow, and she set off just when the yellow is beginning to turn orange. Everybody was overwhelmed by cries. The spectators wept as she set off into the orange sea, just like in her dream. Nobody is sure when she will reach the Ocean God's palace, and the divine object was passed from generation to generation. It was then kept in a holy cave, but, as time goes, history forgot about the event…
Until this day nobody knew Menehana Mauaki's fate.


Part 4: Breach
"Plausible Deniability"
Post-Incident Interview, ██-██-████

Interviewer: And that was when Director Valentine breached containment on SCP-784.
Clef: That is correct.
Interviewer: And at that time, Lieutenant Takahashi of MTF-D9 had already arranged her strike team in preparation for arresting Director Valentine.
Clef: That is correct.
Interviewer: Can you explain for me, then, what happened next?
Clef: To put it mildly, sir, the shit simply hit the fan. What I hadn't anticipated at that point was that a decommissioning attempt on the other side of the base would go horribly wrong, causing destruction and death on a massive scale.
Interviewer: … so in short, while SCP-784 was making its escape attempt, that was about when…
Clef: About when Kondraki was throwing cat urine at SCP-083, yes.
Interviewer: …

"WHADDYA FUCKING MEAN NO BACKUP'S COMING!" Takahashi screamed. "I'VE GOT A FUCKING KETER SCP BREAKING CONTAINMENT, AT LEAST ONE POSSIBLE HOSTAGE, AND I'VE GOT FOUR GUYS WITH PEASHOOTERS TO TRY AND CONTAIN IT!"
"Lieutenant, I'm sorry, but all resources are currently being diverted to another incident. I can get you a fire support team in about half an hour…"
"There won't BE a need for a support team in half an hour because we'll all be DEAD in half an hour!" Takahashi snapped.
"Lieutenant! He's coming!" Chang shouted.
Takahashi swore and grabbed her nine mil, checking the chamber and magazine for ammunition. Thirteen rounds wasn't gonna be enough. Hell, a thousand rounds wasn't gonna be enough for this one. She took cover behind a soda machine, the lurid red and white advertisements on the box casting a strange counterpoint to the amber emergency lights. The rifle in her hands felt small and inadequate compared to that which was approaching.
The first sign of trouble was Valentine. The older woman was naked, her pale skin laced with stretch marks and pale blue veins, and she was slowly staggering out of the darkened corridor, pale body laced with blood. "Jesus, she's alive!" Vicks gasped.
"Stand fast, Vicks!" Takahashi ordered. "Director Valentine, come here!"
The older woman turned slowly, then slumped against the wall. Takahashi swore again, turned to Vicks and Chang. She pointed to her eyes with two fingers, then gestured down the corridor, and pumped her fist once. Vicks and Chang nodded grimly and headed down the corridor, sweeping the corners with their flashlights and pistols. They took up positions on either side of the hallway, then nodded to Takahashi.
"Thomas, you're with me." The lieutenant ran to Valentine's side. The woman's head was lolling on her shoulders, and her body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, matting her hair to her skull. "Hey, bitch, are you alive?" Takahashi whispered.
Valentine's eyes opened: the sclera of her eyes were red from ruptured blood vessels, and her speech was slurred. "Lieu… loo…" The older woman coughed up blood. "Got away… hit the sprayers but he got out of containment… he could be anywhere by now. Damn… stupid of me. I didn't… thought I had him in check… Hit the ground hard, feel bad…" She slumped forward. Her entire back was covered in blood, and there seemed to be a large welt forming on the back of her head.
"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck… Thomas, help me get her on the ground. We gotta immobilize her head."
"Think it's a concussion?"
"Concussion, contusions, aneurysm, whatever it is, this bitch hit her head hard." The two of them laid Valentine down on her back. Takahashi tabbed her communicator. "This is Delta-Nine to Site Control, we have a man down, request immediate medical assistance."
"Delta Nine, be advised that we are currently in the middle of…"
"I know you're having a Kondraki Moment, you asshole, but you can spare a couple of stretcher bearers to take one woman to the infirmary! Takahashi out!"
"Lieutenant!" A taller man was running towards them, huffing and puffing under the weight of several large nylon bags. He was closely followed by two paramedics, carrying a backboard, neck-brace and trauma kit.
"Roybal! Thank God you're here! What's the situation?"
"The situation is fucked. Casualties are in double digits already. Someone let the goddamn Sharpie Ball out of its container and it rolled over an entire Task Force." He tossed one of the bags to the ground. "We're not gonna be getting any backup."
"Well, if it's just us, then we'll be just fine." Takahashi said. She unzipped the bag and pulled out a large weapon, that looked rather like a science fiction raygun. "We're Feynman's Folly. We've trained for this scenario. This is what we do."
"I see… and off the record, sir?"
"Off the record? We're up against a former member of Omega-7 in the body of a Keter-Class SCP." Takahashi snapped an energy pack into her HERF gun. "We're fucked."
"Thought so," Roybal admitted.

They'd been moving through the corridors of the darkened hallway for fifteen minutes when Chang raised his hand, signalling the others to stop.
Takahashi saw it a moment later: a hulking mass coiled up in the corner like a pile of steel spaghetti, slowly throbbing rhythmically, as if to a slow, gentle breathing. A claw reached out and touched the wall, tearing through the plaster drywall and etching away at the steel underneath. Already, a portion of the steel seemed to throb and dissolve, melting into another tentacle that incorporated itself into the mass.
She unslung her weapon slowly, gestured to the other three members of her strike team. Firing line. Standard formation. Fire on my mark. The four soldiers slowly raised their weapons towards the creature.
"NOW!"
There was a low shriek, like a camera flash charging, except much, much louder, and then a loud crack of thunder as a blast of High Frequency Electromagnetic Radiation pulsed through the air, ionizing the atmosphere in its wake. Four pulses of crackling blue-white energy lanced into the mass of nanobots, tearing huge chunks out of the coiled steel tentacles.
The monster let out a roar, and then it lunged, terrifyingly fast, crossing the thirty yards between it and the task force in a single leap. Chang went down first, crushed under the mass of steel, his broken body leaving a red smear as the thing rushed on, shrugging off HERF blast after HERF blast, the powerful energy pulses dealing damage, but not enough, not enough to stop the monster from forming a buzzing chainsaw out of one of its tentacles and using it to shear Vicks' hands off at the wrist before tearing into his guts, not fast enough to stop it from grabbing Roybal's ankle and pounding him against the ceiling until he stopped screaming and flailing and just made wet noises like a bag of cement, not enough to stop it from grabbing Takahashi around the throat and lifting her up into the air, choking the life out of the young woman.
She felt her vision start to blur as her world began to go dark. Already, she could see the thing's nanomachines tearing the squad's weaponry apart, incorporating them into its own mass. As her vision swam and her consciousness left her, the last thing she heard was a voice, sneering and sinister, in her ear…
I always told you you lacked subtlety and grace.
Takahashi had enough presence of mind to realize what that meant… and to spend her last life's breath screaming in horror and dismay.
The last sound she'd make as a living creature.

Ten minutes later, the woman that Thomas and the two paramedics had brought to the infirmary opened her eyes. She pulled the IVs out of her arm, cutting off the flow of painkillers (such a pain to bypass the morphine) and got to her feet.
One of the medics tried to stop her, but she ignored him, walking through the halls of the infirmary to the third floor, to the place where she was trying to go. She placed her hand over the doorknob, and a thin tendril of nanomachines emerged from the back of her head, from the carefully hidden plate that she had disguised as a portion of skull, despite the fact that the entire back of the skull had been scooped out and the contents removed. The nanomachines broke through the lock in moments, and the one who wore Valentine's body entered the Intensive Care Quarantine unit.
It made its way to the back of the facility, to a small bed in the back, where a young woman lay slumbering. It placed its hands over her face, and the tendrils extended, penetrated the back of the neck, probed delicately around the connections. Yes, just as it suspected. The injuries could easily be healed.
The medic was shouting now, grabbing a phone and calling for help: the cries annoyed it, so it lathed a portion of steel piping, part of the bedframe, into a crude spear and threw it into the medic's throat. One by one, its nanomachines relaced the broken neurons back into place, carefully repaired the damage to its loved one's brain.
A few minutes later, Agent Beatrix Maddox opened her eyes for the first time in months. "What… who…"
"It's me, B," Valentine's mouth whispered. "I came for you."
There was a gentle cough, as Clef cleared his throat. The Assistant Director stepped over the fallen body of the paramedic and faced the couple - one in an old body newly repaired, the other in a new body not its own - and smiled.
"Agent Andrews," he said. "How nice of you to drop by."
Part 6: Escape


The following are the journal entries made by [DATA EXPUNGED], currently known as Agent Apocalemur, over the time period between his discovery of SCP-307 on ██ ████, 200█, and his recovery by the SCP Foundation three weeks later.

██ ████, 200█
I found the weirdest plant today. It was just growing under that locust tree in my front yard. It looked like English ivy, but it was purple, and had thorns. I was kind of in a hurry to get to work, so I didn't get to look at it very closely.

██ ████, 200█
It's Saturday! My god, I hated this week. I swear, my job gets harder every year. I had to [DATA EXPUNGED].
I got to look at that weird plant I saw yesterday. I saw it growing. It was growing up the side of the tree so quickly, I could see it. Yesterday, it was just a little sprig. That's some plant.
It also looks like there's a pair of robins making a nest in that tree.

██ ████, 200█
I got up early to get a look at that plant. Maybe I should have stayed in bed. When I got outside, it was growing onto the branch that the robins were nesting in. It grew right up to the nest. When it touched the robin in the nest, it stopped growing. A few seconds later, the robin fell to the ground, dead.

██ ████, 200█
I called in sick to work today. I had to call in sick, because they never would have believed me if I said I had been chased away from my car by a purple vine that was growing out of the eyes of a dead bird. The ivy looked like it was growing towards me, and I wasn't taking any chances. I wasn't about to end up like that robin.

██ ████, 200█
█████ is dead. My only sister…dead. I haven't told Mom and Dad. I don't know how to tell them. “Hey, um…you know that ivy that you told █████ to cut away from the tree while you were out? Yeah…it killed her.” I wish I'd known they told her to do it. I could have stopped her. I could have saved her…

██ ████, 200█
Mom and Dad are in shock. They haven't left their room since they got home last night. I heard Dad screaming at someone, but that's the last I heard from either of them. I don't think they want to accept what's happening. The plant has grown into the backyard. ██████ and ██████ are both dead.1

LOG OF 911 CALL PLACED ON [DATA EXPUNGED]
Operator: 911, what's your emergency?
Man's Voice2: My daughter's dead!
Operator: Okay, sir, calm down. What happened?
Man: I don't know. I came home from work, and she was lying on the sidewalk with this plant growing out of her eyes.
[pause]
Man: Hello?
Operator: I'm sorry, did you say a plant was growing out of her eyes?
Man: Yes! My son says it killed her! Please send someone!
Operator: Your daughter was killed…by a plant…that's growing out of her eyes.
Man: What are you, deaf? That's exactly what I said!
Operator: All right, sir, there's no need for names here.
Man: Will you quit fucking around and send someone?
Operator: [hangs up]

██ ████, 200█
It's been a week and a half since I first saw that vine. The house is now completely surrounded. I wonder if any of the neighbors have noticed anything. The only thing that seems to be stopping it from entering the house is the fact that it can't seem to put down roots in metal or glass.
I haven't seen or heard from Mom and Dad. I'm worried they might have poisoned themselves.

██ ████, 200█
If anyone finds this journal, let it be known that I, [DATA EXPUNGED], made my last stand against the demon weed in this room. I have been barricaded in here for almost a week. I am convinced my entire family is dead. I have closed the air ducts and stopped up the crack under my door. I have my mom's long-handled branch trimmers, her weedwhacker, her chainsaw, the grill lighter (it seems to not like fire), and every bit of non-perishable food in the house. I made a sign, which I put in the window. It says, “Still alive. Send help.” I have a system in place to destroy it if I think it won't be necessary. It's only a matter of time before the plant figures out a way to get in here. The damn thing came in through the chimney!

(In the margin of this entry, a sketch was found, of a ring-tailed lemur eating its own tail. Underneath the sketch was the word “Apocalemur.”)

Can'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatm
ecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleat
mecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwille
atmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwill
eatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantw
illeatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplant
willeatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleeppla
ntwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleepplantwilleatmecan'tsleep

██ ████████, 200█
The SCP Foundation has allowed me to access this journal after making what they referred to as “necessary redactions.” They say it was my journal, although I have no memory of keeping it. I have no memory of my family, and know nothing of my life prior to the Foundation. I don't even know my own name. I am simply Agent Apocalemur. Apparently it has something to do with that doodle in the margin a few pages back. Shame I don't know what it means.
When they gave me the journal, they said it was because I had been assigned to oversee research on “SCP-307,” which I have come to understand is this mysterious plant mentioned in the last few entries, in the hopes of finding some way to destroy it for good. They said they wanted me to have some idea what I was in for.
If everything they've told me is true (and I have just as much reason to suspect that it is as I do to suspect that it isn't), then this plant killed my family and destroyed what appears to be a perfectly good life. I want it to die.

Footnotes
1. These names correspond to two dogs, breeds unknown, registered to Agent Apocalemur's family.
2. Vocal patterns match those of Agent Apocalemur's father


Part 3:Escalation
"Until the End of the World"
Eighteen Months Ago
"All right, next question."
"Mmmm?"
"Imagine you just won a contest and you have your choice of two prizes."
"Is one of them you?"
"No… would you take this seriously, please?"
"I'm sorry, I'm a bit distracted by the beautiful naked girl in bed with me."
"You've got another girl under the sheets right now? How mean!"
"I'm talking about you, babe."
"Please. I'm not beautiful."
"Of course you are. The most beautiful girl in the world."
"I don't believe you."
"It's the truth. What do I need to do to make you believe that?"
"Tell me again…"
"You're beautiful…"
"… a million times."
"You're beautiful, you're beautiful, you're…"
"Not all at once, you dork! Slower… once a day, maybe."
"That's… about two thousand, seven hundred years."
"Then you'll just have to make sure that we live that long."
"Yes, dear…"

Today
"… in conclusion, the operation was carried out successfully, with minimal casualties. SCP-784 performed outstandingly. The artifact was captured without further incident, contained, and remanded to Special Containment Procedures unit." Lieutenant Takahashi closed her notebook with a crisp, military snap.
"Thank you. You are dismissed." Director Valentine said, distractedly. She ran a finger along her armchair. There was a slightly dreamy expression on her face, a nearly post-orgasmic one. Takahashi bit her lower lip. She really didn't want to know.
"There is one more thing," the lieutenant continued, hesitantly. "Skip-784 asked me a question." More like rumbled it, actually, in its terrifying buzzing voice, that sounded like a chorus of bees. "He wants to know when you will uphold your end of the bargain."
"Mmmm? Which bargain?" Valentine asked.
"Agent Maddox. You promised…"
"Oh yes. Tell him that the request was put through, and is pending Overseer review," Valentine said.
"… is it, Director?"
"Is what?"
Her voice was catching just a bit. She seemed a bit breathless. Takahashi was starting to get really annoyed by that. "Was the request put through? IS it pending Overseer review?" she repeated.
"If it'll help ease your mind, then, as far as you know, yes it was." Valentine said. The older woman bit her lower lip, and Takahashi… yes, she could definitely hear the slightest hint of a buzzing sound. "Now if you'll excuse me… you are dismissed, Lieutenant."
The door closed behind her with a solid click. Takahashi took a deep breath. Behind her, in the room, she could hear the buzzing noise growing louder, and the definite, high-pitched sounds of feminine amorous moans.
"Jesus," she whispered, shaking her head.

Post-Incident Interview, ██-██-████

Interviewer: Were you aware of Doctor Valentine's condition at the time?
Clef: Her technophilia? Yes. Her collection of… mechanical aids… was rather famous around the facility.
Interviewer: And you didn't think that it was inappropriate to place someone like that in charge of a mechanically based SCP?
Clef: Doctor Valentine's extracurricular activities were not relevant to her ability to do research upon her test subject, no.
Interviewer: I wonder how much you really believe that.
Clef: Given subsequent events, it's clear that my beliefs were… incorrect.

Night time at Site 19 was usually no different than any other time of day. The Oubliette was built rather like a Vegas Casino: every effort made to make sure that no one could see outside. Instead of day and night, an endless, constant, monotonous day, broken only by the changing of shifts from one set of guards to the next.
Agent Jared Thomas had just begun his graveyard shift, had just settled into his comfortable station chair with a copy of the new John Grisham novel and a pack of bubble gum, when the door opened. He stood up, blinking in surprise. It wasn't exactly unusual to see Director Valentine here, but at two in the morning?
"Good evening mister… Thomas…" Valentine said, after a quick glance at the young man's nametag. "How is Agent Andrews today?"
"SCP-784 is quiet, as usual, Director," Agent Thomas said. He gestured through the quartz glass at the scene below: SCP-784 lay curled up in its concrete container, looking rather like a thousand-armed steel octopus crossed with a million wriggling silicon earthworms, slowly writhing. "I think he's sleeping, to be honest. Although it's hard to tell."
"I see… sleeping." Valentine leaned over, and Thomas gulped nervously. The thin, white cloth of the middle-aged woman's labcoat was just sheer enough for the younger man to see what she wasn't wearing underneath. "When was the last time you got a good night's sleep, Agent Thomas?"
"I slept from 0900 to 1600 today," Thomas said, smiling.
"I said a good NIGHT's sleep, Agent Thomas."
"Oh? I've worked graveyard shift for the past five months. I'll be switching back in…"
"I see. Go and get some sleep, Agent Thomas. Sleeping in the day and staying up nights is bad for your circadian rhythm. I'll finish up your watch."
"Actually, ma'am, I've been setting up this new rhythm for months. I'm not sleepy at all."
"Agent Thomas, do you WANT to be reassigned to cleaning up SCP-053's diapers?"
"Not as such, no…"
"Then I recommend you follow orders from a superior officer. Now, Agent Thomas."
"Yes, ma'am." The younger agent sullenly picked up his book, coffee, and jacket, and left the control chamber. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see Director Valentine settle into the station chair and look up at the monitors, the very image of the professional SCP Foundation guard.
He also noticed that she was fingering the top button of her labcoat, a bit tentatively.
Agent Thomas smiled. "Gotcha," he whispered to himself. On his way out, he took the small electronic device from his coat pocket and attached it to the underside of the glowing green EXIT sign with a wad of Bubblicious. Then he took his cell phone out of his pocket and called up Lieutenant Takahashi.
"Hey, Taki," Thomas said. "Remember how you told me to let you know if the Iron Bitch does something strange? Get your team together. I think she's about to."

Audio Log 784-T-K-421

Chang: Jesus, Lieutenant, don't you ever sleep? It's like two in the morning.
Takahashi: Don't worry, Chang, you're gonna like this. Here, check this out.
Chang: Okay, I'll bite. What you got for us?
Takahashi: Watch this.
[loud vocalizations]
Vicks: Holy CHRIST! Is that…
Chang: [wolf whistle] Dayum! I usually gotta pay by the hour to watch stuff like this… wait, I think she's almost… OH!
[loud cheering, punctuated by a cry of, "Yeah, Baby!"]
Takahashi: Jared, are you recording this?
Thomas: Recording, shit, I could sell this to any studio and make…
Takahashi: Thomas, cut the shit, are you recording this?
Thomas: Yeah, I'm recording all right. We've got her.
Takahashi: Run that up to the Smiling Man. I'm going to head down there and arrest this bitch for gross dereliction of duty.
Chang: Gross is right, did you see how she…
Takahashi: Chang, Vicks, get your minds out of the gutter and grab your gear.
Vicks: Sure thing, boss. Yowee, for an old hag, she's actually not bad.
Takahashi: Christ…
Thomas: Hang on a minute, Lieutenant, something's happening… oh hell. Taki? You'd better get down there NOW.
Takahashi: What is it?
Thomas: The target just left the control facility. She's headed inside.
Takahashi: fuck fuck fuck fuck move! … wait, did anyone hear that?
[END OF LOG]

Part 5: Breaking Point


To all units operating in west coast of the United States, this is a PRIORITY ONE order issued from CENTCOM.
There is evidence to suggest that two Keter-level targets, codenamed “Toto” and “Dorothy”, are currently operating in the Southern California area. Though the reasons for their presence there are not exactly clear, being able to operate in a densely populated area would certainly appeal to “Dorothy”, based on previous records of her behavior.
Since “Toto” is classified as a Class One combat threat, field agents are authorized to use full combat loadouts. However, it is highly recommended that agents avoid direct confrontation of the targets, since all previous attempts at containing them have ended with failure and heavy casualties (please see attached post-action reports for full details). All agents are to immediately report the targets' coordinates once found. Agent Spoon, Agent Pitchfork, and a Mobile Task Force are airborne and ready to drop at a moment's notice.
Intelligence has also suggested that elements of the Chaos Insurgency may also be involved. It is also no secret that the FBI's Unusual Incidences Unit is currently investigating the case, though Intelligence suggests they have no idea what they're tracking. Chaos Insurgency agents are to be terminated on sight while UIU agents are to be detained or avoided if possible.
Godspeed, and watch out for “Toto's” lasers.
- O5-█

Leo sighed as he walked into the office for work. By far, this was the worst time of the day, as whenever he walked in, he drew the stares, sneers, and snickers from the staff as most of them were coming in to work as well. It was well known that he was part of the Unusual Incidences Unit, and it was very well known that UIU was considered the lowest rung of the entire department. Leo had originally joined the FBI because he wanted to make a difference, but now he spent his days toiling away in the basement of the Los Angeles FBI Field Office. However, he had no idea what he did or who he angered to get himself into this mess.

Name: Leonardo “Leo” James Carter
Age: 25
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 5' 11''
Profile: Originally joined the FBI under the pretense of “making a difference”. However, due to political machinations within the department, Special Agent Carter has been assigned to the Los Angeles branch of the UIU. He so far has had zero contact with any SCP, but has proven to remain calm and focused during times of great stress. Fairly inexperienced in field work, but this is mostly due to the nature of his position rather than any fault of his own.
Recruitment Potential: Promising. Special Agent Carter displays all of the necessary qualities needed for a Foundation field agent. However, his inexperience in dealing with SCPs may prove to be a temporary handicap.

Making sure nobody was looking, Leo quietly opened the door that led to the building's basement and shuffled inside. Down the depths of the field office lay the UIU office, if you could even call it that. The office used to be part of Archives, until the transition to digital media allowed the department to dump most of their paper files. UIU was shoved into the extra space as almost an afterthought, and it definitely showed. It was a small, barely lit room with absolutely no climate control and almost perpetually choked with dust. Besides himself, Leo also worked with two other Special Agents, Richtoff and Wellings.
“I see you've brought your own coffee again.” Richtoff mused as Leo sat at his desk. “No appreciation for our fine UIU homebrew?”
“I would if it were even vaguely coffee, sir.” Leo shook his head. “Not just colored, slightly bitter water.”
Richtoff was a good natured and kind old man, but even he had to know that he was now running an ailing division that the department never even wanted in the first place. The only reason why UIU existed at all was due to the order of some crazy, reactionary Representative. The Director was unhappy about creating what was, in his mind, a huge money and manpower sink while the Criminal, Counterterrorist, Cybercrime, and Intelligence Divisions saw UIU as extra competition. As a result, UIU had absolutely zero budget or influence within the department and served as a way to get rid of unwanted staff. It was so bad, most considered transfer or “promotion” to UIU to be punishment detail.
“Well, it's either that watered down stuff, or we can get about two months of normal coffee before we run out and have to wait for the department to write up the next budget.” Richtoff said.

Name: Alexander Moriarty Richtoff
Age: 56
Hair Color: White
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 6' 1''
Profile: An FBI veteran for over thirty years, Special Agent Richtoff possesses vast knowledge and experience on the inner workings of the FBI. However, due to his refusal or inability to play department politics, Special Agent Richtoff has never been seriously considered for promotion, even though his credentials are more than enough to make him a division chief or even an assistant director. Likewise, his refusal to leave the FBI has resulted in his transfer to UIU in the hopes that it will hasten his retirement, as well as eliminate his influence within the department.
Recruitment Potential: Low. Due to his age, Special Agent Richtoff is too old for effective fieldwork, and his skepticism about paranormal activity is not conducive to employment within the Foundation. However, there are other alternatives to outright recruitment that may benefit the Foundation.

“By the way, where's Sam?” Leo looked around the dimly lit office but could find no trace of his partner. That was odd, since she almost always arrived at the office early.
“I think she's out on a case.” Richtoff sighed. “She thinks she's finally got a lead on that magic coffee machine.”
“That's totally stupid.” Leo shook his head. “Then again, she's the only one here that takes her job seriously.”

Name: Samantha “Sam” Breton Wellings
Age: 24
Hair Color: Blond
Eye Color: Green
Height: 5'8
Profile: Special Agent Wellings is somewhat of a far cry from regular FBI agents, the type that would fit perfectly in the UIU. Actually, she is one of the few who had actually volunteered for the position. Is a genuine believer in the paranormal, yet not to the extent seen in most other UIU agents of her kind. Though her actual fieldwork skills are questionable (her current duties are insufficient to accurately gauge her abilities), there is no denying that she has the enthusiasm that seems to be lacking in our own field agents these days.
Recruitment Potential: Promising. Special Agent Wellings is clearly enthusiastic about her work, which would make it relatively simple for her to adjust to the Foundation's unique job description. Also, her near discovery of SCP-294 should be testament to her dedication.

Sam exited the curio shop, dejected but not discouraged. Apparently, the coffee machine she was looking for had already been sold. She had tried to press for more information, but like always, the buyer had to pay in cash, making him all but untraceable. It looked like she would have to wait another day. As she made her way back to her car, a pair of burly suits rudely shoved her aside.
“Hey! You can at least watch where you're going!” Sam said angrily.
Both men turned and glared at her, making her cringe and step back. Even though she was FBI, Sam was still, at best, a junior agent, so she was still fairly easy to intimidate. Fortunately, both men quickly lost interest in her and filed in the shop she had just exited. She was about to follow them to see just what they were up to when her cell phone rang.
“What do you want, Chief?” Sam asked when she saw Richtoff's caller ID.
“To get yourself, and more importantly, the car back to the office!” Richtoff yelled angrily. “Unlike what the other divisions might think, we actually have cases to investigate! And unlike the other divisions, we only have that one car!”
“Oh come on, Chief!” Sam sighed. “You know just as well as I do that all the crap we get are the cases the other divisions don't want to bother with!”
“Just get back here already!” Richtoff said, exasperated. “Our workload is bad enough without you going rogue on me!”
At this point, Sam knew that if she gave in to Richtoff's demands now, she'd concede victory to her boss. However, if she could stall for another half hour or so, it would be a small victory for underappreciated, overworked FBI agents everywhere.
“Alright, I'll be back, but I'm not sure when.” Sam replied. “The 5 Freeway's clogged with Chinese tourists trying to get to Disneyland again.”
“Alright, just-“
Suddenly, there was shouting coming from the curio shop Sam had been investigating. She glanced through the window and caught sight of the two burly men from earlier harassing the shop owner. At first glance, it looked as if they were engaged in some aggressive haggling, but it didn't take long for Sam to notice that both men had the shop owner at gunpoint.
“Wellings, what's going on?!”
Sam realized that she had forgotten to turn off her phone, but there was no time for that now. She burst into the shop, gun drawn, and yelled, “FBI! Put your weapons down!”
Most of the time, when confronted by any kind of law enforcement, much less the FBI, most suspects surrendered without a fight, or at least decided that running was a better option than fighting. It was then understandable when Sam was caught off guard when the two burly men turned around and fired on her without hesitation. Sam shrieked and took cover behind a store shelf. Meanwhile, the store clerk took the chance to bolt out of the back door.
“Wellings? Wellings!” Ricthoff's voice shouted, barely audible over the sound of gunfire.
“Shots fired shots fired!” Sam said in a panicked voice.

“What happened?” Leo asked when he saw Richtoff scramble for the stairs.
“Trouble! Bring your sidearm and your vest!”
The two agents bolted from the basement office and toward the garage where the department vehicles were kept. Many people looked on curiously, as they had never seen UIU agents move with such speed and urgency.
“Sir! We've got trouble! One of our agents is under fire!” Richtoff yelled through his phone, which was connected to Assistant Director Horner's office. “We need backup at her location!”
“I'm sorry, Special Agent Richtoff, but we've got no agents in the area and our resources are spread thin enough as it is.” Horner said in a cold, infuriatingly clinical manner. “I'm afraid we'll have to leave the matter to local law enforcement.”
“Bullshit.” Richtoff muttered to himself as he hung up his phone. Horner probably saw this as a cheap, trouble-free way of getting rid of an undesired agent. Then again, the Assistant Director never really cared about UIU in the first place, so why should he care now?
“I assume we're in this alone, then?” Leo asked. “How're we supposed to get there when our only car is at the scene?”
“Watch.” Richtoff sprinted into the garage toward Agents Miller and Jennings. They were probably going out on another goddamn donut run.
“Hey, it's those X-Files geeks.” Miller jeered as he saw Richtoff and Leo approach. “What's the matter, somebody saw a UF-“
Miller never had a chance to finish his sentence. Richtoff knocked the agent out cold with a solid right hook. The senior agent then snatched Miller's keys and tossed them to Leo.
“You drive.”
“What the hell!” Jennings was shocked at what he just witnessed. “Why'd you-“
“If you don't want to end up like your partner, I'd suggest you shut up and stay out of my way!” Richtoff scowled.
Jennings squealed like a newborn pig and dashed for cover. Leo and Richtoff ignored him and commandeered their recently acquired sedan. With siren and lights blaring, the FBI vehicle roared out of the garage with a vengeance, sending both agents and civilians scrambling for cover.

Sam didn't have to be a genius to realize that she was in a dire predicament. She was outnumbered and pinned down, and besides basic firearm training, she had never fired her sidearm in her life. She leaned out to get a look at her attackers, and hopefully get a few shots off at them. However, when she leaned out, she could only see one of the burly men.
“Where'd the other one go-“ Sam muttered to herself a split second before she heard a gun cock. She turned to see the second burly man standing behind her. “Shit.”
The next few seconds were a blur. There were three bright bangs and flashes, and Sam suddenly found herself lying in a pool of her own blood. Her shirt was completely stained with blood from the three bullet holes in her chest, but fortunately or unfortunately, all three bullets had missed her heart, leaving her to linger on the ground in excruciating pain. She looked up, and even though her eyes were quickly losing focus from blood loss, she could see the silhouettes of the two burly men standing over her. Sam looked on helplessly as burly man one bent down and pulled out her ID.
“Is she one of those Foundation spooks tailing us?” Burly man two asked.
“Nah, just some dumb cop.” Burly man one casually tossed the ID away. “She's no use to us. Waste her.”
Lying there on the ground dying, most people would have felt fear or regret, but Sam felt something bubbling inside her, an emotion she didn't feel very often. Anger. It was so unfair, that she would die here, without knowing anything at all. If only, if only…
If only she had the power to control her fate.
There were two more shots, but there was something different about them. Sam distantly remembered that the two shots sounded more as if they had come from a high caliber sniper rifle rather than a pistol. She then realized that she was still alive and opened her eyes. Her vision was still blurry, but she could see two silhouettes standing above her, and they definitely weren't the burly men.
“Excellent marksmanship as always, Forky,” one of the silhouettes said happily. “I'd have thought you'd go the easy route and just killed them.”
“They're more valuable alive than dead,” the second silhouette replied.
“Ah, then the same can be said for this poor soul down here.” The first silhouette knelt down beside Sam, who was finding it harder and harder to keep her eyes open.
“There's nothing we can do for her. Even if we do patch her up, she'll bleed out before the paramedics arrive.”
“Who said we needed paramedics?”
Sam heard an odd clinking sound and the second silhouette gasped, “How the hell do you have SCP-427? That's a containment breach!”
“Signed it out! Duh!", the first silhouette laughed.
Sam felt a small weight on her chest, and then her vision began to clear and her pain started to subside. Surprised, she blinked and looked at her unlikely savior. It was a young man, with messy black hair and wearing a dark coat and sunglasses. Behind him, Sam caught sight of Agent Pitchfork, who appeared to be an albino woman wearing similar clothing, except toting an M40 sniper rifle.
“I hope you know what you're doing.” Agent Pitchfork scowled.
“I only kept it on long enough to make her wounds non-fatal.” The other agent grinned. “Don't feel like fighting a flesh beast today."
“Come on, let's get out of here. The police will be arriving in about forty two seconds.”
“Just a second.” Agent Pitchfork's partner knelt down beside Sam and smiled. “Oh, you're not going to die, at least not today. We've got some interesting things in mind for you.”
"Don't you mean you have interesting things in mind, Agent Spoon?" Agent Pitchfork asked suspiciously.
"Semantics." Agent Spoon shrugged.
Then, just as quickly as they appeared, both of the newcomers vanished. Sam could hear sirens in the distance, and panicked cries of onlookers who came to investigate the commotion. It was only then that Sam finally lost consciousness.

We have apprehended the Chaos Insurgency operatives and are in the process of interrogating them for information on SCP-204. However, Agent Spoon has breached protocol again, revealing our existence to a non-Foundation agent and refusing to terminate her. However, more disturbingly, Agent Spoon was in possession of SCP-427.
I suspect he may have ulterior motives. Intend to investigate further.
-Agent Pitchfork

Next: Chapter 2


█-██-███: While its shape shifting abilities proved to be of some interest for a time, as other shape shifting SCPs were discovered, and after study in to the extreme amount of damage it can cause to both electronic objects, as well as organic matter from the large amounts of radiation it produces, it was determined that SCP-135 was no longer of use to the Foundation. After many decades in deep storage, 135 was slated for decommissioning by unanimous consensus of all current 05s.
Dr. Iceberg, having learned of this through unknown channels, promptly requested “the rights to kill the motherfucker before Clef gets it.”
Decommissioning Day 1:
Ok, so I've noticed.
You know how Clef was beat up and shit after the fighting with Kon and 239 and stuff? But then he got back in the good spotlight after he decommed 531? Both he and Kon are both dicks, but they have nice Level 4 jobs. I do hard work, and what do I get? Level 2. Why? They destroy stuff. I can't believe I didn't see it before. To get a promotion, I simply have to decom a dangerous, worthless SCP item. And it just happens, as I was looking through files on the network, I found one. 135. A shapeshifter, destroys electronics, and produces multiple types of radiation. Something about Roswell, but please. Everyone knows how that shit really went down. Now, step one. Figure out how to kill it.

Day 2:
Nevermind, first step is getting the job. As always, high-and-mighty-killer-of-all Clef is the one being considered for it. I'll simply have to send them papers showing off my credentials. Easy enough, just need to slip in a few pages with some reports. Luckily, Kondraki just gave me some pages that will work perfectly.

Day 5:
Ok, that didn't work. Not only did I hear nothing, I actually got Gears asking me how I could mess up and get the wrong papers mixed in important reports to an 05. What the hell. Fine, let's play hardball. I'll slip in some demeaning things about Clef.

Day 6:
Odd. I still heard nothing. That, and someone shot my door with a shotgun. Bah. I didn't want to have to do this, but I guess I'll just to have ask them if I can do it.

Day 7:
Rejection. I thought it only hurt when it was women. But no. Shot down I was. Apparently because not only has the job been given to Clef, and he has accepted, but there's something about a slight “issue” I caused.
Or several.
Look, I did not know it still had fuel in it.
That one wasn't even my fault.
This one? I regret nothing.
Now, everyone thought this one was funny.
And those D-class had it fucking coming.
It seems I must take matters into my own hands. I don't have much time, but in my spare time I devised a method to destroy it. I need simply to get what I need and prepare the room. It's so simple and cheap, not to mention with so little destruction to anything else, they'll have to be impressed! Big leagues, here I come! Now, it'll take an all-nighter, so I better start. Clef could get around to this anytime.

At ███ hours SCP-135 was discovered missing.
At ███ hours its remains were found.
Video record of room ██ during ███ to ███ hours.
The room is completely empty, and seemingly has no special features beyond its metal walls. Dr. Iceberg enters the room, wearing a heavy coat, of the style used by agents working in low temperature environments or with SCPs capable of influencing temperature, a bag and an oxygen tank. Behind him in is a man later confirmed as D-██-2348. Note breach of Foundation policy.

Audio Log recorded on ██-██-████, ████:██:██

[Unrelated talking]
D-class: And what the hell are you wearing?
Dr. Iceberg: A suit. Upgrade on the technology NASA based their space suits on.
[At this point, Dr. Iceberg hooked himself up to the oxygen tank and pulled on the hood of the suit up. Several seconds later, a common handgun is thrown into the room. Object lands near D-██-2348's feet, and soon transforms into a copy of the man.]
D-class: What th-
Dr. Iceberg: Come on, Haven't seen something stranger? You've been here a month ain't ya?
D-class: Yeah, well-
Dr. Iceberg: Eh, doesn't matter. Just stay quiet and you'll be free to go in no time. Hm… push it back a couple feet. So, 135, you able to talk?
[3 minutes of silence, with 135 simply copying D-██-2348]
Dr. Iceberg: No last words then? Ah, well. Good bye you, hello promotion.
[Dr. Iceberg holds up and presses a bright blue button, at which point a small ball of ice shoots from the ceiling onto 135's “head”, and soon begins turning into a gas]
D-class: And that is?
135: [Unintelligible language]
Dr. Iceberg: A solid nitrogen snowball.

Multiple holes open up above, below, and to either side of 135 and D-██-2348, pelting both with large amounts of solid and liquid nitrogen. After █ minutes 57 seconds, this ceases. Dr. Iceberg turns and opens his bag, pulling out a “sawn-off” shotgun.

Dr. Iceberg: Man, have I ever wanted to do this.

[Dr. Iceberg aims the gun at the frozen figures, spinning the gun on its trigger before firing both loaded shots, shattering both. After checking the pieces, he walks over to the door, and attempts to open it. After initial failure, he is noted to shout.]

Dr. Iceberg: Oh damnit! Door froze….. Help! Hey, someone out there! Come on, I just need someone to open the door!


Note: The following are sections of text recovered from the body of what is assumed to be a member of “The Church of The Broken God.” It is assumed they are part of a larger document or “Bible”, but due to the situation of its recovery, the bulk of this work has been lost. No additional copies of this “bible” have been found on any “church” members captured by The Foundation, however it is safe to assume that these books were disposed of before or during capture, to prevent them from “falling into the hands of the infidel.”
The following texts were among the personal effects of one “Amanda ██████”, a 24-year-old former college student. Records show that she had very slight involvement with SCP-███, however this interaction was deemed insignificant, precluding the need for memory alteration beyond that of the basic “plane crash” cover story. She withdrew from college several months later, and was listed as a “missing person” by her parents after three months of no contact. It is assumed that, for the next two years, she remained with the “Church”. On ███/██/██, a car filled with gasoline canisters and other incendiary devices crashed into “████████ Motors”, the public façade of Site ██. Amanda ██████ was at the wheel, and died in the resulting explosion.
Site ██ suffered no damage from the initial attack, however five Agents and the entirety of “████████ Motors” were lost in the explosion. The subsequent attack by “Church” members resulted in the total lockdown of Site ██ for eight hours, with minor security failures at the two major access points. Investigation as to how the site's location became known is ongoing.

Editor's Note: Fragments are presented in order of recovery. The original order of the documents and text is impossible to determine at this time.

…And behold, The Lord spoke unto me, in a voice both soft and terrible, but was silent to the unbeliever. The Lord spoke “Come”, and I did, and I was afraid and fell to my knees, weeping. I rose my hands, and asked “O, mighty Lord, what has become of thy body? Why have you been undone?” The Lord said unto me “Go, and restore me to glory, and I shall restore you in turn”. The voice of God spoke to my heart, and I wept at both the Glory and the Shame of The Heart of our Lord. Thus I came…

…not afraid of The Lord, for He is as we are, broken and scattered. As we restore the body of God, so we restore ourselves. To join with the Lord is good. As we give honor and worship to the Lord, so does He honor us. To serve the Lord is good. As we guard the Lord from harm, so does He…

…Holy, and do not speak of Him to The Unbeliever. To do so is to profane God. The Unbeliever trembles at the feet of The Lord, as we did in our ignorance, but will rise to shatter when we kneel to restore. To allow…

Blessed is the one who frees the Body of God from bondage, for in so doing we free our spirit from bondage. As He calls to…

…Not be consumed, as the Moth is to the Flame? Without our bodies, how will we serve the Lord?” I spoke unto him, holding to him a facet of the Spirit of God. “The Lord consumes the Wicked, and brings the Holy to him. To fear The Lord is to show the Wickedness of the heart. To be Wicked under the will of God is to delay his Resurrection. To delay His return is to join the Defilers in his eternal imprisonment.” Daniel then wept and cried out, and tore at his flesh as the Spirit of God entered him, and ate from him his evil. His Blasphemy was too great, and his wickedness too deep, and lo, The Lord did destroy all that he was, for all that he was Wicked. His rotten shell was…

…very Body of The Lord, the home from which he was driven, the hollow shell to which the Broken God must be restored for his birth, as the seed is restored to the womb, and I cried out and wept with joy as I beheld the Glory. I and the Acolytes of the Lord did go forward, and drove out the Wicked who had Imprisoned the Lord, and they did wail and weep at the retribution of God, and poured their blood in vain against the coming of God. We tore down the wall that entombed the Lord, and found his flesh to be as that of a tomb, and called out for his direction and glory. I walked in the body of the Lord, and was struck by his glory and greatness. Great is the Broken God, and greater still will be his Restoration. As we drew to the center of God, we found the remains of Him still soft and untainted, and did rejoice in it. We worshiped in the Body of The Lord, and lo, His Spirit came to us and took from us three of our number and did consume them, and the others were afraid. I spoke unto them: “Be not afraid of the Embrace of God, for He wishes only…

…is not the far off Ghost: The Lord is with Us. The Lord is not the aloof Emptiness: The Lord hears Us. The Lord is not of Anger: The Lord welcomes Us. The Lord rewards our Sacrifice: The Lord is Fair. The Lord is Broken: The Lord is as We are. The…

…of the Wicked, of the Unfaithful, of the Jailers of The Lord. To harm them is great, to bring them to the Lord is greater. Do not let trust cloud your fellowship, for the Wicked will hide among us, and harm us. Confess the Wicked to us, and bathe in the glory of…

…loss of The Heart of The Lord, an acolyte was brought before It. He heard not the voice of God, and resisted enlightenment. The Faithful brought him again and again to the Heart, but still he rebelled, and fought the Voice of God. When he did hear the Voice, his rebellion and Wickedness would not allow him to embrace God, but drove him farther still, and lo, he came to injure and harm the Faithful. So it came to pass that he was given unto The Lord, and His Heart did accept him readily. Still he resisted, and did not pass in Glory, but with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, and his blood defiled the ground with his Wickedness. This is the nature of God: To resist Him is death, but to join Him is Life Everlasting. As is The Lord, so shall we be: To resist us is death, but to join will bring Life Everlasting. In this…

…is the Lord! Great is His Power, and wide is His Will! Praise be to all who care for The Lord in His exile, for they do the will of God! Though we may suffer in our Faith, God hears and cares for us, and drives…

…came to me weeping, and begged of me, "What shall be done? My son is dead!" I went with her to her home, and found her son lying in bed, and it seemed his deathbed, for no sound came from his lips, nor movement from his breast. As I knelt next to him, I felt The Lord God well up inside me, and saw that his body was not broken, but had become changed. "Come and give praise!" I shouted to her, "For your son has passed from this place of trials, and joined with The Lord!" Trembling she came, and fell to her knees and praised The Lord with loud voice. Her son rose, and the flesh of his body fell away to show its perfect union with…

…time when he left the People of God, and went forth to the Unbelievers. There he profaned the Name of God, and did try to turn their cruelty against us. Great is the Will of God, and far is His reach, for he did turn even the Unbeliever against him, and he was imprisoned as he wished to imprison The Lord. There he was found, and there he was shown the cost of his betrayal, for the People of God did go forth and take him from there, and did dash his head against the stone, and left his Corrupted and Traitorous shell to rot outside the body of God.
Lo, behold and tremble, for this is the least terrible fate of the Betrayer. To betray The Lord is to bring wrath of both the People and the Body of God, and both will exact…

[ADDITIONAL FRAGMENTS WAITING RESTORATION]


I look into the metallic reflection of myself in the elevator door. I see it every day. Or just about, since sometimes work keeps me on base for days on end. Smooth polished steel. You can see your reflection in it, with the bright white glow of the single light above me. In front of me, the door and the two buttons. Up. Down. This one only leads to two spots. To my left, a side of the elevator. To my right, Doctor MacCarrick.
He was one of the new guys, but somehow, he'd just gotten a research assistantship working with Oh-Three-Five. A nasty little bugger, from the file I read. I had fifty bucks saying he didn't last the week. Sort of sick, I know, but we bet on odd things down here.
I give my cheeks a soft slap to get some color in them and wake myself up, then notice MacCarrick staring at me in the reflection in the metal.
"…Yes, MacCarrick?"
"Nothing, Dr. Iceberg."
"Just Ice," I said. I kept hoping it would catch on, but it never did. He didn't get a chance to respond before the elevator door opens, and we were herded out by the security staff on hand. I was motioned out into a short hall, nodding briefly to MacCarrick as he went in the opposite direction. I regretted it, but it was already too late.
The trip down seemed longer than usual, but it might have just been the company. Don't get close to people you've got money on. Never ends well.
We already passed clearance up top side, so a lot of the hustle and bustle down here was just for show. In spite of that, I knew full well that the security cameras were hidden, watching, and checking us. Facial structure scans, retinal analysis, or anything that seemed off. One thing wrong, and a security team would be in the room in seconds to deal with things. I've seen it happen. Not to me, thankfully, but still. They're efficient. Very, very efficient. And the Insurgency had yet to master plastic surgery, it seemed.
As I walked forward, I eyed the rather nice reception desk. I wasn't sure who it was actually there for, since we didn't take visitors, but I assumed that all sites had one. Tradition, maybe? Or a leftover from another time. Sitting behind it, typing away at her keyboard, was Break.
Her codename never made sense to me. I just don't see it. Breaking intruders upon the rocks? Breaking fingers? I dunno. But then, you have other people whose callsigns didn't make sense either. Djoric? What was up with that? Or Bright? Whatever. Not like it mattered. What did matter, though, was…
"Hello there, Break." I put on my charming smile. Set my briefcase down. Lean onto her desk.
She sighs before responding, eyes not straying from her computer. "Hello, Dr. Iceberg."
"And how are you today, lovely?"
"Good. Must you do this?"
"Do what, Breaky?" I use my pet name for her. She loves that.
"Don't call me that."
"Oh, come on. I know you love it." She loved it. "I was wondering if you might be doing anything this week. Like, say, Friday?"
"No."
“Oh really, now," I started. "Then maybe we cou—"
"No," she said. "I was answering your next question first. No, I'm not going out with you. I'm going to be washing my hair from now until eternity, Berg."
Ugh. I hated it when she called me Berg.
She turned her face from the screen at last, looking up at me with a blank expression that I knew belied her true affections.
"Go to work."
"Okay, okay, fine, fine… Maybe next week, then." My smiled slipped from charming to nervous, and I picked up my suitcase and headed down the administrative hallway toward the east wing.
I wasn't sure if she knew she was in ear shot when I heard her mumbled "Not likely." But I knew this all too well. Honestly, I sometimes wonder if I may be as bad with women as Clef. Then I just tell myself that even I'm not that bad. I hope. I wonder if maybe the issue lay with her, but I decided that she'd warm up to me sooner or later.

My office was placed fairly deep in the bedrock. Well, less that and more they gave me one back here. Considering how much time I'm stuck back here from week to week, it was no wonder I thought of it as home more so than the apartment at the nearby living facilities. The nice thing is that I'm still in walking distance to the break room, and since it's Monday, a break seems like a good way to get things started.
I head out down the shockingly clean hallways. I'm always surprised by how nicely kept they are, especially since I never see a cleaning crew. They must be here at odd hours. Maybe a secret fleet of Roombas.
I pass by researchers, of course. There's a ton of us down here. Some, I know; others, I don't. The lucky ones have been here for a while. The unlucky ones? They're fifty dollars. Yeah, yeah. I'm sick. But the guy who runs the betting is the same guy who comes up with the cover stories for their families. Hah! He pockets ten percent, then tells them how a crane fell or a beam collapsed or something. They never hear about how someone was dissolved or unexisted or some shit. Its hard, though, coming up with excuses when there's no body. You gotta respect the man.
I head down the corridor past the Level One and Two offices. Shiny nameplates hanging on the doors with nice, generic names. The lucky kids who only know about the Safes or maybe a Euclid. Must be nice. Past that, I take a left past the minimum security wing. Some safe class skips. Dozens of guards, but they all know me. And they know if I made it in, that I'm cleared. No one pays me attention except the new guys, who stiffen when I walk by. They'll get over that, eventually. Or maybe they won't. The ones that don't live the longest.
And… break room. Finally. I pick up the scent of muffins, then the sound of her voice—in that order. She might have brought the muffins for everyone, if I was lucky, but chances were…
I rounded the corner, and there she sat. Agatha Rights. Doctor Agatha Rights, I had to remember. Five foot four, built to adore, knockout and snore. Damn. And she was eating the last muffin from a plate. Damnit. So, no treat. Maybe I can get something else.
"Well, well, well. Hello, Rights." Charming smile again. Let's roll.
She turns around and smiles. A happy grin, as usual. An oddity down here. Somehow, she managed to avoid the really horrible stuff. Likely to keep from causing a problem. I mean, not that's she's terrible at things, she's just… motherly with the staff.
"Hey, Berg! Want a muffin?" I hated how fast that one seemed to be spreading.
"That isn't the last one?"
She looked at the muffin. Then the plate. Then me.
"…Maybe."
"No thanks. But make some cookies, and you know I'll take some." I smiled a bit more.
"Oh, fine." She placed the empty tray on the counter. She'd bring them in tomorrow.
"So… got any terrible paperwork buildup you need taken care of?" Might be nice to help her work through things. Give me a few nice hours before I had to drudge through my own.
"Oh, not right now, sweetie. I can handle some things. Besides, the administration has threatened to reassign me to one-thirty if they don't actually see me write a report on my own, for once. Puts a small damper on my plans."
"Ah, well. Too bad. Well, you know where my office is if you change your mind."
"Oh, trust me, I do…" She smiled. "And just out of curiosity, if I make cookies, what kind do you want?"
Score.
"Double chocolate chip. It's my favorite."
She grinned. "Good, mine too."
"See you later, sweetie pie."
She waved goodbye, and I headed to the coffee pot. I'd hate to see her go, but I'm still not entirely sure why she's still a researcher here. I guess because people like her, or she would have been terminated a while ago. Maybe they keep a few people with tender hearts around to keep the rest of us sane. Maybe.
It's a short walk back to my office, and I spend most of it drinking my coffee from a styrofoam cup. I got out my keycard, then noticed the nameplate on the door. Someone had covered up the 'Ice' in my name. I sighed, trying to wipe it off with my sleeve, but it didn't budge. I'd have to submit a work request, and when it wasn't vital… They'd get to it 'sooner or later.'
There was a large stack of files next to the door. Another round of paperwork to slough through. Everyday. Well, at least it was relatively safe down here. Unless my inbox had become anomalous.
I sat down at my computer, shaking the mouse to wake it up, then checking my email. Only two alerts, one last night, and one… Hell, fifteen minutes ago? I checked it, and felt a sudden creeping sensation lurching up my neck when I saw the number. 035. And the list of deceased included two Class-D's and…
"Yes!"
The rush of elation at reading MacCarrick's name was immediately dampened by a sudden twisting in my gut. Fuck. The nod had been too much, I guessed… I sighed, closing my eyes for a moment, then turned and grabbed the top file off the stack, opening it and proceeding to enter the data.
Maybe Rights would bring the cookies tomorrow.