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1985
Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly ungrateful, Doctor Glut wondered why his younger, redheaded wife had married him, and theorized that it might be because of some kind of father complex, troubled past, or undiscovered psychological issues. Today, however, he was simply trying to enjoy her loving stare, and attempted to push all confidence issues (that's what he thought was probably the real problem, a lack of self-esteem that made it hard to believe that anyone as gorgeous and intelligent as she would want to be with a slob like him) and just enjoy the dinner. The kindness emanating from Antoinette was directly counterbalanced by the sullen heat baking off his glaring son, a tiny Asian adopted boy glaring through a lock of black hair, which was why he was not all together saddened when his buzzer began beeping.
"I'm sorry Antoinette, it's a wonderful meal, but I have to go. Business at the base."
"Okay, but try to be back as early as possible," she said coyly and winked, and the boy made a rude gagging sound. He was furious at his son, who for the last couple years he become resentful for almost completely unexplainable reasons, but still a small smile played across his lips; yes, at least for tonight, he thought he could stop worrying about what he had done to deserve her.

"So what do we have here?"
"Some kind of creature resembling, according to the eyewitness reports, a 'lizard hog with gigantic horns' was rampaging through the building, breaking through each room, really knocking down the walls themselves with its head."
"I see," said Doctor Glut, not really listening. The event itself wasn't his line of work.
They both walked quickly and surely through the motel, which was divided into smaller sections by hanging plastic sheets. Doctor Glut was a man in his fifties, with greasy black hair streaked with gray, and a lab coat that hung over his potbelly. As they moved towards the person he was supposed to deal with, Doctor Glut pulled on an extremely thick black leather glove that went up to his right elbow.
He shoved aside the curtain and stepped into a tiny area framed by similar tarps. A light on a stand glared brightly at the man tied to a chair. Doctor Glut crouched and looked him in the eyes.
"What did you see?"
"Some kind of monster. Look, it bit a guys legs off," he whispered empathetically, looking fearful and asking for sympathy from the Doctor through his eyes. Doctor Glut shook his head slightly, little more than a twitch, and then briskly moved to one of the tarps, holding it aside.
"What's behind this one?"
One of the soldiers, dressed in black and wearing a gas mask, replied, "Well, when the site received structure damage, several walls separating rooms were knocked down. That hole leads into a bathroom."
Doctor Glut grabbed the man, cut the ropes, and pulled him out of the chair, dragging him away.
"Sir, this is your work area. You're not supposed to leave it. We're really short on space."
Doctor Glut disregarded him and turned sideways, working his way into the bathroom. Forcing the man to kneel, he plunged his face into the toilet with his leather-clad right arm. The man struggled, but Doctor Glut continued to force his head down as he gurgled, and choked, and struggled, flailing madly, drinking in the dirty water and screaming whenever his mouth left the surface for a few seconds. Doctor Glut pushed his hardest, holding him steadily under for a good amount of time, and then wrenched him out, the man's wet hair flinging around his terrified face.
"No, you saw nothing."

The sensory deprivation chamber was completely dark. It seemed to be a very large area, narrow but with a high ceiling like a chapel or tower, because when the door opened, a long thin crack of bright golden light appeared in front of the man. There was the sound of a scraping chair, and then the room became completely illuminated.
"Hello, Jason," said Doctor Glut, staring intently at the man in front of him.
The man, amazingly, smiled and piped up, almost perkily, "So you guys are like the men in black or something? And now you're just going to delete my memories! I knew you guys and all that stuff was real. That's why I was watching the sky when it flashed on by."
His stubbly face was actually grinning with awe, his fringe beliefs validated. "Even though I won't recall any of this, it's still cool that I experienced it. So how are you going to do it? Like a flash of light or an injection or something?"
"I'm afraid not, Jason."
Jason Strobixzek began to scream.

There was the sound of bone hitting meat, thrashing, and someone yelling out and falling to the ground. The door opened and Doctor Glut walked out, massaging his hand, and adjusting the large ring with a sharp gaudy gemstone speckled with blood and pieces of a man's lips on it.
"What is William Gun's cover story that the guys created?"
"He slipped and fell into a lake," said a specialist standing near by and watching the beating, "And almost drowned. All he is to remember is thrashing and bobbling up and down. Nothing about the tentacles…or the… mud creatures."
"Ah, well, I think you're going to have to modify it a little bit so he was thrown into the lake, Benjamin. Like a group of kids… beat him up or something…", he said, trailing off and crackling his knuckles nastily.
One of the guards said, "Administering a Class A Amnestic, Doc?"
"Yeah, that's right." he said ruefully.

"So what, it's all a lie?" asked Doctor Qalet, as they walked down the hallway to their prospective jobs.
"Look, no one knows everything. You probably have a secret about the Foundation's inner workings that I don't have, and I know stuff that would make your toes curl. It's just, no one can possess too much information. For their own safety. So we create these half-truths, to make things sound gentler, more humane. So people have pieces of the troubling stuff we do, but never the whole picture. They don't have to get their hands too dirty or feel too guilty. We divide the… the sin… amongst ourselves."
"I take it the injections are one of these 'half-truths.'"
"Yes, the mind… The mind is much more complicated then that. A simple syringe isn't the perfect solution. Okay, most of the amnestics in our possession can muddle the ability to form new memories and block out some of the more recent ones, true, so sometimes they're useful, but ninety percent of SCP-civilian contact is over a long-term time period. That's a fact. They don't just bump into them and then go about their merry way. We can deal with that type easily. But some objects become ingrained. Lives are changed by them, communities form around them, beliefs are created. How would a simple chemical choose which of these memories in a long chain of them to block? It's much too intricate and convoluted. So what we do is we sit down with them. Talk to them. And then we brainwash them…
"Gulag style… Okay? We don't have the wonder drug. It's a myth to make scientists sleep better at night. So they can write it up in their reports, a shorthand term for a very long and arduous process. So they can order the torture and desecration of civilians without knowing that's exactly what they're doing. Just another part that's hidden, secret."
"What exactly is a Class A Amnestic, then?"
"Class B and C are good for recent memories. Some times it can go without a hassle. But Class A… Class A does absolutely nothing. It's a mild sedative, Muhammad. That's all. A mild sedative that the scientists give them, that calms the people down. Its looks like they're forgetting, or emptied out, but they're just stoned for a couple seconds. But it makes the scientists feel better and they think that the civilians will get to continue their normal everyday lives soon. That it's all over for them. So they send them to us, thinking its just the tying up of a few loose ends, some paperwork to get written down, some orders to be looked over, finalized, and approved, not the beginning of the real process. But that's what it is. The start. Not the end, because its not just a one day thing, in and out. Sometimes they stay with us for months, years… The researchers and level four personnel think they're sending them to the exit, to be checked over, but really, we take them somewhere else… for a very long time."
Muhammad Qalet was very quiet for the rest of the way down the hallway. They stopped by a thick metal door. "Well here's my office… I have some business to do now." He cast his eyes down, and then looked up. "I hope I haven't unnerved you too much… But you wanted to know. And I think you need to understand… It's just, we don't have the technology yet. When you analyze the problem, everything is so primitive in reality. Nothing's as advanced as we think it is. Consider a rocket ship. Sounds so futuristic, doesn't it? But it's just a metal tube with a silly ancient explosion that's been around for hundreds of years coming out of the bottom. Nothing special. Just like our methods. Not impressive at all. Not some highly ingenious pill or liquid… just a well aimed strike with a hammer to the forehead. "
With that he threw the hatch open and entered. His office was a small, dank, modern-day dungeon. An emaciated man was chained to the wall. "Well hello there, Mr. Kynosiky! Have you come to the conclusion I arrived at yesterday? That you're insane? And imagined the whole thing?"
The starving bag of bones whispered, "It's all very fuzzy."
"Well, that's a start! Come stand up. Get up, get up! We have some exercises to do."
Doctor Qalet stared in horror and fought back the powerful urge to cry out in dismay. He fled the scene quickly, attempting to push it out of his consciousness. He succeeded, because sometimes you don't need strange scary men in black to wipe out memories with fire and heat and whips and mind games… Sometimes all that is necessary is a convenient lie or an overwhelming guilt complex that can't be solved.
Sometimes forgetting is very easy.

Doctor Glut produced a well-used handkerchief and wiped at her face. It was well-used, because frequently in his line of work he had to clean off spittle running down people's chins. A lot of his treatments tended to create drooling.
He poked with the thin needle, which had a current of electricity running from the boxy machine down the wires attached.
"Cindy, you moved into the city when you were 22 years old. When you arrived you found a job as a cashier at a small grocery store."
The women mumbled her agreeance groggily. "That's right, isn't it. Now it says here you want to eventually make your way to California." He poked her again. She twitched slightly. "Well guess what, that's exactly what your goal is. You're saving up money to become an actress! You'll probably have enough soon too." He picked up another pin and poked two at once. There was a crackling sound and a little bit of blood exploded on his face. "Dammit, turn down the voltage, Jim." The man fiddled with a few dials and buttons, then picked up a large syringe with an extremely thick needle. "Inject her in the left cortex." Jim didn't have to pierce bone, skin, drill a tiny hole, or go through her nose or back of the neck into the spine, because the top of Cindy's head had been sawed off and removed. Doctor Glut lifted up the electric pin again and poked at her slightly burnt frontal lobe.
"The only thing is… You can never visit your family again, Cindy. You got in a very big fight with them, okay?"

Doctor Glut walked down the sidewalk, enjoying the fresh breeze, staring down at his boots and the cracks they moved over. He only barely noticed the bicyclist speeding his way, and threw himself to the side. The bicyclist, apparently distracted by something, skidded, and tipped over, moving a couple knee scratching, skin grinding feet before coming to a stop. "Are you all right?" Doctor Glut asked, but the man avoided his extended hand, and got up slowly, not looking in Glut's eyes, like he was in a daze. He got on his bike silently and sped away.
To Ryan Glut he looked strangely familiar.

Doctor Glut entered the room to check up on Jason, to see how the process was working. The man's eyes spun madly in their sockets, he clawed at phantoms in the air, and screamed about incoherent colors. "Well then, the mixture of LSD and other hallucinogens seem to be working fabulously," said the brainwasher to his colleague. "It all fits together… Crazy guy living alone, believes in conspiracies, grows a little marijuana in his basement, wears tie die shirts… And then, one day, he overdoses on drugs and runs through town screaming about a gigantic plane covered with feathers in the sky. What else are people going to think?"
"Can we purge his system then?"
"No… other people may not believe him but that's not good enough. By the time we're done with him he wouldn't believe himself."
"Sir?"
"Because he can't, he wouldn't be able to. We'll have destroyed his mind. You know, when we're finished. When we're done, even without the acid in his system, he'll do nothing but gibble and garble. It's truly going to be one bad trip…"
…
"Increase the dosage."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes… positive. Drop it in liquid form directly into his eyes. And for god sakes make sure the restraints are tight. Jessica still has claw marks on her cheeks. And when you're finished…."
He peeked halfway out of the door. "Strip him down and put him in the woods near his hometown."

"Would you like anything?" the girl at the register said as she scanned the last object, a carton of eggs, and began blowing a bright pink bubble of gum. "No, that will be all, thank you." He looked up from his wallet and handed her his card. The desert town was partially structured around the military base, so Foundation credit got him a discount here. "Wait… You remind me of someone. Have we met before?" he asked, smiling, casual. Her response was odd: she averted her gaze and looked away. "No," she said, almost whimpering. "Are you sure…? I mean I'm just struck by the most powerful sense of deja vu…" He trailed off. She still didn't change her odd behavior. "Okay," He picked up the two brown paper bags. "Well, I just thought… You know, maybe you have a sister or something?" he said awkwardly, and then left without waiting for her to answer the question.
The rest of the day he was very troubled.

"Why did this happen to me?"
"I don't know. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. Sometime the world gets a little weird for no reason. People occasionally… just fall through the cracks of reality, of society, and strange things happen for no reason… It can't be helped."
He allowed himself a moment of weakness and patted the man on the arm. "Can… you hold my hand…" the man said with tears in his eyes, "While you guys do whatever you're going to do. Or just talk to me. And have a conversation."
Doctor Glut blinked. "I'm scared," the man said.
"No… I can't… We can't talk."
"Why?"
"You'll bite your tongue off," he said and then leaned forward and put the block of wood between the man's teeth.

All the faces were a blur, all causing the same sense of deja vu. They all danced with memories just behind his recollection. And he swore they all had the same shadow of recognition behind their vacant dead eyes. Speaking of which…when had people become so zombie-like lately? Had he missed something? Now it seemed everyone around him was staring off into space, walking and jerking like automatons, or speaking in emotionless monotones. Going about the motions. Not living life… Or was he just being critical? Was there something wrong with the economy, something that caused a lot of stress or worry or something? He worked in the government sector… So… He truly realized just how isolated he was from popular culture. There could be some phenomenon that just recently starting affecting these people, but he wouldn't know. It would never affect him. He looked around on the small downtown street and saw only blank expressionless masks. That still caused something to go off in his brain.

A man walked in front of Ryan on accident. They struggled foolishly, he would go one way, and so would Glut. Back and forth, both trying to get by, Doctor Glut with a silly grin on his face. When they finally worked it out, (Glut had to lightly put his hands on the man's shoulders) Glut's smile at the absurdity of it faded… The man had almost been in tears.

Regaski's teacher had called him in; the boy was misbehaving in class, acting up, getting in fights, and not doing his homework. The teacher, an intelligent, slim-looking black man, seemed disconnected through the whole interview, and finally ushered him out of his office without anything really being solved.

He noticed a lot of people made mistakes around him. Little slips in grammar or syntax… Almost as if they were nervous. Some even subconsciously slipped into old accents or languages.

He was almost sure he had spent a lot of time with this one sexy looking number in a jogging suit, running down the trail. He stopped her and she looked ready to bolt, her entire body stiff and erect. He asked if they went to high school or grew up in the same town or maybe even if she was a maintenance worker at the base or something. She chatted pleasantly but in a detached and halting manner with him as long as he wanted… But he got nothing… And when she left he had noticed a few drops of blood on the ground. She had been clenching his hands together so tightly she had punctured the skin with her long painted nails.

25 years earlier
A much younger Doctor Glut, with longer pure black hair and a slightly oily face, with a splash of remaining acne held his hand gently to the pretty girl's chin, feeling her smooth pale skin and forcing her to look at him. She had green eyes and straight strawberry blond hair, and was like a skittish little animal. His eyes moved over her childish body somewhat lecherously. There was something horribly perverse about the scene.
Her eyes were solemn.
"Just repeat after me and everything will be fine."

A contraption was drilled on his head, a miniature portable MRI, that swirled and beeped around his skull. Doctor Glut glanced at the screen showing the brain illuminated with different colors.
"Now, Chris, pick up the phone." Speaking through a microphone.
Chris slowly picked up the phone and said in a drugged voice, "Hello?"
An insanely happy tone came out of the other end and said, "Mr. Black, you've been hired. You'll need to pack up your bags and move immediately. We have a great future ahead of you."
"Okay."
A part of the brain turned bright red. Glut pushed the button, and the machine began to spin faster and then zapped it.

Extract from the The Handbook of Black Ops Mental Conditioning 1992 Second Edition, Written in Part by Doctor Glut, Doctor Synclaire, and Doctor Smithchrist
Much like in psychology, when a patient can develop strong displaced feeling for his counselor, a civilian can achieve a strong bond as well, in a much shorter time, due to the fact that we control their food, water, and interaction. As an infant is dependent on its mother, the patient is dependent on us. The shattering of the ego and the complete mastery over all their necessities sometimes means that the new personality can form around the brainwasher. Often in this view, the conditioned will hold the manager of the procedure in awe, and subconsciously elevate them to a godlike level. Now this can take the form of extreme sexual attraction, grudging respect that turns into worship, and even a puppy like cringing and urge to please, which is of course initially faked but becomes real over time. Of course, such sentiments can also go in the opposite direction….

"Thanks for the paper, Jase."
"Hey no problem Mr. Glut!" said the retarded man, grinning stupidly like a dog at the compliment. Jason had been delivering papers for years and on this fine day when Ryan mowed his lawn and his neighbor, the gaunt Mr. Kynosiky chattered amiably but distractedly as he hosed his flowers, Ryan felt he deserved to have it mentioned. Deserved his loyalty to be remarked upon.
Suddenly, a cold chill shot down his spine. It wasn't the fine mist of the hose that Mr. Kynosiky had accidentally aimed his way (god couldn't that man focus a little, he never seemed to have his head on straight) or the sudden gust of wind that made a couple of the papers in Jason's bag rustle away (he didn't bother chasing after them; the boy was really simple, he would have had a hell of time running after one little sheet and probably get hit by a truck, so why bother) but the thought that hit him in an instant. "Oh god, not him too."
Ryan felt very dizzy and went inside. That night he loaded his revolver, although he didn't quite know why.

When there was a crashing sound downstairs around 4:00 a.m, Glut jumped up immediately and grabbed the gun from under his pillow. He was ready for this; he wanted something. Something to rage at, something visible and tangible to fight, not this vague sense of creeping unease he had been dealing with. He ran downstairs, spinning the chamber aggressively, flicked the light, and exploded vengefully on his dew-wet lawn. It was only kids, and he lowered his gun disappointedly. He didn't even bother to shout them away.
Three of them sprinted away, some laughing mischievously, some frightened out of their wits and afraid that they were going to go to jail forever for throwing a rock through his window, but one collapsed to the ground at the sight of him, framed in the porch glow, and began twitching, having a seizure. Glut shoved the pistol inside his pajama pants waistline and ran towards the boy. The little child was frothing at his mouth and his limbs were jerking spasmodically. Glut ran with him inside and laid him on a counter, the tiny body bouncing up and down dangerously. He reached to call an ambulance, and then it echoed in his mind:
"If you ever think about what happened on September 15 again, you will fall to the ground. You will jerk and twitch. You will die. It hurts so much. It pains you to remember."
The urge to to reach the hospital was gone. Instead he called Line 5.

Doctor Glut meandered without reason in the center of the small shopping mall, bored and looking for something to do to pass the time while he was on leave. If a workaholic felt purpose and fulfillment only at his normal job, and was considered slightly disturbed or wrong because of this, what would that make him; he who was workaholic at an abnormal job, who only found fulfillment while operating racks and damaging minds. A sadist? Would he seem a complete monster in comparison? Or was it all the same, a driven man was a driven man regardless of his job; the difference in work had absolutely no bearing on the final viewpoint and judgment of him, at least in that respect. Everyone had to do something after all. Glut thought about this philosophical question as he browsed halfheartedly for a gift for his wife. He really had nothing better to think about… And maybe because of this lack of turbulence or occupying problem on his mind, maybe because of the relative dullness of the environment he was in, or maybe just because enough time had passed for it to click, he saw it. The pieces of the puzzle came together. And it drove him mad.
"No," he whispered, realizing the terrible and unexplainable pattern.
The man over there trying on coats; he had only to restrict food and keep him in solitary confinement before he developed Stockholm Syndrome and became easily pliable. The old lady by the decrepit mini-golf course, he had to break almost every bone in her body. She was a stubborn bitch, refusing to give up her beliefs. The younger chap down by the food court had been so disturbed when Glut walked in, showed him the report that proved what he saw was true, agreed with his story, and then shoved it in a small slot and burned it. It bothered Glut too, that control of what was real or not. He had got it from 1984 and instilled the mechanism that next day after reading it. It was one of his most effective techniques. The hunched broken looking lady with stringy hair… oh god… He had destroyed her slowly, formerly a proud sensual older woman, with insults and tricks and false compliments. Everyone in the mall, at one point in his life, was someone he had brainwashed. Oh god. Oh god! Everyone in the entire town too?! Could it be possible? He thought so… After all, he was a man at the top of his profession… He must have worked on thousands. More than enough to fill a small town in the middle of nowhere. Day in and day out, laboring endlessly. And no wonder he didn't realize it right away, with so many successes how could he remember each face? They trickled in anyways, one by one, blending in… It didn't spring on him all at once.
He was now running, frantically, wildly, towards the entrance of the store. He burst out and tripped over a curb, falling to the ground, splayed out and moaning. They gathered around him but no one helped. He realized now why he could never connect with anyone, why he had no friends. They weren't really there, the people around him. He had shattered them. They were missing something, and he was the one who had stolen it.
"No!" He gurgled and jumped up, sprinting to god-knows-where, just trying to outrun the thoughts that he knew deep down were true. But why? He asked in a shrieking voice. Why was this happening to him?! Some conspiracy, he thought, paranoia overwhelming him. The Foundation was trying to break him down, shun him out of his own department that he had helped create years ago. It was a power play, a gambit. But, no, that wasn't it. Impossible. It was too risky. Alter every single file so their cover stories all have them moving to his home town? Someone would notice that big of a change. And too dangerous. Their conditioning could break down. It was certainly already failing. The weird looks he got. The flashbacks he saw going on like movies behind their brows. The boy, oh god the boy. No, the Foundation wouldn't risk the possibility of having secrets escape, come to light, just to destroy him.
It was some cosmic joke, he decided, madly, uncomprehending and fully understanding at the same time, realizing the basic inexplicability of it all and giving in. Random occurrence that happens from time to time. Bad luck my friend. Maybe there was some karma involved, some punishment, retribution for his years of darkness, an ironic hell, but he thought, as much as he could think at that point, that it was just some scrapping away of reason and cause and effect and the chaos that was the true world had seeped in, fucking up his life for absolutely no reason. It came back to him: "Sometimes people just fall through the cracks of reality," he had said.
And that's what he was sure had happened to him; the sane world just left him behind for no clear logical reason.
The car screeched and hit him, sending him flying. He caught the eye of the driver - his body was probably still trying to deal with the massive amounts of hormones he had put in his bloodstream, and his arm looked bent and knobbly, had he broken it, he couldn't recall… And he saw it. He knew him. His pasty teenage face curdled in shock.
He knew him.
"He sees me!" Glut screamed in his head incoherently and began crawling, twisted leg behind him, snot and blood and tears running down his face. He finally realized where he was going. His home. His gorgeous, happy, peaceful tiny little home, with the kitchen where he and his wife read together and played games, the quiet study, seemingly entirely composed out of dark, supple, delicious-smelling leather, where dust became motes of light incarnate, the basketball court where he tried and tried again, a labor of love, to earn that suspicious boy's trust, the bedroom where he learned to be proud of his body as his aroused wife sprayed herself across him, erasing years of embarrassment and shame in one glorious moment, all the little niches and crannies, each one with an equal amount of comfort, safety and softness everywhere.
He just wanted to go home.
But there was a darker purpose as well. He had to see. He had to see if the last refuge, the sacred, had been infiltrated and sullied by the encroaching insanity. He stumbled through the door and collapsed onto the ground. His wife screamed and ran towards him, kneeling down and putting her arms around him frantically, asking in a panic, "Whats wrong, Ryan?! Jesus! Ryan!" Her voice was high and wavery.
He turned his head away and buried it in her thick red locks, sobbing like a small child. He pushed his face further into the sweet smelling hair and clutched at her body in comfort.
"Please let this at least be pure. Let it be true. True love. I have… I have nothing else. If this is all an illusion, this marriage, this relationship, I will have nothing left."
Nothing came to him for a moment, and he almost breathed a sigh of relief. But then it came back. Sure it took him a little longer… she was his first after all, but eventually it resurfaced.
It came back and he was lost. Of course she loved him! How could she not? He was an imposing figure in her mind, an authoritative father god in the background of her every thought. He was terrible and majestic. No wonder she was always so amorous and horny around him. No wonder she always agreed with him and took his word as law. He wasn't a human to her, he was an archetype! He had mastered her as a child… Reduced her… Diminished this brilliant, gorgeous human who could have done something for the world. Destroyed her. She had left college for him, studying to be a lawyer, the moment they bumped into each other. Like she had been waiting for him her whole life. And she had… He had came to her, all-knowing as a little girl, and thirty years later he had reaped what he had sown.
He bit a piece of his tongue off when he shouted in dismay. He pushed her away in disgust, but at himself or her he did not know. He staggered drunkenly, eyes huge and bloodshot, froth like a mad dog running down his face as he mumbled and screamed at himself, and he groped at his last chance for salvation. Or was he just uncovering the final revelation as soon as possible to make the destruction of his mind faster? Either way he had to know, empty cold curiosity overwhelmed him. He opened the safe and took out his son's adoption records. He had to know if he had raped his own child.

Glut, wearing an open throat shirt that flapped around him gently and a hat, stared into the rice fields as the ship glided across the top of the river. The long wooden vessel stopped rowing near a patch of mud and Glut got out, walking between reeds in the exotic locale. The agent nodded at him respectfully and said, "I'm glad you could come."
"It's not a problem. I was in the neighborhood. What seems to be the situation?"
"Over here."
They walked for a little bit through the tiny village and the agent said, "A bunch of schoolchildren. In that school house over there. They saw something they weren't suppose to. For the last couple weeks, their teacher has been showing them… Well… They call it magic."
A scientist with goggles and a charred sleeve on his lab coat standing by a totem in the town square walked up to them. "Why can't we just use a Class A Amnestic? I know we don't have any on us, but why did you cancel my order for a boxful to be delivered here, Kramar?"
"Amnestics are notoriously unreliable," Agent Kramar said, sharing a private smirk with Doctor Glut.
Doctor Glut attempted a more diplomatic approach, and rested his hand on the man's arm. "It's unsafe to use Class A Amnestics on children. Too large an amount is needed. It could be deadly. So alternative methods are required." He said all this in a perfectly calm and reasonable voice.
"So what are you going to do then?"
"Don't worry Hans, he's an expert."
The researcher looked confused. "Like what? He's a SCP that's working for us or something? Does he have powers… Or hypnosis eyes…" He trailed off as they both left him behind.
"I hope this is all ethical!" Hans said, calling after them.
"Goddammit," whispered the agent in a sneering voice, "now because of him we're going to need to find a soundproof room."

"She was a witch. And she could conjure fireballs. And juggle them. It was amazing," said the boy, a shaven head rascal who looked like a miniature monk in his robes, unaware anything was wrong.
"Now, little one… Children… Children have active imaginations. You fantasize about things. You're notoriously unreliable. You can't trust yourself, okay. You have to only believe in what I say."
"I know what I saw, I say-"
Glut slapped him across the face. "Who's the adult here? Children are stupid! Children are silly. You are a baby. You make up games and they become too real and then you start believing in them. You were playing and it got out of hand. Don't trust yourself. Never trust your own mind. Question your thoughts, because they're always wrong! You're always wrong!"
It had begun.

When he came to from the blackout, his worried and frightened wife holding onto him tightly, cradling up his torso as he laid sprawled on the tiles, he was still laughing. A few seconds later he realized he couldn't stop.


Special Containment Center 23 Terminal

Welcome, please enter user ID.
>ethaum
Please enter password.
>
Password Accepted.
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Loading.
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Clearance validated.
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Welcome, Commander Thaum. Please enter an action.
>SCP #176
Number recognized. Loading.
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Item: SCP, #176.
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Approximate image of object loading.
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Loaded.
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Special containment procedures: Item #176 is classified as a Keter-level object. Statue is contained in lead room #2, following protocol regarding Keter-level objects.
WARNING: PRIMARY PERSONNEL ARE NOT ALLOWED TO INTERACT WITH STAFF DESIGNATED TO MONITOR KETER-LEVEL OBJECTS.
Object was located in desert outside Bolson de Mapimi, 1970. Class A recovery was approved and carried out. Suppressed local exchange of relevant information. For a full stat
>N
Item #176's physical makeup cannot be ascertained, any contact by educated personnel is forbidden by protocol. Object stationary. Reports of emitting a slight hum. Object produces an unknown energy wavelength that must be discharged once per day. Discharging is handled by CLASS D REPRESENTATIVES ONLY.
>P
>search Class D
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SCP Protocol: Class D Personnel
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Loaded
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Class D personnel are designated staff used to handle the Keter-level objects. Class D staff are sequestered on the Keter floor, bottom basement.
WARNING: CLASS D PERSONNEL ARE NOT ALLOWED TO INTERACT WITH CLASS D PERSONNEL ASSIGNED TO A DIFFERENT OBJECT OR SCP PERSONNEL.
Class D personnel are recruited from prison inmates. Condemned persons are preferred, in times of duress, Protocol 12 can be authorized, allowing recruitment of innocents or persons incarcerated for lesser crimes.
All Class D personnel must be terminated at the first of the month, and a new staff must be ready to replace them. After placement in quarters, staff must only contact Class D personnel through intercom system.
All personnel involved with Class D will be given a minimum of one (1) polygraph tests at 1800 on a daily basis. Failure to comply will result in termination. Failure to pass test will result in termination.
In event of any abnormalities, termination of entire Class D personnel is advised, as well as any SCP personnel that has had basic interaction.
>176
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Please specify request.
>R 176
Resuming.
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If any change or abnormality in energy wavelengths is identified, termination of all personnel is advised.
Reports from the initial handling of item #176 indicate strong psychological effects. Any change in brain wave activity is to be reported immediately, and terminated of all personnel is advised.
Documented Psychological effects:
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Inability to speak properly and/or speaking of unknown languages.
Hallucinations.
Paranoia.
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Documented Physical effects:
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Massive internal hemorrhaging.
Liquidation of organs.
Blindness.
Dramatic weight loss.
Muscle atrophy.
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Item #176 has been noted to psychologically distort Class D personnel as to prevent them from releasing the buildup of energy within the chamber. Energy is most likely cause of above psychological and physiological effects. Item #176 is classified as EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.
Failure to discharge could result in death of all personnel in facility.
>P
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Enter action.
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE
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Command unrecognized.
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Authorize abnormality containment procedures?
>Y|
>Ye
>Yes|
>Yes
>Yes|
>Yes
>Ye|
>Y
>
>N
Acknowledged. Abnormality containment procedure not authorized.
>logout
Goodbye, Commander.
Connection closed.


The fly floated down onto the nose of the statue gently, watching its surroundings carefully for any sign of a predator. Content with the fact that there were none, it began cleaning itself, endlessly wiping its forelegs over its head and body, scraping off the excess dirt with an efficiency only millennia of biological programming could produce.
Were it capable of sentient thought, or even hearing, it may have briefly wondered what the strange, rapidly increasing whistling sound was. But, as it had neither, it was blissfully ignorant of what was about to happen.
The statue exploded violently, leaving behind nothing but a shallow crater, a brief rain of stone, dirt, ceramic and one very dead fly.
“Nice shot Ice,” grunted Kain, peering at the impact zone from the firing area.
“Sophia, what does that make the score?”
“Your twenty three points to his twenty Father,” replied the pale girl standing to his right, watching the scene with interest.
“Heh. It's getting close, but I think we know who has the better robot,” the dog chuckled, leaning over the cockpit and laying his head on the bronzed shoulder plate of the Egg Walker.
“If I was allowed to use all of my armaments-” started Iceberg, leaning up from his laid back position in the deck chair next to Sophia, a large and very complex remote control nestled in his hands.
“If you were allowed to use all of your armaments the firing range would be one very large nuclear crater,” interrupted Kain, his fuzzy face twisted into what one could assume was his version of a frown.
The firing range in question was a small dusty valley, populated primarily by large grotesque statues, stylised depictions of monstrous creatures and large craters. Mostly used to test weapons grade SCP items, when not in use, it was fair game for anyone with high enough clearance and a day off.
The dog squinted in the midday sun, the heat beating down relentlessly.
“So which one should I pick off next?”
“Might I suggest the six-eighty-two lookalike three hundred feet to your far left,” offered Sophia, pointing off in the distance.
Kain followed the line of her finger to a particularly ugly statue squatting on an outgrowth of rock, leering maliciously at the trio.
“That's pretty far away, but I think the old girl can make it accurately,” he exclaimed confidently, patting the machine's side.
Within moments, a bizarre turret of some sort had unfolded from the left shoulder, pointed at some obscure point in the sky. Kain mumbled to himself a little, muttering some things about wind resistance and angle of entry, before the weapon jerked back with a boom, sending a spinning projectile into the sky only to plummet down and decimate the statue with a small green tinted mushroom cloud.
“Twenty four to twenty,” announced Sophia.
Behind them, the sudden wail of distress sirens could be faintly heard.
Kain lifted an ear to the wind.
“Sounds like a code yellow delta two ninety,”
Iceberg frowned at this, looking at the professor with annoyance.
“No, it's a code orange lambda three fifty,” he corrected.
“Actually, it is a code blue alpha one ten,” surmised the girl between them, not having turned around.
The men listened for a few minutes longer before shrugging in acceptance.
“Not my problem, it's my day off. I don't give those up for anything less than a code red and above,” muttered Kain, the vestial hands of the walker pulling a pair of cold bottles out of a small compartment in its chassis.
“Want another beer?”
“Yeah sure,” Iceberg accepted, catching the frosty beverage as it was tossed to him.
“So what one should we aim for now?”
“Hmmm…”
“What about that stupid lizard looking thing over there?” interjected Kain, gesturing towards a long reptilian creature hunkered on a rock close by.
Iceberg shrugged, messing with the controls in his hands.
“Sure,”
The small robot in front of him fired a salvo of missiles into space, whistling in the air as they sped towards their target.
At the last moment, just before they struck, the lizard turned around towards them, something like shock plastered across its alien features.
Then it, and everything around it for several meters, was liquefied into so much molten refuse.
There was silence amongst the group for several seconds.
“Did… Did that statue just move?” asked Iceberg hesitantly.
“Yes. Yes it did,” Sophia confirmed.
They ventured over to the remains, examining the rapidly cooling fissure.
“Well, I guess we found out what the alarm was for…” mumbled Kain.
"You think he can come back from that?" asked Ice, poking the mess with a stick.
Kain shook his head.
"I doubt it."
"But I think that counts for an extra two points. You're still one behind Ice," he said cheerily, moving back to the firing area.


The following is a transcript of a handwritten letter found in a 20-ounce glass beverage container, found near Lake [REDACTED] in southwest Wisconsin. Signs of struggle were evident, and upon closer examination, several fragments of human bones were discovered nearby, badly charred.
"In the name of God, the Compassionate, the All-Merciful, I offer you my greetings and my profoundest gratitude, O my liberator. I pray you, read what is written here, and understand.
"Firstly, know that what you hold is no simple sheet of paper. I have assumed this form to attract your attention, for my natural shape is imperceptible to the eyes of man. I apologize most profusely for my duplicity, but I have heard that your people tell stories of messages in bottles. Allow me to relay my pitiful tale.
"My name is Ahmed bin Yusuf Abdul Hakim. I am an Ifrit, a fire spirit, of the Jinn. It occurs to me that, in this age and this place, word of my people may have escaped your ears, honored one. Know that it was Allah, the Creator and the Shaper of forms, who fashioned my people from smokeless flame, even before He sculpted the first man from the blessed clay, and that our people are as brothers in his eyes.
"I am a stranger to these cold lands; those of my tribe are folk of the desert, and of the caverns beneath the sands. My lineage is old and proud, known to the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth, but I myself am young and, I must confess, foolish. Thus it was that I was tricked.
"Some months ago, I was wandering the desert night, as my folk are wont to do, when I heard a voice on the wind, calling my name. I followed it for many leagues, on foot and in the air - for Allah the most Generous has gifted my people with wings, and we are able fliers - but could find it nowhere. I was confounded, but the voice offered guidance, and told me to dive beneath the sands. I obeyed, plunging downward through sand and stone alike. Suddenly all grew dark and cold, and I found myself in a human dwelling not far from here.
"And I saw the source of the voice, who wore the shape of a beautiful woman. She had summoned me from afar, drawing me to her bedchamber with secret sigils and diagrams, with which she then entrapped me in a bottle, the same bottle you have found, O my savior. At first I thought that she had summoned me to be her husband, for as you may know it is not forbidden for our peoples to intermarry. Such was not to be my fortune, for although she was lovely in appearance, she was an evil woman of much malign intent, and desired only my power, to assist her in wicked deeds. My good heart compelled me to refuse, and she grew very angry.
"She resorted to threats, but we of the Ifrit are clever folk, and so at each turn I reminded her that to harm me she would be forced to open the bottle, and in so doing, set me free. Her temper raged like a storm, but after many nights she grew quieter and more calm. And here I hoped, in my foolishness, that she would finally release me. Indeed she wished to be rid of me, but alas, so too did she wish to make me suffer. She cast me into the lake, telling me as she did so that the bottle would be trapped in the ice, and would eventually shatter, and that I would die in the cold waters. And she abandoned me to my fate.
"May Allah preserve her, for it is Allah, the Preserver, who has saved me. As my captor predicted, this bottle was trapped beneath the ice of the lake. And yet, as I floated and prayed in that abyss of frozen fear, I saw the stirrings of great fishes below me. And as the fishes swam and cavorted throughout the long winter, the ice did not entrap me further, and when spring came, I remained alive. And yet, I had grown weak from my months of solitude and starvation. When this vessel washed up on the shore, I had but a spark of my fire left, for the winter in your lands is cold indeed. I could do no more than assume this form, as a final act of desperation. As paper I will not die, but neither have I the strength to return to my true form, for now the fire has left me.
"Thus I pray you, return to me my essence. Any source of flame will serve; I know your people are most ingenious and have devised many marvels for this purpose since the days of flint and steel. Simply set this paper alight, and I will be free. You will not see the joy of my liberation, for as I have said, my people are not easily seen by human eyes. Nor does the human form appear clearly to us, truly. But I will shower upon you such blessings as are mine to give, O my savior.
"If you wish to know the full scope of my generosity, write your full name upon the reverse side of this paper, prior to burning. I will return exactly one year thence, having recovered my strength, to grant your heart's desire and to hound your enemies. In the name of God, the Compassionate, the All-Merciful, it shall be so."


Part 2: Negotiation
"Better the Devil you know than the Devil you don't"
"Hey, Clef?"
"What's up, Draki?"
"Not much. Hey, can I borrow your cat for the weekend?"
"I guess. Why the hell you'd want to borrow that mangy stray who always misses the fucking litter box, I don't know, but sure, go ahead. You'll probably find him trying to bang Josie. Stupid bastard's too dumb to realize that no matter how much she smells like she's in heat, you can't get it on when the lady don't got no lady parts."
"Thanks. By the way, what the fuck is that?"
"Oh. Doctor Lorenzo was by here earlier, with a formal request for an audit on 784 and Doctor Valentine. He thinks she's out of line, and using improper containment procedures. Wanted me to check up on it."
"That still doesn't explain the…"
"I'm just about to get to that. You see, when I first took on this position, every day I'd have people come in and complain about the stupidest fucking things. Their boss cracks one joke or makes them miss one break they come in here whining and screaming and begging for an Audit Towards Termination. So I've started testing them to see if they're serious. One of the tests is I put a knife on my desk and tell them that if they really want me to do the audit, they'll cut off a finger. When they pick up the knife, I tell them it's okay, they can stop."
"… I guess Lorenzo really felt passionately about that audit."
"Cut off his own middle finger, held it up, and threw it in my face, and implied me and my mother had improper relations, using many four letter words."
"… cool."
"I sent him down to the infirmary."
"So, are you gonna do that audit?"
"I kinda have to now."
"You getting soft on me?"
"Don't let it get around, I've got a reputation to uphold."
"No problem. Just shoot Gerald in the face and they'll be calling you "Clef the Killer" again in no time. Plus, you'll make Bright two grand."
"What?"
"Never mind."

"You know," Chang said, "I've done a lot of freaky, fucked up things for this group. I've mowed down an entire Sunday School classroom with a Squad Automatic Weapon because they were infected by some hell virus that turned them into bloodthirsty mutants. I've seen the sea glittering behind the gate to hell…"
"… all these moments will be lost like tears in rain?" Roybal quipped.
"Shut up, Roy," Chang snarled.
"Make me, assgike," Roybal snapped back.
"Both of you motherfuckers drop it right now or I'll chop off your balls and make dango out of them," Takahashi sighed. She touched her eyepatch, a souvenir of a bad drop over Kosovo that had sent a piece of debris flying into her left eye. That eye tended to ache when there was trouble, and it was hurting like hell now.
"That ain't fair, Lieutenant. Just cause you don't got any doesn't mean you have to take it out on those of us that…"
"Sergeant Chang, you have ten seconds to get to the fucking point before I get my gelding tool," Takahashi interrupted.
"Well, ma'am…"
"Sir, Chang, I'm a fucking officer, not a housewife or a whore."
"Well, sir, all I'm trying to say, sir, is that riding herd on a fucked up zombie nano-machine monster thing is the most fucked up thing I've had to do in a career built off of doing fucked up things, sir," Chang said.
"And? What do you want me to do about it? Put you in for a transfer to Headquarters?"
"No, sir," Chang gulped. 'Headquarters' was a euphemism for being reassigned as D-Class personnel: a literal kiss of death for any Mobile Task Force member. "Just making a completely off-hand and innocent observation, sir."
"Keep it that way, Chang. I'm not getting shot in the head over your lousy griping."
"Heads up, here comes the Iron Bitch now," Vicks said. He dropped his clove cigarette on the ground and crunched it under his boot.
"Ten-hut!" The members of Mobile Task Force Delta Nine (Feynman's Folly) snapped to attention as Assistant Director Janice Valentine entered the briefing room. "As you were," Valentine said, laying down her laptop computer on the table. "You people probably want to get out in the field and start killing things, so I'll make this brief. Agent Sandoval has called in a report of a highly dangerous biomorph moving through the Crystal Caverns. 784 is being dispatched to contain it. You will accompany it to the operations area and provide whatever support it asks for. That is all. Are there any questions?"
"Um, yeah," Chang said, raising his hand. "What the fuck is a biomorph?"
"She means a monster, idiot. Like a big, fucking, slimy monster," Hopkins sighed.
"Fuck you, asshole, I was asking the lady a fucking question," Chang snapped.
"Suck my cock, assgike."
"I got a fuckin' question for the nice lady," Vicks said, waving his hand in the air. "How come we don't got no fuckin' maps, no fuckin' info about the target, no motherfuckin' support or any mission objectives?"
"784 has all the information you will need to know," Valentine protested.
"So how come the fuckin' Skip gets to know all about the mission, and not us?" Chang whined.
"Because you idiots don't NEED to know. And if it weren't for the fact that Foundation regulations REQUIRE there to be a task force in support of any SCPs deployed in the field, I'd have all of you morons reassigned to clean toilets until judgement day!" Valentine shouted.
"What the fuck did you just…"
"TEN-HUT!" Takahashi shouted.
"Fuck that, Lieutenant, this bitch just…"
"YOU ARE IN DIRECT DEFIANCE OF AN ORDER, SERGEANT CHANG!" Takahashi screamed. "I SAID, ATTENTION!"
The room fell silent. "Everyone but Chang and Vicks, get your gear and assemble in the hangar in ten minutes. Private Vicks and Sergeant… sorry, CORPORAL Chang will change into PT gear and report to 784's containment facility, where they will spend the duration of the mission cleaning the chamber. I recommend that he also take the time to contemplate, in great detail and with a deep sense of reflection, the meaning of the word, 'insubordination.' Dismissed."
"But Lieutenant…"
"DISMISSED!" Takahashi shouted. The six other members of Delta Nine filed out of the room in silence.
"Your men seem to lack discipline," Valentine observed. She placed her papers back in their manila envelope. "I suppose that's all one can expect from a Mobile Task Force led by a woman."
"Forgive me for saying this, Assistant Director, but that seems rather ingenuous coming from you," Takahashi retorted.
"Not at all. Shouting and giving orders is such a man's way of doing things. A woman should lead with more subtlety and grace. But then, I suppose that a woman who has neither should take what she can get." She snapped her laptop shut. "Tell me, Lieutenant, does running around with a giant phallic symbol and shooting bullets at things make you feel any better about never being able to have the real thing?"
"Thank you for the observation. If you'll excuse me, ma'am." Takahashi put her heels together, bowed at the waist, and turned on her heel, walking out of the room at a crisp pace.
"God, I hate that bitch," Valentine sighed.

"I hate that fucking bitch," Vicks griped. He dipped the mop into the bucket and squeezed it out harshly. "God, if I get my hands around her neck, I'm gonna choke her till her eyes bug out…"
"Shut the hell up, Vicks. It's your damn fault we're in here anyway." Chang lifted up the toothbrush and studied the tile grout closely. "Eh, good enough for government work."
"Don't know why the Lieutenant don't just pop that bitch one. God, I'd pay good money to see that." Vicks leaned on his mop. "Specially if they were wearing lingerie and in a tub of mud together."
"Wait, you want to see ol' Scarface mud-wrestling with a bitch old enough to be her mother? What the fuck's wrong with you, Vicks?"
"C'mon, Chang, you gotta admit, Scarface has a decent bod for a molly, and the Iron Bitch has that GMILF thing going. Besides, with a name like Valentine, you know she's gotta be a monster in the sack."
"Fuckin' sick, Vicks, you've been in the Forces too long…"
"Excuse me, am I interrupting something?" a voice said.
The two soldiers looked up from their bickering. A man stood in the doorway, wearing a white lab coat and a hat that could only be described in, awe-struck terms, as 'nifty'. He was grinning, a huge, impossibly wide grin, and his nose was red and large enough to resemble a tomato. Aside from that, he looked pretty much nondescript. "If I am, I can come back another time."
"No, no problem, sir… Dr… Mr. Clef."
"Clef's my nickname. The people who really know me call me brummmm." He sang that last word, in a manner that, if the two soldiers had been at all musical (they weren't), could have been identified as a fair approximation of an A-Major chord. "Is this Andrew's room?"
"This is 784's chamber, yeah," Vicks admitted.
"I see. Nice digs." Clef moved to the center of the room, picked up a broad sheet of what appeared to be thin plastic. He rapped in the center of it: the substance was incredibly strong, for being so thin and delicate. "What's this?"
"784 makes them. Looks like he uses them to build nests, or something." Chang pointed to the piles of the substance all around the room, arranged in a vague circular approximation. "Since it's harmless, they let him."
"I see." Clef reached down and picked up a USB stick drive, reading the text written on the side. "You're letting him read Eric Drexler?"
"Director Valentine's idea, sir. She says that knowing some theory might help him to use his body more effectively."
"I see. Carry on then." Clef turned and walked out of the room, closing the heavy steel door behind him.
"Holeeee-shit," Chang whistled. "Looks like all our problems might be over soon."
"Why do you say that?" Vicks wondered.
"That was AD Clef. He's an Auditor."
"What the fuck does a tax man have to do with solving all our problems?"
"Not that kind of auditing, dumbass. Auditing Towards Termination. He looks at a situation, and if he decides that someone needs to die… poof." Chang pointed his index finger towards his head and mimed shooting himself in the head with a gun. "Scratch one SCP. Rumor has it he's so damn good at what he does sometimes the Skips don't even know they're dead until it's over."
"C'mon, Chang," Vicks laughed. "No one's THAT good."
"I dunno," Chang said, scratching his chin. "He did just walk out of here with a sample of 784's nesting material and that USB drive in his pocket."

"Doctor Lorenzo."
"Doctor Clef."
"Please sit down. How's the hand?"
"Better. Medical is growing back the finger, but it might take a little while. Typing is… difficult."
"I can imagine. In any case, I've finished my audit. I'd like you to read over the report before I submit it to the O5s.
"Thank you."
"…"
"… you're serious?"
"Completely."
"… you can't be serious."
"Doctor Lorenzo, it's my conclusion that SCP-784 is no threat to anyone so long as current containment procedures are maintained. For that reason, your Audit for Termination is denied. I have, however, recommended that you be given a short medical leave, as a psychological evaluation indicates high levels of stress and fatigue."
"… you're not serious, are you?"
"Please sign here. You have twenty-four hours to turn over all your duties to your assistant. You will report to the infirmary at noon tomorrow for two weeks of psychological evaluation and counseling."
"YOU SONOVABITCH! YOU FUCKING STUPID SONOVABITCH, THAT MONSTER'S GONNA KILL US ALL!"
"Doctor Lorenzo, if you do not cooperate, I will be forced to defend myself."
"YOU FUCKING SMILING SONOVABITCH, I'LL FUCKING KILL YO—"
<funt>
"… you shot me?"
"… you'll get better."
<crash>
"Jesus… <sigh> Security, this is Assistant Director Clef. Doctor Lorenzo is currently sedated in my office. Please have some big, strong men sent down to carry him to a bed and tie him to it… wow, that sounded gayer than I thought…"
Part 4: Breach


Part 1: Contact
"When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks back"
Looking back, I'm not sure what I thought was going to happen when that crazy bitch showed 784 the photo. If I had to put money on it, it would have been even money between screaming at her for lying and going completely apeshit and killing us all.
No one, I think, would have dared put down money on saying, "yesssssssssssssssss. i know."
Valentine, that crazy bitch, didn't even bat an eye. "I thought you might. How did you guess?" she asked.
"bbbb-b-beatrixxx madadadadadox is asset to foundationn. Foundation would ud not lettitititttt her die without without a f-fi-f-f-fight," the monster growled.
She looked sternly into the cold blue eyes of the roiling mass of silicon and steel. Her lips, I noticed, were pursed slightly tighter than normal. 784's tells were harder to see, but after months of watching that thing, I could see the rhythmic opening and closing of its spiracles accelerate, just a bit. "Yes, of course," Valentine said. "Just like we're not willing to let an asset like you just sit around inside this box." She leaned against the railing, reached for a cigarette, realized that she was wearing a hazard suit, and settled for crossing her arms. "Beatrix Maddox's body was recovered from the incident site and regenerated," Valentine explained. "However, the process was… incomplete. I believe the technical term is, 'locked-in syndrome.' Her brain and body function just fine, but they don't talk to each other. She is completely awake, but unable to control her body."
784 didn't respond to that. Its blue eyes nicitated once. "The Foundation has determined that the only method remaining to us is a dosage of Five Hundred," Valentine explained. "As SCP-500 is a finite asset, we are… shall we say… let me just say there is opposition to the idea of using it on a simple agent. Especially one who is officially dead."
"B-bbbbargaining ch-kkchckip."
"You see it already, then." Valentine chuckled. "I have been authorized to form a new Mobile Task Force, designation Delta-Niner: Feynman's Folly. Twelve member team, assigned to support you in the field. You will carry out missions containing and capturing particularly difficult SCPs. As a former member of Pandora's Box, that should be familiar to you. In return, Agent Maddox will be given a dose of SCP-500 and restored to her prior state. Is that sufficient?"
"W-w-wwwwill I bebbbbbe able to s-sssse her?" 784 asked.
"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous," Valentine scoffed. "She will be given a Class A Amnestic and false memories will be implanted under a new identity. On the other hand, she'll be alive, and happy. And in the end, isn't that all you want? For her to be happy?"

When I was a kid, I was riding in the front seat of the car when a pickup truck cut into our lane in front of us in the middle of a heavy rainstorm. My mom hit the brakes, but the car hydroplaned out and slammed into the truck before spinning out into the shoulder.
Even now, the thing I most remember isn't the moment of impact, but that moment when the car started to skid: the sick feeling of realizing that we were going to crash and nothing I could do could stop it.
"HIT IT! HIT IT NOW!" I screamed. The Deltas glanced at each other, hesitated just for one moment. It was all that 784 needed.
"no."
Just one word, spoken with crystal clarity in the midst of its inhuman, buzzing voice… then the three D's fell dead with nanomachine spikes through their foreheads. Valentine screamed, and then the tendrils lunged forward and wrapped around her, dragging her up into the air. A thousand cruel, sickle-like blades formed themselves around her in an iron maiden, barely dragging against the surface of her hazard suit. "SECURITY!" I screamed. "EMERGENCY SPRAYERS, FULL…"
"WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!" Valentine screamed. "STAND DOWN!" She turned back to the cold, implacable eyes of 784's optics, unafraid of the razor-edged blades. "wait…" she repeated.
"fleshhhhh esh flesh matitititititttters flesh matters not," 784 chitters. "only only mimmmmind."
"I can't let you see her," Valentine said, "but I can cancel the order for the Class A Amnestic. Would that be sufficient?"
"sufficient," 784 whispered. The blades retracted, and the nanomachine tendrils lowered the Director to the ground.
"We'll be in contact with you regarding your first mission," Valentine said.
"wwuwuwuuwun reskkkkkkkkkquest," hissed 784. "nnnononono acetetetetetatone bath. not neinnnnneeded."
"Agreed. Mister Lorenzo, you will keep 784's containment chamber outside the acetone pool as long as it continues to cooperate with us," Valentine ordered.
"Ma'am, with all due respect, that's completely fucking loco," I hissed. "That acetone pool's the only thing stopping it from growing out of control!"
"Not any more. Now it wants to cooperate. Don't you, Andrews?" Valentine asked.
"will cooppippppperate," 784 hissed. "kikkkkeep your endiddddd ofphh the bargain." The tendrils retracted back into the concrete holding container, like an anemone retracting back into its polyp.
"Security, unlock the main doors. Let's go, Lorenzo."

The solvent bath washed over our plastic biohazard suits, cleansing any traces of nanomachines remaining on our bodies. Valentine spent the entire five minute cycle leaning against the wall, arms outstretched, her head thrown back and staring up at the ceiling. It was honestly kind of spooky.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Valentine said, as we were changing out of our hazmat suits.
"Excuse me?" I paused in the middle of shrugging into my labcoat.
"That body of his… gorgeous." Valentine touched her throat as she adjusted her collar, then ran a hand over her steel-grey hair, which was starting to come loose from its severe bun. "It'll never grow old, never decay. Limited only by his willpower and mind… and such a mind it is. Can you imagine what he could accomplish, if he could only master it?"
"Ma'am," I said, slowly. "Are you feeling all right?"
"Yes. Better than all right, I think." Valentine said. She pulled on her labcoat. "I'll submit a report to Director Clef. The first mission assignment should come in this week. Make sure he's ready for it."
"As you wish, ma'am." I waited for her to leave, then headed for the control center as fast as I could. "Herrera?" I said to my assistant. "I want double-shifts around the clock. At least two pairs of eyes on this thing all the time, and one guy with his hand on the sprayer controls: I want this thing watched closer than 173. And put in a request for some replacement Deltas, and have the old ones removed before I get back."
"Sure thing, boss. Where are you headed?"
"I'm gonna talk to Smiley," I said. "If I'm not back in an hour, tell the medics that there's a dead man with a shotgun wound in Clef's office."
Part 3: Escalation


Agent Greenwell was by no means afraid, only strongly wishing to be elsewhere. As he ran, quickly avoiding small chunks of rubble and broken machinery, his thoughts remained more on the past than the immediate situation at hand. The day's shift, indeed his entire tour inside SCP-110, had been quiet and routine. Constant work was being done to map and catalog all the areas, engineers were working on ways to crack into the vast areas still sealed off, and there had been no disappearances or deaths for months. Even the main power grid was starting to give up its secrets.
A deep, bass throb pulsed through the air around Agent Greenwell, accompanied by a shudder in the ground under his feet. He fell, small bits of dust and plaster drifted down from the high-domed ceiling, bringing both a sudden, sharp pain in his ankle and the current situation to the forefront of his mind. Greenwell rose, limping forward as another, louder pulse shook the air and ground.
They had located a module, labeled “Civic Reclamation: Global Class”. The whole city was riddled with these “modules”, tiny little self-contained booths, containing everything from emergency supplies to whole laboratories. They appeared to have been activated when the Event happened to SCP-110. Most were still closed, with others appearing to have been damaged or looted at some point. However, this one was different. It was huge, bigger than four city blocks, and heavily re-enforced. It also appeared to have been opened at one point, and then closed back up some time later.
The team slated to crack it open had gone out that morning. Everything was going as planned, until a sudden loss of contact. Agents had responded to find the entire module missing, along with the staff. Greenwell had responded with them, and had been the first to notice that they had lost contact with Core Services.
Another heavy rumble rattled through the floor, followed by the faint sound of crashing and twisting metal. Agent Greenwell limped faster, looking around the open area for any nearby doors or exits, and finding none. He gasped as a misstep sent a screaming bolt of pain up his leg, and quickly fell behind a heap of twisted stone and metal, gripping his tortured ankle and feeling the bone slide unnaturally.
The deep bass pulse came again, loud enough to rattle marble-sized stones on the tile, followed by another…and another. Agent Greenwell balled up, trying to be as small as possible, fighting the gnawing little rat of fear that was trying to work its way into him. The heavy pulse abruptly stopped, the final tone hard enough to make his heart rattle in his chest.
He stayed silent and still, balled as tight to the hunk of rubble as he could, listening. Nothing came to his ears, just the faint sound of dust settling. He rose, slowly, plotting a clear path to the east wall amid the rubble, trying to sight something to use as a crutch. It was as Agent Greenwell started to hobble to a promising chunk of pipe that a harsh blast of steam and sound burst both his eardrums and sent him sprawling to the ground.
He screamed, holding his head, blood flowing between his fingers as the shadow loomed over him, floodlights blinding him as the pulse hammered him again, sending him into a spasm of agony. Blind and deaf, he screamed again as hard metal points suddenly dug into his flesh and roughly lifted him, his head spinning and awash in pain.
He felt rather than heard the grinding of gears, the crackle of electricity. He felt oil, smoke and ash instantly cake to his skin, the taste of metal thick and gagging in his mouth as more hooks and points burrowed into his flesh. As he felt something start to grind and crush his feet, moving up to his ankles, he acknowledged one thing before thought was lost in a wash of pain, blood and oblivion.
He was afraid.

-Warning!- Contact lost with SCP-110 command and security. Initiating lock-down. Situation reported to O5 Command.

Grant entered the room, pausing briefly to examine the faces arranged before him with a suspicious glare before sitting down.
He reached into his pocket, digging out a battered box of cigarettes and a pulled one out.“Heh, still looking us through for doppelgangers, Grant?” laughed Richards, running his hand over his shaved head unconsciously.
“Happened before. Take no chances,” grunted Grant, lighting the cigarette with a thick metal lighter and taking a long drag. “So what do you think it is this time? Mutating virus? Artifact retrieval? Or just your stereotypical big nasty?” he asked.
Grant shrugged, eyes on the floor as he hunched over, leaning on his knees and exhaling a frail cloud of wispy grey smoke. “Don't care. Just wanna kill it and go home,” he mumbled in response.
“You, me and pretty much everyone here, man,” Richards replied, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head. Everyone always does, he thought to himself, eyes running across those assembled.
Everyone was tense, as they always were before a mission. Sure, it was masked beneath a thick veneer of joking and comraderie, but if you knew where to look, the signs were there. The newbies would fidget unconsciously with little things at hand, chuckling nervously as they made idiotic boasts, betraying their ignorance of the things against which they would inevitably fight, and sometimes die.
The veterans would smile and joke, though the humor never reached their eyes, as they had seen too many friends succumb to the horrors of their line of work, both physically and figuratively.
And then there were the loners like Grant, who never connected with anyone, just sat there, waiting for the mission to start like a man would an execution.
The door opened again, and upon seeing who it was, everyone went silent.
The man paced through the center of the benches, picking up everything with those bored eyes, before slouching against the wall at the end.
“So… boss, you know what's going down?” asked Hill nervously. Everything that was ever said to the boss was almost always said nervously. A slight side effect of the boss being completely psychotic and liable to snap with little to no provoking.
“No,” he replied tersely.
Hill opened her mouth to say something else, but slowly closed it, rather than tempt fate.
Smart move, thought Richards. Now that he was here, all comradely music and such quieted down, trying to be as inauspicious as a man tip toeing through a minefield.
This continued for some time, until suddenly, the view screen at the end of the room lit up, displaying a blank screen with only the words “AUDIO ONLY” stretched across the middle in bright red lettering.
Everyone began to shift in their seats uncomfortably at this new development.
They only used the view screen when they were delivering messages that they wouldn't in person.
The man slumped against the wall narrowed his eyes at the screen, looking in irritation at the small camera positioned in above it.
“Omega Seven, here are your orders. We have recently received a distress call from an outpost inside a recently unearthed SCP site. Since receiving that message, we have completely lost contact with the area,” informed the disembodied voice coming from the VDU's tinny speakers. “You are to investigate the area and exterminate any and all threats in the immediate vicinity. Transport is in three hours at docking bay four, and all equipment will be provided en route,” it ordered calmly.
“Huh… seems pretty standard,” replied Foley.
Then, almost as if an afterthought, the speakers called out once more. “Also, Pandora's Box will be protecting, escorting and working with Mobile Task Force Zeta-9.”
The room went dead silent as the view screen faded to black, save for a very slight crack sound at the very back of the room, followed by the sound of something small, light and hard tumbling across the floor.
The entire group, as a whole, turned to look at the source of this sound. The boss had clenched his teeth so hard that one of them had cracked and popped out of his hideous grin underneath the immense strain, his jaws clamping down like an industrial vise.
The room emptied in seconds.

██/██/██ - 0900 Hours: Mobile Force Omega-7 informed of mission and mission specifics.
Briefing room 8 completely destroyed by SCP-076-2

“Listen…Hey, listen up…guys…LISTEN UP!” Roy shouted into the common room, quieting the rumble of voices from the Zeta-9 team. A few more members ambled out of the equipment room in full suits, clomping across the room like shock troopers from every Evil Empire in sci-fi history. Several men strengthened up in their chairs, elbowing others with a whispered “knock it off!” as the room quieted. After a look around the room, to assure everyone's full attention, Roy cleared his throat, and addressed the men. “Alright folks, I know everyone's heard the rumors about us getting mothballed after that SCP-455 cock-up last year. Let me lay those to rest right now. At 0900 hours, we received a dispatch order. Everyone is to suit up immediately after this meeting, and report to Dispatch. I'll turn this over to Lev for the details.”
Roy sat down amid a murmur of hushed conversation and suppressed groans. Two younger men looked at each other, grinning excitedly. The murmur stopped when one of the suited men stepped forward, cracking the seal on his helmet and removing it as he stepped into the center of the circle of men. Lev Shatterman's face, looking oddly small on the bulky, armored suit, was as grim as ever. His deep voice boomed into the room, the thick Russian accent giving everything a heavy note of command. “Comrades, we have lost contact with the support team inside SCP-110. Hostile activity has been suggested as a cause. The site is currently locked down to prevent any further containment failures. Someone is needed to crack the seal, restore containment, and find out what happened. That someone will be Team Zeta-9.”
Cheers and groans rose up in equal amounts, the two younger men exchanging a high-five and grinning. Lev cleared his throat hard, silencing the room. “We will be working with many support services and teams, and will function as forward recon. We have been selected for our small size, high mobility, high survival rate, and large-scale SCP experience.” Lev paused a moment, shifting his helmet in his hands as the men murmured quietly. “Due to the high probability of hostile resistance inside SCP-110, we will be teamed with a combat-based response team to provide combat support, with our function being focused on recon and investigation.”
The room went silent as everyone slowly turned to look at Lev. Roy was the first to speak. “Lev…what the hell does that mean? Are you saying we have to work with some guns-blazing, gung-ho strike force full of kids who think they'll be the world's next big hero?” Lev shook his head, readying his helmet in his hand. “No. As I understand it, our support team is more close-quarters based. We will receive support from Team Omega-7, led by SCP-076-2. Dismissed, everyone report to dispatch in one hour.”
Lev snapped his helmet back into place, and strode quickly from the room. The remaining men were stone silent, still staring where Lev had been. They started to file out, slowly, the two younger men pale and almost sick looking. Roy watched the room empty, and shook his head, muttering under his breath. “…might as well just shoot ourselves now and get it over and done with…”

Dispatch issued to Zeta-9 at 0900 hours. All teams proceeding to set rally points. Operation will commence ASAP. Request by SCP-076-2 to remove Zeta-9 from operations denied. Request by multiple members of Zeta-9 for temporary leave denied.

The Lockdown - Closed - Under Construction


To: O5 Command
Proposal Type: Personnel Request
From: Agent Spoon
Date: ██/██/20██
Security Level: CLASSIFIED
Introduction: After careful review of the Foundation's special Mobile Task Force Teams, I have found a rather glaring weakness in the organization of the Foundation's SCP recovery and protection systems that can be solved through several simple actions.
Problem: First and foremost is the glaring disparity between Foundation Agents and Task Force members. While Task Force members are usually culled from the best special forces units from around the world and are given the latest and most advanced equipment, their duties are usually restricted to SCP protection and surveillance, which seems to be a tragic waste of resources and talent. This can mostly be blamed on the fact that the formation of Task Forces are usually reactionary measures to the unpredictable nature of SCPs.
Agents, on the other hand, are largely derived from civilian sources such as local and federal law enforcement agencies. They are often similarly equipped, but are given the actual duty of tracking down and recovering SCPs. While the vast majority of SCPs are rather harmless and can easily be dealt with by Agents, there is currently no viable way under the current system for first responder Agents to deal with violent or unpredictable SCPs, or rival SCP seeking organizations. Mobile Task Force Delta-7 is an exception, but as we all know, they are currently committed to tracking ORIA agents and lack the flexibility or resources to expand their mission profile.
Most importantly, the Foundation lacks an actual offensive military option. While the Foundation has been able to carry on this far by co-opting government resources and forming Task Forces in times of emergency, the Office for the Reclamation of Islamic Artifact's theft of SCP-112 and threats of an impending attack by the Church of the Broken God reveal the need for a cohesive, elite offensive military unit more than ever before.
Solution: My solution to this problem is to form a brand new Task Force that will not be tied to a singular Site or SCP. Instead, this Task Force will perform the dual role of first response and hostile recovery of SCPs. This should serve as a suitable counter to outside threats, as well as giving the Foundation a means to directly recover SCPs from rival organizations. They will also serve as primary offensive support for Field Agents to reduce reliance on local law enforcement.
Proposal: I must admit though, the formation of a brand new Task Force is a decision not taken lightly. Also, due to the nature of their duties, the initial casualty rates of this new Task Force are expected to be extremely high, with an estimation of 70% losses after the first ten missions. This is why I am only requesting personnel who fit the following criteria:
*Current Task Force members and Agents facing disciplinary action that can/will result in demotion to D-class, transfer to Keter duty, or termination.
*Prospective Task Force and Agent applicants with questionable pasts or qualifications.
*D-Class personnel who have proven themselves to possess exceptional skill or abilities.
*Remnants of Task Forces that have suffered high casualties and now face disbandment.
*Any personnel with practical skills that Foundation supervisors feel like getting rid of.
It is of my opinion that some these personnel are not useless, and may in fact still prove quite useful to the Foundation if not for their unfortunate infractions. These personnel will of course undergo a rigorous screening process to weed out the promising ones from the dead weight.
Conclusion: I would like to hope that you are able to see the Foundation's glaring weaknesses as clearly as I have. I believe it is time for us to take a more aggressive approach to dealing with rival organizations. While our main objective is to secure, contain, and protect, there is no reason we cannot achieve defense through an effective offense.
DENIED
Note: Seriously, where do these morons come from? It seems they just keep getting dumber. If a system works, why fix it? -O5-6
Addendum: You look, but do not see. Let me tell you what you're missing.
First of all, you're ignoring the completely different roles MTFs and Agents take. Let's use examples from Tom Clancy video games. Being an Agent is like playing Splinter Cell: maybe not the earlier games where you're a ninja sneaking through buildings alone, but Double Agent, where you also have to infiltrate organizations. You work alone. You gather information. You pursue objectives on your own initiative. When you find an SCP, you call in help, or if you think you can do it alone, retrieve it yourself. Like a sliver of glass: small, sharp, nearly invisible. Civilian law enforcement is trained to do just that: wait, watch, and defuse situations with minimal force.
The MTFs are like playing Rainbow Six: you have a defined goal, because the Agents found it for you. Now you move in. No matter how subtle you are, people are going to remember six guys in black suits with submachine guns storming a building. So you minimize impact by being fast, violent, and hella aggressive. You're the hammer, the SCP is the nut. Military and SWAT teams (which are more paramilitary than law enforcement) is trained to do that: hit hard, hit fast, fade away.
Secondly, you completely misunderstand the mission of the Mobile Task Force. They are not formed to CONTAIN specific SCPs. They are formed to EXPLOIT them: Pandora's Box with Able, Puddle Jumpers with the Wading Pool, Lotto Steppers (before his sad demise) with Stanley Cubic. Either that or they're experts in certain types of SCPs: Mole Rats train in specific techniques to navigate and escape from dimensional SCPs that alter local geography, for instance.
Finally: under NO circumstances should the SCP Foundation create an offensive military force. Offensive military forces are designed for one thing: conquest and expansion. Imposing your will on others. The day the Foundation does that is the day it fails its mission: Secure. Contain. PROTECT.
And trust me: there are plenty of other organizations who only tolerate the Foundation because it stays on the defensive.
- Clef
Note from a concerned Agent:
Ick. Form our own military? The next step from there would be to form our own government. And at that point we're ruling the world. O5 would become an evil council of doom, with an iron fist of cold, cruel, semi-justice. No doubt this idea will appeal to some of our more militaristic personnel. This is scary shit. Who proposed this anyway?
Note: I must admit, Dr. Clef puts up a very convincing argument and I submit to his seniority over the matter. However, I would like to say, history has the nasty habit of shoving unfair circumstances on the wrong people. One day, there may be a time where the scientists must become the soldiers…
-Agent Spoon
Note: We're not there yet, Spoon. Pray that it never gets that bad. If it does, then we're all fucked. I mean XK-class End of the World Scenario All Up In Our Shit Right Now level fucked.
- Clef
Note: Anyone else find the irony in Dr. Clef scoffing at the idea of Foundation Scientists acting as combatants? Anyway, I support the idea of recruiting selected D-Class personnel. After all, many Deltas get a lot more experience with some SCPs than the researchers they are assigned to. Besides, killing them at the end of the month or pumping them full of Class-MindFuckLobotomy amnesiacs and throwing them back into prison is a waste of people that could be doing useful things.
Hey, don't the Russians have a prison conscription program? Maybe we could bully them into letting us in on that.
- Malign