"…so there's that. And then I persuaded him to go to 078's cell and covertly switched the power on. Several weeks after that he hung himself on a pipe in the maintenance." Doctor Bright smirked in satisfaction and leaned back, perfectly balancing his chair on its hind legs.
Doctor Bright laughed.
"What do you know, I'd almost forgotten this story. Now I remember; that's exactly how it happened." He scratched his three-day stubble in thought and slid his hand over his greying hair. "Makes you think, right?"
Harsh midday heat was streaming into the cafeteria; the sun's rays almost melted the glass, making every surface they touched scalding hot. It was stuffy indoors, and the doctor tugged at his shirt collar, trying to let some cool air under his clothes.
“What did you expect?” Bright, the one that had been silently standing in front of the coffee machine and attentively listening to the conversation, finally spoke up. “We've been in these bodies for a long time now, each one has their own destiny, their own memories. We become more independent and start mixing things up. I, for one, remember this story differently.” He reached for the cup, which filled up with fragrant coffee and waited for him on the tray. Turning around, he accidentally brushed the ukulele on his back against the edge of the table and the instrument gave out a quiet major chord.
“Shut your mouth,” Bright snapped at him and squinted his eyes, looking to the right and upwards, where the ever-vigilant red eye of a surveillance camera was glowing under the ceiling. “And quit dragging this fucking piece of wood everywhere with you, didn't I tell you?..”
“No one cares,” the Ukulele man smirked. “Who watches these cameras of yours? Who makes protocols? Who works with confidential documents? What can possibly leak and where, be so kind as to tell me?”
Bright got off the chair and came right up to Bright. The second one sized him up with a mocking glare, even though in his present state he was half а head shorter than his ‘stable release'.
“The whole outside world still has no clue as to what is going on in here. If you keep allowing yourself such lack of discipline, then it will become a habit of forgetting about such things.”
While the two men were locked in a piercing gaze, the third one was calmly finishing his sandwich.
“Would you stop that,” he drawled lazily. “Or have you forgotten how these ‘internal conflicts' usually end? Do you need reminding about the events of three years ago? When one of us was just asking for it, and we had to…”
Bright, without taking his eyes off the hack musician, made an imperious gesture, silencing the man.
“That is still up for discussion. In much… cooler surroundings,” Bright finally let the Training and Development Director be and returned to his table. His face became a picture of melancholy again. “If it keeps on like this, the whole thing is really going to backfire.” He took the first thing that his hand landed on — a paper napkin — and fanned himself with it.
“There is something you're wrong about, Alto,” Bright told him, chewing down the last piece of his sandwich. “I mean, that we are becoming independent…”
He didn't have time to finish his sentence because the cafeteria door flung open, and a young assistant appeared in the doorway. She was out of breath and holding protocol folders marked with yellow and red labels.
“Doctor Bright, you are being expected in the conference room. Consilium started five minutes ago.”
Of the three men, only one turned around.

They were reading just another Euclid that required a revision of containment procedures. Bright was sitting at a huge oval table, wearily fanning himself with some protocols. Light was hurting his eyes, giving him a headache, and he squinted in irritation, turning his head this way and that way, but he couldn't get away from this brightness. Light was everywhere. Finally, he attempted to hide behind the papers but he could feel the others throwing sideway glances at him. Running out of patience, he slapped the pile of papers against the desktop and interrupted the speaker, saying loudly:
“Doctor Light, light is in your line. Do something about it already.”
The room became dead silent. A heavily built woman with carefully done fair hair glared at the troublemaker.
“Doctor Bright, the shutters are all yours.”
“The shutters aren't enough. Get some drapes.”
The air in the room seemed to be rich with methane — just one spark would have been enough to blow it up. Bright leaned back again, sinking into his round ergonomic armchair and sizing everybody up with his hooded eyes. He knew each one of them loved to get up to things, and they all had had their times until they felt their mayhem was getting completely out of hand and had to take it under control. He also knew they were ready to tear him apart right now because every last one of them was him, and he hated to be interrupted.
“Go on, doctor,” the woman, whom Bright had called Light, broke the silence. The speaker coughed and started reading from where he had been interrupted at.
“…SCP-213 was moved to intensive care after being observed having a seizure in its containment cell. Examination of SCP-213 shows an additional ten nodules have appeared on its back. A perfect distance of 5 cm separates each one. SCP-213 continues to report no pain from the lesions…”
Bright shivered despite the heat. He recalled his own bouts which with time came more often and lasted much longer. Before he could just convince himself that it was all just a side effect that he could just wait out, bear with it, and it was like a payment for his gift. But time and again, he was becoming more afraid that one day he simply wouldn't recover from it.
“…The source of SCP-213's effect appears to be a parasitic infestation of unknown origin inhabiting its body. This life form has not attempted to communicate, but does observe any persons in SCP-213's presence through the lesions present on SCP-213's body. SCP-213 has exhibited panic over this development and requested several times the entity be removed from him. Any requests of this nature from SCP-213 are to be denied.”
The doctor took off his glasses, wiped his eyes, and put the glasses back on again.
“The only option in subduing the parasite activity we might have at the moment is to put the subject into induced coma.”
“Even considering all the escape attempts from the subject, isn't it easier to review the terms of his containment based on his weak points? As I see it, his powers of disintegration have their limits,” an academic looking man with a clipped beard noted. “The study of this guy has strategic meaning that goes beyond the interests of the Foundation. I bet our friends will soon be interested in him. I'm not sure O5 will approve of this coma idea…”
“Oh, they will,” Bright said and smiled.

The concilium finished at 1 PM, and the members started to leave. Bright was sunk in his armchair and throwing a pen into air. He didn't want to go anywhere. A fair-haired smart-looking man also stayed behind without any visible reason. He was slowly gathering his papers, clearly buying himself time.
“Doctor Gla-a-ass,” Bright called out, drawling lazily. “It's been a long time since we've had a heart-to-heart talk. It strikes me as strange. Has it ever crossed your mind that I might need psychological help more than all your patients?”
Doctor Glass was one of the last among the senior personnel that had been converted. There were two reasons for that. Firstly, Bright tried not to start his expansion from the people whose specialty differed so much from his. It could cause difficulties while he still had to actively hide from the members who retained their personality. Although psychology wasn't a science one had to waste half of their life on mastering, its methods and views were still vastly different from the medical ones.
Secondly Bright wanted the psychologist to remain himself longer.
“Doctor Bright,” the man he had called Glass replied. “It's good that you've stayed behind. I wanted to talk to you about staff recruitment.”
Bright dropped the pen onto the table and covered it with his palm.
“I'm all ears.”
‘Glass' circled him and sat down on the chair to the left. He tilted his head to the side, watching Bright's face. Jack frowned — when did he have time to get all these psychological antics?
“You don't look so well,” ‘Glass' noted.
“It's the heat,” Bright spit back. “You are a terrible psychologist. Let's get straight to business.”
“Anyway, I was thinking how we could improve our recruitment system. If you plan to keep… using the amulet so actively, then certain matters of psychological diagnostics become moot. Maybe instead of this you would like to offer some other parameters that are important for you. How would you like to see your new personnel?”
“Look through their medical files. I don't want any hemorrhoids or prostatitis. Take women; I want there to be at least one woman per every male member. Two of every kind of animal. Maybe then they'll start doing something useful. And request thicker shutters in here. And chairs. I want chairs like this one in every conference room.
‘Glass's' face showed a familiar expression that was already getting on Bright's nerves — it was like he was looking into a mirror.
“You know those questions don't concern me. And no, I will not pass them on. And no, I was not reading your thoughts. And no, neither do I now.”
Bright stared at the other man.
“What makes you think you know what's going on in my head?” Bright didn't even notice how he switched to a less official tone. “You think if you are in a shrink's body, you've been served all his tricks on a silver platter? You think you can see through anybody, huh?”
“I think, doctor,” ‘Glass' straightened up and squared his shoulders, “that I know perfectly well what's going on in your head for the same reason you know what's going on in the head of each Overseer. As you have unequivocally hinted today.”
Jack bared his teeth venomously.
“Haha. Ouch. What a burn, doctor Glass. I can see it steaming. Get out of here. I'll look at your personnel offer and send you a list of my recommendations.”
‘Glass' got up, stared at Bright savagely for several more moments, then took his folder off the table and headed towards the exit.
‘Why do I hate myself so much,' Bright thought bitterly. ‘Damn it, I shouldn't have sacrificed the shrink.'

It covered him as he was walking from the conference room to his office. He pressed his shoulder against the wall, trying to keep on his feet although his head was spinning and the surroundings blurred and coiled into a spiral. He was in many places at once, his skin was touching thousands of surfaces at the same time, it burnt, it froze, it pressed, it got wet. His vision was full of millions of various pictures: bright, dull, dark, colourful, green, grey, all colours of the rainbow, and his hearing was drowning in a cacophony of interlacing sounds. He was watching, running, thinking, recollecting, hitting a ball with a bat, crying, laughing, watching porn, reading reports, feeding fish, hurting, sleeping, playing the ukulele. Millions of contradicting feelings, memories, thoughts, and each of them was shouting ‘Me! Me! I'm the real one! I am you!' And it was him. He was inside himself, alone with himself, running from himself to himself, locked inside his head, knowing nobody and nothing anymore, apart from himself. Creating and devouring himself every minute. Surrounded by ghosts, lonely and empty, lost in his own depths and forgetting himself.
He slid down the wall, gripping his head with his hands.


Agent Sasha Merlo yawned as she slowly moved through the halls of Site-64, a mug of stale coffee in her hands. She had not gotten much sleep over the past few days. The current rush to extract as much usable data from Miles Wilson, and the looming possibility of an attack from the POI known as Anderson, had created an environment entirely hostile to the concept of rest. Merlo stopped in front of the door to her office and rubbed her eye with her free hand before stepping inside. As the door closed behind her, she took a sip of the acrid liquid in her mug before noticing that she was not alone, as another individual was reading a file left on her desk.
Standing behind her desk was a masculine figure of medium height. It wore a bright red shirt underneath a charcoal blazer with matching slacks. Its skin was the color of ivory, and completely hairless, veins visible beneath the room's bright light. Its head was without ears, and its face was obscured behind a silver comedy mask. The individual stood up straight and looked at an unimpressive watch on its right wrist.
“Oh, uh, you're back early,” it said in a deep, metallic, male voice. “Your, uh, your average coffee break is not supposed to be over for at least another fifteen minutes.”
Merlo recognized the voice in an instant. She immediately dropped her mug, her hand reaching towards her pistol. Before she could get her fingers around the grip, the unwelcome guest had reached into his pockets and flung globs of fluorescent orange goo at her. As the first glob made contact, she felt her hand stick to her chest, the substance hardening instantaneously into a shell. The remaining globs hit her in the legs and on her other arm, encasing her in a bright orange cocoon.
Agent Merlo looked up, her breath caught in her throat as a million scenarios ran through her mind, each ending in a progressively worse outcome for both her and the rest of Gamma-13. The man stood above her, a glob of neon blue goo in one hand as he held up a finger to the mouth of his mask.
“You should, um, you should remember what the blue stuff does from your run-in with Phineas,” said the intruder. “If you scream or, uh, call for help, I will lob this onto your face.”
Merlo immediately fell silent, her gaze unwavering as she watched her assailant reach into the inner pocket of his jacket and place a small silver orb on Merlo's desk. The orb immediately sprouted several mechanical legs, and revealed itself to be one of Anderson's Amur Recon Drones. The man made a small gesture, and the Amur began to issue a small hum. He then placed the blue goo back in his jacket pocket and then set about propping Merlo against a wall.
“Okay,” he said, “You can, uh, you can speak freely now.”
“Why?” Merlo asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the Amur on her desk.
“I, uh, call this little guy Benny,” he replied, the Amur waved at her with one of its many legs. “He's a custom Amur I built myself. One of his features is a noise cancellation device. Nothing we say, um, will be audible outside this room.”
The man then returned to the area behind Merlo's desk and took a seat in her chair.
“You, uh, you probably already guessed this by now, but I'm Anderson,” he said as he sat down. “Pleased to meet you, Sasha, I guess.”
“The pleasure's all mine,” Merlo replied flatly. Anderson gave an awkward nod of agreement, and then turned his attention to the open file on her desk. The room fell silent, save for Benny's low hum. After several minutes, Merlo finally opted to speak.
“So that's it then?” She asked, “You're just going to read your file and walk out of here?”
“Well, uh, I'm not going to kill you, if that's what you think,” Anderson replied with a chuckle, “You guys all seem to think I'm some kind of James Bond villain when I'm just a small business owner. To be honest, I was hoping to avoid a confrontation like this entirely. You, uh, just came back too early.”
“Small business owners generally don't manufacture automated sentry turrets whose designs break the laws of entropy,” said Merlo. Anderson shrugged in response.
“This one does.”
“Fair enough,” Merlo rolled her eyes. “That still doesn't answer the question of how you plan on getting out of here with Miles. You're not just going to be able to walk out the front door.”
“Uh, Sasha,” Anderson snickered, “I walked in the front door. Getting Miles out of here is, um, not too far out of the realm of possibility. In fact…”
Anderson paused as he pulled a small black remote out of his jacket pocket and pressed a button. Within a few moments, a low rumble could be heard elsewhere in the facility, as well as gunshots. Alarm klaxons went off a few seconds later. Anderson then proceeded to neatly place all the papers back in the file and stepped away from the desk.
“Anyway,” he continued as he began to make his way towards the door. Benny quickly rolled off the table then crawled up his leg and into his jacket pocket. “Whoever put my file together did, uh, did a bang up job. I didn't know you guys had so much dirt on me. Congratulations.”
Anderson opened the door and stepped into the hall.
“Remind me to, uh, buy you a drink when we next meet,” Anderson called back into the room as the door closed. Merlo then listened to the alarm klaxons blaring and the occasional gun shots.
“I'm so fired,” she said with a heavy sigh. Agent Merlo then closed her eyes and waited for someone to find her.

Agent Clarissa Shaw had been on her way to the holding cell where they were keeping Miles Wilson. She carried a new set of interview questions, prepared to take advantage of what little time remained before Gamma-13's most recent catch was transferred to the care of Site-81. It was then that she heard the alarm klaxons and gunshots, followed by a low rumble, which slowly built into a cacophony. Curiously, she turned to investigate. Shaw felt her jaw drop. Rapidly approaching was a swarm of thousands of Amur Recon Drones.
Shaw turned to run, but before she could travel more than a few feet the swarm had already engulfed her. She felt something stab into her leg, and within a few moments she was on the floor, unable to move. Sharp pinpricks covered her entire body and she screamed, only to have her cry drowned out by the combined noise of the robotic swarm. After an eternity passed, the swarm was gone.
Within a few moments, Shaw regained control of her extremities and neatly returned her glasses to their spot on her nose. One of the lenses was scratched, but otherwise the thin-rimmed eyewear was unharmed. Shaw looked around for any sign of the horde of drones, but saw nothing save the empty hallway. Getting to her feet, the agent slowly proceeded to make her way towards Miles' cell.
By the time she arrived at the correct cell, Shaw found the door had been jammed open, several of Site-64's security personnel lying scattered on the ground. As they struggled to stand, Shaw realized they had each had a similar run-in with the swarm. Carefully drawing her pistol, Shaw stepped inside the cell, only to find it empty with the covering to the ventilation duct shredded. The smell of blood then drew Shaw's attention to the room's cot. Lying on top, neatly folded as if it were clothing, was Miles' skin.

At a large table in a brightly lit conference room that lacked windows, five individuals silently sat awaiting a sixth and seventh guest.
Sitting at the head of the table was a muscular man in his forties named Isaac. Easily the most business-savvy man in the room, he formerly helped run a weapons-design firm based in Los Angeles. A near-constant frown adorned his face.
To Isaac's right sat a short woman with shoulder-length brunette hair, faint blue eyes, and an ever-warm smile. Her name was Medea, and she had been a professor of robotics at some university in Tennessee, though the other individuals in the room had long forgotten its name.
Sitting by her side was her adopted son, Jason. A child prodigy in robotics, he was a tall, lanky young man in his mid-twenties whose head was covered in curly blond hair. A thick pair of glasses covered his eyes, and a small smirk was permanently parked on his face.
Across the table from Jason sat Phineas, an old man who appeared to be in his fifties, with a bald head, a long white beard, and almost translucent skin. He was both an “anartist” and a tinkerer, and every time he moved, a faint mechanical whirling could be heard.
Finally, next to Phineas sat a short, portly, middle-aged man with dark skin and a permanent expression of worry. A specialist in artificial intelligence, he was the man responsible for the existence of the Saker units. His name was Jeffery Wilson.
Before too much longer, the single door to the room opened and a swarm of Amur drones poured in, clustering at a spot in the corner. The drones piled into a column nearly two meters high. Various electrical sounds and noises of metal on metal could be heard at the pillar's center as the drones vibrated with activity. After a few more moments, the robots dispersed, pouring out the door and leaving the white endoskeleton of a Saker unit in its place. Upon the egress of the last drone, Anderson stepped into the room.
“The, uh, the prodigal son hath returned,” he said as he slowly made his way towards the end of the table opposite Isaac. The room's bright lighting reflected off the silver paint of his comedy mask. “As promised, um, I managed to bring Miles back too.”
Jeffery was already in the corner with the endoskeleton, frantically inspecting every square inch of its white frame. A few seconds later, Jeffery held the Saker in a tight bear hug.
“Dad?” Miles's voice came from the Saker. Jeffery began to sob.
“I'm so sorry Miles, for all that you've been through and all that's left to be done,” Jeffery mumbled.
“You do know what you need to do now, right?” Medea asked. Jeffery let go of the Saker and dried his eyes with a nod.
“Saker-00,” he said to the robot, “Report to designated maintenance site and shut down until further orders.” The Saker mechanically nodded and left the room. Jeffery then returned to the conference table, and placed his head in his hands.
“Anyway,” began Jason, “Shall we proceed?”
“We shall,” returned Anderson. “I take it that Isaac shared with everyone Mr. Marshall's offer?”
“I have,” Isaac answered.
“And, um, I am willing to bet that during the discussion that followed, everyone but, uh, Isaac and Jeffery was against accepting the offer.”
“That is correct,” replied Phineas. “I'm sorry, Vincent, but that's just a no-go.”
Anderson sighed and turned away in his chair.
“Friends,” said Anderson, “When I originally approached each of you, um, to begin this little firm, I did so with a promise. That promise was to, uh, provide each of you with the freedom to create what you were denied everywhere else. To this day, I have largely been able to keep that promise, but that is a task that has become increasingly difficult with each sale we make.”
Anderson then turned back to face his colleagues.
“It would be foolish for us to, uh, assume that we are as nimble now as we were when we founded this company. More and more of our sales are turning into Foundation stings. At this rate, um, it will only be a matter of time until one of us is captured. Medea's from another universe, what do you think the Foundation will do if they capture her? Phineas, I, uh, I hope you like being a quadruple amputee, because they'll take your prosthetics away if they capture you. If they don't kill Isaac, Jason, or Jeffery, they'll surely wipe your memories and leave you on the side of a highway in Indiana.”
Anderson shook his head.
“Mr. Marshall's offer is quite generous. We are still in charge of the manufacturing and we are still in creative control of the products. They just want the distribution rights, and access to our clientele.”
“I refuse to work on anyone's terms beside my own,” Phineas interrupted. “I will not let you bully me into this, Vincent, not this time.”
“I'm not trying to bully any of you,” Anderson coolly replied. “You should know by now that I consider all of you my equals in this enterprise, and, if you all truly feel that accepting this offer will create irreconcilable differences, I will drop the subject. I, uh, I just can't guarantee my original promise otherwise.”
The room fell silent for a few moments. One by one, Anderson looked to each of his colleagues, each one avoiding his gaze.
“All in favor?” Isaac asked. Everyone but Phineas raised their hand. “The ayes have it. Thank you everyone, I'll draw up the paperwork tonight.”
Soon after, the conference room emptied one by one until Phineas and Anderson were all that remained. Eventually, Anderson also made his way towards the door.
“How could you?” Phineas called out to him as he began to leave.
Anderson did not bother to reply, exiting the conference room without a word or a glance back.

The Secret Crest Pub was a small brewpub located in Portland's Pearl District. The fact that the property was owned and operated by a former director of Site-64 made it a popular destination for facility personnel after their shifts ended. For this reason, Agents Shaw and Merlo found themselves sitting at a booth in a discrete corner of the bar.
“Do you know what Carter once called Gamma-13 after one of those times he had a few too many?” Merlo asked Shaw, her hand firmly gripping her fourth pint.
“Not at all,” Shaw replied with a light-hearted smile, well aware that her boss likely had a few too many as well.
“Asimov's Fuckups,” Merlo said with a grandiose wave of her hand. “Not the most creative title, but Carter has a point. It's one step forward followed by twenty steps back. But hey, at least we aren't Alpha-9.”
Shaw chuckled before she finished her first pint.
“What happens to us now?” she asked.
“Same thing that always happens after we drop the ball. Holman will reassign our agents to help quell the local anart beat,” Merlo answered with a sigh. She then looked over her companion and smiled, “You'll fit right in, Shaw. The anartists call us ‘The Suits' around here.”
“Well, then,” Agent Shaw replied as another two pints were brought to the table. “At least we have job security.”
Shaw then held her pint up to make a toast.
“To Asimov's Fuckups.”
“To Asimov's Fuckups,” Merlo replied. The two women clinked their glasses, both prepared to drown their frustration over the course of the night.

«Part Two: Finding Anderson | The Elusive Anderson | End


The warm ocean wind blew gently on the cargo ship. Waves gently lapped against the hull, with the ripples of lamplight reflecting off of them. The captain stared out over the rust encrusted deck that sailors paced across below. Laughter floated up, freed with the end of the war.
The old vagrant awoke to the sounds of gunshots and yelling. An explosion shook the ancient complex as the man scrambled out of the box he used as his primary shelter. Looking into the hallway, he saw several men in uniform rushing down the corridor away from him. The drifter quickly slipped out of the room he occupied and headed in the opposite direction. As he reached an intersection he climbed through some holes in the wall the police had missed. His resolution was to follow them through the crumbling infrastructure. The homeless man's palms were already sweating with excitement as he relished watching the upcoming firefight.
A storm was brewing. Waves that once gently lapped now slammed against the iron hull. The captain and the first mate discussed the danger, and the safety of the merchandise. One of the younger sailors was called up from below decks and ordered to secure the cargo.
The homeless man continued following the group of… they were police, right? Not that their occupation mattered. He was just here to watch the fight. What was life without some danger to spice things up? It had been long since he bothered with a gun but he still vividly remembered the feel. Even if one can no longer partake in an action, it is a pleasure to relish a memory. His long fingers twitched once as though feeling for a trigger. But no, guns were not his style these days. Not like they ever really were. Instead, the man kept going.
The sailor carefully climbed down the stairs leading to the main hold. A particularly malefic wave caused the ship to lurch, slamming the sailor against the wall and flickering the lights. For a moment, the sailor thought he saw another person further down the stairs, but when the lights stabilized there was no sign of anyone else. The sailor dismissed it as a vision, and kept going.
As the squad rounded a corner, the vagrant was distracted by something that smelled strangely familiar. The scent of dust and blood which filled the air couldn't block the powerful new smell that permeated throughout the hallways. His attention was completely diverted by the aroma. Although his old nose wasn't quite as good anymore, the drifter scrambled against the wall, trying to follow the smell, all thoughts of the police forgotten.
That the cargo hold stored legal cargo was a given. However, it also had about a dozen of Nazi war criminals, paying for a safe trip to South America with the stolen property of the dead. The brutality and cruelty of the passenger's actions did not bother the sailor as he walked down another flight of stairs. All that mattered was the resulting payoff.
As the vagrant ran, he could pick out the smell better. It seemed… salty. Was it sweat? No. It was more… sentimental. The drifter scratched his head. He was missing a piece of the puzzle. A memory was just out of reach, infuriatingly close yet too far at the same time. So much had been forgotten over the years. The old man had spent so much time drifting that he had forgotten the date, his past life, even his own name. Everything was too confusing for him. The old man stopped after crawling through another wall. The smell was coming straight at him now, carried on a warm breeze. Carefully, the drifter walked through one last hole in the wall, out of the smoke of the collapsing building and into the dusty sunlight.
The sailor began to use more caution as he walked down the last few steps into the hold. The raging storm was abusing the ship's structure, and he would hate to break his neck before the Nazis paid the crew off. Reaching the bottom, he saw some seawater sloshing around. More of it dripped from above.
The old man slowly paced around the hold, not noticing the footprints in the dust he left behind. The sense of déjà vu was overwhelming. He touched the walls and desperately tried to pull some sense of recognition. Nothing came to mind, but… wait. The walls! They were rusty and torn, but that shouldn't stop the effect! The vagrant spun around and saw the clear, dry footprints which held the key. The entire place should have been collapsing apart already, the ancient rust and corrosive acid working together to bring the whole thing down. But he remembered! The salty breeze was from the ocean! This was a ship! His ship!
The sailor began calling out names to see if the passengers were awake. No one responded, though the storm should have already woken them. Perturbed, the young sailor was going to walk deeper into the hold, when a drop of water landed on him. It was warm, and sticky. The ocean should have been freezing cold, but the water was warm. Looking up, the sailor realized the ship no longer belonged to them.
The sunlight dimmed as a cloud passed over the hold. The ship groaned and rocked back and forth. A series of bodies rose out of the bottom of the hold while the walls blurred and turned hazy. The old man circled around the bodies and examined them. Some faces were familiar, some were not. Some he had brought here personally through the network before he became lost, and some entered the ship themselves later on. Some were long dead and some screamed their life to the sun. Casually tossing some of the unfamiliar ones back through the entrance, the old man remembered. His name was Lawrence, and this ship had been his refuge after he wandered for years. It had welcomed him as a stowaway and showed him its secrets. All of the sailors were given as to him presents. And Lawrence had given in return, sharing what had been bestowed on him.
The old man raised his arms, and sat in the center of the circle of writhing bodies. The ship heaved in of his actions. He was the captain now, and this was his ship.
The light flickered as a cloud passed over the ship. The hold shut itself off.
Slowly, the churning water began heaving the ship up and down.
The ship tilted as its hull groaned a welcome. Debris and empty crates slid across the floor.
The ship rested for a moment above the waves and sank into the water.
It sank, faster and faster, until it seemed it was falling.
And the old man awoke.
He awoke and saw the rust and corrosion.
He awoke and saw the shifting corridors, and the great throne room he had fallen into once before.
He awoke and saw the king who had called him there and who had given the man the first taste of power.
He saw the king, and what was not the king, the absence of him, the rotting, acidic essence of death.
The king stretched out an arm. The ship and the old man answered to the call.
Everything was falling again, and the world shattered, separating ship and owner.

May/29/20██ Incident 106-375
Multiple containment breaches at Site 19.
2:53: SCP-106 breaches containment. Recall Protocol ██ -███ -█ is enacted.
10:00: Recall Protocol ██ -███ -█ is deemed ineffective. SCP-106 remains uncontained. No casualties at this time.
11:13: SCP-106 is recontained.

May/29/20██ Incident 455-162
3:05 SCP-455 suddenly was observed to tilt suddenly. Observers stated that multiple figures could be seen in the hold. No attempt at contact was made.
3:20 SCP-455 returns to its original position. No expeditions authorized.

Post incident listing
…4 members of MTF Zeta 9 (Molerats) listed as KIA in expeditions 2 and 3 into SCP-455 discovered in Site-19, bearing severe bodily injuries. 3 members were still alive at time of retrieval. 2 have since expired, and 1 is in intensive care. Debriefing is unavailable at this point. It is unknown how MTF personnel were transported to Site-19 from SCP-455.

Lawrence woke up. He was back in the abandoned buildi- no, Foundation Site-19. He remembered now. He remembered everything. Although his master's power had only been able to reconnect the ship and him for short time, it was enough.
Corporal Lawrence was ready to go to war again.


Within its watery lair, the creature known to some as Oneiroi lurked.
Prone in its oily pool, feelers extended, senses probing the surface, it searched. It waited. It is difficult to say for how long it so waited, as the creature inhabited a realm in which time was mostly a matter of perception, and the creature was not, as a whole, all that interested in time. Time belongs to those with purpose, and the creature known as Oneiroi lacked one, or at least any purpose that could be recognized as such by any other living being. What fueled the creature, what pushed it to silently contemplate its thought-basin with such single-minded intent, was only… desire.
The scent of fear-dream was about, and the creature known as Oneiroi intended to be the first to seize it. For a while it waited. Then… a ripple in the pool. A breaking of the oily water surface. An image, a momentary glimpse of fluttering emotion, trapped in the torpor of restless slumber. The hint of a… taste, and something more. The creature known as Oneiroi was incapable of humor or true pleasure, but nonetheless it found some satisfaction in this next discovery; this prey was in the hands of those who poked in the dark, those who sought to stop it from feasting. Those it hated. The meal would be all the sweeter if the morsel was stolen straight from their hands.
Rising from the thought-basin, the creature known as Oneiroi retired to its face vault to prepare itself. The pattern of the thought-basin told it much about its potential target, and as the creature sank its many-jointed limbs into the soft clay of the face vault it began shaping itself, taking a form more suitable for the task at hand. For the creature known as Oneiroi to fulfill its desire, an emotional bonding must be facilitated with its prey, and a sense of trust established. Though the creature lacked the emotional faculties to truly understand its potential targets, it was nevertheless a cunning thing and well familiar with the behavioral patterns of prey.
The shape it took reflected this well. Feelers disappeared beneath a layer of tanned, well lined skin. Empty sight orbs replaced with warm brown eyes, made to twinkle in the light. Muscles bunched and straightened, bone and blood vessels replaced mucous and transparent membrane. The clay of the face vault transformed the chitinous visage of creature known as Oneiroi into that of a man. Not young, for youth often inspired envy or competition in others. Age demanded respect, or at least pity. Clothing simple but not threadbare. A straight posture, confident without appearing threatening. With the final, most crucial touch, the creature weaved a kindly smile into its clay face and etched it with laughter lines and crow's feet, set the eyes to a thoughtful, considering gaze. Its prey would be in a vulnerable position, and nothing would serve better in pushing it over the final edge than the illusion of kindness. The creature known as Oneiroi felt a vague sense of pride in the fullness of the illusion it had created. Soon, it would feast.
Satisfied with its new form, the creature returned to the thought-basin, sinking its feelers (now thin threads of silvery hair tumbling from a weathered brow) into its depths. The scent of the dream reflected in the basin was… intoxicating. Bitter isolation and sweet terror, the tang of vain hope and and the acid bite of claustrophobia. Everything about this fear-dream felt tailor-made to the creature's personal tastes. Though the creature known as Oneiroi was usually as cautious as a roach and would spend many days probing and feeling the mind of its would-be prey, the lure of this dream proved too much for it to resist. The creature will have it tonight, it had decided.
Gathering its essence, the creature known as Oneiroi began to fold itself inward. Skin into bone, hair into blood. With a sickening crunching sound the creature pushed itself into itself again and again, its vision growing ever more compact and focused even as it broke itself. The way into the dream-roads and the dreamer it sought permitted no physical essence. The creature's mind would have to keep it intact as it traveled. The pain of this process was beyond description and sanity, but the creature known as Oneiroi thought as its essence swirled and oozed through the narrow channels of sleep, it would all be worth it soon. What were pain and dissemination when compared to the chance at a fresh mind? Not much at all indeed. Not much at all.

The prisoner awoke to a grey landscape. He no longer wondered at this, as this was the same place his dreams took him to for the last… he no longer remembered how long. Distant mountains slashed at the overcast sky, a rough hand closing the horizons of his world with its ashen fingers. Despite the familiarity of his surroundings the prisoner cringed from them, teeth rattling in his jaw, hands shaking. This place managed to convey a sense of massive distance and overwhelming size without the airs of openness and freedom such places should have also inspired.
The prisoner sank to his knees and covered his head with his hands, willing himself not to see. The grey world of his dreams was materialized oppression, imprisonment made manifest. In that, it was little different from his waking world. He briefly wondered why his captors took such great care to subjugate his sleeping hours as well as the waking, but this thought escaped him in an instant. Though he did not know it, he was not allowed to ponder such things. For some time the prisoner could do naught but weep and pound the dry earth with his fists in a childish tantrum as he bemoaned the cruelty of his fate. The grey world accepted his cries and wails with utter indifference. The prisoner shouted vehement accusations and venomous curses at the sky and the mountains and the gritty grey earth. The world cared even less. The prisoner dug a small hole in the ground, vainly searching for a hint of moisture beneath dry surface. If the world could yawn and shrug, it would have done so. Finally, the prisoner did what he did every night prior to this one and simply began to wander in no particular direction. He did not truly expect to find anything, but it was a way to pass the time until his inevitable waking. This night, however, was different.
There was a man standing on a small grey hillock. His tall frame was robed with fabric flowing and purest white. The eyes set deeply in his kindly and weathered face were the color of moist earth, warm and comforting and twinkling with sourceless light. He was old but not frail and his posture radiated quiet confidence. The ground on which he stood was gleaming, bright gunmetal grey replacing the dull ash of the rest of the prisoner's dreamtime gaol. The prisoner could only gape as the man slowly began to descend from his vantage point. Every point of the ground touched by the strange man's bare feet was made an aurora of steel as he made his way towards the prisoner. The smile never left his face as he approached, and as he came closer to the prisoner he lifted a sinewy brown hand in greeting, as if the two were the oldest and dearest of friends. The prisoner froze in place as the man finally reached him and laid a companionable hand on his shoulder. It felt right.
"Ah, my boy. It's been too long. Too long by far."
"I… wha.."
"Ha! Loquacious and sharp as always, I see!"
"Er. I'm, I'm sorry and- who are you?"
The man frowned at this, and leaned closer to peer into the prisoner's eyes. Apparently whatever he saw there horrified him, for he shook his head and quickly leaned away.
"Oh. My poor lad. What have they done to you?" In his voice was great sadness, but not surprise. The prisoner briefly wondered at that, but his suspicion was quickly banished by the man's disarming smile. He was a friend to be trusted. Yes.
"Can you remember who you are, my boy?"
The prisoner didn't know how to reply to that. His mouth opened, but his words were swallowed by flashes of needles, of voices endlessly whispering commands through ceiling speakers, of blinding flashes of light. He stayed silent instead. The man seemed to understand anyway.
"Easy, lad. Don't stress yourself. I'm here now, no harm will come to you while I'm here."
The prisoner had no reason to believe this, but he found that he did. "Can you help me then? Can you… can you get me out of here?"
The man shook his head, his entire being sorrowful serenity. "I cannot undo this. You know I can't. Your flesh… it's beyond my grasp. For them to sink so low…" he stopped, seemingly reconsidering. "There might be something I can do, if you are willing."
"Anything! Please, anything to get out of here! The grayness, the dullness of it all, I can't take it anymore! I can't can't-,"
"Easy now. Easy. What I said before was true. I can't get you out of here. Even if I would, you'd still be at their hands. They'll just throw you right back in."
"But… you said you could-"
"What I can do, if you are willing to pay the price, is change what 'here' is."
"What do you mean?"
The man glanced at their grey surroundings for a moment, sighed, then dropped to a sitting position on the ground. He gestured the prisoner to do the same. "Look around you. What do you see?"
The prisoner frowned. "I already told you what I see. It's damn obvious what I see! Grey and grey and fucking more grey!"
The man smiled and shook his head sadly. "You see the surface of things. What they're making you see, through drugs and psychology and torture. But you do not see the actuality."
The prisoner said nothing. The man continued. "Look at the ground on which we sit. It is different from that which is around us, no?"
It was. The gleaming gunmetal which surrounded the man's footsteps earlier now spread to encompass the entire hillock. The ground was warm to the touch, almost malleable.
"What you see here is the true soil of the dream, laid bare and raw from the false grit of your captors. Observe."
The man lowered his hand to the ground and cupped a fistful of shimmering earth. Shaped between his thumb and index finger, the soil soon began to take shape. Metallic earth was worked like wet clay at a potter's wheel and was… transformed. With a final twist of his hand, the man revealed his new creation. A shining purple plum now rested in his palm. The prisoner stared at it incredulously. The man offered him the plum and the prisoner took it. It was fragrant and sour-sweet and more wonderful than anything he had tasted for months. The man took another fistful of earth from the ground and continued speaking:
"This terrain holds within it infinite possibility. Imagine what you could do if you were not imprisoned as you are. It is not only a matter of your current predicament, you see. Your prison isn't concrete or chains or people. You are trapped in flesh, in hunger and weariness, in sin. Consider what you could be if you were freed from all of those." The man's hands continued working as he spoke, shaping earth.
"Now consider no longer, remove yourself from yourself. Live in the dream and only in the dream." The man opened his hands and a bright blue bird emerged from them and took flight, "Do."
The prisoner found he had not the will to resist this notion. He didn't mind much. Taking a handful of shining dirt in hand, he drew himself open. He flew.

yes…
The creature known as Oneiroi could almost taste it now. It had not imagined it would be so easy. The captors took things too far this time, made the life of their prisoner too unbearable. To disconnect him from his reality was almost a mercy. The creature had no notion as to why the captors would wish to torment their prisoners while they were sleeping. From its knowledge of them, the captors were not usually prone to acts of senseless cruelty. Perhaps if the scent of an open and vulnerable mind was not so tantalizing, it might have wondered more. Perhaps it would have been more cautious. But it did not wonder as it shook away its human guise and pounced on the hapless prisoner, shredding his already battered and tormented being like steel shears taken to soft hide. Only as it took the first delicious bite and found the trap beneath it did it realize its mistake. By then it was far too late.

Two figures watched from behind a reinforced glass panel as the gaunt, wasted figure of the prisoner writhed and screamed. The tall dark woman and the short pale man looked impassively at the creature's futile attempt at escape.
"It is trapped. We have done it," said the woman, adjusting the thin wire spectacles on her sharp nose.
"Yes, the experiment was a complete success. It cannot leave the host body now," said the man, smoothing his slightly too white lab coat over his plump form.
"And the subject?" she asked.
"Gone, it would seem. So we expected."
"Once again we have protected the world. But at what cost?"
"No cost is too great for our mission. We secured the creature, we now contain it. We protected the world. That is all there is to say."
"This was a human being. We are turning ourselves into something less than human. Into monsters."
The man turned to the woman. Their eyes met.
"How can we be monsters if I still love you?" he asked, gazing at her blankly and seriously.
"I have told you before, I cannot love you back. I am too awfully scarred by my tragic history." she replied, equally blankly.
"We have lost so much in our duty, have we not?" Something twitched just beneath the plump man's eyelid. A smile was slowly creeping to his pale face.
The woman answered him with a smile of her own. "It has been difficult. Humanity has suffered… er. Suffered so much, yes. We must protect it. Yeah."
"Securing and containing and protecting. For the good of all. Sacrificing and such. Procedures and grimness. We have all felt the… the grimness of our fate. Hehe."
"Much and more. I know you too have felt the grim mark of tragedy on your life. Was not your sister *snrk* mauled to death by an anomalous lemur?"
"Yes, this is true. My family could not recover from this event. Indeed, my father, who too was a researcher, went on a *hehehe* blood vendetta after that day. He vowed to kill all primates of preternatural origin."
"Ah, so I recall." The woman paused, then gasped theatrically. "Wait! I did not realize this until now! Your father *pff* ahm, your father was the one to cause the Stripetail Blood Wars of 68! IT IS BECAUSE OF YOU THAT I LOST MY HUSBAND TO THOSE RACCOON MARAUDERS!"
"HE DID IT FOR US, LINDA! FOR US!"
"DON'T CALL ME LINDA, YOU-pfff hahaha! Jesus, man, your goddamn face!" laughed the woman, all traces of seriousness gone. She smacked the man heartily on the shoulder.
"Ow! Hahaha! I'm sorry, couldn't help myself anymore! Bloody Foundation, how do they keep up with this bullshit?"
"Don't ask me, man. Sounds damn exhausting to me. Think we fooled them there for a bit?"
"I dunno. Probably not. I think we were way too obvious about it, made it more of a farce than the actual thing."
"Ah well, I think it counts as a twist anyway. Make them think it was the Foundation who caught the thing then it turns out it wasn't and all that. That's the important bit, right?"
"Hrm. Not sure, actually. Could be a good idea to check."
"I guess it wouldn't hurt to bother it. It's all for the goal after all. Here, let me get to you. Hold still."
With that, the woman leaned down until her forehead touched with that of the man. As they did, a missive was passed between them, so fast that even the nigh omniscient eye of the reader could not quite see what it contained. It did catch a sense of satisfaction, however. The woman leaned back, and she and the man clasped each other's arms.
"Ah!" she said, "the Consortium Independent is happy, hehe! We have made things interesting! The readers will take note now."
"Aye, and the Consortium Independent is us!"
"We live to tell and be told another day. Pretty damn awesome as far as I'm concerned."
"Hmm. You think we can do something with that creature though? Seems like an awful waste to just flush it after all that work."
"Well, it's a wee bit purple, but we can train it, I think."
"Ooh, we can use it for a feature! It will be great for that."
"Better than great. Interesting."
The two stood silent for a moment, basking in their mutual contentment. Finally, the woman patted the man on the head. "Guess we're done here then."
"Which means…"
"Booze?"
"Booze."
With this, the two began to leave. As they did, they threw down their overly white lab coats to the floor and stepped on them with vigor. As they left the chamber and the still screaming prisoner in it, the man asked:
"Do you think they got the deal with the initials?"
"Eh. They can always just look below."


Mr. Smith, Smith, the last piece grounding himself to the world, trudged through the smoldering hallways. Smith had little idea of where he was going, only knowing that he had to find the door leading out. There were signs, though most were of little use, having turned to ash or been damaged to the point of uselessness. Broken lights had made navigating around obstacles difficult. The only reason Smith continued walking was for whatever door he could find leading out of the site. He would welcome it.
"105 BPM. I'm doing well, Smith. Just keep walking forward, Smith. This was where I went towards one test. It was near some cafeteria. Cafeteria means close to the exit, Smith. Please, Smith. Whichever exit I find will work, Smith."
Mr. Smith stepped over a body, muttering the directions Smith was taking into Smith's tape recorder. Anything to keep Smith aware.
"Doors at the end of the hall. Left or right. Didn't hear any gunshots come from here, Smith. Right door seems less damaged… I'll take the right one, Smith…"
Smith opened the door and continued, navigating blindly down more hallways. After a continuous fifty minutes of walking and talking to himself, repeating his name, Smith found a door at the end of a hall. The scent of food lingered. Smith had finally found the way out.
As Smith approached the door, he took his pulse again. 120. Smith took a deep breath to relax a bit, and tried opening the door. It was locked. He continued to jiggle the doorknob. Nothing.
"Hello? Is anyone there!? Please, my name is Smith, and I need to get out of here! Please, it's Smith!" Smith could hear someone's idle conversation beyond the doors, but nothing to indicate anything about him. "Please, I need help! My name is Smith, my pulse is 120, and I need help! I'm locked in here!" Smith banged his fist on the door, on the verge of tears. "Please, open the door for Smith!" He could hear the conversation stop as he heard footsteps approaching. Smith's heart raced, as he muttered a prayer to the recorder.
The door opened as a lady1 looked out into the hallway. Her confused look belied her serious posture, and glazed over him as she peered out into the hallway and back at Smith.
"Are… are you okay? You don't look all that well, Mister… uh…"
"Smith! It's Mr. Smith!"
"Um…" The woman blinked. Confusion permeated her face, gradually shifting into half-emotions. The two looked at each other. Smith kept repeating his name, wanting to stay visible. After a minute, which turned into hours for Smith, terror swept over her face. Smith panicked.
"Maggie, we have a big problem. Probably a Code La—"
Smith charged past her, lightly brushing her aside as he bolted for the door across the cafe. No one followed Smith. The only sound being made were his footsteps. By the time he got to the door and swung it open, he took one last look back at the room.
Everyone had gone back to talking with each other.

The night sky was calm, with the lovely moon and shining stars guiding Smith's way down the desert stretch of road. Smith had no idea where he was going, or if it was the right direction. All he knew was that he had to go somewhere, anywhere. It meant progress, and it meant a silver lining.
"It's alright, Smith. I'm gonna do just fine. Pulse dropped back down to 100, and I think I'm heading north. North is always good. I got it, Smith. I'll walk the whole road if I have to. It's… it's fine, Smith. Besides, I always loved watching the night sky, didn't I, Smith? Something to look up at during construction."
As Smith walked down the road, a band of coyotes took notice and followed him. They had seemed curious, observing and staring intently at him. Smith continued talking to himself, afraid and nervous, but as long as he kept walking steadily, all the coyotes did was travel besides him and observe.
"I don't know why they aren't attacking me. Shit, I didn't know animals could see me. Just get a hold of myself. Just keep walking, and I'll be out of here. It's okay, Smith. They'll help me find what I need."
Smith and the band shared the rest of the tense walk into town.

"Welcome to… it looks like it's fading. Population: 2,084. I wonder if I count as enough of a person to add onto that, Smith."
Smith turned back to look at his new companions for affirmation. The band had slunk back the way they came, to the visible horizon. He sighed, continuing into the city. Though the streetlights were on, the roads were empty. Smith took out the fully-recorded tape and put it in his pocket, replacing it with yet another. He pressed record before deciding to continue on, needing to find any indication of where he was.
Navigating the town wasn't terribly difficult. It was mostly comprised of residences, and everything was close enough that walking didn't take a long time. Trouble came with Smith's legs as he had walked almost non-stop for the past five hours. There was little time to rest, though the urge was becoming increasingly tempting. Despite this, there was not a single resting area to be found.
On the verge of collapsing, Smith spotted a bench nearby. He sighed with relief, making his way up the road towards it. Just after starting his detour to the bench, his vision quickly grew brighter. The lights around him were blinding, and he had no idea how to react. He felt frozen in place. It brought back —
That's when the truck horn blared.
"Get outta my way, ya goddamn stray!"
The truck swerved around Smith as his body reacted out of instinct and stumbled to the ground by the side of the road. Despite the near-death experience and sudden transition from feet to floor, the sweet relief of resting after all the walking prevented Smith from fully processing the situation. All that left his mouth were groans of pain as he blankly stared at the truck, now pulling in reverse to his side.
"Shit, are you OK? Jesus, ya don't seem so well. Come on, let's take ya to the hospital."
He could feel the tape recorder in his hand, and feel himself being picked up from the ground, but couldn't process it, nor process being slung over the man's shoulder.

It wasn't until until he was slapped in the face that he could recognize his new, current location; in a truck starting down the road next to a man2. The man glanced over at him occasionally with a look of worry.
"At least ya seem responsive now. Don'cha worry, I'mma take ya to the hospital. What's yer name?"
"Oh, it's uh… it's…" His name. He couldn't remember his name now. He felt on the verge of a panic attack, slowly forgetting himself. This couldn't happen already. He searched for the tape recorder, trying to turn it on quickly, he still had to have it with him, he had to remember his name, he couldn't afford to forget already, not when he was already trying to find —
The button clicked.
" — is Smith. I've been walking around for ages, trying to find a hospital, or some kind of government office. I can find it, Smith. Pulse is 110, not too bad. It's —"
Smith stopped the tape recorder. Smith regained a grasp on it. Smith. Smith. Mr. Smith. Smith could keep remembering.
"Smith, eh? Pleasure to make yer acquaintance, Mr. Smith."
"Same to you. I know this sounds weird, but can you keep calling me Smith at the end of your sentences? I… have a thing."
"Kinda weird, but if it helps ya then sure, Smith. Name's Jude. Sorry for runnin' ya over back there. Ya looked like a stray for a second. Musta been the night that doesn't make ya look all that human." Smith could feel his heart skip a beat at the sound of that.
"Y… Yeah. I guess. Listen, can you drop me off at the next town? I'm looking for something and it's kind of urgent."
Jude gave Smith an odd look and turned back to the road. "You lookin' to pass out again, Smith? Especially with whatever yer condition is, you can't go around walkin' all willy-nilly. Whatcha lookin' for anyway?"
Smith thought on what to tell Jude, continuing to mutter his name. Smith. Smith. Smith.3 There wasn't much Smith could say that didn't make Smith seem crazier than he already appeared. Smith looked outside, trying to focus on the world around him. The streets seemed much emptier than he had remembered. It was preferable. After some thought, Smith faced Jude.
"Trying to find my wife and children."
"Huh, that so?" Jude turned to face Smith, his eyes developing that glaze Smith recognized easily. Even so, he smiled at Smith. "What's the wife's name?"
"Eve. That's what I remember, anyway."
"Well, good luck with that. I know how it feels to long after yer family." Jude transferred a cigarette from his shirt pocket to his mouth, grabbing a lighter and lighting the cigarette in one fluid motion. He turned down his window to let the smoke out, quickly flashing a grin to Smith.
"Sure, why not. I'll drop ya off once we get into town, but get someone to look after ya. Don't want the wife to yell at'cha for lookin' like shit. Ya probably know that, but it's a rough feelin'. I sure do!" Jude chuckled, looking bemused by his own statement.
Smith didn't respond, turning back to look outside. It was nice to have company, at least, however short it'd remain.
It was thirty-three minutes after Jude spoke and fifteen seconds after seeing the very edge of a new town down that road that Smith heard a car fast approaching. The sound stuck out the most; it was too close to have been on the other side of the highway, and though Smith sat comfortably in the truck, the vision getting brighter tipped him off at what was happening again.
Smith could see the people in the car, unaware of what was happening. There was a man, a woman, children in the backseat. They had all looked familiar, someone he could recall in his memories, but he couldn't quite place it. For a brief moment, he could have sworn it was —
"Can't this dumbass see me? The Hell's his —"
By the time Smith recognized what was going to follow, the world had muted itself. Every second slowed down to an hour. He clenched his teeth, gripping his hands to the steering wheel recorder as the truck swerved, and his body thrashed against the seatbelt4, and the truck tipped on its side,
and
then
nothing.

He woke up on pavement, staring into the sky. The stars were beautiful, and inviting. A thought fluttered through his mind for a brief second.
I wish I could take a journey up there and discover them.
It wasn't until the sound of a car passing by inches from his face that he realized where he was and what had happened. He stood up quickly, the pain searing through his legs. It didn't matter though. He was searching for his tape recorder, not being able to find it. Surely he must have protected it, it must have been there. But there was no tape recorder, there were no tapes.
No records.
His stomach dropped.
"God, no, no no no… Okay. Alright. This is not a big deal, I can remember my name. It's… shit, what is it? Come on, why can't I remember my own name already? It's…"
"…what is my name again?"
He turned around, looking at a man climbing out of the wreckage of a truck. The lights in his head turned on again.
"Smith! Right, right. Okay. I just need to remember that. Smith… I can keep remembering this, I know I can. I'll press on. This town has something, I'm sure. Pulse… 130. Deep breaths, S… Smith."
Smith. Smith, Smith, Mr. Smith. It was Smith.
Smith trudged into the town, consciously making efforts to move one leg after another. A wave of panic started to creep over him again, so he looked up at the town ahead. The streets seemed more active during the night, even though no one had taken any efforts to walk over to the scene of the crash. He had known what that meant, and turned back to look at the crash.
The trucker made no effort to look for Smith, nor did anyone make an effort to help him.

Despite Smith's reaffirmation to himself, no one on the streets regarded him for more than a curious second. Any glances met would show confusion or worry before looking away, people continuing on like normal. He expected this, though it didn't make the panic of inevitability abate. The most consolation he got from this was no one making a scene or being frightened from his presence.
It couldn't be said that he was still Smith any longer.
"Hospital… just need to find a hospital, Smith…"
It kept slipping from his grasp now, more quickly than before.
The town was harder to navigate than the previous one, resembling more of an urban city than the rural setting Smith last passed through. Many buildings looked the same to him, and streets seemed to converge back on themselves. With no map and no solid point of reference, he found himself lost, wandering randomly. His legs continued to burn, repeatedly requiring him to stop and rest.
The name no longer had meaning. It no longer sounded like a word.
A giant hospital sign greeted Smith as he turned a random corner. Relief washed over him, as he dragged himself into the hospital. The pain lessened now, and he could feel it just within his grasp. The end of his journey, a resolution to what he was seeking. Here, he'd get some kind of a break.
It kept sounding like a burden.
The automatic doors opened for him and he stepped inside the hospital's ER, looking for someone to speak to. He found a desk that wasn't busy and headed over there, speaking to the lady behind the desk.
"Smith". It weighed him down.
"Hello? I need help really urgently." The woman didn't look up.
He knew it, but didn't want to admit to it.
"Please! I need help! My name is… is… it's Smith, I think! Please, can you see me? Can you still understand me? Am I present with you? I'm Smith. I need your help. Please…" He banged on the glass repeatedly, shouting "Smith" over and over. Eventually, the woman5 looked up, her eyes looking past him.
He didn't want to acknowledge it.
"Yes? Can I help you, mister?" Her lips pursed, and she seemed to focus in on him a bit more, as if analyzing the situation.
And he knew what acknowledging it meant.
"Please, I need help. I need to know if my wife is here, or if you know where my wife and children are. Their last names are Smith."
But…
"Smith… okay. Can you give me their first names, so I can look them up?"
What good was delaying the inevitable?
"Right. It's… it's, um… Um…"
It was then that he had recognized it, long after his wife was gone.
"Sir? Are you alright? You don't seem well." His breathing became labored, and his body shook.
A sense of understanding started to form inside of him, at that moment.
"Sir? Who… who are you? I'm going to call security."
It was the sound of someone he loved who had gone away.
He bolted outside, not bothering to look back at the woman who had picked up the phone. The adrenaline surged through him as he dashed through the people milling about, out of the doors, onto the sidewalk just off of the hospital grounds. He stopped, panting and sweating heavily. It was too much to take in. He stared up at the sky for longer than he could parse, searching for those stars that gave him comfort a short while ago. They had faded.
And it didn't matter.
"I can't be gone now… do I have to lose it now? I was so close." No one replied, nor did anyone spare him a glance.
It was then that he smiled and accepted it.
"What's going to happen now? Where do I go from here?" He tried to recall the name of someone he knew before, someone close. It couldn't be recalled. There wasn't much concern over it fading, though. Now it felt natural.
Whoever the person was, he was sure they weren't too fussed over it.
He tried to bring up a response to himself, and found the words stuck in his throat. There was nothing left to say, nothing more that he could reconcile himself with.

He picked a direction and walked down the road, the stars having faded, the night turning into morning.

Footnotes
1. Red hair against his balding grey, dark skin to match his, taller than him by half a foot at 6'4, eyes a dull red, which complimented his —
2. Around six feet. Caucasian to his… well, he wasn't Caucasian, right? Thin compared to… hmm. He didn't feel overweight, but not too thin, so —
3. Smith Smith Smith Smith Smith SmithSmithSm—
4. again he felt like he was flying and it felt so serene and peaceful and he finally felt positivity flow through himself and even free
5. Blonde. Five feet. Tired.


"I-I'm out?" He looked up at them, more confused than shocked.
"Yeah, your number is up. Get up on your feet. We'll escort you to the debriefing room." The guard moved out of the doorway and pointed down the hall. He had his taser in his other hand just in case D-9897 tried to do something stupid. Not that it ever happened on release day, but it's better to be prepared.
Together they walked down the hallways, the other D-class in the cell block were holding back their cheers for Marcus and simply giving him a respectable nod for 'Ya made it.' Marcus might as well have been floating through that hallway. He was done. The month was over. No more feedings. No more cleaning. No more poking or prodding. It was all over with and his reward was in reach.
They made it to the debriefing room and Marcus is ordered to sit. He obliged with almost a smile as they strapped the restraints on his legs and arms. Still have to follow protocol even though he was minutes away from release. A balding well-dressed man stepped through another door, looked back at the long one-way mirror adjacent to him, and sat across the table with Marcus's file.
"So! March tenth to April tenth. Dee nine eight nine seven. Marcus Stuart Turnbull. No immediate family.. well… no surviving family it seems. Incarcerated and sentenced to death row by the state of Texas. Four counts of murder in the first degree-"
The man flipped to the next page.
" -three counts of murder in the second degree, six counts of assault with a deadly weapon, two counts of vehicular manslaughter, fifteen counts of human trafficking, and one count of aggravated sexual assault of a minor… and you have some other pending cases it seems, but no matter. You served a total of two hundred and thirty four days on death row before being requisitioned by the Foundation."
The man closed the file and folded his hands. "You ready to reenter society, Mr. Turnbull?"
Marcus gulped audibly. "Y-yes sir. I am. I've done my time."
The man nodded and opened another and much thinner file. "So the details of your release are all set up. From here you'll walk through those doors and into another room where we'll begin the procedure."
"Procedure?"
"Yes well-" The man held back a chuckle. "-we can't let you just leave here knowing what you know of course. It's actually pretty painless. Shouldn't be more than a few minutes."
Marcus let out a tense sigh and nodded. "All right then. I'm ready when you are."
The man swiveled out of his seat and unlocked the straps to Marcus's chair. "Straight through there, Mr. Turnbull."
Marcus stood up and rubbed his wrist as he shambled nervously over to the door, suddenly flooded with internal doubt. Was this a trick? A test? A firing squad? His trembling hand gripped the chrome plated door handle.
"Oh, and Mr. Turnbull!?"
"Y-yeah?"
"Congratulations and good luck."
"Thank you, sir."
Marcus opened the door and stepped through. As the door clicked closed, the man took his pen and crossed out an entry on his clipboard.

▪ D-9893: Vincent R. Kinnear
▪ D-9894: Duane L. Mateiro
▪ D-9895: Charles J. Avitto
▪ D-9896: James F. Clark
▪ D-9897: Marcus S. Turnbull
▪ D-9901: Lewis T. Galvan
▪ D-9900: Andrew M. Sagendorf
▪ D-9899: Paul O. Pedigo
▪ D-9898: Sheryl G. Williams

The man walked back into the observation room where his older white bearded colleague was waiting. "All done?"
The man nodded. "Yeah, he didn't ask too many questions, this one. Went right in."
The older man clicked his tongue as he watched the procedure take place. "So the new implants… I hear they don't show up on the X-rays?"
"That's right. Opted for a thin composite casing instead."
The surgeons below worked feverishly on Mr. Turnbull's brain as the small device was delicately implanted onto the brain stem and connected to both cerebral ventricles.
"We still using the Class-F amnestics on these ones?"
The man again nodded and stuffed the files into his briefcase. "It's been working well enough. The retention rate is a tad lower than what we originally predicted, but it's within the limits."
The older man shook his head, reminiscing on the previous years of D-class asset decommissions. "Seems like a lifetime ago… we'd just, you know, monthly terminations being what they are… or were. I'm actually pretty satisfied with this alternative. The older methods left a bad taste in everyone's mouth. Wasn't good for morale."
The briefcase snapped closed behind him. "I agree. And with the implants, there's no risk of an information breach. A triggered dose of potassium chloride in the right spot-" He snapped his fingers. "-death in ninety seconds or less. Quick, efficient, simple."
"So what would set it off?" The older gentleman looked over his shoulder.
"Well, with the integration of the Class-F amnestic and the identity reconditioning program following, we just have the original post-conditioned memories set off very specific nerve activation signals if they ever get past the neural interlocks."
"Sounds complicated."
The man confidently walked over to the monitors, briefcase in hand. "It's not as complex as you think; ever wake up from a dream you couldn't remember? Basically the same concept and the results are well worth it. I mean, their original lives are nightmares compared to what we are setting them up with."
In front of where he stood, hundreds of individual monitors were streaming live feeds from other conditioned individuals since the induction of the program. "Incognizant agents integrated into the civilian populace. Living and breathing like normal members of society. Students, businessmen, construction workers, pilots, stay-at-home mothers, pastors. And to think, total surveillance could be achievable within our lifetimes."
"Maybe in your lifetime. Still, it's something we could only dream of when I started."
A blank monitor flickered on casting an image of both men from a perspective below, outside the observation room. Mr. Turnbull's unconscious eyes fixated in their direction, unblinking and online. Both men sighed in contentment over their work.
"So what's this one getting assigned as?"
The man squinted his eyes trying to recall that bit of information. "A truck driver, I think. We'll have him stationed somewhere in Montana with his new identity."
The older man chuckled in disbelief at this. "Wow. Unbelievable that it's that simple. You're doing good work."
"This is why I joined the Ethics Committee. So glad we can put these people to use rather than disposing them."
The man shook his older colleague's hand. "We still on for lunch tomorrow?"
"Sure."


Django Bridge woke up.
He'd been sleeping in his office, face down at his desk. The glow of his screensaver and the yellow of a lamp outside were casting a mixture of warm and cool light in the room.
He sat up and cracked his neck, glanced at his monitor. Red. That was not good.

ALERT MESSAGE PROMPT ◄ ► ▬ X

UNAUTHORIZED LOGIN ATTEMPTS!
LOCATION: NODE-66-A
PLEASE CONTACT SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR!

Bridge was the system administrator. He was also the only Level 4 on the site. He swiveled out from behind his desk to hustle over to the server room downstairs. Who in the hell was screwing around with the servers at 3 in the morning? Only persons with Clearance Level 3 or higher were even allowed into the server room.
As he made his way downstairs and through the halls, Bridge unclipped the radio from his belt and made a call. Site-66 was, originally, a coal power plant, abandoned for about a decade or so before SCP-1479 was discovered inside one of the outbuildings. Most structures had been updated and upgraded, with other SCP objects scattered around the premises.
Bridge's office was in Building A, the largest and most extensively updated structure, complete with modern offices, an exceptional security system, and a block of data archival servers on the second basement level. Most of the halls were lit by stark fluorescent lighting against the old, heavy metal and concrete corridors, giving an industrial look to the lower levels.
Bridge arrived on the second level and immediately noticed how quiet the place was. No security peons in sight… Strange.
"Bridge to security, I have an unauthorized entry in the new archive servers. I'm taking a look—" He cocked his head to the side to see an open server panel.
He turned the corner to find a man he didn't recognize. The man wore an oxford white shirt with black tie and suspenders, and was bent over a bundle of tangled wires and devices.
"Hold on, hold on, stop right there, hands up." Bridge quickly drew and aimed a taser at the man. He'd practiced that motion quite a bit in his off time.
The man looked up with a shocked expression. "Whoa there, Hoss… I just—"
"Stand up, hands up!"
"Whatever you say. Listen though… I'm respondin' to the same thing you are. Prolly."
"Okay. Then who are you, and what the hell are you doing in my servers?" Bridge's arm relaxed a little. Suspenders. Pale. Earpiece? IT peon?
"Look, I got ID." The man reached into his shirt pocket to produce a Foundation badge and a folded transfer order. Bridge peered down and scanned it.
"Site-66 information requisition by order of Dr. Karlyle Aktus, MTF Lambda-2 transferee Agent Dietrich Lurk…. Lurk?" He gave Dietrich a queer glance.
"Pa's family's Scottish." Dietrich shrugged.
Bridge continued to read Dietrich's orders. His eyes flicked between the ID photo and Lurk's face. He's seen this face before, somewhere. Probably when he was combing the personnel index for Lament's email. He shook his head and stepped a bit closer, clipped the ID tag to Dietrich's pocket.
"Feel like I should have known we had a new guy. Did Dr. Seidelman confirm you? What are you up to at three in the morning?"
Dietrich let out a long exhale. "Just arrived twelve hours ago, I'm still on the different time zone overseas. But really… this shit ain't mine." He motioned to the stripped wires and alligator clips pouring out of the open server panel and the silvery canister nestled in the middle.
'Twelve hours…' Bridge wondered, leaning over to get a better look around the newcomer. After a moment he slipped around and crouched down to get a better look. Panel cut off at the hinges. Lots of wires. No brand names or writing. And the wiring…
“They… hacked the security interlocks?” Bridge stood back up, a hand going to his forehead.
Dietrich nodded. "Yup, and look'it here. They got the site's jammer frequency set to disable its own comms."
"That makes sense…Wait, seriou—" Bridge jumped as he was interrupted by a wet plcht sound and Dietrich dropped to the cold linoleum. For a half second, Bridge thought his finger slipped and he tazed Dietrich himself — then he saw a masked feminine figure holding what looked like a handheld electropneumatic launcher.
"Agh-ahgha—" was all he was able to convey before the assailant slipped out of sight.
"G-g-goddamnit!" Dietrich grabbed onto Bridge's pant leg in pain.
"Aaaagh— sorry sorry—" Bridge bent down and pulled out the projectile from Dietrich's back.
"GAH! SHIT!" Dietrich shakily picked himself off the floor and took a knee. "That fuckin' smarts… whoooooohoo."
“Are you okay?” Bridge cringed as he held the projectile at arm's length. The nasty black and yellow pronged cylinder was still firing tiny arcs into the air. He marveled at the brutality. "…This is not standard issue."
"Yah? No shit. You gonna go'on after her?"
"What?"
"We're cut off, I've just been tasered, and can barely get up. Go'on after her." Dietrich tossed Bridge a tiny audio earpiece. "Here, put that sucker in."
"… Right. Okay. Why?" Bridge wiped the earbud off, and slipped the piece into his ear canal.
«Testing. Testing. One two,» chirped a perky female voice on the other end.
Dietrich motioned to his own identical headset. "Alex, yer connection's good. I'm gonna plug ya into the site's wireless direct. Give this gent 'ere directions, corner off the perp, then see if we can establish comms fer the cavalry, copy all that?"
«You got it, sir! Dr. Bridge, head forward and make that first right.»
Bridge took a deep breath and nodded his head, and took off just as Dietrich plugged in his mobile device into a USB port.

«Okey dokey, Dr. Bridge, take this left and we'll flank her. I'm closing accesses and leading her into a utility tunnel. She'll be blocked in.»
"Just Bridge. And thanks… er… Alex. Alex, right? Are you off-site?"
«No silly! I'm one of the AI conscripts.»
"Oh. Oh hey, cool! I just read about those, like with Gla-"
«You missed the turn.»
"Right, sorry." Bridge jerked to a stop and turned on his heel to continue jogging down the hallway.
«Great, I got her on the security cameras en route to you. Duck behind this corner for a moment.»
Bridge complied and pulled his taser back out.
«Er… Bridge… your gun.»
He cringed and slipped the taser in his pocket, while he fumbled for a standard issue firearm with the other hand.
«Good, now if you would fire two shots from around your corner down that hallway adjacent.»
"What am I shooting at?"
«It doesn't matter, just spook her a little. She's going deeper into the basement.»
Bridge complied and blindly let off two rounds.

POP POP

"Motherfuck!" yelled a female voice, followed by hurried footsteps in the opposite direction.
«Thank you! She's headed for the dead end now.»
"Ha!" Bridge grinned. Excellent. Nothing down here but old pipes and circuit breakers.
«Dietrich, you there? We got her trapped. Fixing the comms too.»

"Yah, copy. Good work you two. I'm just tryin' to deal with whatever this thing is she left behind."
Dietrich looked at Merle in the reflection as he pointed to one of the screws on the canister itself. "Good call there, partner."
He squinted his eyes in hopes of identifying the dark grey powder caked around one of the sunk screws. With his fingernail he scooped up a teeny bit and gave it a whiff, a trick he picked up in his years tagging along with MTF Mu-13.
"Guys… this 'ere is thermite. Guess'n she wanted to cover her tracks."
Merle signed to him reassuringly.

I-KNOW-WHAT-TO-DO

"Wait, what?" Bridge pushed the earpiece in deeper just in case he'd heard wrong. He hadn't. The repeated word 'thermite' followed by 'bomb' just put a pit in his gut.
«… Lurk? Hello? Can you disarm it?»
There was a brief pause between Alex and Bridge as they listened to a few choice expletives followed by an eventual affirmation.
«Good, I almost have comms back online. Hang tight for another five minutes.»
"So now what?"
«Bridge, approach and keep her in place.»
"… Okay. Ten-four." Bridge straightened up. His spine cracked a little as he headed into the utility tunnel.
His panic shifted into anger. She dared put a bomb in his archives?
He couldn't see her, but knew she was there. "There's no exit here! Put your weapons on the ground!" His heart beat fast. His hands trembled as he held his gun up.
There was no answer. Bridge set his jaw and flicked the safety on his gun to 'off'.
“Lay down. Do not move,” he shouted. He carefully drew closer, with measured, even steps.
He held his gun in one hand, reached into a pocket to draw his taser. He held them forward on either side as he stepped down the darkened hallway… and found nothing but pipes.
“… What the hell? Where'd she go?”
«That's impossible. She's not on any of the video or infrared feeds anymore.»
The tunnel suddenly reverberated as the rolling faint sound of thunder passed through.
"What was—"

«WARNING! FIRE DETECTED IN SERVER ROOM! HALON GAS EXTINGUISHERS ACTIVE! PLEASE EVACUATE TO LEVEL B-1!»

«… DIETRICH!»

The smoldering hole that used to be the Site-66 Main Archive was quickly put out by the gas. A few seconds longer and Dietrich would have been found as a crispy charcoal skeleton.
"Merle! When you say 'you can help'; that don't mean to ramble on about cuttin' red or green wires then givin' up and tellin' me to toss it into a trashcan!" Dietrich would have yelled more, but trying to talk between coughs was proving too difficult. He looked into a reflective surface to see Merle sign a response.

I-THOUGHT-IT-WORKED-WELL-ENOUGH

Dietrich angrily signed back.

YOU-HAVE-TERRIBLE-IDEAS

Merle then flipped him the bird… as did Dietrich, only much harder.

Bridge returned to see Dietrich flipping himself off in a reflection. Right.
"Oh thank god you're alive. You alright?"
"Huh? Oh, yah… I uh… yer library though." Dietrich pointed to the blackened room behind them.
Bridge held up a hand between his eyes and the disaster. "Don't even want to look at it."
«Dietrich, I'm looking through the backup logs now to view the most recent changes. Comms is also back up, security inbound and they'll want an explanation I imagine.»
"Right. I got a bloody shoulder and singed hair. I reckon there'll be a debriefing, Alex. What 'bout you two? Where's that spy?"
"Don't know. She just fucking disappeared." Bridge gritted his teeth, pulling his earpiece out and looking at it. Did Dietrich just carry around a bunch of these things?
“What'd'ya mean?” Dietrich furrowed his brow.
“I mean she disappeared down a dead end.”
"But what abo—" Plcht. Dietrich toppled to the floor a second time as a team of six security guards rushed into the hazy server room.
"EVERYONE FREEZE!" shouted the security guard on point.
Bridge stuck the Alex piece back in and put his hands up. "No no no, not him! He's Foundation!"
"G-g-g-goddamnit!" Dietrich stuttered in between the clicks of the taser.

Bridge accompanied Dietrich to the infirmary to to help him rest and get patched up.
Merle was in Dietrich's periphery, laughing his ass off. Dietrich fumed. Merle had clearly intentionally decided not to warn Dietrich that the guards were coming. Not that this was surprising. Merle was prone to 'dick moves'.

Alexandra just finished running diagnostics and a few other utilities on the auxiliary servers.
"So… why were you transferred, Dietrich?"
"I don't reckon I can really say why. I'm under orders by the higher ups. Gotta take it up with my new boss." Dietrich rubbed the gauze patch on his shoulder.
"Uh huh. Guessing you can't tell me who?"
Dietrich hesitated a bit before answering. "Ever heard of Lambda Two? It's a new outfit. I'm not even sure what it's all 'bout. But that's what I'm runnin' with."
Bridge cocked his head a bit and leaned his weight into the door frame. "I heard a couple rumours about that. Something about the legendary Doctor Clef making it happen. I thought they made him a desk jockey?"
Dietrich nodded. "Yup… reckon it was time to dust off that weird shit-kicker hat of his." He coughed a bit. His lungs still stung from the halon gas. "All I can tell you is that I'm headed out prolly in the morning. This was supposed to be a quick stop. Perhaps that black-ops lady was af'er the same thing I was."
Bridge's expression hardened. "Go on?" He closed the door to the triage room.
"Don't get yer panties in a wad." Dietrich held up his hand. "I just had Alex running checks within Site-66. You folks have real good internal record keeping. Just making sure a certain group is on the up-and-up. Heard they might've made contact here."
Bridge huffed in irritation. "Yeah? Nobody thought to tell me about this. Who?"
Dietrich squinted past Bridge. Merle's hands were signing to Dietrich from an adjacent mirror.

HE-WOULD-BE-USEFUL

Dietrich nodded in agreement and paused to choose his next words wisely. "Bridge, you prolly want to know who torched yer archives and why, yah? I just had a crazy idea, but hear me out. I reckon you should accompany me—"
«US!»
"Yah, us to Site-17."
"Site-17. Okay. And why is that?" Bridge murmured, glancing to the side as if to glance at Alex in his ear.
He began to sift through his upcoming schedule in his head, visualizing his calendar. A few meetings, containment review… Maybe. No, he could probably spare some time. Definitely.
Alexandra chirped into Bridge's earpiece. «Based on some of these search queries, I'm pretty sure the intruder was looking for files on Alpha-Nine, like we were doing.»
"I need a data-rat. Really, I need a data-rat with 'nuff clearance to get Alex in where she needs to go. We work together on this, we can shoot two coyotes with one bullet. And that bullet's name is Alex. Wanna ride the bench, or steal home on this?"
"I don't golf, but I think I'll come along. Give me a few hours to set everything in order." Bridge took out his phone and turned on his heel towards the door. "I'll see you in a bit."
Dietrich nodded. "Yup, meet me in the motorpool garage."
Bridge paused for a moment, his hand on the door handle, letting it register in his mind. The garage, not the tarmac.
"The garage. Got it. See you." Bridge turned the handle and stepped out.


Anderson Massey suppressed a shudder as he stepped through the doorway. On the other (the proper) side of the door, it was an elegant Georgian style paneled door with an elegant entablature. On this side, it was plain wood, with cracked and faded paint. It was also about thirty degrees colder, with a light fog.
"Right, let's go," he said to the guide, a thickset man in a much cheaper suit.
The guide was one of many "specialists" employed by Marshall, Carter and Dark. No one who worked for the Company could ever be described as shabby, but his dark blue coat was a few shades cheaper than Massey's, and the cigar was cheap, with noxious smoke. The man grunted behind a grey scarf, and set out down the alley.
It was always an alley in the Shadow Market. There were no main streets, just narrow alleyways winding their way between the brick buildings with boarded-up windows and locked doors that hid whatever it was the Minders kept in there.
Massey hated the place. It wasn't that it was outside the world he knew. That was part and parcel of working for the Company. No, he hated its shabbiness. It was a low-class world designed for low-lifes. He belonged in his office or the board room, not trudging down a muddy alley under a dingy twilight with ever-present smoke hanging in the air with the smell of tobacco and coal. Gentlemen should not trudge anywhere. They should stride, with purpose.
He stepped in something he couldn't quite see, and bit off a curse. "Not so quickly," he said, his voice sharp. "These streets are a bloody mire, and some of us take care of our appearance."
"Whatever," the man said from behind the scarf. He'd said hardly a dozen words since they'd been introduced.
Massey narrowed his eyes. "I'd watch my tone if I were you. Unless you'd care to find alternate employment." An innocent phrase, outside of the Company. Within it… Well, no one ever left the company of their own will, and a person could be employed in so many ways.
The man simply grunted. Massey ground his teeth. He would have to arrange something unpleasant. Specialists were useful, but they had to know their place.
Occasionally, they passed someone else on their way to an errand. Sometimes they were Minders, in their grey leathers and brass, smoked goggles. Sometimes it was a man from the normal world, shoulders hunched, eyes darting from place to place. Sometimes it was something more… exotic. Tall and thin, or short, squat and scaled.
Finally, the guide stopped at the entrance to a short, narrow blind alley. "There," he said.
"Well, thank you very much!" Massey said, indignation thick on his voice. "Wait here, and don't let me catch you listening on. This is a highly sensitive meeting, and you're not paid to eavesdrop."
The man grunted.
Massey walked to the end of the alley and waited. Naturally, it started to rain. By the time the droplets of water made it through the smoke and past the leaning rooftops, they were a dingy grey. He shivered and wrapped his coat a little tighter. He wished, now, that he'd gone with a coat a bit more like the guide. It would need careful laundering, and that was if it was salvageable. Back-alley deals weren't supposed to be quite this literal.
His guide could be seen only by the faint red pinprick at the end of his cigar.
After a few minutes, he realized he wasn't alone.
Two Minders were waiting with him. Neither turned to look at him, nor did they say a word. They didn't show any discomfort from the rain, though it was hard to tell with their eyes hidden beneath smoked-glass lenses. Only their noses and mouths showed that they were human. Or at least had human-like mouths and noses. No one he'd spoken with was entirely sure on that point.
Massey thought about asking them what they were doing there, but decided it wasn't worth the bother.
Finally, after Massey was thoroughly soaked, a handsome looking man entered the alley. His name was Mr. Fire, though he pronounced it "Fear-a." His smile was a touch too shiny, and his suit (much nicer than Massey's) appeared perfectly clean, if a bit damp. He carried a travel case at his side.
"Anderson!" he said. "I saw you, what, two months ago? How's the wife? Kid starting softball soon?"
Massey forced a smile. He'd never told Fire about his wife or child. "They're fine, fine. Thank you for asking."
"You got here a bit early," Fire said. "Should have called. I could have left a bit sooner, saved you a bit of a soaking."
"Oh, it's no trouble. Besides, I know it's a bit of a hike," Massey said. That was something he'd been briefed on by another one of the company's specialists. "He walks everywhere. Everywhere. Cars and planes, trains and armored carriers, all at his disposal, and stranger means besides, and he walks. From one end of the world to another, however fast he needs to, arriving just when he intends."
"Well, what's done is done. Gents, glad you could make it as well." He turned to the Minders.
"You paid," one of them said, shrugging. The shoulders didn't move quite right, Massey thought.
The specialist who had brought Massey was moving in closer now. Massey felt a twist of annoyance, but also a bit of comfort. He suddenly felt very exposed with the two Minders as well as Mr. Fire there. He wished he'd been a little more polite to the man, but anyone who worked for MC&D was professional enough to get on with a job despite that. And anyway, an executive ranked far above any common thug, no matter how talented.
"Always pay your creditors when you can, or you'll pay even more when you can't," Fire said. "Did you bring it?"
In response, the Minder pulled out a broken pocket watch. Presumably it was a dream or a memory. Massey had been briefed on that. They could take on almost any form, from old casettes to tourist trinkets to worn coins. In Carter's office was a fragment of obsidian which was supposedly the oldest memory the Minders had ever stolen.
Fire took it from the Minder and showed it to Massey. The jangling of the chain echoed faintly with a man's laughter, and he could just make out a smiling face in the shining surface.
"What is it?" Massey asked. His eyes darted to the specialist, who was now hovering behind the smiling man.
"A memory," Fire said. "Fresh from the Black Queen's mind. You've had some trouble with her in the past."
"Not as much as you," Massey said, suspiciously.
"Ah, but I already have the information from this memory. It might do you a bit more good. I think it should cover the records we discussed and then some."
"We didn't discuss any—" Massey began.
"It's a deal," the heavyset man said. "The records from the camp tomorrow, and the rest paid later."
Massey glanced back at the heavyset man. He'd hardly said a word on the way in. What was he doing?
"Glad to hear it! And great to see you out of that chair and back on your feet." Fire said. "Tell you what, though. I've grown rather fond of Andy here. Throw him in and we'll call it even."
To Massey's growing confusion and horror, the heavyset man nodded, spat into one massive hand, and held it out. Fire returned the gesture.
The heavyset man made a gesture then, a peculiar one, and Massey felt his legs give way beneath him. His eyelids felt strangely heavy.
"Delivery will be the usual place," the heavyset man said. "And there had better be no tricks, Four."
"Tricks? Never." As he started losing consciousness, Massey heard the smiling man laugh. "Would I cheat my good friend Carter?"

Back in the office, Carter carefully put the memory away. It could be reviewed later. For now, the Happy Acres incident needed his attention.
Every good company needs to do three things to succeed: handle the money, deal with the customers, and do the work. Marshall dealt with the customers: he would be consoling grieving parents and smoothing ruffled feathers. Carter handled the rest. Let Dark stew in whatever hell he came from. Let Marshall be the smiling face of the corporation. They couldn't do shit without Carter.
There was a stack of printouts and folders on his desk: everything he could gather, steal, and extort about the Happy Acres incident. That stack of folders had cost him dearly: field reports from a bent GOC agent. The best information his Serpent's Hand contacts could get him. A pet senator who had given him access to the UIU's database in exchange for certain favors.
Knowledge was power. So was money. They could be exchanged for each other if you knew how, and Carter was an expert. He'd spent much of the latter two to gain as much knowledge as he'd found. Now that he had it, it was time to put it to work.
He picked up the first folder and started reading.
One wall of Carter's office was a corkboard. He didn't trust computers for this kind of work. He liked something he could touch. Over the next few days, it became covered in an increasingly intricate pattern of papers, photographs, pins, colored strings, scrawled notes. One by one, he eliminated the usual suspects. The GOC was otherwise occupied. The Insurgency was incapable of operating so openly in the area by reason of blood. He'd have heard about any Hand members planning such an attack, and besides, there were no Ways nearby…
There was one index card left uncrossed when Carter finished his analysis.

FOUNDATION

Now, there was an interesting thought. It was rather byzantine, but the Overseers were so enamored of playing games, it took Dark to keep it all straight. They could have… They might have…
No. He knew every word that had passed between the Overseers for the past two weeks. He would have known if they were up to this. A rogue operative? Unlikely. The Overseers kept a close eye on their assets. Had done so ever since…
… ever since…
"Jennifer," Carter said to the woman-shaped thing that manned his desk. "Fetch me our reports on the Foundation from… Mmm. Make it 2006. September."
"Yes, Mister Carter." There was a tinny quality to her voice. He'd have to talk to R&D about that before they announced the line for their customers.
The secretary passed him an old, dog-eared file that smelled of dust and old paper. He saw the name he was looking for on the first page.
Carter put down the file and picked up the phone. His hand didn't shake, but the veins on the back of it stood out, and there was a slight twitch in his left eye. He dialed.
"Carter!" Marshall's voice was as smooth and practiced as Four. "I was just talking to the Goldbergs. What can I do for you?"
"Trouble," Carter said.
"Oh, it can't be too bad, not with you handling it. How bad is it?"
"Dark bad."
There was silence on the other end. Then, "Shit."
"I need a meeting of the entire board as quickly as possible," Carter said. "How quickly can you settle with the families?"
"I can be there first thing in the morning," Marshall said.
"That will be fine." No need to contact Dark. Dark would arrive without needing to be asked. Carter rubbed his back where the tubes had, until recently, connected him with… Jenkins? Franklin? No, it had been Cho. No matter. Gone now. Good riddance.
Carter put the phone down, picked up the red marker and drew a broad slash through the index card marked "FOUNDATION". He picked up an index card and pinned it over that card.
He wrote a single word on that card.

BOWE

After a little more consideration, Carter added a question mark.
He hoped he was wrong. He really did.
Otherwise, this was going to be very bad for business.