Note: since this tale is a continuation of Surfaces, it will be better understood if that tale is read first.

And so, I reach my final conclusion, and if you weren't paying attention before, ladies and gentlemen, now is a damn good time to start. If we do not temper our wild, devastatingly irresponsible use of Thurman-Harrison Amnestics and their byproducts, the Foundation could soon find its ability to impose a normalcy of thought on the general population severally crippled, perhaps to the point of total impotence. Like bacteria developing immunities to even the most powerful of antibiotics, so will the human brain begin resisting this constant tampering of amnestics, the use of which became our standard modus operendi in dealing with the exposure of civilian populations to the anomalous over the last few decades. Indeed, our data indicates that this process has already begun. If we do not find an alternative, permanent solution to this problem of memory, well, ladies and gentlemen, I don't think I need to explain how dire the consequences could be.
Doctor Malachi Harrison, in his address to the O5-Council

“Rememberer? That's a damn stupid name.”
“That may well be, Upcard, but that's what we're calling it.”
“Why?”
Prosper sighed, reached for the can of lager at his right, lifted it to his mouth, only to find it empty. He sighed again. If Matthew Andrews was a man predisposed to sympathy, he might have felt sorry for the old man. Alas, he was not.
“Because that's what the reports call it.”
“Hrm. I bet I could come up with a better name,” said Evening, his plump, bearded features positively glowing with mirth. If that was because of the undoubtedly idiotic name he'd soon come up with or because of the large plate of sausages in front of the big man, Matthew couldn't be certain. He recalled asking the man how he earned his nickname, sometime after their first acquaintance at the hospital. “It's because I'm cool and shady,” was the reply he got. “It's because he's the dimmest bastard you're ever likely to meet” was Upcard's.
“How about ‘Repeaters'?” she now suggested, adding yet more sugar to her steaming mug of tea. Five packets so far, and the tea was fast becoming a literal saccharine wasteland. Upcard never did take any half measures.
“I like ‘Truth-Seers',” said Evening, a thoughtful expression on his face as he chewed.
“'Relapsers?'” piped Hale, the gaunt, shaky little man gingerly sipping out of his red thermos. “Never drink anything I didn't prepare myself, that how they get you, with those tiny mosquitoes they put in everything,” he told Matthew shortly after they first met. “They lay spy-eggs.”
Prosper was clearly rapidly losing what little remained of his patience. “They're not ‘Repeaters', or ‘Relapsers', and they're certainly not god-damned ‘Truth-Seers'! The reports call them Rememberers, which means that the people who pay me call them Rememberers, and if they call them Rememberers, that means that I call them Rememberers. And if I call them Rememberers, you can bet your sweet condemned asses that that's what you're going to call them as well! Do I make myself clear?”
An uncomfortable silence, followed by three sullen nods.
“I mean you too, Andrews. In fact, I mean you especially!” Prosper said, shaking his empty beer can at Matthew.
“Yeah, got it. Rememberers.”
“Good.”
“Although… you have to admit, ‘Relapsers' has a pretty nice ring to it.”
Ah, it certainly did him good, watching that crusty geezer squirm. One had to take one's pleasures where he could find them. Such was life on Permanent Expungment Crew 3.

“Alright, let's go over things one last time.”
This was received with a chorus of groans. The Crew has been waiting in the hot, cramped van for well over an hour, and patience was running thin.
“Don't give me that. Just because we're not exactly working within standard doctrine doesn't mean you get to slack off. You have more to prove than anyone else, in case you forgot.”
“How could we, with you reminding us every five seconds…” murmured Upcard.
Prosper ignored her. “Andrews, since this is your first real stab at this, if you would be so kind?”
“Oh, right. Our target is a, ahm, a Rememberer, a person who belatedly proved to be resistant to standard amnestic treatment. Whatever we originally wanted her to forget, she remembers now, and she's not being quiet about it. We believe she contacted someone, and if that someone gets their hands on her, it could mean trouble. Now, obviously wiping her memory won't work, which means taking care of her through…other means.”
“Them other means is us, right?” asked Evening, raising a fleshy hand.
“Yes, Evening, that would be us. Now, since the target is living in a densely populated area, and since the usual cover system isn't available to us,” here he glanced at Prosper, who simply shook his head, “we'll have to go about this carefully. I'll take point, you follow as soon as I gain entry. She'll be expecting a crew to come pick her up, so getting in shouldn't be too difficult. Once we're in and the job is done, Prosper will bring around the car and we'll dispose of whatever needs disposing. ”
Evening lifted his hand again. “Hrm. And what about the real pickup crew? What about the neighbors, what if they hear something? If we don't have the usual cover, they'll call the cops, and how do we explain that?
Matthew was about to answer, but Prosper interrupted him, looking like he was barely stopping himself from slapping Evening. Matthew couldn't blame him. "We've been over this, Evening. We're arriving a few hours before the time the pickup crew is supposed to show up, so we shouldn't run into them. Taking care of them ain't our job, a real Task Force will be here for that soon. As for the neighbors, well, they'll be taken care of.”
There was something about the expression on his lined face, and not for the first time, Matthew wondered just how the old man came to hold his current position as their operator. “We might not have the typical layered cover, but that doesn't mean we're alone here." he continued. "I've managed to get us some special assistance, which should hopefully keep everything around us nice and calm until we're done."
“Wait, special assistance? What sort of assistance?” asked Hale.
“They'll be waiting outside of her apartment building. Look for a brown semi. They've been keeping an eye on the entrance.”
“You… you didn't really answer my question.”
“No, I didn't. Now go.”
As the four left the van and strode into the warm evening air, Matthew fell into stride beside Upcard, who shot him a contemptuous glance and began walking faster. Matthew persisted, until she finally slowed down and faced him.
"What?"
"I just need to ask you a few questions, relax."
She bared her teeth in a way that instinctively made Matthew want to cover his softer bits. "Don't you tell me to relax, you slimy little bastard. Prosper might force me to work with you, but that sure as hell doesn't mean I have to treat you like a person. Because we both know you ain't."
"You're acting like you didn't do anything to get you dropped down here."
"I did what I did, and I'm paying the price for it, but that doesn't make us the same, not by a long shot. You'd be wise to remember that."
"Oh? And what if I don't?"
She smiled at that. "You ever wondered what we did before we dragged your carcass out of the hospital? Who we used for our face man, that is?"
"I assumed you did it yourself. I certainly wouldn't trust Evening or Hale with the job."
"Prosper wouldn't hear of it. Says I have too much of a temper, that I'm 'unsocial-able'. So no, it wasn't me. We had Francis. Real sociable guy, was Francis. Could get just about anyone to open their door for him. Real friendly face. I suppose he found it useful in his extra-curricular activities."
Matthew paused. "Wait, I think Prosper mentioned him once. Said that he got his skull caved in during a mission."
Still smiling, Upcard suddenly pulled Matthew close, so only he could hear what she said next. "Well, that's half right at least."
Evening and Hale went ahead, and now Hale was waving, probably signalling he found the brown semi. Upcard stepped away from Matthew and moved to catch up with the two. She didn't look back.
So. That was how things were going to be. All right. She wasn't the only one with an experience in caving skulls.
"Hey Matthew, someone here wants to talk to you!" called Evening, who Matthew saw was now standing next to a old, beaten brown semi-truck. As Matthew approached the vehicle, he began noticing something odd about his surroundings. Although the hour was still early and the weather was pleasant, the streets around him were virtually empty. Stores and coffee shops closed and deserted, the windows of nearby apartment buildings dark, even of the stray cats who usually swarmed the area there was no sign. For some reason, Matthew had a suspicion that this unnatural quiet had something to do with whoever was sitting in that brown semi, a suspicion that gain credence when he ducked his head to peer at the couple sitting in the car.
At the driver's seat sat a man the color and complexion of a prune left in the desert for a few centuries too long. He was wearing some kind of bizarre corduroy robe, which together with his complexion gave him the appearance of a snake that had a run-in with a cheese grater. The man was currently eyeballing Upcard, and it was clear that whatever he just told her got her pretty riled up.
"-You see, this is what I like to see in a woman! Finally someone with initiative, some sass. It really is a breath of fresh air. I remember having to deal with that one, oh, it was just impossible. I mean, when I eventually decapitated her and scooped her brains out with one of those melon ballers, there wasn't even enough for one decent cocktail. It really is a shame you're slumming it up with Squirmy and the Orange Menace here. But I suppose it's just the cards nature handed you."
Upcard was frowning at the man. "Is he always like that?"
This was directed to the woman sitting in the passenger seat. Compact and short, her hair dyed in a peculiar mix of orange and white, she seemed half asleep, and Matthew could see dark black circles under her eyes. She was wearing a blue mechanic's jumpsuit with a bright red logo. 'BOB'S WHEELS AND PRAWNS'.
"You have no idea."
"All you're doing is proving my point, Barcode. Although, looking at these… people, I'm thinking I finally starting to see some value in you. I mean, even your sorry hide shines when compared to whatever those two supposed to be."
Upcard's frown turned into a smile, which was somehow far more disconcerting. "You're a funny little man, aren't you?"
"Darling, you have no idea. You really should be grateful for the fact you're standing here, talking to me as if we're equals. It's such a rare opportunity, I know, I sure you very much appreciate it."
The smile widened. "Oh, certainly. In fact, why don't I show you my appreciation right now-"
Matthew decided to interrupt them before things got any further. Though he would enjoy watching a fight, this probably wasn't the best time for it. "As much as I'd love to hear the conclusion of this fascinating conversation, I believe someone here wanted to talk to me?"
Prune-man still grinning, now turned his gaze to Matthew. "Aye, pretty boy, that would be me. Just wanted you to know you can you're not gonna hear a pip out of no one here. It's all taken care of, so you can shimmy right in yon apartment and do whatever you folks need doing there."
"May I ask exactly how you accomplished this? Who are you anyway?"
"That's for you to ask, laddie, and it's not for me to tell. We're just here because someone cashed in a favor, and we really rather not be."
"Is that so? May I inquire as to why?"
"It's because of the people the woman, our target, called." said Hale, and Matthew was surprised to hear nothing of the usual nervous shake in the little man's voice, "or rather the people those people hired. These two here don't have a lot of power here in the Baseline. Reality's too strong for their minds to do much. It's why she's so tired, you see." He pointed at the woman in the passenger's seat, who was now staring at Hale intently.
Prune-man frowned. "Now how'd you go about learning all that, Squirmy?"
Hale shrugged. "I wasn't always in the Crews." He turned to the woman again. "It's not going to get any better, you know. Soon, you'll be looking back at the days all you had to worry about was screaming towers of flaming goat skulls and Vinnie. Hi Vinnie, long time no see. Hope you've been treating that rash."
Matthew had no idea what the hell Hale was talking about, but the woman grew very pale all the sudden, and Matthew could see this little twitch just by the corner of her eye. Hale continued, a distant look on his unusually passive face. "There's no shame of being afraid of the Jackalmen. You were never bred to deal with the likes of them. While they… well, I suppose time will tell what they'll do to you all. If I'm still alive then, I'd be interested in seeing that. For now though, you should probably go. I don't think they'll stick to their schedule. Unpredictable, the Jackalmen."
"Barcode, what is The Artist Formerly Known As Squirmy talking about?" asked Prune-man.
The woman simply shook her head. "I don't know who this person is, Ramses, but he got one thing right. If the Jackalmen get here early, I sure as hell don't want to be here to meet them. We should go."
"And how do you know he's not full of shit? We haven't seen any Jackalmen in years."
"Trust me on that one."
"Hmm. Fine. This scene's getting old anyways, and I can't say I appreciate the company."
Matthew watched him turn on the car, and moments later the semi was gone. Once it was out of sight, he turned and gently placed a finger on the side of Hale's stomach, in that sensitive place where every tiny poke felt like a nail driven into your side. He pushed. "Hale, would you care to explain what that was about?"
But something changed in the little man in the few moments it took the semi to leave the street. He was shivering and shaking again, and his face showed nothing but incomprehension at Matthew's question. Irritated, Matthew poked harder, saw Hale's face contorting with pain.
"Who were those two, Hale? Who are the Jackalmen, and what did you mean when you said they were coming early?"
"Stop poking me! What are you even talking about!? What two people?"
"Those two you were just spewing cryptic bullshit at ten seconds ago!"
"I wasn't talking to no one! You're crazy, man! They… they must have gotten you! You've been implanted with Prometheus brain drones! They can see your libido from their invisible spy satellites! Don't have sex with me, I warn you, I'm terrible at it!"
Evening laid a plump hand on Matthew's shoulder. "No point in shaking him anymore. He sometimes gets like he was, starts flapping his gums like he knows all sorts of things. Don't mean nothing, really. He's always going about weird things. Besides, we should probably get going, cause Upcard is looking impatient and you wouldn't like her when she's impatient."
"I don't like her already."
"Well, you're going to like her even less. You'll be surprised to how many levels there are to disliking Upcard, it's a really complex tier system. Me and Hale we made a list once, only Upcard burned it and she kicked Hale in the nards besides, which of course got her another tier up the dislike list, though we didn't know where she was now cause the list was gone, so that was a conundrum, so we decided that-"
"You know what Evening, you are absolutely right. We have a job to do, so let's just go and do it, eh? Just… no more talking. You wait here with Upcard and Hale, I'm going to see if I can't get us in."
As the passed the big man on his way to the nearby apartment building, Matthew stopped by Hale, who was still obviously recovering from the shaking Matthew gave him. He patted the little man's shoulder. "Don't you think we're done with our little talk, by the way. I'll see you soon." With that, he went forward.
After a short climb through a deserted stairway, Matthew found himself before the door to the target's apartment. As he was about to knock, he briefly found himself wondering. Who was this woman before she saw whatever she saw? What brought her to the place of her unfortunate encounter with the anomalous, and why couldn't she just keep quiet about it? He didn't doubt the Foundation wouldn't have unleashed them on her trail unless all other options were exhausted. If amnestics began to fail, you couldn't just kill everyone who was exposed. It wasn't practical. No, Matthew thought, something about this person must have reveled in this subversion, delighted in the shattering of normalcy, celebrated the breaking of wholesome patterns.
His hand, still hovering above the door, was shaking, and he realized that this was because he was furious, a revelation that in turned only made him confused. What was he so angry about? He didn't even know this person. And yet, it felt like he did. It was because people like this, after all, because people like her, that this world was the way it was. Poisonous, hateful, messy. Uneven. It was because of those ravagers of surfaces, because of her, that people like him was forced to do what was necessary. Even if no one cared to admit it. Even if they looked upon with contempt. With horror. With disgust.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
And just as it appeared, the shaking was gone, and his hands were steady, and he was smiling, a smile no one could imagine as anything less than utterly candid, even if it was the last thing they ever saw, as was a case for more than a few.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Well, that was the thing about monsters, wasn't it? There was nothing at all dishonest about them.
Knock Knock Kno-
The door opened a crack, and Matthew came face to face with a tall, middle-aged woman. As Matthew regarded her pale, lined features, he was surprised with what he found in the murky pools of her eyes. Not anxiety, or fear, or relief at the arrival of a savior. No, all that was there was the coldest apathy, like staring into a long-dead hearth, where no ember remained. Matthew found himself speechless. The woman, however, had no such problem.
“Ah, you're here. Good. I suppose you should come in then.”
“Um, yes. Good evening, Madam. I have a few others with me, should I-“
“Yes, yes. Just be quick about it, you're letting the warmth out keeping me at the door like this.”
Matthew nodded and began descending the stairs, when a thought occurred to him. Letting the warmth out? It was July. He turned back to the apartment when he heard a shout from below, followed by a loud crash and the sounds of struggle, suddenly cut short. Shadows appeared in the stairway's entrance, and with a swelling sense of fear Matthew recognized that they did not belong to his crew. He turned and ran back up the stairs, back towards the apartment. It was all her fault, that cold-eyed bitch, and he wasn't about to let her get away with it, oh no. They would catch him if they could, but he'll get to her first, oh yes, even if he had to bash open that door to do it. He'll get to her first, and when he was done there wouldn't be enough left of her to-
In the middle of a step his muscles froze, and suddenly the stairs came rushing up to meet his face, to crash into his forehead with a crack that left him dazed. He tried moving, something was overriding his instincts, overshadowing his very thoughts. A presence in his head, an iron grip on his body. The sensation of serrated teeth closing around his throat. Then, a voice like a muted snarl, like the promise of a depthless maw, descending on his mind.
Thus, you are netted, little jailor man.
Your kind thinks this world is yours. You claim it without a moment's thought. You play with the minds of others as if memory had no consequence, and its erasure was not the direst of crimes. You covet information, and so you cannot bear the thought of others having it. It is greed of purest sort, and that is it disguised as an act of guardianship only makes it so much fouler.
But… perhaps it is wrong of us to judge. Perhaps this is right. Your kind knows more about this world than most, after all, and in knowledge there is mastery, a sense of ownership. Perhaps you are not to be blamed for this coveting of information. Yes. In knowledge there is mastery, and so this world is yours. This we will concede.
But we are not of this world, and you do not know us.
But we know you, little jailor man. Aye, we do.
And now, you are ours.


The Administrator looked at a watch. Ten minutes past five, and Fritz had failed to make his appearance. It sighed. Why did they always have to make it get up after them? They were old enough to know better. Ancient skin snapped and crackled as the neck turned to see the silver, scratched watch. Another arm showed a different time, this one saying it was eleven minutes after five. His patience was at an end.
But, before it could lift itself out of the office, there was a knock at the door. A new arm reached out from the left coat pocket and opened it, brushing the dust of this new visitor's shoulders as he walked in.
"Hello, uh, Commander. Please, have an, uh, a seat." One of the ruined hands gestured to a hard wooden chair in front of The Administrator's desk.
As he walked to the seat, Fritz did his best to look at anything that wasn't The Administrator. On the walls, he noted several decorations. Among the displays were a framed shovel, several astronomical models, and a photograph of a meteor. He closed his eyes as his hands gripped the seat, trying for the longest blink of his life. Finally, he couldn't stop it any longer.
Fritz opened his eyes. Seated before him was a decrepit monstrosity, with twisted charcoal skin and sunken orange eyes. The hair, or what was left of it, was glowing a shimmering white. The limbs were twisted and gnarled, sticking stiffly and uselessly from the main body. Surrounding it was a steel mesh, which held it inside a large overcoat. The coat of many arms.
Now, I'm positive that, uh, that you know why I've called you in here.
Fritz tried to open his mouth and explain himself, but the very instrument of speech seemed to have abandoned him. From his dry, nerve-wracked throat, all he could manage was a low cough.
… Well, uh, to review, the incident which occurred under your watch… resulting in the deaths of several major, uh, important researchers, and, uh, catastrophic damages. What… what do you have to say for yourself, Fritz?
Fritz looked down. There was nothing for him to say.
A blacked, pus-dripping arm, as thin as an olive branch, unfurled from its collar, and slowly stretched until it came to a filing cabinet located on the western wall of this office. Opening it, it rustled through some papers, until it came up with a file. Curling back into the coat, it dropped the file on the desk.
Now, Fritz, we've, uh, reviewed your personnel file. Due to the extra amount of time you've spent with the, uh, SCP-085 object, and the multiple reports from your late subordinate, Lieutenant Masipag, who, uh, who complained about the time you spent… testing. We've interviewed Cassie, and determined the nature of the testing.
Ten full seconds passed, and neither man nor being spoke.
And, uh, so… due to high crimes and misdemeanors against the Foundation's mission, including gross negligence and inappropriate usage of an anomalous object, you are sentenced to die. This will be carried out at high noon, uh, tomorrow.
Fritz froze in his seat. All around him, the room seemed to be compressing in on itself. This couldn't be happening. This was wrong. Impossible. The words echoed in his mind, shoving every other thought to the far reaches of his mind, until only the sobering and tombstone-still realization thundered through his shattered thoughts, like a final cavalry charge through a demented thought. He was finished.
"B-but sir, surely this is an.. overreaction? I don't think- I mean, surely I deserve to at least keep my life through this? Why waste another life?"
No, uh, I apologize, but this is just how things have turned out, Commander. You've caused a great deal, uh, much anguish to, er, many of our comrades, and somebody simply has to be responsible.
"But…" Fritz struggled to find the words. "What about the people who didn't prevent me from abus- from using the containment supervision to see C- SCP-085?"
The Administrator's body did not hold even a single withered hope. No pity, or remorse, or sadness could be detected from his rasping tone.
You seem to, uh, appear to be having difficulty with your phrasing, Commander.
Fritz opened his mouth once more, but words failed.
Maybe, uh, perhaps, or, even if what you say is true, it doesn't matter, Commander. You are still, uh, the primary bearer of responsibility. I'm afraid it's, uh, time to face the music, so to speak.
Before Fritz could utter another word, there was a creaking behind him. Two men, in identical, brown and gray uniforms stepped inside. Wordlessly, they hoisted him up by his arms, and began the long escort to the brig.
I shall, uh, be sending somebody down in around an hour, Commander, if you require anything further. Good day, to, uh, you.
The doors slammed shut, and a stuffed silence permeated the air.
From his overcoat, a long arm emerged, crossing itself in front of him.
Yes, yes, but, uh, being callous, it's better than having to empathize with a man like him. He was going to come down this road eventually.
It twisted, snapping skin and ligaments as it curled around his infantile form.
I'm sorry it had to be so explosive, too. I suppose, I suppose this is just how it happens, sometimes.
The arms moved in assent, nestling below him and cradling him. He would need his rest.
When the universe demands the absurd and impossible, we shall be there to stand and protect the rest of humanity…
Without another word, his ruined eyelids shut, and he was at peace.

« When We Reach The Crescendo| End Of Olympians Hub | And Now, For Something Completely Different… »


The testing chamber was humming. Not a fluorescent hum, or even one from the various electrical implements hidden within its walls. No, this was a different humming. It was… hopeful. A hope that soon, the pieces would fall into place, and things would be finished. It seemed cheerful, almost giddy, and seemed ready. Somewhere, the musicians were getting into place. All that remained was to await the conductor.

Incident 148-A: Timeline, from the beginning… at █-22-██ ██:██, analysis of the testing chamber security footage indicated a low humming sound not indicative of any equipment currently located within the room. Further investigation into this auditory discrepancy is ongoing.

… and you've doublechecked everything?"
Dr. Eberstrom nodded. "Director Cyrus, you have nothing to worry about. Not one little thing. My boys have gotten that lil' sum- the testing chamber so well wired, all I have to do is throw a switch."
Cyrus nodded. "Good, good. I'm pleased to hear it, Doctor. If all goes well, this could be a boon to all of our careers."
"It's that important?" Eberstrom threw a glance to the Director.
"Perhaps. We'll see what the results say. It could be a big boon to the research we do here."
Eberstrom grinned to himself. Who knew that just directing a bunch of faceless wrench-monkeys to wire up a room could lead to him sharing a room with the site director? Oh, the places he was going to go….
"Now, let's be going. Agent HK-016 is waiting for us in the observation chamber."

Lee Byron looked at himself in his mirror. He was presentable, of course, almost to an impeccable degree. His lab coat had been ironed, then ironed some more, and then, for a change of pace, he ironed it again. The same went for his pants, and even his tie. He'd almost done it to his socks, before common sense crashed down onto his brain. He was ready. Today was the day.
Raise your baton, conductor
Lee smiled to himself. This is it.

… Security footage shows Researcher Byron exiting his chambers, and proceeding to the testing chamber at ██:██. Notably, analysis of audio indicates that he is humming the same tune which was detected from the empty testing chamber. Interviews are being scheduled with surviving members of the research team to determine if and when Researcher Byron had begun humming this tune.

Masipag sat in her quarters, angrily fuming to herself. Kulzn was an idiot. Fritz was obsessed with a piece of paper. And what do they get to do? Participate in Byron's big test. Her friend, and his big day, and the only witnesses would be the stuck up director and an asshole.
She flipped over on her bed, grumbling to herself as she checked the clock. They were probably setting up the test now. She could almost imagine Director Cyrus, sitting in his stuck up little seat, glancing around so he could pretend he was supervising everything. Kulzn probably had that stupid look on his face, and they both were watching Lee set up his stuff.
Bluh. I shouldn't be so angry. Bad for the soul.
Stretching, Masipag got up, and got on some gear. Might as well kill some time quadruple-checking everything in the containment wing. Who knows, maybe she'd see Lee coming back from his big day.

██:██ Agent Masipag exits her quarters and heads to the containment wing. The reason for this is currently unknown, as Masipag was not scheduled to perform security work in this area.

██:██ Commander William enters the SCP-085 containment area. He will remain here until the alarms indicating Incident 148 sound.

Byron inhaled. This was it. The big game. The last hurrah, the touchdown, his hail mary moment. Glancing to his sides, he sectuple-checked that everything was in order. His papers were in hand, the controller under his arm, and his spectacles were freshly cleaned. He was ready. With butterflies in his heart, he stepped forward, then… stopped. For a moment, his arms hesitated in front of the double doors. Was this wrong?
Lee, they need their conductor. You are the only one. No one else can protect them.
Lee Byron pushed the doors opened, and was greeted with the brilliant light.

██:██ Researcher Byron enters the testing chamber. At this point, no further major movement of the lost parties occurs, with the notable exception of Masipag and Commander Williams. Director Cyrus, Agent HK-016, and Doctor Eberstrom are not visible for the remainder of the footage, due to the lack of video feed inside the observation chamber(which, while being a departure from normal protocol, was insisted on by the late Director).

Cyrus peered through the glass. "Eberstrom, what is he doing now?
Eberstrom stood up, and looked through the glass panel. "Uhhh… looks like he's getting the test subject ready. Gotta get him, y'know, strapped in and stuff. Sir."
"Right. Are you set up back there?"
Eberstrom nodded, and sat down on the carpeted floor, absentmindedly wiping his hands on his coat. "Absolutely, sir. We've got this thing running like a well oiled machine!"
"I thought it was a well-oiled machine."
"You get what I mean, sir."
Kulzn watched them, then peered back through the window. Byron, presently, was going through the motions of strapping E-345 to a specially designed chair, and getting the instruments which would hold the telekill in place around him. If, and this was if, it all went according to plan, the guy would be unable to move a disc across the room with his thoughts.
Byron looked up to the observation chamber, briefly pausing to catch his breath. Then, he gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.
"Throw the switch, Doctor."
Eberstrom complied with gusto. From the ceiling, four large, thick slabs of Telekill Alloy descended into place, their gray-green coloration complimenting the metallic sheen of the testchamber walls. Slowly, they were lowered into the iron frames, which were themselves arranged into a box pattern, completely obscuring E-345 from view. The arms then retracted into the ceiling, leaving the room quiet, and bracing the anticipation in everyone's hearts.
Then, something unexpected. Bryon strode to the center of the test chamber…

… at ██:██ Researcher Byron produces an object, believed to be a tuning fork or a conductor's baton. He strikes the closest slab of Telekill Alloy, which immediately begins to produce a tone similar to the ones found in ██:██ and ██:██. Camera footage begins to corrupt from this point onward, although audio recording is unaffected. The audio from this point has been determined to be cognitohazardous, and removed.

Eberstrom glanced out the window, suddenly taking note of his compatriot's rapt attention.
"What'n the hell is that boy doing?"
Before either Cyrus or Kulzn could open their mouths, the glass panel cracked. Not enough to shatter it to pieces, although that happened momentarily. It was enough to let the sound in, and that sound was a glory to behold.
Can you tell us, how the bells are ringing? Can you hear it, the songs, the children, they are singing?
Cyrus tried to blink, only to find his eyelids were no longer present. Shocked, he stood, to find that his legs were composed of glass, shattered into infinitesimal agony beneath his body. Collapsing, his shattered form bore testimony to this corrupted earth for only a few moments more, enough time for him to bear the only eyes witnessing the deaths of his companions.
Eberstrom's face tried to twist into a scream as the flesh was rendered from it, and his bones melted into his mouth, but words failed, and the face continued to stretch, and twist, until he snapped off. Kulzn, his hair burrowing down into his scalp, until he could become a new form worthy of beholding the rhythm echoing from the conductor's waves and twirls.
Then, his own mind warped to the sheet music of a forgotten symphony, and he died.

At ██:██, believed to be 22 seconds after the deaths of all personnel within the testing chamber, the alarms begin to sound, indicating that a sitewide lockdown is occurring. Agent Masipag immediately begins moving towards the testing area. Similarly, Commander Williams exits the SCP-085 containment area and heads towards the test wing entrance. Both parties meet at ██:██.

"… just for one goddamn second, okay? If they're in there, that means they're already dead! What part of that do you not understand?"
Fritz grabbed Masipag's arm, and looked at her with what he hoped represented steely determination.
"The best you can do for him now is to hang back, and wait until the breach ends. We don't need another death here!"
Masipag glared at him. "How do you know they're dead? You don't know shit about what's going on in there!"
"Listen to me, for fuck's sake! If they're in there, that means the test went wrong, which means they're at the epicenter of the goddamned breach!"
"Why the fuck are you writing them off so quickly?"
Fritz opened his mouth. "Look, just-"
"NO! Fuck you, Fritz! You never fucking cared about him! You never cared about any of us! All you ever did was spent time with a fucking picture of a woman, too goddamned obsessed to see the world beyond your stupid flatland!"
Masipag tore her arm from Fritz's grasp, and tore down the hallway.
Moments later, the force from the testing chamber tore her to pieces.

Through it all, Byron kept up his act, tapping the slabs when necessary, and breaking down the walls of reality around him. This was his Pièce de résistance, his final act of his life. Even if every object he had studied had been destroyed, and even if, if this failed too, he would be remembered. They would speak of this for years.
Byron's smile stretched, as the joy tumbled from his mind. This was his immortality. This was remembrance.

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“I remember the good old days.” Pat sighed as he dug into his cinnamon pancakes, looking at his three friends. “You remember Carl, guys?”
“Carl was a great guy!” affirmed Dwight, taking a swig of his coffee. “I don't know why the Heck he just went away one day… he's still in the source material, after all. Not like he was told to blow off by anyone.”
Warren pointed at Pat accusingly. “And then you took his job. Damn upstart. Carl always picked up the bill whenever we ate, you know; he was rich enough that he could do that. Came with the territory. All the riches of all the conquered lands.”
“Isn't that what that one Mediterranean guy does, though?” Frederick stuffed the last bit of bacon into his mouth. “You know the one. The kind of creepy guy with the hat and the dog.”
“I know who you're talking about, but I can't recall the name.” Warren frowned. “Kind of a pity, too; the dog was nice. I think it was named Spot or something?”
“Didn't you used to be good friends with him, Warren?” asked Frederick, trying to sneak a piece of one of Pat's pancakes.
“Maybe? I dunno. I was in Greece a lot way back in the day… and Rome… and a lot of places.” Warren looked at his friends and sighed. “We really don't have much to talk about, do we?”
They all sat quietly for quite some time, looking at their plates uncomfortably. The waitress looked at them oddly before Pat spoke up. “Every minute, five people contract HIV.”
The other three groaned. “Why did you tell us that, Pat?”
“Yeah, last thing we want to hear about some monkey plague that you thought up. Ruins my appetite.”
“Statistics are dull, anyway.” Dwight wrinkled his brow. “All I have is statistics, now.”
“That's pretty much what all of us have, Dwight.” Pat stood up and made for the edge of his seat. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta take a leak.” And with that, Pat got up and went to the restroom, leaving his three friends behind. Frederick took Pat's remaining pancake and chewed on it.
Dwight groaned, rubbing his face. “Fucking pathetic.”
“Language, Dwight!”
“Warren, shut up.” Frederick looked at him, a bit of cinnamon pancake hanging out of his mouth. “I mean it! With Carl gone, Pat is supposed to be the one who leads us when it all goes down! If Carl were still here, that thing back in the ‘40s would've worked…”
“Are you sure it was the ‘40s?” asked Frederick. “I swore it was the ‘50s. Russia, remember?”
“Whatever,” said Dwight, flagging down a waitress. “Is it the right time of year for your peppermint hot chocolate?”
“It is,” said the waitress, smiling slightly. “I can get you some, if you'd like.”
“Yes, please,” said Dwight. “With whipped cream.” He smiled as the waitress walked off, shaking his head. “She'll die on the job, poor girl. Slip on a wet rag and break her neck just after New Year's.”
“Dwight, don't be so damn morbid,” said Warren. “You don't hear me spouting off things about bombs or bullets or video games.”
“I wonder where the hell Carl is, now,” muttered Frederick. “Probably in a seedy sports bar in Milwaukee or something making bets on the winning teams. That's what I would do.”
“You think he would do something that petty?”
Frederick was about to respond when Pat came back. He frowned at his ever-hungry friend when he saw a lack of pancake on his plate. He then sat down, and picked up a copy of the local paper. “…Meteor shower soon. Maybe this'll be the one.”
“Maybe,” said Warren, nodding in thanks to the waitress that just brought him his peppermint cocoa. “We can only hope.”