Thaddeus Xyank had spent the last thirty minutes reading up on the theory behind Type B XACTS and studying the blueprints. Once in a while he'd silently shaken his head, and there'd been muttering aplenty, but overall he was pleased with the work he hadn't done yet. He had resolved to not put that memetic trigger in. He knew it was pointless, because he would and he had, but he felt it was important to at least stand up to yourself sometimes.
When dealing with temporal anomalies on a professional level, at some point you just stopped trying to wrap your head around it, and started accepting things that made no sense whatsoever. Mostly because you felt they were probably going to make sense at some point in the future.
"I have no idea why all nine of them got activated at the same time, Dr. Xyank. From what I can see, 00315-XK-001 only calls for three of them to be active at any one time."
Simone van Oldenburg, one of his most gifted field engineers, squinted as she tried to make sense of the log she was reading. At only 24, she'd managed to become one of the Foundation's experts on Temporal Distortion Mechanics, second only to Xyank. Well, if she was completely honest, she had to admit Attie Anastasakos could kick her ass at temporal trivia too. She didn't like to admit it though, especially not to herself.
"I don't even know why these things were installed around Seattle in the first place," Simone muttered, "They're not even a thing yet."
Thaddeus pursed his lips. "Actually, they will be and they are. And they're not. I'll bring you up to speed in a moment. But you're right, three of these Type B XACTS should have activated. Nine of them did. And that…presents us with a bit of a problem."
Simone made a sound that held the middle ground between a sigh and a cough. "I would say so, yes. I'd hate to be in there right now. I just hope we find a way to disable six of these babies without…"
Thaddeus finished the sentence for her: "…removing the city of Seattle from existence."
The two of them stared silently at the continually shifting skyline in the distance. They watched the Space Needle flicker in and out of existence as one XACTS-induced temporal stasis field fought for control with the other two. It was going to be a long day.

George Alan Gimbell had a lot on his plate. The 57-year-old business man had started the day fighting with his wife over the ever-growing stack of bills and the ever-dwindling amount of money coming in. Then, just as he'd gotten up to go have lunch, a call had come through from his distributor; they were filing for bankruptcy and that left Gimbell's Feline Fashion in a lurch. And to top all of that off, he was now trying to keep a straight head as the deli he was in seemed to simultaneously be a barbershop, some sort of futuristic oil refinery or something, and just that: the deli where he'd taken his lunch for the last seven years.
His last coherent memory was of trying to shut the world out as he took a bite of his freshly made BLT on rye. And then suddenly there were so many things at once. It was like someone had triple-exposed a roll of film, with the images continually fighting for dominance. The BLT had lost all taste, and George dropped it to the floor.
He breathed heavily and tried to remember his own name, but it refused to come to him, even when he took out his driver's license. The man staring back at him did not ring any bells, and he panicked. Looking around for help from those around him, George found out it wasn't just him.
The young man behind the counter was slumped over the espresso machine, a glassy look in his eyes. He was mouthing something, but George couldn't make out what it was. To his left was a group of college students, their laptops still open on the table. The kids themselves were spread on the floor, having flopped from their seats only moments before. They looked like goldfish removed from their bowl, their mouths opening and closing without sound.
George couldn't look at them for too long; he couldn't look at anything too long. Whatever he focused on tried to inform him that it wasn't there. And then it was. And then it wasn't. Or might be, who knew.
He closed his eyes and got up. His senses were telling him he was standing on tiles, and smooth, poured concrete, and wood flooring. The stimuli were confusing on so many levels that he could feel his mind trying to shut down, as if it was opting for a coma instead of being subjected to this mockery of reality.
All he could think of was getting home to his wife, and telling her that he was going to get a normal job. That he'd sell the company and flip burgers if it meant having her beside him. Truth be told, there never had been much money to be made selling swimsuits for cats, but he was a proud man. Too proud.
He tried to fight the drowsy feeling washing over him, but when you were, and you weren't, and you might be, you really had no chance in seven hells.
George felt the side of his face hit the deli's floor, and then he was drifting off to sleep with the smell of sandwiches and kerosene in his nose, and his skin itching from the hair on the floor.

"So tell me, Simone. Do we have any idea which of these nine XACTS are linked together, and what they're temporally anchored to?"
Xyank took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
"Not yet, not for all three of those configurations at least. I've isolated one of them though. It's this one, the one on the Tolt-MacDonald Campground, and the one in the Puget Sound. Seems to be fixed on early spring, first decade of the twentieth century. Can't pin it down it any more accurately right now, sorry."
"That's alright. One down, two to go. Think you can manage those?"
Thaddeus felt his eyes burn.
"Actually, no. This is like trying to scrape one layer of super glue off of another, times three. I did get a message I'm sending in a few years time with a brute-forced hash to this set's temporal actuator connection IDs, but nothing for the other three. I don't really know what that means, but I don't like it one bit. I really need your help on this, Thaddeus."
If there was one thing that Thaddeus Xyank knew, it was that when the people under his direction used his first name, they were lost.
"Alright," he said and rolled up his sleeves, "We're going to need to assume that we break the other two right here and now. It's either that or we assume Seattle is lost, and I'll be damned if we let an entire city go down on my watch. Simone, I need pen, some paper and your laptop. And god help me if I find more of that crap on there."
Simone raised an eyebrow and huffed, but handed over the laptop to her superior, taking care not to cross the cables attached to its various ports.
"You might not like it, Dr. Xyank, but I enjoy reading all publications on temporal displacement theory, even if they directly contradict yours. But fine, delete the lot. I know where to find them again."
Thaddeus glared at her.

Kevin sat in the exact center of a bench in Mineral Springs Park and stared off into the distance. He was vaguely aware of a voice calling to him from somewhere, but it kind of got lost in all the other sensory input vying for his attention. He had no idea where he was. The park, obviously. But it also seemed to be a fireplace with a fire burning in it at the moment. And for some reason, a pig pen.
"KEVIN!"
He tried to focus and looked down at the laptop resting lopsided on his legs.
"KEVIN!"
"Yes?"
315 closed his eyes and shook his head.
"Listen to me, Kevin. You need to keep moving. Sitting down will only make things worse."
"But I'm tired," Kevin said, and he was. He could feel his body rapidly draining of energy, and with every passing second he was becoming more confused about where and who he was.
315 paused a few seconds before speaking again, "I know you are, Kevin, but I mean it when you say you need to keep moving."
"Why? Why do I need to keep moving? Why can't I just sleep?"
315's tone seemed to change ever so slightly, but between the weird disconnection from reality Kevin was feeling, and the fog clouding his brain, he couldn't figure out exactly how it had changed, or into what.
"Because, Kevin, if you don't keep moving, there might not be anywhere to move to."
"Oh."
"What a wonderful understatement, Kevin. Now would you please pick up this laptop and make your way out of this park. And watch out for the…never mind."
"What?"
"Nothing, just get moving, Kevin."
Kevin's shoes and pants were on fire, but they weren't. Once.

« CAV-004 | CAVALCADE | CAV-007 »


The following is an excerpt taken from SCP-140, detailing the siege of the city-state Julabin located in what is now [REDACTED], Norway.
*Note: Based on context as well as usage in previous passages, the following cultural terms have been successfully translated:
Speck-second
Mark-minute
Turn-hour
Length-day
Set-night
Shift-week
Range-month
Cycle-year
Markeqs-measure of weight
Pateks-measure of distance
Tukats-currency

In the Thirty-Eighth Cycle of Yurta, relations between the Daevites and the independent city-nation of Julabin quickly began to deteriorate. As Julabin was situated near the Northern mouth of the great Htazla river, Czrakhin Alkri had always desired to take over the well-situated stronghold as another addition to the Daeva Empire since the beginning of his rule in the Twenty-Third Cycle of Yurta.
Certainly, Julabin seemed a grand prize. With a population of seven hundred thousand men, a coinage flow of sixty-three million tukats per Range, a livestock and produce intake of forty million markeqs and outtake of thirty-seven million markeqs per Range, the city-nation had always been one of the most wealthy in the Northern regions.
Alkri greatly wished to rule over it, but at first lacked the troops and resources to forcibly take over the powerful Julabins. A fearsome drought in the Empire's South-Western provinces in the Twenty-Seventh Cycle and civil unrest around the Empire due to famine destabilized the nation's unity and demoralized Alkri's Black Horde. As such, the cunning Czrakhin decided a different approach: occupation through economic and cultural means.
Quickly dispatching a diplomatic convoy in the Tenth Range of the Twenty-Eighth Cycle, Alkri began a trade route between the Daeva Empire and Julabin. Over the years, the city-nation grew to rely on the Empire's steady supply of high quality meat, produce, textiles, iron, timber, and pottery. In addition, Julabin rapidly became flooded with Daevite culture. Traders from the Empire brought into the city their music, art, sagas, folklore, legends, and myths. Daevite cuisine was also warmly welcomed by the Julabins, in particular the savoury shychi, made of Numbik Kippyt, betalrote, and hrizakl.
As trade between the two nations increased, greater numbers of Daevites immigrated into Julabin, so much so that by the end of the Thirty-Third Cycle of Yurta, twelve thousand Daevites had settled in a district within Julabin that became known as the Daevikrugl. Daevite culture permeated the city-nation; soon the entire Julabin population, from the lowliest of excrement cleaners to the wealthiest of boyerehs, was enthralled in its exotic tastes. Daevite foods, arts, and even traditions rapidly replaced their local Julabin counterparts, and to Czrakhin Alkri, it seemed as though his goal was an arm's length away.
However, the Julabin priest-king Ingrudn gradually realized Alkri's plot, and in the First Range of the Thirty-Eighth Cycle of Yurta ordered the banishment of all Daevite residents from the city. He then dissolved all trade agreements with the Daeva Empire and imposed ludicrous tariffs on all non-Julabin goods and products. This was seen as a perfect solution to the threat of a Daevite takeover, and Ingrudn soon lowered his guard. After all, the Daeva faced famine and serf revolts, and there was no possibility of a war against him.
Unknown to Ingrudn, though, was the fact that the Daeva Empire had been drastically increasing its imports of grain and livestock from surrounding regions since the Thirtieth Cycle, successfully preventing starvation around the empire and calming the masses. Alkri, as well, had been raising his armies in secret and managed to double to size of his Black Horde.
And so, without delay, the Czrakhin Alkri led eighty-thousand of the Empire's finest and marched for Julabin in the Thirteenth Range of the Thirty-Eighth Cycle. Moving by night and camping by day, the Black Horde advanced steadily towards the city without delay. Alkri sent scouts ahead of the main army to clear all hamlets and villages along the way of their denizens, ensuring that no stray peasant would report back to Julabin. He ordered his warriors to wrap all weapons in oilcloths and all horse and baggage-mule hooves in woollen sacks to muffle any sound of their approach. Yet despite all precautions taken, Alkri missed one thing.
The Black Horde's movements routed all the wildlife from the surrounding areas, and the panicking oleinei, krolika, and ptistyaka soon alerted Julabin lookouts of the impending invasion. So when Alkri finally arrived at the gates of the city, he was enraged to see the walls lined with ranks of roaring Julabin archers. As the element of surprise was lost to him, Alkri could only order his men to besiege the city directly. So began the Great Siege of Julabin.
A long wait was not at all favourable for the Black Horde. While Julabin had reserves full of grain and pens upon pens of ovtsei and skutiy, Alkri's men had only the supplies resting on the backs of their baggage-mules. The frost would sap strength and morale away as quickly as any arrow or blade. And so Alkri sat with his captains and debated the best approach. Saegmat, Alkri's second in command, wished to delay no further and commence a frontal assault against the walls, and ordered the immediate construction of several wooden towers using the area's forests for material.
While the other captains were quite content to follow Saegmat's plan, Alkri was not. He foresaw the loss of a large number of his own warriors along the walls of Julabin, and contemplated an alternative action. Yet on the Twenty-Third Length of the siege, Saegmat's towers were completed, and in the first few Turns the Black Horde attempted to breach Julabin's walls.
Saegmat's assault was a disaster. The siege towers, hastily constructed of dried timber, were set alight by Julabin archers. No wet hides had been pasted onto them during construction to both increase the speed of completion and preserve what small number of beasts the Black Horde had with them. Half the towers collapsed from fire damage, and the other half were rendered useless because of the heat from burning planks of wood. The attack ended soon after it started, with not a single Daeva touching the white walls of the city. Two thousand eighty warriors were roasted alive, and Saegmat himself was crushed underneath a splintered pile of blazing timber. Alkri's men dared not recover his body, for the cheering Julabin soldiers closely watched for any who dared come close to the walls.
Disgraced and demoralized, the Black Horde was forced to wait for the Set to come before attempting a recovery. A small group of men, cloaked by the darkness, managed to sneak to where the charred remains of Saegmat laid, and carried it back to Alkri's camp. Stricken with grief for the loss of his sword-brother, the Czrakhin vowed bloody revenge upon Ingrudn and the Julabins.
Alkri's cunning plan finally came to him on the Thirty-First Set, among the foggy depths of slumber. He ordered the construction of underground tunnels leading into Julabin immediately, and with renewed spirit his Black Horde began their muddy work. To shield the digging from prying Julabin eyes, large wooden screens were raised before each tunnel entrance. To divert attention, Alkri sent small bands of warriors, no more than twenty or thirty, towards the wall. They would shoot a few arrows at the archers on the wall, hide behind their shields, then retreat back to the palisades of the Horde's camp.
The tunnels were at last finished on the Fortieth Length of the Great Siege, and Alkri quickly moved to exact his vengeance upon the Julabins. As soon as Set's darkness fell upon the land, the Czrakhin led fourscore of his finest warriors into the tunnels and underneath the walls. Emerging onto the streets of the city, Alkri and his men slaughtered the slumbering, unwitting sentinels and opened the mighty gates of Julabin. As the Black Horde charged into the city full of bloodlust, Alkri headed for the palace with Saegmat's sword and shield in hand.
As his warriors ran amok in the city, Alkri entered the throne room alone and was met by two warriors and Ingrudn and Jaekl, the Julabin Captain of the Royal Guard. Quickly decapitating the two guards, the Czrakhin then met the captain at the middle of the cavernous chamber in a clash of steel as the priest-king huddled by a pillar, yelling abuse at both men.
The duel could not have been between men, but rather gods. Rippling muscles underneath layers of armour battered away at each other, sweat flowing freely down the chiselled figures. Alkri and Jaekl were locked in brutal combat for sixty Marks, neither one giving any ground. And as arms wearied and breaths shortened, a bead of sweat dripped into Jaekl's eye. The captain blinked to be rid of the sting, but in that moment Alkri stuck him through the throat.
The Czrakhin loured over the bleeding corpse, panting, and glared at the dumb figure of Ingrudn. Alkri then slowly advanced towards the coward, and in one deft motion took the priest-king's head, and another his heart. One in each hand, he then proceeded onto the palace balcony. In full view of his Black Horde, Alkri thanked the gods for his victory, dropped Ingrudn's head and crushed it under his foot, and then bit into his heart. He threw both hands into the air, blood coursing down his arms and onto his scarred face.
For three Lengths and three Sets, Alkri and his men pillaged and raped and burned, until mighty Julabin became a mound of rubble. Every temple was ransacked, every storehouse raided, every man killed and every woman defiled. The dead and wounded were indiscriminately piled together in the city square and burned, a scorching blaze that lasted for many Turns and ended with Alkri leading his Horde in a joyous feasting of the charred flesh. The Julabins were thus stamped out, and the city was renamed Saegmadik and absorbed into the growling beast that was the Daeva Empire. Thus the Great Siege ended, and Alkri once again led our people to glory.


Jessie Moon sat on her bed with her back against the wall and her legs splayed out before her. Textbooks she hadn't touched in weeks were strewn across the floor. Her bedroom's unlit lamp cast warm, soothing darkness over her. She closed her eyes and felt her mind stretch like a cat in the sun. Out there, beyond the walls of this tiny house where only she lived, people were moving and horns were blaring and the stars above whirled about the sky, but that was out there, and this was in here. In here…
Jessie Moon scooted over a foot to the side, making some room in her bed. She stared expectantly at the empty space next to her.
A second later, another Jessie Moon appeared.
The other's face was turned, so Jessie could not discern the expression on her face. There was silence between them, unbearable silence that strained at her mind, so she said, “Hey. What's up?”
When the other didn't respond immediately, Jessie craned her head around to try to see the time on the other's watch. The other pushed her head away. “Cut it out, jackass,” she muttered.
Jessie stuck out her tongue. “It's not my fault that you're making the game boring in the first place.”
“This is…hardly a game. And whatever's my fault—”
“Is definitely not my fault. Present me is present me and future me is future me and present me is not future me.”
“You're being so obnoxious,” the other said.
Jessie raised her hands in the air. “Hey, come on. Look, we don't know why this is happening, right?”
“It happens…”
“Because it happens. We're stuck here…at least until I go back, and you already know when that happens, don't you? The point is that you don't need to be so pissy. We make the most out of where we are and what is happening where we are. Isn't that exciting?”
An odd tension began to drain slowly out of the other's face. Finally, she smiled. “All right, then,” the other said. She leaned over and rested her head on Jessie's shoulder. “What do you want to do?”
The other was warm.
"In this instant, or more…generally?" Jessie asked.
"The second one."
“I don't know."
“I guess I have to help you out, then?” the other said.
Jessie giggled. “Guess so.”
The other said, “We want to know more about ourselves. Reasonable?”
“Reasonable,” Jessie said.
“We want to know all about what we're made of, and what stuff is inside us, and where that stuff came from, and what that stuff's gonna be,” the other said. “Right?”
“Yeah.”
“So one day we figure all that out…”
“Mhm.”
The other tilted her head. “What happens after that, then?”
Jessie didn't answer the other's question. She had neither an origin nor an end; they blended together into one Ouroboric mix. She understood, more than anyone else ever would, that she was something that did not have a cause, that she was arbitrary and yet necessary. What would it mean to understand that? To understand the agent-less will of the universe? And once it was understood, what then?
“We're afraid,” the other said.
“You're afraid.”
The other started stroking Jessie's hair. For a moment, she contemplated shoving the other away and ignoring her and just going back right then. But that was not what was going to happen—the universe hardly moved on the pettiness of one girl—so she relaxed.
“Fine, then,” Jessie said. “What am I afraid of?”
There was the world, spinning and revolving peacefully in space. There were people on that world, and there was her. She saw the timeline of her life explode outwards in spirals and curves and circles that turned in on themselves.
She saw at once her past, when she was ignorant in innocence, and then the shattering of innocence in the Revelation—
It had not been Revelation when she had realized that she could twist the world with a focused will. Anybody could know that. Revelation was when she understood that the world would only be twisted in a very specific way for no reason at all, that she and humanity and the world would only ever follow one path.
She saw her future, and in it she saw the emblem of the Foundation.
Jessie closed her eyes. “I know my future, don't I? I…I can see myself behind the Foundation's walls. This is what happens. What is there to be afraid of?”
“You're not afraid of the Foundation,” the other said.
“Of course not. If I were, I would've run and joined the Hand, right?”
“But you are afraid.”
“I guess you're right,” Jessie said. “But it doesn't make sense! I know everything, but I don't know anything. That's the best possible way to be, isn't it? I can see what happens, but I can't see who I am, or what I'll think, and I can see what I'll do and what I'll be but not…not what the meaning of that being is. Isn't that exciting? I should be excited, shouldn't I?”
The other nodded. “It's…unbelievably exciting.”
“I know exactly what's going to happen, for me and for humanity and for the world…and I've accepted all of it. And I know the richness of experience, I can—I can taste it, I'm salivating, just waiting for it to come over me! So then…”
Jessie opened her eyes.
“Why am I afraid?” she asked.
The other smiled. “Oh. Oh, huh. I understand now.”
“You already know the stupid answer.”
“Yeah,” the other said. “Yeah, don't worry, this ends…this ends in a way that is simultaneously satisfactory and unsatisfactory.”
“Literally everything is satisfactory and unsatisfactory. You're satisfied by the things you like and unsatisfied by the things you don't. We are just dropping brilliant insights left and right.”
The other frowned and punched Jessie in the arm. “That's really annoying, especially when I'm not the one saying it.”
“More brilliant insights.”
“Shut up,” the other said. “Look…listen, all right?”
The smile crept off Jessie's face. “All right.”
She looked into the other's eyes. It was not at all like looking into a mirror. That was examining her imitation—her simulation. But the other existed both inside and outside herself. In the other's eyes, she could see all the parts of herself that she thought she knew, and yet she could also see emotion and thought that she would not be able to identify internally. How could “future her” be so different when she was from only the immediate future?
The other said, “If you know everything that's going to happen to you, then aren't you only a few steps away from knowing yourself? From removing all the mystery or potential for surprise that your own soul holds? We've both embraced extreme determinism. So if we've spoiled the ending…”
The other chuckled and wiped her eyes. “It's silly.”
“It's not silly,” Jessie said.
“Fine,” the other said. “I mean, once we spoil the ending, what's left to discover?”
Jessie felt the line of her life unfold and stretch before her. She averted her gaze.
“What kind of…boring person are we going to become, do you think?” the other asked. “What happens to us once we know everything we've wanted to know? Do we die the slow death? We wake up one morning, and being us is no longer worth being because every corner of our mind is mapped out?”
Jessie felt the dark walls of the room box and define the boundaries of her being. Inside of her mind, she felt a voice cry out as if on a mountaintop. The voice wanted to reach the very roof of the sky and the very depths of the most mysterious seas—it wanted to be everything that it could be. It wanted to exist. But the only thing the voice could fill was this room, small and peaceful and dark. She had to be humble in her omniscience and omnipotence.
Others might have said that she had a choice: to be this humble god, or to be the sort of god that was a rampant Will imposing itself on a soft, pliable world. But she was the first sort of god, so she knew that it wasn't a choice. It was a question of definitions. She did not act. She was. She already knew everything that she was going to be, and the rampant Will had no place in her future.
She had to be satisfied filling the room.
“One day,” the other said, “we'll know ourselves entirely. Then we will have…a choice.”
“We never have choices.”
“A pseudo-choice, then. We can be bored with ourselves and die the slow death, or…or it'll be beautiful and wonderful. But I don't know how. The thing is—do—do you understand what we have to do?”
Jessie nodded. “We have to accept that we will one day know ourselves.”
Now, Jessie understood.
“And you know what we have to do in order to do that,” the other said.
Jessie exhaled slowly as her vision detached itself from linear temporality. Once again, she saw the end of the line. As the image of the Foundation's symbol crept into her mind, she saw herself in a room, closed in, unable to move…
…waiting…
And happy.
She did not understand. No matter how much she looked, she did not understand what experiencing that was like.
“We have to be taken in by the Foundation,” Jessie said.
“Yes,” the other said. “And we have to—we will—set the necessary events in motion to have that happen. In an hour, we have a talk with Carmen.”
In the darkness, Jessie could hear the other's breathing, and she could smell her own shampoo on the other's hair. She was in the company of herself and could not be more content.
“Erase my memory,” the other said.
“What the fuck?”
“This was cheating. Conversations with myself to learn more about myself are cheating. And that aside, it's not even causally open, which basically means it's bullshit,” the other said. “Just wipe the details. I'll remember to set the end into motion, but I don't want to remember this conversation.”
“What the fuck? I'm not going to wipe you! That's so fucked up. I mean, I don't want to be wiped, and if I wipe you then in my future I'll get wiped. No thanks.”
“It'll be a game. Maybe one day, we'll figure out that you wiped me— because you're going to wipe me—”
“—yeah, I know that I wipe you, but that doesn't mean I can't still be weirded out by it.”
“—let me finish, Christ. I'll figure out that you wiped me—I wiped myself—and we can have a game to see if future me can undo past me's—your—wipe. It'll be fun.”
Jessie rubbed her eyes. “Are we really doing this?”
“Yeah. You know we don't like cheating.”
“…fine,” Jessie said. “God, now I know why you were so moody when you first came here. You had to do this stupid thing, didn't you?"
“Well, I didn't understand then. But now I do.”
Jessie rolled away from the other. “Man, go fuck yourself,” she said. After a moment's pause, she said, "I've applied the wipe. It's time-delayed. In ten seconds…”
“So hurry up and go back,” the other said. “To have this conversation."
“Yeah,” Jessie said. “Fine.”
She disappeared.
The other smiled. A few seconds later, her specific memory of the last ten minutes was destroyed.

There were two steaming slices of pepperoni pizza on Jessie Moon's dining room table. Jessie took small, careful nibbles out of one of them. The other one sat, alone in the darkness of the unlit room, across from her.
Jessie took a sip of Sprite to wash down the taste of grease and cheese. She snapped her fingers, and an Italian woman materialized in the seat with the lonely pizza slice.
“Hello, Carmen,” Jessie said.
Carmen blinked a few times in surprise as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the kitchen. “Sorry, uh…Jessie? Would you mind turning on the lights?”
“Yeah, I would.”
Carmen laughed. “Well, that's fine. How are you doing, Jessie?”
“I thought I had a designation.”
“Mhm, you do. You're SCP-Black Box. But you're Jessie to me,” Carmen said. She took a large bite out of the pizza. In between mouthfuls, she said, “I mean, come on. I'm not going to dehumanize you when I'm a guest in your house.”
Jessie sighed. “You do, however, fully intend on jailing me for life.”
“Of course,” Carmen said. A wide, warm smile stretched across her face. "That's a given. Thanks for the pizza, by the way.”
The floor creaked as Carmen leaned back in her chair. “May I?” she asked, reaching for the Sprite bottle.
“Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” Carmen grabbed a plastic cup, filled it with Sprite, and began to drink. Jessie stared at her in silence until she finished with a sigh.
“So,” Carmen said, putting the cup down. “You called because you wanted to tell me something, so that I could relay that to the O5s, so that events pan out in a way you want them to. I'm afraid I can't quite tell what that way is, but, nonetheless—“
“Carmen,” Jessie said. “Carmen, listen. The Alpha-1 ‘I know things that you haven't told me' shtick is a lot less impressive to people like me.”
“I'm not trying to impress, Jessie.”
Jessie rolled her eyes. This conversation should have been finished in thirty seconds. Until this moment, Jessie had not been entirely certain if she was still capable of hate. Carmen was at least useful enough to rekindle those emotions.
“The hypocrisy of the Foundation astounds me. You guys in the Red Right Hand hop yourselves up on fucking HALMAS, which is definitely anomalous—”
Carmen laughed. “Memetoamnestics is a perfectly legitimate scientific discipline, Jessie,” she said.
“Okay, we're not talking about this anymore.”
“You're the omniscient one, Jessie, you tell me what we do and don't do.”
The first time she had brought Carmen in for a conversation, the woman had only been surprised for a second before regaining composure. She freely admitted to being of the Foundation's Red Right Hand and openly stated her intention to conduct surveillance. It was infuriating.
Jessie thought to herself that Carmen was wrong in trying to justify the Foundation. The Foundation was the Foundation; nowhere was there any guarantee that it had to remain internally consistent. She thought this, but she did not say it.
“On May 10th, 2016, Seattle becomes temporally corrupted,” she said. “It's a betrayal by Sedna Prewitt, Director of Site 76. She defects to the Chaos Insurgency.”
Carmen whistled. “Wow. Heavy stuff. Are you going to move out before that happens?”
“I think I'll stay.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because if you sufficiently prepare for Seattle's corruption, which you will, a certain chain of events which I will not divulge eventually ends in my capture by the Foundation. Which is my ultimate goal.”
“Really,” Carmen said. She raised an eyebrow. “If that's the ultimate goal, why don't you just come with me?”
“Because I don't want to go into containment,” Jessie said. “The universe, by and large, does not paradox itself into incoherency. I don't do things that I don't want to do because causality says so. Maybe the idea of causality makes me want to do something, but that's not the case this time. All I want to do is experience my life, and an intrinsic part of my life involves being contained by the Foundation.”
Carmen laughed. “Oh, okay. Any more information? Specifics?”
“Just…prepare. You have six months. And you don't stop Prewitt.”
“Of course, Jessie. I'm not an idiot.”
Jessie sighed. “Carmen, why do our talks always have to devolve into petty, passive-aggressive arguments? Look, I…I like people. I like friends. I wonder, sometimes, what it would be like to be friends with you, and I think it would be kind of nice.”
A vague feeling of satisfaction settled inside Jessie when she saw the smile on Carmen's face waver. She blinked once, and then her expression was radiant again.
“I don't know you, Jessie. I don't understand you. Let alone being friends with you…I told you earlier what I'm supposed to do to what I don't understand.”
Jessie and Carmen sat in silence for a while more.
“All right, fine,” Jessie said. “Go tell the O5s. Have fun. Don't let the Foundation fall."
“The Foundation will never fall. You know that.”
“I thought I was the omniscient one.”
“I have some vision of my own, Jessie. Why do you think the Red Right Hand is so loyal to the Foundation after what they've done to us? We ‘hopped up' on HALMAS, we read between the lines of the universe, and we picked the winning side. The Foundation is a universal, immortal constant."
“Go home, Carmen.”
“Good night, Jessie. Thanks again for the food.”
The door creaked shut behind Carmen, and peace was restored to Jessie Moon's tiny suburban Seattle house.
Jessie walked out of her dining room and back into her bedroom. She peeked through the blinds and let moonlight cast her face into shadow. The moon overwhelmed her and her anger at Carmen with its indifference.
A thrill rushed through her body. It was like the thrill of the illusion of choice. Changing what would happen—what she knew would happen—was impossible. But now, she was living through those events—feeling the river of time run over her skin—and wasn't that exhilarating? Through being, she had all the power in the world.
Jessie flopped onto her bed. Her eyes were already growing adjusted to the faint moonlight. She stretched her arms and legs out and felt her body settle into itself. A long sigh escaped her lips.
“Carmen is Carmen and you are you,” Jessie said. “Carmen is that she is Carmen. And she…even she…is beautiful in that way and in herself.”
She would be the humble god.
Slowly, Jessie drifted to sleep.

« CAV-003 | CAVALCADE | CAV-006 »


Arthur Rodrick gazed up at the massive building before him from underneath his umbrella. Giant glowing letters that read "Prometheus Labs, Inc." Arthur thought it a little odd to pick such an unprofessional font, but had to admit it fit the Greek styles present in the organization's name and their facilities' architecture. Once under the colonnade, Arthur collapsed his umbrella and pushed at the double doors.
He couldn't quite put his finger on the reason, but something about the building put him off. He hadn't experienced the feeling until he had entered, but the moment he passed through the doorway he couldn't help but feel something was different, somehow.
The rounded lobby led off into several different subsections of the facility, keypads and card scanners the only acting guards. Sitting in the center of the room was a receptionist, nose deep in a book. A researcher sat on the edge of the receptionist's desk, a clipboard in one hand and a very bored look on her face.
Arthur's footsteps echoed more times than he thought they really had any right to. The two women looked to him with bored indifference. "Hello. My name is Arthur Rodrick, I'm from the Occupational Safety and Health Administration."
This was not entirely a lie. Arthur was legally employed by OSHA, though he arguably paid businesses less visits than most of his coworkers. This was due to the fact that Arthur paid visits to very specific types of organizations. Those designated as a possible cause for worry for the Foundation. The researcher was probably aware of all this, but for the sake of classification he kept to the OSHA name.
"Oh, finally!" the researcher exclaimed. She launched herself off the desk and nearly jabbed Arthur in the chest when she offered her hand. "Alissa Grey. Welcome to our main facility. Come on, there's plenty to show you."
She led him off through one of the various doors, sliding her ID card to open any doors along the way. Arthur half-listened to her prattle on amicably about their various destinations, his attention drawn to the ancient Greek artwork on the walls. The portraits watched him with equal interest. He experimented with a wave and a goddess gave him a short nod in return.
The staff lounge was a small but cozy room, half of it devoted to armchairs and couches facing a large TV. Arthur gave the rooms a quick inspection and found everything satisfactory save for a large black object against one wall. It had hundreds of round buttons on it, small plaques next to each naming various junk foods. At the bottom was a small reservoir, as if to catch whatever the thing produced.
"Can you… explain to me what I'm looking at?"
Alissa looked up from her bag of chips. "Vending machine. Go ahead, it's free."
Arthur hit the button for a package of cookies and waited. After a moment a soft thud signaled the machine had properly vended. He checked the expiration date.
"This expired fifteen years ago."
"Huh? Oh, right, right. This isn't a normal vending machine. You see, this machine does not contain time. We've removed all the time from it, via secret hush hush science. And so now the internal mechanisms basically operate outside of traditional spacetime."
Ignoring the impossibility of it, Arthur tried focusing on a possible reason. "You've… removed time… from a vending machine."
"Right! It has no internal concept of past or future, it only exists in the now. So by interacting with the outer interface we're able to access an infinite supply of foodstuffs that were loaded into the machine in our past or future. We actually use the same technology for our video surveillance system. It's very handy."
Arthur ripped open the packaging and took a cautious nibble, then a wary bite, then he shoved what remained of the cookie in his mouth. Arthur drew a second cookie from the package as he stared at the machine. On one hand, it violated causality. He was fairly sure the Foundation was fond of causality. On the other, he now spotted a plaque naming a snack that had stopped being produced in his childhood.
"How exactly does this work?" Arthur asked through his second cookie.
"Told you, sir, it's a secret."
Arthur swallowed. He knew what that must mean. "It's anomalous."
Alissa only smiled.
"How many have been produced?"
"Don't know. But we're not selling them, if that's what you're worried about. Purely an in-house commodity."
"Is it safe?"
"It has to be, doesn't it?" She pressed one of the buttons for a donut brand Arthur didn't recognize. Once dispensed, she showed him the packaging. It expired in thirty years. "The inside experiences its entire existence at once. If it were to ever break, it'd always be broken. There are some defunct ones, but they're always found immediately without any issues."
"You're playing with fire here, Dr. Grey. You say this stays behind your doors, but what of your other projects? The masses aren't ready for this sort of thing."
Alissa smirked and responded, "Are you aware of our name, Mister Rodrick?"
He wondered if that particular exchange was common during these inspections. She certainly looked proud enough of herself to suggest otherwise. Arthur nodded and gestured for the lounge exit.
"Shall we continue?" he asked, slightly humored.
As she showed him around, Arthur came to the conclusion that these people were working under a very different rule set than the rest of the world. The scientists would explain how something worked, using logic Arthur either couldn't follow or outright knew was scientifically inaccurate. But their projects worked, their technology seemed safe. Safe enough as far as the Foundation was concerned, at least. He was particularly intrigued by the teleport device they were working on. He watched for almost twenty minutes, men and women appearing and reappearing from atop a platform.
"So, basically," Alissa said as she began to brief him on the final stop. "This stems from the technology we used for the vending machine. She opened up a cabinet and pulled out what seemed to be two old astronaut suits. "With the established fact that machinery can function in a place without time, we reasoned that organics can function in a place without space. So we developed this void chamber."
"I don't understand," Arthur admitted as they began to don the suits. That did not seem like a very sound conclusion to reach.
"Turns out we were wrong." Arthur wasn't sure if she had heard him, but he felt somewhat vindicated as he shoved a leg into the suit. "You need air to breathe, and obviously a void doesn't have that. So we took up the design of old diving suits. One abyss is like another, we figured, and so long as we had air we'd be fine."
"Okay…" Arthur was surprised how light the suit was. He slid his arms into the sleeves and stood. Even the giant dome of a helmet was easy to lift.
"So we combined the technologies." Alissa's voice was an odd, muffled sound from within her helmet. "Using timeless air strapped to our backs, we can enter the void. It's a bit disorienting, but you get used to it. And because the speed of an object's motion is inversely proportional to the viscosity of the medium, and we're in a vacuum, everything moves super-fast."
Arthur thought for a moment. Prometheus Labs and the Foundation had worked under NASA for a brief time, when it was thought that reaching space would require something a tad abnormal. "Wait, this is the technology from Project Apollo, isn't it?"
"Right." Alissa's voice leaked from the small speakers in his helmet. "See, buying up area for new labs is expensive. And digging down isn't always the best option. So we started the Void Program. We weren't sure how to solve the whole collapsing void issue, and then you let us play with that little cuboid thingy to simulate outer space and it became super easy."
"You made it seem like you have more than one of these 'void' chambers. How is that possible if we have the only SCP-184 contained?"
Alissa was quiet for a moment, her face hidden behind the dark glass of the helmet. "That's classified."
"Of course. My apologies."
Entering the void chamber required them to go through several air locks. It was a monotonous progress, involving little more than waiting to move on to the next room so they could wait some more. Until the final room, which contained nothing before them but an empty archway. The black nothingness inside and beyond the arch unsettled Arthur like nothing he had seen thus far, but Alissa strode toward it as confidently as the suit allowed.
"Now, Arthur," she said when she stopped at the threshold. "Entering this place is a bit of a trying experience. The parts of your body that enter are accelerating at a significantly greater rate than the rest of you. It's not fun, and you'll freak out because suddenly it looks like your arm is gone. But you just have to keep going. Don't stop, and you'll be fine."
And then she stepped into the darkness, an invisible curtain wrapping around her. Then Arthur was alone in the room. This seemed something that was not safe. Or sane, really. But he knew that laboratories were dangerous places. He also knew danger would only truly present itself if you broke away from procedures. So he took a deep breath, held it, and ran into the nothingness.

« CAV-002 | CAVALCADE | CAV-004 »


I find the Theology Department to be quite troubling at this site. The Occult Studies subdivision in particular has been gum in the hair of Site 87 ever since it was founded. There are currently only two people staffing the entire subdepartment, not a single D-Class requisitioned since 2012… this is most troubling.

Anyone walking by the Department of Occult Studies (not that many people would after the incident with the walls growing mouths) would have heard quite a commotion in there. There were screams of confusion and panic, the sound of lab equipment being damaged, and a sound whose only onomatopoeia could be "magic!"
Inside the lab, there was a scene to match the kerfuffle. Montgomery Reynolds was staring at his superior, Katherine Sinclair, or more specifically, her right arm. Where there had once been a large patch of burn scars and a lab coat sleeve was now a large, poofy patch of fur that sprung up so suddenly, it ripped through the fabric. "Katherine, what did you do?! Why is your arm furred?!"
"I-I was trying some salve to h-hide the scars!" Sinclair flailed her furred limb around. "I think I put in too much octopus powder or s-something! Maybe i-it was the cattle blood?" Sinclair looked at Montgomery like she was about to cry "T-the audit is today! I don't want to lose my job!"
Montgomery held up his hands in what he hoped was a calming manner. "Calm down, Katherine. There are some lab coats and gloves in the back. You change in the testing chamber, I'll distract him." Sinclair nodded, rushing to a lab cabinet and taking out a spare coat and gloves, before running into the test chamber. Montgomery paced back and forth, picking up shards of broken beakers and trying to mop up some of the liquid that had made Katherine into her current state.
Exactly five seconds later, the door opened. A bald man wearing horn-rimmed sunglasses and wearing a suit stepped into the laboratory. Under one arm, he carried a tablet computer, and in the other, a stylus. Montgomery briefly wondered what this man's pay grade must be before the auditor spoke up, looking him over. "…Dr. Sinclair?"
"Reynolds, actually. Montgomery Reynolds. Dr. Sinclair is in the testing chamber-" he nodded to the room off to the side- "cleaning up after an experiment we just ran."
The man nodded, writing something on his tablet. "Very well. The audit will begin when Dr. Sinclair rejoins us." After a few more seconds, Sinclair emerged from the chamber, snapping on some gloves. "Dr. Katherine Sinclair?" asked the auditor in a voice that sounded like Microsoft Sam had developed Malcolm McDowell's accent.
Katherine nodded, fidgeting with her hands. "Yes. Katherine Sinclair, Level 3, head of the Department of Theology's Occult Studies subdivision." She indicated Reynolds. "This is my assistant, Montgomery Reynolds. Theological and alchemical consultant."
The auditor raised an eyebrow. "I am Matthew Broderick, and I will be your auditor today."
"…Broderick?" Asked Sinclair incredulously. "What, like the actor from Ferris Bueller?'
"No. Thank you." Broderick marked something down on his tablet, skimming a few pages. "The Occult Studies subdivision houses a large number of anomalous artifacts. Almost all of them are some form of document, it would seem." He looked up at them. "Show me these objects."
Sinclair indicated a series of metal bookshelves on the wall, walking over to them with the auditor. "I assure you they're all quite stable; the more powerful ones tend to spontaneously combust so we don't learn their secrets. The only thing anomalous about them is their contents, and even then, only if the instructions are followed properly. And they're all properly tagged, as you can see." She talked far too fast as she indicated E-9111, a translated copy of the Voynich Manuscript, with the designation engraved clearly into the book's spine. Sinclair still cringed inside whenever she saw that; it ruined the value of the book immensely.
Broderick the auditor inspected the books, looked at his sheet, and nodded, scribbling something down before turning to Montgomery. "Mr. Reynolds… do you have a title? Doctor, Researcher…"
"Just Reynolds, sir." The somewhat portly man nodded at him politely. "Level 3 consultant, just like Ka- Dr. Sinclair said."
"I see." He looked at his papers and frowned. "You are aware that consultants who are not Foundation employees must undergo amnestic therapy monthly, correct?"
"I am."
"You have not undergone this therapy since your consultation period began approximately two years ago, when you started work in the theology department. Why is this?"
"Special exemption from the Director," Montgomery said promptly. "Approved by O5-8. I'm a native of NEXUS-97, and Nexus inhabitants get exemptions from amnestic administration while within the boundaries of one."
Broderick frowned, his eyes narrowing into slits within the space of a picosecond. "The designation of this Nexus is NEXUS-18. What is NEXUS-97?"
Montgomery flinched. "G-Green Pastures, Iowa." Seemingly satisfied, the auditor backed off this line of questioning. Then, the words came out of his mouth that neither of them wanted to hear.
"Now then. There is the matter of this "cow-gutting incident" that's rather infamous around the site…"

One Hastily Explained Apology and Some Boring Budget Talk Later…
The auditor sat at a workstation across from Sinclair and Montgomery, shaking his head as he flicked through his tablet. "This subdivision has not requisitioned any D-Class for the past 18 months. Why is this?"
Sinclair shifted in her seat uncomfortably. "We prefer to run the tests ourselves. D-Classes generally don't have magical experience, unless they were acquired from some kind of a cult, and even then, it's usually just show magic or prestidigitation. Pulling a rabbit out of a hat or a card trick something."
"You could be severely injured. D-Class are expendable. Foundation personnel such as yourself are not."
Dr. Sinclair resisted the urge to snort loudly. "Sir, the one time we had a D-Class perform a procedure, it resulted in the destruction of the item we were testing, as well as the drain cleaner we were using in the ritual becoming sapient-"
"Yes, I have the report here," interjected the auditor. "Hardly an excuse."
Montgomery stared at him, and spoke up this time. "Hardly an excuse? Sir, with all due respect, the item that was destroyed was a rare copy of the Libro della Vita written by Lorenzo Collodi, one of the few books of magic that is known to have spells that can create sapience. Do you have any idea how important that is?"
"I am an auditor," replied Broderick in a distinctly bored tone. "I am here to audit, not to debate procedure."
Dr. Sinclair rubbed her face with a gloved hand and sighed. "Mr. Broderick, who would you rather have meddle with the forces of the universe: a woman that's been studying this sort of thing since she was fifteen years old and has a doctorate in theology and theoretical physics, or a man with the I.Q. of a salad spinner and antisocial personality disorder?"
Broderick blinked, looking down at his tablet again. "It says you often employ sacrifices in rituals. Again, D-Class personnel are expendable, and cheap; if need be, local convicts can be recruited for such a procedure. Perhaps you could use them to-"
"No!" Exclaimed both Sinclair and Reynolds at the same time, causing Broderick to flinch slightly. They looked at each other for a few seconds, before Sinclair spoke again. "Using human souls to power magic is an extremely bad idea. Doing that kind of thing attracts all sorts of supernatural trouble that the Foundation would rather not have."
Broderick frowned as he came across a specific page on his tablet. "Dr. Sinclair, it says here that on June 8th of 2013, there was an incident. You suffered second-degree burns on your forearms as a result, and rather than using the fire extinguisher, Mr. Reynolds simply dumped a bucket of water on you before pulling the medic alarm. Is this correct?"
Sinclair gulped. "W-well, yes, but-"
"If you had followed proper testing and safety procedures, the entire incident could have been avoided." He looked towards Monty. "If a D-Class had been requisitioned to perform the test, there would have been no risk of Dr. Sinclair being injured." To Katherine, now. "If Mr. Reynolds had used the provided fire extinguisher instead of dousing you with water, then the test chamber could have been cleaned more easily, as it was already damaged from flooding earlier the same day. And if-"
Before Broderick could say anything else, Sinclair slammed the table and pulled up the right sleeve of her lab coat, exposing her anomalously hairy arm. She parted the fur and exposed three words, burnt onto the skin underneath the fur. "Non Contenti Sumus. We are not content. The entire reason the ritual went wrong was because we aren't allowed to use live animals." Dr. Sinclair was shaking, trying to maintain her composure; Montgomery had his hand on her shoulder, wisely standing a few steps back. "This is how magic is treated in the Foundation, Broderick. We aren't taken seriously, and as a result, I got hurt. If Director Weiss had allowed us to use a live animal in the ritual, I would not have these scars right now."
Broderick seemed taken aback for a few seconds, before frowning at Sinclair. "Show me your other arm, Doctor." Dr. Sinclair's face instantly faulted. She pulled up her other sleeve, exposing a scarred, hairless arm. The auditor's frown intensified. "How did this happen?"
"I…" Dr. Sinclair looked down, looking as if she was about to cry. "I tried a salve to cover my scars. I got it wrong…"
Broderick scribbled furiously, but silently, on the tablet, before standing up. "That is all I need to know. Good day, Dr. Sinclair, Mr. Reynolds. My report will be delivered within five months of this date." He took his tablet under his arm, pocketed his stylus, and calmly strode out the door.
After he left, Katherine Sinclair put her head into her hands, and just rested her elbows on the counter, shaking softly. Monty looked at her, concerned. "Katherine?"
"Monty just… just go. Please. I need some time alone." She sounded choked.
Montgomery Reynolds nodded, and withdrew from the room as quickly as he could. As he stepped out into the hallway, he wondered what Katherine could possibly do if she lost her job. She could get a job with the Initiative, maybe, or the GOC. But the former was far too religious, and the latter would probably make Katherine burn all of her findings.
Monty leaned against the wall and rubbed his face, shaking his head. As he did, he swore he saw Matthew Broderick, the Tax Man, looking back at the hallway. He looked back at Montgomery, an almost apologetic look on his face, before moving on to the next department.

« Bugs in the Process| Hub|


of an L
The pair conversed through the entire car ride, much to the chagrin of the man tied up in the back of the van. Not because he cared much one way or another about the topic of conversation, which was him, but because he had hoped to catch a nap while he was tied up. Had they been quiet, the rain would be fairly soothing.
"He couldn't have figured out who we are on his own. Flanagan crunched the numbers. He should only be able to… understand groups at least six or seven times as big as us. Otherwise he would have seen us coming." The owner of the level voice, a heavily tattooed woman that looked to be in her mid-fifties, adjusted the rear-view mirror to better focus on Gabriel's face. "That, or he's completely incompetent."
"And you're sure that this isn't part of some big plan of his?" A much younger, substantially louder voice emanated from the driver's seat. "To, to get caught by us, for whatever reason, and use us to do whatever it is he's up to?" Seemingly becoming aware of xyr own voice, the wide-eyed individual quieted down. "I mean, it's not like we'd really have a choice if that was his plan, it's just…" Xe coughed, with the sound of clanking metal and a brief puff of black smoke issuing from xyr throat.
Gabriel's boredom was briefly tinged with amusement.
"Then don't worry about it. You don't trust Flanagan's analysis? That's fine." The woman who called herself DeadeyeAlligator1 withdrew a phone from her bag and began tapping. "I'll just let them know that you've spent twelve years studying economic and cultural trends and developed a coherent theory of meta-aware str-"
Mind-Thriller2, as xe preferred to be addressed, interrupted. "Yes, yes, I get that they're some sort of ridiculous prodigy, we established that." Xyr voice began to rise again, less of its own accord and more to be heard over the sirens. "It's just that… I don't know. I'm iffy on this."
"You signed on to be the getaway driver for a kidnapping without being sure about the mission?" DA was forced to brace herself as the van took a precisely timed turn down an alley at MT's behest. "Not that I can fault your work…"
"Of course I did. If I didn't, you'd still do it, except you might get caught."
Having given the assertion a thorough evaluation, Gabriel decided to weigh in with a statement he hoped was not overly controversial: "You're about to drive into a wall." This appeared to be true — in this weather, and at these speeds, hitting the brakes would be of little use. "Thought you should know."
As this was stated, DA was already unrolling a sleeve, revealing a tattoo of a knotted snake on a starry background. "Don't worry." With perhaps two seconds left before impact, DA placed a finger on the knot, and the van drove through the wall unimpeded into an inky black abyss. The only light came from DA's arm, which glowed a dull yellow.
Gabriel looked out the window. "Oh."
As their eyes adjusted to the sudden change in lighting, it became clear that the darkness was merely nighttime; a desert landscape was visible around them. MT glanced back and smiled after slowing the van to a stop. "Yeah. Magic. Cops don't really expect it. Uh, DA, mind getting us back to the hideout?"
"Sure thing." Also addressing the prisoner, "It's a bit convoluted, but you'll get used to it." Placing a finger on a different tattoo (one of a turtle with too many legs), the surroundings changed to a dingy garage; or, rather, what could have been one, had it contained any opening large enough to move a van through.
"Okay." Gabriel neither resisted nor complied as MT threw his light frame over xyr shoulder and headed through the room's singular door into a cellar furnished with comfortable-looking furniture, a tiny kitchen, and three gun safes. After being deposited on a couch with a denim cover, he made no effort to move or sit up.
"Not feeling talkative?" DA and MT removed their coats, bulletproof vests, and shoes as DA re-tightened the cord tying Gabriel's hands behind his back. MT continued, "Or do you just not care?"
"The latter. And I read faster than you talk, so just give me a copy of your manifesto before telling me to help you smash the system or whatever. And yes, I care enough about not being tortured or neglected to help you further your goals." Pause. "And I'm thirsty."
"That's…" DA and MT shared a look as the former trailed off. "Alright. I'll go get you a copy." She headed into a different room as MT went to the sink and filled up a glass of water. After it was filled, MT sat down on the table across from Gabriel and extended the glass of water to his lips. "… should I even ask how you knew all that?"
Gabriel calmly took several sips of water before pulling away from the glass's brim. "Having intimate knowledge of every significant formal and informal system and organization in the world makes people easy to predict. Even if they're working mostly outside of it. What should I call you two?"
"We go by, er, the name of our blogs." MT cleared xyr throat, breaking eye contact briefly. "I'm Mind-Thriller, and she's DeadeyeAlligator. It's quicker to just say MT and DA."
"And you know all about me, I assume." Gabriel nodded in understanding, then yawned. "You're ex-Serpent's Hand, right? That's probably important."
Xe sighed. "DA is. She tried to get me into it, but it… wasn't for me." Xyr frown didn't lift as DA reentered the room with a tablet computer, which she placed on Gabriel's lap. "We're going to untie you now, and I assume you know better than to try anything." DA reached behind Gabriel's back and carried out this
"You could snap me in half if you wanted." This was apparently intended as an answer, as he said nothing further while he read. He did pick up the glass of water and down it as he read. Several minutes passed in silence, Gabriel occasionally swiping to the left on the tablet's screen while DA sent some texts and MT kept xyr focus on Gabriel. After reaching the end, he spoke. "I can see why you're not affiliated with any larger group. There really aren't many that would be to your liking. And most of this would be flatly impossible without my assistance."
"But it's possible with your assistance." DA sat up and turned her attention to Gabriel as she spoke.
"Yes. I've already got most of the plan done. I need to talk to Graff first, though." He handed the tablet back to DA. "The mathematician going by 'Flanagan' that you mentioned earlier."
"You figured out Flanagan's identity?" MT tilted xyr head at this. "How on earth…"
Gabriel, in an unprecedented display of emotion, sighed a bit. "I cover my tracks well. To figure out that I'm anything but a reclusive self-made billionaire, you would need a genius with a supercomputer and an advanced understanding of memetics, economics, and sociology. The SCP Foundation is the only group that has geniuses, supercomputers, and an established study of memetics. The Chaos Insurgency does too, actually, but they would have caught a traitor much faster."
"Oh." MT hmmed at this. "They didn't mention that."
"The Foundation keeps very extensive records of their memeticists, so I know all of them. Only Dr. Vanessa Graff has the background and affiliations that would suggest any interest in this." Gabriel pointed at the tablet. "I need her here so I can get more information on your resources and talk specifics. You also need to meet her in person, if you haven't."
"We'll…" DA trailed off, disconcerted. "We'll check with them on that." She pulled her phone back out and sent another text.
"Okay." Gabriel stretched a bit, yawning again. "Where's the bathroom?"
MT pointed at the door that DA entered through. "Down the hall, on the left. And you can sleep in the guest room across the hall."
Gabriel nodded, then stood up and walked out of the room without a word.
MT turned to DA. A bit too loudly, "So how much of that do you believe?"
DA shrugged. "Well, judging by Flanagan's reaction, he at least ID'd them correctly." She showed her recently received texts to MT, a screen full of expletives and invective. "So I guess that much is true. It doesn't really matter what we believe about the rest. Personally? He's probably right about us needing him."
"So…" MT sighed. "We're meeting Flanagan… er… Graff? In person?"
"Yyyyup." A buzzing indicated that DA had received another text, which she checked: "Oh. Restaurant in Seattle, in… an hour. Think you can handle that?"
MT grinned, showing a mouth full of chrome teeth. "Shouldn't be too hard." The pair began preparing for their next excursion, grabbing their coats, vests, and firearms. "Have SearchNabokov3 drop by to keep an eye on Gabriel. I don't want him unsupervised."
"Got it." DA sent yet another text, then turned towards the bathroom to yell: "We're heading out to meet Graff! Someone is gonna drop by to keep an eye on you! Don't fuck anything up!" The pair exited to the garage. The sound of doors opening and closing were heard, followed by the starting of the van's engine, which abruptly cut off into silence.
Shortly afterwards, the toilet was flushed. Gabriel walked over towards the guest bedroom, then lied down in its doorway and promptly fell asleep. It had been a long day, and it was finally quiet.

« CAV-001 | CAVALCADE | CAV-003 »

Footnotes
1. "Scientifically proven cooler than you. Send me questions on math & philosophy. Not reptile ghost in acid box."
2. "I'll take the revolution to another dimension. Pay close attention."
3. "funny mems and corny joaks 24/7/420"


>cavalcade.bat -o -xk -scp 00315
LOADING… LOADED
PROJECT CAVALCADE CONTINGENCY COMMISSION
STANDPOINT: 47.6097° N, 122.3331° W
CONTINGENCY 00315-XK-001
STARTING… ERROR [048500: INSECURE LINK]
>realgen.bat -a
RealGen Rootkit v1.31
OverDood Environment Loading… Loaded.
Enter Target Range:
>192.168.0.*
Scanning Ports… Scanned.
Enter Redirects:
>*.*.*.*
Redirecting…
System Redirect Loop Found.
Ignore?
>y
Redirecting… Redirected.
>quit
Exiting OverDood Environment.
>cavalcade.bat -o -xk -scp 00315
LOADING… LOADED
PROJECT CAVALCADE CONTINGENCY COMMISSION
STANDPOINT: 47.6097° N, 122.3331° W
CONTINGENCY 00315-XK-001
STARTING… STARTED.
REVERSION POTENTIAL: 0.03740
RESOLUTION POTENTIAL: 0.00276
>revokePrivs.bat -all -s -m 73
Does the black moon howl73737373? (hard lock disengaged)
>logoff -cor
Does the. (7373)?? howl black white black white black white black white black white gray moon does howl? how737373

Sedna Prewitt sighed, knowing she had ended thousands of lives with a few keypresses. At least it would get the point across. Sedna calmly walked to the safe in the corner of her office, rotating the mechanism until the lock opened with a satisfying thud. She swung open the safe door, revealing a rusted toolbox. She picked it up, then closed the safe door. Sedna walked out of her office. It was odd, she thought; a weight had been lifted from her chest, and yet her stomach felt like it was sinking. It didn't matter too much. She inhaled sharply as she approached the exit of Site-76.
Site Director Prewitt was waved past security without complaint.
Sedna walked out the front door towards the drab blue car on the opposite side of the road. Her pair of contacts sat inside it: Gamut Rückfall was reading her newspaper, resting it against the steering wheel; Krav Lichtenfield sat in the passenger side, chewing strawberry gum and rubbing his stubble. Sedna opened one of the passenger doors, eased herself down into the leather seat, then rested her toolbox on her lap. Gamut folded her newspaper, placed it on the dashboard, and started accelerating down the road. Krav turned around and leaned across, grinning and offering Sedna a stick of gum. She took it, unwrapped it, then placed it in her mouth. Krav's grin widened even more.
"Welcome to the Chaos Insurgency, Miss Prewitt."

PROJECT CAVALCADE CONTINGENCY COMMISSION
STANDPOINT: 47.6097° N, 122.3331° W
STANDPOINT DESIGNATION: SEATTLE
CONTINGENCY 00315-XK-001
DESCRIPTION: CONTINGENCY FOR SCP-315 XK SCENARIO FAMILY
SOLUTION: WIDESPREAD UNILATERAL DISSOCIATION AND TEMPORAL LOCK AS PER TS-7 PROTOCOLS
VECTORS: SPARSE AIRBORNE (CHEMICAL, PATHOGENIC), MEMETIC
MODIFIERS: SRA TYPE C, XACTS TYPE B
REVERSION POTENTIAL: 0.03740, LINEAR, 2 HOUR ZERO POINT
RESOLUTION POTENTIAL: 0.00276, LINEAR, 7 HOUR ZERO POINT

The Administrator contemplated the readout on his screen. A two hour window of non-zero reversion potential… plenty of time to address the situation. There had been worse breaches in the past, by far, and for worse reasons.
The phone next to the Administrator rang, and he picked it up. O5-4 was the one who would have to deal with the situation. Time was of the essence; there was no time for a council vote, so O5-4 made a direct petition. The Administrator listened to the requests, agreeing to all of them one by one. This wasn't the worst that the Administrator had seen, but it was the worst that O5-4 had ever needed to deal with.
Sedna Prewitt had been capable of doing much worse than this, and for that the Administrator was pleased and disappointed in equal measure.

A man was looking out a window.
The birds were flying, the sun was shining, and everything was right with the world. Everything was okay, everything was alright, there was nothing to worry about. He heard a car screech off the side of a road, then the crunch of metal against brick below his office. He heard people shouting, screaming, crying, and then the shouting stopped.
Everything was perfectly fine.
"Hello?"
A middle-aged man was talking to him on a laptop screen. Said laptop was sitting in the lap of the man who was not on the laptop screen. The man on the laptop screen started talking again.
"You seem to be forgetting things every time we stop talking."
The man that was not on the laptop stared blankly. He started to talk, then coughed; he welled up some spit in his throat, then tried again.
"What?"
"Something is heavily affecting your concentration."
"Who are you?"
"Who indeed. Perhaps a more pertinent question: who are you?"
The man who was not on the laptop screen paused for a moment to think. Who was he? It didn't seem too important. It wasn't that he didn't remember. He knew that he knew who he was; on realising this, safe in the conclusion that he was aware of who he was on some deeper level, he refused to drag it up into his active consciousness. The man who was not on the laptop screen was struck by a profound, zenlike apathy. Easier by far to mirror the man in the laptop screen's words than to think his own thoughts.
"Who indeed."
"Well, for convenience's sake, let's call you Kevin."
"Why Kevin?"
"Because that's your name."
"Ah."
"As for me, you can call me 315. Ringing any bells?"
Kevin stopped paying attention.
"Kevin?"
Kevin's gaze started drifting from the man in the laptop screen. 315 clicked his fingers loud enough for the laptop's speakers to clip.
"Back to me, Kevin, focus on me, alright? If you look away, you'll forget again."
Kevin looked back towards the screen. Easier to go along with it. He spoke to 315.
"Okay."
"Alright. Good. First of all, we need to start moving. Pick up this laptop, be careful not to drop it, and we're going to start walking out the door. Okay?"
"Okay."
Kevin, at this point, felt the easiest course of action was compliance. He grabbed the laptop in his hands, then stood up. He started looking towards the window. 315 snapped his fingers again.
"No, Kevin, come on, focus. Look to your right. The door is on your right."
Kevin looked to the door on his right, then paused for two seconds.
"You need to walk towards the door, Kevin."
Kevin started walking towards the door.

Professor Thaddeus Xyank was annoyed. Not at the fact that a space the size of Seattle - indeed, a space that was Seattle - had been temporally corrupted. He was annoyed that nobody had told him that it was going to happen. The research potential into temporal corruption seemed enormous. This was mostly because Xyank still didn't understand what temporal corruption actually meant.

From: O5-4 (1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.4-5o#1.1.861.291|artni_3ujk2bv6j3b5.4-5o)
To: Thad Xyank (1.1.861.291|artni_83028fo3b4.knayxt#1.1.861.291|artni_83028fo3b4.knayxt)
Date: [FIELD EMPTY]
Subject: Temporal Corruption
Content:
Seattle has been temporally locked as per TS-7 containment protocols. However, the Type B XACTS stationed around the breach have malfunctioned, resulting in temporal corruption. Considering your paper regarding hypothetical use of a Type B XACTS array to introduce temporal corruption, you are the person most suited to address the situation. This should also present a valuable opportunity to test the accuracy of your theories.
You will be transported to Seattle within the next twenty minutes.

Xyank hadn't written the paper that O5-4 was referring to yet. No, scratch that; he hadn't even designed a Type B XACTS yet. On the short trip to Seattle, Xyank thumbed through both the aforementioned paper, as well as the specifications document for the Type B.
Halfway through the latter, Professor Xyank saw the memetic trigger he was going to place within the paper. He felt his arms seize and slump, damned whatever reason he was going to have for putting it in there, then fell unconscious in the back of the unmarked van.

Sedna Prewitt watched her watch tick down.
90 minutes remained until Seattle was irrecoverable.
Gamut had taken them out from the city centre, through the residential areas, and out into the "semi-residential" zones. They had reached the strange sort of point at which a city seems to lose its steam; where more of the land is used for roads than housing, and more still is simply open grassland, as yet unclaimed by urban sprawl. Krav was staring out the windows, chewing his gum to calm his nerves. Sedna couldn't take her eyes off her watch until Gamut broke her concentration.
"We're here."
Gamut slowly decelerated, rolled to a stop besides a well-forested area, then pulled up the handbrake. She unbuckled her seatbelt and got out of the car, momentarily stretching her arms and legs. Krav opened the glove compartment, pulled out a small packet of papers held together with a thick elastic band, then got out himself. He turned, opening Sedna's door for her, and gesturing with a smile.
"Out we get, Miss Prewitt. Watch your step, 'n all that."
Sedna grabbed the handle of the rusty toolbox and stood up outside the door.
"What now, then?"
Gamut answered as she walked around the front of the car, running her hands through her short pink hair.
"We have a five minute walk through these trees, then we hit an open field. Our plane's waiting there."
Sedna nodded. Gamut pulled a compass from her pocket, looking at it intensely; Sedna stared, confused.
"So it's just past these trees?"
"Yes, but we need this to get through. Walking in a straight line can be difficult in the wrong places, if you get my gist."
Gamut tapped the side of her nose, then started walking into the greenery. Krav gestured for Sedna to follow behind, then fell in at the back of the queue. They continued to walk; Sedna caught herself erring from Gamut's lead twice, involuntarily drifting from the intended path. After five minutes, as expected, they exited into a wide clearing. A small white aeroplane sat in the middle of a short paved runway; the trio walked up to the side of it. Gamut pulled a key from her pocket, pushed it into the small hatch on the side, then swung it open. Krav stepped in first, offered a helping hand to Sedna, and Gamut closed the door behind her. Gamut walked through to the one-pilot cockpit, having to crouch slightly to get around; Krav and Sedna sat in the two seats behind, buckling up their harnesses. Sedna rested the rusty toolbox in front of her, then queried Krav:
"So, where now?"
"Next stop, London. Too much Foundation presence in America, much safer in England."
"And we're going there in this?"
"Yes. Were you expecting a commercial flight?"
"Well, it's just a bit small."
"Small enough not to be detected, even if we weren't already shielded in a hundred different ways."
"I see."
Ex-Site Director Prewitt looked back at her watch, feeling her seat vibrate as the engines started up. Gamut started to accelerate. The small plane hurtled down the runway, then lifted off the ground. Sedna felt her stomach drop from more than mere airsickness.
83 minutes until Seattle was irrecoverable.

« CAVALCADE | CAV-002 »


toadking07

This is an open collab though weaker entries do get pruned from time to time. Based on the maintenance gripe sheet lists you might find online or shared in an email from your uncle. Enjoy some dry humor and snarky responses!

Foundation personnel submit maintenance reports, also known as "gripe forms", to inform level 2 site mechanics about any problems they experience with containment cells and connected facilities. The maintenance crews process the requests, solve the problems, document their repair solutions and file the reports away by once resolved. Submitted problems are marked with a "P", while the solutions are marked with an "S".
Collected Maintenance Reports. Ten per page. Current as of 1/26/2018 5/25/2020.
Overseen by Site-██ Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison.

▼ Open Guide For Submitting Reports

△ Hide Guide For Submitting Reports

Note: Submitted reports are listed ten per page, with newer reports added at the bottom of the last page. Requests come in daily for all manner of odd tasks, often well outside of normal maintenance work. Luckily, inner site maintenance crews can take a joke.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison
Standard format for reports:

P: Problem reported.
S: Solution carried out.

Example:

P: The Foundation is a cold and dangerous place to work in.
S: It helps to have a sense of humor.

ADVICE: Keep it simple! Focus on one thing that would require maintenance per report. Think on what kind of strange happenings would be borderline everyday problems at the foundation. Like a vending machine that can dispense lava as easily as coffee. Or a living goo leaving a trail of slime.
If you want feedback first, comment your idea in the discussion, otherwise, additions are deleted/edited at toadking07's discretion.

△ Hide Guide For Submitting Reports

Page 01
Page 02
Page 03
Page 04
Page 05
Page 06
Page 07

Submitted maintenance reports (P) and filed solutions (S) from ██/██/████ to ██/██/████.

P: Security key card reader doesn't work.
S: Diagram for proper security keycard reader card swiping has been installed.

P: Smells like there might be a lot of shit inside containment cell.
S: Confirmed, there is a lot of shit inside containment cell.

P: Containment cell door almost needs oiling.
S: Containment cell door almost oiled.

P: Request viewing window on test chamber be made of thicker, non-transparent material.
S: That's called a wall.

P: Specimen has damaged toilet bowl in containment cell.
S: Sturdier model toilet bowl has been installed.

P: Security key card reader still not working.
S: That security key card reader is for level 4 clearance or higher.
Just because you guard the thing doesn't mean you get to peek in on it whenever you want.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: Muffled screaming can be heard from within containment cell.
S: Audio system set up so screaming is no longer muffled.

P: Specimen uprooted toilet bowl from wall and damaged containment cell.
S: Plastic litter box installed until specimen learns not to break its things.

P: Entities keep erasing recordings from surveillance cameras.
S: Fake security cameras have been installed.

P: One of the containment cell corners smells like piss.
S: One of the containment cell corners has been bleached.

Submitted maintenance reports (P) and filed solutions (S) from ██/██/████ to ██/██/████.

P: Almost all computers in observation deck have been fried.
S: All computers in observation deck have been fried.

P: Door to containment cell does not seem heavy enough to contain artifact.
S: Weights have been affixed to cell door. Much heavier now.

P: Near containment breach, auto lock-down system in containment cell did not engage.
S: Auto lock-down system not installed for that containment cell.

P: Cannot hear what is being said inside containment cell from outside.
S: Good. File report if changes.

P: Concerned door will not hold during containment breach.
S: Containment breach scheduled for next week to test door.

P: Researchers unnerved when instance watches them through observation window.
S: One-way mirror installed so researchers won't see instance watching them.

S: Crack in containment cell repaired. Paradox avoided.
P: Time based fluctuation anomaly detected from crack in containment cell.

P: Entity keeps banging on walls of cell like a drum.
S: Actual drum set has been installed in cell for subject to bang on.

P: Specimen has clogged containment cell toilet.
S: Containment cell is too far gone. Recommend new containment cell with reinforced waste management system.
Team gets the week off once they get back from decontam.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: Near containment breach due to rollie-chair.
S: Rollie-chair secured to the floor.

Submitted maintenance reports (P) and filed solutions (S) from ██/██/████ to 05/12/2014.

P: During site wide lock-down system test, doors to containment wing were unable to be opened from inside/outside.
S: Containment wing doors cannot be unlocked during site wide lock-downs.
God have mercy if you are on the wrong side when they close.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: Concerned airlock will not hold in case of flood.
S: Psychological evaluation with Dr. Glass scheduled for airlock.

P: Hole found on hazmat suit, bio-containment wing two.
S: Hole lost on hazmat suit, bio-containment wing two.

P: Mop broken during containment breach.
S: New mop given to another janitor that doesn't attempt to subdue an SCP with a mop.

P: Vending machine dispensed molten lava, burned through cup and multiple floors.
S: Vending machine paper cups replaced with reinforced cups.

P: Containment cell found empty.
S: Containment cell filled with balloons.
We do maintenance work here people, not SCP retrieval. Something gets out, call an MTF, then call us.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: Camera feed 67 shows nothing of interest.
S: Something interesting now playing on camera feed 67.

P: Pipes beneath sink in the cafeteria are leaking. Specifically requesting Mr. Alfsiger for repair.
S: No pipes found leaking, though five animatronic spiders discovered under sink. All five destroyed via boot heel.
Arachnophobia is no laughing matter guys.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: Containment cell observation system outputting audio of disembodied, violent screaming.
S: Monitor installed adjacent to observation system outputting muted video of Finnish death metal band.

P: Third stall in staff bathroom on level 4 in need of repair.
S: Security camera installed in third stall in staff bathroom on level 4.
If you have any information on what happened in that stall, you can call the anonymous tip hotline.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

Submitted maintenance reports (P) and filed solutions (S) from 05/13/2014 to 11/30/2017.

P: The shower in Dr. King's personal quarters is producing apple seeds, not water.
S: Dr. King informed that the Gripe Sheet is not for prank complaints.
Appleseed generator removed from shower and installed in Dr. King's coffee maker.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: Anti-Memetic Pun detector in Delaware Wing is malfunctioning.
S: Could not locate, please provide more information, Dela where?

P: Site generator gets hot when used.
S: Can't change the laws of thermodynamics, try asking the physics department.

P: SCP-___-J containment in need of maintenance.
S: Will schedule maintenance later.

P: Hall-113 completely blocked off with chocolate ice cream.
S: Vanilla and strawberry ice cream have been added to Hall-113.

P: I do not appreciate being contained as an SCP.
S: How did you get access to this? Reported.
Also, we don't have anything to do with actual containment, just maintenance.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: Yearly maintenance for SCP-055 containment scheduled.
S: I don't think we have an SCP-055? Prank report reported.

P: 13 long claw marks left on the temporary the wall of containment cell B-17.
S: Claw mark added to make it 14.
13 is unlucky.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: Roof in Sector 3 seems very unstable
S: Consideration on whether or not said roof should be put in an asylum.

P: Agent █████ broke a water fountain.
S: Water fountain has been given much needed R&R.

Submitted maintenance reports (P) and filed solutions (S) from 11/31/2017 to 5/10/2018.

P: Radio speakers filled with blood.
S: A fellow Foundation After Midnight Radio fan! Cheers!

P: Containment breach sirens still faintly heard from all the way at personnel barracks.
S: Siren volume increased. You do not want to sleep through those.

P: Cannot connect to Site-26 wifi.
S: No wifi or internet at Site-26.
Please reread special containment procedures.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: Door to containment cell Y-88 makes a funny noise.
S: Noise is indeed pretty hilarious.
Set as my text tone for maintenance reports. Too funny. Thanks for bringing it to my attention!
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: Containment Wing B-7 in Site-551 is 23° in temperature while everywhere else in the entire facility is 24°.
S: Temperature of all of Site-551 lowered by one.

P: Minor damage to pipes in bathroom B at Site-19, may be anomalous.
S: Major damage to pipes in Bathroom B at Site-19, definitely anomalous.
Anomalous events are not our job to deal with please stop reporting them here.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: Toilet fire at Site-42, floor 4, women's bathroom.
S: Please dispose of sensitive documents at your designated incineration service station.

P: Left wing at Site-5 missing.
S: Beginning search for large bird.

P: Stepped in dog feces at Site-551.
S: That sounds like a personal problem.

P: Need assistance with with a ████ that is currently causing [REDACTED].
S: First you're going to need a █████, and after that you [REDACTED] and [DATA EXPUNGED]. Should ███ it right up. ████.
We can't help you if we don't know what you need help with.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

Submitted maintenance reports (P) and filed solutions (S) from 5/11/2018 to 5/6/2019.

P: Hallway-06 awSDJILFB K;D/AHBgjghjkv
S: N/A
The maintenance team sends their condolences. We are deeply saddened by the news from Site-107 this last week. Our hearts go out to the family and friends of those lost.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: Halloween is long over. Please put away the decorations in break room 3B.
S: Those were not props. Break room closed off pending internal investigation.

P: Containment cell observation equipment nonfunctional.
S: Most equipment is nonfunctional without a power supply.

P: .sdrawkcab raeppa ot stupni retupmoc lla gnisuac si 42-etiS ta hcaerb tnemniatnoc tneceR
S: Until an MTF can get that under control, suggest all personnel at Site-24 learn to type backwards.
.sdrawkcab epyt ot nrael 42-etiS ta lennosrep lla tseggus ,lortnoc rednu taht teg nac FTM na litnU :llew sa sdrawkcab ffuts eviecrep ro eviecer syug uoy gnikam s'ti esac ni tsuJ
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison (nosimiaJ rosivrepoS ecnanetniaM deaH)

P: Lizards keep getting into Site-19.
S: "NO LIZARDS ALLOWED" sign installed at site entrance.

P: Inside.
S: Outside.
Note: My bed is still inside of the break room refrigerator.

P: Engine of cargo truck at Site-24 died.
S: Use the gear shift to go into 3rd, 3rd, 4th, 4th, 2nd, 5th, 2nd, and 5th, then hit the Brake followed by the Accelerator. Engine should be good to go for another 30 trips after that, more than enough time to get it down here for a proper overhaul.
Just make sure you put it back in 1st before trying to start it. Don't need to be dealing with a busted transmission while we're at it.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: I'm holding the handle of a pulled grenade. I'm typing this with my feet, please help
S: Bomb squad dispatched to Dr. Matism's office for defusal.
Note: I may have shit myself - Dr. Matism

P: Can't decide whether to have tacos or pizza for lunch.
S: Pizza removed from menu.
Note: Thanks a lot to whoever submitted this. - Dr. Ricardo

P: V_w_ls _n _ll c_mp_t_r t_rm_n_ls f_r S_t_-24 h_v_ g_n_ m_ss_ng.
S: Wheel of Fortune technician en route to assist. Estimated cost of repairs: $1,250.
Just in case any of you had your hopes up, no, Vanna White is not the technician in question.
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

Submitted maintenance reports (P) and filed solutions (S) from 5/6/2019 to ██/██/████.

P: Computer screen has likely contracted anomalous properties. Discoloration and distortion of screen. Possible containment breach.
S: Computer CRT screen upgrade with LED monitor.
Magnets, how do they work?
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: There are rats eating all the food in Site-73's break room.
S: Rats given their own break room on Site-73's premises.

P: There is a Site-22 board game club, but no Site-22 Dungeons and Dragons club.
S: N/A
You know you can submit clubs yourself? [link]
-Head Maintenance Supervisor Jaimison

P: A humanoid containment chamber holding a reality bender was displaced into a high-Hume extradimensional location. It has likely drifted from its original location and as such, it is impossible to retrieve without severe structural damage.
S: Maintenance team sent into extradimensional location and reality bender retrieved. Cell reconstructed.

P: The Site-88 break room's coffee machine has grown legs and gained sentience, and now refuses to serve its purpose. We have it contained as of now but we need a new coffee machine.
S: New coffee machine provided, coffee machine registered as SCP-██.

P: Responded to a call.
S: Call-response based programs and forms have had "call" and "response" switched.

P: Intangible apparition resembling actor Tobey Maguire dancing obnoxiously in front of the entrance to ABCA-14 Nu-7 armory.
S: I missed the part where that's my problem.

P: There are no windows on Site-26's level 16B.
S: Windows have been removed from all levels of Site-26.

P: My coworker Dr. Rothstein, he eats very loudly during lunch break when I'm trying to work. He's in the office next to me. I can hear him through the walls. I don't even know what he's eating. Just replace the walls please, I can't stand it anymore.
S: Wall has been replaced with a transparent plexiglass panel.


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Then there's the matter of the entomology department, over-budget for the fifth straight year. Not the most flattering statistic, considering that the most expensive incident in the department's history never actually took place.

Dr. Marshall Grant sipped coffee placidly as he filed his paperwork, ho-humming the morning away. Fingers moved deftly across the key-pad as he entered his findings from the most recent acquisition to Site-87's growing entomological collection. A Stag Beetle. Normal in most respects, except that a genetic sequencing revealed greater similarity to the Bull Elk than to any other animal on file. Also, the tendency of the females to lactate was particularly interesting.
"Yo Mack! How's about you gimme sommin' ta eat? I'm starvin' over here!"
"Vinnie, I gave you a nice juicy locust not twenty minutes ago," Marshall replied with a roll of his eyes. He looked down at the tank next to his desk to see the mantis pressed up against the glass, pleading with his eyes. His tight denim pants were worn through the knees, and the tiny gold chain about his neck sparkled in the light.
"Fuck that bug shit! Gimme a burger! A hot dog! …A 40? Come on, I'm bored outta my skull!"
"You haven't got a skull, Vinnie."
"So?!"
"Take it easy, alright? Just be patient and wait until lunch," Marshall said, shaking his head as he raised his cup.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
In his shock, the coffee sprayed everywhere. The Keyboard, a stack of papers, a cup filled with pens, pencils, and thumb tacks; everything was coated in hot brown spittle. Vinnie the mantis snickered quietly as Dr. Grant fumbled with the cup and grabbed for the paper towels under the desk. Rushing with reckless abandon. The knock came again.
"Just a second!" Dr. Grant called, but the door was already ajar, and in its jam stood a tall, bald man with a rather sleek looking tablet PC which made the white-plastic of the CRT on the desk feel positively ancient by comparison. Nevertheless, there were rules. "Excuse me, sir? This is a closed laboratory. I'm going to have to ask for your clearance before you come in here."
The Tax Man smiled, and produced a shiny white badge with simple black lettering. Level-4, general access, administrative. "Of course. My name is Matthew Broderick, I'm here for your bi-annual audit."
"That was today?" Marshall heard himself asking, and swallowed the words as fast as he could. "Of course it was! Thank you, please come in! Mr… Broderick? Is that right?"
"Yes. And you must be Dr. Marshall Grant of entomology." It wasn't a question. With no flourish at all, the Tax Man produced a stylus and began tapping and scratching at the screen of his top-of-the-line machine. His eyes darted around the room, searching for something. Marshall hoped it wasn't for his conversation partner. "… Is Dr. Churchwell available so that we may begin?"
"Erm, well…" as stealthily as he could, Grant slid a birthday card in front of Vinnie with an awkward smile on his face. "No I'm here by my… She's out today. With the flu. It's been making the rounds and… Is there… Would you like to come back tomorrow? I'm sure she'll be back tomorrow."
Mr. Broderick looked at his watch with a stern frown. "No, Dr. Grant. This is the time we have scheduled for the audit. I'm sure as her leading researcher you're familiar enough with the department to assist me."
"It's just… Well, I'm rather in the middle of something at the—"
"We'll begin with the laboratory inspection first." Broderick interjected. "I understand some of the equipment here is a little out of date."

"…And that's one of the most challenging parts of working in the department," Dr. Grant said, indicating the new acquisition, already filed under E-2663-01. "This little lady, to just see her in the wild, you'd never know she was anomalous. A little tanner than the garden variety. A little fuzzier perhaps. But it isn't until you watch her feeding her young that it would even occur to anyone that something about her isn't normal."
Broderick leaned close and scrutinized the tiny creature from above his glasses. "So this is the only one, is it?"
"Erm… Well, no. Most of these are just sample populations. There's a rule about working with insects: for every one you see, there's 100 you don't," Marshall said. "What we're working on is-"
But he was cut short by some hard, loud taps on the tablet in the Tax Man's arms. "…Go on, Dr. Grant. Your plans to contain the rest of them?"
"Well… it… It can't be done. Not without a much larger budget, anyway, and even then… See, insects live and breed very fast, and even with—"
The Tax Man raised a hand, which presently inspired Marshall Grant into silence. "A larger budget? Dr. Grant, you are aware that for the past five years, this department has averaged four hundred and fifty thousand dollars over budget forecasts, are you not?"
"Yes, but—"
"And yet we're not, statistically speaking, any closer to a complete containment of anomalous insects in this region?"
Dr. Grant was getting flustered. "Now, hold on a minute! It's not as—"
"This is a simple yes or no question, Doctor. If you cannot answer it, perhaps we can find someone who can?" The Tax Man's steely eyes fixed Marshall Grant firmly in place, stylus poised, mouth drawn into a tight frown. A frown that said emphatically that he would not move from this spot until he received a simple answer to his perfectly straightforward question.
And in his building disquieted anger, Dr. Grant buckled. "No."
"I see," the Tax Man said, making marks deftly across his touch screen. "Is there any feasible remedy to this situation?"
"What do you mean, remedy?"
"Well, rather than wasting resources attempting to contain and neutralize these species," he continued, "could Foundation interests be better served by contracting with a well trained exterminator?"
"That's… What?! You can't just kill off a whole species of insect! There are so many variables to consider here! Not just the ecological consequences but in many cases there's a risk of anomalous backlash!"
The Tax Man looked up from under his glasses with a smirk. "Come on, Dr. Grant. You're not honestly afraid of the 'keeter skeeters' are you?"
"MARTYYY! MARTY DON'T TAKE THAT SHIT!"
The color drained from Dr. Grant's face as a look of stern disappointment was painted across the Tax Man's.
"Dr. Grant, are there any other employees in the office with us today?" Broderick asked with all the delicacy of a cinder-block.
Marshall swallowed hard. "…n…No, sir. That would be, uh…"
"LET ME OUT OF THIS THING! I'LL RIP THAT CHEAP ARMANI KNOCK-OFF RIGHT OFF HIS BACK!" The birthday card fell down, and there Vinnie Baggadoughnuts stood, arms raised in aggressive posture, wings fluttering, tiny cigarette smoldering in the corner of his mandibles. "NOBODY TALKS TO MARTY THAT WAY BUT ME. YOU GOT THAT, JACK?"
"E-5570. Specimen 01-A… he-uh…it's a 'Leafer Mantis'. We…" Marshall tried to think of some excuse. Some plausibly deniable reason. Something about how, when the phenomenon was finally understood and resolved, one was kept alive for record keeping purposes, to test the cognitive limits of the species. But all of it sounded hollow, and none of it explained what the specimen was doing next to his desk. So fuck it. If he was going to be crucified, it may as well be for the right reason.
Marshall padded the sweat from his balding head, pulled his shirt down, and stood up straight. "His name is Vinnie. He's my pet."
The Tax Man's nostrils flared but once; all the theatrical anger was gone from him, replaced with a sort of sullen contempt and disgust. As Vinnie raged and rattled his cage, Broderick slipped his stylus back into its home on the side of the tablet, and let out a long, disapproving sigh.
"Thank you, Dr. Grant. I believe that will be all." The tax man turned and walked away, looking disappointed. Or maybe a little defeated. When the door closed, Dr. Grant collapsed into his chair, heart pounding and underarms sweating.
"YEEEAH!" Vinnie said, raising his pincers in triumph. "You better run!"
"Oh, blow it out your ass, Vinnie," Marshall said, head in his hands.

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