Boom.

They heard the explosion from miles away- a great booming thing that could be heard from as far as New York City. From the newly-made crater that was once Site-19, a great mushroom cloud blossomed into the sky, as the largest Site that the Foundation held in possession disappeared under a triggered nuclear explosion.
Seven thousand souls were lost in the tragedy.
Forty percent of the Foundation's anomalies were lost in an instant.
And hundreds of billions of dollars in damage were incurred.
From there, the perpetually precarious financial situation of the Foundation had gone down the drain.
Upon hearing the news, the Administrator only had one thing to say:
“We'll need to make some emergency sales.”

It was a busy day in the Accounting Department. In one single day, on the fifteenth of May, seventeen separate anomalies were discovered, the Labyrinth Reclamation Project was approved, two MTFs went under in an ill-fated expedition, the last numbers from the latest 682 break-out attempt were being tallied, and Site-19 went under after a gigantic containment breach triggered the on-site nuclear device, taking scores of staff and three MTFs with it.
Under the strain of the day, they barely reacted to the news of that last one.
It was not a good day for Accounting.
And for Accounting Undersecretary (and Overseer of Amnestics Production) Nuwalsh Ecro, it was an even shittier day.
In his arms, he carried piles and piles of paper- nearly all displaying the assets of Site-19, the researchers and staff that worked there, the costs it took to build it, and the costs it took to maintain it.
All usually very hum-drum things, but now he was supposed to present to the O5s.
The O5s.
His hands were already sweaty at the thought.
As he entered the conference room, he was surprised to find it empty- the chairs on the main central wooden table were untouched, the table still clear, the white board freshly scrubbed, and the screens to be used for the meeting still off.
Ecro breathed a sigh of relief.
“More fucking time to prepare,” he muttered.
Panting, he set down the papers on one side on the table, trying to maintain some semblance of organization as he went through what he needed to go through.
He set costs on one side- they'll probably ask about that later.
He set staff on the other- his coworkers were already probably parsing through their copies of that to account for who died and who didn't.
Then, he displayed assets in the center- MTFs, reality anchors, SCPs, other special stuff.
Finally, he placed the other special stuff to the right of the assets. The higher-ups wanted a variety of strange shit along with the Site-19 stuff- SCP-3000's file (they gave him temporary access for that- he didn't have time to process the honor, even if it was heavily redacted), the total number of amnestics produced at Area-151, the production rate of the facilities, and a lot of stuff related to amnestics in general. He made sure to take those last ones from his own office- he already had notes on them, after all.
He sat down on a nearby chair in defeat.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Son of a fucking bitch.”
He breathed in.
And breathed out.
Going through his pockets, he found his whiteboard marker and pen and set it on the table- he'll need those too.
Then, he froze.
What the hell am I supposed to do while I wait?
It was incredibly stuffy in the meeting room- Site-02 always tried to skimp on the ventilation costs to save money.
Oh, Christ, money.
To say that the Foundation was short on money was an understatement- contrary to popular belief, international secret organizations can't be run on government funding alone. Governments were fickle, and all-too focused on politics- which meant that depending on the leader, they'd get either a lot or none. It depended on how much that specific government cared about the anomalies on their soil.
So, along with stocks and bonds, they sold things on the side- anomalous products deemed expedient enough to warrant commercial use. They sold virtually none of it to the public, so the majority of their customers were the same governments that funded them. In the past, they'd sold reality anchors, experimental armor, and even a combat drug or two synthesized from this skip or that skip. They sold a lot per piece, but when you have multiple sites and lots of people to provide wages for, they ran out of money fast.
It was all barely enough to keep them afloat- Hence the budget cuts and the stuffy Site-02.
Listlessly, Ecro picked up a piece of paper from the amnestics pile.
It detailed Y-909, the compound that came from 3000, and all of its potential uses in the Foundation's current year of… 1975?
He chuckled. The veterans in the Accounting Department's Amnestic Production Committee absolutely hated recounting all the shit that they had to do when the proposal came through to start harvesting operations on 3000.
As Ecro would know as the undersecretary for that aspect of the Foundation, of all the things they could sell, amnestics was the one thing that the Foundation absolutely refused to sell. Though they produced it in respectably large quantities, the power to reliably erase someone's memories belonged only to the Foundation, and the Foundation alone. They had 3000 to thank for that.
When they explained it in orientation some fifteen years ago, amnestics was basically the nuclear bomb of the anomalous world- everyone else had crude stuff that could make people forget with a hefty amount of side-effects and intrusive memories, but 3000 gave them the edge in that they could basically silence anyone with no fuss.
He paused. A thought came to his mind.
Is that why-
“ECRO!” A loud voice shouted from the doorway, startling Ecro. As he turned to the door, he saw a familiar sight- Fellow undersecretary Fern, sweaty and panting from running.
“What?” Ecro said, blinking.
Fern pushed up her rounded glasses, and took the time to breathe. “O5s are going to be up on the screens in no time flat. Ass-Hat said that their ETA is about two minutes.”
Ecro sighed. “Ass-Hat” was their boss and the Secretary of Accounting. He also loved giving announcements on short notice.
“As fucking expected.”
Fern rolled her eyes in sympathy, then pointed at the papers. “You got what you need?”
Ecro nodded, bringing up a sheaf of papers from the asset pile to show her. “Everything from Site-19, and the bare essentials to catch them up on amnestics.”
“You read them yet?”
Ecro blinked again. “I-“
Fern sighed. “Nu. Get the diggity darn on it.”
Ecro tried to prevent himself from smiling. Fern was a former preschool teacher, and it showed. She couldn't swear to save her life.
He nodded back. “Yep, definitely.”
Fern smiled reassuringly at him. “Hey. Just stick to the script, alright? You can do this.”
“I…” Ecro sighed again with an audible hoo. “I don't have a script.”
Fern stepped back from the doorway, a joking smile on her face. She was looking at something to her left, and was already turning to leave. “Then make it up as you go! You're good at that, right?” She said, as she ran down the corridor.
Ecro smiled at her as she left, which immediately dissipated.
Son of a bitch, He thought. Just… relax.
He went to pick up one of the pieces of paper from a pile. He had two minutes to review, so if he could just-
“NUWALSH!” A great booming voice shouted from the speakers around the room, and at once Ecro sprung from his seat.
“What is it, Sir?” Ecro responded, nearly half-shouting. “Do I need to-“
Secretary Sun-Woo Ryu, the boss they affectionately called “Ass-Hat” cut him off with a disapproving tone. “Not enough damn time. O5s are on the end of the line. Get to work.”
Ecro blinked. “But I-“
“7 and 13 are about to go live in three…”
Immediately, Ecro rushed to pick up the marker on the table.
“Two…”
On the board, he began to draw figures that would be relevant to his presentation.
He did a double-take on the screen. Did he have enough time or-
“One.”
At that, the screens blinked open, and the faces of O5s 7 and 13 greeted him.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. He went to bow. “Good day, overseers, and welcome to my presentation.” His voice was smooth.
Hoo, shit. So far so good. Just sell them the briefing.
“Please, begin. Show us the numbers.” A kind female voice responded, and he realized it came from O5-13, who was a South Asian woman in her forties wearing normal black business attire.
Ecro cleared his throat. His knees were shaking. His voice still remained clear and composed, though.
He began to speak. Make it up as you go. Make it up. “So, as we all know, at 9 AM Eastern Standard Time, Site-19 underwent a catastrophic containment breach. As per standard protocol, we dispatched three MTFs to the scene in order to supplement the Site Security on the ground.”
“Three hours later, at 12 PM, following evacuation of the Site that saw seventy percent of its staff successfully off the premises, Site-19 was deemed too far gone to recover without breaking the veil, and preparations were made to trigger the on-site nuclear bomb.”
He breathed in. No faults yet. Good.
“And so, at 3 PM in the afternoon, following the evacuation of what was left of the 3 dispatched MTFs and Site Security, the Overseer Council gave the go-ahead, destroying Site-19 and all anomalies within it.”
He surveyed the faces of the O5s. He already saw the drawn expressions of exhaustion and exasperation on their faces.
He continued, drawing on the board as he did. “As of 7 PM, the final tally of staff casualties is six thousand, three hundred and four. The remainder of the casualty list is made up of MTFs and Site Security, which were no more than nine hundred and sixty-two.”
He paused to get his bearings, then moved on. “This constitutes the worst loss of life in Foundation history since the Cold War, and is an appropriately seismic shake to the modern Foundation. As it stands, we have lost four hundred anomalies, which have luckily shown no post-destruction after-effects, and hundreds of billion dollars in losses.”
“Oh boy.” O5-7, a portly Mediterranean man with an ornate necklace around his neck, muttered.
The other O5 didn't say a thing, but her reaction could be seen plainly on her face- O5-13 was leaning back on her chair and looking up in despair.
“Is that the final damn tally?” O5-7 asked, irritated. “Please tell me it is.”
Ecro decided to be honest. “Since 7 PM, we're still trying to tally the missing, which comes up to three hundred and seven among the staff. There are also investigations being made by the New York State Government, which the Department of Disinformation are currently in charge of. As of now, the Office of the President is trying to contact us regarding the detonation.”
“We know.” O5-7 said, exasperated. “Just fucking great. Now we have to go ahead and make sure the President is on the line.”
O5-13 sighed. “Br- I mean, O5-7, please control your language.”
O5-7 paused. “Right. Sorry.” He pinched his nose bridge, then motioned to Ecro. “Please continue, undersecretary.”
Ecro obliged. “As of now, the Department of Accounting is reeling from the loss of Site-19. We are currently redeploying all the evacuated personnel to other Sites, with the same applying to the anomalies that we have recovered.”
“What of SCPs like 239 and 173?” O5-13 asked. “Have they been recovered?”
“SCP-239, thankfully, is on her way to Site-17. The same applies to SCP-173, which was undergoing testing at the time and was successfully recovered with no additional loss of life.”
"How about 682?" O5-7 said. "Have we found it yet?"
"682 has been considered missing. We do not know if the nuclear bomb destroyed it, but considering its hardiness it wouldn't be out of the realm of fantasy if it is still alive under a kilometer of rock."
“Thank you.” O5-7 said, leaning back. He gave a motion with his hand. “Please continue.”
Ecro cleared his throat again. His legs had started shaking less, now. He interpreted it as a good sign. “As far as Site losses are concerned, 19 is definitely one of our most catastrophic in history. Accounting will aim to give the Overseer Council the best in presenting the numbers, and will resume in our duties in making sure that the budget is adequately allocated to whatever action the council elects to take.” He looked at the both of them. “That is all, thank you very much for listening.”
A silence intervened.
“That… That's it?” O5-7 said. “What about the amnestics production?”
Ecro's lip quivered. “I admit that I did not know how to incorporate it into the presentation regarding the loss of Site-19, but if you wish, I can present the long and short of the Foundation's current numbers in terms of amnestics.”
“Please do so.” O5-13 piped up. “We requested the information for a reason, undersecretary Ecro.”
His knees began to shiver again as he moved to the table to retrieve the summary that he had typed up twenty minutes before. Looking at the O5s, he began to speak.
“Would you like to hear the summary, or an in-depth presentation?”
O5-13 spoke. “In-depth. Please.”
Ecro nodded.
For the next ten minutes, he spoke about the current statistics on the Foundation's amnestics production and use- Seventy tons produced in Site-151 per year, twenty tons on average consumed on various operations, with more than half being consumed by the Department of Disinformation, and ending on the efficacy of modern Foundation amnestics compared to that of other anomalous Groups of Interest.
Along that, the O5s nodded and listened in silence, but didn't ask any questions.
“I see.” O5-13 said as he ended. “So a significant portion of our amnestics are currently being stored for future use?”
Ecro nodded. “Fifty tons in net production, Madame Overseer.”
O5-7 crossed his arms. “And has Accounting tallied the prices of amnestics on the market, specifically those of Marshall, Carter and Dark?”
Ecro cocked his head. “Well, yes, but I don't see how-“
“Answer it, please.” O5-13 said.
Ecro swallowed. “Marshall, Carter and Dark currently sell amnestics to their clients at about a hundred million per ton. Their clients include governments and… terrorist organizations.”
O5-13 spoke. “I see. And seeing our lead on other amnestics from our competitors, what would our price be?”
Ecro swallowed. “O-our price?”
“Yeah.” O5-7 said. “Our price.”
“W-well,” This is unorthodox, he thought. “Considering our advantage over other amnestic alternatives, we could presumably price it at three hundred million per ton.”
A silence intervened again, as the O5s mulled his words over.
“B-based on my experience, I mean.” He added.
He looked up. “Overseers, may I ask a question?”
“Proceed, undersecretary.” O5-13 said.
“Why are we speaking of amnestics when we are talking about Site-19?”
O5-7 sighed. “All agree on telling him?”
“Agreed,” O5-13 said.
He cleared his throat. “You are the current Overseer of Amnestics Production, correct?”
Ecro's knees shook harder. His nerves were starting to get the better of him. “Y-yes.”
“Well, when we got the news of what happened to Site-19 and the long history of budget deficits before that, the Administrator elected to submit a proposal regarding the sale of our amnestics in order to make up for that deficit. We voted, the results came out, and they all unanimously said yes. Your report of the exact numbers just confirmed why exactly that's needed.”
“Wait,” Ecro said, forgetting himself. “You approved the sale of our amnestics? What about the-“
“Repercussions?” O5-13 cut in. “We have considered that, and deemed that the potential effects of the sale of our amnestics are undercut by our need for funds, as well as the changing landscape of the world behind the veil.” She breathed in. “In short, we have need for funds, and though the Foundation is not for profit, it still needs funds to keep it running- and amnestics are our largest avenue for the procurement of those funds.”
O5-7 nodded. “Yeah. Plus, undersecretary, in accordance with that proposal, we are splitting the Amnestics Production Committee from the Department of Accounting, and folding it into the newly established Department of Surplus.” He breathed. “Effective immediately.”
He looked at him. “You do have a background in sales, as well as in accounting, correct?”
Ecro nodded. “Yes?” His response came out as more of a question than an answer.
“To that end,” O5-7 said. “We have decided to appoint you the new Secretary of Surplus, again, effective immediately.”
Ecro's knees stopped shaking at that instant. “What… Sir?”
“You will be given a Level 3 clearance, as well as your own section at Site-02.” O5-13 continued. “It will be a stressful job, considering our need for funds, but if you would like to take it…”
“I…” Ecro couldn't find the words to express what he was saying. He was dumbfounded. “I… accept. Ma'am. Thank you.” It came out robotically.
“Good.” O5-13 said. “We will make the arrangements later. As of now, you have a job to do, Secretary Ecro.”
“What… is it?” Ecro said, blinking a few times as he tried to digest what had been said seconds earlier.
“We are dispatching you to secure a deal with Marshall, Carter and Dark.” O5-13 said. “Liaisons are already working on securing you the meeting.”
“Good luck, Mister Secretary.”

The Atlantic was a dark expanse that stretched out before him.
Ecro fucking hated it.
It only took him half an hour to get from the conference room to the Foundation's airstrip- the O5s wanted him to fly out immediately.
Ass-Hat was stunned to see him go. He'd been listening in on the conference from the control room as an observer, and even he was shocked to see his subordinate promoted into becoming his equal.
Ecro didn't hear any words from him then, but he was most certain that he'll get them later on.
The interior of the airplane rocked. Turbulence was a bitch.
They were already set to land in Spain by the early morning the next day- and a few hours after that, the meeting with the representatives from Marshall, Carter and Dark.
If Ecro wasn't nervous then, he was so much more nervous now. The O5s had fast-tracked it- one moment it was them telling him to head to Spain, and then the next it was meeting details, location, protocol.
He shuffled in his seat. He hadn't had any sleep for the past hour, even though he most certainly knew that he should get some. Toledo was only six and a half hours away.
“Heya, Mister Secretary.” A voice said from behind him. “You alright?”
Ecro scoffed. “No,” He said in a light tone. “Actually, I feel kinda shitty.”
Ciara Fern sat opposite from him, crossing her legs in her pencil skirt as she did. She pushed her glasses up again. “Well, I am your undersecretary now. So it's my job to at least sorta alleviate that stuff.”
Ecro crossed his arms. He smiled. “I'm glad you're here at any rate. I feel safer having familiar faces around me.”
“Heck yeah.” Fern said, pumping her fist. “Shame it's only the both of us right now, though. Didn't the O5s say that the people from Amnestics Production were joining our- your department?”
Ecro hit his head against the soft headrest of his seat. “Yeah.”
She crossed her arms, smiling. “As well as half of my peeps in Statistics?”
Ecro sunk lower. “Yyyyeah.”
Fern chuckled hard. “Add a fourth of the Department of Marketing to that, and we got a lot of shit to manage. We gotta coordinate with the Department of Amnestics, too.”
She reached across the chair to pat his shoulder. “Hey, boss. Don't worry, we got your back. Chin-up!”
Ecro looked at her incredulously. “I was just given the job of saving the Foundation, and now I'm supposed to be shipped to Toledo in order to negotiate a deal with M, C, and D, which may or may not turn sour.” He sighed with a ghost of a smile. “Why the hell should I have my chin up?”
Fern chuckled again. “At least you aren't given the freaking job of actually sorting out Nineteen. Ass-Hat's in his office doing that right now.”
“God,” Ecro said jokingly. “Imagine the stress of coordinating all the numbers of that shitshow. Four hundred anomalies, eight thousand casualties, and he has to redirect thousands more to other Sites.”
“You wouldn't envy him, right?” Fern said, smiling. “Plus, you're in Sales now, not Accounting. Aren't you supposed to be the presentor extraordinaire?”
“When I'm given ample damn time to prepare? Yeah.” He shook his head. “When I'm given nine hours before we set down in a country I've never been to before? No.” He raised up his hands in exasperation. “I'm scared outta my fucking pants, have been since the conference room.”
Fern jokingly scoffed. “So why did you say yes, then?”
Ecro raised his eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”
“Why did you say yes to the promotion?” She was watching him intently.
A silence followed as Ecro tried to give her a proper answer.
“Well…” He paused. Answers were usually his forte, but this got him stumped. “Because I was pressured to.”
Fern chuckled briefly. “Liar.” She said.
Ecro crinkled his forehead. “Wait, what do you mean-“
She looked over her seat and down the corridor of the plane. Populating the other seats were a variety of soldiers- Site Security, mostly.
She turned back to him. “You think they'll be necessary?”
“The suits?” He peeked out from his seat. “I hope not. If all goes well, M, C and D can just accept the deal and we can all go back home to settle the new Department.”
Fern laughed, but gave no response.
Then she pointed silently to the papers beside Ecro.
“Read up, now. You barely got time to review before we set down for the big exams.”
Ecro chuckled as he took a piece of paper from the pile. “Exams? More like pop finals.”
Fern lifted herself from the seat and began to move out into the corridor. She looked back at him. “Good luck, Mister Secretary.”
He gave her a salute. “Go fuck yourself, Miss Undersecretary.” He responded jokingly.
Fern chuckled again, and moved away from sight, leaving Ecro to his papers.

“Alright,” The security team leader said from the passenger seat, looking back at Fern and Ecro in the back. “Mister Secretary, what's the procedure?”
He breathed. “Get out of the car with Undersecretary Fern and a complement of two members of security. Then head out into the alley, proceed down to Avenida del Huezca, and…” he paused.
“And then head to the bar called ‘Pedro's',” Fern answered for him.
Ecro sighed. “Yeah.”
The team leader looked at him through the mirror. “We will be monitoring the meeting place for any wrong moves by the other party, but considering the fact that they're ‘McDonalds', it shouldn't be anything too bad. Just make sure to keep your chin up, avoid offending ‘Ronald', and don't make any sudden violent movements.”
“Got it.” Ecro said, turning to the door lock and opening the car door. Fern followed him.
The Toledo streets were rainy today, for some reason. He took the umbrella from beside him, but was interrupted by Fern, who took it for herself.
Ecro protested. “Wait, what the-“
“I can't have the Secretary holding his own umbrella, right?” Fern said, as she held her hand outside the car and opened the umbrella. “You got undersecretaries for that.”
“No, really, it's-“
Fern was already outside, waiting for him to go out. “Perks of the job, sir. We did the same for Ass-Ha- I mean Secretary Ryu, right?”
Ecro heard a chuckle from the driver's seat. He sighed. “Fine.”
Under the shelter of Fern's umbrella, he emerged out from the car and into the rainy night, his suit still dry.
Behind them, they heard the sounds of car doors closing as the two security members assigned to them emerged from their vehicle, wearing full gear and holding two assault rifles in their hands.
“After you,” One of them said as they positioned themselves behind him.
Ecro sighed. “Right.”
As indicated by the team leader, they came out of the rainy alley and into the empty street of Avenida del Huezca. There seemed to be neither car nor person in sight, and for that Ecro was grateful.
“There,” Fern said, pointing to the only building on the street that was lit up. “Pedro's.”
Wordlessly, Ecro walked across and to the other side of the sidewalk, with Fern following urgently behind. Water was already getting on her blouse as she walked.
“Question, agents?” Fern said as they moved down the street. “Why couldn't we have just pulled up in front of the building rather than the alley across the street from it?”
“Protocol, ma'am.” One of the security members answered. “It's for your safety, as well as a signal to the other side that we aren't getting too close with too many.”
She sighed. She turned to Ecro. “Is this gonna be our life now, Nu?”
Ecro smiled bitterly to himself. “I think so, Fern. I think so.”
They came to a stop at the front of the bar. The windows to the outside were closed, which precluded any of Ecro's attempts to look in.
His knees were shaking again.
He rapped on the door. Three times, one whole beat each- just as the team leader told him to.
At the sound of the signal, the door to the bar opened up, revealing four figures in roughly the same positions as them- One woman in her sixties seated on a table, another woman half her age seated beside her, with two people holding up the rear in full armor with guns held across their chest.
“Please,” The older woman said. “Sit.” She gestured to the seats in front of them.
Ecro swallowed. He hoped that he was trying to put on a brave face right now. “Thank you very much,” He said, without shaking.
He moved forward with a steady walk, taking a seat across from the older woman while Fern took the other seat across from the younger one.
He cleared his throat. “Are you ready to hear our propo-“
“Why have you Foundation representatives called this meeting on such short notice?” The older woman said, smiling. “It's not like you to be so… desperate. Did something happen on your end?”
Fuck, Ecro thought. Interruption. They're going straight for intimidation.
Fine. Let's indulge them.
“We called this meeting in order to discuss business terms.” Ecro said, diverting away from the topic. “The Foundation seeks greater financial ties with Marshall, Carter, and Dark.”
“But why, though?” She said. Ecro noticed that she spoke with a slight Spanish accent. “The Foundation isn't a business organization. You're… goody-two-shoes, trying to save the world from this and that.”
Rule number one: Don't show how desperate you are. He remembered being told that somewhere, years ago.
“The Foundation seeks financial ties in order to promote goodwill between our organizations.” He lied. “With the changing landscape in the anomalous world, having connections among your group has been seen as an expedient way to hasten our operations. Money is a secondary concern.”
“Money?” The woman smiled. “I never mentioned anything about money.”
Fuck.
“Funny that you bring that up, however. Many hijos de puta have striven to take money away from Marshall, Carter and Dark. If money is your secondary concern, then money is our current primary concern.” She chuckled, turning to the younger woman beside her. “Well, it's always our primary concern, isn't it?”
“Yes.” The younger woman said, robotically. “It always is, Mrs. Marshall.”
The older woman's eyes lit up. “Oh, which reminds me,” She chuckled again. “Where are my manners?” She reached out a hand. “My name is Alejandra Marshall. I am one of the vital parts of this organization.”
Ecro looked at her hand guardedly, and reached across the table to shake it, remaining seated as he did so. “Pleasure to meet you. My name is Mister Ecro,” He turned to Fern beside him. “And this is Miss Fern. We work for the Foundation's Department of Surplus.”
“Surplus?” The younger woman said. She analyzed their faces. “The Foundation does not have a Department of Surplus.”
“Hahahaha!” Alejandra said, putting a hand on the younger woman's shoulder. “Excuse my daughter's manners. She is used to the computer and the spreadsheet, not to the table. Kindly apologize, Aurelia.”
The woman she called Aurelia bowed stiffly in her seat. “My apologies. I did not mean to interrupt.” Unlike her mother, she didn't carry a hint of her Spanish heritage in the way she spoke- though Ecro, strangely, detected a hint of Scottish.
“Aurelia raises a good question, though.” Alejandra said, leaning forward. “What is the Department of Surplus?”
Ecro looked down, then up at her. He decided to gamble. “Fern, please educate them.”
Fern looked at Ecro, then back at Alejandra and Aurelia. “You sure?” She whispered.
“Educate them now.” Ecro said, uncharacteristically firmly.
Fern was taken aback, but she obliged. She turned to the mother and daughter in front of her. “The Department of Surplus is a new branch of the Foundation, dedicated to the sale of extraneous assets that we do not need.” She said, curtly. After a pause, she moved to speak again.
Ecro tapped her shoe with his foot, and she immediately stopped.
“Ah,” Alejandra said. “And I assume that ‘surplus' is what you're trying to sell us now?”
“Yes.” Ecro said in a bored tone. Inside, however, his heart was racing. “Can you take a guess at what it is?”
Alejandra dramatically put a finger on her temple as she tried to think. “Hmm,” She said. After a moment, she turned to her daughter beside her. “What do you think, hija?”
Aurelia responded immediately. “As of the present, the Foundation has surpluses on many things. Reality anchors, disposable persons, storage space-“
“But what is your guess?” Alejandra said through gritted teeth, barely disguised.
Aurelia looked down. “As of now? I believe it is amnestics.”
“Hmm,” Alejandra said, thoughtfully. “Amnestics? That is most certainly a new one.” She looked at him. “Does the Foundation currently wish to surrender their amnestics?”
Surrender?
“Surrender, no.” Ecro said. “Sell?” He crossed his arms. “Yes.”
“Ohhh.” Alejandra said, smiling as she leaned back. “Is the Foundation willing to relinquish their monopoly on their improved amnestics?” She spoke playfully. “I admit that we knew about your recipes for a long time, but our current ingredients to make our own are of course… limited. You most certainly know why.”
Ecro kept his poker face. Underneath the table, his knees were shaking violently. “As I said before, the Foundation wishes to create greater financial ties- and the one way that we can do that is through a limited deal of amnestics.”
“But the Foundation has always kept the amnestics card close to its chest for nigh on…” She turned to Aurelia.
“Fifty years.” Aurelia answered.
“Yes,” Alejandra continued. “It's like the atomic bomb of the Foundation, somewhat.” She leaned closer. “Are you right in that you are desperate enough to give them away to other organizations?”
Check. Ecro thought. His knees were shaking even more violently now.
He paused. A silence intervened.
At that moment, the favor of the deal hung in the balance.
What's his next move?
His lip quivered. Shit. Shit. Shit.
He looked at Alejandra in front of him, and his face hardened.
Bluff.
“Señora, los arboles no le dejan ver el bosque." He said, mustering a Spanish phrase he learned in highschool. "The trees don't let you see the forest."
Alejandra raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me-"
He interrupted her. "We came here to offer you an olive branch by speaking to you about possible terms regarding a partnership between the SCP Foundation and Marshall, Carter, and Dark.” He gritted his teeth even as they shivered in his mouth. “And now you say that our move is one made out of desperation?”
Alejandra furrowed her eyebrows. Her expression changed from one of confidence to surprise. “I do not know what game you are playing, but-“
He looked at her with a withering gaze. “The Foundation does not seek to make profit, yes. We were ready to allow you full access to our amnestic stocks, but it is here that I put that to a stop. Ties or not, we will disagree on the fundamentals, it seems.”
Behind him, Fern was tapping him with her shoe in panic. What the hell are you doing? She seemed to say.
“Full access to your amnestics?” Aurelia said, looking at him incredulously. “That's a-“
“It was the original plan, I confess.” Ecro said, half-lying. “But now we see that this partnership is unamenable to the Department of Surplus. We will be leaving now.”
He turned to leave, springing from his seat in mock anger.
He took a step.
Anytime now.
Beside him, Fern was confused, but followed Ecro in turning to leave.
He took another step.
Come on. Come on-
“Wait.” The voice of Alejandra said from behind him. “Wait.”
Fuck yes!
He turned. His knees had stopped shaking. His expression showed his irritation and boredom at the entire situation, but he couldn't be more exhilarated.
“Yes?” He said, irritatedly.
“Please sit back down.” Alejandra said, gesturing to the seats opposite her. “We were wrong to assume that you were desperate. Please sit down.”
“You were… wrong?” Ecro said, incredulously. “I thought Marshalls didn't admit that they were wrong.”
That was a lie. He was pulling it out of his ass.
Alejandra sighed. “The pride of a Marshall is lost on me, but I do know a good deal when I see one.” She leaned back. “What are your terms?”
Check. Mate.
Beside her, Aurelia was closing her eyes in defeat, exasperated.
Ecro maintained his poker face, and sat down, Fern taking her seat beside him.
Gamble again? He thought, mulling over the prospect in his head.
Overton Window.
“We are willing to sell you fifty tons of our amnestic stock for the entire year at nine hundred million per ton.”
Alejandra crinkled her forehead again. “Nine hundred… million?”
Aurelia cut in as well. “That is an extortionate price. Marshall, Carter and Dark sell their amnestics at one hundred million per ton. The Foundation cannot expect-“
“The Foundation expects.” Ecro said, cutting in. His knees had stopped shaking now. This was his favorite part of the deal- the rout. “We wish to sell the highest quality amnestics in the world. That quality does not come without a tall asking price.”
Alejandra chuckled nervously. “You ask for a lot, Mister Ecro.”
“We are the Foundation.” He said, crossing his arms again. “We expect a lot.”
Bald-faced lie. He could feel Fern's eyes on him as he said it.
“Perhaps we could be amenable to lower terms?” Aurelia said. “Five hundred million per ton, perhaps?”
That's better than what we reasonably expected. Ecro thought with glee. Three hundred million was what I hoped for.
Push it further? He thought.
Push it fucking further.
“Seven hundred million, then.” He said. “It is lower than the Foundation would want, but we value this partnership.”
Aurelia bit her lip. Alejandra stared daggers at Ecro.
“Mum?” Aurelia said, looking to her mother.
Alejandra sighed.
Then she nodded.
Jesus Christ. We did it.
Beside him, Fern's eyes lit up.
“Done.” Ecro said, still keeping his composure. He was the first to stand up, extending his hand. “Seven hundred million per ton?”
Alejandra sighed again as she stood up, putting out an exasperated hand. She shook his. “We value this partnership as well. We will hash out the details later.”
“Good.” Ecro said. He adjusted his suit, then looked at the time. “It is almost six o'clock. I assume the people of Toledo are already waking up, then?”
“They are.” Alejandra said.
“Pleasure making this partnership with you.” Ecro said. “Our amnestics will surely provide the best of the Foundation to your organization.”
“Pleasure.” Alejandra responded in the most deadpan tone possible. “Marshall, Carter and Dark are already looking forward to the first shipment, to be discussed at a later date.”
Ecro and Fern turned to leave, a smile on his face. “My subordinates will speak to yours. I assume that your contact information is already with our Department of Public Outreach?”
“It is.” Alejandra said, curtly. “How do you think we called this meeting in the first place?”
Ecro chuckled lightly, then opened the door outside without another word.
The Toledo dawn was dry. All signs of the downpour from earlier were now drying on the ground.
“Jesus freaking Christ, Nu.” Fern said. “You gambled nearly everything we had.”
Ecro chuckled in relief as they crossed the street. “It worked so much better than I ever hoped, Goddamn.”
“Not bad for your first outing as Secretary of Surplus.”
“Yeah.” Ecro said, smiling to himself. “I could get used to this.”
They were heading to the car now. Fern piped up. “That was your first deal, wasn't it?”
“First deal? Nah. I worked in sales before this.” He chuckled. “But first big deal? Hell yeah. We just made fucking bank.”
“Apparently you're a good gambler too, Nu.” Fern said as she opened the car door for him. “Your poker face even got me in dire straits.”
“My knees were shivering the whole fucking time!” Ecro responded as he entered the car. “But hey, at least we're good for now.”
Fern followed, closing the car door behind her. “The O5s are gonna be happy with your performance.”
Ecro bit his lip as he smiled. “If this is gonna be every day on the job…”
“I'm looking forward to more.”

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The following article is a part of the And Every Time We Meet Again storyline. Whilst you can read it on its own, it's highly recommended you read the previous installments to get this article in its fullest.

22nd of May, 1985
Site-120, 5 kilometers south-west of Częstochowa, Poland

You wake up, alone in the darkness of your own prison you've made for yourself so many years ago. You can feel it's rough edges, containing both you and the other within. The other, Red, the beast, the destroyer. It has many names, but it's always the same — an antithesis to your inherent need to create. You'd say you hate it, but that would be too much of a word — just like it's in your nature to create, it is in its nature to destroy — a ying-yang of sorts, if you will. You can feel it festering within your guts — contained, but still a threat. You'd say you regretted trying to run away from the old universe you so foolishly gave up to it for technology, but you know that by doing so, you created this one. And, well, living inside a prison for an eternity is a good enough deal for such a beauty. At least for you.
The scenery suddenly changes — you're no longer within a dark cell, but standing within an extremely large cave, with water dripping from the ceiling into a lake in the center. You look around yourself, seeing you're no longer a god of creation, but a tall thaumaturgist standing next to a shorter man with long, black hair. Both of you are hooded in long, white robes, and are smiling, with the other holding a large manuscript written in Fae. You recognize your point of view as, well, you'd put it differently, but he is your host.
The two open a portal together, and you feel a powerful call into this reality. You exist within the memories of your host and on the other side of the portal at the same time, merging as the ritual is finished. You look at your new host within this memory, feeling powerful, looking at the other, within whom you can sense the destroyer and its lies, You start to fight, but you can feel the memory changing to a new one. You'd want to see the full stretch of a duel between the hosts of both you and the other two, but you couldn't control the dreams and memories of your host any longer — you could feel he is beginning to wake up.
The scenery changes once again, this time to show a burning city, all in flame. You can hear the screams of its terrified citizens, running away from people thinking what they're doing is right. You know it isn't, but you also know you can't let the other finish a ritual here, and he only can do that when these people are alive. Through the falling buildings and engulfed streets, you and the red-haired woman you call Jessie Rivera enter a house within which the other is hiding. Walking through the doorstep, you suddenly feel swarmed by the presence of the Red and something else within. The part of you that's Blue feels attacked and is ready to attack itself.
As you summon the flames with which you fight into your hands with the sheer force of will and years of training, you suddenly fall away from reality, as the overwhelming screams of agony from around you and the heavy burden you all will have to bear when you finish get into you. You cry, because you know you're complicit, you cry, because you know you're wrong, and you cry, because you know you're guilty, no matter how much you'll try to racionalize it to yourself.
You're suddenly pulled back again, this time by the alarm clock from whatever reality is above you, taking you away from this horrible place.
You wake up, your bed full of cold sweat.
Your name is Daniel Asheworth.

* * *

You're almost ready, you, the other woman, and the other man. You know you have to be perfect and that no one can know you're leaving — if all goes well, you will be back by sunrise, with everything having ended. At least you hope it will.
You look around the corridor around your office, frantically looking for someone that could see the two of you there — though initially careful, after a while, you realize everyone's probably already asleep. Waiting until 1 AM to initiate your plan was tiring but definitely had its benefits, you had to admit — with the best one being everyone thinking you're just jam-filling long-due RAISA checks as you should as the Site Director of 120. You know you've neglected this duty for a while now, but you hope you won't have to after this night. You know he has to be in the Sanctuary or he will have to wait another decade to finish his plans. It's all in from both parties, and the less people from the Foundation know about your plans, the less the chance is of you failing. You know that place like your pocket, and you won't fail. You don't have the luxury of being able to.
You start the incantation, opening the portal between your office and Stargard's plains, uttering the words holding power. With a couple of sparkles and a couple of bends of reality, the gate opens, merging the two locations together with one beautiful and fluid destruction of the current wall of reality. of You look at the woman and the man standing next to you, and the three of you silently nod with your heads in agreement that it's time to go. He readies his rifle, she readies her gun and her though, and you ready your flame.
And as you enter into the other side, you take a deep breath.
It will end there.
It has to.

* * *

22nd of May, 1985
Somewhere in the caverns underneath Stargard, Poland

You wake up, together in the darkness of your prison one part of you made for yourself so many years ago to contain the other. You can feel it's rough edges, containing both of you within. Two of you, together, a unity — you have many names, but your relation is always the same — an inherent need to fight each other, with no one ever coming on top. The two of you would say you hate this cycle, but that would be too much of a word — neither of you can even exist without the other — a ying-yang of sorts, if you will. Your joined wills can feel each other within the shared body — together, but still enemies. You'd say you regretted only feeding this never-ending cycle of war with your actions, but you know that by doing so, you give yourself meaning within your lives. And, well, having to forever struggle with each other was a good enough deal for purpose. At least for you.
The scenery suddenly changes — you're no longer within a dark cell, but standing within an extremely large cave, with water dripping from the ceiling into a lake in the center. You look around yourself, seeing you're no longer two gods, but a short thaumaturgist standing next to a taller man with white gloves. Both of you, smiling, are hooded in long, white robes, as you hold a large manuscript written in Fae. You recognize your point of view as, well, you'd put it differently, but he is your host.
The two open a portal together, and the two of you can feel a powerful call into this reality. You exist within the memories of your host and on the other side of the portal at the same time, merging your two conciuousnesses into one body as the ritual is finished. You look at your new host within this memory, feeling powerful, looking at the other, within whom you can sense only a part of you, one of its elements that make this fusion up. You start to fight, but you can feel the memory changing to a new one. You'd want to see the full stretch of a duel between the hosts of you two and the creator alone, but you couldn't control the dreams and memories of your host any longer — you could feel he is beginning to wake up.
The scenery changes once again, this time to show you standing near another group of anomalous races. You can hear their screams of anger, only rallied against their enemies by your words. You know your words aren't fully true, but you also know it doesn't matter — the goal of bringing this world back to everyone, not just humans, justifies the way.
As you scream louder into the crowd of cultists, Fae, Night's Children, and humans following your cause, you suddenly fall away from reality, as the responsibility of being the leader of this operation get to you. You scream with rage, because you know only you are able to help, you scream with rage, because you know only this can make you not feel guilty for everything you're done, and you scream with rage, because you know you are, ultimately and for this cause, in your right to wrong.
You're suddenly pulled back again, this time by the words of one of your followers, calling you to wake up again into reality.
You wake up, alone in a tent underground, near the end of your journey to your new destination.
Your name is Damien Nowak.

* * *

As you take the final step of your mission, entering into the cavern you sought the way back to for so many years, you fall down to your knee, brought down by pain. You grab your knee with your hands, trying to cover the bleeding wound that goddamned woman gave you with her gun during the operation in Esterberg. You hoped none of them would ever find out about it, but someone gave you away. To think people who you help betrayed you is a thought you don't want to entertain. At least you broke another Seal in that town. That's all that matters.
You stand up with the force of sheer willpower telling you you can't fail under the eyes of so many followers, entering through into a large cave with a gigantic lake, water dripping from the ceiling into it. You look around, thinking of everything that started all of this — the ritual that brought all these parts into the tw— you are suddenly pulled away as you have a weird feeling within your guts of a third party having been involved. You check the memory within you again, only to realize there have always only been the two of you there — you and Asheworth. But… but even then, you feel there's been someone else there. Someone… someone that tangled with all—
"Friend, what must we do?"
A silent whisper suddenly distracts you from your nonsensical thoughts, breaking the chain of paranoia. You realize it's probably just your brain acting weird and snap back to reality, realizing you have to guide your subjects. You quickly look around the again-found cave, and wonder upon its beauty. Poland's most thaumaturgically active area, only accessable a week in a decade. You know you have a lot of time to finish the ritual started ten years ago and finally break the third Seal, but you have to hurry — you know he knows you'll be here. He knows too much about you and what happened so many years ago, you think. He needs to be put down.
"Friends," you say, looking around your followers. "Today, we make history. If everything goes according to plan, today, our victory will be made certain."
They start to chatter among each other, not knowing what to make of your so-sure-words. If you didn't win many times before, they would most likely not trust you — but you've proven yourself more than enough to win their trust.
"Today, we break the third Seal and bring down our stalkers. Today, we win back this nexus of natural magic, bringing its power to everyone back again. And today, we rejoice, because today, we take our victory into our hands," you shout at the top of your lungs, trying to hide the pain and fear behind the charisma.
"But to do that, we need to get to work," so exclaim, snapping your fingers. "So make all of us proud…!"
As they come away from you into their previously established duties, making sure no one hears you, you whisper:
"…because this time, we might not get a second chance."

* * *

22nd of May, 1985
Overwatch Command, ██ kilometers █████ of ██████, █████

You wake up, forever chained within the body of the other, who self-imprisoned itself within these halls so many years ago. You can feel its rough soul, containing the only part of you that existed within this reality in itself. The other, Blue, Father, the creator. It has many names, but it's always the same — an antithesis to your inherent need to destroy. You'd say you hate it, but that would be too much of a word — just like it's in your nature to destroy, it is in its nature to create— a ying-yang of sorts, if you will. You can feel yourself festering within its guts — kept under watch, but still ready to strike. You'd say you regretted entering into this universe from the old one, consumed by you, but you know that by doing so, there is a chance to feed your never-ending lust for destruction even more. And, well, being partially imprisoned within your arch-enemy is a good enough deal for even a slight promise of that destruction. At least for you.
The scenery suddenly changes — you're no longer within a dark cell, but standing within an extremely large cave, with water dripping from the ceiling into a lake in the center. You look around yourself, seeing you're no longer a god of destruction, but a young woman, standing next to a shorter man with long, black hair and the other, your beloved thaumaturgist. All three of you are hooded in long, white robes, and are smiling, with one of the other holding a large manuscript written in Fae. You recognize your point of view as, well, you'd put it differently, but she is your host.
The three of you open a portal together, and you feel a powerful call into this reality. You exist within the memories of your host and on the other side of the portal at the same time, merging as the ritual is finished. You look at your new host within this memory, feeling powerful, looking at the other, within whom you can sense the creator and its truth, You start to fight, but you can feel the memory changing to a new one. You'd want to see the full stretch of a duel between the hosts of the creator and the weird mix of you of the creator within the leader of the cult, both lead to fight by your own lies so that only you would survive, but you couldn't control the dreams and memories of your host any longer — you could feel she is beginning to wake up.
The scenery changes once again, this time to show a group of twelve people examining you within the same cave, this time after the battle. You can hear their chatter between themselves, trying to finally gain access to the entity they've been studying for so long before. You know they won't actually gain anything from this, but you also won't ever tell them this, as it's a perfect opportunity for you to strike within the heart of power in this world. Through the numerous tests they run you through and the numerous interviews they make you take, you lie, making yourself to be the victim.
As you accept the seat of power they offer you in exchange for information, you suddenly fall away from reality, as the overwhelming screams of agony from all the worlds you destroyed and the pleasure you get from them get into you. You scream in ecstasy, because you know they will never see it coming, you scream in ecstasy, because you know you've outsmarted them, and you scream in ecstasy, because you know you've already won.
You're suddenly pulled back again, this time by direct Overseer messaging line, calling you onto the scheduled meeting of the Council.
You wake up, your dark tomb full of red, dim light.
Your name is O5-9.

* * *

You pretend to sigh with a tired voice as you enter into the hall of the Council's next meeting — you've waited too long for all of them to gather in one room, and you can't let your lies be anything less than perfect. You need to be Overwatch's tirelessly working and endlessly exhausted thaumaturgy specialist for one more day. Just one more.
You come into your seat as you take a sip of coffee from the cup standing before you, pretending to listen to the old man that called himself One. If not for the fact he is too busy angrily fighting with another human, he would notice that you entered into the room. They fight some more as you check if everything's fine with the invisible demons you call friends.
"Oh, Nine!" the man says nervously, trying to mask the fact he didn't notice you with a chuckle. "Great to see you're here, we were just beginning to set everything in motion."
He turns around as the remaining eleven eyes turn to look irritated at him, awaiting his next words. He presses a button, and the remaining twelve of you within the room receive a message on your private messaging devices only the thirteen of you know about.
"So, as you know, I didn't call all of you here for no reason," he says, clearing his throat. He knows that such emergencies are rare and that his reasoning that will soon be to come will determine the amount of respect he'll loose or gain within the next hour. You can practically feel the fear within him, filling you with pleasure you crave. "The situation regarding PoI-5936 has… gotten out of hand recently. I… I won't lie, the destruction of Esterberg's two whole districts is more than worrying, and—"
You clear your throat loudly, showing everyone you're there.
"Yes, Nine?"
"Before we properly begin," you say, failing not to smile slightly. "May I say something, One?"
"Oh, of, of course," he says quickly, not knowing what to make of this interruption. "Please go forward."
"So," you say, standing up from your seat, starting to walk behind your councilmen. "As we all know, the Foundation has always respected power," you say, putting special emphasis on the last word. "From the least important MTF members to the highest-ranking Department leaders, we've always valued this… ability to work on your own even in the worst situations, let's call it that."
You come near the irritated One as you almost let the Red within you take control. No, not yet. You have to hold it back. Just for a little while longer.
"Maria Jones showed that a while ago when she singlehandedly stopped the Foundation from collapsing, working solely with her database" you exclaim loudly, showing the power within your voice, slightly weirder than your usual tired mood, but just slightly enough not to be suspicious. "Hell, even some random general could do that during the Insurgency, back in '48."
You pause as you circle back into the middle of the half-table upon which all of you sit, putting your hands together.
"But what do you have to show as the sign of your power? What can you bring up as an example as to why you should be the ones in charge?" You scoff. "You weren't even able to deal with the Third Diaspora properly!"
Dead silence fills the room as no one knows how to respond — they're not even angry for a drastic breach of protocol that would normally result in instant termination, but they are simply stunned by your words and this sudden coming out of line.
"WHAT IS THIS SUPPOSED TO MEAN, NINE?" a single, robotic voice of Two answers your question in a furious manner. He is angry at the time the two of you already wasted, but even more angry you have to waste even more of it. "EXPLAIN YOURSELF IMMEDIA—"
"That's what I thought," you to say in a pretendingly disappointed voice. "You do not have anything to show as a reason for your authority."
You blink twice as the Red within finally takes over, filling your eyes with burning hatred. You literally cannot hold the excitement within as you snap your fingers.
"And what do we do to leaders with nothing to back their leadership with?"
Reacting to your given order, red gas fills the area, with the only response being the instant coughing of the people you had to call collegues for so long as a fighting mechanism against the inevitable unconcious. They usually have methods against this but, well, not here. They never saw it coming from one of them. They were so high up themselves they never even considered that. Ironic.
"We make them fall."
You bow, finishing the pre-final act of your long-awaited plan. It's funny, you think — it's funny that all it took to overthrow the council of the most powerful organization on the planet were a couple of lies over the course of a decade and some unnoticeable magic.
And as the twelve oppressors fade into Morpheus' cold grip, you smile. You smile, because you've outsmarted them, you smile, because you just took control over the single most important group on Earth, and you smile, because you know you've almost certainly already won every other game else your plans hold.

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Douglas Beckinson hated his life. This was no surprise, of course, working as a test dummy for a bunch of sadistic doctors wasn't exactly the career he'd had his sights on.
"Alright D-63827, please approach SCP-7856 and retrieve a saliva sample."
Of course, taking saliva samples from some freak show monster. What a fun way to spend his Friday evening. He walked closer to the sleeping anomaly. According to the briefing he'd half paid attention to, it was a giant bear, and its bite could cause complete memory loss in seconds. No wonder they didn't want anyone valuable doing this. The scientists said the thing was sleeping, but Doug wasn't sure how long that would last.
He slowly crept up to where they said it was, feeling his way through the dark containment cell for something large and hairy. His hands closed around something cold and hard, about the size of his head. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't the-
It moved. Clearly, there was something else alive in here nobody told him about. He jumped back, hoping that whatever it was wasn't hungry. He heard a faint tapping in the dark, like a giant bug running across the concrete floor. Fear coursed through his body, as he wondered why they would throw him into a vault without telling what kind of monster was in it. Was this part of the test? Did they want to see how the anomaly responded to surprised victims? Did he still have to retrieve the samples?
"D-63827, please report your progress in the sample retrieval."
"Progress? All I've been able to find is some weird bug thing, why the hell didn't you tell me there were more anomalies in here?"
The radio was silent for a moment. He wondered if he had gone too far and they were contemplating leaving him here to die.
"Please describe this secondary anomaly."
"I don't know, it's got a hard shell 'bout the size of my head, and a bunch of legs, I didn't- Fuck!"
Pain shot up his leg as something bit down on his ankle. It must be the bear, and it woke up from all the yelling. What was it they said it could do? Something about venom, but between the pain and fear he couldn't remember.
"D-63827 what just happened? Is the anomaly awake?"
"I don't know, something just bit me!"
"Alright, if the anomaly is awake, there's no reason not to have the lights on. You might want to close your eyes."
A click echoed through the room as the illumination spread. Doug looked around the area, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted. He scanned the room for the bear, but there was no sign of it, aside from some marks on the walls indicating some large mammal lived here. He felt a second bite on his leg and looked down. A crab, about a foot tall, was pinching his leg with its claws. He picked it up, and it shook around trying to get free.
He let out a small chuckle, which quickly turned to full-on laughter. He had been so scared of a bear the size of a bus, but it was just a little crusty bug. He looked back at the window the science team was watching him through.
"I don't know what just happened, but it looks like the only thing here is a really angry crab."
Nobody responded. He wondered briefly if this wasn't part of the test. Had they been just as confused as he was?
"Uh, you guys alright over there?"
He heard faint muttering in the background before the radio delivered the reply.
"Gently set the crab on the floor and slowly exit the containment room."
Was his celebration too soon? Was this crab more dangerous than it looked? A million questions raced through his mind as he backed away from the crustacean. The creature simply watched him leave, not moving a muscle. Once he reached the door, someone opened it from outside and he left the room, before being quickly escorted back to his cell by a guard.
Later that night, he lay awake wondering why they were so concerned about what looked like a simple crab. A pair of guards passed by the cell door, talking about whatever recent skips they'd had to deal with. One of them mentioned an SCP-6010, but it was all just numbers to Doug.

It had been two years since the first time something went crabby. He was still fine, but every day there were less and less people in the Site and less and less tests for him. He'd heard talk of strange goings-on in the outside world, governments collapsing, the Foundation revealing itself to the world. He assumed they didn't reveal much, otherwise he probably wouldn't still be here. He wondered how long it would be before they found a cure, and whether he would still be human by the time it happened.
"D-63827, please exit your cell."
Doug got out of bed and walked to the now open cell door. One of the doctors was there, meaning something strange was happening. Normally the doctors avoided the holding cells, letting the guards handle this area.
"Douglas Beckinson, you are hereby released from Foundation custody."
Did he mishear the doctor? He hadn't been getting much sleep recently, must have been that.
"You have two choices for your release. You can be amnesticized and relocated to a Foundation front organization until you become an instance of SCP-6010-A, in which case you'll be moved to one of our underwater settlements alongside all other instances. Or you can begin training as a Foundation operative, following a number of examinations."
What just happened?
"You have until tomorrow to decide, at which point Site-63 will be vacated and repurposed into a storage facility."
Was this real? Was he finally leaving? The doctor had already left, moving on to the next occupied cell. He looked back at the room that had been his home for the past three years. It was cold and dark, and he hated every second he had spent there.
He looked to the door, leading down the hall into the rest of the Site. Life was waiting for him outside.

Three years had passed since his time at the Foundation. Doug didn't remember most of it, but the feelings were still there. Every time he saw their logo on parts of the city they built, a faint anger grew inside him, but he never knew why. He was sure he'd been there, but they had wiped away any hints of what he did. Had he been a guard, no longer able to perform after trading the Kevlar for chitin? Had he been a researcher, no longer needed to study an anomaly that was now considered normal? Whatever the cause, it didn't keep him up at night. Life was good now, with or without his memories.
And he wasn't alone. The apartment complex was full of people like him, either unaware of their human life or unwilling to discuss it. Perhaps they'd been Foundation like he was. Perhaps they just wanted a fresh start. Whatever the case, they were here now.
Click-Click
He had been sitting on the balcony, looking out into the blue, when Jason, his next-door neighbor, came along to say hello.
"Hey Doug, how's it going?"
"It's going well, got a promotion at the office, moving on up to management."
He'd been working in sales for a prosthesis company about two years now, and corporate had finally sent him up to the top.
"No kidding? Good for you man, crazy how fast these things happen."
"Things sure are looking up."
They sat still for a while, watching people down below swimming along main street as the subs passed by overhead.
"You ever wonder what happened to the SCP Foundation?"
That was a surprise. Doug never knew Jason was interested in the Foundation.
"It's like they showed up one day out of nowhere, helped us through a tough time, then they just went back to the shadows. You ever think about what kind of magic shit they're dealing with?"
"Nah, never really cared. I saw some of the declassified files back when they were front and centre, way too dangerous for me."
"Yeah, it's pretty crazy. I'm happy to stay here where things are normal. Leave the magic to the experts."
He looked down at the bustling city below him, teeming with crabs going about their day. He looked back to his friend. Douglas Beckinson loved his life.


Parenthood is a strange thing.
You go through your formative years associating it with a sense of comfort, if you are lucky enough not to be the offspring of an asshole or two, that is. No matter how badly you fuck up once you're out there on your own, you still have a door to knock on, or someone to post bail for you.
Somewhere along the way, I did what I had promised myself I would never do. I had a kid of my own. Panic. Now I have to be that for someone, me who more than once called my mom to ask her how to make mac 'n' cheese. I wondered how much therapy this kid was going to need after being raised by me and an equally incompetent human being.
The whole concept gets flipped on its head, now parenthood means fear. Fear that you are going to mess up badly, or are already doing so but have not yet noticed. You worry constantly, but that also means you love them, this tiny human that you made. Of course, you are always tired, and when they wake you up at 4am, you wish it was socially acceptable to put in some ear plugs and go back to sleep, but the way they look at you makes you smile. Part of you is annoyed at evolution for whatever chemicals are making you care so much for this kid, but what can you do?
Years go by, you realize all the clichés are true and you slowly embrace each and every one. You show pictures to clearly uninterested people, you have watched the same Pixar movie around two hundred times by now, you believe they are the most special kid in the world. Mine is David. And he was special, in the worst way possible.
He was a peculiar kid. He would space out once in a while, staring at nothing. As he grew older, he spent longer and longer periods of time in that state of quiet stillness. Whenever you asked him about it, he would just ignore you. We took him to see someone who had assured us he was a completely healthy kid, maybe more imaginative than average. Normal.
Somewhere around his 8th birthday. He was doing his thing again, staring at a wall. I decided to join him on a whim, hoping that sharing the experience would prompt him to talk about whatever it is he was picturing, or thinking about. I sat besides him in silence.
He held my hand, and something felt… wrong. The feeling you get after you lose sight of your child in public, or your spouse is hours late and not picking up your phone calls. Impending doom, dread, call it what you will. I looked at him, and he squeezed my hand tighter, as if to tell me that it would be alright.
I looked at the wall again, and I saw… it. I screamed and recoiled frantically, and it was gone.
I wish I could forget the sight of that thing. It was not the sort of thing you chalk up to your imagination, or to sleep deprivation. I sat there, unable to move.
"David?"
"Yeah mom?"
"Come here, now."
As authoritative as I tried to sound, I was practically begging him to come to me. I was not willing to take a single step towards that wall. I grabbed him and we left for my parents house. We sat in silence until we were far away from the house. I saw other people and cars around, I had never been so happy to be stuck in traffic. I mustered up the courage to speak again.
"David?"
"Yeah?"
"I need you to tell me what you were looking at."
"She's a friend, mom."
"A friend?"
"Yeah, I helped you see her, I know you couldn't do that before."
"What is she? And why aren't you scared, David?"
"I told you she's a friend, I can't say more because it's a secret. I think she's mad you saw her because she went to hide after."
I did not know what to say. That felt even more surreal than whatever I had seen coming out of my wall.
I told my husband. I knew how it sounded, someone had to tell me I was not crazy. Of course, he did not believe me. He told me I was just tired, that worrying about David so much had me imagining things too and downright refused to try it for himself, said I was encouraging him by reacting the way I did.
I did not sleep for days. I was watching David like a hawk, avoiding touching him, and forcing him out of his "trance" whenever it happened.
I started searching, asking people on random internet forums. Billions of people on the planet, thousands and thousands of years of civilization. I could not be the first to experience something like this, and someone surely knew how to stop it, otherwise the world would be a fucked up place, more fucked up than I knew it to be anyway.
It was about a week before I got a response that was not just accusing me of making it up or telling me to take my meds. Someone had read one of my posts. They sent me a private message, telling me to do whatever it took to distract my son, and that they would be messaging me again soon. I had no reason to believe them, but it gave me some hope.
It did not take long, a couple of hours. I do not know how they found me so fast. IP addresses or something, I guess. Military looking guys, before I knew what was happening we were all bagged and being taken God knows where. We arrived at what looked like a military installation.
That is where we have been for a couple of days now, separated from each other. I stopped banging on the door and screaming after someone told me through the peephole that everybody was safe, and to wait for someone to come talk to me. I think they're the people. A government agency, or something. I got their attention. They will help us, I hope to God they will.
I wish someone will talk to me soon, though. I'm worried sick about how they might… help. I just need to see him.

Someone came this morning, a man in a lab coat, he said his name was Dr. Penrose. After apologizing for the way we were brought in, he all but confirmed my suspicions, and explained that they needed some time to assess the situation. He assured me David and my husband were safe but that I could not see them until they had examined every one us separately.
He asked me a lot of questions, about David mostly. How long I had known, what he had told me. Many of them were outlandish, but he seemed somehow satisfied by my confusion.
As he left, a couple of those military guys took me to another room. A nurse came in. I am assuming its my turn to get examined, but what for, exactly? I had been assuming we needed an exorcism, this felt more like treating a disease than… I would rather not name whatever this is.
It is strangely comforting though, seeing this being handled this way. This made sense, more sense than a priest flicking holy water at my kid.
I'm so sorry David, I should not be relieved. I wish I was with you. They will let me see you soon.
I'm starting to feel sleepy.

I have been having strange dreams lately. I am running, the way you run in a dream, your legs do not work as they should. Not running from, but running after something. I feel desperate, knowing I cannot catch up, and I fall down on my knees and cry. I wake up, still crying.
My husband says I am just tired. I am, I suppose. I mostly just feel lonely, the house feels empty. Not empty, it has always felt that way when I am alone in it. Lately, it feels like it should not be.
I would probably disappoint my younger self, but I wish we had a child. Maybe I can still talk him into it.


The hotel room's dim lighting gave only the barest outline of her, but that's all I needed. She was beautiful. Too beautiful for the light's negligence to hide. Her straight figure, the sharper features of her face. The low lamp behind her let me know that her dress was her favorite color: green.
She opened her arms, and begged me closer.
“Come,” she said, so sweetly. “Come here.”
“I've missed you,” I said, taking my first steps forward. “Are you real?”
“Come closer,” she said. “Come to me.”
My doubts were forgotten. Her voice was so soothing, her arms so open, there was nothing I could do but rush into them. My arms wrapped around her with a ferocity I hardly knew I was capable, and into her shoulder I openly wept.
“I've missed you so much,” I was barely able to get out. “Every moment of every day I have missed you.”
“I've missed you too. Stay with me.”
I nodded without questioning. “I'll stay.”
“Good,” she said as I ran my hand through her hair, holding her face close to mine, tears streaking down my cheeks — I couldn't believe it was her. I couldn't believe I was seeing her again. “Never leave me,” she asked.
I shook my head. Why would she need to ask? It was unthinkable. Of course I'd never leave. Never would I ever leave again.
And then my skin began to tingle. And then my skin began to hurt, like a million pin-sized worms had suddenly eaten their way through the surface of my stomach, my cheek, my hands, anywhere that I touched her. But I didn't stop my embrace. I couldn't bring myself to let go.
My knees went out. My arms felt weak. My jaw began to slump. I couldn't keep my form. My shape. It was like my bones had left me. I hadn't the strength anymore to move my muscles. Everything hurt, but by the time I had the mind to scream I couldn't. My teeth began to fall out of my mouth. My eyes melted out of their sockets. The molten remains of my flesh were becoming a pool on the floor when —
“Caesar?”
I startled awake. I was at my desk, drool pooling in the crook of my elbow which I had fallen asleep in. I wiped saliva from my mouth, and my arm on my side, and tried to look like I hadn't just embarrassed myself in front of a colleague.
She just shook her head. “You've been doing that recently.”
“Yeah…” I tried to pull something more articulate out of my head, but I ended up just saying: “Sorry.”
“Well. I was just meaning to give you this.” She placed down a folder on my desk. I flipped open the front, and saw it was a survey of some kind.
“The rounds are being made for the mental health survey. It's time for the SCP-031 team to take their turn.”
“Right.”
I took the folder, and put it in one of my drawers.
“Promise me you'll get to it? It seems like you're one of the people who need it most.”
“I'm fine,” I responded.
“You're not,” she stated.
I furrowed my brow. She just smiled sadly at me. “You're not doing so hot. It doesn't take an expert to see that. I've offered that you talk to me, but you never have. Please, take the survey. It's not optional.”
She took her leave, off into the mess of cubicles. As my ears dug their way up from my dreariness, I recognized the tapping of keyboards. I reoriented myself, looking down at what I had fallen asleep on. Right. Data entry for SCP-031. The entire reason for my being here.
I leaned my head against my hand, and looked up.
Up at the vents. If SCP-031 affected the air, they would have to be airtight, but it didn't.
Still. I thought he could hear it breathing.
I shook his head, and put my face back down. To my computer. To work. But I couldn't focus on it. When I opened my desktop, all I could do was look at the clock in the lower right corner.
Only some hours now. Mere hours until the gap in the guards. Until a room would be left open. A room where I could be alone. With her.
Hours passed without event, my responsibilities merely visiting my conscience before I dismissed them. When it was time, I stood up. I didn't have anything to announce, but if anyone asked, I was going to the bathroom.
I walked down the hallway, and entered the elevator.
It was only some floors. Just a moment or two.
The doors opened, and I walked briskly into the hallways. It was just a hotel. Patterned carpet, perfect temperature, regular lighting fixtures, circular designs so that you couldn't get lost. You wouldn't be able to tell something was wrong with it on a first inspection. We really were at the frontier of human knowledge here.
Slyly hidden as the normal key readers on all the other doors, these ones only responded to Foundation personnel. My hands shook as I reached for my keycard, and sweat nearly made the thing slip from my hand when I went to slide it.
The thing beeped. The tiny light turned from red to green. The door opened.
I walked in.
It was a suite. I could have met her in any of the rooms, but I wanted this one. It was spacious, the bed was beautiful, the lighting was dim. It was romantic. She would love it.
I closed the door behind me, and knew I had to move fast. The guards may be gone, but the cameras weren't off. It was only a matter of time until someone spotted me. I saw the air vent, and pulled a chair under it. I stood on the chair, and dug through a coat pocket to find a screwdriver. I used the screwdriver to take the vent cover off.
Air blew over me, and I imagined I could smell her perfume in it.
That was fake. I shook the thought out of my head. Stay real, I thought to myself, stay here.
I didn't know if it would work, I wasn't exactly sure, but I bit down on the very tip of my pointer finger and tore a bit of skin off. With the little blood that came from the prick, I smeared a spot onto the inside of the vent.
With that, I was done.
I got off the chair, put it back, and waited.
It was so nerve-wracking. I could barely stand just sitting there on the bed and looking at the vent. My hands rubbed together without my bidding them. My foot tapped the ground. My eyes glanced suspiciously at the security camera.
No alarms yet. But she wasn't here either.
I chewed at the inside of my cheek until I hear noises.
Something coming from the vent.
I stood immediately. I was so preoccupied with whether she would come or not that I forgot to make myself presentable for if she did. I ran fingers through my hair to try and smooth it, I tucked my shirt into my pants, I discarded my coat so I would look dressed for the occasion in my button-down and black pants.
Then it was here.
The vent spilled pink and white tendrils, which terminated into pods, like head-sized wiffle-balls where the insides were white and wet. They sprayed a humid aroma, like that of freshly caught fish mixed with a slightly sweet air of stevia. They were flailing, looking like a blind octopus trying to swipe for nearby food, before seeming to find a better purpose. They soon put all of their pods together, and the things unfolded before my eyes. The exterior undid itself and the white poured out and melded together, until all of the pods shifted to form one solid shape, which then filled with color and texture… until it was all her.
A human. My wife.
She opened her eyes, and caught my gaze, and smiled.
A lump formed in my throat so that when I tried to make some kind of connection, the only thing that came out was a squeak. But she didn't mind.
She opened her arms wide, and motioned me in for an embrace.
“Here,” she said with the same hitch to her voice that she'd had since the disease had spread to her throat, “come here.”
“I've missed you. Fuck, I've missed you so much.”
She nodded. “I know.”
What was I doing? I ran towards her, forgetting at once all the pomp and circumstance, all my plans of a quiet evening of reconnection. I tossed myself into her arms, and clung to her for dear life.
“I thought I'd never see you again,” I cried into her shoulder.
“I'm here,” she said.
“You're here,” I repeated, like I still had to convince myself it was true.
I pulled back from her just enough to look into her face, and she gave me a smile like she was sad to see me again.
I puzzled. “What's wrong?”
She shook her head. “There's nothing wrong.”
My adrenaline didn't let me hang on the thought. The only thing I could hold onto was the idea I needed to kiss her. So I did. I pulled her into a kiss, and I tried my damnedest to pour every ounce of passion I had into it. Every morning I woke up in an empty bed was in that kiss. Every night I took a shower alone was in that kiss. Every dinner I ate, every empty hand I walked through the park with. I gave it all to her. I gave her everything.
And as I was kissing her, my skin began to tingle. And then my skin began to hurt, like a million pin-sized worms had suddenly eaten their way through my hands and lips. I could feel the maggots push their way through her mouth and into mine, beginning to eat at my tongue and my gums and the roof of my mouth. But I didn't stop pressing my lips to hers. There wasn't a single impulse in my body to let go of her.
My knees went out, but she held me up. My arms fell to my sides but she kept hugging me. My jaw began to slump, but when I fell to the floor, our mouths were still connected by a long coil of pencil-thin tendrils. I realized too late I was losing shape. My skin started to detach from my muscles, my muscles detach from my bones, my bones become porous and bleed marrow. By the time I had the thought to scream, I couldn't.
I was gone.
“Caesar?”
I raised my head from my desk with such speed that I heard it crack.
“Jesus,” she stated simply.
“Sorry. Bad dream.”
She just gave me a look. A sad, disappointed look. “Caesar, what are you doing here?”
I furrowed my brow. “What do you mean?”
“Why don't you leave? Take the day off. Hell, take several days off. You have paid time off saved up. Why don't you take it?”
I couldn't figure out how to respond. My senses were slowly coming back to me, and as they faded in, I began to take in the rest of my sights and sounds. The cubicles, the typing on keyboards, the low conversations somewhere. But it was… lesser than usual. There should be more people working at this time.
I shook my head lightly. No, I was just tired.
“My work is important. It's the only thing that…” I trailed off, realizing I'd cornered myself.
She took a deep, loud breath. “That distracts you?”
I hung my head, and avoided eye contact.
“There's a lot more to life than the past, Caesar.” She slapped a folder down on my desk. “This is the mental health survey, for people working on SCP-031. It's required. And as soon as you're done filling it out, I want to see you go home, okay?”
I looked up, and nodded. “I'll be gone sooner than that.”
We shared an uncomfortable stare. “Don't,” is all she said. Then, she walked away. Off into the cubicles.
I took a couple shaky moments to myself. What did she know? She wasn't stopping me. No one was stopping me. I stood up only to check the cubicles around me, and saw my first observation confirmed. There were surprisingly few people. Maybe ten others around that I could see, and one was on their way out the door.
I checked the clock on the wall across from me, but for some reason I knew it didn't matter.
People were leaving. There weren't going to be guards. So there was no point in waiting around, either.
I walked past the emptying cubicles, through the hallway, and into the elevator.
It was only some floors. Just a moment or two.
I was already moving before the doors opened, my feet stepping into the hall before the elevator could fully settle onto the floor. I briskly made my way to my right, feet passing over the patterned carpet, the only noises being my breath and my footsteps and the low electric hum of the lights overhead.
No one was here, as I expected.
I pulled out my keycard and swiped it against my chosen door. A suite. Romance, low light. Perfection.
The door beeped and the light turned green. I pushed it open and stumbled into the room.
My eyes searched. Vent. Right.
I put a chair underneath it, stood on the chair, and fished a screwdriver I'd snuck into work out of my pocket. It was only moments until the vent cover was removed, and as soon as its heavy metal plating clanged against the floor, I felt the air turn from its cool conditioning to a hot, organic pulse.
Breath.
I stepped down from the chair, and was about to remove it before an outpour of tendrils made me take some steps backwards, abandoning my effort. The pods on their ends wasted no time, unfolding and meshing together, weaving into the form of my dearly beloved.
Once she was formed, her eyes stayed closed.
“Theresa?” I asked, taking a nervous step forward.
Her eyes fluttered open. She saw me, and smiled. “Caesar.” She opened her arms. “Come here.”
I walked forward, and reached a hand towards hers. She let me take it.
“I've missed you,” I said.
“I've missed you too.” She pulled me into a hug, and I allowed her to take me.
We stood in silence for some time, only breathing together.
“Why did you leave me?” I asked.
“I didn't mean to,” she responded.
“I know. It's just,” I fought back tears, “it hurt so much. I don't know what life is supposed to be without you. I'm so glad you're back.”
I pulled away, and looked into her eyes. “Are you? Are you glad to be back?”
She avoided my gaze.
“Theresa?” I asked, and stroked her cheek.
“I'm happy to be with you,” she said, and turned towards me, giving me a sad smile.
“What's wrong?”
But instead of responding to me, she just pulled me back into a tight embrace. “Nothing's wrong,” she whispered into my ear, but she didn't sound like she believed it. “Nothing's wrong.”
I felt a horrid and sudden pain as my body split at the abdomen, my hips and legs slumping to the floor while Theresa held up my torso, the only connecting tissue being my unfolding intestines, the blood and muscles —
“Caesar.”
I woke up, but no one was there. The world was dark, the only light a faint glow from my computer screen. As soon as my eyes adjusted, I saw that it was open to a Word document. Typed onto it was one word, in 12 point font arial, all lowercase:
leave
I fumbled for my phone so that I could have a flashlight, and as I did so, my hand brushed against a folder on my desk. I held it up to the light of the computer screen, and saw its words:
SCP-031 Team Mental Health Survey
I threw it onto the ground with an anger I didn't know I had. My breathing laboured. I grabbed the phone out of my pocket, turned the flashlight on, and stood up.
I was at work. The big room. The cubicles. I was at my office desk. Right, of course. I was exhausted, and I had gone to work, and I had fallen asleep. I nearly checked the clock, but I didn't feel I had to.
There was only one place to go.
I walked past the empty desks, I walked through the hallway and towards the elevator, but when I pressed the button nothing happened, nothing lit up. No matter. I took the stairs.
I nearly tripped and fell several times, but I kept my balance. I felt so shaky today. I had no idea why.
But it was only a some floors. Only a moment or two.
Then I was where I wanted to be. I walked down the hallway, flashlight in hand, and my breath sounded so loud. I made it to the suite I wanted, keycard at the ready in my hand, but… the door was already open. A light was on inside.
I pushed through, and she was there.
Theresa.
Sitting on the bed, looking as beautiful as the day we met.
I was frozen in place. She didn't seem to look at me.
“Theresa? Is that you?”
She said nothing. I stepped into the room. “Are you alright? I haven't seen you in so long, I…”
I lost my words, and merely moved forward, closing the door behind me.
“I can leave if you want to be alone,” I offered.
“No,” she finally spoke, “it's alright. Come here.”
I walked forward, step after step, removing my jacket and placing it on a chair I passed by, before sitting at her side on the bed. She didn't move to touch me, or even to look at me.
“What's wrong?” I pried.
She shook her head. “Caesar,” she sounded so meak, “nothing could be wrong with you here.”
She finally looked up and smiled, but it was sad. It wasn't what I wanted. She wasn't letting me in.
Still, she opened her arms, and I gently pulled her into a hug. “I've missed you so much,” I said.
“I know.”
We only held that position, sitting on the bed, embracing one another, for minutes or more. Our breaths were the only sounds.
At some point, she started crying.
I rubbed her back, trying to soothe her. She wouldn't tell me what was wrong, so I didn't ask. I only tried to be a comforting presence.
“Caesar,” she choked out.
“Yes?”
“I'm sorry,” she said.
“Sorry for what? What could you possibly be sorry for, this…” I searched for something more meaningful, but came up with nothing. “This is perfect.”
“I'm sorry for coming back,” is all she said.
I kissed her, and she kissed me back. When we were done, I looked into her eyes.
“You coming back is all I ever wanted,” I said. I meant it. “It's the only thing worth living for.”
I saw the worms, the tendrils, the maggots coming out from under her eyes and the corner of her mouth, wriggling from behind her and towards me.
She sniffled. “Does it hurt?”
I didn't move an inch as the oily wires dug into the flesh of my face, slipping into my cheeks and under my collarbone, slowly consuming my left hand on her side. I only moved to smooth back her hair, and kiss her on the forehead.
“Of course not,” I said, before I could no longer speak. “It could never hurt to love you.”