Ah, September. That wonderful time of year when big yellow buses rumble down suburban streets, when schoolyards are alive with the shriek and laughter of children, when highschools are bustling with students either eager to learn or eager to get it over with. It seems picturesque, yes?
Well, that's not the case in the small town of Sycamore Corner.
Sycamore Corner is located in (dare I say it) middle of fuckall NOWHERE, Maine. No real roads going in, no roads going out. Industry? Wood. Did I mention that middle of fuckall NOWHERE, Maine, is home to a hell of a lot of trees? It… yeah, there are trees. Most of the businesses are woodbased. Wood flooring, firewood, wood sculpture, wood shoes… hell, we even have some crazy batshit lady who sells wood clothing. But yeah, wood. Lots of it.
Anyway, Sycamore Center isn't like other towns, especially in September. See, that's when school starts, and honestly the weirdest time is when school starts. Sycamore Center has but one school, and almost every time school is starting people forget about it. It's called Sycamore Center Preparatory, and it's this really big old looking school. On the outside it is a really old, really tall building. It's hard to believe that people forget it's there, but whatever. Inside, it's all white. Every wall, every floor is white. It's like being in a really creepy hospital.
The teachers are really really off, too. Once, I took a picture of my ‘bioethics' teacher, Mr. Alto. His head turned into a giant angry fuzzy spider. And he's always ranting about green classes or something and how we should just shoot them in the head if they even look at us. And Ms. Lefts or Rights or some other direction was always hitting on the boys during sex ed (and some of the girls, too)… I mean, that's not bad thing or anything, but it's really damn distracting when you want to LEARN. Don't even get me started on Principal Gears. I am absolutely certain that he's at least a cyborg, perhaps even just a plain old robot.
We don't have yellow school buses here. We have these big black buses operated typically by people in orange jumpsuits, always swearing at us and telling us to shut up. You never see the same person for more than a month, either.
The first day of school started off normally, at least for us. How normal can you get here? The bus rumbled up and all the students got in. Sycamore Center Preparatory was the only school in town, so we all had to go there. I kind of felt bad for the little bitties. They had no clue what they were getting into, and they got Mr. Konny. Mr. Konny is… well, frightening. I still have nightmares about him and his butterfly habitat. And don't even start me on his friend Mr. Kain. He likes us to THINK that Mr. Kain is a fully animated robot in a very convincing dog suit. After I stepped in one of Mr. Kain's 'presents', I don't think that's the case.
Anyway, it was my last year and I planned on getting the hell out of middle of FUCKALL NOWHERE, Maine. There's a lot of that here, you know. Once you're away from the beach, it's just nothing. I was planning on applying to big name universities because, you know, my grades were like the highest in the town. Not saying much, given the population of about 200, but it was impressive to me. I was planning on Harvard, Yale, Dartmouth, Wellesley, the whole nine yards. That is, until I was called into Mr. Gears' office.
Mr. Gears' office was white like the rest of the school. It had a poster that was probably trying to be uplifting, but only made me even more anxious. It read ‘There is no canon' and had a picture of some kind of horse made of vines or something… Anyway, I sat there uncomfortably waiting for him to decide to come in. I think principals do that sort of thing on purpose, you know. Making you sit there uncomfortably, sweating, trying to figure out what you did so that you blurt out random things they probably weren't going to yell at you for.
Finally, after what felt like forever (though according to my watch was just five minutes), Mr. Gears strode in, holding a file with a funny symbol on it. He sat down across from me and dropped the file in front of me. I tentatively opened it to see my name, my most recent school picture (wow, I need something to treat this acne and dammit we don't have an orthodontist anywhere in town my teeth are sooooo crooked), and every single paper I've ever written, from when I was in kindergarten to now. Every report card, every certificate, every newspaper article that even mentioned me. My life was in that file.
“Mr. Gears…” I finally started, “W-what is this all about?”
Mr. Gears just sat there, stoic as always. He said in his typical monotone, “You interest us.”
“I… I what?”
“You interest us, and we want you in our ranks.”
“Ranks? Wh-what are you—“ I didn't get to finish that sentence. I felt something in my neck, then the world started to spin around me.
Before I collapsed, I distinctly heard Mr. Gears saying, “Welcome to the Foundation."


Agatha Rights looked up from her desk as the man in the gray suit entered her office, her hand instinctively reaching for the lamp to her left. The man looked at her, his mustache twitching slightly. He pulled a file from under his arm, and dropped it on her desk. She looked down at the large, red stamp in the corner.
Her head craned back up slowly, calculatingly. "Termination orders? For who?"
"You, of course," he replied, reaching into his suit pocket.

Dr. Timothy Burns got up from his desk and stretched, looking at the clock on the corner. He was surprised to see how late it'd gotten, especially since he was supposed to meet with—
'Oh, fuck me,' he thought, jumping around the desk and rushing toward the door. 'I can't believe I forgot about this…'
He dashed down the hallway, narrowly dodging two security guards eating cake, reaching for the doorknob and throwing it open.
The office was empty, freshly painted with new carpeting. It reeked of redecorating. He leaned backwards, looking over the door at an empty spot where a placard had been. A tiny part of him leaped with joy at the prospect of having an excuse for being late. He closed the door and looked around, stopping a passing Junior Researcher.
"Can you tell me where Doctor Rights' office is at? I didn't realize she was having hers redecorated."
The researcher looked up at him, setting down her fork on her plate. "Who?"
"Rights. Agatha Rights. She used to be in here," he said, gesturing toward the door. "Now, I can't find her, and I'm late, and she's usually very easily irritated."
The researched looked at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry. I just can't help you."
Burns sighed and turned, hurrying down the hallway. One of the sector supervisors secretaries should be able to help him. He passed through several hallways, glancing occasionally and looking for her name on one of the doors.
He stopped, eventually, at the desk of a stern looking woman in her early forties. Burns gave a sigh of relief, smiling and nodding at the woman who, after she finished a bite of her dessert, looked up at him questioningly.
"Sorry to be a bother," said Burns "but I'm looking for Doctor Rights. Her office is being redecorated, and I don't know where she relocated to."
The secretary nodded, and reached for a large, white binder. "A new researcher to the site?" she asked.
Burns cocked an eyebrow. "No, she's been here for years, now. Rights. Senior Staff."
The woman looked at him distrustfully, her finger running down the page. She eventually stopped, looking up at him smugly.
"There is no Doctor Rights on the Site-19 roster."
Burns frowned.
"Are you sure?"
The woman spun the book around with the skill of one accustomed to such questions and laid it at the front of the desk. Burns looked down the list, frowning. It went straight from Rath, to Rapp, to Sharp.
He turned away from the desk, muttering an absent minded thanks, as the wheels in his head began to turn. There was no way she had been transferred. Any transfer would have required some sort of approval, a transfer of records, probably a party in Agatha's case.
In a few minutes, he'd returned to his office. As he walked in and turned, preparing to put his coat on the hook by the door, his eyes passed over his scheduling calendar. The day was blank.
Something had happened, something had gotten loose, broken free. Something had happened to her.
His mind whirled with the different possibilities. He ran through the SCPs he knew she was working on: the weird surgeon, the tiny pterodactyl, nothing that could cause this. A temporal anomaly? Probably not, as he wouldn't remember her at all then. Maybe it had something to do with—
A sharp knock on his door broke his reverie. He walked toward it cautiously, carefully turning the lock and peering out into the hallway.
A slender, young woman with purple eyes looked back at him, smiling in her Foundation fatigues. "Dr. Burns?"
"Yes," he answered quietly.
"Your mail, sir," she said, holding up a pile of envelopes and memos. "You should really come down to the mail room to get it, sometime."
"We have a mail room?" asked Burns.
She smiled, shrugging her shoulders.
She made to slide the letters through the crack in the door. "No!" yelled Burns, starting her. He looked at the pile of mail in her hand and back at her. 'Of course,' he thought. 'A memetic.'
"How do I know you're legit?" he asked.
Apparently, she'd been there long enough to get used to this question. "Listen," she said. "I'm just going to put his down here." She gestured toward the floor. "You can get it whenever you like."
Burns eyes twitched through the crack. "Fine. Fine, that's fine," he said, watching as she slowly lowered the pile of envelopes to the ground, took a slow step back, and turned away from the door, moving at a brisk gait back down the hallway.
Burns opened the door and poked the stack of letters slowly with his foot before jerking it back again. He repeated this process a few times before carefully stepping over the letters into the hallway, watching them. He sidled down the hall, carefully keeping watch on them as he moved toward the corner.
He took another, long hard stare at the pile of envelopes and dashed around the corner, running headlong into a hoard of butterflies.
He nearly inhaled one before stumbling out of the swarm, leaning himself against a wall as he coughed. He felt a hand slapping him hard on the back, followed by a deep laughter.
"Burns, do try not to eat the SCPs," smirked Kondraki, laughing as the bald man standing next to him looked at Burns impassively.
"Are you alright, Doctor Burns?" asked Dr. Gears.
"Gears!" he cried, "Thank God. Listen, I think something is wrong. I can't find Rights! Something has happened. No one I talk to remembers her at all!"
Gears set down his plate and walked closer to Burns. "Are you alright, Doctor?"
"I'm fine! I'm perfectly fine! One minute, I'm scheduled to meet with her, and the next she's gone! I can't find her!"
Kondraki licked his fork and turned his head sideways. "Who are you talking about, Burns?"
Burns felt the blood drain from his face. His eyes narrowed. "They got to you."
Gears turned and looked at Kondraki, who shrugged in return.
"They got to you two, too, didn't they?" screamed Burns.
Kondraki smiled. "Too much stress, Burns? Did your imaginary friend run away?"
Burns felt himself backing away. This had to be a joke. It had to.
"This is because I put that Class-D's hand in her chair, isn't it?" he yelled. "I swear, I thought she'd notice before she sat down! Seriously, this is getting ridiculous!"
"Are you alright, Doctor? Would you like a mild sedative?" asked Gears.
"What the fuck is going on?!" scream Burns, his eyes wide. "What the hell is wrong with you people? What happened to Agatha?!"
Kondraki and Gears both took short steps toward Burns, who found himself backing away faster, eyes twitching. "Don't touch me."
"I'm afraid I do not understand what the problem is, Doctor Burns."
"Fuck, Burns, have you been dipping into company assets?"
Burns pulled away from them, twisting. "Get BACK!" he barked, sharply, feeling his way along the wall. He felt the cold, stainless steel of the cafeteria doors, and turned sharply, running into them, looking to escape whatever had managed to free itself and—
"Burns? What's the problem?"
Burns was standing in a pile of confetti, looking across a nearly empty room at a woman in a smart, sharp business suit. She smiled, winningly, and waved at him.
"Agatha?"
"Hello, Burns! I wasn't sure you'd make it."
Burns walked forward, half tempted to reach out and poke her to make sure she was there. "Agatha?"
"Yes, Burns. You almost forgot to come to my party!"
"Party? What… what party?"
"My birthday, Burns. I sent you an invitation and everything."
"Oh, I… I must not have gotten it."
"Here," she said. "Have a piece of cake."

Burns walked out of the cafeteria, smiling and chewing. It really was very good cake. He saw Kondraki and Gears staring at him, waved cheerily, and continued eating. He was supposed to meet with… with somebody this afternoon. He'd have to check his calendar.

O5-2 sat down in her chair, looking at the monitor, drumming her fingers softly on the chair's leather arm. With a few quick keystrokes, she completed the process. Agatha Rights was quite thoroughly expunged from the Foundation. She smiled, leaning back into the comfortably overstuffed chair. 'Weird way to get promoted,' she thought. 'Killing yourself.' She laughed. Only one thing left to do.
She reached over for the plate and picked it up, happily sinking her fork through the creamy chocolate frosting.
It really was very good cake.


Doctor Evelyn Weston had the summer flu that was going around. Nothing special about that, just a vague, nauseous rumble in her stomach that had her going to the bathroom every hour or so to empty her bladder. Of course, it might as well have been too much coffee, too, she knew that she tended to overdo the caffeine when a new SCP came in that she was assigned to.
The thought, of her mild flu skipped over her mind, though, as she looked over the containment room with a small frown. Two girls, aged five and four, according to their medical records, sat on the floor and scribbled on the bare white tile with the crayons they'd been provided. It would have been something of a charming scene, were it not for the fact that all but the ceiling and the walls above their limited reach were already covered with a thick layer of wax and dye, and as they drew they did not blink nor stop to admire their work, nor did they stop humming.
Doctor Gears stood silently and impassively beside her, observing, a notepad in hand and pen at the ready.
“Whenever you're ready to begin, Doctor Weston.”
”Yes, sir.” She said, voice shaking slightly. It was always more than slightly intimidating when it came time to report the study of an SCP to the senior staff. “Designation SCP-9005. SCP-9005 can be divided into two distinct parts. The song, and those it affects, divided into, respectively, SCP-9005-1 and SCP-9005-2.” She tried to keep her tone as clinical and detached as possible, although she still spoke with great interest.
This was, after all, her assignment, and you didn't spend a month observing something without becoming a little attached to it.
“SCP-9005-1 is a song recorded on a standard US Cassette tape, unmarked, of unknown origin. The song itself is an instrumental piece of upbeat music, and was recovered in a-“ She checked her notes, even though she knew the facts backward and forwards by heart. “-day care center. While SCP-9005-1 seems to have no effect on individuals who are either pubescent or adult, repeated exposure of children to SCP-9005-1 has a memetic effect on the children, now referred to as SCP-9005-2.”
She paused, looking at the girls in the room. They had nearly finished their artwork, only a few square feet of the floor still left bare, and it was disappearing rapidly.
“SCP-9005-2 seem to be physically unchanged, and remain, in this case, healthy and normal children, although extended tests to see if the effect stays or fades with age will be required. There is a very strong mental effect, as you can see- SCP-9005-2 seem to be…attempting to create a new environment, using whatever it available. They will rearrange plants and furniture for scenery, or use art supplies to…uhm…draw themselves a setting.
“The purpose of SCP-9005-1 is unknown, but judging from the results, one could assume that it is perhaps a memetically encoded message. All examples of SCP-9005-2 seem to be trying to convey the same environment, with whatever means are available to them. That's not to say that they can't be prevented from working. SCP-9005-2 still regularly stop to eat and use the restroom…and there are regular cycles in which the effects of SCP-9005 seem to fade, such as when there are no supplies available, or if the supplies cannot be handled with safety.
“Subjects designated…subjects eight and twelve here are siblings from the day care center. They have been provided with several boxes of crayons with which to work. And as you can see, despite their age and experience levels…they have managed to create a nearly photorealistic 360-degree image of the environment.” She looked into the room. One of the girls had stopped drawing, and was quietly sitting, singing wordlessly to herself the same gentle, repeating tune, while the other was scribbling in the last few details with the remaining nub of her crayon.
“And SCP-9005-1 only has this effect with the original recording?” Gears asked, and she nodded.
“We've conducted additional testing with recordings of the original, as well as vocal or synthesized versions, with no effect. Similarly, the only children that were not affected in the original day care were hearing-impaired. One of the unaffected did have a cochlear implant, but seemed to have no effects.”
“And the age range of SCP-9005-2?”
“The range of subjects currently goes from three years of age to ten. Once puberty starts for the individual they are rendered immune, and no children under the age of three have been exposed.”
Doctor Gears was silent, and Evelyn held her breath. Finally, he spoke again.
“And do the effects fade with separation from SCP-9005-1?”
“No, sir, they seem to be permanent once started.” He nodded, was quiet for a few more moments, writing down a short note…and then without a word, he left. Evelyn sighed in relief. No response was a good response, when it came from Doctor Gears. Turning to the observation window, she looked at the girls.
They stood, longingly staring at the ceiling and walls where they couldn't reach, singing to themselves for a few minutes more before going quiet and sitting down, looking tired and listless.
Evelyn's stomach gurgled, and she cursed softly, heading to the ladies' room. No more coffee, she swore.
It was later that week she discovered her pregnancy, and in what seemed, to Evelyn, to be no time at all, she was off on maternity leave, singing a little pink bundle of colic to sleep every night. She never thought, in her sleepless state, about the tune, a soft upbeat melody, that she hummed to her daughter to calm her.
It was, after all, just a song that had gotten stuck in her head.
And it calmed little Emily Weston down.
Three Years Later
Evelyn missed her family, but she tried not to think about it too much. She still got to see her daughter, every other weekend, and it seemed unfair that it was all the time the courts ruled she could have, but she would take what she could get. Besides, her ex-husband was a kind man, and an excellent father, and his wife a wonderful and attentive mother. More than Evelyn, who would become obsessed and lost in her work at times, could say.
Still, she missed her little girl, Emily, the sweet child, especially now that she'd missed the past month of visits because of work. Emily was her life when she had weekends off, though, even if the little girl was plagued with nightmares and demanded, often times loudly, to be sung to sleep at night, her mother always obliged.
But now…now she was trapped in work. Evelyn sighed deeply as she poured over pages of reports on a new SCP, designation 8776. She swore, she'd never figure out how this damn numbering system worked.
Looking up at the clock, hoping that it was almost time to go, she couldn't stop a small yelp from escaping as she found Gears standing in her office, stock still and silent as a ghost. She hadn't heard him come in.
“…Doctor Weston.”
“…Hello Doctor Gears.” She said, rubbing her face. How embarrassing. “What can I do you for, Sir?” He took a seat and held out a file to her, one emblazoned with the numbers 9005 in bold stencil. She cautiously took the file, for a second wondering if this was some mistake she had made years ago when she had been part of the 9005 team. “What's this about?”
“We are decommissioning SCP-9005-1 officially, and it was proposed that, as the original lead researcher, you would prefer to look over all the data to make sure that there is nothing missed, in your opinion.”
She nodded. A formality then, as she opened the folder and started to skim. The effect had never faded away from the children, it seemed, and she frowned at that. Even if those children had just been subjects, bound by a force beyond their control, she still felt bad for them, and she skimmed along further, not truly reading but thinking about children and Emily. She would be about the right age now…
Then, she stopped, and stared.
Doctor Gears, inhumanly perceptive as it was, stood. “Doctor Weston, is something wrong?”
She didn't answer, instead she dropped the file, letting the paper's scatter, and was power walking out the door of her office as she pulled out her cell phone. Doctor Gears took the time to carefully reorganize the papers and place them back in the file. He did not give chase, at least.
”Hello, Bob Weston speaking.”
”Bobby!”
”Evelyn? Hey, I was just about to call you. I know that you've been busy, lately, but…I wanted you to come see Emily this week, rather than next, if you can make it. There's something…important that we need to talk about.”
Evelyn's face went pale as she kept walking hastily towards the garage, flashing her badge at the guard and running to her car.
”What? What is it? Is there something wrong with Emily?”
”Maybe it's better to talk in person. It is a really recent development, and they psychologist says that it's too soon to tell if there's anything wrong, developmentally-“
”I'll be there in an hour.”
”Eve, what's wro-?” She hung up, started her car, and peeled off, thanking God that she didn't live that far away, and what distance between the base and town was all unmarked, rarely patrolled country highway.
Doctor Gears, satisfied with the papers all in order again, proceeded to read quickly through the file, finding the page and paragraph she had stopped upon. If one looked closely, one could almost swear that he frowned. Almost. But not quite. It may have been a mild myoclonic twitch, or a trick of the light, most likely.

While initial testing using the melody from SCP-9005-1 yielded no effects, later testing showed that repeated exposure to just the melody from SCP-9005-1 through other means (vocal, instrumental, or otherwise) could result in SCP-9005-2 developing, albeit at a much decreased rate. The decreased effects took place between one to two years after exposure, and did not develop until the subject developed the proper physical coordination capable of manipulating the environment-

He closed the file, and picked up the phone.
“Secure Task Forces. I need a small team to go to Doctor Weston's home, as well as the home of her ex-husband. Yes, the address should be in her file.”
Evelyn prayed, hard, as she charged in through the door of her ex-husband's home, looking around. Bob blinked at her, startled, before raising an eyebrow.
“Eve, are you okay? You look like you've seen a gho-“
“Tell me, what's wrong with Emily!” She barked, stepping right up to his face.
“Whoa! Whoa…calm down. She's just…developed some weird behavior, that's all. She hasn't been talking a lot, lately, and started drawing on her walls. The doctor said that it's probably just kid stuff, but he wants her to come back in a few months to make sure she isn't autistic or-“ Evelyn didn't wait for an answer, and ran up the stairs two by two to Emily's room.
“Emily!” She shouted, pushing the door open…and freezing. Emily had been hard at work, it seemed. The little girl had even managed, through piles of toys and boxes and drawers, to reach her ceiling. The mural that covered every square inch of space in the room was made of a variety of materials. She saw crayons, paints, pens, pencils, even makeup cases scattered about, and yet it was horrifically detailed.
But there was not Emily.
She stepped into the room, cautiously, to the center, and looked around, an immense sense of deja-vu overcoming her. She knew this scene, and from the center of the room, every surface had been painted to give the perfect illusion that she was standing in the middle of it. If it weren't for the open door, she thought, she would have never believed she was in a child's room.
It was beautiful, there was no denying that. A forest of violet trees with brilliant blue leaves was to one way, a bit in the distance but not too far at all, each branch in perfect clarity. Gray-violet grasses and red flowers were painted and scrawled upon the floor and the walls, a wide field punctuated with crimson bushes and green fruits hanging off a large navy-blue tree, that had been painted up and up onto the ceiling, it's branches framing the light fixture, which the girl had painted into a red-orange sun. And the sky, oh the sky! Three moons, all different hues, to every side, and the sky itself was brilliant sunset hues of pink and yellow, with white clouds, and a black thunderhead far off in the distance over snow-capped mountains.
“Emily!” She cried out. She'd never seen a drawing this extensive. She heard a faint rustling, and the giggle of a little girl, and without thinking she reached for the door, swinging it shut to reveal the girl behind it.
Except there was nobody behind the door.
And Evelyn felt the overwhelming sense that she had just done something terribly wrong.

The effects of SCP-9005-1 seem to be culminating in manipulating SCP-9005-2 to complete a complete round-eye view of what is best described as “otherworldly scenery”. Once the illusion is complete, when viewed from the center of whatever space SCP-9005-2 had been manipulating, it appears to be in every single direction a perfect picture of the landscape, as if one were truly in the picture itself. The dangers of the effect are not fully explored, as once the illusion is perfected, individuals who view it in it's entirety without any breaks in the scenery inexplicably cease to exist.
Radio contact with vanished individual can be maintained for no more than thirty seconds, during which individuals equipped with transmitters describe their setting as a beautiful alien world, rather than just an image.
It is believed to be safe to assume that the full extent of SCP-9005-1's effects are, in fact, to transport individuals to a particular place. No testing conducted had revealed if this is its place of origin or simply a random location.

She stepped back, and the door vanished from sight, hidden in the perfectly painted scene. Evelyn held her breath, wondering if, perhaps, she should not have skimmed, she should have actually read the report in its entirety. Then, she heard it, and turned on her heel. Singing, soft voices singing, and reedy instruments, in the distance. It was music, and she knew that music well. It was SCP-9005-1, clear as she'd ever heard it, although this time punctuated with the voices of children and other sounds.
She stepped forwards, cautiously, moving to touch the wall, and jerked back when there was none there, and the grayish grasses crunched under her shoes. The earth, reddish and clay-like, crumbled under her footsteps, and when she bent down to pick a brilliant scarlet flower, she found that it was as real as the door had been moments ago.
“Mommy!” Evelyn jerked up, and found Emily's smiling face peering out from the grass.
“Baby!” She shouted, moving to scoop the small child up in her arms, before something moving too fast to be seen as anything but a blur knocked her away. She sailed through the air just a short meter, but it felt like it took forever to hit the ground, the wind knocked out of her. A wince, and she opened her eyes to see bare feet, and slowly, painfully, sit up to look at her attacker.
The young girl couldn't have been more than nine or ten, but she was tall. Tall and thin, ethereal in appearance, like somebody had stretched her out. She looked down at Evelyn with cold, pale eyes, and Evelyn gasped.
“Subject Twelve.” She breathed out, wheezing. The thin, naked young girl stared down at Evelyn impassively. The face was recognizable, after all, she had spent hours and hours looking over the children's files, looking at their faces. But the girl was pale, so pale that she could see the veins under her skin, and so tall and thin that she, for a second, had to think to realize that she wasn't a teenager yet.
“Momma!” Emily gasped, stunned and staring at her mother, hands and clothes smeared with paint.
“B-baby-!” Evelyn tried to gasp out again, but Subject Twelve's foot, curiously elongated, crashed down on her, filling her vision. There was a tremendous crunch, and the fleeting thought that, this child, this tall thin child…could not possibly have weighed enough or have been strong enough to hurt her like this.
Then she thought no more. Ever.
Emily, meanwhile, started to cry, as the red clay earth guzzled her mother's dark blood, before the other girl, the older, elfin one, picked her up gently and soothed her with a few hummed bars of song that erased all the pain from the toddler's head.
“Shh…don't worry.”
“My mommy?”
“No, no..it wasn't your momma. Just a monster who looked like her. Do you understand?” Emily stared at the older girl, and nodded, sniffing a little bit. “…Ready to go back to singing with the others?”
“O-okay.”

Addendum 877-5
Doctor Weston's residence and the residence of family destroyed, as well as all video and vocal recordings of any member of the Weston family using SCP-9005-1.
Doctor Weston's Status: Missing. Presumed Dead.


When you came back to your senses, you were running through the woods.
You don't remember how you got here; all you know is that you must keep running. Your strength is almost gone, the air is refusing to enter your lungs, but you must not stop.
Why is that? How did it come to this?
Your mind wanders…
It started four days ago. Balls
It was a normal day. You woke up, went to work, came back home, had dinner with your family and went to your bed with your spouse.
But that night, you didn't sleep.
It's not that you didn't want to sleep. You simply weren't able to close your eyes and dream. The hours dragged as you uncomfortably twisted and turned in bed, being careful to not wake the person beside you.
2 AM… 4 AM…
Keep running keep running don't stop
Come 6 AM and you didn't sleep at all. But it was time to get up again and go to work. You changed clothes, washed your face, ate breakfast and left the house. "It's all right'', you thought, ''I can get some rest during the coffee break. Just a little nap…"
But you didn't get that nap, right? You didn't get any rest that day. There was too much work to do.
Don't stop oh please don't let me stop
That night you found yourself back in your bed. Twisting and turning, twisting and turning. The incessant tick-tock of the alarm clock was starting to drive you mad.
No rest for you again that night.
No rest for you in the following night either.
And… yeah, no rest yesterday either, now that you think about it.
Dammit dammit dammit why am I running why
Your family noticed. They commented on it, but your head was aching. You just wanted them to simply shut up shut up shut UP be quiet for a while. Silence was comforting, although the constant, annoying buzz on your head was making things worse.
Yesterday was very bad. You couldn't keep your eyes open, but you couldn't sleep and OH how I wish I could sleep just a little please either. Your appearance was terrible, your co-workers said. Oh, so horrible! When was the last time you slept, they asked. All of them asking the same question, the same DAMN QUESTION when you just wished for a little silence. All this noise was making you irritated. Angry. You just wanted some silence, why couldn't they just LEAVE you ALONE for a—
You blacked out.
And when you came back to your senses, you were running through the woods.
runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun
Your hands are warm.
runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun
As you get deeper into the forest, the trees became less and less sparse. You have to be careful; you know that, if you trip, you won't get up.
runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunr—
But it is inevitable. You trip. And fall on the forest's soft ground.
…
The woods are quiet.
…
With your remaining strength, you turn your body around. It is hard to breathe facing the floor.
…
Moments later, you hear soft footsteps coming in your direction.
…
But you don't see anything.
…
They stop. And then, you suddenly feel a sharp pain in your stomach.
You want to scream. The pain is unbearable. But, you're too tired. So, so tired. You can't even raise your head and see the large claw marks forming in your abdomen, ripping apart your skin and meat, leaving your guts exposed.
Before closing your eyes for the last time, you see a large piece of your flesh being ripped off your body, floating for a while, and then disappearing into thin air with a sickening noise.


D-Class subject 919-05 was a very, very bad man. Arrested, tried, and convicted of multiple counts of child abduction, rape, and first degree murder, 919-05 was on track for death row. The prison surgeon was standing at the end of the hall, and with him was the needle waiting to dig into his arm. The new correctional officers at his sides showed no mercy for the convict. They were tall, large men with no-nonsense attitudes, nothing like the officers in the other hall. In fact, their uniforms looked different as well. Suddenly, the hall disappeared from in front of him, and 919-05 was plunged into darkness.

He was caught literally red-handed, having just disposed of another victim in the woods near her home. At his trial, he expressed gratitude to the families of the victims for providing him with the children that fueled his perverse needs. There were no witnesses registered for his execution. His only remaining family was a father who wanted nothing to do with the sick man that his son had become; and the families of his victims didn't want to see another moment of the monster who took away their children so many years ago. The media followed his trial closely; covering 919-05's story up to a week after his execution was carried out.
Except D-Class subject 919-05 wasn't executed. Not yet. The Foundation had him.

“… and after careful review of the specific facts of the subject, the nature of the experiment, and the nature of SCP-919, permission for Experiment 919-23 is granted for Dr. Temke.”
“Thank you gentlemen. I believe that all the necessary requirements have now been met, so I won't waste any more of your valuable time…”
“One more thing, Doctor… we know about your niece. We've known for a few weeks now.”
The pallor on Dr. Temke's face increased significantly. They've already granted their permission, why would they go back on it now? This experiment could help so many tormented families…
“Oh?” was all he managed to squeak out.
“Just a warning. Follow the experiment protocols exactly. Any deviation will not be tolerated.”
The relief washed over him like a river. “Of course. Thank you.”
Dr. Temke left the boardroom, the sweat fogging his glasses, and his hands shaking.

919-05 was right there in front of him. An IV drip provided the necessary paralytic to keep him from moving too much, but he could still speak. And boy did he speak. He cried, he screamed, he begged, he threatened to call his lawyer. Not surprisingly, after that last request was denied, he started to calm down a bit and tried to assess his surroundings. There wasn't much to see. He was strapped to a wheelchair, and could barely move his arms and legs. His head kept flopping side to side as he surveyed his new prison. It was as if his neck muscles were just too tired to hold up his head. There was no light except for a lone bulb directly above his head, making him sweat and squint. The stinging sweat dripped right into his eyes and blurred his vision. From what he could see, there was a large black curtain in front of him. He couldn't see what it was covering, but it was tall. To the right and slightly behind the curtain was a chair. It was one of those fancy ones with upholstered arms and made of leather. Far behind both of those were two guards, dressed just like the men who were taking him to the chamber at the end of the hall. That was three days ago.
A door opens out of view of 919-05, and a tall man in a lab coat walks in and sits in the chair next to the curtain. The man looks through several pieces of paper on a clipboard, and then locks his gaze onto 919-05. His eyes stare intently at 919-05, seeming to look beyond the eyes at the pathetic little man paralyzed in the wheelchair.
After a few seconds, 919-05 speaks.
“I want my lawyer,” he says with a tremble. “I want my lawyer right now, and I won't talk to you.”
The doctor adjusts his glasses and looks at his watch. He takes a pen out of his pocket and says, “You were convicted of killing almost a dozen children over the last two years. Where are their bodies?”
“Fuck you,” says 919-05. “I want my lawyer.”
“Please answer the question.” Dr. Temke wipes his forehead with a handkerchief, gripping his pen tightly with the other hand. “Where are the children hidden? All of them. Did you bury them?"
"I want my lawyer…"
"Burn them?"
"My lawyer. I want my lawyer now…"
"Where are they?! Where is Angie? WHERE IS MY NIECE?!”
“I said I want my lawyer. Who the hell are you?! I WANT TO SEE MY FUCKING LAWYER! I WANT TO SEE HIM NOW!” 919-05 screams, the anger and fear easily visible in his eyes.
“You don't have a lawyer. You…you were executed three days ago, and dead men don't get lawyers.” Dr. Temke stands up and takes a step to the side of the black curtain.
“I'll ask you once more, where are the kids' bodies? They deserve proper burials.”
“I want to see my lawyer,” is all 919-05 mutters.
“I'll show you something worse.” At this Dr. Temke pulls down on the curtain, showing a large ornate mirror, reflecting back to 919-05 just his own image.
Dr. Temke takes a step away, reaching into his lab coat. He pulls out a gun and points it directly at 919-05's stomach, his finger twitching with anticipation. The fear in 919-05's eyes crescendos, and he stares directly at the gun. For the first time, he doesn't say anything and just breathes in heavily, possibly wondering why he hasn't been shot yet. Seconds feels like hours, but after a short while the silence is broken. Not by 919-05. Not by the Doctor. Not even by the imposing guards in the corners. The sound comes from right in front of 919-05. From the mirror.
“Please…don't go…please stay…”
919-05's jaw drops, but his surprise is interrupted as an explosion shatters the silence, followed by a pain in his stomach that feels like he just swallowed a piece of red-hot coal. He manages to look up and see the smoke curling up from the barrel of the gun. The pain is intense, and 919-05 starts screaming. The IV drip is barely keeping him from moving.
Dr. Temke suddenly changes track. He throws the gun on the floor and turns to look at the mirror.
“Please…keep him here. Don't take him away.”
“I will,” says the Doctor. “Tell me, can you move? Can you shake your feet for me?”
“No, I can't. I'm sorry. Please don't be mad. Please don't take him away. I can try again. Give me a minute and I can try moving them again. Don't take him away. Please…” the reflection pleads.
“I won't. It's okay, just answer the questions, okay? Are you shot? Look at your stomach. Have you been shot?”
“No, I'm okay, I haven't been shot.”
Dr. Temke takes out a tape recorder and turns away, “919-05A seems to suffer the same disadvantages as 919-05 prior to losing synchronicity. Any physical damage done to 919-05 after losing synchronicity does not seem to be reflected in 919-05A. Sweat from the light and interrogation is still visible on…”
919-05 lets out a low moan, breaking the Doctor's concentration. The Doctor stares at him, and then quickly turns his gaze back to the reflection.
“…is still visible on 919-05A's forehead. All physical characteristics are identical prior to the gunshot made approximately 15 seconds after exposure."
He pauses to clear his throat. "This man…you…you murdered and raped several children, and then hid their bodies. Where are they?”
“Please don't take him away. They're in an old storm shelter; 6 miles west off of mile marker 23 on Route 11. You're not going to take him there, are you?… It's near where my dad used to have a cabin when I was younger. He can still show you where…”
919-05 lets out a loud moan and tries to speak. Dr. Temke's head whips around to look at him. He bends down and picks up the gun, pointing it right at 919-05's skull. 919-05 looks up at the man in the lab coat, and at the gun in his hand. His vision is blurred and his mind is fuzzy, but he knows this is something…different. Something horrifying.
“Wha…Who are you…”
Dr. Temke pulls the trigger, terminating 919-05 immediately. He gasps at how easy it was, and how immediately 919-05 just slumps down. A few seconds pass. He looks up at the camera that was stationed behind 919-05.
“Well? What does the father say? Is it there?”
A few more seconds pass. Static, and then a voice fill the room, “Yeah…he says he hasn't been there in almost a decade, but it's not far from one of our stationed agents. We're sending him over now.”
“Please…keep him here.”
Dr. Temke looks up and sees 919-05A still staring intently at the body of the terminated D-Class.
“Right…we've still got some questions for you…”

An hour later, Dr. Temke puts down his pen. He looks across the room at the body of the man who took away his only niece's life. The man was given an extra three days to live, and his contribution to this experiment greatly improved the understanding of the nature of SCP-919. That thought is secondary. The only thing he truly feels is the relief at getting to pull the trigger. He knows he will have to submit himself to psychiatric evaluation after this. That and a mandatory 2-week vacation were prerequisites of the experiment he agreed to.
“Uh, Dr. Temke? We've got some news.”
Dr. Temke sits upright and stares intently at the camera. 919-05A does the same.
“Yeah…we found the bodies. We found all eleven of them. Right where 919-05A said they were. ”
“See! I told you I could help! Please leave him here; I can't do anything else to anyone. I can just sit here, now.” 919-05A hasn't changed during the entire ordeal. He hasn't said anything new but the truth. He hasn't changed his demeanor or attitude. He's still the same subject he was when he was first brought into existence.
There is nothing new to learn here.
Dr. Temke stands up and walks back to the door he came in through. As he leaves, he turns to one of the guards.
“Get someone down here to clean up. I need the body sent to Autopsy, and SCP-919 returned to the containment cell.”
At this, 919-05A starts screaming and thrashing in his bonds. “PLEASE! OHGODOHGODOHGOD…PLEASE NO! NO! YOU PROMISED! DON'T TAKE HIM AWAY! OH GOD NO NO NO!”
The guard moves towards the mirror and starts picking up the black curtain from the floor. Dr. Temke ignores the pleas of the scared reflection and walks out of the door, letting it slowly shut behind him.
He can hear 919-05A screaming all the way down the hall.
As he turns the corner, the screaming abruptly stops.


I'm going to preface this. This was written as a joke. You shouldn't take this as something to emulate. Having someone write something in the same vein would be embarrassing, and I'd probably end up taking the story down. So please, as you read this, remember, it's not even CLOSE to possibly being canon.
Thomas lazed at the security desk. Fifteen minutes until his shift ended. Fifteen minutes until he could go get a drink, hit on that cute girl from maintenance. She looked like she sure knew her way around a wrench, and Thomas had a "tool" of his own for her to handl-
"Uh, Pardon me. Can you tell me where the research labs are?"
Thomas' musings were interrupted by the sound of his genitalia retracting inside his body from sheer horror.
Floating in front of him, approximately four feet above the ground, was a fetus. A high pitched voice spoke again.
"Normally I would know where it is, but I'm a new transfer and your site is set up strangely. My name is Doctor Abortion."
"Do-do-doctor what?!"
"Doctor Abortion. As you may imagine, my name is centered around my unusual appearance. Now, if you'll direct me to the research labs, I will be out of your hair."
Thomas wordlessly pointed. The fetus bobbed at him, and floated off.
Today, Thomas decided, was a good day to hide. Under his bed.

In the hallways, people stopped and stared. A female lab assistant screamed, and fainted. The fetus bobbing its way along the corridors took no notice. A tune was hummed, though, for the life of them, they couldn't understand how.
The abortion who floated like a butterfly and gave nightmares like an elder god paused in front of a door. A knock was heard, and boggled many a researcher.
Doctor Gerald poked his head out and stared.
"Surprise, Daddy!"

Thomas, hiding under his bed, shrank deeper into the darkness at the sound of a piercing scream.

"But, but, but, but!"
"You transferred right after I started to show. Not trying to run on me, were you?"
"No! I didn't know! No one told me!"
"Probably because of the fear of me being captured. Most one-night-stand babies aren't this valuable."
"So, you're sure it's me?"
"Yes, I am. They ran all sorts of tests on me. Still are, actually."
"So, uh, what is the, uh…?"
"He's a healthy little boy."
"What are we going to name it?"
"Oh, sticking around are we? Well, I was thinking…Claude. After me."


Richard Gnosis sat there at his desk, staring at his laptop screen in a mix of bewilderment, shock, and relief. Sure, he knew that there was a group of researchers that had been working for the Hand, spanning the gamut of clearances from Level 1 to Level 4. And yes, he did know that they were planning on escaping their Sites back to… to wherever the hell the Hand held Foundation traitors. But he didn't expect them to be so stupid as to post all their files on the Internet. And yet there it was, the green eyes of SCP-173 staring at him from the screen of his laptop. At least the people responsible had been caught; they didn't bother trying to disguise where the upload was from. But by the time the leak was discovered it was too late to stop it; they'd already managed to upload five entire reports (partially censored, thank God). He closed his laptop screen, unable to take that mocking pixelated glare any longer, leaned back in his chair, and thought.
In his head, he ran through the standard Information Control options, discarding all of them one by one; there was already a noticeable uptick in the amount of searches for Foundation-related keywords. Looking at the results, apparently some random paranormal community or another had found the report on 173 and decided it was interesting. He could use this. He loaded the files on some of the SCPs he was cleared to access for inspiration and got to work writing.

…gains energy from anything it ingests, organic or inorganic…

…reddish brown substance on the floor is a combination of…

…created in the aftermath of WWII, from the remnants of defecting….

A few of the entries were completely unedited versions of real files on SCPs; some of them were copies of false data that had been given to people suspected of being spies. Different fake SCPs for different people would let him figure out who was a traitor leaking data and who just looked guilty. He didn't want to delete the real ones, it might draw suspicion, except… he stopped. His eyes fell on three digits, and his mouse moved over the delete button. He looked at the portrait on his desk, then back. He clicked, and got back to work; he had ideas for characters, so many ideas, and they all had to be written.
He worked hard into the night, his fingers dancing over the keys in an irregular rhythm, pausing for a few minutes to wait for a burst of inspiration, then tapping like raindrops on a windowpane. After a few hours, the words started swimming in front of his eyes, but he pressed on like a man possessed by a Muse until he could write no more. He closed the lid of his laptop, the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes a group portrait of sixteen people. And even when he let sleep him, his characters appeared to him in his dreams, whispering ideas and plot hooks to his subconscious.

When he woke up the next day, he found himself watching his phone walk across his desk. He grabbed it and sat up, rubbing where his cheek had been resting against the metal imprint on his laptop for the past few hours, and read the screen with red eyes. He had a meeting in… an hour. Shit. And it was in room 307 with three people. Shit. He knew exactly what that meant. He splashed some cold water on his face, slapped his cheeks a few times, and read over his files on the security breach.
Meeting with Senior Staff was never enjoyable. They always showed up in threes; It was the smallest number that could both prevent deadlock and allow debate on both sides of an issue, and they preferred to meet together as little as possible. So when Gnosis showed up to the meeting the next day regarding Incident Mike Echo Seven Alpha, he knew roughly what to expect. Three faces, none of whom he was familiar with, stared at him without a single hint of emotion as he entered the door. There was a smell of sterility and rubbing alcohol, and his eyes watered just a little. He took a seat.
"What made you think that the best approach to the worst leak since you started working Information Control was to publicize it?" Dr. Myers, a serious-looking scientist whose balding hair contrasted with his younger features; he couldn't have been older than 40
"Sir, it was my professional judgment that shutting down the site posted by the defectors would only draw more attention, especially given that it would require purging it from search engine caches."
"How does that make a difference? I'm not an expert, but I know we've purged data from engines before. And surely any publicity we might've drawn from the shutdown would be better than… than… this." That was Dr. Hefner, a thin woman who looked to be in her 50s.
"Yes sir, but it's… difficult. My contacts are no longer in positions that allow them access, and remote entry would require more computational power than I can access."
"So you're telling us you're not good enough to do it." The third man was named Gregor; he was the youngest of the three, maybe in his late thirties. He'd obviously never worked in the field; a body shape like that never could have passed the field agent regimen.
"I do not believe, sir, that anybody else could have done any better. Breaking into the systems of an entity such as Google is a highly non-trivial task."
"Your reports indicate that you've developed alternate Senior Staff for the fictional Foundation. Surely you don't intend on maintaining them yourself." Hefner again.
"I… I do, sir." He shifted about uncomfortably in his chair; he knew that this would be the part that would be the hardest for them to swallow. But he had to keep this story going, for his own sake. He could have sworn Myers was writing something down on a notepad just out of his vision.
"So the containment for this leak is going to cause a drain on your resources for the forseeable future?" Gregor looked amused, a grin spreading across his slightly overweight face.
"Unfortunately, yes."
"So why shouldn't we just have the information scrubbed the hard way, then reassign you to Secondary duty?" The grin spread further; he looked about ready to bite his head off.
"With all due respect, sir, part of working in Information Control is the ability to react without explicit authorization from one's superiors. If necessary, I can curb the number of personas required. However, I believe the job can be completed in my spare time."
"I certainly hope so; we don't pay you to sit around and write stories all day." Hefner's pencil-thin lips betrayed the barest hint of a smirk.
"Stories are what I deal in, sir. This is just a different form of disinformation, one that will cloak the truth in a sea of lies."
"I certainly hope you're right, Doctor. Dismissed." Myers stood and left, followed by the other two.
"Thank you, sirs." He quickly rose and exited, then returned to his quarters, trying to lose himself in the crowd of researchers, agents, and Secondary personnel that always flowed through the halls of the Sites. The gravity of what he'd done was catching up to him, and he needed sleep; he was starting to twitch and have thoughts that he thought he had suppressed. So he collapsed in his bed, not bothering to change out of his work clothes, and let sleep claim him. And in his dreams, the characters he had written came back to him, taunting him with his recollections.
And for the next few days, in between other assignments, he worked on the project. Writing stories of love and loss, of happiness and sadness and the entire spectrum in between, of triumph and failure. He didn't publish them all right away; no, he published them over time, trying to build up an audience for his stories. At first, his performance didn't suffer; he contained information breaches well enough, and his supervisors let it slide. But he withdrew more and more into the fantasy of his own creation. Leaks grew in frequency, went unnoticed for longer, and contained more damaging information. And when his door was unlocked from the outside and forced open, he didn't make a sound, save the soft clicking of keypresses.

Final Report on Incident Mike Echo Seven Alpha.
Doctor Gnosis's plan to hide the leaked documents in plain sight has worked; there have been no signs of elevated suspicion regarding the leaked Foundation documents, and further leaks can be brought under the aegis of this one as an 'alternate reality game'. It is quite fortunate that many of the leaked documents are also fake; this gives us the opportunity to detect investigation via standard query-tagging procedure.
However, one aspect of the created fiction is troubling. Two weeks before the Incident, a containment breach in Site ██ led to the death of several Foundation personnel that were good friends with Dr. Gnosis. Many of the invented personalities seem to resemble those of the deceased, and the fictional Foundation possesses the technology to selectively erase memories; it is therefore suggested that Dr. Gnosis be removed from the Incident team as soon as is reasonably possible to avoid escapism or other mental problems.

Addendum: On ██/██/████, five days after the incident, Dr. Gnosis's access to the Mike Echo Seven Alpha project was stripped, and he was forced into psychiatric leave with mandatory counseling regarding the death of his friends. Initial attempts are promising in part due to the threat of mandatory retirement, but efforts must be made in order to prevent a relapse. The password to his account, codename 'T██ A████████████', is unknown and cannot be reset without alerting the host of the information; however, the password for the accounts of the 'characters' have been recovered. Their personas have proven to be too popular to discontinue, and therefore have been assigned to [REDACTED], with stories to be written in their spare time as necessary.


Doctor Braddock nervously walked to the table where the guard guided him. He'd never been in such an elegant club before, and felt terribly out of place. His clothing was rumpled, his long black hair mussed, and his eyes red.
"Thank you for meeting me on such short notice," he said as he sat down.
"No trouble at all, sir. Thank you for your time," said the suave man in the business suit, as he shook Braddock's hand. He smiled broadly, showing off perfect teeth. He was in stark contrast with the researcher, not a single hair on his wavy blond coiffure out of place.
"I've… thought about your offer," said Braddock.
"And?" The other man raised a neat, trimmed eyebrow.
"Well…" Braddock trailed off. "I think I'd like more information. Your e-mail was, well, a bit vague."
"Of course," the man said. "Now, we're not asking a lot. Certainly nothing your… employer will miss. Just a few knick-knacks. Odds and ends. We'd be willing to pay handsomely."
"I think I could do that," Braddock said slowly. "I need money awfully badly, Mister..?"
"I think it's best if we keep things on a first-name basis, Jim," the man said smoothly. "Call me Jeremy."
Braddock nodded. He was already feeling much more at ease. "All right, Jeremy. Ah, did you bring any money with you?"
"Of course, of course. Just a little up front, to help with those little costs." Jeremy handed Braddock an envelope. "My… associates understand how sometimes, the cards just aren't with you."
"Thank you, thank you so much," Braddock said, nearly crying.
"There, there," Jeremy said, patting him on the shoulder. "Now it's time for drinks. What's your pleasure? I'm buying."

Braddock made his way to the familiar table. This was his fourth visit. The second time he'd brought something with him.
"Ah, Jim, glad you could join me. Please, sit." Jeremy stood to shake his hand. "Tell me, how are the races?"
"Not bad. I won a hundred dollars yesterday," Braddock said as he sat down, failing to mention that he'd lost twice that in other bets.
"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it. Now, what have you got for us this time?" Jeremy leaned forward in his seat expectantly.
Braddock looked around nervously.
"Don't worry, Jim. We're among friends." Jeremy touched Braddock's hand reassuringly.
"All right." Braddock reached into his suitcase. He pulled out a leather jacket. "I reported this destroyed this morning. I was supposed to put it in the incinerator. But don't worry. I got a substitute. No one knows it's gone."
"That's great, Jim. Very clever," said Jeremy. "Now, what does it do?"
"Wearing this lets you breathe underwater," he explained. "Just make sure it's zipped up all the way."
"That's great, Jim," said Jeremy. "I know someone who'd just love something like this." Jeremy put it into a much fancier leather briefcase. "And here's your money, as promised." He pulled out the now-familiar envelope. Braddock took it from his hands eagerly, and took a swift intake of breath when he looked inside.
"This means a lot to me," Braddock said as they shook hands again.
"I know," Jeremy said. "I know."

It had been eight years since Braddock had met Jeremy, and he'd changed a great deal in that time. He had a higher-paying position in the Foundation now, and his graying hair lent him an air of authority he'd lacked. And yet, the money still seemed to slip away. At least he had a good, steady, secondary source of money.
"Jim!" Jeremy gave him a warm handshake. He looked the same as he had eight years ago.
They sat down at the club's bar. Braddock pulled out his latest acquisition.
It was a black sleep mask, kept sealed in a plastic baggy.
"Looks interesting," Jeremy said. "What does this one do?"
"Ah. Yes." Braddock coughed. "When worn, the wearer experiences extremely, well, erotic dreams. Full sensory perception. But of rather… kinky sorts of sex."
"I see." Jeremy's blue eyes lit up with humor. "Have you tried it out?"
"I… Yes. Once." Braddock's cheesed flushed. "I… found it more disorienting than anything else. But the D-Cla— That is, the test subjects found it rather addictive after a time."
"Hmm. Yes, I think this will do nicely. Well done, Jim." Jeremy took the plastic baggy from Braddock and placed it into a velvet-lined box.
"I should warn you. If it's used long enough, the subjects… Well, they die." Braddock looked even more embarrassed.
"How extraordinary. What of?" Jeremy asked.
"Er, auto-erotic asphyxiation," Braddock said, his blush crawling up his face.
"Well, I'll be sure that it doesn't get put into the, ah, wrong hands," Jeremy said.
"Getting it wasn't easy," said Braddock, a trifle glumly. "They wanted to test it. I had to make it look like it was destroyed in an accident."
"Now, Jim," Jeremy said, a finger raised, "you know as well as I do that the old trinkets of yesterday just aren't in as demand with my clients as they used to be. I just couldn't pay you as much for those as I could in the old days."
Braddock winced. He couldn't afford to take a cut in payment. Not at this point. Not with his debts. "Right. Right."
"Hey, you're a pro, Jim. I'm sure you can handle just about anything, right?" Jeremy gave him one of those brilliant smiles.
"Right," Braddock said, his confidence returning. There were times he almost felt like a secret agent, going undercover. Just call him 005.
"Here's your payment. I think you'll find it's more than sufficient." Jeremy handed him the customary envelope.
Braddock didn't bother opening it. Jeremy had never once failed to pay him enough once satisfied. Not in the entire time Braddock had known him.
They shook hands, and Braddock hurried out. There was just time to place a bet.

Braddock walked into the club, escorted by a frightened young woman with mousy brown hair. He cooed reassuring words to her, and she calmed down. Certainly, these days Braddock presented a rather harmless front, with his balding pate and prematurely lined face. Not even forty, and he was already starting to look old. He'd always hoped he'd age gracefully, like his father. No such luck.
Ah well. No use griping about the inevitable. "Right this way, my dear," he said, in a fatherly tone.
"Ah, Jim, there you are. And who's this enchanting specimen?" Jeremy asked.
"This is Renee," Braddock said. "She's the girl I told you about." Renee was an amazing discovery. By chance, he'd found the order for her capture, and managed to find her before the MTF did. It had been a risk, but Jeremy had been so blasted picky these days.
He didn't seem disappointed today, however. "Enchanté," he said, bowing gallantly, taking her hand lightly.
Renee blushed, and smiled shyly. She looked more relaxed than she'd been since Braddock had found her the day before. "Thank you," she said softly.
"Renee has a special gift," Braddock said. "She can regenerate parts of herself. Quite quickly, too, I'm given to understand." That was an understatement. In the incident that had brought her to the Foundation's attention, she'd lost her arm in a car accident. It had grown back by the time they got her to the hospital. The official story was that the paramedics had simply made a mistake, but Braddock knew better. He'd even been able to experiment a little, with Renee's permission. Just a few tests, with full anesthesia.
"Oh, Mr. Carter's going to love you," Jeremy said. He turned back to Braddock. "And here you go, Jim. Come back in a week. I think you've earned a bonus."
"What's going on, Doctor?" Renee asked, suddenly suspicious.
"Just a little business between us," Jeremy said smoothly. "Nothing to worry about." He stood, and held out his arm to her. "Why don't we just go arrange transportation for you? Jim, order whatever you like, and put it on my tab. I'll see you next week."
Braddock nodded as he watched them leave. He felt a little… troubled by the affair. He'd given them plenty of objects in the past fifteen years, some of them almost alive, but this was the first time he'd ever sold a person.
Well, she was better off in their hands than in the Foundation's. Probably. Anyway, what was he supposed to do? His funds were going dry. He just needed a little more, so he could make that big win…

Braddock stumbled into the club, wheezing for breath. He cursed his body, letting itself become so old, so young. "Jeremy! Where are you?"
The club was deserted. The lights were turned off, the decor removed. Even the furniture was gone. All except for one familiar table. Jeremy seemed to be the sole occupant of the building. "What can I do for you?" he asked politely.
"They know!" Braddock said, miserably. "I don't know how, but they found out!"
"I was afraid something like this would happen," Jeremy said. He was as smooth as ever, but there was something… distant about him. "You shouldn't have tried siphoning that money from their accounts."
Braddock did a double take. "How did you know about that?"
"We've watched your finances for a long time, Jim. How do you think we found you?" he asked. "Knew about your debts? When we saw all that money appear in your account, well, it had to come from somewhere. Where else could you have gotten it?"
"What am I going to do?" Braddock asked. "Jeremy, you've got to help me."
Jeremy sighed, and placed a hand on Braddock's shoulder. However, rather than reassure, it simply pushed him down. He felt the strength leave his legs, and he collapsed to his knees. "I'm afraid not, Jim. You've become a liability to us. You're just no use to us now. At this point, you're just a loose end. I'll leave it to your friends to clean you up. I'm sure you gave them a nice, clear trail to follow."
"Jeremy! You can't do this," Braddock whimpered, unable to rise. "Jeremy!"
"Sorry, Jim. But hey, thanks for your time." He turned away, paused, and turned back. "Oh, and Jim? It's Mister Marshall. Good day."


Gentlemen, the year is 194█. I have been gone from your sight for a very long time, and traveled far along my own grim path. Such is life! But, having left you as keepers of my fortunes in my absence, I must now instruct you in the stewardship of that wealth, that it might better your own futures as well as mine.
You will find enclosed with this missive a series of generalized instructions on the sale and distribution of my stock portfolio. Such things are of little importance as compared to events unfolding elsewhere. The mad German will soon be toppled, though his influences will live on for a regrettably long time… You may perhaps find it prudent to disassociate yourselves with that party entirely.
Politically, you will find yourselves carrying quite sufficient resources to ensure your own prosperity, however, those offices which cannot be purchased directly must be closely watched. In Britannia, you have several years yet with the current monarch, and his succession should be easily guessed. In the United states, it may behoove you to wait before exerting any modicum of control; I suggest 19██ as an appropriate time to establish a member of our little cabal in the presidential office, which segues me neatly into my next point.
In the wake of war, the commander-in-chief of the United States will likely find himself beset by furtive offers from such organizations as may oppose our interests; you well know to whom I refer. Perhaps your influence shall suffice to deter him from aiding their endeavors, or perhaps not. Tread lightly. When the time is ripe and one of our own has risen to power within the colonies, cast your eye toward that rabble of lab coats and secrecy who have so recently moved against your holdings in France, for they will actively seek to prevent his works.
█████ the Foundation, gentlemen. ████ ████ ██████ ███ ████████ ███████, and then become our greatest ███████. Of this I shall tell you more when the time is right.
In conclusion, gentlemen, I bid you good luck. Even from the deeper dream in which I walk, I cast my thoughts and my will toward the furthering of our mutual goal.
As always,
B██████ P███-F████ Dark

"Damn you, Dark. You always were an aesthetic wacko."
"He's never been wrong yet."
"He's dead."
"Perhaps, my dear Carter. Perhaps. But that changes nothing. Will we follow his advice in Germany?"
"Looks like we'll have to."
"Very well."
Sic transit gloria mundi.


A fleet of black SUVs smoothly swept over the blasted plain. Several thousand fine Armani suits were carefully swept free of dust, imagined or otherwise, and then filthied by the gravel and dust that filled a long walk to a building most thought abandoned. Several thousand adam's apples bobbed in unison as their owners carefully imbibed water and an anti-radiation pill.
Few would believe that one of the most, if not THE most capitalistic organization in the world met in the ass end of the Ukraine for the annual stockholder's meeting.

Security was, as always, tight as a drum. Hard faced men with scars checked and double-checked assault rifles and pistols, loaded with rounds made illegal decades before. Comm units squawked with static and fell silent as their owners checked in, every three minutes and ten seconds on the dot. Satellites were re-purposed to scan the terrain.
All the security money could possibly buy.
And every PMC and hired goon was informed that if anything interrupted the meeting, accounts, (significant pause) would be balanced (significant look).

A wrinkled aged throat carefully cleared itself.
"Jenkins. Tell me, how do you think I'm feeling about Acquisitions? Do you think I'm giddy? Do you think the sight of your quotas not being met fills me with breathless joy?"
A rhythmic hissing steadily echoed across the room, from the large mahogany table to the steel catwalks. Sunlight gleamed red through a cat's cradle of tubes.
"Sir, you understand as well as I do; we push more into intelligence, we lose out on actual obtainment. Frankly, it's becoming hard to find any that aren't either intolerably lethal, or boring."
A hand reached up to straighten a tie. Rheumy eyes glazed over for a second, imagining a checkered noose slowly strangling its owner. If only.
"But, as you can imagine, the benefit of our frequent tip-offs is working wonders on our relationship to the Foundation. We've been experiencing unprecedented geniality from the directors of Sites 54, 13, and 10. We think we may be able to leverage this into getting some intel on the safer, more eccentric artifacts discovered near those sites."
Lips drew back over teeth stained an ugly brown. Jenkins mentally compared the expression to that of a tiger, and found the animal wanting, at least in pure cruelty.
"Let me guess. They're sending you the occasional encrypted email to a, what do they call it? Ah, an "Anomalous Item". You, meanwhile, take this as a sign of good faith and tell them where a-a, I don't know, a giant man-eating bug or some such fuckery, you tell them where that is located. They gain a new item to study, and you get table scraps."
Jenkins' eyes widened. Harsh, wracking laughter overtook the man in front of him. It abruptly cut off.
"You really are a fucking imbecile aren't you. They've been doing this game for how long? Longer than I have. You think they're going to be impressed by a song and dance routine, followed by blowjobs? Christ. Now I know why Marshall was smiling so hard when he appointed you, the fucking prick."
A nod towards the balconies.
"M-Mr. Carter, pleas-"
The shot was deafening, a roar accompanied, however quietly, by the noise of Jenkins' leg exploding. He cried out, a shrill animal noise.
"Jenkins, you're going to serve a purpose. You're going to succeed Franklin when he's done, just like you did when you took over Acquisitions."
The agony in Jenkins' eyes gave way to horror, then panic. He struggled to crawl away, but his hands slipped in the slick of blood created by the panicked beating of his own heart. Men walked over and grabbed him, dragging him away.
"Now then…"
The man known as "Mr. Carter" gazed at the assembled members of his organization. They stared back, impassively.
On the back of Carter's wheelchair, Franklin gazed sightlessly through milky eyes, his body twitching spasmodically every few seconds. Blood ran through clear tubes that extended from his back into Carter. His heart, fatigued though it was through working for two bodies, pumped steadily. The iron rings that suspended him to the chair squeaked slightly, as an involuntary muscle spasm twitched the stump of the limb it was attached to. Perspiration gleamed on the scar from his lobotomy.
"…Back to business."