A collaborative work between myself and SCP Illustrated. Felt like it could stand to go up on the wiki. Hope you enjoy it!

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F.A.Q.

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Condemnation
Twenty-Seven. There have been twenty-seven attempts on SCP-096's life in the past 6 months. All directed by the man who set him free, Dr. Daniels.
Daniels, for his part, has spent the last 6 months in a cell. On a good day he is escorted to the testing chambers to oversee an attempt, and then back to that cell. His termination has been delayed in order to allow him to oversee the destruction of SCP-096. But the O5s are losing their patience. Dr. Daniels is a condemned man. But if all he can do is fail, well, they have plenty of other people who can handle this project.
He has a month left. Regardless of his results, at the end of that month he will be terminated. These are his last days, and last attempts to take SCP-096 with him.
Conversation

Dr. Daniels: Did it work?
Dr. Carver: 682 skinned 096 and then dissolved its flesh with acid. The bones were unaffected though. It's actually quite astounding.
Dr. Daniels: Yeah, he's a real miracle.
Dr. Carver: Perhaps you could treat this with a bit more seriousness?
Dr. Daniels: You know they're gonna kill me once we get this right, yeah? I think a little sarcasm is a small price to pay for my sanity.
Dr. Carver: You killed hundreds of people. These are the consequences..
Dr. Daniels: I didn't kill anyone. That thing killed them. I just showed you what was possible.
Dr. Carver: I feel like we're getting off topic.
Dr. Daniels: Fine. Dr. Daniels pauses. Wait! The statue!
Dr. Carver: What are you talking about?
Dr. Daniels: You said its bones were still intact. Breaking bones is what 173 does.
Dr. Carver: You want to cross test an object you can't look at with an object you have to look at? The logistics alone would be…
Dr. Daniels: Do you think it's a bad idea?
Dr. Carver: I think most of what you say is a bad idea. This is perhaps one of the more promising ones.

Presentation
Dr. Daniels stands at the center of a large room. The tension in the room is palpable. Dr. Daniels can almost feel the hate of the scientists, agents, and command council members when they glance in his direction. Regardless, he takes a step back and motions to the screen behind him.
"SCP-096 has proven much more difficult to destroy than we previously had considered. You've been briefed on our past attempts. Fire, radiation, acid, kinetic force. Our most recent test involved SCP-682, and it was also unsuccessful."
As he speaks, the screen behind Dr. Daniels flips through numerous images of SCP-096 as seen from behind. Each shows SCP-096 with various amounts and types of inflicted damage.
"In every test, regardless of the damage dealt to the rest of it, SCP-096's bones survive unscathed. We have attempted to drill into the skull through the ocular sockets, but have been unsuccessful."
An image of a broken drill bit appears on the screen behind Dr. Daniels.
"Every single test has shown that SCP-096's bones are completely indestructible."
There is a pause, and then an image of a broken vertebrae appears on the screen.
"Until yesterday."
A small murmur rises from the crowd.
"SCP-173 was exposed to SCP-096 and successfully broke its spine into two pieces between the fourth and fifth vertebrae."
The image of a hole ripped into the side of a metal wall appears on the screen behind Dr. Daniels.
"Of course after 5 hours of having its neck snapped, things went a little sideways. But recovery was accomplished fairly quickly. And you are now one step closer to being able to punish me. Congratulations."
No one laughs.
Termination
"Hold him!"
Dr. Daniels screamed at the agents from a nearby observation room as they connected a pipe to the now broken and open bones.
SCP-096's marrow spilled slightly around the edges of the pipes as the hooked nozzle was latched into place. SCP-096 screamed and flailed as the pipe began to pump hydrofluoric acid directly into both the body and brain cavity of the monster.
Acid bubbled out of the creature's mouth, and the bag they'd placed on its head smoked, before dissolving away completely. The thing's face, at once terrifying and pained, was melting away before their eyes. The agent's attempts to keep it pinned down now failed completely. It reached it hands up to cover its melting face.
A face they had all just looked at.
A single voice called out from the opposite side of the room from the agents surrounding SCP-173. "Blinking!"
Then a low gurgling scream began in SCP-096's throat. It rose in pitch and volume gradually until it was a deafening screech. The agents let the thing go and moved to the walls. Other agents moved slightly closer and leveled their guns.
The monster's skin began to slough off into a puddle on the floor. Its gut burst and acid flew out in a small spray. The agents had facial protection from the acid, but nothing to protect them from its face.
SCP-096 dropped its hands to its sides. It looked up at one of the agents, reached out, and began to run.
Everyone opened fire.
For the first time, and perhaps the last, bullets sank into the thing's body and bones. The first volley shattered the collar bone and threw the monster onto its back. It tried to get up but the fire continued. They fired methodically up and down its body. Starting with its legs and ending with its shattered dissolving head.
When they were done, there was nothing left but a pool of acid, gore, and rage. Spreading slowly across the floor.
A voice called out again. "Blinking!"
The agents at Dr. Daniel's sides each grabbed one of his shoulders. A third put him into handcuffs and they led him out of the room.

« Vs. Hub | Snap. Crackle. Pop. »


"What the hell is your deal?"
Larry sat opposite Greg at the lunch table, using a metal tray as a metaphorical and physical barrier between them. "How did you become like…this? You can't just end up becoming a talking crocodile without some story behind it!"
Greg looked up from his meat patty pie and looked at Larry.
"You want to know my history? Is this for a report?"
Without hesitation, Larry replied, "Yes."
The crocodile stretched its limbs out and groaned, nearly knocking over Larry's makeshift barrier.
"Very well then, allow me to start at the beginning, exactly 10 years ago."
This is going to be a long day.
"In the beginning, I was a fairly small and naive crocodilian. I was apart of the species family C. porosus, or Saltwater Cro-"
"Hang on, can you fast forward it a little bit? I don't want to end up sitting here for the rest of the day."
The croc adjusted his shirt. "Very well, I'll begin at the point I was aware of my own sentience, will that suffice?"
"Greatly."
"Excellent. At the point that I gained sentience, I was unable to recall how it happened. After a while I theorised that due to my overabundance of willpower, my brain's frontal cortex evolved to the point of increasing the intelligence and sapience to that of a human being."
By this time, other researchers had noticed Larry and Greg's conversation. One researcher came over behind Larry, nearly giving the poor bastard a heart attack when he spoke.
"Oh man, look here guys! Greg's giving Larry his backstory!"
A small crowd surrounded the table, teeming with researchers eager to learn about this crocodile's journey to the Foundation. The crowd didn't seem to faze Greg, as he continued to recall and share his past.
"After a substantial amount of time since I acquired sentience, I began to tire of my old life. Nothing but unsuccessful hunts and embarrassing attempts to mate with a female of my kind. And so, one day, after a successful catch of a wallaby, it was then that I decided to quit my old life and start to pursue my dreams. I would become a biologist."
Larry held his head up using his hands. "Please tell me I'm dreaming."
"I'm afraid not, Larry. If you can, please refrain from speaking during this part of my past, it's very close to my heart and I would not be the person I am without it."
Larry nodded. Greg took a deep breath, and then began speaking again.
"After experimenting with human technology, I became accustomed to it, managing to find a suitable online university to take my course in. It was a blast! The classes were magnificent, the professors were helpful, and I could do it without revealing my true identity."
The croc went silent for a brief moment.
"But then, the day came. I cannot remember which day it was, or what happened before, but I remember exactly what happened at the university that day. Because I was so enthusiastic about earning my degree, and taking the final exams, I forgot that I was not like the others. When I stepped onto the campus that day, it all happened at once. The yells, the screams and curses. The sirens and barking dogs, the struggle of men lifting me into the back of a truck, my cries of apologies falling on deaf ears…"
The air became still and stale. Greg looked down at his food for what seemed to be hours. Larry pulled down his barrier and put his hand over to the reptile.
"Greg?"
The croc put his hand up.
"Apologies, the flashback I just experienced was intense. Back to my story. By the time I got locked in my cell, the Foundation had already heard of what happened, a sapient crocodile roaming a university campus. Hilarious in hindsight, now that I roam an office all day without a single bat of an eye, except from the new guys." He let out a chuckle. "After I spent my days in a cage that was designed to contain a fairly large kangaroo, I was found and subsequently released by the Foundation. If I recall correctly, it was one of the former staff here: Steve. The staff interviewed me about my life story up to that point, and I told what I knew at the time. They first thought of making me a classified anomaly and contain me on a research site located in the jungle, but after they found out about my scientific expertise I was appointed as one of the staff, under the condition that I do not revert to my previous animalistic state. I agreed."
Larry had his head down on the table by this time. The small crowd of researchers grew to include some of the guards and doctors that passed by during their shift.
"I'm still listening Greg, I'm just thinking whether or not you're making a joke or not."
"I do not joke, Larry, it's in my contract. Anyway, I got appointed as one of the researchers of the Bio Wing, and it was everything I hoped for. I could study to my heart's content, and help those out that had trouble distinguishing me from the other crocodilians we had here. Of course, I then encountered you. You seemed pretty afraid of me, but I believe you have grown accustomed of me now."
The croc stroked its lower jaw in thought.
"And I believe that's it. That's been my life, from the day I achieved sapience, to this very conversation."
The hushed whispers of researchers filled the room, most echoing the same thing. Greg's life was an odd one, to say the least, if not interesting. As Greg got up from the table, the crowd quietly dispersed. Larry lifted his head up, his face red from where his arms were.
"I hope that sufficed your curiosity, Larry. Let me know if you need anything else, I'll be in the flamingo enclosure."
After the break room emptied, and left only Larry, he took the time to process what just happened to him. With a heavy sigh, Larry stood up and began his walk to his next shift. Now that he thought about it, he has more questions than answers from Greg's life story. He made a mental note to ask him later, starting with how the hell he got the money to go to university!?

Foundation Down Under

Hide List

Larry's Arc

Tale

The Adventures Of Larry

Been A While, Crocodile

Tall, Pink, and Fearsome


October 31st
6:00 PM
Robert Tofflemire awoke to the sound of a heart monitor. Sitting next to him, half-asleep, was his partner. He had somehow gone from being flung against the wall to being in Site-87's infirmary. "Alice?" He asked. His words brought pain.
She flung awake. "Hey! D-don't talk." She put a hand on his shoulder. "You're fine. Thank god."
"Feels like I broke a rib…" He winced.
"Yeah. I… kind of broke it giving you CPR. Sorry." She let out an uneasy laugh.
"How long was I out for?" He sat up, grunting in pain.
"Listen."
Robert heard the sound of bass echoing through the site.
"Party's started?" He asked.
"Yeah," she confirmed. "It's gonna be going on for a while longer— Liao says that you should be okay if I take you up in a wheelchair." She held up a backpack. "I brought your costume."
"…did you break into my apartment?" He asked.
"Of course not. I found the keys that were on you."
After a few minutes, she was wheeling Robert through the halls of Site-87, to the barracks.
"So, what happened?"
"Well…"

2:30 AM
The Goatman's axe stopped short of Alison Carol's head. The tension in the air had vanished. Beneath her, Robert sprang to life with a gasp, sitting up, screaming in pain, and immediately falling back down.
Up in the projection booth, Alison heard her radio squawk to life. She took the one off of Robert. "This is Agent Carol, calling command."
«Agent Carol, what did you do?» Harold March sounded furious on the other end. «Tofflemire's life signs just spiked back on screen.»
"I—" she swallowed. "I just gave him CPR and an adrenaline injection, sir." It was the truth. "He- he's unconscious again. We need medivac."
«That's all?» Command asked. «No anomalous activity?»
"Negative. But I think he has a cracked rib."
«All right. We're sending agents in now.»
"4040-Omega is in the Projector Corridor on the second floor. It's… well, it's a two-toed sloth." She panted, and looked up at the Goatman. "What does this mean?"
The Goatman scowled, and looked down at his hooves. "To be honest? I have no clue. This entire street should have been swallowed up by what you just did."
Alison looked at the projector once more. "But that wouldn't make for a good story, would it?"
The Goatman looked up with her. "I hope he's worth it."
"Trust me. He is."
The doors to the theater opened again. Alison's attention was drawn towards the agents pouring in and evacuating the civilians. When she looked back, the Goatman was gone.

7:00 AM
"What do you mean, it's gotten bigger?"
Nina Weiss was in the middle of a very unpleasant video call. On the other end, Philip Verhoten, head of the Department of Nexology, showed her a map.
"This is the approximate range of the Sloth's Pit Nexus Zone as of September 2018. The red square is Site-87."

"And this is the approximate range as of yesterday morning."

"That's… almost double the area."
"It's over double the area." Verhoten frowned. "Whatever this… Pit Sloth did to the town affected it in ways that are immeasurable for the time being." He licked his lips. "Talking of, the status of 4040—"
"It's still there. It's shrunk back down to 100 feet— we had Ryan Melbourne monitor it in person."
"So, the Pit Sloth is just a normal sloth, and yet, Sloth's Pit is bigger." He looked over the second map again. "The zone is getting close to Lake Superior. God knows how that's going to affect the wildlife there."
"And there's an entire portion of the Latian river that's not covered by the zone." Weiss leaned back in her seat."We live in interesting times."
"Talking of… the loop, has it ceased?"

"Moment of truth?"
"Yeah."
Edward Valentine put his car into gear. Laura Ashbrooke was sitting in the passenger's seat, and they were driving down Main Street. Last time they had tried this, they got looped back to the other end of town the instant they hit the end of League. Now, they were about to try to cross over it.
Laura was on her phone, trying to choose between their favorite restaurants in Superior. "Sclavi's or Breakwater?"
Edward stared. "Those are both expensive, are you sure—"
Laura showed him the screen on her phone. It was a bank statement. "The check went through."
"Holy hell." Edward whistled.
"So. I've always wanted to go to London…"
"Sounds like something to do next summer." He leaned over to kiss her. "Happy birthday, love."
They drove past League Street and into the forest, bound for the big city. A truck drove behind them, transporting a two-toed sloth towards the zoo in Duluth.

Jasper Phineas Sloth walked over forbidden ground.
For one-hundred and twenty-seven years, the buck had stopped just north of Grey Lake. Now, he was watching the melting snow start to flood the Latian river. The sound of Lake Superior gulls echoed in the distance.
Further north, he found himself at a place that was local landmark, but not something that was part of the town— the Five Fingers. A series of rivers that flowed from Lake Superior, going into underground rivers. It was said— but never proven— that the rivers didn't exist, and the water flowed into a bottomless pit.
Behind him, a woman walked up, her left eye missing, her hair red, and her body clad in gear advertising the Incubi. "And they say nothing exciting ever happens around here."
"Who says that?" The Goatman looked down at Sinning Jessie.
"Dumbass kids from the town." She looked down into one of the five fingers. "The danse is happening tonight, yeah?"
"Of course."
Jessie leaned against the Goatman. "This whole month has been a clusterfuck."
"So have the past two years." Jasper dipped a hoof in the stream. "Lot of new territory available, now."
"I'm not saying it."
The Goatman chuckled. "But you do it so well!"
"I hate that accent!"
"Well then." From seemingly nowhere, Jasper produced a bag full of Butterfingers.
"Where did you get those?!"
"Swiped 'em from a gas station on the way out here. They'd never seen anything like me." He opened the bag.
"Oh, fine." Sinning Jessie laughed, and broke into an Irish brogue. "Oh brave new world, and all the things in't."
The Goatman threw her a Butterfinger. The walk back to town was long, and full of conversation.

Currently
"Are you sure you're able to walk?"
"I'll be fine!" Robert emerged from around the corner, supported by a cane with an 8-ball on the top. "I got this for a reason!"
He adjusted his fez, and looked Alison over. She was going for the more traditional Inter-Dimensional Corn Chip look, as opposed to a blonde person with an eyepatch. Size had to be sacrificed for mobility— no more would Bill Cipher be twice the size of an average human. Her head was concealed beneath a top hat, and her sleeves from her shoulders to her elbows were yellow; below that, it was black. At her chest, a single eye stood.
"C'mon, Fez-head!" Alison spoke in a near-perfect impersonation of Bill Cipher.
"That is creepy. I love it!" Robert took her arm for support and made his way to the elevators.

The two agents went unaccosted for no more than three minutes until the music stopped and the lights came up. Tristan Bailey was the DJ, returned just this morning. In the guise of Booker DeWitt, he placed his prop skyhook down and directed the spotlights onto them.
"I'd like to give a great big shout-out to the man and woman of the hour: Bob Tofflemire and Alice Carol!"
"It's Alis—" She began, and then she was drowned out by cheers. "Forget it."
When the music resumed, they skirted past Dr. Partridge as he came to have another helping of punch. She looked at Robert, and whispered, "Did he really shotgun punch last year?"
"Yeah." He looked himself over. "Okay, be honest with me."
"What?"
"Did I—" the music suddenly picked up in volume, and his question went unanswered for several minutes. "Dammit, Bailey!"
"Did you what?"
"Did I die, Alice?"
Alison's opened the flap in the tophat and took a long drink of punch. "You did, yeah. Only for a few minutes."
"And you didn't do anything weird to get me back?"
She tilted her head. "Like I said, CPR and adrenaline to the heart. Why?"
Robert made his way over to the windows. From his pocket, he produced a portable Narrative Fluctuation Detector, and waved it over himself. It lit up, showing there was malignant narrative on him.
Alison looked at the wand oddly— it was produced from his costume. The pockets on the jacket were barely large enough to stick his hands into. "How did you fit that in there? Hole in the lining?"
"I didn't." He placed the detector back into his pocket, and turned them out. They were empty.
Alison looked at this display, stunned. She checked up his sleeves— he wasn't palming or concealing it. He opened his jacket, and she felt along his lining. There was no sign of it. "That's… not good."
He dug into his pockets again, and produced a 100 Grand Bar. "I'm bribing you so you don't say anything tonight."
"Okay." She took the candy. "But first thing in the morning, you tell Weiss about this."
"Agreed." He realized something, and chuckled.
"What?"
"You're going as a demon who can warp reality and create matter from nothing, and yet I'm the Type-Green here." He started walking back into the crowd. "Like snow in June."
"So glad you didn't say 'rain on your wedding day'." She walked back from the window. "Glad we didn't get any rain tonight. Would've sucked for the trick-or-treaters."
The instant the words left her mouth, lightning flashed outside, and what would be the worst downpour Sloth's Pit would see that year began.
Robert and Alison stared at each other. A single word was on their lips. "Uh-oh."

November 1st
Early Morning
With the horror film festival concluded, a janitor was busy taking down the posters from the marquee out front. When he got to the one for Rise of the Pit Sloth, he paused. There was another poster beneath it, one he didn't recognize.
He took the poster down, carefully rolling it up. Beneath it, the poster showed a city shrouded in darkness, blood dripping from the top of its tallest skyscraper. The poster read:

EVENTIDE: CITY OF FEAR

He tilted his head, and started taking down other posters. Beneath the poster for the Holders movie showed a bucolic town on the coast. A biohazard sign hung in smoke above it. This poster read:

HARKNESS: PLAGUE CITY

Other titles were under the rest of the posters. All of them depicted a city in chaos, and all of them had a release date of 2019. Among the titles were:

YUMEGEMU: GAME OVER

THE DOOM THAT CAME TO HY-BRASIL

An Exciting Day in Boring, Oregon

The Amityville Triumph

"What the hell?" The janitor frowned. He scratched his head, not sure what to make of it.

Event Description: Several Nexus locations were displayed as movie posters on the Select 8 Cinema in Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin. The genres of these films are invariably horror. One of these posters, reading "INVICTA: COLD COMFORT", does not correspond to any known Nexus.
Location of Occurrence: Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin
Date of Occurrence: 1/11/2018
Follow-Up Actions Taken: The Nexuses in question are to be put under monitoring until October 31st, 2019, the release date for all films listed. It is believed that the Nexus known as Invicta is located somewhere in Alaska; Foundation operatives are currently investigating, but no such town is known to exist..

« Finale | Hub


October 31st
2:00 AM
Theater Number Six contained seventy souls. Popcorn covered the floor, and the carpet was saturated by spilled sodas. The seventy in here had tried to escape. Some managed to, about an hour into the film, leaving in disgust before the second act had started.
But now, the entire audience was strapped to their seats by sets of long, clawed arms that had emerged from the backs of their chairs. Someone in the back row whimpered, and were silenced by the introduction of a handful of popcorn into their face. They thought they were going to choke on it.
The best seats in the house belonged to the Pit Sloth's guests of honor— Alison Carol and Robert Tofflemire. They had the joy of their eyes being held open, in addition to their bodies being bound. Before them, the Pit Sloth stood, wearing a body that wasn't their's.
"What, exactly, was your scheme?" The Pit Sloth shook its head. A truncated finger was pointed at Robert. "He's the weak link in your team. This plan was his, was it not?
"So what if it is?" Alison asked.
"His head is a slot!" The Pit Sloth began pacing in front of them. "He lacks brains, he looked down into the pit! My story is a canker— he denied me an anchor! And I have been here to watch." The screen behind the Pit Sloth started replaying scenes from the past month. "This man may as well crawl down a hatch! He's done nothing, accomplished no task! No hero he, barely a mask!"
"That's not true!" Robert protested.
"I stole dear Alison's mind and left her a wreck." The screen showed a pair of claws digging into Carol's back. "And the sniper Seren just barely kept me in check!." Footage played of zombies falling down in front of a burning screen. "A priss found out Tristan wasn't real., Of your site, we made a meal! You failed to halt us, others did the work!" The screen was engulfed by the image of a blue fire, and burning bodies. "Even in the pit, Alison removed you from the murk." A door with an ornate knocker fell into a bottomless pit.
The Pit Sloth leaned into Robert with a smirk. "You call yourself a protagonist, a hero, a martyr? Your tale is barely worth tinder— your story is a bad firestarter!"
"Really stretching it with the rhymes." Robert looked down at his bucket of popcorn. From his pouch, he produced a shaker of seasoning, and started sprinkling it on.
Alison's eyes widened. "What are you doing?"
"I figure, if I can't win, I might as well enjoy the show." He picked up a single kernel. "You said it yourself, the villain usually wins in horror films." He chewed on the kernel. "But it really only works if the villain kills the protagonist."
"Aye, aye, the idea you now get." The Pit Sloth tilted its head. It noticed Robert's arm starting to swell as he kept eating. "What's wrong with him?"
"He just did something he'll regret." Alison muttered, a tear falling from her eye. Before they had left, Robert had insisted on crushing up a dozen Class-A pills and placing them into a shaker. "He's deathly allergic to what he just put on the popcorn."
"Y'won't let me die," Robert wheezed. His throat was closing up. "You're not real, not yet. And you still need a good climax to convince people that…" His breathing became labored, and slowed.
"I have an adrenaline shot in my pocket." Alison stared at Robert's swollen form. "If you let me out, I can administer it to him. Otherwise, you've just gotten a really unsatisfying conclusion."
Alison realized she could hear herself twice. She looked up at the screen, and saw herself and the unconscious form of Robert, strapped into the seat next to her.
"Oh, fie, fine, very well!" The Pit Sloth's arms withdrew from Alison's arms and eyes. "But any funny moves, and I'll make your life hell."
Alison withdrew the injector from her pocket. Blue cap on the top, orange on the bottom. Removing the cap, she jabbed it right into his leg.
The effect was, thankfully, instant. Adrenaline pumped into Robert's system, and he could breathe again. "F-fuck…" he panted.
"I'll admit, this is dull." The body of Caroline Sloth fell away. "The climax of this film is void and null. I feel like a chase, make it good— or I'll make my wrath understood."
Robert felt his arms released. He looked at Alison, and the pair of them bolted from the theater.

Outside, the scene was being watched from a platoon of Foundation vehicles. Sigma-10 agents were standing guard outside the theater. Snow was falling, and the rifles of every agent were trained on the front door.
In one vehicle, Cassandra Pike was monitoring the Narrative Fluctuation Detector. The readings it was picking up from the theater could only be described as a living pataphysical singularity— and the numbers were dropping. This would have been a good thing, as it meant the singularity was closing itself, and any nearby malignant narrative would heal at an accelerated rate. But in this case, it meant the Pit Sloth was approaching a point where it would be both Real and Fictional at the same time.
"This is a world first." Sinclair stood by with bated breath. "There's not a name for what might happen here."
"There should be." Pike rubbed her hands together. "Pseudo-physical state?"
"I can never spell 'pseudo' right." Sinclair's eyebrow quirked. "But I like the direction. What about quasi-physical state?"
"Perfect." Pike's eyes were drawn to a screen next to her. Tofflemire and Carol were in the the restroom. "What the hell are they doing?"

The agents had secluded themselves in the bathroom. Robert pulled out the USB chip from his pocket. His vision swam. "Okay. Uh. I'm— I'm putting this in- in my breast pocket. Above my Epipen."
"You gonna be okay?" Alison steadied him.
"I'm fine. I'm allergic to amnestics, but they still affect me. Shouldn't lose more than a couple of minutes." He patted his pocket. "In here. In here. In here."
"I'm sorry." Alison inspected the syringe that still remained in her pocket. "For everything. I called you a jackass and an idiot so many times, and…"
"Don't." Robert stopped her. "That makes it sound like you're saying goodbye. And it's not over until the credits roll. Unless it's a Marvel film, then you're sitting there for another half-hour just to see Nick Fury call Aunt May."
Alison shook her head. "Dumbass."
The door to the bathroom blew inwards, plastic shattering against plastic. A mass of arms reached in, pawing for the agents. "Go, go, go!"
Robert dove under the arms. Alison climbed over one of the booths, into a waiting ventilation shaft— like Site-87, these shouldn't have been big enough to fit a mouse, but a certain something was aiding them.

"Did they tell you what the plan was?" Ruby Williams was helping attend to several children who had managed to get out of the theater already. The youngest was only six— his parents were still inside.
"No." Seren Pryce offered an extra-large Kit-Kat to an eight-year-old. Trick-or-Treating came a bit early today. "As far as I can figure, Toff's just winging it."
"I don't think it's that." Joseph Grey chowed down on a piece of licorice that nobody wanted. "Robert's known about this thing for months. I wouldn't be surprised if he figured out how to beat it already."
"Always the people who you don't expect." Pryce threw a bag of Reese's Pieces to a twelve-year-old girl. "He always seemed like such a goober."
"Never underestimate a fellow agent." Ruby nodded. She looked at the theater, and saw a mass of arms crawling through the halls. "What the hell?"
"C'mon, guys…" Grey clutched his licorice tighter.

Robert Tofflemire let the Pit Sloth do the work for him. He ducked beneath its arms and let it smash in the door he had been trying to get open, vaulting over its remains. Beyond the door was a long hallway, lined with projectors; gone were the days of individual booths. Digital projectors could be ran by a person with a computer and just a little training.
Robert stopped in front of the one marked 'Theater 6' and turned to face the Pit Sloth. His head was cloudy— had he taken a larger dose than he thought?
"Where did I put it?" He asked himself, patting over his body. "Come on, come on. Where is it? Where is it?"
His voice echoed throughout the theater. It was playing on the screen. The horde of arms approached. "Come on!"
He drew his gun, and fired, the other hand still searching for the flash drive. The bullet hit the Pit Sloth's mass of arms. The bullet came back around and impacted in his back, hitting his vest and knocking the wind from him. He fell flat on his front, and there was a skitter of plastic across the floor. His eyes widened— a black and red USB drive had fallen from his hand, and landed at the Pit Sloth's feet.
The drive crunched beneath a carefully placed claw. The Pit Sloth grabbed Robert's neck and lifted him upwards; the agent managed to hang onto the projector for several seconds, before he was lifted towards the ceiling.
"I see I have made an mistake." The Pit Sloth snickered. "It's a horror film— yet you're the only life I've had to take. Well, I know this will seal the deal."
The Pit Sloth threw Robert out of the hole that separated the Projector and the theater. He landed on the opposite wall with a sickening crunch, and tumbled down to the floor, out of sight beyond the first row of seats. There was a scream.
The scene on the screen then abruptly transitioned to a bottomless pit. From it, slowly, a pair of black hands with truncated fingers began to emerge, just as was depicted on the film's poster. Screams echoed throughout the theater, and sobbing. She heard people beg, and in that instant, it knew what was happening.
"I'm real."

"Good."
The Pit Sloth turned face Alison Carol. She had fallen from the ventilation ducts above, one hand on the tiles. She rose, her eyes filled with fury.
"That means this should work now."
Alison lunged forward, into the mass of arms. She was cut and scratched by dozens of claws, and felt her skin burn. At the center, she found it— some kind of solid mass. She didn't know what it was, and she didn't care. She pulled out her other injector and stabbed it. It screamed, as Alison managed to read the writing on the injector.

Class-Omega Amnestic. Highly Toxic. Do Not Use.

Alison was thrown away by the Pit Sloth. The injector was empty. "Robert may be a lunk, but he's a lot smarter than you give him credit for."
"What is this?!" The Pit Sloth's mind clouded. "What have you done?! My… mind it's… starting to run."
"We knew making you real would be the only option to beat you. And we knew, for just a moment, you'd be somewhere between real and fictional."
The Pit Sloth began to shrink, but even as it did, it lunged at Alison. She bit into one of its arms, careful not to break whatever skin it had, and slammed it against the wall. She looked down at the projector, a satisfied smirk on her face. A red and black USB drive was sticking out of the projector's console.
"And did you really think he only had one flash drive?"
The scene on the screen changed suddenly. A picture of a normal sloth, being held by a woman in a green shirt, replaced the hands reaching from the screen. A voice over spoke. "Real facts about Slothses."
"You… have ruined… ruined me… I… can't die. This city… I must flee!"
"I'm sure the Duluth zoo is going to be very happy to have a new guest in its primate house." Alison slammed the ever-shrinking Pit Sloth into the projector and forced it to watch.
"I… don't want to forget. Help… me…"
The Pit Sloth stared at the screen. Its memories started to burn from its brain, and all that was left was a single bit of certainty as the movie looped before it: it was a sloth.
Several minutes later, Alison Carol was speaking on the radio with command, while stroking the fur of a two-toed sloth resting upon the projector. "I-it worked." Alison swallowed. "SCP-4040-Omega has been neutralized."
«Confirmed.» Commander March sounded grim on the other end of the line. «Sending in a team to extract the survivors now.»
"Survivors?" Alison clutched the radio tighter. "Command, what's the status of Agent Tofflemire?"
«Vital signs are negative on Tofflemire. I'm sorry, Agent Carol.»
Alison dropped the radio, and left the sloth behind on the projector, forgotten. She climbed through the aperture between the projection hallway and the theater, and ran down the aisle. It was only now that she realized that there was a large stain of blood on the screen. At the front of the theater, Robert Tofflemire laid, lifeless.
"No." Alison ran towards him. "No! Robert!" She knelt by him, flipping him to the front and beginning to compress on the chest. "Come on, come on. You have to be okay."
The door to the theater opened. Alison didn't pay it any mind as she began to blow into his mouth. She ignored the hoofsteps coming towards her, and only spoke when she heard the Goatman's bleating sigh. "You can't help him."
"Fuck you." Alison spoke between breaths.
"His story ends here, Alison. There's nothing more you can do."
"No." Alison growled, pressing on his chest. "This past month has been hell. Hell for me, hell for the site, hell for the town, and hell for him." She felt one of his ribs crack from the pressure. "He's not dying. Not now."

Outside, agents prepared to enter the building. Pike's eyes widened— the Narrative Fluctuation Detector was going crazy.
"Holy shit." Pike picked it up and plugged a cable from it into her laptop. Sinclair watched over her shoulder, and gawped.

Malignant Narrative Levels Critical. Deus Ex Machina event imminent.

"What the fuck is happening in there?"
"I- I don't know." Sinclair swallowed. "Maybe some aftereffects of its neutralization?" She exited the truck. "Don't go in yet! Something's happening!"

Inside of the theater, the air shook.
"The Narrative has said he's to die, so he's dying here." The Goatman hefted his ax. "Stop. Or I'll stop you."
"He's my friend." Alison breathed into his mouth again. "I'm not going to let him die."
"You're hurting the Narrative!" He gritted his teeth. "You know what happens when someone tries to manipulate the Narrative to create life? Bottomless Pits happen!"
Alison pulled away, and swallowed. She fumbled around on Robert, and on his vest, she found it. An Epipen. She looked up at the Goatman. "If it worked in Pulp Fiction…"
The Goatman raised his hatchet as Alice raised the Epipen. "You'll destroy this entire town!"
Alison looked up. Right at the projector, as if it were a camera.
"Like you'd let me."
She brought the injector down, right on Robert Tofflemire's heart.

« Chapter 14 | Hub | Epilogue »


Site-77 , Autumn.
Sophia Light was feeling jet lagged as she attempted to keep up with her host. Site-77, moreso than any other Foundation facility never seemed to stop moving. There was a constant tsunami of people crashing into you from every side. Controlled chaos that could only be orchestrated by one woman.
"I know you're busy Gillie. I'll try not to take up too much of your time."
Director Shirley Gillespie's lips pursed upwards. "Nonsense, dear. I've been using my time to make this for you. Please take as long as you need to look it over. I don't have enjoyable company here nearly as often as I'd like to."
The elevator doors behind them closed and Gillespie instantly secured herself in a seat. "Mind the drop dear."
"Not my first rodeo partner. I think I can handle thi-"
The ground beneath Light fell with unheeded suddenness, nearly knocking her head into the ceiling.
Gillespie sat up straight while fiddling with her cane. "I know that you had a bit of trouble extracting the heart over from France. Terribly sorry for the consternation. But it really was the key to putting this whole thing together. I promise you complete satisfaction."
Light struggled to sit up as the elevator continued a rapid descent. "Well I knew that, oof, if there was anyone who could make that request not fucked up, it would be you. Shit, this is a lot right now. I need a minute."
Gillespie covered her mouth and laughed. "Oh we'll be there in a moment. Try to compose yourself, dear."
The elevator stopped its descent on a dime. Light brushed her coat as the doors silently opened. Waiting for them was a yellow golf cart with '77' emblazoned on either side. Gillespie stood, offering her hand to a weak-kneed Light. Together they rode onward. The labs around them were filled with colored chemicals in test tubes, human arms on electric machines twisting and gyrating hither and thither.
Passing through a few steel-bound security checkpoints the cart heralded them into a viewing booth. Far below them stood a massive glass cylinder unevenly jutting from the floor. The only light was a green luminescence which bathed the surrounding floor with a tranquil seawater-esque refraction. Thick metal tubes jutted in every direction from the top of the container, some bulging as they pumped liquid in and out. Gillespie tapped her cane once and the cart settled into a waiting crevice. Seats emerged, flipping forward from the ground with red velvet and cup holders.
Gillespie settled into her seat. "A few of the boys admitted that they took some inspiration from Star Wars. The second one, where that nice farm boy is getting fixed up after saving the day. You remember that film? My husband, rest his soul, took me there on a date night not long after we wed. I let the boys get away with the nomenclature."
"It's certainly larger than anything George Lucas could have re-imagined." Light walked past and focused on the chamber floor. The cylinder had a silhouetted humanoid form suspended in the center of it with wires stretching from it going up and down. A spiraling series of staircases and platforms descended from the top to the bottom packed with computers, machinery and netting in place of guardrails.
"Now the first thing we did was acquire that poor half man, with the dead family." Gillespie reached beneath her seat, producing and sipping from a fresh cup of tea. "Tragic, but the absorption properties really made this all possible. That was what gave me the inciting idea to put A heart from the French ent creature from France. Integrated far better than we could have expected. There's a whole new personality in there now."
"Shit. Hopefully it's less icky and more… useful?"
"Naturally honey, naturally. Flesh sick with grief and grey morality of nature, well, they combine to make a dark soul but not one of evil. Able to do what needs to be done. But with only half a body, we needed to get… more. Something to make it useful and not just interesting."
"I understand there were a few false starts." Light looked up at the cavernous center of research. "I didn't realize you'd put quite as much time and effort into this, Gillie, how did you put this all together?"
"My dear it was no trouble. Most of this was already in place with our existing research. I had to pull a few of the boys off their pet projects but I haven't exhausted my list of favors owed if more hands have to be pulled on deck."
"Things have gone smoothly then?"
"As you said we had some… false starts. Minimal casualties of course. We tried using the dead leg that enjoys causing amateur surgery at first to see if the entity could control when the effect was triggered."
"That didn't pan out, correct?"
"We averted spectacular disaster, but yes, it was less than ideal." Gillespie approached the glass, tapping it once with her cane. A flushing echoed throughout the cavern as the fluids began to be pumped out of the tube. "More than one man tried to give up their own leg for the cause. Even after we asked them not to. But, ah, the ideas that gave us! Worked out in the end."
"I'm not sure I want to know the ideas that come into your head when you see your employees trying to saw off their own legs."
"They're all fine now thank you for asking. Inspiration struck not from the dismemberment, but the possibilities which arise from removing limbs at will. A great number of the Foundation's anomalous appendages are irreplaceable. Not at all suited for fieldwork. But when we found those dead dirt hands the pieces really began to fall into place."
Light scrunched her face. "The graveyard grabber things right? Tying your shoes but breaking toes?"
"Mmmmmhm. The dirt samples met our specifications, regenerative properties as well as reach, plus crushing grip power. That settled the arms and if you'll approve usage of that old coat we might even have more to work with."
"I'm not sure a greatcoat would survive long out in the field Gillie."
"A girl can dream can't she?" Gillespie smiled, looking up. "He's still only got one kidney, lung and an abbreviated intestinal tract. We've found a nutrient rich solution is best to keep him healthy. We tried using twenty-three eighty to be another kidney but it kept moving, ran into the same trouble as the damned legs. Home-grown organs are being worked on but, you know, those can be hit-or-miss batch to batch."
The fluid in the tank had completely drained by now. The figure standing in the center of the now-empty glass tube was lumpy, dripping with liquid and swaying with uneven tempo. Gillespie tapped her cane twice and the glass hissed, releasing streams of steam as it began retreating into the ground.
"The brain is finished, we found that Ed's head was removable and so we give him normal cerebral function, relatively. Worked in tempering some of that evil to boot. Wrap it up in an indestructible skin suit and you just might have a viable agent." Gillespie smiled as the glass finished giving way and the homunculi below took his first tottering steps forward. "Director, my Sophia, I give you… Frank."
The lumpiest thing which ever lived took two tottering tiptoed steps out of his tank. The jaw worked its way around with uneven arms massaging out the spots where skin and jaw did not quite match up. Frank looked up towards his creator and waved.
"Hi Mommy!" Frank's lips gave their best approximation of a smile while his jaw flapped aimlessly.
"…." Light looked at Gillespie.
"He's a work in progress. Let me show you what he can do." Tapping her cane thrice more, Gillespie's voice took on a commanding boom from unseen speakers imbuing her with the voice of god. "Come on Frank! You'll get some treats once you show our guest what you can do. Scoot! Scoot!"
Frank's legs took off while the rest of his body lurched awkwardly to keep up. Floodlights boomed to life above him, illuminating several apertures of varying composition. Wood and iron doors covered in rubbery creepy-crawlies next to a sheet of hissing liquid pouring through thin erected falls, along with a trapdoor in the floor.
Gillespie leaned forward, her barking intensified by what seemed to be ever-intensifying speakers. "Take care Frank! Show us your full capabilities?"
The lights intensified around a wooden door. The earthy dust covering one of Frank's arms extended to hesitantly knock, with particulates wafting off and rolling back to his feet once they hit the ground. A few facsimile beetles crawled onto his limbs but smaller arms grew from beneath them to gently replace them upon the door.
Squinting her eyes, Light removed small binoculars from her coat. "I can't quite see what he's up to out there but… he's certainly got a lighter touch than I expected. Kind of looks like Pig-Pen. You read Peanuts, right?"
"Focus on our business, dear." Gillespie's lips tightened. "Obfuscation is a tool of deceit. The wise warrior does not display their full strength at the outset. Frank will not disappoint me here."
Taking a few steps back, Frank's arms extended while multiplying into dozens of smaller and simpler appendages. Methodically removing the insectoids one by one and placing them upon the ground where they scuttled into the darkness. The door, now clear, descended into the ground. Behind it were three gourds placed upon platforms suspended in mid-air.
"Target practice, Frank!"
Stiffening his posture, dust began swirling in Frank's outstretched hand. Taking the form of an ovoid projectile, he hurled it towards the vegetative targets. Splitting into three, they made contact, knocking each one off with a satisfactory splat! As the remnants fell to the floor, the minute residue present on each one formed their remnants into a convincing facsimile of Frank's own face. Picking it up, Frank held it aloft for his observers to see, the ghoulish grin mirrored on gourd and guy.
A grinning Light turned back to Gillespie. "Well, that is somewhat impressive. Creative too." The smile faded when she saw the fire in her elder's eyes.
Gillespie's grip audibly tightened around her cane. "Not part of the demonstration, Frank! This is the show! No more foolishness, release the hounds!.
There was audible rustling as a leafy green animate bushes in the shape of dogs bound forwards through the liquid sheet, bristling their leaves as it approached. An opened maw revealed thorny twisting vines in place of a tongue.
Light grabbed hold of her twisting hand. "Easy now! You're starting to sound like a cartoon villain. He's not blowing his audition here. I am legitimately impressed."
Producing a handkerchief, Gillespie wiped her brow. "Don't have to patronize me. This is just… what I feared it might do. We tempered the fire too much. Such gentleness does not have a place in Alpha-9's future. Not in any role it would play."
"You don't know everything about Alpha-9, Gillie. I don't either. We can only guess what the future holds." Kneeling and grasping with both hands, Light brought their eyes to level altitude. "I'm impressed by your work no matter how he ends up."
Closing her eyes for a moment, Gillespie sighed. "You've always had greater composure than I, Sophia. So please look out there and tell me he's massacred the potted pets we sent out there."
Standing, Light cupped her hands to press her head against the viewing glass. "No, it looks like he's playing fetch with one of his hands. Hey, is that Gregory down there? I miss Gregory. Never got to tell him he was a really really good dog-thing."
Sighing, Gillespie slouched in her seat. "Don't patronize me, Sophia. This is a failed audition. I'll have to scrap him and start fresh. Maybe see if I can get some more aggression with a little more evil in a heart…"
"Pump the brakes. You can't kill that boy. We've got waaaaay too much tied up in there to just dissemble it completely. Plus the lights are on in Frank's head. You tried programming him but I think there's something more in there. I'm sure we can find a role for him somewhere."
"A pity job. Maybe he can be the janitor at headquarters, too nice to say no. Made of dust for ease of cleaning puke and viscera. What a future in store for him!" Gillespie grimaced and stood, turning away from the display. "I don't know if I like that."
"You know, for someone who prides themselves on pushing the envelope, you've got an awful narrow set of blinders on. There's amazing potential here! If we needed someone to rip and tear, Abel is available. Plenty of others are available. Alpha-9 is last hope, not big hammer. There should and will be a place for gentle souls in the Foundation's future."
"The Foundation's future is one I won't get to see. If it's one where we go soft, maybe that's a good thing."
"Oh my god please lay off the salt. Gillie, you're being ridiculous. Please, at least think it overnight before you go off and murder the kid. Listen to yourself. You've made a life with amazing potential here but you want to snuff it out because he's not enough of a sociopath."
Gillespie paused, before pressing her cane into the observation booth's wall. A panel slid open, and a few armed men escorted her out. After a few moments, they came to collect Light. As she followed to exit, she stole one final look down at Frank.
He sat alone as a small figure at the center of the room. Holding something colorful in his hand. Pieces of his little art project or perhaps seeds of plant dogs. Light sighed.
Poor kid never really had a chance.

Site-77, Sub-Basement Level, Autumn
Frank awoke suddenly, as he always did. They let him sleep in a real bed for a little while. It was nice to wake up dry. The LCD calendar on the wall had an animated yellow orb on a horizon.
Cool
Working his muscles and bones into the right spots, Frank rose from the bed. Flicking his feet to fit his toes into the skin he looked around to see where they had laid him to rest. Looked like an appropriate enough place to sleep.
His thoughts were interrupted by the door buzzing and opening. Weird. There would usually be a big man on the other side to take him back to the big sleep tube. Nobody there today. No tube either. Just a big long hall with a ladder at the end. It went up too! What excitement!
Frank bounded forward out of the sleeping room and grabbed a hold of the ladder after three steps. Anything could be up there!
Hopefully not Mom. Frank knew she wouldn't be happy. But lying to the nice Mom she probably brought to watch wouldn't have been right. If this was a big concrete world of Moms and men with guns, every Mom ought to see truth. There was something inside of him that was sure of it.
Maybe the other Mom would be there too. Frank began climbing up. There was only one place to go from here, anyways.

« Boo! | Resurrection | Boss Of Me »


To be honest about these ghost stories, they're nonsense. Compared to the anomalies I found over the course of my life, they hardly have any meaning. However, people are still afraid of them.
At the place I worked, there were a lot of deaths in the past. In every single room, floor and department, it was a daily routine before I took on my job as the director. The underground was Famous, Tomson and I were stationed was a place for detained Class-D personnel, one where they were cruelly tested before the rules changed and further developed into what they are nowadays.
The ghost stories in Site-29 are not limited to the underground. I could say that they existed in every place. It depends on your luck finding them.

Workers' Ghosts at the East Parking Lot
When the facility was newly built, workers who died while on the job would be buried here. After the burial, there was a funeral ceremony for them. Now there's a small shrine in the parking lot in memoriam. This eastern lot was the place where people frequently found the ghosts, but still a lot of people parked there due to the limited amount of space. The ones who found these ghosts often described them as laborers with hanging heads and their feet planted on the ceiling, or just as the noise of huge machines in operation. When parking here, you never had to worry that your valuables would go missing.

Dr. Lieat
Dr. Lieat was a very hard worker. She dedicated her whole life to her research. I never saw her go home, take a shower or eat anything. Also, she was very moody. One day, someone found her in the office of the 2nd-floor front corridor, where she had hung herself (nowadays, that room doesn't exist anymore). From that on, the night-shift personnel often saw Dr. Lieat walking down the corridor. Later in the night, 'Lieat' is often reported as walking backward and turning to face passers-by.

The Spirit House at the Middle of the Site
Every room in the Site is meant to be used. There is no such thing as an empty room, except for one. I know where it is but I will not tell, because there would be those senseless enough to attempt to find a way in. The characteristics of the room were the same as those of a small office. There was nothing, except the spirit house. It was the room for religious1 ceremonial purposes. These ceremonies were performed when there were things that were too haunted2 to be tolerated. You could even call them the major local spirits. The door was closed with wood, which was painted in the same color as the wall, making it difficult to be noticed. However, if you wanted to know where it is, you had to ask the lady in Thai traditional dress working in the Chemistry department. If you weren't familiar with it, you would never find it.

The Ghost Bridge
To reach Site-29, employees must cross a 50-meter long bridge. Under the bridge is the place where the homes of the Foundation personnel were located in the past. The bridge was bombarded at some point during the Second World War. All who lived there at that time died; most of them were families of the personnel. If you were lucky, you would see a group of people who walked on the air beside the bridge. Sometimes, you would see them walking under it where the canal was created.

The Prisoner Ghosts
I told you at the beginning that the underground was the place where the prisoners were detained and died, and even though there was a renovation, there are still people who saw the spirits. In the past, it was very haunted, so you could not say what was real and what wasn't; more recently, you can hardly find them. The personnel often hear these things now report things like creaking in the walls, dragging chains, shouting in the corridors at night. There was also this one agent who supposedly saw the 'ghosts' with their own eyes.
Remember Agent Philosafix? He used to work at this Site in the past. He also found one of the ghosts; it had chains around the ankles and knees, and it was- according to him- stepping into the elevator. Yes, the one that you, me, and everyone else here always uses.
…I didn't know that was the reason behind his transfer request.

A-37 Conference Room
A-37- the conference room completely decked out with classic looking wood paneling. There aren't any windows to allow people to see in. At least the air conditioners were cool. The sofas were comfortable, too. It was also located in an area where there was little foot traffic. The lazy personnel always slacked off in there, and I heard they found a ghost too. They were pulled, or dragged, to a body. I didn't go in there very often, but I heard from someone that it was headless.

This is the final story.
Nicolas Zheniche Sawellton
If you went to the canteen at the back of the Site and walked the circular way through 4 separate corridors, there was a black-and-white photo of a foreigner among of other photos. The nameplate read 'Nicolas Zheniche Sawellton'. He was one of the people from the main branch. He built up the SCP Foundation in Thailand. He and others like him hired Thai workers with the promise of high wages for managing SCP objects. Nicolas sent SCP-014-TH to the Foundation main branch from Thailand as a sign of co-operation. In 2003, Nicolas fell deathly sick all of a sudden and died just a few days later. His body was burnt and his ashes were scattered. After that, there were people who saw Nicolas in the Site- his spirit never went away.
Nowadays, there are still people who claim to have seen him, but only a few people actually knew him. There are a lot of foreigners at the Site now. Some say that if you find a foreigner you aren't familiar with, take a look at Nicolas' photo- perhaps you may have found him.

Footnotes
1. Buddhist or Hindu belief
2. by spirits/ghosts only


by Captain Kirby

There was a containment breach at 9AM at Site-51.

I was told about it at 11AM that same day. Came through the usual channel of the inter-site emergency response system. It sat in my inbox for about twenty minutes before I stopped working on my most recent report to open it up.
"Thirteen dead. Four in critical condition. Anomaly recontained."
It took me a while to close the email and get back to work. Couldn't tell you why. I'd gotten emails like this dozens of times. I don't know though. Something about the numbers stuck with me for a bit.
I cracked open a window to let some fresh air in. The entire sky was grey, but it refused to rain even a drop. Maybe it was out of respect. Maybe the clouds were sapient. I'd never know. I stared at them for a long time.

At around 1PM I got lunch with my colleagues. The first thing they asked me was if I had heard the news, which of course I had. Then they asked if I knew anyone over at the site. I shook my head.
"Not unless someone got transferred. Janice is at 81 and Gabriel has been stuck at 33 for three years."
The others nodded, and then we ate in silence for a little bit.
"Didn't Richard Wethers get transferred to 51 a few months ago?" Dr. Tennison asked.
"Yeah, he did," Dr. Gerdinel replied, "I called him a few hours ago, but he didn't pick up."
"Probably lost his phone in the breach," I said.
"Or maybe something locked up there messes with cell lines," someone else added.
We ate in silence for a little longer before someone changed the subject.

At 3PM someone knocked on the door to my office. It was Tennison. His face was blank, but I could hear some quiet weeping down the hall.
"We're having a small gathering for Richard," he said. I nodded and followed him to the cafeteria. Thirteen others stood in a circle. Some of them were crying. Others just looked down and shook their heads. I didn't really know Richard all that well. We sometimes complained about the commute together, and we had a nice conversation during the site-wide Christmas party last year about the pros and cons of using he/she/they pronouns for humanoid anomalies.
Someone said a few words, and then we all stood in silence for a little while. I don't remember if we had done this before, or if this was the first time someone from our site had been killed in a breach since I transferred here. I bowed my head with everyone else and tried to say a few words. They felt hollow. But then again, I didn't really know the guy.

I got home at 5PM. I was tired, so I collapsed onto the couch and turned on the news.
"Eleven dead in Pittsburgh Synagogue shooting. Multiple injured. Suspect in custody."
I turned off the TV, and just sat there in the dark.


October 28th
"Where. Is. She?!"
Robert Tofflemire looked up from his cup of coffee to see the rabid, slavering form of the Goatman standing in the barn that served as Sigma-10's barracks. His fur was bloodied, and his eyes were crazed. "Jesus, what, did they make a new horror f—"
Robert's sentence was unfinished. The Goatman strode forward, grabbed Robert by the neck, and pinned him against the wall. "You are the only one that I told! You are one of the only ones that knows about the Grave Bog! What did you do with her?!"
Before Robert could answer, the Goatman was met with a pair of gunshots from behind. Robert heard them impact, but the Caprine Beast seemed unfazed.
"C-can't… br…" Robert clawed at the Goatman's hand. His breath stank of rotten meat and hatred.
"Hey, asshole!"
The Goatman turned to find himself staring down the barrels of at least twenty guns. "I don't care that you're immortal." Nicholas Ewell gripped his gun unsteadily. "We'll fill you full of lead until you put him down."
"Is this like last year?" Ruby Williams hissed to February.
"No." Raymond whispered back. "He went berserk, but he wasn't thinking. I think that… this is just him when he gets mad."
The Goatman growled. The Plastic People, like usual, would be of no help. He threw Robert into the formation of firearms, who scattered.
When they got their bearings, the Goatman was gone, and a new hole occupied the roof of the barn, letting in snow and sunlight.
"Did- did he…" Raymond February stuttered. "Did he just— did he just—"
"Are you really surprised at this point, Ray?" Ruby Williams helped Robert to his feet. "Can you breathe?"
"Yeah." Robert coughed several times. "I don't know what the hell that was ab—" His eyes widened. "Shit."
"What?"
"I do know what that was about." Robert pulled up a map of the town on his tablet. "Anyone available, I'm transmitting coordinates. I think I know what happened."

"A mass grave?" Alison Carol sounded incredulous. "Here?"
"Yeah." Robert adjusted his scarf— they had broken out the winterized gear earlier than usual this year, for obvious reasons. The temperature was at 20 Fahrenheit. "Goatman explained it to me. It— it was used for people during the 1918 Flu Pandemic. They ran out of coffins."
Alongside them, Raymond February and Joseph Grey walked. The woods made them wary— even now, they avoided the wild pumpkins they saw, covered by snow.
"Goatman called it the Grave Bog. This place isn't exactly known for swampland." Grey frowned. "Somethin's screwy here."
"Maybe the decay of so many bodies altered the terrain?" February hazarded. "Or it could just be because Sloth's Pit is weirder than a hen with teeth."
"Might be an underground stream or something." Alison spoke this as she heard the crunch of ice beneath her soles. "What the—"
"We're here."
The light around them had turned distinctly green— sunlight was filtering in through swamp gas. The snow over the boggy ground made it look wrong— ice cracked to reveal bubbles coming up from beneath. And towards the center of the Bog, they could make out a large hole.
"Three guesses as to what happened?" Alison walked forward.
"Giant sloth, giant cannibal sloth, giant cannibal fictional sloth." Robert strode alongside her. Underneath the ice, the ground opened into a pit containing dozens of coffins, pieces of cloth, and loose bones. Thankfully, there was no stench of rot— the flesh had long since decayed.
February muttered a prayer to himself, and stepped forward. "Why did it come here?"
Joseph frowned. "If I had to hazard a guess, it's wearing the skin of some poor soul who was buried here."
"Not just any poor soul." Robert jumped in, sifting through the bodies, flashlight on.
February and Grey couldn't help but wince; Raymond was uncomfortable with desecration on religious grounds, while Grey just couldn't stand the sound of the bones crunching under Tofflemire's clumsy feet.
After several minutes, Robert climbed out of the hole, bearing a grave marker. He handed it to Alison to read.
"Here lies Caroline Sloth. Sister, Daughter, Mother to Never Be. Laid with her Child, Quinn. 1877-1918." Her eyes widened. "You're not saying—"
"The Pit Sloth is wearing the body of Jackson Sloth's daughter." Robert swallowed.
"Jesus Christ, son of a bitch." Joseph Grey rubbed the back of his head.
"He didn't mean it." February spoke to the sky, drawing an odd look from the rest of the task force. "Are you sure it took that corpse? Why not any of the others?"
"I'm sure." Robert knew why, but he felt it wasn't his place to say. "We need to find the Goatman. If he's figured out the Pit Sloth's taken it, then he needs back-up."
"Well, where would he go?"

The agents of the Plastic People wouldn't need much help finding the Goatman. He had seated himself near a dead, barren patch of land called either the Blasted Heath, the Bone Heath, or the Hidebehind's Lair. It was said that it lived in the dead, half-felled oak tree in the center. The Goatman's back was against it.
The Hidebehind wasn't there— it had fled, gone somewhere where the Pit Sloth couldn't get at it. It was cowardly, above all else. Dangerous when cornered, yes, but its power came from it acting out in fear. The Goatman came here because it was one of the easier-to-find landmarks in the forest, far away from his home at Koch's Hovel.
"I spy before me a goat, and what's this? Misery colors its coat."
The Goatman looked up. Standing over him was a disconcerting figure. Her face resembled that of Caroline Sloth— auburn hair, pale skin, dimpled cheeks. But everything else about her was wrong. Her arms were long and furred and ended in hands with truncated fingers and long claws. Her eyes were black and beady, and, unlike Caroline, this thing wasn't pregnant. She was wearing a red bonnet with a furred trim and heavy, blue winter dress. Simple boots peeked out from beneath the hem of the dress.
And her movements… her arms moved, freely, as if she was a doll being shaken around. She seemed to dance back and forth on her feet.
"The Pit Sloth, I presume." The Goatman's hatchet formed in his hands as he stood. "I remember those clothes."
"Father made them for me, Jasper dear, in case I didn't leave the hospital 'fore the end of the year!"
Jasper hefted his ax. "You're not the real Caroline Sloth."
"And you too have stolen a name! Jasper Phineas is not yours to claim. The Sloth line is gone, its progeny dead…" The Pit Sloth's arm rubbed its flat stomach. "And the oven no longer holds bread."
The Goatman flinched.
"Ah! Phineas love, do you mourn for your false blood?" She dug her nails into the stomach. "When she came back, her son I could not claim. And how is Quinn a boy's name?"
"Caroline hated the name Quincy, but her beau insisted on something with a Q." The Goatman dug its heels in.
The body of Caroline Sloth loomed towards him. "Cloven-hoofed Capricorn, why is the Pit Sloth the name I adorn?"
The Goatman bared its teeth, before contemplating something. "When Father… when the hole formed, and everything became unreal…"
"Imogen's womb had been purged." The Pit Sloth sighed. "A miscarriage had occurred. And not being able to see Caroline sad, he tried to write himself a little lass or lad!" She shook her head. "And instead, as you can see, the pit birthed me!"
She stood before Jasper. "I am the Sloth that is the Pit. Once I am real, this forest— I will walk beyond it!"
Jasper crossed his arms. "I can at least respect your goal. But… why everything else? Kidnappings, mutilations, the sense of terror?"
"Fear is the easiest for a story to spread— people remember when they think they'll end up dead!" The Pit Sloth's mouth split into a grin that wrapped around its whole head. "And if I did anything else, I'd be bored instead."
Jasper Sloth stared at this grin— it was the same one he had seen looking up at him from the pit just under a year ago. He began walking forward. "The loop's not your doing, is it?"
"Nay, tis the town." The Pit Sloth shook its head. "It's trying to keep a good Sloth down."
"With good reason." The Goatman crested a nearby hill, overlooking the entire town. "The Pit is the entire reason this town is the way it is. And if you are the Pit, if you were to leave this town, it… would cause chaos. The entire world, being like…" He turned, taking in a view of the town from the north. He waved his hand over it. "Like this!"
"And is that so horrid?" The Pit Sloth smiled. "We both know what the Black Autumn did. But despite the fear, the hate, the pain— the town, as always, joyful remains. Even now, they plan their Hallow's Eve— they see it as a yearly reprieve! They go on, so vivid, so real— and their fear makes for such a good meal."
The Goatman took out his corncob pipe and a lighter. "This is normal for them— strange beings in the woods, gravity reversing once a week on Main Street, the malleability of the Narrative, a secret organization watching over the town. If you were to escape, you'd inflict that on the entirety of the Midwest." He chewed on the stem of his pipe as he lit it. "Sloth's Pit can cope because it's Sloth's Pit. To everyone living here, it's always been like this. Anywhere else would collapse on itself."
"Perhaps, perhaps, brother Sloth." The Pit Sloth started down the hill away from the Jasper. "But come the Hallows, I'll fly out like a moth."
The Goatman walked with her. "The Plastic People aren't going to let you out."
"Do you not see what's on the wall?" The Pit Sloth looked off over the Goatman's shoulder, smiling at nothing. "I'll explain it all. This is a film, the genre is horror, and I give off such a villainous aura. And horror films commit several narrative sins." She grinned. "Among them, the villain wins."
There was a long pause. A leaf fell off a tree.
"I said, 'the villain wins'."
Another leaf fell. The Pit Sloth rolled its eyes.
"Brother, why do I bother?"
The Pit Sloth's arms emerged from a pile of snow, sweeping four Foundation agents out from it. Robert Tofflemire, Alison Carol, Joseph Grey, and Raymond February all landed at her feet.
Robert and Alison exchanged a look and a nod. Robert started applauding in a sarcastic manner. "You didn't monologue! Great job!"
"Oh, joy, a joker!" The Pit Sloth mimed the back of its hand going on its head, and mock-fainted. "You're annoying! I'll impale you with a poker."
"Jokes are good for distracting." Alison Carol had stood and put her pistol to the back of the Pit Sloth's head.
"You gotta work on your rhymes, and your acting." Grey's rifle was trained at her torso. "God dammit now I'm doing it too!"
While not shouting Hail Marys, Raymond February was muttering the Lord's Prayer under his breath. The Pit Sloth flinched away from him, and he talked between verses. "Guess Laura was right. It doesn't like prayers."
The Pit Sloth twitched away. "The mask-maker Laura should be in the ground. Dead, mortis, of body sound. Of Edward, I eviscerated—"
"Yeah, well, they're both at the site, not even slightly incapacitated." Robert pulled his own pistol. "Shit, now I'm doing it too. Well, either way, your momma's not dead, and we've come for you."
Its head leaned back, and it let out a syncopated laugh. "Ah, it seems I've a narrative effect. I've turned us all into Poe rejects! Oh, this is absurd."
Robert looked at Alice, and exchanged a wink. "Anyway, mommy told us how to beat you— with the Lord's word." He started yelling out Standard Exorcism Prayer #23. "In the name of the Trinity, the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, I invoke the Archangel Micheal to banish thee."
The other agents joined in on the prayer immediately. The Pit Sloth clutched its head, growling. "No, no, no, speak in rhymes, not Psalms! I should tear off all your arms!"
"You said it yourself, you're a villain…ess? What's a villain without a good weakness?" Robert asked. He stopped praying as he asked the question— that was all the Pit Sloth needed.
It lashed out, aiming to strike through Robert's chest. He fell, and gasped as the claws hit his face, marring it and leaving behind black marks.
The other agents kept their prayers going. Robert clutched his face, grunting in pain. He managed to mumble out a few words of holy protection, enough that the Pit Sloth flinched away from striking him.
Jasper Phineas Sloth, the Goatman, raised his axe. "You might want to be departing, or it's your head I'll be parting."
With a shake of its head, the Pit Sloth turned to face Jasper. Its neck made a sickening crack. "Jasper, Jasper, brother dear, I've eaten so much fear. The movie might not be necessary— and when I'm real, you're the first I'll bury!" With that, it sank into a hole, which vanished seconds later.
Alison crouched by Robert. Blood flowed from the gashes on his face. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." He winced, sitting up. "Besides, it'll go away in a day— in a bit." She blinked. "Okay, can I stop rhyming now?"
"'Go away in a bit'? How do you mean?" The Goatman walked over, eyebrow raised.
"Working theory he has." Joseph Grey rummaged for a first aid kit. "The Pit Sloth can't create anything original, and he thinks it extends to injuries, even fatal ones."
"Every death is a little different," Robert nodded. He pulled his hand away from his face— it was still slick with blood. "If I'm right, it should have healed by now."
February waved the wand of a Narrative Fluctuation Detector over where the Pit Sloth stood. The readings detected the presence of a quasi-real entity within the last minute. He then waved the wand over the Goatman; his readings were only slightly stronger. "It's… almost real."
"We have to stop that movie from playing." Joseph cursed as he began applying the bandages.
"No." Robert grunted. "We make it real on our own terms. Stick to the plan."
"Stick to the— Toff, half your face almost got taken off!" Raymond threw up his hands. "We need a Plan C or D or-"
"We're working with what we've got." Alison backed away as the bandages were applied. "We go to the midnight screening, and hit it when we can hurt it the most."
The Goatman couldn't help but smirk. The Plastic People may have tried to stick everything in boxes, but they could be competent when push came to shove. "I'd say that I'd bring popcorn, but there's probably going to be plenty at the theater."
"We'll even save you a seat." Robert offered with a half-smile.

«Chapter 13 | Hub | Finale»


Fresh from the Waiting Room, Craggs had been allocated a temporary office with which to set up. Her new husband database administrator in tow. A site supervisor peers in.
"You know that SQL query is going to take, like hours to run."
"Fine. Let it run."
A knock on the glass.
"Not like I can open the door. Come in."
"PoI-7701-
"Ah! my favorite site supervisor and wedding observer, to what do I owe pleasure of this visit?"
An eye roll.
Seeing as you're going to be free for a few hours… we have an MTF candidate, and you do happen to be-"
"Free? Maybe. Depends what I'm teaching."
"Interrogation techniques."
"Are you sure you want me for this? Last time I taught interrogations, they put me in solitary for a month."
"We have been informed that your have special.. expertise… in this area. Please exercise cau-"
"You have absolutely nothing to worry about!"
Her tone of voice and gleeful expression did not inspire confidence.

"This is Tomàs Rey. He's most of his way to being an MTF agent."
"Good to meet you."
"I'm Dr. Craggs. I'm pretty sure my reputation precedes me."
"Yes. It does."
"Excellent. I can assure you that everything said about me factually true."
"Everything?"
"Everything."

"So, give me the background."
"Dr. James Harris, he's part of some CI spy ring. We need him to name names."
"Defector or spy?"
"Why does that matter?"
"No reason. Payback time in either case. How expendable?"
"I'm told you're the interrogator of last resort."
"I see."

The unlucky soul sat motionless on the table, unawares of the unpleasantness soon to be visited on him. Or just about anything else.
"What exactly are we looking for, ma'am?"
"Well, José-"
"Tomàs."
"-looking for any signs of biological tampering. Drug use, any signs of coercion. Strip him."
Clothes unceremoniously removed revealed nothing of interest. Bloodshot eyes. No response.
"Had he been worked over before this?"
"Not as far as I am aware."
"Looks clean to me. I need two bottles of gin, whatever passes for a general purpose MG around, and let's call it… ten belts of ammunition. I also need Range C blocked off for the next three hours."
"Just what are you-"
"Shhh. I've been doing this for literally decades. Everyone has spilled the beans - mafia, spec ops, everyone."
"That's a damned impressive record."
"Well, the ones that didn't die, anyway."

"The range is set. What exactly is going on here?"
A shout down the range.
"So, here's the deal, buddy. Carlos-"
"It's Tomàs, ma'am."
"- Diego or I over here is going to shout questions. Give good answers, that's all that's going to happen. If not -"
A burst of fire. Inches wide of the target. Animalian screams.
A whisper: "Is this really necessa-"
"Also, I have a drinking problem. One that is exacerbated by subjects not answering promptly or correctly. Are we clear?"
No response from downrange. Another burst. A little closer. More screams.
"Tough guy, I suppose."
"I think there's something else at play. Tom Collins?"
"I have a policy of not drinking on the job. Especially not with fully automatic weapons."
"I'll give your supervisor a good report."
"I'm not certain that would be a good thing."
"Spoilsport."

Range C Video Logs - 12/20/41

PoI-7701: Alright, first one. Easy. Who did you flip here?
Silence. A burst of gunfire.
PoI-7701: Fine. More liquor for me.
Tomàs Rey: You barely gave him time to respond.
PoI-7701: You ask the questions if you think you can do it better.
Tomàs Rey: Give us the names of your contacts.
A longer silence. A burst of gunfire.
PoI-7701: I told you.
…1
PoI-7701: I ever, uh, ever tell you the way we used to do it at CI?
Tomàs Rey: I'm not sure I want to know.
PoI-7701: Heh. It's not too much different from this. Only thing different, we'd put like, 10 guys down range. And we wouldn't say which one's being interrogated.
Tomàs Rey: Lovely.
PoI-7701: Fuck you. It was way more efficient than this will ever be. One at a time? We're spending too much on ammunition as is. Horrible return on investment.
…
Tomàs Rey: Tough nut to crack.
PoI-7701: He's a nut alright.
Tomàs Rey: What do you mean?
PoI-7701: There's something else at play.
Tomàs Rey: What do you mean?
PoI-7701: Shhh. Don't ruin my fun.
…
PoI-7701: Fuckin' guns jammed.
audible clicking
Tomàs Rey: You… you put the belt in backwards.
PoI-7701: Oh.
…
PoI-7701: Where are the fillings?
Tomàs Rey: What?
PoI-7701: Monty Python? C'mon.
Tomàs Rey: I never really liked them, to be honest.
PoI-7701: Ugh. That's just uncultured.
…
PoI-7701: Oof.
Tomàs Rey: You hit him. I'm surprised it took this long.
PoI-7701: I'm only four drinks in.
Tomàs Rey: And not a word out of him.
PoI-7701: It's just a graze. Keep going.
…
PoI-7701: Okay, now I hit him. He's going to bleed out now.
Tomàs Rey: Craggs 0, Interogatee 1.
PoI-7701: Laugh while you can. And get him to the infirmary.

"I'm not sure I got the point of this exercise. You got drunk. The prisoner's critically injured. No valuable information was gathered. Not even a word out of the guy."
"Who's the expert here? The whole thing was a farce from the start. Poor guy had been dosed with enough Class-C amnestics to forget how to tie his own shoes."
"What."
"You're missing the broader point of the exercise."
"So this was an exercise in futility."
"Roll back about half an hour, to about the point of when we met the prisoner."
"I don't see how tha-"
"What is your honest opinion of me? Three words or less."
"Batshit insane?"
"Exactly. Imagine you're the prisoner. That is exactly the last kind of person you want in charge of your safety. Even a sadist would be worse. At least they seem to have some sense of grasp on reality and some investment in keeping you alive. Crazy neuroscientists with liquor and machine guns? That's worst case scenario. They - I - don't give a half a damn about whatever information he may or may not have had."
"But we did care about the information."
"Maybe you cared, but I didn't. And that's the key. Some people use torture, others use 'enhanced interrogation', others use sensory deprivation. The key point of all of them is that the prisoner has a very real notion that their life is not only in danger, but basically of no value to their captors."
"But what about people that are willing to die to protect their information?"
"People like that don't exist. Everyone things they'll fair well under torture - but with stuff like this, they break. Eventually, they break. Maybe it's the stress, maybe it's the pain. Sometimes it's even the absurdity."
"But the prisoner will just give nonsense. That's like, interrogation 101."
"Oh, I know. This was primarily just for shits and giggles. There wasn't any information to be gathered, even if we wanted to gather it."
"So there was no point to any of this."
"Of course there was! I got valuable data about the effects of terror on over-amnesticized subjects. And got to get a lot of those torture-y tendencies out of my system."
"Query's done."
"Excellent! Results?"
"One. Carl Staffsky."
"Ugh. This is going to be a pain."
"Why?"
"Staffsky couldn't have an original thought if I put a Mike interface in his head and thought it for him. Guy's just a stooge for someone else."
"Who is he?"
"Who do you think. Second time I've been gunned for at a Foundation site - he's the one who keeps coming after me. Or least, he's a proxy for them."
"Going to put him downrange, too?"
"We shall see."

An 11th hour entry for Round 3 of the Original Character Tournament.
psul's entry: [http://www.scp-wiki.net/green-recruit]. Read his. It's much better.
« Tying the Gordian Knot | A Sensible Use of Human Life | More to come! »

Footnotes
1. For compression purposes, only nontrivial data has been recorded. Breaks in recording are marked by '…'


« Anomalous Teens Against Trilobite Schemes || Cafeteria Chat || Two Roads Diverge (The 3009-C Remix) »

“Hey, can you pass the salt?”
Junior Researcher Benedict Kim startled. It was December and the stale air of the Site-19 cafeteria reeked of rancid body odour and subpar budget meals. For the past hour in the cafeteria's northwest corner, Junior Researcher Benedict Kim had sat uncomfortably at a table of near-strangers, united only by their Foundation jobs and their determination to ignore each other.
But this stranger wasn't ignoring him. This stranger was trying to engage him in conversation. It was a terrifying upheaval of the established social order, especially considering that the salt was perfectly well within arm's reach.
“Uh,” said Benedict, with all the eloquence of a socially stunted sea slug. “Yeah. Here.”
He nudged the salt shaker marginally closer to his table mate. The other man picked up the shaker, spun it around handily, and shook an even layer of salt over his plate of… something.
Despite himself, Benedict went in for a second look. On closer inspection, his lunch companion appeared to have ordered the Thursday Meat-Loaf Surprise, but the amorphous mass of porous, meaty brownness had been sliced into perfectly even cubes. This had the overall effect of transforming a fairly mediocre meal into a culinary masterpiece, straddling the border of modern art and affordably priced sustenance.
His lunch companion smiled charmingly and began consuming his meal in a series of quick, efficient bites. Benedict's phone buzzed in his pocket and he immediately fumbled to get it out, grateful for an excuse to avert his eyes and end the brief bit of conversation.
He'd had a tough morning, courtesy of SCP-3009. For once, the sapient snapchat account hadn't actually done anything of note, but its continued existence and presence in Foundation custody seemed to generate endless amounts of paperwork. An encounter with a stranger was altogether too much stimulation for Benedict.
Then he actually looked at his phone, and any sense of relief for a distraction immediately faded.
3009

so, i've been thinking
you should let me talk to C again!!

Benedict stared at his phone in a sort of dumbfounded frustration and struggled, fruitlessly, to string together a full sentence, preferably composed of vaguely tactful words. His brain, unfortunately, seemed to be malfunctioning. The words just weren't connecting.
3009

great idea right?

No. No, it wasn't. Or at least Benedict didn't think it was. What good could possible come of the two talking? There had been a good week when 3009-C, the fifteen year old humanoid that shared 3009's identity, would burst into tears at the mere mention of its more obviously anomalous counterpart. 3009-C had been making good progress lately and had apparently developed a keen interest in psychology. It would be reckless and short-sighted to put all that at risk.
He expressed this sentiment by choking on his spaghetti. A clump of half chewed spaghetti flopped gracelessly out of his open mouth, and landed with a messy splatter onto his plate, flecking his plaid shirt with speckles of tomato sauce.
The stranger looked over at him in concern. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” said Benedict hurriedly. “Fine. Uh, yeah, fine.”
“Do you… need a napkin?”
“No. I mean. Yes. Actually. Thank you very much.”
There was a brief, awkward kerfuffle as Benedict and his lunch companion both reached for the napkin dispenser simultaneously. The other man politely withdrew. With napkin in hand, Benedict dabbed gingerly at his shirt. The action just sort of spread the sauce around, causing it absorb into the fabric.
The result, upon inspection, was significantly worse.
Giving up, Benedict picked up his phone again in an effort to ward off further social interaction.
3009

the heck!!!
don't leave me on read… 😑
you know I can see you've opened the message right?
anyone in, space case???? 😒😒

Me

I'm not sure that talking to 3009-C at this stage is a good idea.

3009

why not? 😢

Me

What are you hoping to talk to her about?

His cellphone began to vibrate like an extraordinarily aggressive hornet. 3009 was trying to call him. Benedict glanced around. Lunch period was nearly over, and the cafeteria was fairly quiet. His table mate was watching him curiously.
“I'm, uh, going to take this one,” Benedict said awkwardly, fumbling to lower the volume of his buzzing phone.
The stranger shrugged, turning away politely. “Sure. Go for it. Don't mind me.”
Reluctantly, he accepted the call. The face of fifteen-year-old Stacey Lee filled the screen as 3009 launched straight into its pitch.
“Well, to apologise, right? Like. I don't know. Offer an… an olive branch! Of peace! And friendship!” As it talked, 3009 backed away from the screen and had begun gesticulating with such impressive speed that it was actually too much for Benedict's internet connection. Its arms had turned into a sort of off-white, hoodie-shaped blur. “And, like, give her some souvenirs in person. How else am I going to fix things?”
Benedict shrank back into his seat, wishing he'd gone outside to the bathrooms to take the call. It seemed by far too awkward to try leaving now. “That's really wonderful, 3009, but she's making some good progress, you know, and—“ He paused, confused. “What souvenirs?”
“You know,” said 3009 impatiently. “Like the bear video! And that piece of the wall!”
A piece of wall… Benedict gaped at 3009, amazed. So that was why Researcher Xiulan had mailed him a piece of rubble after the whole disaster at Site-201. It had been a souvenir. He'd thought it had been some kind of advanced hazing tactic. Or perhaps a threat of some kind.
“I'd have to get it approved,” said Benedict distractedly. “I don't… really have that power. Even if I thought it was a good idea. Which I don't, for the record.”
3009 huffed, crossing its arms. “What? It's totally a good idea!”
Benedict glanced around awkwardly, and noticed that his lunch companion was watching him. There was a curious expression on his face.
“Uh,” said Benedict awkwardly.
“Oh, sorry.” The other man chuckled awkwardly. “Is that… your younger sister?” The unspoken question was obvious: Is that a civilian?
3009 tensed onscreen. It had fallen awkwardly silent.
“Um. No,” Benedict paused, and looked his table mate up and down for the first time. He didn't look much like a researcher, but he was obviously affiliated with the Foundation in some way, and 3009 wasn't particularly classified information. “This is SCP-3009. It's an entity tied to a snapchat account. I'm responsible for fulfilling its social needs.”
“How fascinating. I think I've heard a little about that case. Very interesting. So you must be on the 3009 research team?”
“Yes,” said Benedict. “Junior Researcher Benedict Kim. Nice to meet you.”
The man nodded, with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt your conversation. I'm Agent Johnson. It's a pleasure.”
That caught 3009's attention. “Agent,” it repeated, suddenly interested. “You mean there's people here who aren't, like, scientists?”
Johnson caught Benedict's eye, questioningly. When Benedict nodded, Johnson smiled reassuringly. “Yes,” he said. “A field agent. It means that I help the Foundation with work that they have outside.”
3009 seemed extremely impressed by this. On screen, Stacey Lee sucked in a slow breath and nodded slowly. “Wow, like James Bond! Awesome. I thought you had to be, like… super sciencey to work with the Foundation.”
“Ah, no,” said Johnson. “There are lots of different things that the Foundation needs people to do. I just help out where I'm needed, you know?”
“That's so cool,” 3009 said, fascinated. “Do you do a lot of cool things? It sounds like a fun job. Like something out of a comic book.”
Something flickered oddly in Agent Johnson's eyes, but the moment passed so quickly that Benedict wondered if it had been his imagination, or perhaps a trick with the fluorescent lighting.
“Well, I do a lot of helpful things,” said Johnson tactfully. His smile suddenly seemed extremely bland.
Like something out of a comic book… Benedict couldn't imagine, to be honest, that Agent Johnson's job was all sunshine and rainbows.
The Foundation did need a lot of work to get done, and not all of it was pleasant. Like removing fifteen-year-old girls from their homes and putting them under permanent protective custody. And even that was thoroughly insignificant, when compared to the other things that the Foundation did. The 3009 situation was barely a blip on the Foundation radar.
Benedict startled. The conversation had moved on without him. Agent Johnson and 3009 were chatting amiably. They didn't look like a Foundation agent and a skip making conversation. Agent Johnson seemed almost like a particularly friendly teacher, chatting to a prized student.
“…which is wonderful, and I couldn't help but notice that the two of you have a very close relationship,” Agent Johnson was saying. “Do you admire what Researcher Kim does?”
“Uh, I guess,” said 3009. “I mean, Benny's a cool guy, deep down! I, um, don't really know much about what he does, but it seems super cool. I'm not very good at science, though.”
“But you'd like to help the Foundation in other ways, if you could?” said Johnson, curiously.
“I…” 3009 hesitated, momentarily. “I guess so. I mean, I'd like to be useful, you know?”
Agent Johnson smiled. He'd finished his food at some point, and had started clearing his section of the table. “That's excellent. A wonderful goal. I'm sure that there's some way you can be more useful.”
“You think so?” said 3009 hopefully.
“I'm positive,” said Johnson. He rose from his seat and picked up his tray. “Well, I have some errands to run, but it was a pleasure meeting you both.”
Benedict tried imagined what it might like, for 3009 to be “more useful” to the Foundation. The thought made him strangely uncomfortable, but it was difficult to put into words why he felt that way.
“And you!” 3009 chirped. “Come talk to me again some time! Tell me about all your awesome adventures!”
“Well, it's classified stuff,” said Johnson with a smile, turning to leave. “But I'll do my best. Have a great day.”
“Same to you,” said Benedict, a few seconds too late, but he'd timed it wrong and Johnson was already out of earshot.

This was written for the Original Character Tournament. Thank you so much to PeppersGhost for organising the contest, and to fieldstone for the use of Agent Johnson!
« Anomalous Teens Against Trilobite Schemes || Cafeteria Chat || Two Roads Diverge (The 3009-C Remix) »

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