When asking for a favor, it's often useful to show that you are trustworthy. So, as Michael kneels down to pray and plead with God, he thinks of all of the good he has done.

Charity

γɈiɿɒʜɔ

"Give us your fuckin' money!"
Blood ran down Michael's nose as he pressed his back into the grimy alley wall. The green-horned devil thrust a revolver in his face, while the red one licked a scimitar behind him.
"W-why?" Michael muttered, just louder than a whisper.
"Because we said so, dumbass. Now your backpack. Get everything out. Pronto!"
"But I don't owe anyone anything."
The green-horned devil furrowed his eyebrows. Somehow, this man wasn't afraid of the two demons accosting him. It was clear that his stammer and timid demeanor were just… his personality.
"Well, you're wasting our time and you know, time is money. So hand it over," the red one shot back.
"Hey! What you two got over there?"
The two devils turned to the source of the bellowing voice. They'd recognize that New York accent and seven foot tall silhouette anywhere.
"Ay! Big G! Nice to see you in this neck of the woods!"
"We just got ourselves a nice little cash cow right here," the green-horned devil cackled. Big G took a moment to squint his serpentine eyes. He traced Michael up and down once, his eyes adjusting to the lightless alley, before jumping between him and his assailants.
"Put your gun away!"
"What?"
"Don't point your damn pea shooter at Mikey."
"You know this guy?"
"You pricks don't? Mikey fuckin' great. He's a goddamn angel."
"But we hate angels."
"You know what I mean! He's a real one."
Michael looked down at the ground and gave a shy smile. Big G clapped him on the back, almost toppling him to the ground. The two devils exchanged a look, calculating how much effort it would be to bust past Big G. And factoring in the loss of street cred for robbing Michael. Oh and then there's the case to consider where Big G beats them both to a pulp, and they become the laughing stock of this block of the Sin Circuit.
The green-horned devil lowered his pistol and turned to his partner.
"Eh, there's other alleys we can stalk. We'll catch another one."
"Fair enough."
"You have a nice night Big G," the red devil called out, as he waved good-bye.
Big G dusted Michael off. The human was a little dazed, but not too shaken.
"What did I tell you about goin' places by yourself, huh?" Big G asked, guiding Michael back to the streets.
"Sorry… I was just sort of lost in my own thoughts."
"Just because you're a local doesn't mean everyone just gives you that respect. You gotta puff your chest out more. Walk like you have a purpose, ya know?"
"Right, right." Michael's eyes instinctively wandered to the ground. Big G turned away from Michael, the shining brilliance of the strip reflecting off his scales.
"What do you say we hit up Huntridge? Drinks are on me."
"You know I don't really drink…"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll buy you a soda or something."
"I really appreciate the offer, but I have to get going. I was uh, planning to meet up with someone later."
"Oh! Well you shoulda just said something Mikey. Totally get it. But I'll still see you for poker on Friday, right?"
"Yeah, yeah. I should be there."
"Atta boy," Big G roared. He clapped Michael on the back one last time before joining the pedestrian traffic. Michael watched Big G leave, considering if he should leave the alley as well. But honestly taking a long walk to circle back would look more suspicious than waiting around. Luckily, Big G never even thought to glance behind him, so Michael could just wait.
Michael checked his backpack one more time. He wouldn't have been surprised if the devils tried to pick his pockets. Luckily, the water bottle was still there. Safe and sound.
A new silhouette emerged from the dark back-alley. This one more humanoid than the previous ones.
"Hey, rabbit, shouldn't you be hiding? It's winter."
"Umm… uh," Michael always fumbled the passphrase, "I like to play in the snow?"
The figure sighed, "close enough."
Stepping further into the light was a man in a bright purple blazer and pearly white pants. The kind of eccentricity that Michael came to expect from the Auctioneers.
"You have the item?"
Michael reached into his backpack and pulled out the water bottle.
"Toss it here."
Michael chucked the water bottle over to the man. They both made sure to stay at least ten feet apart. Their insistence, not Michael's.
The Auctioneer opened the top and took a whiff. He nodded to himself like a somelier appraising a vintage wine. Pleased with his assessment, the Auctioneer tossed over a stack of bills, which Michael almost dropped on the ground.
"Hey uh, this is only a thousand. I uh, I thought you were paying fifteen hundred?"
"We still are. We just… want one more set. Demand for Holy Water from Sin City's going up."
"But this was supposed to be the last one. I think the church is starting to recognize me…"
"Don't worry. We have a new location for you. And we're paying four thousand for the last sample."
Michael swallowed. There was much shadier work in Las Vegas that pays considerably less. Retrieving holy water to be auctioned off ranked pretty low overall. Besides, it'd mean he wouldn't have to save another five months worth of wages…
"Okay… um, where is it?"
"We'll get you the information another time. For now it's just nice to have verbal confirmation."
Michael packed the money into his backpack, "I see… well, uh, it's nice doing business with you, uh, Mr…"
And by the time he looked up again, the man had disappeared.

Patience

ɘɔnɘiɈɒq

Ever since he was born, Michael has been waiting for something.
When he was a kid, Michael waited for his new parents to take him from the orphanage. But they never came. In fact, the couple who ran the orphanage skipped town when the devils showed up, leaving the children to fend for themselves.
When he was a teenager, Michael waited to graduate from high school so he could go to college and get his life together from there. He worked two jobs outside of classes, and often found himself sleeping on park benches, since all he could afford was food and school supplies. But then somehow, Michael couldn't win any scholarships, and couldn't scrape together enough money to attend any of the universities he got accepted to.
When he turned eighteen, Michael waited to save enough money to move out of Vegas. He learned how to make small talk with high rollers and shuffle a deck of cards, which let him pick up shifts dealing black jack on the outskirt of the strip. He got work, but only from dingy casinos, with dirty slot machines and blood-stained poker chips.
On one particularly empty night, Michael found himself dealing to an old man. He must've been seventy, at least. He kept busting, and then cursing to himself that the cards didn't turn up just right.
"Damn demons. I wouldn't have to be playing at this dump if they didn't run all the good casinos…"
Michael just nodded and dealt another hand. But before he could ask if the old man wanted to hit, the front door burst open. A troupe of oddly-proportioned devils rushed into the casino. The patrons tried to escape, but unfortunately the men were knocked to the ground, and the women were surrounded by catcalls and gropers.
"Back you fiends!" the old man shouted, "You don't belong here you pieces of—"
He stopped himself short when a large, golden-scaled demon emerged from the crowd. He looked like a large Komodo dragon standing up on its hind legs, with large burly arms, tipped with talon claws. He wore a blazer, and smoked the largest cuban that Michael had ever seen. The lizard-man looked the old man over before blowing a large puff of smoke in his face.
"You want to finish that sentence?" he asked.
The old man summoned up enough courage to spit on the devil. Unfortunately, that was the last courage he'd ever muster, since his action was met with a single claw swipe through the jugular. Michael tried to shrink under the table. Maybe if he hid for long enough he could sneak out when the intruders were too drunk to notice.
"Deal me in," Lizard man demanded, slamming a gold coin on the table. So much for that plan.
Michael quickly gathered up the cards from the old man's spot (he had finally hit black jack), and then tried to shuffle the deck. His hands shook, and he kept fumbling the bridge, sending the cards everywhere.
"I'll trade you names, dealer boy" the lizard man said, "I'm Big G."
"Umm, Michael?" He could barely the words get to leave his mouth.
"Michael… No family name?"
In the moment, Michael's practice making small talk took over. He was so afraid he didn't even realize what he was saying.
"No family at all really… I was in an orphanage for a while but the owners left when um," Michael motioned to Big G's posse, who were downing drinks at the bar, "your… type showed up."
"I get it, I get it. You must fuckin' hate my guts then, eh?" Big G let out a big cackle. Michael felt himself ease up a little, and finally began to deal to the lizard man.
"Uh, no. I mean, not really," Michael kept his gaze firmly on the cards, "it's not like you knew I was there or anything."
"Well, there's a first."
Michael looked back up at Big G. He was no longer showing off that massive toothy grin, or roaring at his own joke. Now the lizard man was studying him. Sizing Michael up, taking in his wrinkles and crevasses.
"Hit me," Big G said. Michael dealt him another card. The lizard man flipped over his hand. He'd bust.
"I'm… sorry." Michael offered. Big G went back to cackling again.
"You're a fascinating dealer, you know that?"
"I'm not really all that special…"
"You want a new gig? I got friends over at the Venetian who have been looking for a new Texas Hold 'em guy. Besides, it probably pays much better than this peanut gallery."
Michael nodded, more out of reflex than anything. But from that day on, Michael ran one of the tables at the Venetian. And on Friday nights, he dealt the private high stakes matches they ran in the back. He met the satanic high rollers of Vegas: Bobby The Firespitter, Elsabeth DuDrogney, Nythelo (whose full name cannot be pronounced by the human tongue), and of course Big G. Big G was there every Friday, and would take Michael out for dinner after the table closed.
To Michael, it all just became another cycle. A much more comfortable cycle than he'd been a part of, but still a cycle. Michael found comfort in cycles. Safety in routine. So then, as a twenty five year old man, he waited for the next stage of his life to present itself to him. Good things come to those who wait.
And when the Auctioneers came knocking on his door with side job worth a couple of grand, Michael felt his waiting had paid off, yet again.

Chastity

γɈiɈƨɒʜɔ

"C'mon, you're starving me," Lyla purred as she stroked Michael's arm. They both looked out over the Bellagio fountains as the water danced to "Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds." Michael shivered at Lyla's touch, like a cat shaking off water.
"They must put a lot of time into the choreography," Michael replied. It was a vain attempt to change the topic, since he lacked both the confidence and bravado to make it work.
"I swear, you do this just because you want to torture me."
"I don't though!"
The music stopped playing and the fountains returned to rest. Across the pond Michael could see people dining in the Picasso and the Lago. Couples blowing hundreds of dollars on a single meal to set the mood for when they return to their thousand-dollar penthouse suite and fuck the night away. Lyla licked her lips at the thought.
"Fuck me once?"
"No!"
"Oh come on," Lyla pleaded, "You're dating a goddamn succubus. Like, this is my whole shtick."
"Don't you have enough sex at your job?"
Coming from anyone else, this would've been slathered in sarcasm. Another lashing of slut shaming for the succubus whore. But from Michael, it was an honest question. Like asking if she was remembering to eat regularly, or if she got enough sleep.
"Yeah, business is going well. But I want to fuck the guy I've been seeing for the past three years."
"I told you! I just…" Michael fumbled with his words. He'd said this to Lyla about a dozen times by now but that's never made the topic any easier, "Like if I'm going to have sex with someone, I want it to be with someone who I'm going to spend a long time with."
"Right, right. We have abstinence boy over here." Lyla shot him a sly smile, and then leaned over and pecked him on the cheek, "You're lucky turning me down also turns me on."
Michael's face flushed bright red, "… I do want to do something for you though."
"Oh?" Lyla slinked around to his shoulder.
"Eh, err… never mind."
"You want to hide something from me?"
"It's um, a surprise."
He didn't want to get her hopes up. Or get any sort of premature reaction. But they already share rent on the same place, eat the same meals, and everything else. He might as well make it official that he wants to share everything with her. His everything.
Michael asked around if there's any sort of satanic bonding ritual that could work in substitute of a proper marriage. Preferably one where he doesn't have to literally hand over his soul, and can just stick to doing so metaphorically. While even Big G was dry on ideas, Michael at least wanted to get her a ring. And a honeymoon. And a nicer place to live. And all of this he would pay for with the money from the Auctioneers. He'd graduate from a bachelor dealing blackjack to a husband supporting a family.
"Ah shit, I got clients showing up soon. I gotta run. I'll see you at home Mikey."
"Y-yeah. See you around."
Michael stood at the fountains star struck, under no succubus spell, but rather one of hormones and butterflies.

Diligence

ɘɔnɘϱilib

The only light across the cathedral came the stray rays it caught from the Vegas strip. Not even a candle flickered inside. But then again, no church was still operating at 10PM. Which was a relief to Michael, since he already felt tired from biking out here. He didn't want to explain himself to anyone, or try to sneakily siphon holy water.
Michael double checked the address he had been given. It was written on a napkin that had been left behind at his blackjack table the other night. It also noted that the doors should be unlocked, and that a "handler" would be overseeing the "operation." Michael swallowed. He didn't like the idea of being watched.
The doors to the cathedral opened with an ear-drum-scratching creak. Michael wouldn't have been surprised if the whole block heard it. But no lights flickered on, so he continued inside.
The inside of the church was beautiful. Even with just his phone light, Michael could make out the massive stained-glass mural on the far side of the building. It depicted Jesus Christ, hanging from the cross, as the sun set on the horizon. In front of the mural was a statue of an angel, pouring water from a brass vase. The basin of holy water.
Each step Michael took felt heavy as he neared the chancel. He constantly looked over his shoulder to make sure no one followed him in. But he was alone. And so he placed his water bottle under the statue fountain. He couldn't let it hit the basin, since the stone bowl was likely dirty, and (according to the Auctioneers) would defile the holy water.
It was a slow process, since the fountain ran at a trickle. Michael counted the seconds as they passed, each moment stretching longer than the next one, as if the fountain wanted to tie him to this very spot for the rest of the night.
"Hello? Is somebody there?"
Michael froze. He glanced quickly over his shoulder to see an old man holding a book. He had entered through one of doors off of the aisles. Michael quickly readjusted himself, so he stood between the priest and the basin.
"H-hello," Michael let out. He had been seen anyways.
"Ah, I see. I was worried all of that noise was from mice again!" the old man explained, "It's difficult to sleep when someone is trampling around above your room."
"Y-you sleep here?"
"As the priest, it does make my commute easier," the old man said, laughing at his own joke. Michael chuckled nervously as well.
"Would you like to have a chat, my child?" the priest offered. His footsteps echoed throughout the cathedral as he approached Michael.
"No, you don't have to talk to me. I was just, uh, praying by myself. Just wanted to be with my thoughts and the Lord… I guess."
"It is awfully late to do that here. Are you sure something else isn't bothering you?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't have to hide from me, child. I am here for you to admit your sins. Not many people in this city have the courage to do that."
"I appreciate the offer but I don't have anything to confess."
The old man's footsteps stopped, "Really? You must excuse me, but I find that difficult to believe coming from a denizen of this city."
Michael swallowed, "No, I really mean it. I don't gamble or drink, and I have a loving partner who I'm going to marry soon."
"That is wonderful to hear, but there's more to sin than just avoidance of vice. There is sin of emotion, sin of thought. It is the faults that have been passed down to all men since Adam and Eve. Surely you possess those temptations, do you not?"
"I do. But I've remained uh, steadfast. I'm doing very well. Please, believe me."
"Your words sound convinced… but your voice does not agree," the priest began moving again. Michael did not turn around, and continued filling the water bottle.
"I just sound timid. All my friends tell me that."
"Then you wouldn't mind turning around. I prefer to look people in the eyes when speaking to them. It helps me understand their emotions." He drew even closer.
"I've never been great with eye contact. Please, I'm fine."
"Let me see your face," the priest said, placing his hand softly on Michael's shoulder.
"I really should be go—"
The only sound louder than the glass shattering was the gunshot. Michael peeked over his shoulder just long enough to see the old priest on the ground, before capping the water bottle and running.

Kindness

ƨƨɘnbniʞ

The next morning Michael stood in the shower, and tried to wash away the memory of last night. He didn't know someone was going to kill that man. He didn't know anyone was in danger. Michael told the priest to stay away but he didn't listen and now he's dead but Michael didn't know that would happen, it wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault.
And as the water trickled down his face, the image slowly washed away. Not completely of course. A sight like that leaves an outline in your mind that will never truly fade. But his heart rate slowed down. He felt convinced that it wasn't his fault. At least for now.
But he still needed more distractions. He called in sick for his afternoon shift, and instead went out to the florist. He bought a bouquet of tulips and daffodils, Lyla's favorites, and then stopped by Shake Shack to pick up lunch for both of them. He made it to the brothel just in time to catch her entering the lobby after she had showered off the scent of her previous night's partner. It washed away better than Michael's last night.
"Hey Lyla!" Michael shouted from the entrance. Her face lit up and her wings even fluttered a moment before retracting into her back.
"Mikey!" She ran over and oogled at the flowers, "Are these for me?"
Michael nodded. Lyla giggled.
"I uh, brought lunch if you want to eat before your next client shows up."
"I would love that."
The two left the brothel hand-in-hand. They didn't go too far, finding a nice bench just off the strip where they could both watch the midday Vegas traffic. The people flowing from one pleasure to the next, in broad daylight. Michael munched on a cheese burger while Lyla sipped a chocolate milkshake.
"You look uh, really nice," Michael said. Lyla blushed. Normally when people complimented her, they would be much more… primal.
"Mikey, you're so sweet." Lyla pecked him on the cheek. "If any other guy did all this out of the blue for me I'd be worried he cheated on me!"
"Heh, nah. It's just, I got a bonus recently. Thought I'd splurge a bit."
"You know, it's always nice to receive surprise flowers and a milkshake from someone who I don't have magically charmed," Lyla said, "What'd you get the bonus for?"
"Oh um, I guess it was more of a tip at work than a bonus…"
"Mikey."
"Yeah?"
"You've been bouncing your leg the whole time we've sat here. You seem really stressed out. Are you sure you're not cheating on me?"
"No! No I'm not."
"Hmm… I believe that. Although that would be a little sexy…"
"It's just, well, I have another surprise for you," Michael pictured himself getting down on one knee, in front of the Bellagio fountain. It wasn't the true cause of his current anxiety, but he wanted a distraction from the dead priest. Not to relive it.
"… and I'm just bad at keeping surprises hidden."
Lyla smiled again. Even though they both paid rent for their apartment, Lyla rarely was there since she spent most of her nights at the brothel. Even though she could bewitch any guy she wanted, she let Michael court her without a single ounce of magic or devilcraft. Even though she was a succubus, to Michael, she was just another girl. And that smile, was the most human, happy smile she could muster, just to remind Michael that her desire to stay by his side wasn't borne from lust.
"I gotta get back to work, but this was lovely Mikey," Lyla said, as she packed away the last of her French Fries. "I'll see you this weekend, ok?"
"Okay!" But after a moment, Michael realized how strange that last thought was. Normally Lyla had work on the weekend. But the weekend was also when he was meeting with the Auctioneers one last time. The people who killed the priest.
Great, now he needed another distraction.
Michael called up Big G. Who of course was free, and ready to spend time with Michael. Anything the little man wanted. And when Michael asked for a "something to take his mind off work", Big G knew just the place. It was a club downtown, with disco balls and heavy pounding bass. The two had to yell to hear each other.
"Hey, Mikey, you know I've been planning my birthday coming up this Saturday. It's the big Five-Zero-Zero so I wanted to throw a real banger. I convinced Elsabeth to close down the Venetian for the night so you and the other dealers won't have to run tables. It's at the Bellagio, you in? Of course, I already invited Lyla and she's able to take off work for it, soo…."
"Umm…" Michael stammered, "it's in the evening, right?"
"From sundown to sun up."
"I might be a little late then…" The exchange was scheduled for Saturday night.
"Oh?" Big G lowered his head closer to Michael's, "You got better plans?"
"No, no. I just um, have this side gig thing…"
"Wait a second, Little Mikey's got a side hustle going?"
Michael swallowed. He felt his hair stand on end and wished he just kept his mouth shut. But now all he could do was nod.
"My boy!" Big G clapped Michael on the back, "Look at you getting yourself some extra work. You know, I remember when I pulled you out of that dump of a casino. And look at you now! You'll be running the underground in no-time."
"Heh, yeah…"
"Is it a drug deal? Sport picks? What's your racket?"
"I'm not sure I can say…"
"Oh ho ho! Mikey even thinks he has to hold his cards to his chest around Big G! You humans grow up so damn fast."
Michael let out a small sigh. He never kept anything from Big G, but secrets are to be expected among the devils and demons of the world. He'd been open and honest for so long anyways… one small secret, just for himself, must be fine every once in a while. Privacy wasn't a sin.
"Hey, speaking of making plans, I got this trip out to London coming up in a few weeks, could you look after Dante again? You seem to be the only guy that cat will tolerate. Hell, last week he tried to rearrange one my maid's faces."
"Y-yeah. I can do that. He likes the chicken flavored kibble, right?"
"That he does! That he does. You know Mikey, sometimes I wonder what I would do without you."
"I still never really understood why you guys keep me around."
Michael froze after he spoke. He hadn't even realized what he said until he'd finished, and even then he didn't know what brought him to say it. Maybe it was the stress from the previous night forcing honesty out of Michael's system he usually kept suppressed under his shy and quiet demeanor. Big G let out another long exhale of smoke through his nostrils. When the cloud cleared, Michael could see his yellow eyes waiting for more.
"I mean, we don't enjoy any of the same stuff. I've told you in the past but your, uh, day job… makes me uncomfortable. And I imagine talking to a prude like me must be— you know, frustrating."
"Oh, Mikey Mikey Mikey," Big G clasped Michael around the shoulder and slid him close, "You misunderstand my boy. I don't hate goody-two-shoes. They're not usually my favorite but like uh… it's a different flavor of person, you know? Everyone's got their flavor. Gamblers are all sweet and fruity. I'm definitely more of a tough, gamey taste… your girlfriend is all spice and smoke. And people like you— You're bitter."
"Bitter?"
"Yeah, bitter. But you know, you need a little bitter to make the sweet and the savory stand out. Ice cream's fuckin' delicious, but it's even better in between glasses of cold water to rinse out your palette. You, my friend, are a moral palette cleanser. And a damn good friend at that."
"Th-thanks Big G."
"But you know Mikey, sometimes I do worry about you. Like, you're a nice guy, but that ain't always great."
"I mean… that makes sense coming from a demon."
"Oh I don't mean it like that! I mean it like a human would. You just gotta remember, you don't hav'ta be nice to everybody. Or else then you'll be a pushover."
"I see…"
"But don't worry about that. You're alright Mikey. You're alllrrrright."

Temperance

ɘɔnɒɿɘqmɘT

Michael was never very religious. But the orphanage he grew up in brought him to church on Sundays, and they always said grace before dinner. So, while he never believed in the Bible, a lot of Catholic values and morals seeped into his system. He learned to forgive others for their faults. He learned to refrain from vices. He learned to be kind to those around him.
And somewhere, in the back of his head, Michael believed that these were not just the right thing to do, but that they would lead to good things for himself. Being kind to people meant that people would be kind to you, if you do someone a favor they'll do nice things in return, etc. etc.
In some ways, Michael viewed vices as favors that he would never see returned. Addiction was an onus, a duty, a vow to be maintained without any benefit besides appeasing the chemicals in his brain. This has been a pretty effective way to remind Michael to stay away from vice, but a question always plugged at the back of his head:
"How will the world reward me for this?"
This voice would be quashed and quelled, as Michael reminded himself that avoiding vice was a reward unto itself. Michael discarded it as an intrusive thought. Besides, a man isn't just what he thinks, but what he does. He cannot control all of the thoughts that pop into his head.
Because then, he would have to explain why he felt excited when Big G killed the old man at that black jack game years ago. Or why some nights he could not help but imagine sex with his succubus girlfriend. Or why he pined after a sip of wine, a hand at the poker table, or a seat at the buffet.
But those reactions are only human, no? And even if they aren't, Michael would hold his head high that he did not act on his impulses. He rejected the evil around him. He disavowed the weakness of being human, and embraced the strengths of being alive. And it must mean something. The Auctioneers said they couldn't get the holy water themselves because they were too impure. And demons can't even step foot inside a cathedral. Michael must be doing something right. Like a virtuous pupil of the Lord.
Every day, Michael told himself that he was a good boy.

Humility

γɈilimυH

Change of plans: New Exchange Location

Michael blinked twice at the text message. He didn't recognize the number, but since the Auctioneer was late, it was the best shot Michael had at getting his four thousand dollars.
The new spot was even pretty far off of the main roads around the strip. There was a small group of cars gathered around some small utilities building, which looked to be about right. Michael bit his lip. Maybe this spot had been compromised too? But he checked his phone and saw no new messages. So maybe the Auctioneers just brought more people than usual.
Michael biked up to the building and knocked on the door.
It was answered by a tall, middle-aged man, wearing a bullet proof best, a red tie, and aviators.
"Rabbit?"
"I, uh, um… like to—"
"Oh just stop it. You have the goods?"
"Yeah…" Michael reached into his backpack and pulled out the water bottle.
"Hey House! Is that the pizza guy?" someone from inside shouted.
"You bastards better not have ordered pizza," House shouted back, as he dug into his pockets for clips of cash, "We're only out here because one of you bastards forgot that sometimes people drink tap."
House handed over four stacks of hundred dollar bills. Michael handed over the water bottle. His hands were shaking from the stress. His eyes darted everywhere: from the four other "Auctioneers", casually handling automatic rifles, to the collection of pipes he could see through a window in the back.
"This um— is this part of your auction?" Michael asked, his practiced small talk taking over.
"Sure," House replied. He was clearly getting impatient. But Michael knew to count his money before just strolling away. Unfortunately he could barely compose himself enough to thumb through it properly.
"Heh, yeah…" Michael checked the the sign next to the door, "a water treatment plant is a, uh, strange auction house."
Michael heard the words as the left his mouth as if they came from someone else. His reflexes and instincts and everything colliding with his executive function to form a single coherent thought. A question that formed a pit in Michael's stomach. That sent a chill down his spine. That made him drop his four thousand dollars.
"W-what are you d-doing with holy water at a… water treatment plant?"
Everyone except House pulled a gun on Michael, whose hands shot up on reflex.
"Oh god please don't kill me I just—"
"Woah woah, slow down there kiddo," House said. He slowly walked back toward Michael, "We aren't in the business of killing humans."
"Just like— people who can't drink that, they drink the water but— but—"
"Yeah, we know," House said, "There's a big party going on in the Bellagio. Lotta devils and demons there."
"Then why are you—" Michael could barely get his words out through gasps for air and sobs.
"You know, you should probably stop asking questions. Because if you stick around here too long, we might have to shoot you. And, I'll let you in on a secret," House leaned in close to a sniffling Michael, "We already spiked their booze. This is just a safety measure. So, most of the damage is already done, and probably ain't worth risking your life over."
"I just— I just— don't think hurting people— is— is— is ok."
House scoffed, "They're not people. They're devils. They're demons. They're the embodiment of evil."
"… but you're still hurting them."
House couldn't hold back a full-bellied laugh. It echoed around the treatment center, booming louder than even Big G's roars.
"Boy, if you think hurting others is wrong, then you need to get out of Vegas."
House slammed the door shut.

And so, Michael waits for a sign

And waits...

Michael does not run, or hide, or even gather the hundred dollar bills fluttering in the night time breeze. His thoughts are entirely elsewhere, flying away from his body toward the Bellagio. Where devil waiters serve spiked spirits at a demonic birthday bash, while Michael stands helpless at the doorstep of a water treatment plant.
Michael considers opening the door again. Barging back inside. It would be a vain attempt to stop the poisoning of the Bellagio plumbing, but it would be an attempt nonetheless. But Michael discards the thought.
Instead, Michael drops to his knees.
He recounts his virtuous deeds.
And then he prays.
This is what prayers are for, right? Miracles? Even for someone who never went to church, and never read the Bible, he can ask for one favor, right?
Finally, Michael feels something. Not an intense sensation, but something light. Something on the tip of his tongue.
It's a bitter taste.
The bitter taste of knowing that he is a small man in a big world. That there is no force to reward him for his virtues. That no one is listening to his prayers.
Because there is no God in Las Vegas. There are no devils or demons. This is just a city full of people, each of them with their flaws and weaknesses like everybody else. They give into their temptations, and do terrible things to each other, but it's just being human. Even if they have wings, or horns, or scales, they're all just human.
And then there's Michael. The Saint of Las Vegas. Right? He never harbors ill will against anyone, right? Tries to help out where he can, avoids vices and temptations. He's a virtuous man, right? He will be rewarded for fighting his urges, right? Right?
"You're lying to yourself. You're as sinful as the rest of them. You're just ignorant on top of it."
The voice sounds like it comes from somewhere far away. Above and beyond Michael. An answer to the least important question on his mind.
A tear wells in his eye. A sob chokes in his throat. Because really, Michael knows where that answer comes from. That voice is his own.
He is now a pariah. No one in the city will recognize him. Not the humans, not the devils. His demonic co-workers at the Venetian, the whisky demons who served him root beer, the high rollers from Friday night poker, even his beautiful Lyla, and Big G, are all swallowing holy water.
Las Vegas has become his hell. And he has damned himself to it.

https://wordpress.org/openverse/image/fb6c235f-5ba1-4cad-93fc-d8abce8a14cf


May had never met Dr. Carson in her years here. She'd certainly never been to his office. Yet one does not ignore orders from their Site Director, much less advice from one. So there she was. Awaiting a psych evaluation.
She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and shifted her weight, pulling a sticky note from a pants pocket to double-check the room number. Her vision blurred that ever-so-slight waltz it favors after two too many cups of coffee and many too many restless nights.
She needn't had bothered, really. The plain door before her bore a sign, printed on standard office paper but colored brightly using highlighters and office pens. It seemed quite out of place; lonely, childish almost, taped haphazardly to a nondescript portal in one of the sterile corridors the foundation loved so much.
Welcome to Dr. Carson's office! Open all night! You know, probalby. Just knock.
… the obvious typo did not inspire confidence, but the man isn't an editor. He is a psychologist. It hit her then. She stood in the hallway, note crumbling in her balled fists. She didn't really need this. Work was going fine. Well-wishers had provided plenty food even days after the funeral, and she wasn't missing any deadlines. Nobody had any reason to-
The door to the office opened abruptly and a man shuffled out, semi-obscured by a heavy stack of manila folders cradled in both arms.
May was less than 180 cm tall, but the stocky doctor still looked up at her through his thick ovular glasses. He was wearing a ruffled green sweater Mister Rogers would find quaint and a crop of short, black hair that was thinning from the top.
“I'm Gary Carlson. Can I help you?” he inquired, awkwardly shifting the stack to offer her a handshake.
“I was, uh, not particularly.” She accepted his hand in a noncommittal grasp before dropping her arm back to her side.
“Just enjoying the sign, then? One sec.” He retreated briefly through the doorway, loudly dropping his burden onto a wooden desk cluttered with miscellanea. “You wouldn't happen to be May Nelson, would you?”
She stuck her head into the office, face plastered with a smile as cheery, and crooked, and out of place as tired motivational poster on the wall beside her. “Yep! That's me. Director Green told you I'd be dropping by, then?” It fell from her face quickly. It hadn't been taped securely.
He waved her into the room, and then into a large and overstuffed leather couch, besieged by heaping stacks of papers and books. Driftwood in an unruly sea of busywork. “I actually asked her to direct you to me.”
He was fumbling through the drawers of his desk in pursuit of… something. She didn't particularly care. Too busy basking (begrudgingly) in the enveloping comfort of that wonderful couch. “Word of the funeral came back through the usual channels, and well, I'd be a pretty terrible psychologist if I didn't follow up on what I've heard.”
What I've heard, eh. From who? What followed was a pregnant silence. She expected, dared him to continue, with something like ‘and I'm glad I did', but he continued tearing through his desk instead.
He finally found what he was looking for, a box of beans, and set to work on a coffee maker in the corner. “I'd offer you some, but I tend not to dose my patients for free.” The joke fell flat, not even a groan or eye roll. A no-sell. I'll need to bring my A-game. “How have you been sleeping?”
“Fine. I slept last night, actually.” Dr. Carson turned in the midst of his coffee preparation to size up his reluctant patient. Compared to the pictures from her yearly evaluations, May had become an entirely different person in just a few short weeks.
Her unruly brown hair was visibly greasy, barely held in check by an overworked scrunchie. May's green eyes were dark and tired, and she exuded cigarette stink like an ill-mannered tobacco censer. Well… gonna need to febreeze my couch.
“M… hmm. And for how long?”
“Long enough.” She closed her eyes and sighed, nestling even deeper.
He was back to investigating shelves and drawers for a coffee mug. “Well, when it comes to stress, there's no such thing as ‘enough sleep', mother used to say.” He grabbed a white cup and turned it over a few times before frowning and quietly setting it in a plastic box labeled ‘dirty'. He tossed a quick look back to May, but her eyes were closed. Thank goodness. “And there aren't many situations I've dealt with that're more stressful than yours.”
Bagged eyes cracked half open, and she turned to regard the doctor without raising her head from the back of the couch. “That's hard to believe, given our line of work.
“Au contrare!” his French was as awful as his sweater. “You don't need to be hurled into an alternate dimension or have an arm torn off by a skip to be hurt, May.” Finding a cup he was satisfied with, he took a seat in his office chair and swiveled to face her. “And it's no weakness to need help.”
She sat quietly for a time.
The soft trickle of coffee from machine to mug filled the confined space, encouraging Dr. Carson to further break the silence. “Do you know what time it is?”
“It's around… ten? AM” She didn't look around. There was assuredly a clock somewhere in the room, but May didn't cheat. Probably couldn't have found it anyways, in these piles of crap.
He opened his desk drawer and carefully extracted an older-model smartphone. “It is… just shy of two thirty PM.” Dr. Carson adjusted his spectacles. “When's the last time you went home?”
May began to peel herself from the couch. “A couple days ago, I guess. I have a futon in my office, I can relax there if I need. Helps to keep my mind off of things, and all that.” She crossed and uncrossed her legs, slightly agitated by how comfortable it was to be in furniture other than her stiff office chair. It wasn't rational, but she felt a pang of guilt. Her home didn't deserve to stay like this, a glorified storage shed of souvenirs and abandoned things. There was a metaphor there, one too trite to consider. Still. She really had been ignoring some things. Working too hard. Maybe she shou-
“How long did you know him, before you two got married?”
It was too sudden. She considered yelling. He barely knew her. He had no right to climb inside her head with his shoes on, mucking around as he did. She was tired, underfed, and overdue for a smoke, but it would still be so easy. Channel up all of that frustration and let it out. Raise a fuss. Open up. Scream “Fuck you!” and “Fuck your couch!” As wonderful as it was.
She considered walking out. Walking back to her office. Back to her desk. Where she could solider on alone, a bowl of microwaved, condolence-gift hotdish in her grip. Not that she was hungry. She went so far as to raise herself slightly, inching to the edge of the couch.
Then, with a sigh, she relented. Not to Carson, but to herself. Who he would have wanted her to be. Who she wanted to be. May's shoulders relaxed, and she set herself back down, then turned sideways to face the back of the couch. “Next month will be sixteen years, and some change.” She exhaled a breath she didn't know she was holding. Pushed herself further into the embrace of the overstuffed sofa. “We met in college.”
Dr. Carson stirred (too much) cream and sugar into his coffee, staring into it. Listening, pointedly, in silence. “He's the one that brought me into The Foundation in the first place, thinking back on it.” She continued. He had changed her world in more ways than one. No, that was too corny. Too corny, even, for just a thought.
“That sounds like a nice story.” The doctor took a sip his coffee, immediately regretting it. Too hot. “If you'd humor me, I want to hear that one.”
She sat there for a moment that felt like an eternity. Staring into the couch as though it were a crystal ball, channeling her memories. Where to even start. “We were sophomores, and had our first date in December. At…” Oh no. She couldn't remember what movie it was. Still, she'd never forget the snowstorm. That burnt popcorn, or that awful… no. No! What band was it? May knew the shirt was still in his closet at home. With the rest of his things. She could check. She almost wanted to cry. Almost. Not here.
He tried to coax the conversation out of that awkward silence, gently. “College relationship, eh! Those are pretty tough!”
She swiped at her eyes and turned over to stare at the ceiling. “It wasn't so bad. In our final year of grad school, he caught Foundation attention for a proposal on ‘extremophile biology' that could apply to some skips, and was hired once he was done there. A few years later, he vouched for me, and I was brought on board too. Different department though. Rules and all.”
“A few years in the dark, How'd you feel when you found out? Some people are frustrated by the secrecy of it all.”
“I was surprised at first, but before long I understood where he was coming from.” She laughed. It felt like the first time in forever. "He was so nervous. Closed all the blinds, unplugged the phone, then set his name tag onto the table and looked down in his chair like he'd been called to the principal's office. The tone of his voice… "I don't really work for the government. Not… not the US government.""
“I was relieved though, to be honest. For a while there I thought he was making biological weapons for the CIA or something, with how secretive he was about it.”
Dr. Carson set his coffee down and chuckled. Not a fake, go along with the patient chuckle, but a singular and genuine hearty laugh. “I can see why you'd be relieved, though we aren't exactly curing puppy cancer ourselves.” Oh shit. Poor, poor, poor choice of words.
She lay on her back, eyes boring a hole in the drywall-tiled ceiling, motionless on the couch. “I miss him. I'm tired.” She mumbled.
For several hours, she recounted more of their lives together. They jumped forwards, backwards, the hard times, the happy times. Carson finished his coffee, and then made another. And another. He could tell she was exhausted, and wouldn't have turned down a nap himself, but May continued, stream of consciousness, until he was interrupted by the buzz of his phone. Desk line is off, direct to the cell. That's probably important. While checking the message, he noticed the time. Just after 20:00. Couldn't have worked out better if he tried.
May, seeing the doctor focused elsewhere, now began to rouse herself. He held up a hand to pause her as she swung her legs over. “If you would, I have a proposition.” She raised an eyebrow and stared as he fished through a pile of things for a sealed cardboard box and a penknife, which he used to slice it open.
“Now generally, the use of skips for patient care is frowned upon.” She jolted upright and immediately began to protest, but he raised his hand once again. “Just wait please, I haven't explained a thing. And no, we're not going to use amnestics or anything on you. You're not traumatized, I don't think, and that would be cheating." The briefest pause. "… and awful. Of course.” The unnecessary side effects and risks, alone…
He reached into the box and gingerly pulled out what seemed to be a simple nightlight. “What we have here, is SCP-2980. It's perfectly safe. This thing puts you to sleep. For the full, doctor-recommended 8 to 9 hours. I have permission to borrow it from time to time, for use in this room, for cases like these, someone who stubbornly resists their bodily obligation to sleep,” he shot her a sharp glance, “but their work doesn't allow for the drowsiness or brain fog that accompany horse tranquilizer.”
Fair enough, I guess. He had approval from someone at least. ”Okay then… what is it going to do?” Her background, much the same as her former husband's, lay firmly in anomalous microbiology. Not anomalous electronics for children. “Some kind of supernatural… area of effect sleep enchantment?”
“No," he chuckled as he tried to articulate his thoughts. "Uh… when I plug this in, I'm going to turn on an audio recorder for record keeping and then leave, because a demon is going to appear and read you a bedtime story. Then disappear after you fall asleep.”
Perhaps she was just tired. Perhaps she had experienced a ZK class scenario weeks ago, and had just finished an oral report as the last survivor of her own reality. She'd spilled words into until her throat was dry of them and she had run out of things to say. She'd completed the mission she didn't know she'd been sent on. “Sure, why not.”
May laid back, nuzzling deeper into the leather of the couch.
She was ready for rest. And it seems the doctor had somewhere to be.


The Foundation enjoys a variety of income sources, both from its front companies and other methods. However, this supply is not endless, and the price of anomaly containment can range from negligible to downright exorbitant. While safe is always better than sorry, every effort should be made to make sure containment procedures are reasonably cost-effective.
While many assume that the most dangerous anomalies have the most cost-intensive containment, that is only rarely the case. On average, the type of anomaly that cost the most to maintain are far and away humanoids. On top of just the costs of maintaining humanoid living quarters and on-site accommodations, every meal, medication, and bar of soap comes straight from the Foundation's budget, from the moment containment is established to the moment the humanoid dies. This is of course not to mention the staffing requirements for keeping such a wide range of living, thinking anomalies under lock and key. From psychiatrists and epidemiologists to more experienced security personnel to account for adaptable escapees, a single humanoid can cost the Foundation money for decades.
That's where you come in. At the Department of Humanoid Risk Assessment, it's your job to decide what measures need to be taken to ensure the safety of the public and the veil when it comes to the wide, wide world of humanoid anomalies. From simple probation to SCP designation, no two assignments on your job will ever be quite the same. Just remember: you are our first and often most important point of contact between the Foundation and the often daunting world of humanoid anomalies.
-Introduction to The Handbook for the Department of Humanoid Risk Assessment

David never cared for flying. Even growing up in the Midwest, he was more than happy to hop in a car and drive for seven hours to see his family in Cleveland rather than getting on a plane for an hour. But of course, after waiting weeks for his first legitimate assignment for his new job at the Department of Humanoid Risk Assessment, he was handed an urgent notice to fly from Site-17 to Phoenix. With the amount of turbulence over the Rockies he assumed the Foundation pulled some strings to make sure his flight out didn't get delayed.
Looking across the gaggle of faces milling about the arrivals terminal, David eventually saw the name David Johnson scrawled across a notebook, held by a stern-looking man with glasses, well-groomed hair and a moustache who David thought looked more at home in a Cold War drama than groggily holding a coffee in a half-full airport. David and the man made eye contact and the man made a half-wave with his coffee hand as he was moving down the escalator, and walked over to him.
The man tucked the notebook underneath his coffee arm and extended his free hand to David. "Jeremiah Collins," he said as they shook hands. "I take it you flew in for the hiring positions?"
David was caught off-guard by the obviously wrong claim from the man who belied not a hint of uncertainty. "Wha- uh, no. I've already signed on, I'm here for the… uh, on-the-job training?"
"Ah, yeah. You're in the right place, I'm your new partner." Jeremiah looked around for a couple seconds as though scanning for a bathroom, before he turned back to David and muttered "Just checking. Some of our competitors like weaseling their way into proceedings." He turned to leave while gesturing at his new partner to walk with him. "Don't worry," he added as they began to walk as though sensing David's confusion. "It's not really a common issue, it's just a prudent habit to have."
David was at something of a loss. After that total mood killer, he wasn't sure where to take the conversation, especially because Jeremiah appeared completely stonefaced for the entire time. Of course, you aren't supposed to talk about work in such a public setting, but, well, David was having a hard time not thinking about anything considering how much he'd been brushing up on his training before his first job. From what David had heard, the Foundation had a habit of designing every single orientation course of theirs to make each department sound like the lynchpin that held the world together. David was aware that this was probably just to instill loyalty and purpose into recruits, but he'd be damned if every time he realized he couldn't think of a fact about Type-Green development off the top of his head he didn't start thinking about how such a failure might get a small town flattened. Although, he thought, if a town was going to get flattened, per se, it would more likely be the work of some kind of-
Jeremiah appeared to notice David's nervous appearance and felt obligated to start a back-and-forth. "So, David, how was the flight out?" He snapped David from the same never-ending line of thought that he'd been on for the past two weeks as they walked past the baggage claim. David wondered how badly his nerves were showing.
David grumbled. "Pretty shitty. Damn near thought the plane was gonna break open over the Rockies. Probably should've canceled it, but of course this was urgent." David realized after saying that that perhaps he sounded a bit too unhappy to be here. He was formulating a sufficiently kiss-ass addendum to his statement when Jeremiah spoke up again.
"Never cared much for flying, either. No privacy, and you can't even check company documents in peace in the airport." Jeremiah slid into the predictable, monotonous rhythm of professional talk, not even looking back at David, just walking to the taxi pickup with a totally neutral expression. "Our department tends to operate on a regional basis, so normally I'd just be in the Bay Area. But the man in charge of handling our customers in this region is booked and can't take a good look at a new client who just popped up. Considering the time-sensitive nature of all of this, HR asked us to fly in. It's a good case for you, besides." David was impressed by the way the man spoke in that public-appropriate doublespeak the Foundation loved so much without missing a beat. He wondered how long he'd been getting in practice.
"So, Jerry, how long you been with the company?" David casually probed.
Jeremiah cocked his head to look at David, his face betraying the first real hint of emotion David had seen. "Jeremiah. I'm alright with first names but you'll use the whole thing, son," he said with just a hint of indignation.
"Ah, yeah, sorry." Not fine with using my first name, David thought but wisely decided to keep to himself.
"To answer your question, I've been at the company since I was in college. I've been in the Department since the day it formed, and before it, in essence," Jeremiah said, vacantly staring into the distance beyond the slightly conspicuous taxi that seemed to be waiting for them.
"When was that, exactly?" David asked more out of an interest in carrying the conversation than of genuine curiosity.
"We were looking at a new customer. Pretty green, you know, but we didn't know how green. Turns out, much higher profile than we had anticipated." Jeremiah's impassive gaze faltered slightly as he looked at the ground in front of him. "Caused a… real PR nightmare. Management wanted to avoid things like that in the future, and made a department more focused on examining our clients."
David was both surprised and not that he hadn't heard that story before, even in passing. On the one hand, sounds like a big deal, on the other hand, probably wouldn't have done wonders for trainee retention if you told them their jobs exist because the last time someone fucked it up they got turned into something only the eggheads at Site-19 have words for.
David realized he hadn't met anyone who had been around when the Department of Humanoid Risk Assessment had been formed and turned to ask Jeremiah about the turnover rate, before a more pressing thought interrupted him as he realized his partner was opening the trunk of the cab for him.
"Hey, uh, Jer—-emiah, uh…" Jeremiah stopped what he was doing and refocused on David as he started talking like a six-year-old trying to tell his dad he had to pee in a movie theater. "This car-cab, I mean, I think it's a little… I mean, it was just sitting here, and… I mean, if any gr- uh, competitors saw us, you know…" David spoke in hushed tones while looking around shiftily, suddenly very aware that the cab pickup lane had no walls to hide behind.
Jeremiah blew air from his nose in something approaching bemusement. "I didn't mean to scare you back when I picked you up. I did get the cab from the company, but some advice from a veteran? The first rule of not acting suspicious," he said as he opened up the taxi door to sit in the backseat, "Is to not constantly think you're being suspicious."

Type Green humanoids, or as they are often referred to, reality benders, tend to instill fear in Foundation staff. While you may encounter dangerous Type Greens in your time at this job, many new recruits tend to overestimate the amount of hostile reality benders there truly are, and underestimate the amount of benign reality benders they may encounter.
Even seemingly unimpressive Type Greens can be an enigma, as the wide range of abilities they might have can be difficult to get a handle on and categorize. However, familiarizing yourself with Foundation documents on Type Green capabilities and development as well as examining the facts about each case can help you better understand them.
Most Type Greens tend to fall into one of four phases at any given time: repression of capabilities, exploration of capabilities, stability, and abuse. Type Greens are the easiest to deal with when kept at the repression phase, and those with stable capabilities can be handled reasonably well, although Type Greens tend to oscillate between experimentation and stability. This has led some to argue that the current system is outdated. These phases should be considered a rough generalization at best of the Type Green's current mental state, but it can be useful to at least familiarize yourself with them.
-Excerpt from The Handbook for the Department of Humanoid Risk Assessment

"The drive might be a while, but we'll be heading straight to the humanoid," Jeremiah said as he handed David a briefcase. David opened it up to see a small pile of legal and medical documents, as well as what looked like police reports. "I don't know if you had a chance to look at any of these yet. Seems like she kept her abilities under wraps until just yesterday, hence why we weren't here sooner. I think it's lucky we got to here before anyone else, frankly."
David figured this was probably some kind of test. It's important to be able to pick a method of approach based on any available information before contacting the anomaly, his lecturer repeated in his head. David resolved to finding something reasonable to suggest to his senior.
First thing he pulled out was a police report featuring a mugshot of a frankly very disheveled looking teenage girl. Great. A kid. Name was Iris Thompson, lived with her parents and younger brother, and the prime suspect in the murder of a classmate due to the fact she was covered in the victim's blood and called the police immediately upon the crime taking place. Nice, David thought, a dead 13-year-old and his psychotic, reality-bending murderer.
"So are we assuming a violent disposition?" David ventured a guess. With reality benders, it was important to get a handle on what they were capable of early.
Jeremiah didn't turn his head from the window. "Just keep reading."
Shit. David got ahead of himself. He recommitted to combing through the papers in his lap.
Defendant remained silent during the majority of litigation as she plead guilty, but suddenly spoke out during cross-examination of a family member, claiming the circumstances surrounding the murder were the result of her ability to "reach into photos and pictures." Defendant became distressed after she was disallowed from 'demonstrating' this ability, and court was adjourned. Defendant's lawyer is motioning to plead insane pending a psychological evaluation. Oh. Yeah. That'll do it.
David scanned over the rest of the papers. A clean bill of health, a sheaf of papers with a full court transcript, and testimony from friends and family that the girl didn't have a violent bone in her body, as well as her alibi. Seems like the only reason the case was still in the court was that the timeline of events was fuzzy, but he figured that could probably be explained by the photos, if what the girl said was true.
David considered his words carefully. "So… worst case scenario, she had a psychotic break and her family is lying about her alibi." Jeremiah nodded in response. "Say, how many cases end up being duds?"
"About two in five end up being non-anomalous. That's down from four in five. We've got staff sorting through reports now." Jeremiah turned to face David with his still-neutral face. "What's your initial reaction, assuming that everything you got from those papers is right?"
"Okay…" David knew this question was coming. It seemed pretty textbook, which he figures is why he was assigned to this, but he still wanted to sound good. "Seems like a low-level reality warper with specific criteria as to her abilities. The fact that this has been kept secret from her family implies a good level of conscious control, unlikely to be swayed strongly by emotions." He looked at his partner for confirmation, but Jeremiah only looked back at him, waiting for him to continue. "So probably just, what, let her go to an asylum and convince herself she's nuts, then monitor her after her release?" David didn't like the idea of gaslighting a teenager into thinking she committed a murder, but this was easier for everyone involved - and, he told himself, gave the girl a shot at re-integrating back into society,
"Maybe. Stressful situations can lead to unexpected consequences with Greens, especially if their abilities are impacted by their mental state. And even then," the senior partner said with his voice becoming just a bit more thoughtful, "we should keep an eye on this. Your assessment is correct, though, based only on this information." David hoped the pride he felt at the compliment didn't show on his face. "But never, ever get married to a plan in this job," Jeremiah added as pointed his finger upwards, more to show emphasis than to point to anything in particular, "especially with a Green."
David remembered how a solid 45% of his training revolved around reality benders, despite the fact they were somewhat less common than other humanoid types. The main thing he ended up getting from the ordeal was to recognize that nobody ever really knew what the hell a bender would do until they did it.
"We're going to catch some of the court proceedings, then we'll have a chance to interrogate the anomaly thanks to some agents in the local PD. Understood?"
"Understood." David decided to attempt to lighten up the mood for the remainder of the car ride, adding "hopefully it's just a photograph, you know?"
Jeremiah looked back out the window. "It's never just a photograph."

Contrary to the positions of some staff here at the Foundation, agents of the Department of Risk Assessment are advised against dehumanizing the anomalies they investigate. While this can help some of our containment staff work with these anomalies post-containment, your job is quite different. It's your job to assess if these humanoids require containment in the first place.
Does the humanoid desire a normal life? Do they have a moral compass and dislike harming others? Are they likely to hold grudges and idolize revenge? Do they have a family and a social support network? Are they in an emotionally distressing environment? All of these can greatly influence the risks posed by humanoids. While many could be dangerous to others or the veil, they may pose no more of an immediate threat than a civilian with a concealed carry firearm. Simple surveillance may be appropriate measures for many humanoids you encounter, although sufficiently dangerous or disruptive anomalous traits should always be your foremost concern.
Nowhere is this more true than for Type Greens, whose capabilities are often tied to their mental state. Well-supported and emotionally stable Type Greens can exhibit a great deal of control, restraint, and even repression over their anomalous traits. However, before issuing any ruling, you must always ascertain the extent of their abilities to the best of your abilities.
-Excerpt from The Handbook for the Department of Humanoid Risk Assessment

The prosecutor cleared her throat. "Alright, Miss Thompson. What relationship did you have to the victim?"
The jumpy-looking teenager on the stand glanced around the room. To her parents, the jury, the observers, and for a moment, her eyes lingered on Jeremiah and David, who came in just before the cross examination with whatever credentials the Foundation got for Jeremiah . David nudged the other agent. "What, does she recognize us?"
"Hopefully the opposite. We might stick out as new since the proceedings haven't been opened to the public," Jeremiah said. "It's always good to look out for perfect memory or unnatural cognition of others, though."
David wondered why Jeremiah would make a point of such uncommon traits.
"Miss Thompson?"
David and the defendant both refocused. It was her first time being examined, and she looked like a kid with stage fright giving a presentation. "Uh… c-can you repeat the question?" Her voice was shaky.
"What was your relationship with the victim?"
"Oh, we- we were friends." the girl paused as if expecting another question before continuing. "I just knew him from school. We've… we were friends for a while."
"Family members of the victim said you two were romantically involved. Did the two of you have some sort of dispute recently?" It seemed like the prosecution was trying to establish motive.
"What? I didn't- I mean I- we were friends. And- and we did get into a fight before he- he- he died, but it wasn't…" David figured the girl was just nervous or couldn't talk about the murder. A promising sign of predicable emotions to him, but he imagined the stuttering didn't look good to the jury. Although he supposed that might also work in his favor.
"Can you describe the events of the night of the murder?"
The girl on the stand took a deep breath, trying to calm down. "Well, I was at home at the time. I-I really was, you know, you heard what my mom and dad said, I even talked to my brother, too-"
"We have their testimony," the prosecutor interrupted, "we just want your version of events."
The girl on the stand seemed surprised to have been cut off, but refocused herself again. "I- he was walking home. Back from a friend's house, and I…" she trailed off, looking around the room, then down at her feet. "I had a picture. Of him. So I could watch him walk home alright." There were several murmurs from the courtroom at the mention of it, and the girl looked back up and hastily added "I swear, I only used it to make sure he didn't get hurt! I didn't watch him when he was just at home!"
They weren't talking because the assumed she used the picture to watch him all the time, of course. But David thought if it was true, it could be a good sign of reasonably developed morality. This was good to see from a Green: it made them less likely to use their anomalous traits to take advantage of others.
"Please continue," the prosecutor said.
The girl started to get visibly uncomfortable. Shifting around in her seat, she continued "he was just walking back home, and…" Another deep breath. "And I saw someone. Coming up behind him." Pause. "He had a knife. I- I just heard that people had been getting stabbed recently, and I was just- I didn't know if he was going to just get robbed or attacked or- or what, I didn't mean to, I-"
"Please, just take a minute." The prosecutor interrupted the increasingly distressed girl. "When you're ready, just tell us what happened. In your own words."
Several seconds passed before the girl continued, in a much smaller voice. "I was just trying to help. I stuck my hand in the picture for the knife. I don't know what happened but it… it still ended up in…" Her voice broke and she stopped talking.
Another pause before the prosecutor spoke. "You say your fingerprints were on the murder weapon and the victim's blood was on your body because you reached through a photograph?"
The girl looked back up to the prosecutor, saying "I know what I did. That's what I did. I didn't make that up and…" She trailed off as she looked around the room, then finally at her parents.
Her body and voice shrunk again as she fell back into her seat. "I'm not crazy."
The prosecutor nodded. "That will be all. Thank you, Miss Thompson." The girl wordlessly shuffled back to her seat, not once looking away from her feet.
Despite the absolute shitshow that was just described and the fact that there is more than likely a child murderer running around somewhere in the area, David found himself somewhat thankful for that story. The girl lived with her full nuclear family, had a great deal of restraint in using her abilities, and likely a strong degree of control, seeing as it didn't seem as though her family was ever made aware of it. With any luck, a few years of doctors telling her she's normal in a psych ward would put a lid on anything else from her.
David nudged Jeremiah, and leaned over to whisper "seems like a cut-and-dry case, push an insane verdict through and ask local surveillance to keep tabs on her."
"Seems like it." Jeremiah muttered. "I got an interview with the humanoid after the court adjourns. You can lead the questioning. She'll be given amnestics afterwards, so ask important questions."
The defendant's lawyer took the stage. New psychological results have shown the defendant wholeheartedly believes her story, likely suffered trauma from the killing, and feels genuine remorse for what happened. Despite the late coming of the insane plea, it seemed to have a decent shot at winning over the jury. Far better to get the poor girl the help she needs than to lock her up, they thought.
Perhaps her appearance aided her sympathies with the jurors. She seemed to shrink even smaller than her already diminutive size as she tried to hide herself in her seat.
"I'm not crazy…"

The majority of Type Greens you're likely to come across will be able to be addressed simply by ensuring the humanoid self-represses their ability entirely. There may be some cases where it is adequate to have a Type Green who makes use of their anomaly only in private, although cases are rare due to the threat this may pose to the veil. This course of action can be pursued once three criteria are met:

You understand how an anomaly functions, specifically its limits and restraints.
You establish that the humanoid in question has a stable and reasonable mental state and are confident it will continue to be so. (The definition of reasonable can change from case to case, but generally more potentially dangerous anomalies are expected to have more benevolent and nonviolent demeanors and be satisfied with the status quo.)
You are able to ensure a consistent line of surveillance on the humanoid. Preferably, this would entail something like phone taps or ensuring the humanoid has regular appointments with Foundation-affiliated civilian psychologists, as moment-to-moment surveillance is resource and personnel intensive.

While it may seem like gaslighting, these methods of ensuring self-repression and surveillance are both far most cost-effective for the Foundation and far less stressful for the humanoid. However, it is always important to consider the capabilities of the Type-Green first and foremost.

Reality Warpers can move matter around but are unable to change matter or exert force upon it. This mostly extends to the creation of small rifts or 'portals' to and from points within the reality warper's perception, but can extend to forcing these changes upon reality permanently, appearing to sever objects suspended in a rift. Most reality warpers are relatively weak and can often be addressed by self-repression.
The phrase 'Reality Bender' is usually synonymous with Type Greens as a whole, but the phrase is actually used to refer to a subtype of Type Greens which are capable of manipulating matter, usually to form other matter. This is what most people think when they hear 'Type Green,' someone who can turn trees into dogs and water into fire. However, most reality benders are limited by their perception and imagination, and much less capable of using their abilities on a large scale than some of the more infamous humanoid SCPs we have contained. Self-repression is still a viable method of addressing these Type Greens, but extra care must be taken in order to ensure you fully understand their capabilities.
Infovores are to be contained.

-Excerpt from The Handbook for the Department of Humanoid Risk Assessment

David settled into the chair across from the Type Green from the court, staring just as intently at her feet as she was then. "Hello, Iris. My name is David, and this is Jeremiah. I'm just here to ask you a few questions, if that's alright." Got to act friendly with kids, David thought. Tell as much of the truth as I can get away with. They know when you're being upfront.
The girl weakly nodded in acknowledgement. "Why?" She seemed like she would be angry if she wasn't so tired. "Haven't you asked me enough. I- I told you everything." Her voice broke "Even when I tried to do the right thing, everyone just said… they said I was…"
David channeled what little child-comforting skills he could remember from when he babysat for his aunt when he was a teenager and tried to speak in more of a comforting voice. "Just relax. I'm not really with the police or the court or anything. I really do just want to ask you a few questions, and I'll be out of your hair."
Jeremiah just stood at the back of the room, watching. He'd probably done this song and dance enough times before to where he felt confident judging David for how he did.
"Can I ask you to do me a favor?" The lump of a girl once again nodded noncommittally.
Turning back to Jeremiah, David stuck out his hand and asked "would you please." Wordlessly, Jeremiah produced a polaroid photo of a cup from his jacket pocket and handed it to David, who in turn pushed it towards the lump.
"Can you give me the cup in that picture?"
The lump shifted its head forward. For a second there wasn't anything signaling a change. Then, its eyes lit up. The girl straightened her back and looked up at David. Her face looked so happy it made a part of David hurt, and he felt a little bad for hoping it wouldn't be like that every time.
"I didn't think anyone actually… was listening to me, anymore." The girl snatched at the photo like she was scared it was going to run away. "Y- Yeah, I can do that. Easy."
Davis felt he was leaning halfway out of his seat. He really had no idea what was about to happen if she was a Type Green, and if she was really just a schizophrenic, he also had no idea what was about to happen. He weighed the odds of himself beating an irate teenage girl in mortal combat and found himself lacking.
But, as she had said, the picture began to shift like sediment settling in water until it formed a slightly different picture of the same cup. With obvious concentration, the girl slowly stuck her hand in, and pulled it back out with the cup intact, and suddenly the picture no longer had the cup. When she turned back to David, beaming in spite of herself, the picture retuned to its original form.
Jeremiah remained unreactive, but David clearly settled back down into his chair. Just as he had hoped for. "Alright, thank you Iris."
Iris cocked her head to one side. "You guys don't seem as surprised. Did you already think I was- Oh, crap! Sorry, I didn't really say hi. I'm Iris. Sorry."
"That's alright, Iris. I understand you've been through a lot lately," David said with what he hoped was his most genuine smile.
Iris laughed weakly and ran her hand through her hair. "Aha. Yeah, that's, uh, one way to put it. But you guys seemed pretty cool with, uh, that. So, are the other people cool with it? I can show them that, right? Since you guys are with the police?"
David held his hands up at the rapid-fire questions. "We're not with the police. And I can't really let you show what you did to anyone else just yet." He put his hands down and took a more approachable posture. "I'm sorry, but we can't do much for you right now. We will be able to soon, though." He thought he wasn't lying when he said that. Either way this went, the insane verdict would help.
"Oh. okay. Wait. Are you guys with the government or something? I knew I should've been keeping this under wraps, it's just. You know, with everything that happened…" She caught on quick.
"Something like that, I'm afraid I can't get into specifics right now, however." David cleared his throat. "I just have a few more questions, if that's alright."
"Oh, yeah, sure. Of course." Iris was leaning forward attentively now, making eye contact. David wondered in the back of his head how long it's been since she looked like that.
He pushed that thought down and continued. "Okay. First off, can you tell me about your abilities? What is the extent of them?"
"Ah, it's really only what you just saw. When I sort of, I don't know, focus? On a picture, I can see what's happening to the thing in the picture, but it goes back when I'm not trying to do it."
"The exact place it was taken?"
"Sometimes, if the picture is of a place. But if it's a picture of a thing, it's where that thing is."
Sounds perception-based, David thought, which explains how she followed her friend while he was walking. "Is this the case with any photograph?"
"Er, not really. Mostly things from my camera." David made a note to ask for her camera to be collected. "It sorta works with other photos, just not as well. I'm more comfortable with just my camera."
Absolutely perception-based, David concluded, and moved along. "Have there been any 'improvements' or changes to these abilities?"
"Not since I first realized I could do it a couple years ago. I can focus on more photos now, though. Maybe a dozen. But I haven't been able to do anything else with or without pictures, if that's what you're asking." David was a little surprised how easy this all was. Iris seemed eager to talk about it.
No significant improvements over a notable period of time. Moving right along. "How do you make use of your abilities, and who have you shown them to?"
"I haven't shown them to anyone, really." Less money to spend on amnestics, thank God. "And I really only use it to look at pictures. I really love photography, you know. I have for a while. Even before I knew what I could do, it was my favorite hobby." Jeremiah made a strange noise, like a startled grunt, but Iris started up again before David could turn around so see what was the matter. "That thing with my friend was just that once. I just had a bad feeling." Her gaze faltered again. "Guess I was right."
Clear control over capabilities, and a desire to fit in to normalcy. Last question now. "How would you say your family and friends support you?"
Iris stayed focused on the far wall as she began to reply. "Not many friends, I don't think. They all think I killed one of their friends. But, hey, soon they'll know that I was right, right?" She perked up.
David redirected her focus. "And your family?"
"Oh. Well, my mom and my dad… I don't really know what they think. They were always real happy and nice, but ever since what happened, they just seem sad." A sad smile crept onto her face. "But my little brother, Tommy, he believes me. Aha, not really all that impressive when the only one on your side is eleven, but he's a good kid." Iris chuckled weakly as she continued, adding "Tommy Thompson. Kids used to give him crap for that, that name, you know? They gave him crap for a lot of stuff." She looked back up at David with some kind of pride. "But kids his age are dumb, and they think I'm stronger than them because I'm older. If nothing else, a big sister is good for scaring a-hole kids off."
David summed everything up in his head. Limited abilities that are easily controlled and a good moral framework with a desire to fit in as well as a supportive family. Textbook.
"Thank you, Iris. Those are all the questions I had." David looked back at Jeremiah, still standing in the same position he was left in. He seemed unreadable but David took the lack of an objection for approval. "I can't guarantee that I'll be able to help you out before the end of your court proceedings, but the information gathered here today will certainly reach the proper people."
Iris seemed a little unsure what that even meant but stayed optimistic. "Okay, thanks. You know, my mom says I'm usually a good judge of character, but I think I had you two wrong. I felt like the two of you were coming to contain me when I first saw you, aha."
Odd word for a 13-year-old to use. Probably just meant like in a prison, thought David, but any further thoughts he had on the matter were interrupted by Jeremiah suddenly moving towards the table.
"What do you mean by that?" Jeremiah seemed far more emphatic than his normal 'passive observer' persona would allow.
"What? Uh, I mean, you know, like a bad feeling." Iris seemed confused.
"When and how did you get that feeling? Why use that word?"
"Uh- I dunno, I just felt weird going up for cross-examination. That's just what popped into my head."
"That was before you even saw us. Do you get feelings like that from other people often? Have you used that word before?"
"I mean, yeah, kinda. But I'm usually good at clocking people, and everyone - you know, gets the feeling of being watched. And I know what 'contained' means but I don't really, er, use it." Iris had started to glance between Jeremiah and David, who was only slightly less confused than Iris.
"What did your parents get Tommy for his second birthday?"
Iris was properly lost now. "What? What does that have to do with anything?"
"Answer the question." Jeremiah was damn near yelling, and it was starting to spook Iris more than confuse her.
"Uh, one of those toys with the wires with wood beads on them and lots of clothes. Lots of plaids, because my dad liked them," Iris hastily added, as if more detail would sate Jeremiah. She was now fully looking at David, looking like she was asking for help with her eyes.
"What is your earliest memory?"
"O- Off the top of my head, the day Tommy was born?"
"You were two." Jeremiah said it as a statement rather than a question. "How much of your life can you remember?" He asked it more like stating a demand.
"A lot? I, uh, have an eidetic memory, it's called. Photographic memory, you know. Ahaaaaa…" Iris tried to make a joke even while she was trembling.
Jeremiah stepped back from the table, paused for a few second while David and Iris looked at each other and back to Jeremiah. Then, without a word, he stepped out of the room and retuned with a clear glass of water. David recognized it as the short-term amnestic treatment he planned on giving to the Type Green after the interview.
"Sorry for losing my temper. Please drink this." His words were calmer, but David could tell he was still on edge.
Iris did as she was told, sheepishly taking a few sips until the two pairs of eyes on her compelled her to down the whole cup. The three waited in a painful silence until Jeremiah stepped towards Iris again.
"The Lethe runs slowly." The trigger phrase for the amnestic treatment. "You were asked redundant questions by two unremarkable police officers today, and nothing stood out."
Another silence. David had never seen this kind of treatment in action, but he assumed Iris would be in something of a stupor, but instead Iris continued looking between the two agents with a new look of confusion.
"I, uh, don't know what a Lethe is. And I've got a good memory, so, uh, I'd probably remember if I did. And, what, is that the cover story? You guys are like the Men in Black, right? So, uh, yeah, I got you. I think."
Jeremiah stared at Iris for a few seconds before abruptly turning on his heels and leaving the room. David waved goodbye with an apologetic look and hurried after his partner.
Iris was left a shrinking, echoey voice as David walked out of the building. "Okay, I guess. See you again soon."

Infovores are particularly dangerous among Type Greens because of their tendency to rapidly and unpredictably exhibit sizable and dangerous expansions of ability with little warning. Despite this, Foundation staff tend to be less aware of them compared to the other two chief subtypes of Type Greens. The reason for this is perhaps twofold: many dangerous cases with infovores develop rapidly and are responded to quickly, as well as the common practice as labeling infovores as 'mindbenders' and lumping them in with reality benders.
As their name implies, infovores are able to store and manipulate information, and use it to create infohazards. Many can use their psionic capabilities to force other minds to process this information, and therefore exhibit various forms of influence and/or control over others. Due to the high-profile nature of this ability, this is where the 'mindbender' colloquialism stems from.
Infovores often exhibit the capabilities of reality benders and warpers, and this form of informational processing can occasionally augment those abilities. For this reason, as well as the significantly lower quantity of infovores compared to reality benders and warpers, infovores often go overlooked. This can lead to disastrous results, as they have a tendency to rapidly exhibit and develop infohazardous capabilities. This can be seen in the various instances of 'mindbenders' pulling large populations of civilians under their influence, constituting a massive public safety risk as well as a threat to the veil.
For these reasons, agents of The Department of Humanoid Risk Assessment are advised to contain all infovores, as close monitoring and/or isolation may be needed for safe handling. You should always be looking out for the following traits in subjects you investigate:

Uncanny awareness of other people and/or their intentions, especially when observed
Perfect memory
Low susceptibility
High resistance to other infohazardous or psionic forces
High resistance to amnestics
Type Green capabilities tied to forms of information, such as text, photographs, electronic data, etc.
Type Green capabilities tied to things the Type Green had interest in or familiarity with before the manifestation of their abilities, as these cases are likely latent psionic abilities manifesting in ways the Type Green is familiar with, but not ways actually tied to their psionic abilities in any way other than perception

-Excerpt from The Handbook for the Department of Humanoid Risk Assessment

David caught up to Jeremiah in the break room of the police station Iris was being held in, now empty save for a Foundation plant in the police force. He seemed to be staring calmly at the coffee maker.
"What the hell was that?" David realized his tone was liable to get him reprimanded, as Jeremiah was very much his senior, so he set himself to finding a way to backtrack the tone but not the question itself, before Jeremiah started talking like he hadn't just been disrespected.
"What's the most common sign a Green is failing to properly utilize their potential?" His speech was even now, and his posture was rigid.
"What?" David thought back to his training before answering "if their abilities are tied to prior interests, it could be psionic potential manifesting in a familiar and limited way." He parroted the answer before he started to really process what Jeremiah was saying. "But, that's just a generalization. Iris hadn't seen improvement in years."
"What makes an infovore uniquely dangerous?" From where David was standing, Jeremiah didn't seem to be moving at all.
They have a noted tendency to rapidly exhibit and develop infohazardous capabilities recalled David. "But what's that got to do with-"
"What are the chief traits to look for in possible infovores?" The monolith in front of David cut him off.
It took David to recall the checklist he had to memorize once. "Uncanny perception of others." Like a bad feeling. "Perfect memory." Photographic memory, you know. "Low susceptibility. Resistance to other infohazards and amnestics." So, uh, yeah, I got you. I think. "Abilities tied to forms of information and past hobbies." I really love photography, you know.
David understood what Jeremiah was saying. A silence stood between the two. The Foundation plant knew not to stick his nose in their business and kept his eyes on a newspaper. For a while, the only sound was the dripping of the coffee machine as it ran.
"We can't know any of that for sure," David started slowly. "Even non-anomalous people can resist the amnestic treatment. We can't contain someone for an eidetic memory." David spoke deliberately, as if more to himself than the pillar of a man facing away from him.
Finally, the pillar turned around. "Infovores are to be contained for monitoring. Safety is to be prioritized over all else. These are rules we have to follow."
David spun Jeremiah's words in his head. "What even are the chances she's an infovore?"
Jeremiah kept eye contact with David. "Even with everything, the chances it's an infovore are low. They're rare, and they tend to not exhibit their traits for a long time."
"What would you know about any of this, then?" David was surprised by the accusatory tone in his voice.
Something passed over Jeremiah's eyes as he became properly indignant. "I know a hell of a lot more than you, son," he spat. "You know why this department was formed? Because someone made the call you're making now. They let a mindbender go and let them drive a whole hotel batshit insane. I know. I was there, the day the Department formed." David shrunk down now, and wondered if this was how Iris felt.
David was stunned into silence, and Jeremiah seemed to deflate a bit, and turned back to pour some coffee into a nearby mug. "It's not our call to make."
Another pause before David spoke again. "So that's it? We'll lock her up, then? No shot of seeing her brother?"
"What would the alternative be, really?" Jeremiah grabbed a second mug. "Convince her we never existed, that she stabbed her friend to death? That she can't trust her own senses? Throw a perfectly sane girl in an insane asylum until she turns 21? What chance of re-integrating would she really have, then? Maybe by then she'd really be crazy. At least at Site-17 she'd know she's sane."
David clenched and unclenched his fists. He wasn't doing a very good job of thinking right now.
Jeremiah sighed, and handed him a cup of coffee. "We've all had our first job, son. But some advice from a veteran? Our job is to save the Foundation money. At the end of the day, looking out for the humanoid's happiness isn't anywhere in our job description."

While it isn't your job to decide the containment procedures for the humanoids you list for containment, it can be useful to familiarize yourself with the General Containment Procedures as well as the established guidelines for Special Containment Procedures the humanoids may fall under…
… Several of the guidelines for infovores are as follow, although this is by no means a complete list, and infovores are almost always given SCP designation.

Discourage any experimentation with abilities
If the Type Green's abilities are linked to a certain item or action based on perception (such as a prior interest), disallow access to this item/action in order to further discourage experimentation and reinforce the perception that psionic capabilities are tied to the aforementioned item/action
Public containment procedures may list the item/action as the actual point of anomalous ability, in order to ensure personnel the Type Green interacts with reinforce the perception of limited capabilities
Maintain consistent monitoring on the Type Green's abilities while in containment, as consistent monitoring is the primary reason for containment

-Excerpt from The Handbook for the Department of Humanoid Risk Assessment

Interviewer: Dr. Harry Erikson, Site-17 psychology staff
Interviewee: SCP-105
Standard quarterly psychological assessment for SCP-105, #40

24 minutes of extraneous conversation removed for brevity.
Dr. Erikson: Alright, we're just about done. Just a few more questions before you can go.Dr. Erikson: It's just standard procedure for interviews, I didn't write them.Dr. Erikson: These questions are required, and there are very few of them. Besides, one of them changes each time.Dr. Erikson: You were the one impeding this.Dr. Erikson: Alright, just take a drink of that water and we'll move on. Elephant.Dr. Erikson: It's a memory test, just- okay, so, who did you play outside with around the time your brother was born?Dr. Erikson: What's the earliest thing you can remember?Dr. Erikson: You answered that very quickly. Can you really try to think about it?Dr. Erikson: Yes?Dr. Erikson: For the record, you could have said you didn't remember anything else.Dr. Erikson: Moving on. What am I thinking right now?Dr. Erikson: (Long pause) Excuse me?Dr. Erikson: (muttering)Dr. Erikson: Do you ever feel like you're being watched, or feel other people near you?Dr. Erikson: Answer the question, please.Dr. Erikson: How do you feel about the current containment procedures barring you from your camera?Dr. Erikson: The question was specifically about your camera, not the procedures in general.Dr. Erikson: Please look at the screen in front of me.Dr. Erikson: Please just look at it.Dr. Erikson: The Lethe runs slowly. Wh-Dr. Erikson: (Pause) Okay. Do you feel anything out of the ordinary?Dr. Erikson: As I said, it's standard operating procedure. No dizziness? Confusion? Forgetfulness?Dr. Erikson: Alright, then. That's everything I have to ask. Any questions for me?Dr. Erikson: I, er, don't think anything was planned.Dr. Erikson: Do you want a piece of cake?Dr. Erikson: I suppose I could ask. The staff mess hall has desserts each day. Is there anything else?Dr. Erikson: Okay, then. You're free to go. Have a nice day.

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