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Only a few years into the mess of destructive publicity that took the extralegal SCP Foundation by storm, it's clear that their old motif of secrets and lies isn't holding up to the test of the public eye. Being the resilient international monstrosity that they are, the organization adapted; publicity was used to benefit their image, with campaigns for new hires skyrocketing past those of tech giants and space exploration companies alike in terms of popularity. The Foundation's newer recruits are their new image: Young, intelligent, attractive, and marketable. But if there's one concept our post-breach world has learned the hard way, it's that things are not always as they seem.
And with the newly surfaced story of Officer Reginald Jacobson floating to the top of the Ethics Committee's murky cesspit of questionable employee conduct cases, these truths are hitting the public harder — and more unmistakably — than ever before. In this segment, we'll cover the details of what happened, what got leaked, what's on video, what's in text, and what's still to remain unseen, forever lost in the tight-lipped networks of internal SCP Foundation communications.
In order to fully understand the scope of this case and all its red flags and failures, I believe we as readers will need to break it down into key three elements of the Foundation's new modus operandi. With this in mind, let's crack open the Jacobson case and take a good long look at how it's going to change the Foundation — and the world — in a way that is irreversible even by their standards, and through what means:

Sex,

'xǝS

3426 W. Telfair Circle, Seabreeze, North Carolina
May 22nd, 2022

“Mom, Reggie's on TV.”
River Jacobson pauses with a skip in her heartbeat and leans her broom against the garage wall. “What about, honey?” She peels off her garden gloves and wipes the sweat from her face using a dirty sleeve. “Here, I'll come inside. It's too hot out here for this anyway.” She follows her barefoot six-year-old up the sandy stairs and into the living room, making sure to press the garage door button behind her.
“They've got his picture on the news, see?”
That time her heart skips two beats. She sits down on the couch and stares at the cereal commercial playing, too distracted to care about her soil-covered pants touching the white vinyl. “I thought I told you not to turn on the news without me here. There are too many scary things on it these days.”
“I didn't turn it on, Oppenheimer did!”
River glares at the German Shepherd sitting calmly beside the TV's button array. He sniffs and whines. She rolls her eyes.
”…And we're back, on the WECT 42 Carolina Beach morning news. This segment, we're showing you more.”
River recognizes Amanda Scranton-Jones as soon as the station cuts to her. Her son had always liked her while River saw her as biased and irritating, and they'd butted heads over the topic several times. “Good morning. I'm Amanda Scranton-Jones and we're back to our breaking news segment. Local Wilmington area SCP Foundation officer Reginald Jacobson is in the middle of a hot mess; an alleged sexual assault case taking place internally at his place of employment has surfaced, with sources reporting that a total of three videos of his Ethics Committee meeting have now been leaked from confidential records. One of the videos – the most recent of the three, which was uploaded last night and gained thirty-five million views overnight – appears to show that Jacobson is being internally tried for rape by his organization's committees. The video depicts-”
River breaks eye contact with Amanda and winces when the video appears on-screen. “Rose, get out of here. You don't need to see this.”
“But-”
“Don't argue with me. You're six, for heaven's sake,” she adds under her breath. Rose frowns and runs down the hallway and into her room. Oppenheimer's ears perk up. “Go check on her,” River mutters with a wave. The dog leaps up and happily bounds down the hall.
She focuses on the screen again. Her stomach twists into a knot. It's a full-color video with security feed timestamps, clearly showing her 22-year-old son sitting before a panel of three people. The clip's markers display 00:23:34 | 13:30 May 10 in the bottom right. She feels like she's going to pass out as she reads the caption text of her son being asked to specify something about frequency of visits to someone's room. Amanda states that the video can be viewed in full on YouTube and provides a QR code onscreen. Instead of reaching for her phone, River stands and walks into her bedroom with tears in her eyes and hands shaking.

Site-42, Seabreeze, North Carolina
May 10th, 2022

“…And records are rolling,” a young technician behind a camera says into their radio.
“Let's begin,” says one of the three gray-suited councilmembers sitting across the conference table from a curly-haired, nervous-looking man clad in the standard-issue security uniform. “Officer Jacobson, please state your full name, clearance level, and position for the record.”
Reggie clears his throat quietly, trying not to avoid eye contact. “Uh, Reginald Jacobson, Level 3 clearance, Euclid-level containment wing security officer.”
“Okay, now please confirm or deny the accuracy of this summary of why you are here. You have been called into a hearing by the Ethics Committee because you knowingly engaged in repeated sexual contact with the human anomaly SCP-4427-B from March 20th through May 5th, with full knowledge of the fact that these actions were completely in violation of the Foundation's sexual conduct policy. Is this accurate?”
His breath catches in his throat. “Um, yes. I guess, yes.”
“Noted. Furthermore, the Committee has reason to believe that most if not all of these interactions were of dubious consent and were likely not wished for at all by the anomaly in question. What is your response to this?”
He feels a bead of sweat run down his face. “I believe that is an inaccurate assessment and I request to know the source of this misconception.”
“Very well. The source is the context of sexual activity witnessed on full-color security feeds of the anomaly's containment chamber. We have reviewed feeds from the dates of March 20th, March 23rd, March 26th, March 30th, April 3rd, April 6th, April-”
“I- Fuck, I mean- God, sorry. Okay, sorry to interrupt, but you have full-color security feeds of-”
“All the times the two of you engaged in sexual activity. Yes. A total of seventeen times between the dates of March 20th and May 5th. This should not come as a surprise to you, Officer Jacobson; we make it no secret that our department has unrestricted access to any and all security feeds and research recordings organization-wide. Are we clear on that aspect?”
Black spots are creeping in on the edges of his vision. “Okay.”
“Very well. Now, to continue, we have reviewed all seventeen instances and determined the context of sexual contact to appear heavily nonconsensual in all but one of the instances. Recordings clearly show the use of physical force toward and manual restraint of the anomaly on your part despite their clear attempts to resist. As you know that these feeds are very real and could be shown to you at any moment upon request, what is your response to these facts?”
It takes him a good ten seconds to force words out of his mouth. “Okay, this is the most embarrassed I've ever been, but no, that's not what it looks like.”
“Would you rather talk to only one of us at once, or state your comments for the record into a microphone in an isolated room?”
“No, no, I just- The thing is that that's not nonconsent. That's just BDSM. Consensual BDSM. Unless something has changed between us that I don't know about, the anomaly would confirm this. Look, I fully understand that I broke the sexual conduct policy by engaging with an SCP object. I know that, and I'm accountable for that. But I'm not a rapist and Jasper would tell you the same thing. There's a big difference in what happened and I- God, can I put my head down?”
“Yes, you can put your head down as long as you can still speak and hear clearly.”
Reggie crosses his arms on the table and buries his forehead in them. “Okay,” he tells the floor. “What do I do now? I swear to God that's the truth. I don't care how creepy or weird it sounds because it's the truth. It wasn't rape. Not ever.”
The three men mutter amongst themselves for several seconds. “Okay, Officer Jacobson, please rate the accuracy of this summary. You are stating that you acknowledge the existence of video evidence of your sexual activity, and cite that actions appearing violent or nonconsensual are in fact consensual and were agreed upon as the preferred type of sexual activity between yourself and SCP-4427-B.”
“Yes. Yes, that's accurate. And you know what? Now that I think about it, there's proof in the videos themselves. Every time I come in on another day after we had sex, they approach me normally and not with fear or hatred. Medical records would show and video feeds would prove that 4427 was never amnesticized during this period, either. Thus, it's clear from context of evidence that it's not rape.”
“As sound as that logic may seem, in our experience it is not that simple. Because of SCP-4427-B's status as an SCP object and your status as Foundation personnel, the anomaly is by default not capable of informed consent, based on power discrepancies in the environment alone. You know that this is the reasoning behind our sexual conduct policy, which you admitted to knowingly breaking.”
He bites his lip. “Okay. Let me try to explain.”
“Foundation personnel control every single factor of SCP-4427-B's environment. This is the nature of containment. It is- They are not permitted to make decisions for themself because they are incapable of controlling their effects without our assistance. They quite literally do not know what's best for them; we do. When they were originally contained, their effects flareup had been so bad and so public that they themself were on life support in the medical bay for the first 96 hours of containment and the six people who had been present at the scene of the accident were killed or maimed.”
“That was three years ago. They've gotten better now. They're a normal person now.”
“They will never be a normal person, Officer Jacobson. Even personnel at your level should comprehend this.”
He scoffs under his breath and feels tears welling in his eyes.
"How do you know that SCP-4427-B would not have — had you ever asked — said no to your advances? They do everything we tell them to do. They submit to us by default. Using that submission in an unapproved, sexual manner is indeed nonconsensual, ethically speaking."
"My- my advances? If you actually bothered to look at the details of this case, then, you'd notice that they're the one making advances. They started this. I may be at fault for engaging, don't get me wrong on that, but nothing I did was the catalyst. At all. And okay, I'm sorry, but if you can see everything at all times, what were you waiting for? Why didn't you stop us sooner?" Reggie looks over his shoulder, feeling eyes on him. The technician meets his gaze for a split second, his square lenses flashing behind the projector's light. He looks at his feet again and then back up at the panel, muscles taut.
"Well, this is not a common occurrence. You are supposed to know better. We are not supposed to have to look. We have access to the feeds by default, for internal legal reasons." The leading councilman turns to the woman beside him, letting her whisper something in his ear. He nods and continues. "Clearly we'll have to make some strict changes in humanoid containment protocol or personnel training, if not both, in the near future. And as previously explained, Officer Jacobson, SCP-4427-B is not in any psychological state to consent to sex, especially sex with the people carrying out their containment procedures. Containment and emotion are not supposed to mix, except in rare cases where emotional components are necessary for containment. 4427-B is by all means not within those parameters. Thus-"
“Okay, look, just tell me what to do, please. My only request before you settle anything is to interview the anomaly about it.”
“Hold tight, please. The issue with that is that we could not interview them about this without revealing that we are filming everything that happens in their living space. Revealing this would cause immeasurable psychological damage and potentially undo our three years of work – which you yourself referenced – in getting them stable again. 4427-B's biology makes amnesticization inherently dangerous. We cannot just reveal this, interrogate them about it, and then erase the memory of the interview. It simply wouldn't work. Not without brain damage. We could do that to you, for instance, and any other biologically typical human, but not an anomaly like it.”
Reggie swallows bile. “Okay. Fine.”
“There is one video that stands out from the rest and gives us reason to potentially believe you about the engagement being consensual in the short-term, surface-level meaning of the word. On April 20th, you enter SCP-4427-B's chamber carrying a folder. You proceed into the bathroom where you are then seen showing them the contents, which are out of frame. Analysts from Information Security did note when reviewing feeds that the two of you are both clearly seen smiling, talking, and embracing. Following that, a short conversation is witnessed, and sexual activity follows. However, this instance is what caused us to deem you worthy of interviewing and not just stamp the demotion approval form your Site Director delivered to us, to be frank.”
“…Okay.”
The chairman presses a button on a remote and gestures to a projection behind him. “With this in mind, please review this feed of the events in question and answer our questions throughout, with all answers being transcribed for your case's record. You may ask to stop the video if watching sexual activity becomes uncomfortable. Are these parameters clear?”
“…Yes.”
“Alright. Technician, please roll the feed excerpt from April 20th at 8:45 PM.”

Room 35, Euclid-Level Containment Wing B4, Site-42
April 20th, 2022

Reggie peeks his head through the door before fully opening it. “It's just me,” he calls out.
“I'm in the shower,” a voice responds, bouncing off of painted concrete in the quiet, empty room. He keeps trying to remember to put in a request for a couch and table.
“I can come back later if you want.”
“Why don't you join me instead?” they call out after a beat.
He winces and looks over his shoulder, stepping inside the door and closing and locking it behind him. “Shh, I still had the door open,” he says with a laugh, slowly walking across the room to stand by the half-open bathroom door. “Do you still shower in near-boiling water? Because no, if so.”
“I'll turn it down if I'm able to have something equally hot in here with me.”
His face reddens. “I actually, uh… I just brought something to show you.”
“Well, come show me, then.”
He pushes his glasses up his nose and slips inside the door, opening the folder. Jasper makes no effort to hide behind the opaque sections of the shower curtain, and greets him with a smiling face and a visible erection. Reggie looks downward with an awkward smirk and tries to divert their focus. “I told you that I'd show you pictures of my mom and baby sister. I finally remembered to bring them. Here, you can hold them. We switched to waterproof printing a while ago anyway.”
They reach out and take the biggest picture, shooting him a flirty glare as he steps a few feet closer and comes to stand beside them. “Aww, your sister is adorable. How old is your mom, again? She doesn't look older than 35.”
“She's 42. Lucky number.”
“The Answer, even.”
He chuckles. “Yes. Yeah, she had me when she was 20.”
They hand the picture to him and slowly back up against the tile wall. “Do you want kids?” They start braiding their hair as it hangs against their chest.
“I don't think so.” He sits on the toilet lid and shakes water off of the photos. "I have a German Shepard at the house and sometimes I feel like I can barely take care of him."
"You do alright taking care of me."
He looks up with sad eyes. "I never feel like I'm taking care of you. Hell, I bet I'm not even supposed to say anything like that to you, let alone- ugh."
"I keep telling you that you won't get caught."
"I want to believe you. I like you, really, I do. I just wish this wasn't our situation. And God, you've got it so hot in here.”
“Then take off that sticky uniform and get over here.”
“I, uh…”
“Come on, we've talked about this. There's room for five in here, practically. And who's judging us, God?”
“Probably something similar,” he mutters, beginning to unlace his boots.
They laugh and walk over to the water spicket. “Here, I'll turn it to less-than-boiling for you.”
He stands and takes off his shirt, making sure to leave it and his pants neatly folded on the counter so that he doesn't walk out into the hallway later with wet hair and wrinkled clothes.
Jasper watches him pull his undershirt and boxers off with a focused stare. Reggie licks his lips and steps into the shower, pulling the curtain closed behind him.
“Feeling naked without all your little gizmos?” they tease, pulling him toward the showerhead by the wrist.
“Maybe. Yes.”
“Mmm. Don't worry, I assure you that you still have all the power over me you need.” They place his hand softly around their throat.
He feels his cock twitch. “Yeah. …That's what bothers me so much.”
They snort. “Oh, don't ruin it. I like it. You know that.”
“I do know that. Just… well, you know.”
“I won't tell,” they whisper, lips brushing against the side of his face. “Now, you wanna bend me over right here, or you wanna go properly contain me in those cuffs of yours?”
He shoots a glance through the clear section of the curtain at his equipment belt sitting on the toilet. He shudders, trying to shake off the sickened sensation in his gut. “Both,” he decides, pushing the shower curtain aside and reaching for his bright silver handcuffs.

drugs,

'sƃnɹp

3430 W. Telfair Circle, Seabreeze, North Carolina
May 22nd, 2022

“Yeah! You like that, skip-fucker?”
Men erupt in a cacophony of laughter and booing as Agent Rogers lands a pointed dart on the left nipple of a waist-up-naked color print of Reggie Jacobson taken from a screenshot of one of the newly-leaked security feeds. “That one's for undoing years of much-needed good publicity!”
“You're plastered, Rogers,” one of his coworkers says.
“But yet y'all're still here watching the game on my couch, bucko!” he yells. The man laughs and takes another chug of beer. Rogers turns to the kitchen where a dozen people are seated and standing with their drinks. “Hey listen, I know we got a lot of holes in this print, but luckily for y'all I made four of ‘em, and the other three are in the garage. Do with that information what you will,” he tells the men as he steps out the back door, earning more drunken laughter.
He shakes his head and checks his watch. How many shots had he downed? Nine? Ten? He isn't sure. He sighs and sits at the table between his townhome and the neighboring one. A wave of nausea rocks his sense of balance as he leans back. He always regrets deciding to drink.
An orange flash and a watery bubbling noise startles him. He jolts in his chair before realizing what it is. “Jesus, Trauss, I thought you were out of town right now.”
Trauss coughs a white plume into Rogers' face. “Nope. I'm here. Saw my picture right at the top of Information Breach this morning, so that was a bit of a heart attack. I mean, I let them take it, I just can't believe they actually used it. And didn't edit it, at that.”
“Meh, everyone around town recognizes you anyway at this point. But yeah, that article about Jacobson was a shame. To say the least. Sorry your picture had to be what they put on the page. You off today?”
“Today, yeah, but when they won't let me drive an unmarked car, I can't really go out at all without feeling like I'm on the clock. It's like we've talked about, y'know. Same deal.”
“I get you. So look, how much you know about all this bullshit with that guard?”
“I watched the videos.” He flicks the lighter again.
“The- the full videos, or the Ethics Committee ones?”
“The Ethics Committee videos that got out to the public. I heard about the new ones, though, and if any one of us watching those decides to let it out, we are all completely fucked.”
“…Right. Uh, you know, sounds like I should warn you, I got a screenshot of that kid with his nips out printed-”
“You got something printed? It better have been at the front company!”
“Yes! Yes, obviously!”
“You can't just casually commercially print something from a video that shouldn't exist outside of the security department's servers. You better hope the employee didn't pay much attention to it. Jesus Christ.” Trauss shakes his head and relights the bowl.
“Uh… Yeah, I guess that might've been stupid. But look, I just, I really hate this kid, y'know? Like, really-really.”
Trauss waits to talk until he's filled the bong chamber with smoke again. “Sure. But I don't think making a dartboard out of his picture is a healthy type of criticism.”
Rogers sticks his nose up. “Oh, get that white-collar Site-speak shit outta here. You saw what he did to that poor thing. The fuck deserves it.”
Trauss inhales the hit in one short huff. “Alright, well, if you're gonna get graphic, I'll just point out that you of all people have had that exact same type of sex. With anomalous people.” He wheezes.
“In the- in the fucking field where they're not registered as SCPs and they're not in containment. Duh. There's a difference. C'mon, your ass knows that.”
“In terms of regulations, yes, there is a huge difference, but regulations do not reflect personal autonomy decisions and you know that.”
“Besides, you were worse than I ever was when you were on Lambda-12.”
“I'm not trying to start a who's-had-the-kinkiest-sex competition. I'm just pointing out that we have to be careful about when the media shows one person's business in full out of nowhere. The Ethics Committee hasn't even finished their investigation. People are going to use this as anti-Foundation propaganda immediately — hell, Brandon Walkers already has my goddamn picture in the paper as an example of who to watch out for when you're avoiding the skippers — and that's something that affects all of us. I heard you yell about reputation damage in there, even.”
Rogers sighs. “I get you. I do. Fuck it. I'm too drunk for this.”
“And I'm too high for this. You wanna walk a few laps around 42?”
“Don't know if my body's up for walking, but I am up for getting out of here.”
“I'll get the keys, then-”
“Oh no, lordy. I can't ride in a car right now.”
“You wanna just come into my place and watch movies until you're sober?”
“Better.”

3426 W. Telfair Circle, Seabreeze, North Carolina
May 23rd, 2022

“I'm not saying I believe the news. I'm just saying that unless you prove to me that your case isn't what it looks like, I don't want your 22-year-old ass in my house anymore. Effective immediately.”
“Mom, would you please just listen-”
“I'm through listening! Show me evidence!”
“I don't have it!” Reggie snaps, dropping his duffel bag at the door. “Why would they give me a copy of that? And why do you want to watch your own son having sex with someone anyway?”
“Lord above, Reggie, I want to believe you, but the truth is – and you already know this from all our arguments – that I've been raising my eyebrow at you working for those people since the day you turned 18 and signed the papers, and it's only getting worse! Look at what your employer does to- to humans, sometimes even little girls and boys like Rose! Kids! Kids, thrown in- in cushy prison! In some creepy effigy of a psych ward with no medical reason to be in one!”
"Don't you dare start this again! It's been four years since I enlisted! It's not your decision anymore! No matter how much it bothers you, you will not change the fact that your son grew up to be a Foundation agent, and you don't have to like it, but you sure as hell don't have to constantly berate me about it! They're not bad people — we're not bad people, I'm not a bad person! Those people, the people we're 'abusing' according to you, they need help! They're affected by factors out of their control and out of the control of mainstream science, and we're the only ones who can provide anything close to relief! Mom, more than half of the human anomalies are in there voluntarily, for crying out loud-"
"If they need so much help, then why on God's green earth did you fuck one of them? You're either treating someone like an object or you're treating them like a person — by putting them back out in the world where they belong — and there's no middle-ground! Especially when you're- when you're just thinking with your dick!"
“Okay, mom, I'm not having this. Not this topic again and not on this level. I'll get out of your house.” He picks up his bag and opens the front door to blinding sunlight. “Your house that you only own because your child is Foundation personnel, I'll add. If at any point you want to talk to me, you can do it through the Site's number.” He closes the door on her angry, teary protesting and spins around, one hand holding his bag and one hand shielding his eyes. He squints at the car pulling up to park in front of his driveway. His pulse thumps when he sees the Foundation logo on the side.
“Reggie!”
He looks back at his mom's front door and jumps down off the porch. “Hey Trauss, I'm afraid I'm-”
“Don't go anywhere, are you crazy?” he says out the window. He motions for him to come down the driveway.
“What?” Reggie pants, getting into the passenger side with his bag at his feet. He breathes a sigh of relief once he closes the door between himself and the outside world.
“Look man, I don't fully know what's going on, but I do know enough to tell you that your picture is all over the civilian news and the Foundation hearsay and you really need to watch it. For your own safety.”
Reggie flicks his tongue, shaking. “Um… That's not really what I needed to hear right now, but thanks.”
“That's not what you wanted to hear, but it may be what you needed to hear. I'm just telling you like it is. Look, if you need a ride back to the Site or something, just page me. Things were slow these few weeks until all this hit the news, so now I've gotta deal with prank calls and the like, but I'm still usually just patrolling. I'm around if you need to get anywhere.”
“I appreciate it, but, uh, I can't work for a week. They put me on suspension until the Ethics Committee finishes the investigation.”
“Oh, I gotcha. Okay, well, I see you got your bag with you. Did your mom kick you out?”
He winces. “Yeah. You don't have to phrase it like that. Just- augh. All of this is so embarrassing.”
“I can empathize more than you might realize.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Look, if you just need to lay low for seven days and you can't stay onsite, I got a spare mattress at my place. Just don't let my neighbor Rogers notice that you're there or we could have trouble.”
“Fuck, r-really? You don't mind me being there?”
“I don't give a shit. Just don't break anything or smoke all the weed.”
“What if someone notices?”
“I got a backup plan for if people notice.”
“The way you said that wasn't very reassuring. Did you mean it to be?”
“Yes, definitely. You know our building is the one with the access tunnel, right? In your training, they told you about the access tunnel that runs from the Site to the safehouse?”
“Yeah, I remember that. That's your unit? I thought it was the one across the street.”
“It's mine. It's been other people's in the past but it's always an offsite agent's. Makes taking in the skips a little more surreptitious, sometimes.”
“So I can just- I can just stay with you for a week and then when the Committee calls, I can just walk to the Site underground from your basement? I don't have to see anyone for a week?”
“If that's really what you need and you're not going to talk to your mom, yeah. You got a little sister in there, right? Really young? I've seen her playing in the yard.”
"Yeah. I don't know. My mom needs to cool down. I'll probably talk to her in two days or so."
"Well, you know your family better than me, for sure. But yeah, you can stay with me. I'm not there much anyway."
“Okay. Phew. Alright, I feel better now. Thank you so much.”
“It's not a problem. But just to be clear- well, that can wait. Yeah, let's just get to the house.”
“Actually, uh- Would you mind driving to 42 real quick? I left something in my locker there, it's important.”
Trauss raises an eyebrow. “It's important?” He eyes the younger man's jittery hands.
“Yeah, it's- uh- I left my phone charger.”
“Oh, well I got extras of those. You need micro-USB?”
“No, I need the weird one for the Foundation one-”
“Oh, well I got those too. More of those actually. You're set.”
“…Okay.”
Trauss adjusts the gearshift and rolls away from the Jacobson household. Once he's driven down a few houses and pulled into the driveway by the 3431 mailbox, he unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to Reggie. “So, I'm gonna go out on a limb here, bear with me if I'm wrong: The pills in your locker. Xanax or Klonopin?”
Reggie exhales and puts his head in his hands, pressing his fingers into his eyelids. “Xanax.”
“Knew it. Look, I know you're probably on the comedown right now, but if you're on pills without a prescription I don't want to witness it happening. If you weren't an adult I'd tell you to keep it out of my house. But I'm serious, don't let me see it if you're gonna keep on it, and I'm not driving you to get it. If you just want to get doped out, I've got plenty of indica strains for that.”
“I'll try to survive. Thanks.” He feels like he's going to fall out of the car.
“Mmm.” Trauss exits and comes around to Reggie's side. “Put your hood up real quick, will ya?” He closes the door after he gets out and walks after him to the front door. “Anyway, if you need to get to 42, make sure you ask me first. The security system doesn't warn you about it, but it freaks out if anyone other than the two authorized personnel open the tunnel. And right now that's just me and Rogers.”
“Got it.”
“Cool. Go crash on the couch or raid the kitchen or whatever you want. Don't hesitate to eat and drink my stuff; I really don't mind. I gotta go do some paperwork upstairs but I'll be back down in about 30.”
“C-can I ask you something real quick?”
Trauss stops on the stairs and flips his hair over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Why are you being so nice? Even with what's in the news about me?”
He steps down a few more feet and leans on the wall. “I'm hesitant to tell you this, but fuck it, you're going to find out anyway. Those security feeds – all of them – of you and 4427 together are all out. Not to the public, but spreading around internal communications.”
Reggie sways, gripping the edge of the counter. “…All of them?”
“Yes. All of them. All seventeen.”
“W-who leaked that? Hell, who leaked the Ethics Committee ones to YouTube? And now these too, who in the security departments would've-”
“I don't know. There's a reason I prefer not to be on-site if I can help it. People watching every single move you make, analyzing it, and then not securing it well enough to protect the privacy they've been given a right to breach. But hey, I'm saying that off-the-record. Supposedly. Can't be certain you can trust what they tell you about our tech these days.” He taps with one finger the communications earpiece bracketed into his tragus piercing and winks.
Reggie shudders. “But there's still no audio, right? In the- in the new videos?”
“Not that I'm aware of.”
“Thank God. That would make it worse. Did you, uh… Did you watch those? I'm sorry, I just, I feel like I should know.”
“Heh. I watched enough to get the gist of it, yes. Anything more would have felt a little weird. Notably, I scrubbed through one of the seventeen that was just the two of you talking for a while while naked in the shower before doing your business. I'm betting that the Ethics Committee is going to spend this whole week trying to decide how to interpret that one and what it means for your case.”
“So… Do you know- I mean, do you think- Do you think I'm innocent? I mean, not innocent, I know I'm done-for as far as breaking the sexual conduct policy, but not guilty of rape?”
“I think that you are not a bad person and even less so in any intentional way, and that you're learning this lesson about what you can or can't express emotionally toward contained objects in a far more painful and public manner than how I learned it a few years ago.”
Reggie takes a beat to process the sentence. “Okay. I think I get it. I'm trying. Trying to process all of this when we somehow never thought that it would get out.”
"As a general rule, if you do it in the Site, someone's watching. No matter what the activity is."
"Fuck. God, I wish I'd been smarter."
“But look, what's happened has happened and now you're going to do what you can to right it. The universe works these things out. I'll be back down soon.” He turns around and heads up the stairs.
Reggie picks up his bag and ambles into the living room. The agent's house is relatively barren with the exceptions of a mess of Foundation-issued equipment laid out on the kitchen island and a coffee table covered in various jars filled with colorful buds and glassware apparatuses. He walks past to the pillow-covered mattress on the floor and moves the TV trays and tablet off of it before collapsing face-down on the white comforter.
Reggie wakes to the sound of pots clanging and muffled German curse words. He rolls over and untangles the sheets from himself before stumbling into the hallway bathroom, head reeling. He dry-heaves into the sink several times before sitting on the toilet. Trauss knocks on the door, as he expected. “I'm fine, I'll be out in a minute,” he says, hand gripping his thigh as his intestines churn.
“You're going to feel a lot better if you eat protein, drink water, and shower,” Trauss tells him once he comes out. “It's nine AM and you slept since seven last night.”
“Christ, what's wrong with me?”
“Xanax withdrawal symptoms with extra stressors thrown in, it appears.”
Reggie looks up from his duffel bag to stare himself in the mirror. “All my changes of clothes are the same uniform. I don't own a single clothing item that doesn't have the Foundation logo on the arm or chest, other than undershirts.”
Trauss laughs and cracks another egg into the pan. “I at least have some dress shirts that don't have it on there, but I don't own any non-grayscale clothes, I think.”
“Maybe we should go shopping." He takes a seat at the barstools and groans. “Not to sound desperate, but when exactly do you usually bring out the weed?”
“Pff, whenever you want, I guess. It's been ‘out' since it got legalized. That's why it's all over the table. I usually smoke a sativa in the morning and an indica at night.”
“I still don't know what any of that means,” he mumbles into his crossed arms. “I'll just wait for you if you smoke in the mornings anyway.”
“Alright. You want tomato with these eggs?”
“Yeah, that sounds alright. Thanks for cooking.”
“Wouldn't be if I didn't have an excuse to cook, with someone in the house and all. I'll grab you a plate and we'll get started. I gotta clock in and hit the road at noon, though, just to warn you. Be gone until six.”
“Alright. I'll try not to burn the house down.”
“Appreciate it. Make sure to close the patio door back if you go outside. The sprinklers won't come on if it's left open.”
Reggie looks over his shoulder at the bushels of flowering cannabis pressing up against the living room window. “Got it.”
“Thanks. I'll be back down to eat with you in a few minutes.”
“Okay.” Reggie watches the agent tiptoe up the stairs, his thick hair bouncing on his back. He adjusts his position from leaning on the bar counter to leaning on the island counter and briefly wonders if it would be rude to go looking in Trauss' backpack out of curiosity. He decides to wait to ask him, and instead becomes distracted with the large case of amnestics occupying most of the available space. He recognizes the labels for some of the devices — he's permitted to carry and use Class-A spray amnestics, but not much else — but has never seen some before.
"Back," Trauss calls as he bobs down the stairs, rubbing his hands together. "I see you've noticed the table of toys."
"Ha. Yeah."
"Well, take a good, long look, because I usually never carry that much at once. More than half of it is going back to lockup at 42."
"What about this?" Reggie gestures to the case.
"Ah, that I do carry. Though I usually keep it in the car."
"You're authorized to use everything down to Class-C? Holy fuck."
"Mmm-hmm, and I'm working on getting certified to use Class-Ds." He picks up the still-hot frying pan and starts scooping eggs onto two plates.
"Maybe this will sound weird, but have you ever, like, used these? On yourself?"
"On myself? Christ, all I can say is that the 'do not deliberately concentrate and inhale contents' warning on the Class-As must be for you."
"Oh hell, I don't mean in a recreational use way. I mean have you ever had to make yourself forget something?" Reggie interlaces his fingers and squeezes. His limbs feel bloodless.
"Class-A self-administration is authorized across the board for Level 4 personnel. But anything going back longer than a few hours, I gotta fill out a lot of paperwork if I want it out. The Foundation decides what I remember or forget, not me."
"Does that ever creep you out?"
He shrugs. "I chose this life. If I want to leave there are channels through which it is possible. But I don't want to." He picks up the plates and motions toward the couch.
"Why?"
"What?"
"I'm sorry, just- Why? Why are you okay having their comm-link permanently installed in your ear flesh? Why are you okay being known in this region as a Foundation agent and only as a Foundation agent? Do you want to do anything different, ever? Be your own person?"
Trauss sucks his teeth. "Well, I wasn't expecting you to get so deep. But when I ask myself those questions — and I have, for a long time — my answer is always that I like the security. Call me a wuss, but I don't like being out there in the world on my own. Maybe I'm brainwashed because I was hired so young, just like you. But I like knowing that if I ever can't take care of myself, the people who can are only a second away."
Something about the agent's phrasing sends a shiver down Reggie's spine. "I see," he says under his breath.
"All of that isn't a topic that you need to be worrying about right now, in any regard."
Reggie stands up and seats himself in front of the circular steel table by the couch. "You're right. Sorry. Thanks for this," he says, taking a plate from Trauss.
"No problem," Trauss says, taking a large bite of jelly toast before he's fully seated. "But yeah, like I was saying. No, I've never had a reason to amnesticize myself. I've actually never even had to use Class-As, but I'm sure that will change with more years of employment."
"How long have you been an agent?"
"Signed up for entrance exams the day I turned 18. Same as you, kid. And hell, I'd wager I'm not more than three or four years older than you, anyway."
"I'm 22."
"Right, I thought so. And I'm 23, turning 24 this summer. We're all just repainted college kids as far as demographics go, here."
"You sound like Walkers."
"Heh. He's right about some things. If he's not committing libel, he's hitting something eerily accurate on the nose. No middle-ground for that guy. But it's usually libel."
"So you tolerate Information Breach? Is that why you let them take your picture?"
"I let them take my picture to piss them off."
"How would doing what they want piss them off?" he asks around a mouthful of egg.
Trauss swallows, puts his plate down, and reaches for his half-meter glass percolator bong. "Because they love starting trouble. All I said was 'sure' and posed. And 'yeah, that's fine' when they showed me what the caption for my picture would say. When they asked me about the piece they were writing, I said 'decline to comment' in the exact same tone of voice for every question until they got mad and drove off."
"…I see."
He braces the bong against his knees and starts packing the bowl with orange-haired shredded pieces, shrugging. A soft beep sounds in his left ear, making his fingers jump. "Yes, I'm here, this thing is supposed to be off until twelve-"
"Correct, I'm afraid we've just got a pressing matter here," the dispatcher says. Trauss huffs under his breath. "We've got about 20 or 25 protesters outside the front gate."
"What? The front gate of 42, the fake gate, or the front gate of the- the back entrance, of our houses?"
"Outside of the Coast Guard entrance on River Road, yes. Can you head down there? They're blocking traffic and we don't want to have to-"
"To get civilian cops involved, yes. I understand. I'll be there in no more than fifteen minutes. Get the Coast Guard personnel to keep it under control until then."
"They're doing their best, yes. Alright, radio silence unless you need me, Trauss."
"Gotcha." He leans forward and ignites the lighter.
"I really couldn't deal with them in my ear 24/7," Reggie muses, watching Trauss rip the bong for at least ten seconds uninterrupted.
"You deal with it by not censoring anything you're up to off-the-clock, and just letting them learn by experience not to listen when they shouldn't be," he wheezes, coughing a milky white jet into the air above the table. "Worked for me."
"Huh."
"Welp, guess I've gotta get ready to be out all day," he sighs, reaching for one of three grinders on the table. He takes a vaporizer pen out of his shirt pocket and unscrews the bottom.
"So just to check, you're okay with me using your stuff, right?"
"The weed or the food?"
"Or the TV, your desktop, stuff like that."
"Oh. Yeah, you can use any of that stuff. But hey, don't spend the whole day reading about yourself on the Internet. I beg of you."
"I won't, I won't."
"You're gonna want to," he insists, grabbing the bong again. "Any time people shit-talk you, you wanna read about it. It's just what happens. I've been there."
"I'll fight the curiosity. I know it's not what I need."
"Right on." He sniffs, prods a half-gram of the hybrid strain from the grinder into the vaporizer compartment, and walks over to the door with the bong hit still in his lungs. "Back after six. Stay safe in here and don't answer the door if someone knocks." He puts his dark aviators on, swinging his car keys around his finger.
"Okay. Thank you. Again."
"You got it." He closes the door behind him, a wave of warm outside air pushing the clouds of smoke toward Reggie. Reggie coughs slightly and eyes the array of three grinders and a dozen or so bud-filled jars beside the two bongs. Not even knowing where to start, he reaches for the smaller apparatus, a jar with a purple lid and GD Purp scrawled on the label in Trauss' handwriting, and the purple grinder.
He sets himself up at the desk behind the kitchen wall, relieved to see that it's not around any low windows. He's felt like he's being watched for days. When he remembers the empty breakfast plates on the table, he stands back up on wobbly legs and takes them to the sink.
From his position at the sink, he squints through the sunlit haze in the room and out into the backyard. He swears he sees something dog-shaped crawling around between the stalks of Trauss' plants, but he can't be certain. He shakes his head, turning off the water and double-checking the door locks before he sits back down.
To his surprise, Trauss' computer is connected to both the public Internet and the Foundation's network. He'd been taught in basic training that a setup like that is a huge security risk, but maybe something had changed since then that he didn't know about.
His fingers instinctively fly to type out the URLs of all the major news networks on his mind. He forces his hands off of the keyboard and opens the grinder instead, placing fluffy, crystal-encrusted pieces of whatever purple flower Trauss had in it already into the bowl. When he gets up on trembling, sore feet to fill the bong at the sink, he sees the dog in the garden again, only this time sitting upright with his face in the window.
"Oppenheimer! Get out, this isn't your yard!" he hisses, waving in a pushing motion with his free hand. "Oppenheimer! Go home, boy! Go home!"
Oppenheimer whines and cocks his head, peering in the window with a longing gaze.
"Go home, boy! I don't want anyone to know I'm here!"
After several seconds, the dog figures it out and leaves, tail drooping. Reggie struggles to hit the bong while he watches his pet trot out of sight toward the direction of his mother's house. He inhales what he expects is a reasonable amount of semi-opaque smoke and seats himself back down at the computer. The coughing fit comes on a slight delay, and he curses himself for not paying attention to his tolerance level as he wheezes and rasps.
When he's had something to drink and he's finally reseated, he clicks the IntSCPFN icon on the Windows bar and enters his credentials. He can't think of any reason that checking his employee account is a bad idea, given that he's on standby to hear back from the Ethics Committee, even though his pulse jumps slightly when he processes the thought. He hurriedly lights the bowl again and inhales a somewhat smaller hit.
Your account has been temporarily suspended, the login screen tells him. He gulps and tries again, knowing well that doing that won't fix anything.
He's startled by the front door opening. "Forgot my damn wallet and driver's license," Trauss mutters, clanging his keys on something. "Okay, I'm gone again," he says without looking up, slamming the door behind him. Reggie hears it lock a few seconds later.
In the ensuing silence, Reggie realizes how bored he is. Work is his life. When he's not working, he's in his room at his mother's house reading about the Foundation on the civilian Internet. And now he can't do either of those two things.
He sighs and gives in to the urge to check the news. The urge to check the news quickly becomes the urge to Google his first and last name, but he tells himself that it's the same difference as he hits enter.
BREAKING: SCP FOUNDATION OFFICER REGINALD JACOBSON UNDER FIRE FROM SCPF'S ETHICS COMMITTEE
22-YEAR-OLD SCPF OFFICER ON INTERNAL TRIAL FOR SEXUAL MISCONDUCT, POTENTIAL ASSAULT AGAINST ANOMALOUS PERSON
NO SUCH THING AS BAD PUBLICITY? HOW THE SCP FOUNDATION TRADED THE CLOAK AND DAGGER FOR SEX, DRUGS, AND MONEY
THE FOUNDATION'S NEW GENERATION OF BLUE-COLLAR EMPLOYEES: YOUTH, LACK OF GOVERNMENT AND LAW ENFORCEMENT TRAINING TO BLAME FOR CASES LIKE JACOBSON?
THE LONG WAY DOWN: TRACKING THE FOUNDATION'S STOCK DROPS AFTER JACOBSON CASE
He exhales. He tells himself that the "potential" in one of the headlines is something to breathe a sigh of relief about, but he doesn't feel it happen.
He situates himself in his chair and clicks the first link.

and money.

˙ʎǝuoɯ puɐ

Room 35, Euclid-Level Containment Wing B4, Site-42
May 24th, 2022

"I don't want to talk to you. I want to talk to him."
"Okay, well, we've been over this. He's not on-site right now and cannot be."
Jasper rolls their eyes. "For fuck's sake, stop beating around the bush. You've changed your story twice during this conversation."
"No, we really haven't. Officer Jacobson is on suspension because of the exact activity with you that we are trying to talk to you about. We just want you to cooperate with us and confirm or deny these key aspects of the case that will make quite a large difference in the outcome. We are the ones talking to you instead of him because he is directly involved in the case, and our department is tasked with settling all ethically dubious cases that occur in the organization. Is this clear now?"
"I'm surprised you're talking to me at all."
The man bites his lip. "Okay, well, that's a good thing, yes? Will you comply with our questions, then?"
"Sure. Fine."
"Alright. To start, we need to know your account of any and all instances in which you and Officer Jacobson made physical contact that was not an approved part of your containment procedures. That includes nonsexual activity such as hugging, kissing, and, if applicable, sleeping together. Can you name an accurate number of times that you and Jacobson engaged in one or more of these activities?"
"Every other day or so for about a month. Or over a month. About 45 days, maybe, a month and a half. There were a few days where we saw each other every day but it was usually three or four nights a week."
The man writes on his clipboard with a noisy ballpoint. He clicks it and drops it. "Excellent, thank you. Now, can you please specify your account of sexual activity taking place between you and Jacobson during this 45-day period?"
"What do you mean? Just tell you how often we did it?"
"If you are comfortable discussing such topics with me, we would prefer to have detailed accounts of the activity."
They shift in their chair and glare side-to-side. "Um… Like, you want details of… how we had sex?"
"I do not require graphic specifics. The Committee is trying to piece together what occurred between you two so that the proper outcome of the situation can be determined."
"Words, words, words. Fine," they scoff. "I made a joking advance on him a while back. But I'm not very good at coming across as joking, I guess."
"Is this instance what started the relationship?"
"I suppose so, yeah. I didn't expect it to work. But I don't have anything to do in here except read and get lost in my thoughts. Which usually leads to also getting horny."
The interviewer clears his throat with a doubtful glance. "Noted. Please elaborate on the interaction you mentioned."
"I slipped on the bathroom floor and hit my head on the toilet seat. Reggie was in the hallway and heard the thud, and he came in to make sure I was alright. But the way I hit my head and throat, I couldn't really make a sound. I tried to call out to him to tell him that it wasn't that bad, but I couldn't make more than a croak. So he didn't hear me answer him, and he assumed I was injured or unconscious, so he came right into the bathroom."
"Hang on for a second and let me transcribe this part. So the scenario is that you are nude on the floor after falling on wet tile and Officer Jacobson has just come in to help you."
"Correct. And then, after I've told him that I'm alright and he's helped me back to standing, well, I'm naked, so of course I say something stupid. Something that I get you guys wouldn't have wanted me to say. I told him that if he was going to come rushing in like that every time he heard a loud noise, I would make sure to moan extra loudly when I'm jacking off during his shift."
"…Yes, it is accurate to say that we do not approve of those kinds of comments."
"But what're you gonna do? You've been dealing with me for three years. You know I'm just an idiot. An idiot with no life."
"Let's stay on-topic, if you don't mind. So, I take it Jacobson took you up on the offer? Or what?"
"In the long-term, yeah. Not right away. For some reason I just kept pushing. Making sexual comments at him became the norm. He never really responded much. I could tell he was just keeping it in his pants and trying to follow your rules. I can tell the guy is young. He's gotta be at least several years younger than me. But yeah, eventually he just reciprocated one day. One day that I said something at him and he snapped right back, kind of angry, told me that if I didn't stop haranguing him he was going to ask for approval to make me wear a gag. He said it as a dark joke. The same type of joke I make. I knew it when I heard it. So of course I bit right back. And so on and so forth. I got his real personality out from under that thinly painted formal exterior, suffice it to say."
The councilman scribbles for a long time before picking his clipboard up and flipping to a later page. "Phew. Alright. I'm just going to run all this back by you at the end, if that's okay."
"That's fine. But that's how we started. I'll spare you the grisly details, but we talked dirty at each other until we were both hard, and so we said fuck it, they won't catch us one time. And we fucked, and he left, and then every time I saw him we just… kept going. 'Haven't been caught yet' was what we excused it with every time."
"And feasibly, had we not intervened, the two of you would still be engaging in the same type of sexual contact."
"Feasibly, yes."
"Okay. So any of this sexual activity — was it at any point, even if only on one occasion, nonconsensual in your eyes?"
"He could have said no at any time."
"That's correct. He could've. But given the circumstances, you on the other hand could not have. Thus, it's crucial that we know the full truth of how you perceive this relationship from your end. Do you consider it consensual?"
"Yes, then. Absolutely."
"Alright. Noted. Now, if you don't mind me delving deeper, I will. Are you open to our reasoning about why this relationship is not allowed?"
"Not mixing business and pleasure?"
"Not only that, but the same ethical guidelines that prevent prison guards from having sex with inmates and hospital staff from having sex with patients. There is a power differentiation between yourself and Officer Jacobson that is nowhere near equal. He is sometimes the only person in the vicinity who is able to lock and unlock your door, for instance. He is sometimes the only individual authorized to provide you with a meal. He is equipped with tools and devices designed to give him absolute physical power over you for his own safety in the event of an emergency, and if he were to choose to abuse access to those tools, he could do serious physical and psychological harm to you at his leisure-"
"Except he didn't, because I want him to abuse access to those tools." They laugh, pointy teeth gleaming. "Don't you get it? All the ethical shit you have a problem with is what I like. I want him to have complete control over me. I want him to tell me what to do and when I can or can't leave my room. I want all those things."
"…Sexually?"
They shrug. "The line blurs. As I'm sure someone in your position is aware. I enjoy the Foundation taking care of me because I know that I can't take care of myself, and maybe my brain confuses that security with love, and that love with arousal, or maybe those three are in a totally different order that I can't articulate. But truthfully, I don't care. If I know it's happening and I still don't care, I'm informed and I'm consenting. That is the informed consent you claim I am not capable of feeling or expressing. But the bottom line is that yes, everything that he and I have done with each other is consensual."
"It is integral that you understand anything you see as consensual is, legally and ethically, not. You are not in a state of mind or a place of being that allows you to give informed consent-"
"Yes I am. Fucking listen to all of that that I just told you. I am my own person. I may be here against my will on paper, but I cooperate and I haven't had a bad flareup in months and I-"
"This is not about your effects or your status as a sapient human. This case would not be much different had Officer Jacobson engaged with a D-class instead."
They raise an eyebrow. "Is that so? Well, I've had this talk with you people before, and it's not an argument I want to revisit. Don't tell me I don't have a right to what little personal autonomy I have left. What I do can break your rules all it needs to. Doesn't make me a victim just because I live in a box and my partner holds the key to it. I'm still consenting to what's going on."
"By definition, the exact allegory you just used is a textbook example of how Stockholm Syndrome is developed."
"I don't care what you call it. My own self-aware brain thinks it's hot, and I'm going to act on that how I want, and it will be consensual because I actively want it. Fuck whatever your argument is, because it's absurd and dehumanizing."
"You- Okay, you know what, we are going to just stay on the original topic, yes. These concepts can be discussed further with your counselor if you wish. In conclusion, is your official statement for the record of this case that any and all sexual activity between yourself and Officer Jacobson is — in your view — consensual?"
"Yes. Fully. Christ."
"Alright. That concludes this interview, then." He stands, chair scraping on the concrete floor.
"Wait," Jasper says. "Look, I know I won't see him again. And I'm going to try really hard to not be angry as hell about that, because I did know what I was getting into, and so did he. But can I talk to him? Ever? Even just in correspondence for your official records or something?"
"You will see him if his case proceeds to a stage where you will be asked to testify."
They clench their teeth. "I don't like that answer."
The councilman scoffs. "Well, I appreciate your honesty. Is there anything else we can do for you?"
"You can stop phrasing everything as if you've done me a favor, sure."
"…Very well." He nods and shuts the door. When Jasper hears the lock slide into place, they slam their fist down on the table with a force that loosens the bolts on the legs.

Site-42, Seabreeze, North Carolina
May 24th, 2022

Date: May 24, 2022 13:20
From: Dr. John Blanchard (of.pcs.ce|hcnalbj#of.pcs.ce|hcnalbj)
To: Elaine Starck (of.pcs.ce|kcrats#of.pcs.ce|kcrats)
Message Subject: SCP-4427-B
Attachments: (1) scp4427bcase.pdf
Message Body:
Starck,
4427-B was cooperative in the interview, though that does seem to be the behavioral norm for them at this point (not that I'm complaining). I attached a scan of my notes. I did manage to ask about the situation in detail without 4427-B making any guesses that we're recording their room.
The gist of it is that both the skip and the guard claim all that happened was consensual. Jacobson defended the videos as depicting mutually agreed-upon BDSM scenes and as untrustworthy as that sounded at the time, 4427-B's account supports the claim. I know there's a lot of media outrage right now, but we're going to have to treat this as just another run-of-the-mill inappropriate contact case.
Obviously the media has already done a significant amount of damage, so if the communications department approves it, I'm just going to suggest they allow a televised statement on the case. I'm willing to be the speaker if needed, but comms may want a friendlier, younger face up there. Or they'll want my old one because young employees are the new most hated demographic… I really can't figure out which direction the public is leaning anymore, because all of this has been and is happening too fast. It never stops.
Let me know if you need anything. I'd like to arrange a formal EC-only vote on the case tonight, if that can be done.
Regards,
Blanchard

Date: May 24, 2022 14:02
From: Elaine Starck (of.pcs.ce|kcrats#of.pcs.ce|kcrats)
To: Dr. John Blanchard (of.pcs.ce|hcnalbj#of.pcs.ce|hcnalbj)
Message Subject: Re: SCP-4427-B
Attachments: none
Message Body:
Hey Blanch. I took a look. Your account seems accurate. I have to say, this is the most absurd case of its kind, at least in what I've witnessed. The complete disregard for any and all standards of physical contact by Jacobson is appalling; I can't believe he even made it past the entrance exams for working with humanoids. I've seen utility closet hookups in the D-class blocks and pre-containment one-night stands between field operators and skips, but this extended timeframe and laughably gratuitous display of colorful activities is unparalleled.
But enough of my yapping. We'll let the legal systems handle it. You have my approval for launching a vote tonight.
Elaine

Date: May 24, 2022 19:15
From: Dr. John Blanchard (of.pcs.ce|hcnalbj#of.pcs.ce|hcnalbj)
To: Recipient Group: eth_com
CC: Elaine Starck (of.pcs.ce|kcrats#of.pcs.ce|kcrats)
Message Subject: Disciplinary Measures Against Officer Reginald Jacobson
Attachments: (1) scp4427b.pdf
Message Body:
Fellow chairpersons,
As you are aware, our preliminary interviews of Officer Reggie Jacobson, a 22-year-old Euclid wing guard who is currently on suspension for sexual misconduct, were leaked by one or more as-of-yet-unidentified personnel to the public. Despite media assumptions and pre-conclusions, I personally have conducted additional interviewing of both Officer Jacobson and SCP-4427-B and determined the following:

All sexual interactions were consensual according to Officer Jacobson.
All sexual interactions were consensual according to SCP-4427-B.
All sexual interactions visible in security records of the anomaly's containment chamber do appear from context to be nonconsensual or involving violence, but further analysis of the situations at-hand has revealed that these activities are in actuality just engagement in an alternative sexual lifestyle agreed upon beforehand by Jacobson and 4427-B.

This vote will not address nor call to question our policies on the capability of a contained object to express informed consent to sexual activity with Foundation personnel. However, an integral aspect of this case appears to be 4427-B's insistence that they as an individual, not regardless of their SCP status but rather directly correlated with their SCP status, are capable of sexual consent even under the parameters of containment, and that the parameters of containment are actually seen as a positive aspect of sexual activity that occurs. At the same time, I do believe the post-Foundation-publicity origin time of SCP-4427-B's effects should be factored into this case; they are essentially a civilian, if an unstable one. This appears to be the most comprehensible summary of 4427-B's feelings on the topic that I can accurately express for them.
With these case aspects in mind, please reply to this email with your vote for which of the following statements best summarizes your stance on the case:

Officer Jacobson should be demoted from his status as active Foundation personnel and given the option of employment termination or one year service as D-class personnel with a permanent sexual misconduct strike on his internal company record.
Officer Jacobson should be called to a hearing and put through our full process of internal prosecution, with 4427-B present as a witness and the results of the case ending up on his public criminal record.
Not enough about the case is known and at least one department-wide meeting should be conducted on the matter before any more progress takes place.

Keep in mind that we are racing the clock for this case; the Foundation's research branches are losing stock interest — and value — very quickly and communications directors estimate that the publicity damage occurring as I type this will lose us the growth of approximately $3.2 million in post-Korea marketing campaigns. We've all done quite a bit of work to get to the point at which we are now, so act with haste and rationale in voting on this matter that will undoubtedly affect the Foundation's reputation as both a reliable corporate citizen and a reliable international paramilitary organization.
With urgency,
Dr. John Blanchard
Co-Director, Ethics Subcommittee for Sentient and Sapient Anomalies

3431 W. Telfair Circle, Seabreeze, North Carolina
May 24th, 2022

Trauss struggles to fit his key in the lock when he stumbles up to his front door. "Sorry I'm back so late. One of the protesters threw a sharp object at me and the Coast Guard guy at the gate insisted we prosecute. As if anything is worth dealing with police," he adds under his breath, slamming his backpack down on the table.
The scene in front of him explains itself quietly before he's fully had time to process: There's no mess, there's no damage, there's just the smashed-open glass case of amnestics on the island, the empty Class-B canisters and Class-C syringes, and the semi-conscious body of Reggie Jacobson sprawled out on the couch.
Trauss rushes over, tracking mud in on his boots. "Reggie. Reggie, wake up. Talk to me." He touches the younger man's face and feels for a pulse. He's not sure he can detect one without medical equipment, if it's there. "Operator. Operator, come in."
His earpiece whines. "What's going on, Trauss?"
"Get a medical evac over to my house now. I let Reggie Jacobson stay in my house today to avoid being seen while he's kicked out of 42. He broke into my case of amnestics and OD'd on at least two canisters of Bs and at least six milliliters of Cs."
"Dear Lord above. I'm sending emergency response right now. The two agents nearest you have been alerted-"
"No, no, don't do that. We don't need more controversy in here. Just get medical."
"I'm… sorry, Trauss, but I'm required to press the button in any case involving-"
"Okay, okay, fine. What's done is done. I'll talk to you soon."
The radio goes silent. It's followed seemingly immediately by a knock at the back door and Rogers entering in a hurry. "Are you alright? I got the medical aler- Oh hell, what the hell happened in here? Is that-?"
"Yes, that's Reggie. I let him stay here and he broke into the fucking- God, this is my fault. I should have had those with me, but they called me in early and I was distracted and- fuck, he better not be dead. Fuck."
"He's probably not dead. And if anyone has the tech to save a recently-dead body, it's us. He'll be fine. I'm more worried about you. Sit down, take off your shoes. You're shaking."
"I should have put that somewhere else. It's the most common type of substance abuse on the record for us. I already had a friend of a friend go through something similar a few years back. I know that it happens, I know that it's a risk, and yet I overlooked the most blatant red flags-"
"You left a locked case in your home where it's authorized to be and someone literally broke into it. The evidence is clear. No one is going to blame you for this. Hell, clearly you were trying to help the kid by giving him a place to lay low. The kid's obviously got problems. You damn well know I wouldn't have done that."
He shoots a glare from his watering eyes. "Yeah. I know. But I just… Christ, you're probably right. I don't know how I didn't see this coming. That's what's really getting me, I think."
A knock sounds at the door, but the medical personnel have already stormed in before Rogers can stand up to get it. "He's on the couch," Trauss tells them, waving them over. Two doctors rush over with a gurney and breathing equipment.
"Medical department's only 300 meters in. It'd be a lot safer for him if we pushed him straight there in the tunnel rather than in vehicles."
"You got it. I'll walk down with you and open it. Is there anything I can do?"
"Just secure the rest of the amnestics and make sure nothing's leaking or damaged."
"You got it."
Rogers meets him at the island and starts sweeping broken glass with a paper towel as the two doctors raise Reggie up onto the gurney. "Go help them. I got this."
"Thank you," Trauss says, wiping his brow with his sleeve.
Rogers nods and waves him back over. "And hey, look. I know you and me don't talk like we used to since you left Lambda. But if you want me, I'm here."
"I don't know. My brain can't process emotion right now."
"If you want me to stay the night, I'm down. That's all I'm saying. You might need someone here, after all this."
"Yeah. I might." He bites his lip and looks over his shoulder at the cluster of blue-and-white-clad people moving Reggie down the stairs. "See you when I get back?"
"I'll be here. And I'll get this cleaned up."
"Thank you so much," he says quietly, wiping his eye with the back of his hand. He sniffs and heads down the stairs.
"Do you know any medical information we might not know about Reggie? For safety?"
"He takes Xans but he's off them right now. I let him smoke in here and from what strains he had out at the computer, I'm guessing there's only CBD and minimal THC in his system."
"Perfect, thank you," the nurse says, writing on a tiny notepad as the two doctors carry the gurney downstairs.
"Alright, let us in after you if you don't mind," one of the doctors tells him, rolling the gurney out of his way in the cramped basement. Trauss steps over to the keypad, enters a six-digit code, speaks his name into the mic, and swings the door open. He waits to make sure the last nurse closes it behind the group before proceeding down the stark, endlessly straight white hallway and toward the bowels of Site-42, headache pounding in his temple.

With this evidence laid out so clearly in interviews, security recordings, and everything in-between, we are expected to reach a conclusion. Perhaps the conclusion to be reached is that this will blow over and in six months we'll have had the memory of the case amnesticized out of us. Perhaps the conclusion is that this may have finally been the time that made a difference and the leaders of the extralegal organization will finally consider operating under true transparency. Or perhaps — and what I expect is most likely — the result will be more of the same, repeating ad infinitum; something terrible comes to light from within the locked concrete halls of the Sites, the public outrages, and then we go right back to being complacent because we are all too reliant on their protection to truly put up a fight against injustice.
With the jury still out — so to speak — on the eventual outcome of the Jacobson case, and as a closing note for this week's detailed segment, I leave you readers with this: How far are you willing to have your boundaries pushed before you conclude that enough is enough?


Researcher Rasmusen was dying.
This wasn't an unusual state of affairs. Between the downturns of coffee addiction, sleep deprivation, the general aches pains three concussions gives a person, slow decay was just part of the background radiation. After all, everybody was dying all the time. Some just happened to be more aware of it than others.
Rasmusen's office was still the picture of order. Apart from the broken glass spilled across the floor, everything was nearly in order. The poster hanging on her wall still proclaimed that mankind would not go back to living in fear. Her supervisor's corpse hanging through her office's door was sporting an impeccable haircut. Pens inhabiting the coffee cup on her desk were nearly unspoiled, only a hint of blood splatter.
Framed photos adorning her desk still showed scenes of picturesque life. A graduation snapshot. Mother, father and little brother Joel posing on top of a tractor. Vacation stills from a trip to St. Augustine, with Researcher Rasmusen sitting at the edge of a fountain. Surrounded by statues of frogs, each denoting an hour of the day. A sword embedded in the ground acting as the center of a sundial. It had been noon then. It was midnight now.
There were alarms blaring outside the office. The sound had blended with the background of screams, ripping and tearing to form a nice medley of acoustic annihilation. Tinnitus had set in long ago, to the point where it was impossible to tell where the pounding noise inside her head ended and the screeching cacophony outside of it began.
The PA system, still somewhat functional despite the catastrophic damage inflicted upon the facility's innards, burbled a message about donating to some Foundation-organized charity for retired MTF veterans, along with inscrutable pre-scheduled afternoon announcements, concluding with a cheery wish to have a nice and productive day.
Underneath her desk, Rasmusen was breathing into a paper bag that used to hold her lunch. The applesauce previously meant for her stomach was now splattered on the floor and her trousers. That posture had been sustaining her for the past forty-five minutes, at least, give or take what felt like a few centuries. Containment failing hadn't been on her agenda when she showed up to work that day. There had been two meetings scheduled for the morning, about upgrading some RFID scanners in the Level 2 sector and adding Soda Pop to the break room vending machines.
Maybe the breach had been coming for a long time. One security flaw or mistake or oversight cascading over weeks and months, maybe years, until biding time turned to biting spines. Time was running out now, however long it had been in the making. Policy was one hour after catastrophic breach, on-site fail-safes were to be armed. Policy was that payment would be made to family and next of kin. When they were filling out the form, they had been allowed to choose their own cause of death. Rasmusen had selected an alligator attack as her preferred cause of death. Visiting the alligator farm had been the best part of her last vacation.
A thought had been creeping into her mind ever since the sound of glass shattering had stopped echoing in her head. There were two people required to begin the process of initiating their certain doom. One of them was the lead scientific researcher. The other was the lump of dead flesh currently hanging halfway through the door to her office. Peeking her head over-top her desk, Rasmusen could see a flashy gold lanyard hanging from his neck.
Gulping, she stood and strode forward. The lanyard itself was not sticky like she had been expecting it to be. The blood had dried, at least on the outside. From the sounds emanating from within the body when she opened the door, there were still plenty of fluids to be found inside. Looking down the corridor, a fist was forming around the golden ticket ensconced within her hand. Thinking of the thousands of people living on the outside. Joel was playing Minecraft on his phone somewhere, right now. She started walking.

Walking through the broken and jagged corridors of her former workplace was a great way to see some despair and depravity. Men and women were arranged in piles by security guards, using them as cover while firing their weapons at some unseen abomination just beyond her line of sight. The few living workers she passed were fighting, flighting, or fucking. Just the things you do when the world is crashing around your ears.
The break room was a scene of relative normality. Other than the few corpses strung around the room, an engineer sat at a table reading a newspaper splotched with dark stains, while one of his coworkers stood with hands on hips as a vending machine failed to dispense his energy bar. Cursing, he began banging on the machine with his fists as Rasmusen passed by.
In the high-level staff offices there were piles of corpses being burned. Some of them were massive and deformed, with bright white bulbous blobs emanating from their bodily orifices. A few of them seemed to be wriggling, but Rasmusen didn't linger to see the conclusion.
The science labs were a horror show. Men and women struggling to their last, impaled by shards of glass, girders of iron, and one another. The floor here was slick with blood and viscera and a chemical concoction reeking an odor akin to a recently cleaned toilet. It was hard navigating with eyes clamped shut, but looking away from one more pleading outstretched hand would have been too much.
A few members of the science team remained at their posts, working on various projects. Some of them handled broken test tubes, pouring them into equally compromised mixing jars as though both held some long-lost compound. Others were staring at broken equipment, looking through shattered microscopes and filling out now-irrelevant logs and paperwork.
Walking to Head Researcher Bolland's research quarters would have been a five-minute trip in a more peaceful era. A collapsing bulkhead plus fearful screaming had equaled several detours. Finally, inevitably, she arrived. Walking through a doorframe that had been torn from its hinges, she could see the remains of the door bisecting a filing cabinet.
For a few moments, it appeared as though the room had been freshly painted. Dark red covered most of the walls and ceiling. But by this point, Rasmusen knew better than to expect nice things. Standing still, the sound of gentle weeping wandered through the ambient terror, from somewhere beneath a pile of collapsed masonry.
Looking down, Rasmusen could see a pair of terrified eyes widely staring back at her. A human voice called out to her, the first she could recall hearing coherently since the world had started ending.
"Water."
"I can't." Rasmusen leaned into the nearest clump of rubble, pushing it until it cascaded off the top of the pile like an avalanche. The wall behind her groaned ominously, but she paid it no mind. She was ready to die any day now. It didn't take long for the dusty bricks to reveal a similarly pale man. Outlined in blood, he was groaning in pain. A piece of rebar had sliced his arm neatly in two at the forearm. There was a tourniquet in place, along with a pair of deathly white human hands jutting from further beneath the pile.
"It's all over, it's all over…" Bolland repeated himself, flapping ragged lips at thin air. Rasmusen shook her head. "There's no, not enough time, doctor. We have to go. We have to go. There's nothing left to be done for us. But we can… we have to go, okay?"
Longing seconds passed as Rasmusen and Bolland stared at one another. When she had begun working for the Foundation, he had been someone worthy of looking up to. Now he was bleeding and broken and incomplete. She didn't remember when the crying had started, but her tears were falling on Bolland's face as she pulled him to his feet.
He had wished her well the last time she left Site-88, to head to Florida and see her family. Telling her that working together would be time he missed, but wishing her well all the same. Giving her updates on project progress at night, when she was back in her hotel. The picture of a considerate mentor.
Now, everything had turned to ashes in her mouth.

The nuclear bunker laid at the end of a tastefully furnished corridor. Gunmetal grey walls surrounded Rasmusen's field of vision. Behind her, Bolland quietly whimpered as he dragged himself in her wake. The end of his arm had turned whiter than printer paper, but with similar texture. The stump was covered by a strip of lab coat, stained rosy red. All of her memories of him substituted this ghastly visage for his healthy, ex-college athlete demeanor. More memory ruined. Not that they would be around along anyways.
Dotting the walls there were cheerful posters, covered with the dust shaken loose by the multiple explosions happening elsewhere on-site. Each one reminded the reader that nuclear annihilation was a last-ditch option, and that they should check with their supervisor, conscience and spiritual guide of choice to ensure that it was really the only option.
It had been a few minutes since any dead bodies had shown themselves. Rasmusen lost this brief luxury upon approaching the end of the line. The walls were lined with thin scratches, terminating in a gaggle of the damned. Dead and dying, they had accumulated here hoping for some solitary company. Maybe a say in their final fate. None of them were saying anything now.
There were only two key-card slots between them and the last door they would ever need to enter. Rasmusen kept trying to put her card in the slot, but it wouldn't fit. It kept missing. Tears welled behind her eyes as the card nearly succeeded in leaping out of her hand. Leaning against her wall, tears began falling on a body below. For a few moments she did not even recognize a hand resting on her back. They were both shaking just the same.
A rasping voice emanated behind her, past cracking lips. "Well, we're- got in, we're here."
Nodding, Rasmusen held her breath, before jamming the golden card into its appropriate slot. The husk which had once been her mentor, dragging himself to the identical mechanism, did the same. Before them, the door to their doom began sliding open. Ancient gears laboring against time as ages of rust shoring off with a shrill moaning. Flaking past them, the rust finally relented and with a final shuttering movement, the door was opened.
For a room which would serve to facilitate the end of days, it was a rather drab affair. Field grey walls impeccably utilitarian in their construction, dimly illuminated by a green monitor embedded into the wall opposite their entry point. It almost looked like an automatic teller machine, one which dispensed the end of days instead of a quick buck.
There was a message flashing on the monochromatic screen. Researcher Rasmusen took several stumbling steps forward and dragged her eyes across the screen.
DIRECTORIAL APPROVAL REQUIRED TO PROCEED█
Bolland moved from behind, stumbling forward until he draped himself over the machine. "Wait, stop, no, fuck- fucking fuck fuckfuckgoddamn!"
Beating his head, his hand and his stump against the uncompromising metallic exterior of the screen, he did not have sufficient blood to shed in order to satiate the machine. Slumping down over the stained glass exterior of the machine, he expired.
Rasmusen turned around. The Director's complex was not far from here. There was still time. Maybe.

Compared to the rest of the facility, Director Foster's office was the picture of order. A few fixtures had been shaken from the walls onto the floor, and there were a few gaping holes in the tile, revealing cavernous tunnels which belched a foul-smelling odor. Before the door leading to the Director's compound, a secretary with bubblegum-pink hair sat idly passing the time tending to her appearance.
The secretary was filing her nails aggressively. It was plain to see that the cuticles had long since been sufficiently worn down, there were now trickles of blood cascading down her fingertips. As Rasmusen approached her desk, she did not look up from her all-consuming task.
"I need to see, I need, uh, to see the Director. Immediately."
The secretary paused to make her vacuous eye contact. "He's in a meeting."
Rasmusen looked down to where the name plate for this woman would have been, but it was on a part of her desk which had scorched itself to oblivion. Clenching her fists, she leaned forward and whispered a rasping plea. "You need to tell him to… please tell him. Come out. It's time to let this thing go."
"If you want, I can pencil you in for after. But only because it's emergency. I know it's emergency."
Shaking, the secretary's finger circled a point on a dust-encrusted calendar, in blood.
Shoulders slumping, Researcher Rasmussen turned to sit down in the waiting room, staring intently at the crooked painting of multicolored frogs perched on the wall across from her. Each eye seemed to hold a secret, she was determined to unlock them all. Joel looking up behind each eye and asking when he was going to see her sister next. How to manage retirement funds. What the other side of hope was looking like.
Eventually, the Director was released from his crisis center meeting.
But by then, the world had ended.


Proposal for the Classification of Synthetic, Non-Anomalous Amnestic Agents

Foreword
Both the Foundation and its predecessor organizations have relied on memory affecting agents in order to expunge sensitive data from the minds of unauthorized individuals. Though we have generally classified such agents under the umbrella term ‘amnestics' (and less accurately, amnesiacs), we have, in fact, used a wide variety of different agents to accomplish this task.
Many of our commonly used amnestics are themselves anomalous, either in origin or mechanism. The fact that amnestics are frequently anomalies themselves effectively renders them Thaumiel class SCPs, recklessly handed out to any MTF, Field Agent, or Researcher who wants them. Furthermore, the collection of these amnestics are often either fraught with danger or are otherwise ethically problematic.
Fortunately, neuroscience has advanced significantly since the Foundation was founded, and we now have the means to mass produce non-anomalous amnestic drugs. In addition to being wholly non-anomalous, the next generation of amnestic drugs is expected to be more cost-effective for the Foundation and boast a better safety profile for their subjects. These drugs function primarily by inducing memory deconsolidation, breaking down the neural pathways responsible for encoding episodic memories. The drugs themselves are encased within specially designed nanoparticles, allowing for the targeting of specific areas of the brain, drastically reducing the amount of drug required as well as side effects.
The O5 Council is currently reviewing proposals to gradually phase out the use of traditional amnestics and replace them with non-anomalous alternatives. In order to facilitate this transition among Foundation personnel, we submit the following revisions to the current amnestics classification system. Please note that all classes of amnestics are now available in oral, inhalant, and intravenous forms for the convenience of amnestics officers, and still retain the taste of batteries and peppermint that none of us can remember but always find familiar.

Class A, General Retrograde

For erasing recent and/or specific episodic memories

While Class A amnestics will technically deconsolidate memories at random, they will mostly affect engrams within the ‘memory reconsolidation window' of 5-6 hours, as these are the memories that will be at the forefront of the subject's mind. This is especially true for highly unique episodic memories, such as encounters with anomalous phenomena. While these will be most effective after initial exposure, it is possible to re-open a memory reconsolidation window, allowing for amnestics officers to trigger and then erase specific memories long after their initial formation.
Class B, Regressive Retrograde

For the incremental erasure of recent memories

Class B amnestics start by deconsolidating the most recently formed memories first, and then working their way backwards. The extent of the memory erasure is dependent on dosage, with a 75 mg dose resulting in approximately 24 hours of memory loss on average. These are ideal for erasing recent memories older than six hours without having to trigger specific memories.
Class C, Targeted Retrograde

For the removal of specific memories from any point in the subject's life

Class C amnestics are used in conjunction with high fidelity neuro-imaging and transcranial stimulation. Neuro-imagers will locate the specific memory engrams within the subject's brain, and upon reaching those specific engrams the amnestics will be activated through the use of precise, non-invasive stimulation, typically ultrasound or magnetic fields.
The benefit of Class C amnestics is that they allow for the surgically precise removal of memories regardless of when they formed, and are ideal for expunging classified data from the minds of D-class personnel and neutralized humanoid SCPs prior to their release. The major drawback of Class C amnestics is the required equipment's lack of portability. As such, Class C amnestics are most efficiently administered at Foundation sites, though mobile amnestic field clinics are currently under development.
Class D, Progressive Retrograde

For the removal of early memories

Class D amnestics are the opposite of Class Bs. They target the oldest memories first and work their way forward, the effects depending on dosage. As this is a fairly niche application, Class D amnestics are rarely used. Though they are, by design, more potent than their counterparts, it still requires an extremely high dosage to expunge a significant portion of a subject's life. As such, their risk of side effects is dangerously high. It should be noted that Class D amnestics only target explicit memories. Implicit memories, namely skills that the individual learned in their youth, will remain unaffected.
Class E, Ennui

To induce psychological complacency with the anomalous

To be frank, ‘ennui' isn't actually the proper term for the psychological effects of Class E amnestics. They would more accurately be considered an ‘anti-nostalgia' drug. Though they still target the neural pathways for memories, they do not deconsolidate them. Rather, they merely weaken the pathways while disassociating the memory with any emotions, positive or negative, removing any incentive to think about it and thus allowing it to naturally decay on its own.
Class E amnestics are most effective in situations where the suppression of the anomalous is not possible, and thus in order to preserve normality, the anomaly must be perceived as normal. Class E amnestics cause subjects to accept the world as it is, and forget that it was ever any different.
Class F, Fugue

For erasing and rebuilding the subject's identity

As with the old Class F, these amnestics induce a Fugue State, or dissociative amnesia, in the subject. The subject will forget their identity and may either be provided with a new one by the amnestics officer, or allowed to develop one on their own.
Class G, Gaslighting

To cause subjects to doubt the authenticity of their memories

Class G amnestics induce derealisation of memories, making them seem fantastic or dreamlike, causing the subject to doubt their authenticity. Standard field Class-G amnestics are formulated to target memories of the anomalous, and are best administered when the subject lacks any tangible evidence of their account and targeting specific memories is infeasible. Class-G amnestics that target non-anomalous memories, however, have been banned by the Ethics Committee are currently under development at the request of the O5 Council.
Class H, Anterograde

To prevent the formation of new memories

Class H amnestics prevent the subject from forming new memories, blocking memory consolidation for as long as the agent is in the subject's system. Duration is dependent on dosage, with 75 mg lasting for approximately 24 hours on average.
Class I, Transient

For inducing a temporary amnesic state

Class I amnestics induce transient amnesia by blocking the neural pathways responsible for long-term memories, temporarily preventing subjects from recalling their past. Duration is dependent on dosage, again with 75 mg lasting approximately 24 hours on average.
Class W-Z, Mnestics

Protection against anti-memetic and other mnemonic anomalies

Classes W-Z refer to mnestic drugs, or drugs that prevent/reverse memory erasure, and are most commonly used by the antimemetics department. Though in function they are the opposite of amnestics, they both work by targeting the neural pathways for memory, allowing for the creation of non-anomalous mnestic drugs.
Class W mnestics allow the subject to perceive and retain knowledge of antimemes, in addition to general memory enhancement. Class X restores awareness of previously perceived antimemes or suppressed memories. Class Y grants the subject perfect recall for any memories gained during its period of effect, and a single dose of Class Z renders the subject biochemically incapable of forgetting anything for the remainder of their lives. Class Zs are invariably fatal, with death by seizure typically resulting in a matter of hours.
Combining amnestic and mnestic drugs is not recommended.

Report to Overseer Council Regarding the Ethics of Non-Anomalous Amnestics

+ Level 5 Clearance Required

- Clearance Accepted

Overseers,
Though I am well aware of the numerous ethical and practical drawbacks of conventional amnestics, I regret to inform you that a previously unforeseen complication of non-anomalous amnestics has recently come to light.
The very fact that they are non-anomalous makes it possible for civilians to create their own crude amnestic drugs. How the formulas were leaked is still being investigated, but the fact remains that people are now cooking up street amnestics in improvised labs like crystal meth.
Sexual assault is, as one would imagine, the most common crime it is implicated in, but it's no doubt used to cover up all sorts of abuse; criminal, corporate, and government alike. Some people take it willingly to try to expunge their own unwanted memories, but even then the strength of the street formulas vary wildly. Individuals who overdose will end up with enormous chunks of random memories missing, sometimes crucial implicit memories and are reduced to vegetative states. Bad batches are all too common, resulting in permanent brain damage or even death. Rumours of how they are being used by numerous authoritarian regimes are rampant, but since I wasn't able to confirm any of these horror stories myself I won't bother repeating them here.
The media has dubbed this outbreak of amnestics abuse "The Forgotten Epidemic", and it's our fault. We made this stuff, and it's because of our negligence it's on the streets. Surely we have some responsibility to ameliorate this abuse. I recommend that we delay the full implementation of non-anomalous amnestics until we have determined the source of the security breach and taken measures to prevent a second occurrence in the future. The Foundation should fund the efforts of law enforcement to track down street amnestic producers, and then administer Class-C amnestics to wipe the formulas from their minds.
The old amnestics may not have been perfect, but the human cost of using them has already been dwarfed by their non-anomalous equivalents. If we make it a priority, we can get this stuff off the street and bring the Forgotten Epidemic to an end.
~ Doctor ███████

Doctor ███████
Thank you for bringing this matter to our attention. As regrettable as this situation may be, the fact that these street amnestics are non-anomalous places their illicit use well outside the Foundation's authority.
By unanimous vote, the O5 council has decided that the new generation of non-anomalous amnestics will be deployed as scheduled, and that no Foundation resources will be diverted to prevent or regulate their use among civilians.
~ O5-4