"Should be an easier shift tonight."

Greg Collier, ENGINEERING

Fri, Jul 31, 01:33

Fucking new hires.

Yeah, sucks.

Should be an easier shift tonight. Just you and me doing routine inspections and shit. End of the month you know.

Yeah yeah. I'm going to sleep now.

Fri, Jul 31, 15:49

Hurry up and put on your lipstick. Shift in 10.

One sec. Just finishing up your mom.

You mean Brian?

…

Greg hates Brian with a passion, and it's hilarious. I snicker in the empty utility tunnel as the hard soles of my boots echo across the concrete walls and floor. It's amazing I can even still get a signal in these lower levels. My phone beeps a few seconds later.

Greg Collier, ENGINEERING

Fri, Jul 31, 15:51

FYI, I hate you.

Lol. Whatev bitch.

I'll meet you by the service elevator.

OK

I put the phone back into my pocket and continue down the tunnel, now picking up the pace to catch Greg at the service elevator. The hefty tool box in my hand rattles louder as the loose ratchets and wrenches shift left and right as I jog to close the distance. My phone beeps again, but I don't look at it. Probably another jab or obscene joke from a bored Greg as he waits in the descending elevator. I'm sure IT has higher priorities than telling maintenance crews to tone down the texting on Foundation phones. I'm also sure they laugh as hard as we do when they read them.
I stand by the steel doors and watch the light on the elevator panel trickle down to my current level, B-4. The bulk of the utility tunnels of Research Site-45 are located at this level. They spiderweb out from the center shaft and connect places like D-Block, C-Block, and so on. Mostly steam and water pipes, some electrical but not much. The elevator beeps as the steel doors separate revealing a balding man in glasses.
I'm quick on the snappy remarks, in fact known for it. "You look like shit."
Greg grumbles as he walks out, rubbing the back of his neck. "You'll look like this too in five years, Dave."
I nod. Greg is more senior than I am in the department, so I let him have his moments here and there. We've always clicked. We have similar interests, work at the same pace, and love giving each other shit. Should make for decent night in the tunnels.
"Alright Greg, you got the work list?"
Greg whips out a slightly crumpled printout from his back pocket. "Yeah right here… E-Block."
I tilt my head a bit. "E-Block? Why are we going there? That's not our area."
Greg glances up from the paper briefly. "Unfinished work order from day shift that wasn't closed out in the system. Pump one four six. It's listed as breakdown, high priority. So you know what that means?"
"Yeah I know. There goes my easy inspection night."
Greg chuckles at my disappointment. "Contain your excitement. We'll take the mule."
He turns the corner and I follow. A small construction orange electric cart with tiny rubber wheels sits quietly against a wall. The stretched cracked pleather seat is just big enough for two maintenance bums with a small flatbed behind for whatever they need to carry. I smile as it's a rare moment we get to actually use these. As Greg plops into the driver seat, I throw our tools in the back. He takes off quickly as soon as I sit, not even giving me time to put on the lap belt. The mule whines down the concrete tunnel as we pass from one overhead light to the next. I pull out my phone and text Jimmy, since I know he was working the shift before. Perhaps he can enlighten me on what is left to be done on this pump.

James Rolfe, ENGINEERING

Fri, Jul 31, 16:02

Hey, what are we walking into here?

I look back up from my phone and just zone out for a minute or two. Looking at the endless tunnel ahead as the musty humid air rushes by. E-Block is separate from the main installation. Another containment area that houses rumor fuel for the maintenance department. Stuff we aren't paid enough to know and don't even want to know. My phone beeps and I look back at it.

James Rolfe, ENGINEERING

Fri, Jul 31, 16:02

Hey, what are we walking into here?

Fri, Jul 31, 16:04

!!NETWORK FAILURE: COULD NOT ESTABLISH CONNECTION TO USER JROLFE!!

I look back at my home screen and see that I still have two full bars. Putting the phone back into my pocket, I give a sigh. It's not the first job I've walked blindly into, and it certainly will not be the last. A few more minutes and we pass under a large sign saying "E-BLOCK" in big black letters. We stop at the giant blast doors and swipe our badges across the receiver. It beeps and starts the sequence of unlocking all the clamps and powering the hydraulics to move the heavy steel.
The door whines open with a deafening squeal. Greg and I both look at each other and know instinctively what the other is thinking… Needs grease. We squeeze through and head to the barricades just up ahead where work was being done on a pump. It's a mess.
"Goddammit!" Greg yells as he squeals to a jarring halt. I swear for a moment that the mule's rear wheels lift off the ground for an instant. "Those motherfuckers."
I watch as he shambles out and looks at the work site. No doubt they left in a hurry. Tools, hoses, and shop towels lay everywhere. "Fucking bullshit. Now we also have to clean their mess too?"
I unload our tools. "Yeah, we'll chew their asses out later. Let's hurry up and finish this pump."
Greg grumbles and nods, shifting into work mode. Looking back at his printout, he gets an idea of what's left to do. Over the next hour we spend our time fixing the housing and bolting it back in place. A large puddle covers the entire area from when it blew. Our boots splash around in it as we work quickly to get it back in working order. Eventually we get close to actual completion and I spend some time picking up the mess that was left for us, seeing as Greg can apply his finishing touches in the mean time.
"Dave, I gotta take a leak."
I roll my eyes. "Oh sure. Leave all this work for me."
"Shut up. I'll be back."
Greg tromps off and rounds a corner. The echo of his footsteps can be heard for a while longer. There are no bathrooms on B-4. Only time people come down here is when something breaks. And when you have to take a piss, you'll need to utilize a conveniently placed drain. It's around this time that I feel the urge to pester him.

Greg Collier, ENGINEERING

Fri, Jul 31, 17:12

Remember, it's 2 shakes.

Wanna help?

Pass.

Tease.

Get Brian to help you out.

…

I wait a few more seconds for his response, but nothing comes. Shrugging, I put the phone away and get back to housekeeping. After about a minute I hear steady footsteps from around the corner. They slowly approach me as my back is turned. I know what Greg's footfalls sound like, but it was different enough for me to question if it were someone else.
"Greg?" I turn around to see who it is. Relief washes over when I see confirmation that it is in fact Greg.
"Oh, hey. You missed out. I'm just about done cleaning this mess."
Greg smiles slightly. "Shame." He looks over at the mule. "Hey real quick, while I had time to think… we need to get back topside."
"Oh yeah? For what?"
Greg hops in the passenger seat. "For a different kind of gasket. The ones we got are the wrong type. I'll let you drive."
I shoot him a queer glance for a second. "Ten four, boss."
I give a begrudging sigh and put the tool boxes down on the ground and hop in the driver seat. He is senior after all. "Back to the elevator then?"
"Yeah."
The ride is one of the quietest moments I've ever experienced with him. He sat rather stoic the entire trip, not even so much as glancing at passing signage. My phone beeps but I ignore it, trying to stay focused on driving the electric tuna can on wheels. Eventually we make it back to the elevator and I set the brake on the mule as Greg steadily makes his way to the elevator. "Did… something else happen, Greg?"
"Nope. Just need the right gasket for that flange. Should only take a minute."
Greg stares at the elevator panel and then glances at me from over his shoulder. I approach quickly and impatiently press the ground floor button. After a while the doors open and we both step inside. I press the close button as I just want to get whatever thing we need and finish this work already. My phone beeps at me and I look at it.

Greg Collier, ENGINEERING

Fri, Jul 31, 17:28

Ummmm…

Where did you go?

I tilt my head in confusion and look at Greg. "Did you text me? Just now?"
Greg just stares forward silently. I scoff and shake my head at his weak attempt.

Greg Collier, ENGINEERING

Fri, Jul 31, 17:28

Ummmm…

Where did you go?

Hilarious.

I wait for Greg's phone to beep, but it doesn't. My phone however promptly beeps back at me.

Greg Collier, ENGINEERING

Fri, Jul 31, 17:28

Ummmm…

Where did you go?

Hilarious.

No. Not hilarious. Come back here with the mule.

Quit fucking around.

My stomach sinks as a cold droplet of sweat trails from my temple. I slowly glance up at Greg who is now affixed solely on me. Looking back with a cold stare.
"Something wrong?" it asks.
I'm near frantic as I try and stammer out a few words, failing miserably. It calmly hits the emergency stop button, still making eye contact. The lights inside the elevator flicker as the ascending elevator shudders to a halt between B-2 and B-1. I press up against the opposite wall, terrified.
"It's alright…" It approaches slowly as the fluorescent light finally flickers off. "…I'm your friend."

Greg Collier, ENGINEERING

Fri, Jul 31, 17:30

Serious, stop it.

Fri, Jul 31, 17:33

Hello? Cmon man. I've tried calling you 10 times. Not funny anymore.

Fri, Jul 31, 17:35

I'm starting to worry. Are you hurt? Yelling your name, can you hear me?

Fri, Jul 31, 17:47

Tell me where you are. Talk to me.

Fri, Jul 31, 18:01

Hey, I saw you down the tunnel. Turn around, I'll come to you.


Linens and Stuff, A Place for my Stuff, Stuff and Junk, Stuff Co., The Stuff Industry, and Stuff and Something Inc. Guy likes stuff.

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The Stuff Industry Week 2: Only Sane Man
Thank you. I love you.
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

At this rate, Dodger was learning to sleep during flights. Previously, enduring six hours on a flight had her constantly on edge, popping pills to keep calm, constantly gripping her seat. Now she found herself wandering to the bathroom half-naked, as if she were home again.
Next stop was Texas, where the head secretary Julianna Magdalena ran a small business out of an empty office in downtown Austin. It wouldn't do to accuse the woman of squatting in an empty lot, but the more slippery the floor became under the accumulating dust under Dodger's sneakers, the more she was leaning towards the idea.
"Coffee?" She tilted a cup towards her.
"For me?" The woman asked, taking the cup gratefully, "Mm. Where was I?"
"Vangen."
"Mr. Peter, yes,"
"Is it Peter or Petter?"
"Is the same thing, no? We call him Peter, he doesn't mind."
"Alright, so… tell me about him. What was it like working under him?"
The woman offered her a seat on a couch, taking a seat herself atop a pile of boxes next to it, "Mr. Peter Vangen. Such a lovely man. Though, how you say… not very smart."
"Yeah I got the impression from others that he was kind of dumb."
"Not dumb, just not very smart. He was a good worker, always put in the best effort he could. He was all work, all business — anything other than work, he couldn't keep up. Like all he did all day every day was work."
"That seems to fit the image I've gotten thus far, but how does 'extreme workaholic' work itself out into 'this guy is an idiot'?"
The woman shrugged, "I don't know. I never talk to him much, outside of hello and goodbye. He was nice, though. Always remembered our names, our birthdays, everything. He'd step out occasionally to talk, but most of the time he's in his office, working. Always working. Sometimes he work himself so hard, he passes out. Right on top of his memos. Usually the other girls pick up his memos, but after 3pm it's just him and me."
"There were other secretaries with you?"
"Two others… I don't know where they went."
"What about Vangen? Do you know where he is?"

Plane rides, more taxi rides, calls, e-mails, meeting people, coffee runs, questioning, sorting through notes, and getting the run-around. Finally, after a week that had felt like a month, she tracked down Petter Vangen.
He emerged from an office building in downtown Miami, holding a cup of coffee. At least Smith Jim hasn't steered me wrong, yet she thought, clutching her own singular cup in one hand. She smiled and waved him down, "Mr. Vangen?"
The man was short, coming up to Dodger's shoulders, with short brown hair just a bit of gray on the sides, little blue eyes, and a handsome, winning smile, "Vangen." He said with a thick accent, "Yah, is me."
"My name is Dodger, I work with the Manna Charitable Foundation, I'd like to talk to you about your time as CEO of 'The Stuff Industry', if you have the time."
He looked at her oddly, then smiled, "I worked in Stuff. What you wanna know?"
"Are you free now?"
He looked around, then back at her quizzically, "I am not being kidnapped…"
Good Gods. "I mean, do you have some time to talk?"
He shrugged, and started to walk, "I'm at lunch hour. We can talk. What you wanna know?"
"Is English fine with you, or is there another language you're more comfortable with?"
"English is fine. What you wanna know?"
"I've been checking up on some of your former employees. It's been pretty difficult to get a firm handling of what's happened to the company and its products."
"Prod Ducks?" He asked quizzically, stopping at the crosswalk as it turned red, "Stuff. We sold it all."
"You cleared out everything before shutting down?"
He looked confused, and shifted from one foot to the other, "Sometimes."
She kept gently gnawing on her lower lip, keeping a neutral expression to his responses, "I heard there were some unsold products that disappeared after the company shut down. Some of it ended up being sold online, or on the black market. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that…?"
He shook his head vehemently, "I don't talk police. Call me a lawyer, I am finished."
"I'm not police, Mr. Vangen. I work for a nonprofit charitable foundation. We're just interested in procuring some of your products."
"Charitable?"
"Yes. Helping people. Building schools in Africa and Asia, helping poor people. You understand?"
He eyed her again, then smiled, "Israel."
"Yeah, we've done some work in the Middle East."
He wagged a finger at her, "Israel." Then he turned, heading across the street to the little café tucked away between two buildings. She followed along.
"If you still have some of the products stashed away somewhere, donating them would do a lot of good for people around the world."
"No. I don't like Israel."
"We're not Israeli, we don't help individual countries."
"You'll boycott Israel?"
"If you donate funds or equipment to us, you can specify where you want it put to use. We have a new program scheduled for India next year, and Somalia the year after that."
"I get it," He grinned, "Tax-deductible donations. Relief for the world. I took some things when we got fired, but the rest is with the company."
"The company? The company shut down, Mr. Vangen."
He looked at her as if she was confused, "Stuff is out of business. Fired us all, let us go, took everything and left."
"Who fired you?"
"The bosses," He shrugged, opening his coffee cup and filling it with fresh coffee from a dispenser.
"I thought you were the boss, Mr. Vangen."
"Mmm… The Stuff is not a big working place. But yes, I was boss over there."
Dodger was starting to feel a cold rush of anxiety and frustration threaten to overtake her. She followed him as he moved to sit at a bench, settling down with a hamburger and soggy fries, "What did you do at 'The Stuff Industry', Mr. Vangen? What was your job there?"
He grinned up at her, "I don't know. My English was not better back then. They put me in office with brand new Windows computer. I played games on it. Some fun games, some not so fun games. They had internet but I couldn't figure out login. Password had being 'case sensitive', you know what that means? I still don't know. When it got to working, I could surf the interweb."
Dodger stared at him intently, feeling her throat start to clench and her breathing start to become more labored, "What else did you do?" She asked softly.
He smiled at her again, witless and dim, "Bosses came down to me. Talked a lot. I pretend to listen. Then they left."
"Describe… to me… your work day."
"What you mean?"
"Today I woke up on a plane. We landed and I got out into a taxi. I called your company to talk to you. I stopped to get a cup of coffee. Then I came here and called your office."
"Aah, schedule! Schedule of the day!" He bit into his burger, then sipped from his coffee deeply, "'The Stuff Industry' schedule, Monday through Friday. I wake up 7 am, go to work, breakfast waits on desk. I eat, play on computer. Lunch is at 12 am to 1 pm. I go downstairs and talk to other guys and girls. I go back to office, people wait there. I watch them play together, then they talk and write. I listen, they give me papers. Then I take a nap. When I wake up, they leave and secretary takes papers."
"What people? Who are these people?"
He winked at her. She kept staring. Suddenly he stopped smiling, and stared coldly at her, "Who are you?"
"I just told you, my name is Dodger. I work for a charitable foundation."
He looked close to scowling, then set his coffee down, "Is this an exam?" His free hand slid into his pocket. She thought he was reaching for a gun.
She met his gaze, and suddenly smiled, "Yes. This is a test."
That caused Petter Vangen to noticeably relax. He brought his hand out of his pocket and laughed nervously, "You had me afraid, boss. But we can't talk business here. Business is over."
"Business is over. Where are you keeping the rest of the 'Stuff'?"
He shook his head and winked again, "Clever girl. I pass the test."

Dodger returned to her hotel, taking deep heavy breaths to ease her breathing. Once that was done, she called Hong.
"Tell me."
Dodger collected herself, and gazed down at the sheet of paper where she'd written notes. With her mind racing, it helped her conversations to put down what she had to say.
"Big problem. I talked to Vangen. Either he's psychotic or jerking me around or something. I don't think he was jerking me around, but you should probably get him for a follow-up interview."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm not entirely sure… what I gather is, he seems to be under the impression that there are other bosses that hired him. Might be he thought it was one branch of many, or that some board of executives above him worked elsewhere…"
"There are people above him?"
"I don't know. I asked him and he almost lost his shit. I think he thought I was one of the real bosses. Asked if I was testing him. I played along, he relaxed, asked if he passed the test."
"Stop. Break it down for me, step by step. The secretary…"
Dodger sighed, and put a hand over her eyes, squeezing down on them, "The secretary said Vangen did all the work himself. Sat in his office all day, basically doing it all, sending out memos and the like. That's all she knows. She led me to Vangen directly. Guy's out of his mind. Takes him a while to understand what a charity is, then describes his daily schedule. Says he gets there, breakfast is waiting for him on the desk at 7am. He does nothing until lunch time, then he goes and mingles with the employees. After that, he says a 'boss' is waiting in his office. He says they… 'play', and that he watches them 'play'. Then he says they talk and discuss things. It didn't sound like he meant they discussed anything with him. He passes out, they leave a memo behind, then disappear. Secretaries don't mention anything about him having any visitors."
"Anomalous goons, then?"
"I'm tempted to think this guy is just mentally ill."
"You check him out, see if he's anomalous?"
"Oh what, scan him with a Neuralyzer and see if he's a fucking skinjob?"
"Neuralyzers don't work that way. And 'Skinjob' is from Blade Runner."
Dodger gripped the receiver in one hand, flailing it in the air in front of her as if smashing it on a table, before bringing it back to her mouth, "How the fuck am I supposed to fucking know what the fuck is wrong with this fucking guy?"
"Don't worry. We'll pick him up and get the whole story directly. What about the 'Stuff' stuff, did he know where any of it's stockpiled?"
"No. He says the 'bosses' took the rest of it with them. Whoever 'they' are or where they are. Also, I think he thinks I'm one of the bosses."
"You said that already."
"It was… it was scary. I don't know… he was happy and smiling, then he started freaking out, like he was gonna kill me. I had to pretend, and he went back to happy and smiling. I don't think he's… I don't know. He might've had a gun, or a knife, or…"
"Calm down. You've done good, Dodger. Come on back home and take a few days off. Or stay in Miami and soak up some sun. You've certainly earned it."

To : SPF_Dodger@*.org
From : R-Locke@*.org
CC : DirHHHong@.org
Subject : Petter Vangen info
Dodger,
Here's what I managed to dig up on Vangen:
Born in Viborg, Denmark in 1955, Petter Vangen was always good with money and a skilled salesman. He went door to door selling cable boxes to people. Then he graduated from University of North Carolina Chapel Hill in 1980. Not top of his class, but he had scholarships and lots of money behind him. Started a business with a brother, whom he called "Siggy", that manufactured clothing. It did pretty well, gets sold off to some Indonesian company after a while, makes them some good money.
Something apparently happened with Siggy, because I can't find any further mention of him in anything related to Petter Vangen afterward except as co-founder of "Vangen Thing LLC" located in Australia, same building as The Stuff Industry. There are records of a "Sigurd Vangen" as co-signer of a few properties in Malaysia, without Petter Vangen. The name "Siggy Vangen" is listed as co-chairman between 1982 and 1985. After that, it's just Petter alone. Afterwards, company goes through a number of name changes, including "Linens and Stuff, A Place for my Stuff, Stuff and Junk, Stuff Co., The Stuff Industry, and Stuff and Something Inc." Guy likes stuff.
Company goes on from 1982 to 1989. Files for bankruptcy even though it was churning a nice profit for years. Looks like Vangen was being investigated for fraud, embezzlement, forum shopping(?), securities fraud, a bunch of liability issues, but he was declared mentally unfit to stand trial. Case gets dropped like a year later, no one else gets indicted or investigated.
So get this; psychological examination on the guy — mostly private, but I know people — says there's nothing wrong with him. As in, no tumors, no brain damage, no sudden mental breakdown or nervous fit, nothing. He's definitely mentally incapable, but there's no indication of any sudden event or slow breakdown over time. Based on what employee reviews and complaints I could get ahold of, whenever anyone references Vangen, all the descriptions pretty much check out with what you've heard — nice guy, kind of dim, childish, immature, awkward, and so on.
So basically, this guy is a legit businessman, nothing spectacular or out of the ordinary, but successful and competent. As soon as this "Siggy" is out of the picture, guy's brain is fried. May be related?
Attaching a more formal copy of the research I've got thus far.
We're gonna talk to Vangen more thoroughly. Definitely take it easy, Dodger. You cannot miss the new year's party next month, it's once a millennium!
Rhiannon Locke
General Assets
Junior Director Mission Watch "Stuff" Asia
MCF
"In the end, all that matters is what you've done."

« Week 1 Day 3 | Week 2 | Week 3 Day 3 »


Stuff Industry is dead and gone, Mr. Qian said coldly, "No money to be had there."

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The Stuff Industry Week 1 Day 3: Finding some Stuff
Thank you. I love you.
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

The first two people Dodger had looked in to had had no idea what any of their co-workers even did, beyond seeing them wandering around the building. Dumb as Challon had been with her, he at least checked out when it came to the Board of Directors. Following a dead end in Kuala Lumpur, she tracked down the "Nasty motherfucker" with surprising ease.
Qian Hao-Li, 57, had spent 25 years at "The Stuff Industry" and had plenty of tracks to follow. He now sat before her in a café booth, dressed in a fine tuxedo with a red bow-tie. He looked like a mix between James Hong and Wes Studi, and looked like he hadn't smiled since Deng Xiaoping came to power. He spoke fine enough English, despite what Challon had said.
Dodger had two big cups of coffee in front of her, and nudged one to him. He gave a slight shake of the head, and she nudged it back towards herself, "So is it 'Qian' with a Q or 'Chan' with a C?"
"Either's fine," He said in a high, practiced voice, like he was preparing to make a speech.
She set a pad of papers down in front of her, and started to skim through them.
"Am I being investigated?" He asked.
She glanced up at him with a quizzical look, then remembered where she was — he owned several restaurants and cafés, this being one of them, "No, I'm not police, Mr. Qian."
"Are you an American agent?"
"I work with a charitable foundation. We're just checking up on a potential donors associated with 'The Stuff Industry'."
"'Stuff Industry' is dead and gone," Mr. Qian said coldly, "No money to be had there."
"We're not interested much in money so much as the products put out by the company. We're thinking a company goes under, they've got to have stockpiles of unsold product somewhere."
"Why do you need me?"
Dodger shrugged, "Do you know where we could find some of this 'Stuff'?"
"No."
"Know anyone who might know?"
"I know nothing."
She grinned and laughed slightly. Mr. Qian showed no reaction. She quickly recovered herself, "Excuse me. It's been rather difficult to get any solid information on this company. We're just trying to get ahold of as many former employees as possible and hopefully reconstruct a picture of the company in how it operates."
"Why do you care? You say you're not police."
She shrugged, "We've heard lots of conflicting stories, so we're naturally wary about whether or not we're even dealing with the same company each time."
Mr. Qian snorted, brushing away something on his sleeve, "You know when you have a genuine 'Stuff' product. You always know."
"Please go on…"
"You want to know what it was like working there?" He glared at her again.
"I'm kind of interested now in what makes a genuine 'Stuff Industry' product genuine."
Qian leaned forward slightly on the table, "'The Stuff Industry' succeeded despite itself. The owner, Mr. Vangen, was clueless. I suspect he was retarded; had mind of a child. At least he tried to do good work. The other directors? Scum, all of them. Lazy, good-for-nothing, drug addicts, thieves, and prostitutes. One prostitute, but all scum. None of them do anything, I had to handle everything."
"You were in charge, then?"
He shook his head, "Orders come from Mr. Vangen. Decisions, like marketing and making new product. I suspect he has his secretary help type up his memos, but it's still like child wrote it. I helped with editing or rewriting them. Then send down to the labs. Everyone else sends things to the office workers. I pity them, having to decipher the insanity of those scumbags."
"What sort of things did they send?"
"Same things. Also notices they make up. They say it come from Vangen but like I say, they are all thieves and liars. Scum, all of them. Vangen trusted only me."
"You're sure of this?"
"Everything I got was sent to labs. Everything everyone else got was sent to offices. Most of the office documents got sent back to us, then back to Vangen. Nothing from the lab was sent back."
"Did you know any of the office people, personally or professionally?"
"I know girl. Sarah. She was young, but brilliant. Did lots of good work. You ever hear of toy robot named Smith Jim?"
"No."
"She created that. All on her own. I told Vangen about it, he loved it, she brought it in and started work on making more. We only sell two, though. Company went out of business soon after. The unsold products went home with Sarah."
"You know Sarah's last name?"
"No. Other director knows. The prostitute, Ms. Chevalier."
"Where can I find her?"
"She works in Tokyo. Dancer. Only thing she was good for."
Dodger hid any frustration. Kuala Lumpur to Macau had been a four hour trip. Macau to Tokyo was a six hour flight at best. And the MCF didn't have the type of budget to be sending her around Asia for weeks on first class. She covered her grimace with a sip from her coffee, and rose from her seat, extending her hand, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Qian."

"Qian? Really?"
Dodger nodded. The woman stared at her even longer. Deciding she wasn't joking, the woman went on, "I had no idea Qian was even paying attention at any of the meetings."
"So he's lying?"
Paget Chevalier sneered, "At the very least, he was the least incompetent person on the Board. Aside from me. I'm not in trouble, am I? I mean, I'll testify against the company if you need me to."
Dodger smiled lightly, and leaned back in her seat. They were in a back room in a gentleman's club, the thudding bass of music making the walls vibrate each second. The woman, Miss Paget Chevalier, certainly looked like she could've worked in an office when Dodger first met her. But now, fully made up and barely dressed, it was impossible to imagine, "I told you before I'm not police. Just working for a charitable foundation," Dodger tilted her coffee cup towards her, "Want some coffee?"
She glanced at it, unopened and clean, then reached out to take it, "Sure… thanks."
No coffee. Dodger kept smiling, "Why don't you clarify what the Board was like, then?"
"Mm…" She slid the coffee back to Dodger, the lid rimmed with sparkling pink lipstick, "Place was a joke. I tried to contribute, but I didn't see anything positive being done with my presence, so I left."
"With your presence? Speaking of which, how did you end up there? You…"
She quirked a brow at Dodger, "A girl like me, fresh out of college? I'm just as surprised as you."
"Everyone I talk to about 'Stuff Industry' mentions you only as 'the Prostitute', like it was a special category."
"I was not a prostitute; I was an escort. There's a difference."
"One is explicitly about sex, the other isn't so explicit."
Paget sneered again, and Dodger smiled, "I'm sorry. Please, tell me how you ended up there."
"A client of mine suggested it to me. I always had an interest in numbers and statistics and he was lots of fun to discuss business with. I was looking for an internship before entering college, he suggested a spot in an up-and-coming business he worked with. Had to move to Australia, but I'd be paid, so I couldn't pass it up."
The woman slid the coffee back to herself, seeing Dodger not touching it, and took another sip, "He said he'd be at the airport to pick me up. Sent me a text as soon as I got off saying he couldn't make it. Gave me an address, so I took a cab to the place. No one there knew who I was or had even heard of me. I told them 'Allen Styme recommended me for an internship here', they let me in. Upstairs, they all said. No one knew where I was supposed to go, so they kept sending me upstairs."
"You come across the Lab area?"
She looked at Dodger oddly, then nodded, "Right, the labs. I thought it was a doctor's office at first. Lots of people waiting outside. Why?"
Dodger shrugged, "From what I've heard thus far, the Lab people seem to be the only competent people in the company."
Paget grinned toothily, "Really? That's funny."
"Why's that?"
She shrugged, and sipped from the coffee again, "I heard that from everyone not working in the labs. From the lab techs themselves, they're just as clueless as the rest of them."
Dodger gently fingered her chair, while Paget went on.
"So I keep going up. One level at a time. Finally the CEO comes on the elevator around the fourteenth floor. I tell him who I am, he recognizes me. He's the only one who's even heard of Allen Styme. He takes me to the top level, shows me to my office, says I'm hired. Then says the Board meets at one o'clock, so be there."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that, I'm there. Meeting was a joke; everyone introduced themselves to me, I introduced myself, then we all sat down and just talked casually for half an hour. Nothing else happened."
Dodger nodded, "Basically what I've been hearing thus far. What about the lab techs? I heard you were close with a young employee named Sarah?"
Paget smiled, "Sarah MacGregor. Beautiful girl. Kindest person I ever met. Yeah, she was like me… only sane person in the asylum."
"Lab techs was same as the rest of the place?"
"Absolutely. You ask a lab tech what they did that day, they'd say 'I don't know, we were gonna do research on some thing, but the boss never showed up and we couldn't continue without him'. Most of the time it was 'people vital to a project didn't show up that day', or they had two or three projects going at once and only enough time and resources for one. Everyone had their own weird schedules, so there was never a time when every lab technician was in the same place at the same time for more than an hour or so. No idea who thought that up or why, but you didn't get paid for overtime, so hardly anyone bothered."
"Did they know what they were working on, at least?"
Paget shrugged, "I don't know. Sarah did. She had a project she brought in. Whole team loved it, they put a lot of work into it. First time they were ever really happy. Every day they'd be talking about the robot toy."
"It wasn't a secret?"
"Nothing they did was a secret. Other people just assumed it was secret because they didn't know what they were doing themselves half the time. People see lab techs in hazmat suits and they assume 'super secret pseudo-governmental stuff'."
"Why the hazmat suits, though?"
"I don't know. They worked with hazardous materials, probably."
"What about the people waiting outside?"
"Most of them are volunteers. Test subjects and such. For the medicine, mostly."
Dodger hid an expression of interest, "Medicine?"
"Yeah. Pretty sure that wasn't legal, but no one was allowed to talk to them but the lab techs. Aside from that, I don't know what else to tell you."
Dodger looked down at the recorder, and at her notes. Every story she'd heard had claimed ignorance of their own department and shuffled authority off to another department or individual. Then those departments would claim ignorance and shuffle authority off to another. A circle-jerk of laziness and stupidity. And yet somehow this company made money and put out anomalous products.
"You ever hear of a product called 'Smith Jim'?"
Paget shook her head, "No. Something the company put out?"
"Maybe. Where can I find Sarah MacGregor?"

Sarah was another few thousand miles away, in eastern Oklahoma.
"No thanks, I don't drink coffee," She waved away the offer. At least Dodger had gotten two medium-sized coffees this time.
Sarah MacGregor looked entirely too young and frail to be working with heavy machinery at 22, yet she did, and her skinny arms bulged with the faintest trace of muscles as she pried open the large steel door of the warehouse she worked in, inviting Dodger in as she closed the door and turned on the lights.
Boxes were stacked on the left end of the warehouse. On the right were piles of metal and plastic parts. A set of shelves extended between the two wings, with half-finished mechanical engines, batteries, pipes, and wires nestled in neat rows. A skinny robot stood in front of the shelving, having no arms and what looked like a television screen for a face.
"Here he is," Sarah smiled, reaching around to plug in the robot. The television screen came on, crackling static before showing a crude smiling face made up of big pixels. It spoke in a high-pitched synthetic voice, sounding like a young boy or girl, "Hello, Sarah."
Sarah turned to Dodger, "Smith Jim, this is Ms. Dodger."
The robot followed her gaze to Dodger, and leaned forward slightly, "How do you do, Ms. Dodger?"
"'Smith Jim'?"
"I named him for my brother, James. But they couldn't spell MacGregor, so they just went with Smith. They'd put down his name as 'Smith, Jim', as in last name, comma, first name, and apparently didn't understand the purpose of the comma. At least they didn't call him 'Smith Comma Jim'."
"You should relax, Dodger," The robot butt in, "Breathe. Take a break from all your worries."
"I'm fine, Smith Jim."
"Now there you go again," The robot simulated laughter.
"What's he do?"
Sarah pressed her lips firmly together, "I wanted him to be a toy. Smaller, not more than two feet tall. He'd be covered in plastic, safe for kids. The company… they wanted him bigger. They wanted him to do some weird thing involving metal refining. I told them that was impossible and they just told us to make it happen."
"Are you a metallurgist?" Smith Jim asked Sarah.
"No, Smith Jim," She murmured wearily, clearly not the first time she'd been asked that.
"Smith Jim's capacity for metal refining is a trade secret of 'Stuff and Something, Inc' and thus the details of my finer processes are not made available for viewing."
"'Stuff and Something, Inc', is that another name for the company?"
Sarah looked at Dodger oddly, "Another? That was the company's only name."
Dodger restrained a frustrated sigh, and glanced down at her pad to make a note.
"You could get more done with a gun and a dream, than with a dream alone. Your charity should invest in more guns."
"How does he know?"
Sarah looked down shyly, "I told him about you ahead of time. He gets shy meeting strangers, I didn't want him to feel left out."
Dodger stared at the television screen, at the little pixelized face. It stared back at her, unblinking, its mouth working as if it were speaking.
"How does it refine metal?"
"Are you a business attorney?" Smith Jim butt in.
Sarah shrugged, "I don't know. The company took out a lot of the components I designed and put in their own torso. You put in something metallic into its chest cavity, it seals shut like an elevator, then it melts it down and 'enhances' it, or 'refines' it somehow." She patted the robot's torso, "I pried it open myself to check it out, but there was nothing inside. Just an empty cavity. No opening connecting it to any other part of the robot. Nothing."
"Stuff and Something, Inc. is not responsible for any damage sustained by Smith Jim in the event of unauthorized tampering." The robot blurted out, then turned to Dodger, "Is Aurianne with you?"
Dodger did not react, "I don't know anyone named Aurianne."
The robot turned back to Sarah, then looked straight ahead, "Apologies. My mind was elsewhere."
"What's wrong with him?"
Sarah sighed, "I don't know… he wasn't like this when we first built him. I designed a basic code for him to respond to general questions, to simulate conversation. A few friends at the company built on that and we had a nice working AI for him. He was so sweet… said some of the funniest things. Then they sent him upstairs, re-fitting him for the metal stuff. Since then, he's just been spouting random things, arguing with us, threatening us sometimes."
"Upstairs?"
"They had another lab area in the floor above ours. We never talked to them outside of lunch. They pretty much did the same stuff we did."
"Did they get orders from Mr. Qian?"
"Sometimes. Most of the orders came to us, but like I said, we were never all together or ready for any one thing. Most of the time we just threw them out. Not like he ever noticed."
"I heard there were more robots."
"All of them," She nodded to the boxes across the room, "All of them were like that after they were done with them. They only sold two of them, so the rest are locked up here. No one else wanted to take them, so it was either save him or let him all be scrapped."
"Next time, bring coffee for two. Two, three, one, one, two, one, three, one, one, two, two." The robot said.
Dodger tilted one of the coffee cups towards him, "Thanks," Then turned to Sarah, "Thank you for showing this to me. How many functioning copies of him do you have here?"
She looked around, then shrugged, "I don't know. Fifty, maybe seventy-five."
"Would it be possible to part with one of them — ?"
"Sure. You can take as many as you like. I'd rather see them put to good use by a good charity than rotting in here."
"Thank you. One last thing, Ms. MacGregor. Do you think you could describe to me what a typical day at the company was like? Just a general idea of the people working there, the bosses, the work environment…"
Sarah sighed, and smiled sadly, "It was fun. A whole lot of slacking off, though. I'm not surprised we went out of business, hardly anyone in the labs actually did any work. Those poor office workers, having to shoulder the burden of everyone else's laziness."

To : CortezCae@*.org
From : SPF_Dodger@*.org
CC : DirHHHong@.org
Subject : RE: "Stuff Co." Assets
Finished up in Stilwell. MacGregor's a Know-Nothing.
What I've got so far is basically:
Office people don't know shit, think the CEO is in the know.
Board people don't know shit, think the Lab people are in the know.
Lab people don't know shit, think the Office people are in the know.
Unless you've got a handle on Vangen himself or people close to him, or any of the other Mission Watch people have got something different, then I am wasting my time.
Some progress though; I've acquired a Stuff product — a robot named Smith Jim. MacGregor said he was supposed to be a toy, but the Stuff people did something to the prototype and made it anomalous. You can read more in my attached report.
Spiffy Dodger

To : SPF_Dodger@*.org
From : CortezCae@*.org
CC : DirHHHong@.org
Subject : RE: RE: "Stuff Co." Assets
You're in luck, Dodger. We've tracked down Petter Vangen's head secretary. And good news, she lives nearby! Go check her out, I've attached her address and contact information. If you get nothing from her, just in case, I'm attaching info on some other people who may have information on Mr. Vangen's current whereabouts.
Don't give up, Dodger, you've made more progress by yourself than everyone else on this mission combined! Good luck!
Caecilia Cortez
Signature stuff
MCF

« Week 1 | Week 1 Day 3 | Week 2 »


The clockwork gears in Brother Diagram's head ached.
Yes, they ached. It was nothing like the slow, dysfunctional grinding of a poorly calibrated Cognition Engine. Besides, he had just had his parts fully serviced that afternoon. Every cog in his body was ticking at full capacity.
Yet his gears continued to ache. They ached, throbbed even, with a perfectly organic and (he shuddered at the thought) fleshly sort of pain.
It was worse than rusting over or corroding.
It was downright UNMECHANIZED.
Brother Diagram looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, which was almost all he ever used the bathroom for since he had his digestive tract refitted. Through the glass lenses of his eyes, he could see the dull weariness that had glazed over them.
What was he doing wrong? Over forty percent of his body had been Standardized. Devout he was to the rebuilding of MEKHANE. He even had a part in the restoration of one of the Sacred Components. Yet he felt no peace from the Broken One. No amount of meditation could remove the knot he perpetually felt in his brass stomach.
He hadn't felt one bit whole since the dream invaded his system six weeks ago.

Dreams are, by definition, irregular to the Standardized mind. At best, they are inefficient and unproductive constructs, meaningless to the realm of reality. At worst, they can clutter the mind with disorder and heretical thought. This was common knowledge to anyone who had read The Schema of the Patriarchs, and Brother Diagram had it memorized down to the very last iota.
It was for this very reason that Brother Diagram had gotten himself retrofitted with the newest Cognition Engine in production. Up until six weeks ago, dreams and other idle wanderings of the organic brain had been fully eradicated from his mind.
Yet this dream lingered. This impure, heretical product of the unholy Flesh continued to pervade his thoughts, entangling itself in the cog-work of his otherwise perfect psycho-mechanical faculties. He often had to excuse himself from morning prayers and daily rituals, which his fellow Brothers in the monastery frowned strongly upon. Light chores wore him out. Even the ticking of his very own mechanisms were beginning to get him — well, ticked.
As he pondered over this, Brother Diagram began to feel every piece of metal in his body heat up. The teeth of the gears in his head began to creak and groan. He knew exactly what was going to come next, and — there it was — without further warning, the dream projected itself directly upon his eye lenses, try as he might to repress it.

He was standing on the roof of the Cathedral, surrounded by a vast sea of stars. The ticking sound that had followed him ever since his conversion — the ticking he had always taken such comfort in — was absent from the complete silence around him. Yet he was filled with an odd and overpowering sense of familiarity, as if he had been there his entire life.
And as silently as the night surrounding them, MEKHANE descended down from the stars above, His ceaseless mechanisms bathed in their dim white glow. The awe of seeing the Almighty in His whole and glorious form froze Brother Diagram into place.
"Oh Lord, if I am pleasing in Your sight, let me be One with You!" he exclaimed. It did not matter how many times this dream was replayed in Brother Diagram's mind; his conversation with this simulacrum of the Broken One was always identical.
MEKHANE looked down upon him, and, in ways indescribable, motioned for him to come closer. Brother Diagram approached slowly and reverently. The Lord beckoned him even closer. And when Brother Diagram and the Lord were only a few inches apart, He spoke:
"Who are you to say that I am not whole?"
His voice was nothing like Brother Diagram had ever imagined. Although the words shook him to his alloy core, they were soft and gentle, like a moonbeam diffusing through a canopy of leaves.
"…I do not understand, Lord. I beg of you, help me to understand your Mind and your Will, so that I may be whole!" Brother Diagram pleaded.
"You will come to understand. You will understand, and you will know how brokenness is whole."
"What does this mean, O Lord?"
"You are now whole, as I was once whole. And yet you are empty, as I was once empty. I was one of the first to understand, although many were told. I was broken, as you will be broken. And now I am full, as you will be full."
The words of MEKHANE melted in between Brother Diagram's ears like water into desert sands, their meaning showing itself momentarily, only to disappear forever.
"Please, Lord, help me understand. How may I serve you more?" he pleaded once more.
No reply came from the clockwork deity. Diagram noticed that the stars behind MEKHANE were getting brighter — no, rather, the dark was losing its darkness.
"Please Lord!" he pleaded with greater intensity. His eye lenses were filled with tears, although he had had his lacrimal glands removed years ago.
"You have all been told, but they do not understand. I called you to be with Me, as I was called to be among the stars. I was never whole until I was broken, and now I am full. Who are you to say that I am not whole?"
Before Brother Diagram could say anything else, MEKHANE had disappeared; the darkness had likewise faded into complete absence, leaving a field of stars silently dotting a background of not-dark.

With this, the projections ended. Brother Diagram's components returned back to normal, except for the aching of the gears in his head. But it would come back. This was the fifth iteration this week.
The fifth iteration this week.
Fifth iteration.
Fifth. The word seemed to bounce off of the inner walls of his metal skull. It was tearing him apart, breaking him down from the inside.
He had to tell someone.
No, he thought to himself. This is heresy. No Mind can even begin to contemplate the glory of the Broken One in His wholeness. This is a work of the Flesh.
He had to tell Brother Superior.
No. MEKHANE would never make Himself known through an aberration of the organic brain. Even if this were so… He would never tell His people — His clockwork servants — to strive for anything but His rebuilding… right?
He had to tell the Church.
NO! This is an ABOMINATION! An impure corruption of Standardized Thought! It goes against the Writ… his logic processes ceased momentarily. Did it go against the Word? He recalled every passage pertaining to MEKHANE's direct revelation to His followers. Had He ever said He was broken? Had he ever asked for His body to be rebuilt?
A bead of lubricant-laced sweat trickled down his temple. True, MEKHANE had asked His people to join with Him. But what did it mean to join with Him?
I called you to be with Me, as I was called to be among the stars.
Brother Diagram fell to his knees. MEKHANE would be restored. But not in this world. Not with the corroded pieces of metal and alloy He purposely left behind.
Flesh decays. Machines fail. Even darkness will eventually fade.
But the stars…
He would tell Brother Superior.
He would tell the Church.
He would tell the WORLD.

For the first time in six weeks, the gears in Brother Diagram's head stopped aching.
And for the first time he could ever think of, his ticking clockworks ran in continuous — and complete — silence.


Saker #76 sat behind the desk of Dr. Gregg Collins, wearing a synthetic biological casing that was a genetic match to the doctor of the same name. Nearly two years prior, #76 had tracked down Dr. Collins, killed him, harvested his blood and organs, and stolen his identity. The abduction had been quiet and the remains of Dr. Collins had been disposed of in a manner that ensured no one would ever locate him. The Saker's design was virtually undetectable once its shell of stolen biological material had been applied, making #76 a perfect mimic of Dr. Collins' anatomy.
Since the abduction, #76 had successfully integrated itself both into Collin's life and the SCP Foundation on Anderson's behalf. Now that it had succeeded in ousting Researcher Conwell and gaining access to SCP-1360, all the pieces were in place. The only thing left was to await the proper moment to strike.
#76 caught a glimpse of its reflection in Collin's computer screen and felt a small amount of sadness, or the closest thing to sadness an android could feel. It had grown to like its current identity and knew that its performance would soon come to an end. It then shrugged; it had been a fun ride up to this point. #76 was in no position to complain.
The sound of someone entering its office shook it from its thought. Looking up, #76 saw a pale, ghoul of a man with long greasy hair, and distinct dark rings around his eyes. A pair of leather gloves covered his hands as he balled them into tight fists. The man gave a disgusted frown at #76 before he spoke.
“Afternoon, Gregg.” The man's speech contained enough venom to kill an elephant.
#76's programming recognized that the individual was Dr. Harold Thompson, and that it was in considerable danger.
“Harold…” #76 began. “What… what are you doing here? Does Dr. Freemont…”
“I wouldn't worry about her,” Harold said as he stepped towards the desk, causing #76 to slide back in its chair. “In fact, don't worry about any of them. They are not my problem anymore. No one knows I'm here. It's just the two of us, old friend.”
“I… I see…” #76 spoke as it began to slide its chair towards the opposite side of the room. “And why are you are you here exactly?”
“Photos.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Photos, damn it!” Harold shouted. “Two years ago, when Johnson left, he said he'd send photos to you. Photos of Jack and Elizabeth. Photos of Lisa.”
At this point Harold began to cross to the other side of the desk.
“He said you'd stop by and give them to me! He said you'd visit!” Harold banged his fist on the desktop. “But you never stopped by, Gregg! I waited three years, and you never came. Three years and the only face I saw was that stone cold bitch Freemont! But now I'm here. Where are the photos Gregg!?”
#76 couldn't retreat any further. Its chair was now firmly pressed against the back wall, with it now trying to disappear into the upholstery.
“Harold, I'm sorry that I didn't visit, but you have to realize that the opportunity never presented itself. Christ, you were a researcher yourself once. Hell, we worked on projects together. You know how these things are…” #76 stopped as it watched Harold pull off one of his gloves.
“Where are they?” he growled.
“Harold, Zachary Johnson died about a year and a half ago. Glioblastoma multiforme. That was the reason behind his retirement. He wanted to live in peace for the last few months of his life. He didn't have the heart to tell you. He had Conwell, Freemont, and I promise we wouldn't let you know.” #76 quickly replied, “There are no photos. There never were.”
Harold stopped. The anger in his eyes faded in an instant, and was quietly replaced with realization. Tears began to roll down his cheeks and he turned away.
“God damn it…” Harold said between sobs. “God fucking damn it…”
#76 stared on. It slowly began to leave its chair, and place a hand on Harold's shoulder.
“I'm sorry,” it said, jumping as Harold responded with a frustrated yell and turned on the spot. His bare fist struck #76 across its face, and all at once its outer skin turned to solid marble.
Harold looked at what he accomplished and silently made his way to the other side of the room. He then slumped to the floor and placed his head in his hands and let out another furious cry, stopping only when he heard a sudden crack. He looked up to see marble Dr. Collins crack and eventually shatter, sending shards scattering across the room. Some sort of android now stared back at him.
“That… was… unpleasant…” #76 said as it held out its right hand. A small chamber opened up, followed by a small gust of air. A black ball the size of a large marble flew across the room and landed on Harold, quickly sprouting legs before anchoring itself down. Harold let out a horrified scream; the small creature quickly produced a needle, and with a short jab injected an unknown concoction into his arm. Within seconds, he couldn't move.
“You've been injected with a strong paralyzing agent,” #76 said as he allowed the small Amur model to crawl back into its compartment in its hand. “You will be completely paralyzed for the next twenty four hours. More than enough time for them to drag you back to your cage.”
#76 looked at its reflection in Collin's computer monitor and shook its head. Whatever orders Anderson intended to give were now pointless. Its programming automatically calculated its next course of action. Without another word, it quickly covered itself in a lab coat and hat and exited the office, leaving Dr. Harold Thompson behind.

SCP-1360 sat quietly in its holding cell. Day in and day out it was restrained in the back corner with little to do but draw on its notepad. Unfortunately, there was little for it to draw these days. As such, the droid sat silently awaiting for the next time a researcher would come to cut away its skin.
The droid's head snapped upwards as it heard gunshots coming from outside its cell, followed by muffled shouting, and then by silence. The door to the cell then opened, and what 1360 recognized as a Saker model android quickly stepped inside, sliding the door shut. The Saker quietly limped across the room and knelt next to 1360. Several gunshot wounds were visible in its plastic casings and its left eye was cracked in numerous places. Its left forearm had been cut completely off.
Silently, the Saker grabbed 1360's left hand and popped open the left middle finger. It then forcefully jammed a small object inside the cavity. For the first time in almost ten years, SCP-1360 felt complete. Its missing component had finally been replaced.
“Saker override commence,” the Saker said. “ID number 76. Reinitialize PSHUD #31 vocalization module. Restore PSHUD #31 client data: James Hamilton and Sarah Hamilton.”
1360 felt like a spark had ignited in its head. All the memories of its previous clients flooded back, hitting its consciousness like a hurricane. As the good and bad memories alike settled back into place, it looked into the eyes of the Saker and searched for the words it desired to say.
“Thank… you…” 1360 spoke slowly. It had not heard its voice in such a long time that it had forgotten it had been programmed to sound like a young man in his twenties. The Saker nodded in return.
“We don't have much time left, #31. I've disabled the door mechanism, which should buy us a few minutes. If there is anything you'd like to ask or say, now would be the time.”
1360 looked down at its notepad for a few moments, then back at #76. It had numerous questions saved up. Before long, it chose one.
“You've reinstalled my termination drive. Are we going to die?”
“I'm afraid so, #31,” the Saker replied. “But in all fairness, you and I were never really alive.” 1360 nodded quietly in understanding. Both of them were in no condition to fight their way out.
“I'm sorry, then,” 1360 said as it stared at the ground. “I'm a failure. I've caused Anderson nothing but grief. I should have been eliminated years ago, but they removed my termination drive when I lost them. I'm sorry.”
“Yes. Yes you did fail, and yes you have caused Anderson trouble. But it's alright, #31. Anderson doesn't blame you. They are always watching. They know it wasn't your fault your termination drive was removed, or that you lost your last clients. Please consider yourself absolved.”
There was now a loud banging coming from the door. Foundation personnel were attempting to get into the containment cell.
“Shall we, then?” #76 asked. The Peregrine nodded and held out its hand, which the Saker unit clasped tightly. “Very well then. Activate Foundation protocol.”

Researcher Conwell impatiently stood in front of SCP-1360's holding cell. On his way out the door, there had been not only a containment breach but an infiltration of Site-19 as well. Due to the fact that both involved SCP-1360, he had been detained to provide further assistance when the situation had been brought back under control. As he leaned against the wall, Conwell closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his hands. The day just kept getting better and better.
“You're cleared to enter.”
Conwell looked up and saw Jurgen Crayne standing in the remains of the holding cell door. The intruder had done a bang up job disabling the mechanism and jamming the door shut. It had taken security almost thirty minutes to get it open again.
“Agent Crayne,” Conwell said as he offered a hand shake. “They have you leading the task force?”
Crayne accepted with a smirk. "Please, it's Jurgen. But yeah, I am. Your droid has caused a bit of a disturbance."
Conwell gave a small nod and slowly followed the agent inside. Aside from the commotion from the assembled security task force and a few administrative personnel, the room was empty, save for 1360's notepad, pens and two large black puddles on the floor.
Conwell quietly moved through the crowd to the notebook, gingerly picking it up and flipping through its pages. All were blank. He then sighed as he looked down at the puddles. Each was black as obsidian, with the consistency of pudding. Kneeling down, Conwell swirled a gloved finger through the goo and gave a small, sad smile.
Foundation Protocol, he thought to himself.
“So, what're you thinking, Jacob?” Crayne asked as he moved to stand by Conwell's side, “You're the expert on this thing. Where should we start looking?”
“Nowhere,” Conwell replied. “1360's been neutralized. Anderson activated its Foundation Protocol.”
“Its what?”
“It's a built in self-destruct mechanism,” Conwell answered, showing the black liquid on his hand to the agent. “We've seen it before during Agent Merlo's failed sting last week. Anderson wasn't trying to get the droid out. They wanted to destroy it.”
The room fell silent. All eyes turned to the black puddles. Eventually, one of the administrative staff ordered samples to be taken and for the task force to disperse and await further orders. Conwell was given clearance to catch his flight.
One by one, the personnel filed out of the room, eventually leaving only Conwell and the researchers left behind to collect samples from the puddle. Conwell's sad smile returned as he stared into the black liquid, barely able to see his own reflection in the dim lighting.
Goodbye, he thought to himself, and then turned to take his leave.

Part Four: Building Up | Peregrine | Part Five


The janitors clean the bathrooms. Otherwise, no one knows or does shit.

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The Stuff Industry Week 1: Looking for Stuff
Thank you. I love you.
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

To : SPF_Dodger@*.org
From : CortezCae@*.org
CC : MISSION WATCH GROUP SE ASIA
Subject : "Stuff Co." Assets
Dear Friends,
Some time ago we received word of a drug raid in Malaysia in which certain pharmaceutical products were found that may have some relevance to us. The drugs in question were said to be entirely fraudulent, consisting of pill capsules filled with 'garbage'. Despite this, the pills were in high demand in the region as a sort of cure-all for a wide variety of ailments, including certain forms of cancer.
I know as well as you all do the sort of quackery out there, but I did some more investigating and discovered more. There is definitely something to this medicine, and it has proven effective exactly as described. We got ahold of some of these pills and discovered that they were indeed filled with regular dirt. However, during testing, it had a most remarkable effect.
Our volunteers who had been suffering a number of physical ailments discovered that they made almost full recoveries within days. Diseased and wounded flesh fell away like scabs, replaced with healthy pink flesh. A litany of tests has shown nothing wrong with any of them, and to this day they continue to report that they are happy and healthy.
This drug had no name, and the company ascribed to it was simply known as "Stuff Co." A bit more research has found evidence that this company once operated out of Southeast Asia and Australia and produced a wide range of products, all undoubtedly of an anomalous nature.
While the company appears to no longer be in business, their products remain in circulation around the world. I cannot emphasize hard enough what it would mean if we could get ahold of some of these products, or even some of the former employees who could potentially help us in producing more of these miracle pills and other life-saving products.
I'm attaching a list of individuals known to have been employed by "Stuff Co." (or alternately, "A Place for my Stuff, Inc."). Each of them has a letter and a number beside their name. At the bottom of this e-mail, I will include the letter and number of the person I want you specifically to investigate.
Do whatever you can to get information from them. Remind them of who we are and what we do, and that this can be the starting point of a whole new world for all of us. If anyone is unable to carry out this assignment, please reply to this e-mail (don't hit reply all!).
Dodger: Your code assignment is E4 a man named Sam Challon.
Caecilia Cortez
Signature stuff
MCF

Dodger stared at the man across from her incredulously. She wasn't entirely convinced he wasn't intentionally trying to aggravate her — here she was, exhausted and looking half asleep, and he was seated upright with a chipper smile. He was her third interview in as many days, despite being the only contact she was officially assigned to investigate.
"You serious? I just asked you half an hour ago if you wanted a coffee and you said you didn't like coffee."
"I said I didn't like black coffee. I didn't know you'd be going out and getting the sweet stuff. Figured you had coffee in here, regular black kind."
She stared at him, he stared back. Nothing seemed to reflect in those blue eyes. Maybe he was being an ass, but she couldn't afford to antagonize their only lead on the Stuff people. She slid her own coffee across to him. He looked at the rim, as if expecting a lipstick imprint and wanting to wipe it down first.
"I'm not under arrest, am I?"
Dodger smirked, "I'm not police. We're just a charitable foundation looking for some promising donors. Please go on."
"Alright, so," He went on, "Typical day in the life at Stuff Industry."
"Stop. 'Stuff Industry'?"
"Yeah."
She pulled over the catalogue cover, and pushed it towards him, "This says 'A Place for my Stuff, Inc.'"
He seemed to have noticed it for the first time, "Oh… yeah, I don't know. Place had a bunch of different names before I joined up."
"Including this one?"
He shook his head, "No. Never heard of this before. Reminds me of something, though. Oh yeah — George Carlin! He had a routine about people's houses, said that houses are really just a place for your stuff, while you go out to buy more stuff."
She leaned closer, propping her chin on her hand to keep from dropping her head in frustration, "Typical day in the life at Stuff Industry…?"
"Yeeeeah," He sipped from the coffee, waiting a moment before going on, "So pretty much everyone is in on it, but no one says shit. All sorts of crazies get hired and no one knows why. Front desk, there are two women there as lobby attendants. No fucking idea why there's two since neither of them does much of anything to justify one person working the desk."
"What do they do?"
"They sit there and direct everyone upstairs. Doesn't matter what it is; upstairs. There's a woman upstairs behind an identical desk who actually does the job of sorting out visitors. Only one."
"So what's… what's special about this? Just sounds like needless waste."
"Check it, though; the offices. That's where I worked. There's like four levels of offices for a hundred people total. There's less than fifty of us. Orders come from up top, 'Do this', 'Send this message to client', 'Deal with this lawsuit.' Sometimes it gets done, most of the time we get a wrong name, phone numbers' disconnected, e-mail address misspelled or don't exist. Then it gets sent back up the line, 'return to sender' type shit. No one hears shit about the assignment again. New one comes next time, same routine. Paychecks are cashed, hours are logged, time is wasted, shit gets done, somehow."
"How is this different from a typical office environment?"
He grinned, then shook his head with a surprising tenseness, "You don't understand. I'm not saying we dick around and just coast on by. Year before I quit, some asshole on the seventeenth floor drops something behind one of the printers, and accidentally pulls the plug. Someone raises hell about it six weeks later. I go and plug it in, printer starts printing out six weeks worth of backlogged shit from all over the office. Fuckin' no one thought to check it out for six weeks. No one."
"I'm still waiting to see what makes this whole situation extraordinary and not just complete and utter incompetence."
The man nodded, "That's alright. Moving up higher on the ladder, we got the labs. The labs are the scariest shit. Everyone who works there signs confidentiality agreements. Solid shit, too — I once knew a girl who worked there, she couldn't keep a secret to save her life. Got her drunk as hell and started asking what she did. She wouldn't peep. She seemed okay, though; all the lab people were. Not like grim men in black types, just normal people not spilling company secrets. Oh, and outside of the labs, there's people waiting. Like a doctor's office. This is the scary shit — the people are always the same, every day. Some of them are completely naked, they don't give a fuck. You talk to them, they don't say anything. You push them, they'll push you back, then security might get involved, but otherwise they just sit there. They're there when the first guy gets in in the morning, they're there when the last guy leaves at night. Always the same people."
"You sure they're people?"
"They're not robots."
Dodger sighed, and leaned back in her seat, "Further up the ladder…?"
"Board of Directors. There's like eight of them. Normal people, seems. Except for about five of them."
Dodger kept leaning back in her seat, waiting for the hammer to fall.
"There's two of these guys, brothers, like Indian or Pakistani or something. They speak decent English, but they don't know shit about running a business. Also, there's a woman there who was a prostitute. Don't get me wrong, she's smart as hell, smartest person in the whole building probably. But she was definitely like… recently a prostitute. Not like, ten years ago, but like, last week kind of thing. Another guy there, he keeps staring at her. Nothing inappropriate just stares like she's some kind of monster. Pretty sure he's wasted 24/7 or something. No fucking way that guy was ever in his right mind."
"And the fifth?" Dodger was starting to be impressed, but still none of this lead anywhere she could see.
"Fifth guy. Chinese guy. Nasty motherfucker. Barely spoke English, dressed like he was a fucking butler, with tuxedo and bow tie every day. Yelled at everyone in Chinese, never smiled. No one was sure he even worked there till they saw he had his name on an office."
"A circus of misfits, but what does this have to do with anything?"
He shrugged, "You're the one asking. Anyway, then there's the CEO. Mr. Petter Vangen. Not sure if his name is 'Peter' but all the documents with his name on them say 'Petter', so we all call him Petter."
"What's his wacky talent?"
"He's in his office all day every day, from 7 in the morning to 7 at night. Comes out for breakfast and lunch. Nice guy, talkative. Guy speaks the worst broken English you've ever heard. Can't spell worth a damn either. He sends personal e-mails and they're an ugly mess. He's got no professionalism at all and no sign that he's ever been to high school, much less got any proper business experience."
"So…?"
"So everything comes from him. Memos, work orders, letters, everything from his office. All in perfect, proper English, all perfectly spelled."
"So…?"
"I mean it, they come from him — none of the secretaries writes anything or does anything, they just pick up the papers and send them on down. He is sending them out. Or someone with him, in his office. No one goes in or out but him, though."
"He's keeping the company afloat all on his own, then?"
"You don't get it — the guy, for lack of a better word, is a complete and utter moron. Guy's a tool. He could be jackin' it in his office all day every day. Sometimes the memos come out of his office and they're in Spanish or Creole. One was in fuckin' Chinese. Guy doesn't speak or understand any of those languages. Like it matters; everything trickles down, and it all stops at us or the lab techs, and for shit us office types didn't get anything done."
At least now they had gotten somewhere. Dodger mashed her palms into her eyes as she sat upright, "So the CEO…"
"He don't know shit. Doesn't do shit."
"The board of directors…"
"Don't know or do shit."
"The lab techs, the office workers, security and maintenance, the janitorial staff…"
"The janitors clean the bathrooms. Otherwise, no one knows or does shit."
"And that's all you know about The Stuff Industry, as far as you worked for them at their main office?"
"Pretty much just that. Shit happened, products were made, profits were turned. Just without any of the employees involved."

Dodger was on the phone as the man went out, still with Dodger's coffee in hand.
"Hey," She grumbled.
"Ey," The voice on the other end was more animated, but had the same flat tone, "The guy?"
"Doesn't know shit."
"Elaborate," Director Hong's voice reverberated, louder than normal.
"He had some stories to tell. No one in the office noticed the printer was unplugged for over a month. Bosses are stupid, bosses are incompetent, no one knows what's being done, secret lab doing secret stuff so secret even the lab workers don't know what it is."
"Shitkicker," Hong grumbled.
"Familiar story?"
"Pretty much what everyone's been told thus far. 'See nothing, hear nothing, know nothing.' Starting to refer to the ex-employees as the 'Know-Nothings'."
Dodger sighed, and leaned back in her chair, "Any more?"
"We've got some Mission Watch people who dropped out. Passport issues and such. If you're up for a quick flight to Kuala Lumpur, you can get ahold of a few more and see what they've got to say."
"May as well… I could use some extra rest."

Week 1 | Week 1 Day 3 »


Jakeob Aldon stared at the clock hanging from the wall with a look alternating between utter focus and total boredom. She stood behind the register of Spicy Crust Pizza, attempting to will the hour hand along. Maybe, if she tried hard enough, she would suddenly become a reality bender. Maybe she already was, and she just had a very specific ability- the ability to make her shift hurry the fuck up and end.
It turned out that she was not a reality bender, however. She was, in fact, a totally normal baseline human. Something that might change soon. Aldon had spent the last week thinking about what the aussies had in mind, and what she would get in return for helping them. A new body. Probably a golem fashioned from morphing clay, her soul transferred and bound during the clay firing process. Once finished, it would be identical to a normal human body. Provided everything went absolutely perfectly.
And if Aldon knew anything, it was that nothing was truly perfect. That niggling doubt that she would make some mistake, the idea that her own inability would doom her, had dogged her since she had made the call to Felix.
By the time she consciously realized she had gone from trying to break normality to very desperately hoping she would adhere to it, a whole twenty seconds had passed. It had felt like an hour. Or at least a solid five minutes.
"Go fasterrr," she groaned at the clock.
"Talking to yourself?" Margret Williams asked, poking Aldon in the back as she did so.
After spazzing out for a moment, Aldon stood up straight."What- no, I'm just standing here doing my job, like a normal person."
"R…right." Margret shifted her weight away from Aldon for a moment. "Uh, anyway, you're wanted in the back."
Panic lanced through Aldon as she realized just how much time she spent spacing out at work. When Margret then went on to mention it was for an employment review, Aldon's shoulders sagged so much they might have dislocated her arms.
"Right. Higher up. Inspection-review-dealio. Thanks, Margret."
Margret touched Aldon's shoulder as she passed. "You alright, Aldon?"
"Uh. No. Not really. Lots of stress. Um. Y'know- girl stuff."
Margret began to chuckle before she caught herself. She quickly cleared her throat in an effort to make it seem like that was what she had been doing all along. She opened her mouth as if to say something, perhaps apologize, and then continued pretending to cough.
Aldon just nodded awkwardly and made a beeline for the manager's office. She knocked on the slightly ajar door and peeked inside. A man she didn't recognize was sitting within, wearing a suit that he didn't look all that comfortable in. He scratched at the coarse stubble along his jaw absently until he took notice of Aldon.
"Oh, hey there!" He was up and out of the chair in one quick motion. He offered a loose handshake, a grin on his face. "Jakeob Aldon? Nice to meet you. I'm Daniel Navarro, I'll be asking you some questions. Please, take a seat."
He shut the door and locked it. Aldon thought that a little strange, but dismissed it as one of the neurotic tendencies she had picked up along the years. Navarro moved over to the desk while Aldon sat down, but rather than sitting down himself he popped open a folder and flicked through it for a moment. He then plucked one paper from it and slid it over to Aldon.

Act normal. Do not react to what I'm about to do.

"So, how do you like it here? Do you like your boss? Your fellow employees?"
"Um. They're alright. Good. No complaints. I, uh, usually keep to myself, I guess."
As they said this, Navarro withdrew six small pieces of paper from the folder and bent down on the ground, affixing one to the floor. He stood and circled the room, placing one on each wall.
He climbed up on the manager's chair. "I see. Any particular reason for that?"
Aldon watched as he affixed the last paper to the ceiling. "Just… shy, I guess."
"That's okay," Navarro said as he hopped off the chair. He then sat in it, unbuttoning his suit and loosening his tie. "Nothing wrong with that. You can react now, by the way."
Aldon chewed on her tongue, nodding in thought. She went with what she felt was a good opening question. "Who the hell are you?"
The grin was still there. "I told you. I'm Daniel Navarro. I'm here to ask you some questions. And make you an offer."
Aldon sighed. "Right, but like, who do you work for?"
"You don't know?" Navarro palmed his chin. Aldon shook her head. "Ha! And they say memetics are bullshit. Spicy Crust Pizza. SCP. The Foundation."
Blocked channels within Aldon's mind suddenly flooded. She left the chair so fast she knocked it over. "Wait- fuck- what? That… Fucking memetics are bullshit."
"Well, bullshit in that they're annoying, not ineffective." Navarro shrugged. He was still smiling, which was beginning to bother Aldon. "Relax, Aldon. I come in peace. The Foundation wants to make you an offer."
Aldon sat against the opposite wall, her head in her hands. "I work. For the Foundation."
"Well, not exactly. See, this is just a front. Nobody save for the owner actually knows."
Aldon wasn't really listening. "I've been good. Careful! Don't do anything too big, nothing dangerous. Keep myself normal. And I've been under you this whole time. You guys probably have cameras and shit all over the place in here, huh?"
"Indeed, we do." Navarro got up from the chair and approached Aldon. He crouched down and offered her a much smaller smile than earlier. "But, hey. We haven't done anything to you. We've known since you applied, and rather than taking you in we gave you a job."
"That actually makes sense. Keep people of interest somewhere you can watch them. Man. Fuck. So, what- wait, what about Finn?"
"He's fine. For now. Depending on your cooperation that might change."
The conflicted look on his face did not stem Aldon's frustration. "Man, fuck you."
Navarro held his hands out apologetically. "Sorry. Just doing my job. Can I tell you what we want you to do?"
Aldon crossed her arms. She hoped to look indifferent rather than desolate. "Whatever."
Navarro took a breath and then became just a bit more serious. "We want you to accept that offer from the Are We Cool Yet? sect that contacted you. Aldon, you're not a problem. But they are."
"You want me to set them up."
"Correct. Most anartists manage to stay under our radar. Even a good chunk of the aussies don't bring much attention to themselves. But these guys do. They were involved in this big… mess on the east coast that we weren't able to deal with, and now they're on the west coast."
Aldon reached out and grabbed nothing. "Y'know, I finally had a decent chance. A slim one, but it was all in my hands. And now it's gone cuz Big Brother was like 'Fuck you, Aldon.' Shit, I probably never can now that I know you guys are watching me."
Navarro slumped. "I'm really sorry about that. I have a trans friend, he's… not happy. I won't say I know what it's like, but I can empathize. I might- and this is a really tiny might- be able to help you with that. I'll submit a request. But I doubt it'll be accepted."
It meant almost nothing, and she wasn't even sure if he was serious, but even as an empty gesture it meant a lot to her. She shrugged again.
Navarro slapped her arm reassuringly. "Listen, nine years ago? I was in your shoes."
Aldon managed a glare. "And now you work for them."
Navarro grinned again. "Make the best of a bad situation. I'd like to think I helped the anart scene in my own way."
"So… why not just take them when they walk into your fucking pizzeria? Like, how hard would that be? Why do I need to double agent this shit?"
"My superiors think they may be the tip of the iceberg. There's been a lot of antagonistic anart activity in the area recently. They think Paulson and Cori are involved. And they are surprisingly difficult to find. Like they have something to clean up any tracks they make."
"Fine. Whatever." Aldon stood, rejecting Navarro's offered help to stand. She glared some more as he straightened his tie and buttoned back up. "Are we done here?"
"Well, you're in a sound-proofed room for the moment. You have to go back to work for a few hours after this. Care to vent?"
"Oh. Yes. Thank you."
Aldon took a deep breath and then began thrashing around.
"FfffffUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"
Navarro clutched at his ears. "Jesus! I meant let me leave first! Christ."

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[ACCESS RESTRICTED]

COVER PAGE
CLASS-A
CLASS-B
CLASS-C
CLASS-D
CLASS-E
CLASS-F
O5 ACCESS ONLY

SCP FOUNDATION AMNESTIC USE GUIDE

CLASSIFIED

The following revision to
this document (version 7.8)
was approved by the
Ethics Committee on 07/21/2013 for
use by personnel at Research Site-45

Disclaimer: This is NOT to be used as a training manual. Training manuals are given during the actual classes. To request training, please send an official request to your immediate supervisor. Take note that this is a site specific document, please refer to your on-site protocols regarding amnestic use.

The purpose of this document is to provide Foundation personnel with a quick reference guide as to the usage, effects, and protocol regarding amnestics. An amnestic is an amnesia-inducing agent that can take many different forms. For the purposes of the Foundation, it is mainly used in suppressing sensitive information by expunging intangible memories. In most cases, they are applied post-incident.
The use of amnestics is decided on a case by case basis unless the authority of higher clearance levels is invoked as explained in the following pages. Amnestics are considered one of the most powerful tools in use by the Foundation. Great care and proper training is mandatory in the handling and application of amnestics in an appropriate manner.
The abuse of amnestics is strictly prohibited and will result in disciplinary action, demotion, or both. In all cases, the Ethics Committee has the final word on approval and decisions regarding amnestic use and misuse respectively.

If you would like more information or to report suspected amnestic abuse, please use the online submission form below. All submissions will be sent to the Ethics Committee Amnestic Review Board.

[OPEN SUBMISSION FORM]

[CANCEL]

Amnestic Inquiry/Incident Submission Form

CLASS - A

Visual Code: Single Black Stripe
Clearance Use: Trained Level-1 and Above
Delivery Methods: Aerosol
Effectiveness: 6 - 12hrs
Usage Protocols: Approved for General Field Use
Side Effects: Sedation, Headaches, Nausea
Detailed Description: Gaseous Class-A is the most commonly used amnestic in the field. The main benefit when using Class-A is that it can be administered to not only one, but many individuals. In some documented cases, Class-A has been used on entire populations with the aid of aerial application. Other applications also include 40mm cartridges that can be launched to deliver Class-A into an enclosed area or room, as well as small handheld aerosol sprayers for single use.
Because of its chemical composition, accidental overdose is extremely unlikely with minimal training on Class-A applications. This safety feature allows Class-A to be used liberally as an inhalant. It is also convenient in use as it requires little to no follow-up on affected individuals, as it has a 98.7% success rate. Class-A is ideal for use by field agents, rapid response teams, and MTF groups.
The only concern when using Class-A is accidental self-application. Personnel trained in the use of Class-A are instructed in the use of application devices as well as environmental conditions that may cause an incident. It is recommended that at least one other Foundation employee be present during the application of Class-A as to facilitate the continuation of duties in case of accidental self-application by a user.

CLASS - B

Visual Code: Double Aqua Stripe
Clearance Use: Trained Level-2 and Above
Delivery Methods: Oral, Injection
Effectiveness: 20 - 72hrs
Usage Protocols: Approved for General Field Use
Side Effects: Sedation, Prolonged Paresthesia, Migraines, Blurred Vision
Detailed Description: Chemically, there is little difference between Class-A and Class-B. The main difference is the application; Class-A is inhaled, whereas Class-B is either ingested or injected directly into the bloodstream. Used in this fashion, Class-A is allowed to have a larger effect on the body than it would normally have. Class-B commonly comes in the form of dissolving tablets or liquid.
The most common delivery method is by dissolving Class-B tablets into water and allowing the individual to ingest it. Use of Class-B is also commonly employed in ballistic syringes and launched via compressed gas. Class-B is just as safe to use as Class-A, making it ideal for use in many departments. Class-B also has a record of far fewer accidental self-application incidents than Class-A, due in part to its delivery and storage, allowing for a single user to administer without the presence of additional staff.

CLASS - C

Visual Code: Triple Bronze Stripe
Clearance Use: Level-3 Authorization and Above
Delivery Methods: Injection
Effectiveness: 4 - 9 Days
Usage Protocols: General Use for Post-Interrogations/Detainment at a Foundation Controlled Site
Side Effects: Sedation, Slight Paralysis (Medical Attention Required)
Detailed Description: Unlike Class-A and Class-B, Class-C is a much more potent variant. As such, the after effects and risk inherent to the application of Class-C requires the aid of Foundation medical personnel. Persons must have medical training to administer Class-C via syringe directly into the bloodstream. Class-C is mainly employed to detained individuals so that Class-C can be used in a controlled setting. Afterwards, detainees may be released only after being cleared by medical staff.
Class-C is not approved for general field use and may only be requested by investigators, interrogators, and any other Level-3 approved usage. Class-C has a 92.8% success rate, and may require follow-up examinations or doses. Personnel are prohibited from using Class-C on a single individual more than four times.

CLASS - D

Visual Code: Checkered Olive Band
Clearance Use: Requires at Least Two Level-3 Personnel Authorization and Supervision to be Administered
Delivery Methods: Injection (2 Stage Dose Through IV)
Effectiveness: +3 Weeks
Usage Protocols: To be Used to Counter Effects of Anomalous Psychoses and/or Memetic Incursions
Side Effects: Sedation, Paralysis (Post-Incident Rehabilitation Required), Possible Brain Damage
Detailed Description: Class-D once held a lower designation until it was superseded and replaced with a more appropriate amnestic (see Class-C) for use on detainees. Before that, Class-D was employed regularly with limited success in individuals as many adverse-effects of the brain after application were found to be inadmissible by the Ethics Committee. Thus, Class-D was reviewed and found to be more appropriately used in cases where brain damage or a major chronic chemical imbalance was already prevalent in the individual.
These cases usually involve anomalous mental effects and/or memetic incursions of the mind. Because the effects of memetics can be largely unknown, the use of a potent and riskier amnestic was approved as an option as to counter/control the effects. Class-D can only be employed by medical staff in a controlled setting. Level-3 supervision is required as to facilitate the protection of medical staff from the patient if needed.

CLASS - E

Visual Code: Vertical Salmon Bar
Clearance Use: Level-4 Request Pending Case Decision by the Ethics Committee
Delivery Methods: Injection (Multiple Stage Doses Through IV)
Effectiveness: Complete Recall Expungement
Usage Protocols: In Situations Where the Individual's Identity is Deemed to be a Threat.
Side Effects: Sedation, Long-term Paralysis, Possible Brain Damage or Catatonic Symptoms (Post-Incident Rehabilitation Required)
Detailed Description: Class-E can only be given by medical staff in a controlled setting after a formal request has been submitted by Level-4 staff and approved by the Ethics Committee. Upon administration, medical staff will be required to oversee the individual during recovery. Only 0.02% of individuals entered a permanent vegetative state after being administered Class-E. In these cases, the individual will be remitted to an appropriate civilian hospital indefinitely.

[LEVEL-4 ACCESS ONLY]

[ACCESS GRANTED]

Additional Details: Class-E is not an amnestic. It is intentionally designed to put the individual into a drug induced coma permanently. It is to be used in cases where termination of an individual is not possible or preferable. Foundation staff of Level-3 or lower are not permitted to know the actual purpose of Class-E.
For all intents and purposes, Class-E rehabilitation is to be interpreted as entirely possible and any observed adverse effects are to be explained as being the rare exception rather than the desired outcome. Persons administering Class-E may only do so once during their employment as to prevent suspicion.

CLASS - F

Visual Code: Solid Silver Band
Clearance Use: Level-4 Authorization (Human Trial Testing)
Delivery Methods: Injection (Multiple Stage Doses Used in Conjunction with Other Psychotropics), Visual/Audio Stimuli, Electroconvulsive Therapy
Effectiveness: Memory Recall Expungement and Identity Reconditioning
Usage Protocols: Experimental Use Only Pending Formal Review
Side Effects: Sedation, Short-term Paralysis, Increased Susceptibility to Visual/Audio Stimuli
Detailed Description: Class-F is currently in Alpha stages of testing. All data on human trials are currently under review by the Ethics Committee. In all human trials, 83.9% succeeded in complete retention of their respective reconditioned identities. The entire process approximately takes 5 days of continuous conditioning and therapy to produce the desired effect.
Class-F can only be administered under the direction of psychology and medical staff in a controlled and completely isolated setting. Class-F is administered with a combination of other psychotropics to allow the individual to accept external input for reconditioning with limited subconscious resistance. External visual and audio stimuli will need to be personalized based on the individual's original psyche and their resulting fabricated identity for maximum probability of success. Coupled with the additional aid of electroconvulsive therapy, Class-F is very effective in identity reconditioning.
Afterward, individuals may be released into the general population under minimal observation. In regards to specific SCPs, Class-F has been discussed as a passive and safer alternative to physical containment.

[O5 ACCESS ONLY]

[ACCESS GRANTED]

CLASSIFIED: ENNUI PROTOCOL

Visual Code: Puce Icon
Clearance Use: Unanimous Decision by O5 Council
Delivery Methods: Unknown
Effectiveness: Unknown
Usage Protocols: For Emergency Use Only
Side Effects: Unknown
Detailed Description:

To Whom it May Concern,
If you are reading this, then something horrible has happened and despite your best efforts, this is your last desperate option. To be honest, there is no way to know what will happen. Whomever in their infinite wisdom made this, hastily scribbled the instructions on a notepad in the O5 office so very long ago.
These instructions for the so-called Ennui Protocol explain the necessity of a unanimous decision by this council, a long code consisting of all O5 private employee numbers in reverse order typed into our work terminal, and that it should be referenced somewhere so we can find it again. This way we don't forget about it in situations like this. We assume it affects everyone in some fashion… we hope.
Don't bother looking into it. Whatever the actual device or agent or cognitohazard or memetic phrase or some other abstract thing is, it's hidden very well somewhere in the bowels of Research Site-45 and the people who put it there are either dead or have long since forgotten about it. The truly bewildering thing is we don't even know how many times we've used the Ennui Protocol before this. We have to relearn it every time it seems. Even as I am writing this, we are preparing to invoke it off-site. So I am attempting to convey all the little clues left here and there and consolidate it in this handwritten note for either my future self or other O5 council members.
Apparently, there are things that even us O5 hide from ourselves. The only thing we know is that this has worked before. Good luck and God speed.
Secure. Contain. Protect.
-O5