The doctor was growing frustrated.
How long had it been since his last surgery? A month? A year? Ten years? A hundred? His fingers were itching to be able to perform again, to put to test his new theories. He could feel himself growing closer, ever closer to finally vanquishing that vile Pestilence that was apparently fervent on festering within the bodies of millions upon millions of innocents who were not deserving of such a fate. He just needed to stay determined, no matter the stress, no matter the hardship, no matter the—
"Oh-four-nine, this is Doctor Frederic Omage, can you hear me?"
The doctor jumped slightly as his pacing and internal monologuing was interrupted. He turned towards the speaker on the ceiling of his cell, which crackled to life after whatever length of time it had been silent. Maybe it had been a millennia? No, surely that is too long, be reasonable with your estimations, doctor, you're getting sloppy.
"Y-yes! Yes, I can hear you, doctor! Oh, the joys of hearing another voice in this wretched cell! Do you have news for me? Or perhaps another patient?" he said, barely able to contain his joy.
"In a sense," Doctor Omage said through the speaker, "You've been on good behavior for the last decade, so we've decided to give you a little gift. By our records, today is a very important day for us veterans of the Foundation; the anniversary of when we contained you. Happy Containment Day."
Never before had he yearned to hear the sounds he was hearing now; the buzzer of the first door opening, the hiss of it closing and then… there they were. Two guards, faces masked in attire he remarked was updated since their last visitation to his cell. Between them was a man with a shaved head and an orange jumpsuit. The doctor strode calmly over to the man in orange, hand extended, ready to help…
"Get back, oh-four-nine, we will take fire if we have to," the guard on the left said, aiming his piece towards the doctor.
The doctor raised his hands in surrender, "Excuse me, I was under the impression that I was to work on a patient? I can…" the doctor inhaled deeply, "…I can smell the Pestilence on the man in orange. I can help you, I will."
The speaker crackled and once again and Doctor Omage's voice came through, "D-73747, please set the patient down on the floor."
In a unique lack of perception, the doctor had not even noticed that the man in the orange jumpsuit was holding a small metal box in his hands. The man bent down and did as instructed, setting the box gently on the floor of the chamber. Nonetheless, once the box was on the ground at the doctor's feet, the man and his guards left the chamber, the doors hissing close. The doctor was alone.
He turned towards the speaker, confused and upset, "You said that I would be allowed a patient! It was a gift for me! And you just let a man absolutely oozing with Pestilence leave my quarters! What is the meaning of this cruel joke, Doctor Omage?"
Doctor Omage sighed, "I said that you would have a patient in a sense. It's not a human subject, we're not letting you anywhere close to those," Doctor Omage paused, "However, we do want to test a theory we have about a particular subject. Oh-four-nine, if you could open the box in front of you, please?"
Disgruntled but not disheartened, the doctor leaned down and picked up his gift. The box was shear and smooth on all sides save for a small round button which he pressed, intuiting that it was its opening mechanism. With a hiss and a rush of cold air, the box opened. With the lid and the vapor out of the way, the doctor saw his gift.
"A mosquito? A decade with no means to practice my work, and you think that a mosquito will be a suitable subject?" the doctor said, his voice raised.
"That is SCP-3774-2432. It perished before we could interview it about its time outside of the Foundation, and a few weeks ago I had suggested the idea to a number of doctors of attempting to revive it using your… cure," Doctor Omage explained, "Its brain is mostly cybernetics, but without a healthy organic body, it can't function. You can make its body work again, correct?"
The doctor was furious. They insult his practices by having him perform surgery on an insect? How disgusting, how humiliating! In all his days of cooperating with fellow men of science and medicine, how could they possibly assume he would be fine with such a horrendously embarrassing idea? What could he possibly learn from a mosquito?…
What could he possibly learn from a mosquito?
He had never truly performed on an insect, as he rarely deviated beyond mammals for his work. It's unlikely that he could learn much, but… it was not impossible for him to learn anything. Should he want to stay among the doctors' good graces, refusing the gift would likely not get him any advantage, beyond perhaps a sense of pride that he was able to have some sense of power within the walls of his cell. Was it truly worth being petty for his pride and potentially sabotage his own efforts due to the… uniqueness of a patient?
The doctor exhaled once and regained his composition, "I have… I have not had a patient this unorthodox, but in the pursuit of medicine, I will try. I give you no promises."
"Wonderful. I assume you have the tools you need, so I will leave you to your work," Doctor Omage said.
The speaker was once again silent, and the doctor was alone once more. At least, save for his new patient. He sighed, and prepared himself for what was going to be likely his strangest surgery yet.

Leslie's last memory before her death was the embrace of the man she loved. He was a sweet man, a kind man, a funny man, and just moments before, he had become the father of her children. She knew that if this was the way she was going to die, at least she was able to die in his company. It was bittersweet, but… she knew it was her time.
Which is why the moment her cybernetic brain was able to reboot, she was confused and scared and distraught about what exactly was happening. It was a miracle that she was able to retain her memories, let alone her sentience, but the combination of proper storage of her body, her natural implants and the doctor's work made that miracle happen.
Leslie's legs and wings twitched as she began to move her body again for the first time in ages, and as the cameras in her eyes began to work once more, she began to scream. She yelled, terrified of what was going on, worried if this was some sort of strange hell, desperate to be back to her Merle again.
"Hm," the doctor said, looking down at the wriggling mosquito in front of him, "This was… unexpected."
Leslie turned her head towards the doctor, emulating a gasp as she saw his figure, "Are you death? Is this where I go when I die? Oh god, oh god, what's happening to me? Where am I?"
The doctor put a hand on his chin, puzzling over what to do about his patient. He didn't know if this was a new symptom of his cure or if this was unique to the subject, but… he had to learn, nonetheless. Any information is good information.
"I am not death, dear patient. Quite the opposite, actually! I have cured you from the Pestilence that had wrought your body, and now you are healthy and full of vigor!" the doctor explained, "Your name is SCP-3774-2432, from what I remember? Quite a large number, I'm simply known as SCP-049 by the doctors of this facility."
Leslie stopped wriggling, regained her footing and managed to stand up properly, "That's not my name anymore. It's Leslie. Like Leslie Caron, the actress. And what do you mean this facility?" Leslie paused, "I'm not back at the Foundation, am I?"
The doctor tilted his head at Leslie in confusion, "I do not know who Leslie Caron is. Should I?"
Leslie flew up to the doctor's eye level. Although shaky, she remembered how to fly again fairly quickly, almost like a person would remember how to ride a bike after dying and being reanimated after an extended period of time.
"That doesn't matter. If we're in the Foundation, I need to get out of here. My children are out there! Or worse, they're being kept here for some kind of twisted study!" Leslie exclaimed, "Do you know some way out of here? Some place that I could go to to try to find information on where my children are?"
The doctor laughed to himself, the eyes in his mask crinkling, "Do you truly think the doctors here would be so cruel? I'm sure your children are safe, in fact, I am certain of it!"
"How do you know?!" Leslie snapped back, "I was made by the Foundation for espionage so they could locate and abduct people without them even realizing they're being tracked. If they wanted to take my children, if they wanted to take Merle, they could, and they would…. oh god… did…"
Leslie flew back down to the table, turning away from the doctor, not wanting to look at anyone. Had her relationship with Merle… sweet, kind, funny, innocent Merle… gotten him captured? There was a silence between them for several seconds before the doctor coughed into his hand.
"I do not know who Merle is, and I do not know where he or your children are now. I may have a less than favorable disposition towards some of the doctors here due to their insistence that my work is a detriment to society, however they are not… cruel. Misguided, perhaps, at times, but never purposefully malicious," the doctor said, "I would help you escape if I could, but considering the information you seem to be looking for, compliance with the doctors here would be the best logical step."
Leslie did not respond.
"Tell me, Leslie, you are a mosquito, yes? And you were created by the Foundation for… espionage?" the doctor asked.
"Yes," Leslie replied simply.
"I was told you had cybernetic implants in your body that allowed you to function at a higher level than that of a typical mosquito," the doctor said, "Does that include cameras? Can the Foundation see what you see?"
"Y-yes," Leslie said again, "Why does this matter?"
"Was this… Merle fellow the man you were supposed to track down? The person that you were instructed to locate and allow the Foundation to capture them?" the doctor asked.
"No. It was a false ID, but…" Leslie emulated another sigh, "But I couldn't go away from him. I first met him when he was at home, and… he looked so sad. He had a picture of him and his parents on his night stand, he had no siblings. He looked lonely and I thought… sure, this might not be my mission, but I figured I had a bit of time to… make a friend."
"And the Foundation could see that you decided to go against your mission protocol to do this?" the doctor said leaning forward towards Leslie, "Considering that you yourself said they could see what you see."
"They did," Leslie said, "But that doesn't—"
The doctor interrupted Leslie, "You broke protocol to go cavorting with another man completely unrelated to your task at hand. They watched you do this, and instead of stopping you or exterminating you, they allowed it to continue. Why?"
Leslie was once again silent.
"Leslie?" the doctor asked.
"I don't know. Curiosity?" Leslie finally responded.
"Is Merle the man you had your children with?" the doctor asked.
"Yes, he's… he's a lovely man. He loved movies. And children. He gave me my name," Leslie said, emulating a light chuckle, "He wasn't a fan of when I tried to cook for him, though. Never really worked out right."
"I too, am a doctor, like those at this facility, and I know that if there is a possibility to gain some incredible knowledge from something, I will let it happen. Unless these doctors have seen hybrids of human being and mosquitoes before, which in all of my years of practicing medicine I personally have not seen, they would keep your children alive," the doctor reassured, "The only way to find out, my girl, is to cooperate."
Leslie turned back towards the doctor, her wings twitching slightly. She could tell that he was an absolute genius; he was quick-witted, logical, reasonable, and yet he still managed to find a way to be reassuring in a time of crisis. She knew that the man in front of her was not death at all, but rather just someone who genuinely truly wanted to help the world.
"Thank you, doctor," Leslie said, "That… that really helps. Oh, and… thank you for the whole… bringing me to life thing?"
Leslie emulated another light chuckle, to which the doctor responded with one of his own, "Think nothing of it. It was my pleasure to operate on you, to come ever closer to my cure. It is good to have a patient who truly appreciates my work."
Before Leslie could say anything in return, the speaker once again crackled, "Oh-four-nine, are you finished with your operation on SCP-3774-2432?"
The doctor looked up, looked back down to Leslie, then back up to the speaker, "Yes, Doctor Omage! Your gift was greatly appreciated! She was a unique case, but I believe she is fully cured!"
"Excellent, good work, oh-four-nine," Doctor Omage said, "We'll be retrieving her shortly."
Once again, the buzzing and hissing of various security doors opening and closing could be heard, and the two guards once again walked in, this time no third subject to accompany them.
"SCP-3774-2432, if you can hear or understand us, please go with the two guards so you may be escorted to an interview," Doctor Omage explained.
"Yes, don't worry, I can hear you!" Leslie said, cheerily as she flew up off of the table.
Leslie began to fly towards the guards, who were appeared confused at the talking mosquito before them. Leslie slowed her flight, hesitant to really go along with the guards, but as she turned back to look at the doctor for guidance, he simply motioned for her to go with them.
So she did.
With a few more hisses, buzzes and slamming doors, the doctor was once again alone, and this time truly alone.
"Doctor Omage?" the doctor said out loud.
"Yes, oh-four-nine?" he heard in reply, "Was there something you wanted to say?"
"Yes… who is Leslie Caron?"

[{$previous-url} {$previous-title}]

Leslie's Journey in the OCT

La Marcha GrenaDEETa

Don't forget to check out Gabriel Jade's entry as well!


The sun was setting, the crowds were gawking, the owls were perching, and the Circus was bustling! However, with the day's main performances coming to an end, patrons were encouraged to venture further than the Big Top and explore the rest of the nooks and crannies of the tent filled maze. To experience side acts, such as Virtuoso, Sandstorm, Zoltan, and countless other shows that straddled the line between fantastical and deeply unsettling. Above the menagerie of sickly sweet cotton candy, freaks of all shapes and sizes, and tents that held increasingly exciting and surprising things, there rose what looked like a house, crooked and bent at unstable architectural angles.
"Mommy, I wanna go there!"
"Where?"
"There!"
The little girl pointed to the highest tower of the mansion, able to be seen from almost anywhere in the circus.
"Oh alright — we only have twenty Fuller Fun Bucks left, you have to use it wisely, are you sure you want to use it on that ride?"
"Yes, yes, let's go, let's go!"
As the mother and daughter ducked between denizens of the Circus and their corresponding crowds — a Clown with far too many eyes, someone whose hands were as big as their body, and a juggler whose balls seemed to multiply with each go around (and even while he was performing other tricks, what an impressive juggler!) — they made it to a clearing, in the middle of which was the mansion that the tower had hinted at. Its windows were dark, its wood rotting, its doors ominous. And from within, if you could make it out over the calliope music, there were screams at inconsistent intervals.
"Step right up, step right up to enter a real life haunted house!!"
A tall, skinny man stood at the entrance of the haunted house and held a small gate closed until the next group would be led in. Every couple minutes, a group of people would exit from the backdoor and lean on the wall to catch their breath. As soon as that group came out, the skinny man would let another group in, and the screaming would begin again.
"Only 10 Fuller Fun Bucks to enter Pepper's House of Mirrors!"
"Are you sure you want to do this, honey?"
"Yay! Yes! Haunted house, haunted house, haunted house~!"
"Alright, but this is the last ride, okay? Then we're going home."
The mother and daughter got in line with the rest of the Circus patrons, anxiously awaiting their chance to be spooked out of their skin. As the line approached the door, and screams became louder and clearer, the daughter danced and pranced and couldn't keep still. Suddenly, the mom and daughter were right up against the gate, next to the tall advertising man. He wore a torn night gown, and his skin was paper white. His eyes had shadows and bags like the little girl — nor the mother — had ever seen before. His hair was shoulder length, black, and slicked back with some sort of gel, and his lips were a very faint purple.
"Who are you?" the curious little girl asked.
The man's movements were slow, smooth, and almost spectral. As he turned to look down at the inquirer, he appeared to almost be floating or gliding. "Oh, me? Mweheh, heehee, baheeheheheehehee!! I'm only Marty Simmons, the caretaker of the house! I was a good butler, I really was, but I just hated the family I worked for. Their bourgeoisie attitudes, their perfect lives, their only want being wealth and pleasure. It sickened me, oh it sickened me! So I, heh, heeheehee, I killed them all in one night!" By this point, the man had begun to talk to the whole line of people and not just the young girl at the front, putting on a show for the whole crowd. "The father's head I pulled apart with my own bare hands —" he showed his hands, whose fingernails were filed into menacing claws "— the mother's eyes I pulled out with my own teeth —" he pulled his lips up and showed his unnaturally long and sharp canines "— and the daughter, poor sweet Pepper… heehee, eheheheheh, AHAHAHAHAHAHA! No one wants to know what I did to sweet, dear Pepper, but for it she gave me… these!!" The crowd all gasped in unison as he pulled up his sleeves to reveal scars of scratches and many, many human bite marks.
A group of circus-goers exited the back door, and two of them held each other and jumped up and down to release nervous energy.
"But I didn't count on her having such an angry heart. Her parents may live happily in the afterlife, but she…" Marty opened the gates to let the next group in. In the entrance of the house, Marty's voice seemed to come from unseen speakers that filled the cobweb infested room. "She refused the gift of heaven, to give me hell on earth, and also to protect the defiled bodies of her parents. But now, you've trespassed into her house, and she won't like that… Pepper won't like that at all, mueheheheh, heheheheh, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAaaaeeeeeheheheheh…"
The door shut behind them, leaving the group with only the dim light of the chandelier in the foyer. After what felt like a minute of silence and nervous shifting of weight, the candles from the chandelier turned a ghastly light blue… and then a screeching metal sound could be heard. Like a mine cart from a movie, almost.
Screeeeeeeeeeeee, eee, ee, screeeee-eeee-eeee, eee, eeeeeeee…
Slowly a mirror, moving along what looked like a specialized set of vertical rails, came into view on top of a landing that overlooked the foyer from the second level of the house. After it stopped, it began to emit a faint blue glow, and from within the mirror a humanoid shape slowly came into view. It approached the mirror, seemingly only existing in the reflected world, but then crawled out from inside the mirror with what looked like immense effort. After reaching the railing of the overlook, it became clear that the apparition was some kind of little girl with an archaic dress and twin braids on either side of their head. It looked down at the group of circus-goers, unblinking, and slowly raised a hand to point in their direction. Then, the candles went out entirely, plunging the room into darkness.
"you wont make it out of here with your skin"
The crowd screamed louder than they'd ever screamed before.

"You were awesome!"
"Right back atcha, tiger. You improvised that origin story?"
"'Course I did! I always liked storytelling."
"You made toys, how did that amount to storytelling in any sense?"
"Well… maybe I didn't follow my passion, okay? Or maybe I have hobbies. But I've always liked acting. Which, by the way, you were great at."
"You flatter me too much."
"You jest. See, I flatter you just enough."
"Stop that."
"If not not enough."
"What did I just say?"
"And besides, you deserve it."
"Shut up."
"Did you see how spooked everyone was?"
"How could I have not? I hate that you made me into a ghost cliche."
"Heheh, I really hope you don't actually."
"No, I do. But you know what I hate even more?"
"What would that be?"
And at this point, Pepper leaned in a bit.
"That I'm loving it."
Brainy shook with excitement. "First day on the job, success! Success!!" Brainy couldn't stop smiling, and danced 'til the dirt underneath him became a dust cloud. "We need music, for celebration purposes."
"Of course."
"Gimme a second, I have something in my dorm. Don't move! I know it might take a little bit, but stay right there." And Brainy ran off into the newly silent circus, in between the dull shades that twilight made out of the bright Circus motifs.
Pepper was in love with her contraption. The mirror had been affixed to a pair of rails that, while entirely linear, allowed Pepper to actually move herself. It was just like moving a limb; she could push her mirror to the right or the left through willpower alone, and it would take her through a set path in the haunted house — her house. Of mirrors. Because of course. And the best part was that, from the top of the house's tower, she could see over the whole circus. All the little tents like hills, the forest barrier, and it almost felt like she wasn't trapped in a mirror anymore. Almost. But there wasn't much reason to dwell on the bad. It was so much better. And Brainy — who she still knew as Marty — had built it for her, all out of the kindness of his heart. Well, that and the want to stay in the Circus, but she liked to imagine that that was secondary.
And anyways, any motion was better than no motion. Plus, in this house, there was a room that really wasn't part of the ride, which was Pepper's room. And Brainy didn't have to put that in, at all. He just did it. There were pictures of her parents, a record player, a book or two hooked up to a mechanism for turning pages that she could affect in the same way she affected the mirror on the rails, and a bed. The bed didn't do anything but make it look like a normal room, because there was no way she could really get any comfort out of it. There was also an entrance to the room through a space between the walls reserved for maintenance of the ride (and help setting it up), through which Brainy could enter and talk to her. He did that every day, unless she told him not to, which wasn't so often. And today! Today had been their first performance, and it had gone flawlessly.
But even with all these places to go, Pepper stayed on the porch of the easily constructed and deconstructed house-looking contraption and waited for Brainy to come back with whatever he had wanted to get. A speaker? Most likely. An instrument? Maybe. Brainy said he liked music — but then again, Brainy said he liked most of everything.
Brainy came out of the woodwork again, holding a… tropical plant, of all things.
"The fuck is this?"
"Language, first of all, and secondly, just uh, something I've been working on."
"You had time to work on something while all this —" Pepper motioned to the haunted house "— was being worked on?"
"I'm a bit of a workaholic. I uh… ah nevermind, but yes, I use most of my free time to just work on more things. It's sort of my thing."
"Well, okay. What is it?"
"Oh, this, this is something pretty cool, I think! It's a pitch plant! Ehhh? Ehhhhhh?"
"I don't get it."
"Like a, uh, like a pitcher plant. But it's a pitch plant. Because music. Get it now?"
"Never heard of a pitcher plant."
"Oh. Well, that's not so bad, 'cause this is what they look like, so now you've heard of a pitcher plant, and know what they look like. Anyways, ask it to sing something!"
"What?"
"Yeah, go ahead, ask it to sing something!"
"Uhh… hmm. Been a while since I listened to stuff. Does it know a guy named Wilson Pickett?"
"It knows anything you ask it."
"What? How's that work?"
"Not even that sure myself, I stripped the blueprint from an old Wondertainment toy — a Musical Jolly Ape."
"Fair enough." Pepper came in close to the pitch plant. "Play, uh, Land of 1000 Dances by Wilson Pickett."
The bell rang, 1, 2, 3! Bwaaahh, 1, 2, 3! And the music started up just like it was being played through some low quality speaker. Pepper immediately began to bounce to the old, soulful, funky music, and motioned for Brainy to join her. Brainy began to jig and twirl and jump to the beat, matching pace with Pepper.
"You're a good dancer!"
"No I'm not, I haven't had music to dance to forever."
"That's not true, you've had the calliope music."
"No good music, then."
"Heheheh, point taken!"
Jig, jig, a jiggy~!
"I wish I could dance with you right now."
"You're dancing with me."
"No, I —" huff "No I'm not!"
"Out of breath already?"
"Sh-shush, I was never an —" hhh "— athletic type!"
"Heheh, yeah I can tell."
"You're not out of breath, and —" hoowee "— you never —" haaa "— work out!"
"Well that's 'cause I'm dead. I got no body to get tired with. Heheh."
"Yeah, that's —" and Brainy stopped moving "— my point, I want to dance with you. Not some image of you." Brainy moved in closer, as Wilson Pickett continued to sing loudly out of a plant.
Pepper, suddenly a little taken aback, stopped dancing too. She looked up at Brainy, as he pouted, like he often did when he was sad. He looked like a little death row puppy waiting for adoption. Innocent, but dark at the same time. His leftover show makeup helped that strange dichotomy as well.
"Well, I can't much help it. I'm dead, Marty."
"I know."
The song ended, and two were left in the relative silence of a fair falling asleep. "I just wish I could hug you."
They stood awkwardly, about a foot apart, for a couple seconds.
"I wish so too, Marty. I wish I could dance with you, hug you, touch you at all, but I can't, and that's not going to change. There's no use thinking about that. So stop it. You'll make me sad, too, and I was having a good couple days."
Pepper frowned, and glared a bit at Brainy. Brainy only flinched and shrunk.
"Well, fine. I'll see you tomorrow."
"No, wait."
"What?"
"It's not as hopeless as you might think."
"And what the fuck's that supposed to mean."
"Uhh… this might come as a surprise."
Pepper crossed her arms.
"But… I was dead once, too."
…
"No, you weren't."
"I was! I was, and — I, there's, a lot! That I haven't told you. And that I need to tell you. Because I think I can trust you. But I'll start simple. I died. But I made a body, and I came back to life. And I can do the same for you."

Another location had come to a close. After over a week of Circus occupation, the Fairgrounds in Nevada City, California, were finally required for more mundane activities, and the Circus was forced to depart before the anomalous and mundane collided in a fashion too noticeable to be safe. As such, the Circus was going to be packed in the morning. The next location was magic-friendly, and thus would gift the Circus with a greater sense of freedom. However, it also meant that there was paperwork to go with it. On nights like these, Icky and Manny spent their time in the Ringmaster's Tent, signing off agreements on how they'll use the space — the safety guidelines, what they can and can't show, how long they will be there, and so on and so forth. What it did allow was more open promotion of themselves, more local tourism for the Freaks, and more safety for the patrons. Oh, and higher prices, because in places where they actually had a reputation (of any kind) people would willingly pay more to see what they've heard so much about.
But the paperwork was extensive, and boring, and meant that the night was going to drag on for forever. The Circus's internet went out just recently, too, so everything had to be meticulously done by hand, and unlike those user agreements for Apple products, these long paragraphs of rules really did have to be read. Manny and Icky commandeered a stage light to use in their work space. They had hoped its bright, glaring light would keep them awake, but alas, bags had set in under — or above — the eyes only an hour in. If only something exciting happened. If only not everyone had fallen asleep in preparation for the big packing tomorrow. If only Ted hadn't eaten all the coffee grounds. They'd certainly have to stock back up at their next location — and apply some stricter rules to the "community goods".
With ever-so-welcome stimulating mercy, in came that tiger colored fellow, creator of the ever popular, new hit attraction, Pepper's House of Mirrors.
"Marty!" Manny said with a mixture of surprise, relief, and as much enthusiasm as he could muster through his sleep-fueled haze. "It's good to see you."
Brainy moved and expressed with a subtle mixture of anxiousness and joy. His facepaint seemed more intricate tonight — the normal stripes now ended in swirls, his eyeliner more boldly present, his purple lipstick brighter than ever before. He was wearing his newly repaired tiger stripe suit as well. He'd gotten it almost back to perfect condition, and despite the dusty surroundings of the fairgrounds, it seemed so clean as to be accepted at some kind of royal ball. One hand of his toyed with his bow tie, the other with the draping of his vest. Before he could respond to Manny, though, Icky spoke up.
"Hey Piranha bait, finally worked up the nerve to drag your sorry butt in front of me again, did you?" Icky attempted, poorly, to both read, write, and talk at the same time. "Well, it seems you've managed to make another kind of splash around here. I've been hearing good things about Pepper's haunted house. I haven't been through it myself yet, but Lolly's been nerding out over it for the past two days."
"She's been on just about forty times." Brainy chuckled.
"She's loved having a real ghost around. She's the one who wanted to buy her in the first place, though admittedly her only other options was dead wax monsters and a poisonous eldritch cat. I think she made the right call."
"Yeah, heh." Brainy must have raised his eyebrows five times, each time with a different expression.
"When I heard you thought you could build a portable haunted house I was tempted to throw you back into the piranha tank, but that thing's an engineering marvel. Plus, the goth aesthetics of the thing are great for our real estate value."
Manny glanced up from whatever contract he was currently signing. "Especially when Pepper sits up there and looks over the place."
"Yeah, that really draws the customers in. Honestly, you've found a much better use for her than we did."
Brainy held his hands and kicked the dirt, smiling shyly.
"So even though you're still on probation, and still aren't allowed anywhere near the Mermaid Exhibit, I think it's safe to say we'll keep you around for a while. You know, just as long as nothing goes sideways with Pepper's house."
Manny motioned in Icky's direction, "Tell him about the posters."
"Oh! Yes! Look at…" Icky pulled several large, glossy posters out from under the big round table and laid them out. "These! 'A new attraction, experience the startlingly horrifying Pepper's House of Mirrors!' And look, there, in the bottom right corner. 'Designed by Marty Simmons'."
"Aww, you didn't have to do that, but —"
"They're gonna go up all over town when we arrive! The crowds will be massive!"
"Uhh, yeah! That's, that's the thing."
"What's the thing?"
Brainy's head shrunk into his shoulders. "Well, see, we… wow, well, first of all, I'm really happy that you're so happy with me, I am truly grateful to be working for you guys, I respect you so so much and I love the whole Circus and I have been just overjoyed to be here, and design a ride, and everything, but…"
"But what?"
"I don't think I can, really, put it into words. Just, uh, Pepper, come on in."
First a hand pulled at the curtain, and then a leg appeared, and then the frill of a dress, and then… Pepper, in all her glory, stepped into view from outside the tent, brow furrowed and tense hands pulling at her dress. The room was silent. Awestruck. Brainy's breaths were shallow and shaky. Pepper looked wholly uncomfortable. Manny's endless scrawling had crawled and then finally stopped.
Pepper coughed. "Well… here I am."
Yet there was no mirror to speak of.

« Pepper's Lament | Vend-a-Friend Hub | Deceptive Cadence »

w/ Wondertainment Theme

w/o Wondertainment Theme


"Who are you and how did you get down here?"
Three pistols target Adelaide's vital points. The OEI agent lifts her arms and shows the Foundation agents her empty hands. "So, this is going to sound really weird," she tells them. "But hear me out. Okay?"
O5-5's expression does not change. Her scowl looks as if it has been carved down into the very bone. "I will not ask you a second time, child."
Adelaide takes a long, heavy breath. She begins: "I work for the OEI — Office of Exoversal Intelligence. I'm here to figure out why —"
"No such thing. Kill her."
— damn it.
BANG.

"Who are you and how did you get down here?"
Three pistols target Adelaide's vital points. The OEI agent lifts her arms and shows the Foundation agents her empty hands.
Adelaide takes another long, heavy breath. She tries again: "I work for the Office of Exoversal Intelligence, and yes I know you've never heard of us. I need your help to figure out why —"
"You're lying. Kill her."
— damn it.
BANG.

"Who are you and how did you get down here?"
Three pistols target Adelaide's vital points. The OEI agent sighs, lifts her arms, and shows the Foundation agents her empty hands.
"I work for the Antimemetics Division," Adelaide lies. "I'm here because —"
"Nice try. Kill her."
— oh come on!
BANG.

"Who are you and how did you —"
Adelaide falls to one knee and opens fire.
The first two rounds cut through one man's torso and windpipe, exiting in a blossoming pink-red cloud of viscera. The third strikes the other man right between his eyes. They both drop.
She pumps round after round into the last man's chest, but he doesn't seem to mind. She rushes him just as he pivots and takes aim.
Right for her face.
— sonofa —
BANG.

"Who are you and —"
Adelaide drops the first two and charges for the third, popping him a few times along the way. When she feels her shoulder hit his chest, she realizes why the bullets didn't work: Some sort of body-armor. So, she tackles him to the floor, smashes his nose in with the butt of her pistol, then finishes him off with two to the face.
Adelaide turns and aims her pistol at the old woman on the other side of the bunker. Just in time to see her lifting the first man's pistol and aiming it straight for Adelaide's head.
Adelaide rushes forward and —
BANG.

"Who —"
Rinse and repeat. Addie drops the first two, tackles the third, then buries two rounds between his eyes. This time, she doesn't even stop to turn; she just hurls herself at O5-5 the instant after she squeezes the trigger.
Whump. Adelaide hits her hard. The old woman drops the pistol. Her nose gives way beneath Adelaide's elbow, making a nasty sort of crrnch. O5-5 falls, wheezing for breath. Adelaide follows. Once she's got her pinned, Addie nudges the barrel right under O5-5's chin:
"Adelaide Vagrante. I used an extremely dangerous short-range teleporter. Next question?"
O5-5 splutters through a steady trickle of blood. "— nngh. Insurgency?"
"No. Foundation. OEI — Office for Exoversal Intelligence."
There's a long, awkward stretch of silence. The only other sound is O5-5's ragged breathing. Then, at last:
"'Exoversal'."
"Yes."
"You just made that word up."
Addie shrugs. "Technically, all words are made-up." She nudges the barrel a little closer. "You really wanna debate etymology with the lady pointing a gun at your head?"
"You killed three of my men."
"They killed me first. Besides, we both know they'd be dead in about three minutes anyway. Right?"
O5-5 tries not to let the surprise show, but Adelaide catches it. Just a little twitch of one pale, well-plucked eyebrow. "So you're aware."
"That this world is about to end? Yeah. I'm 'aware'. Think we can have a nice, civil little chat about it, now?"
"Given the fact that we only have three minutes before it happens, any such 'chat' would have to be —" O5-5 stops, then blinks. "Wait. This world?"
Craaaap. "I mean, Mars is gonna be fine, yeah?"
O5-5 narrows her eyes.
Yeah, she's not buying it. Adelaide sighs. "Okay, fine. You caught me. My department isn't from this universe. I'm on a recon mission. We want to know what happened — so we can make sure it doesn't happen in our universe."
"You're from a Foundation agency in an adjacent universe that investigates universes where we failed." She doesn't sound angry. More irritated. Probably disappointed she didn't think of this first. "How do I know I can trust you?"
"You don't, it doesn't matter, and now we've got two minutes left." Adelaide tries her best not to sound frustrated. Explaining this to every single O5 she meets gets a little old. Just once, it would be nice to visit a dying world where they actually had an Office of Exoversal Intelligence.
Of course, those worlds are probably the ones that survive.
"Explain how it works," O5-5 says. "Make me trust you. And I'll tell you a pass-code you can use on your next iteration to convince me to believe you immediately."
Adelaide opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again: "Wait, how do you know about —"
"Surgical scars along your wrists and neck. Predicting our actions before we take them. Mentioning my men previously killing you." Crap. She's sharp. "We had a project back in 2005. Temporal displacement matrix wired into the central nervous system. Lets you overwrite your past-self with your present-self. You know that it's effectively a death-sentence, don't you? Every time you 'leap' back to a previous state, you're —"
"Life's a death-sentence," Adelaide cuts her off. "Tell me the pass-code."
O5-5 rolls her eyes. "'There is no Site-5'."
"Okay." Adelaide lowers the pistol and shifts her weight off O5-5. She stands up, then reaches down and helps O5-5 to her feet. "You got about one and a half minutes before your world ends. What do you want to know?"
O5-5 asks her questions. Adelaide answers them.
Approximately 90 seconds later, the world ends.

"Who are you and how did you get down here?"
Three pistols target Adelaide's vital points. The OEI agent lifts her arms and shows the Foundation agents her empty hands. She smiles:
"There is no Site-5."
O5-5 tilts her head. She stares at Adelaide for quite a while. Then, finally, she speaks:
"I have no idea what that means. Kill her."
— oh you have GOT to be kidding m —
BANG.


There is a girl who lives inside of my wall.
She is shorter than me and has long black hair. Sometimes she likes to stand on things to pretend that she is taller than me. I like being taller, but it makes her happy so I let her.
She plays games with me, but I usually win. Sometimes she cries when I win. I don't like when she cries. I let her win after that so she won't cry anymore. I like it when she doesn't cry.

There is a boy who lives inside of my wall.
He has greenish brownish eyes and is tall. He's really good at games. Sometimes I beat him, but I think that he lets me. Maybe I'm just getting better at games.

There is a boy who lives inside of my wall.
I found out he's a little younger than me. That's why it's weird that I'm still shorter than him. I asked Mommy why he was taller than me, but she said he isn't real. But I know he is - we play together every night.

There is a girl who lives inside of my wall.
When I told Daddy, he said that I need to grow up and stop playing with my imaginary friends. But she isn't imaginary. If she's imaginary, how would we be able to play patty-cake? Or how would I be able to beat her in Candyland?

There is a girl who lives inside of my wall.
Today we played cards - she finally beat me for real! When I told her I didn't let her win, she was so excited. She was smiling so big and her eyes were all big and happy. I laughed at her because she looked so funny and happy. She didn't get it though, so I said I was sorry and we played cards some more. I hope she beats me again.

There is a boy who lives inside of my wall.
I finally beat him in a game! I was so happy! I didn't have to cheat or anything! I think I am very good at card games. He hasn't beaten me at them ever, and we played a lot. He laughed at me when I won the first time, but it was a nice kind of laugh, I think. He said sorry when I gave him a look, so I think he wasn't trying to be mean.

There is a boy who lives inside of my wall.
Today I began high school, and I told him all about my first day. He was very interested. I told him how scared I was for the next day because I didn't know many people there - he told me he wished he could help and gave me a hug. He gives good hugs, warm and strong. I hope we hug again soon.

There is a girl who lives inside of my wall.
She started high school today, and I couldn't stop thinking about how weird that must be. She told me all about it later that night, how she felt small in such a big school and how no one was familiar. I felt sad knowing that she was sad - I gave her a hug. She is soft and warm and nice to hold.

There is a girl who lives inside of my wall.
She gave me some tips for my first day of high school today, and they really helped me out. I told her how her advice kept me from panicking when I couldn't find my locker or when I had no one to sit with at lunch. She was wearing her gym clothes when we talked that night, but she still looked pretty. She invited me into her room for the first time and we sat on the floor while we talked. We helped each other with our homework. When I helped her get an answer right, she smiled. It was nice.

There is a boy who lives inside of my wall.
I didn't tell him how scared I was for sophomore year. He started freshman year today and I wanted him to be as focused as possible. That horrible girl from last year stole my outfit when I changed for gym class - I had to go the rest of the day in my gym uniform. He told me I was still pretty. I invited him into my room and we did our homework together.

There is a boy who lives inside of my wall.
That horrible girl stole my backpack and put it in the toilet. Today I cried at school and when I got home. When I told him about it, he seemed mad and invited me into his room. He gave me a hug and told me he would help me through it. I felt safe in his arms. I feel safe with him.

There is a girl who lives inside of my wall.
Today I found out she is being harassed. I have never felt so angry in my entire life. I want to keep her safe. I want to keep her happy. I hate when she is upset. I held her tightly and told her I would help her deal with it. I rested my head on top of hers. Her hair is soft and smells like vanilla.

There is a girl who lives inside of my wall.
She tastes like strawberry lipstick.

There is a boy who lives inside of my wall.
His lips are soft and his hair is thick.

There is a boy who lives inside of my wall.
I slept in his bed tonight.

There is a girl who lives inside of my wall.
Her skin is smooth and her eyes are green and piercing. She is beautiful when she sleeps.

There is a girl who lives inside of my wall.
Today, my father saw her going back through the wall.

There is a boy who lives inside of my wall.
His father called the police.

There is a girl who lives inside of my wall.
She looked even more afraid than before when it was not the police who came.

There was a boy who lived inside of my wall.
There is a cold, metal barrier where I used to see him.

I slept in this morning. It was Saturday.

There was a boy who lived inside of my wall.
He wasn't there this time when I cried.

Sunday is always the worst because my father makes me go to Church.

There was a boy who lived inside of my wall.
Now he is gone


by Captain Kirby

Alright. It's time. In ten minutes I'll no longer be a researcher at the Foundation.
Is what Dr. Menard thought to himself as he walked toward his monthly status meeting with his boss. He held a two-weeks notice in his left hand, and all the conviction he could muster in his right. His arms shook from the strain.
I'll tell him. I'll say "I quit" and it will feel amazing.
Menard hadn't done jack shit in the last month. He was supposed to be writing up containment procedures for what few anomalies were under his purview, but really he was just hiding his new project in obscure corners of the Foundation database. Even used his personal file to stage drafts. Menard built up a habit of checking over his shoulder every few minutes to make sure no one caught him slacking off. He could type without even looking at the screen now.
I will be at home at my desk far away from the scary monsters and work on my stories. It'll be comfy and safe and everything I've wanted.
Well, it's not like Menard was incredibly productive before he started writing. Understanding anomalies is frustrating. Containing them is nerve-wracking. And writing up their files is mind-numbing. Working for a place that deals with the impossible can make a man feel quite disillusioned. But Menard now felt something he thought he lost years ago. Passion.
Menard swung open the door to Dr. Patrick Teller's office.
"Oh hey, Pierre. Yeah, take a seat and we'll get started."
Menard took a seat and stared down his boss.
"So, what's your progress looking like?"
Menard opened his mouth, and then froze. Like a deer in head lights. Like an actor with stage fright. Like a goddamn popsicle.
Fuck. I'm not ready for this.
"Pierre?"
Like, how much money would I make? Could I even pay rent?
"Oh well uh, you see…"
Shit I should've thought about this a month ago.
"I— I've been studying a new kind of anomaly. It w-was urgent so I had to put all my other stuff on hold."
"Oh really? What was so urgent?"
"Umm… well look at this. Pull up the database," Pierre said as he walked around Teller's desk, "Pull up my personal file. Someone's messed with it."
"You think it's been hacked?"
"Ummm," Shit I should've said that. "I don't think so. Because look at what happened to it. It's been replaced with—"
"Some sort of story?"
"Yeah…"
"That's strange."
"I agree. I think it's anomalous. Specifically, the main character. He's screwing with us."
"I see… This is indeed interesting."
"I think I might need some additional resources to track this guy down, do some research into the matter."
"I mean, he probably operates sort of like 423."
"Exactly, but if that's the case they're probably similar entities. Which means there could be even more. This could be an entire field of study." Oh what are you even saying Pierre?
"We should put together a proposal for this. Send it to the higher ups. Do you have a name for this field?"
"Umm…"
The fuck are you doing? Just— just tell him the truth.
"Actually P-Pat.."
"Yeah?"
C'mon if you back out now you can just quit and go on with the pla—.
"Pataphysics. That was the name."
YOU FUCK.

One Week Later
Ok, I can do this. You've been interviewed by these people before. Just like, remember to breathe.
Is what Menard told himself as he waited for someone from MTF Xi-41 ("Internal Affairs") to arrive. It was one of the site's many interview rooms, equipped with cameras, microphones, and that one way mirror. The mirror was the most daunting part. Menard used it to look right at his face and mask the guilt until a woman holding a manilla folder entered.
She sat down across from Menard, straightened her papers and adjusted those big, round glasses. She pressed a button underneath the table to start recording.

<Begin Interview>
Harper: Afternoon. I'm just here to ask you some questions about your personnel file.
Menard: Of course, yeah. Go ahead.
Harper: So, how did you say you discovered the anomalous change in your file?
Menard: Well, I had finished up uh… a report. I forget which one. And I wanted to go add it to my file and the file was different?
Why are you saying it like a question? It "happened". There's no ambiguity.
Harper: When was this?
Menard: Last Thursday.
Harper: Interesting, see we pulled the edit history for that file, and it looks like you made the edit to replace the page with the story that Wednesday.
Oh shit they can see that?
Menard: Umm… I definitely don't remember making that change. Maybe it's able to change the file using my credentials?
Harper: Possibly. But weren't you also in your office at that time?
Menard: Are you accusing me of lying about an anomaly?
No, no don't jump that far ahead! You're gonna give yourself away, dumbass!
Harper: No we—
Menard: We mess with a lot of weird things here. Is this one that hard to believe?
Harper: We just want to make sure and understand what this thing is before we go too far into researching it.
Menard: Isn't that what the new department and funding is for? To do the research?
Harper: Well…
Menard: C'mon. You've obviously seen my file, which has my track record. Would I lie to you about this?
Harper: Alright, alright. I think I've got all I need. We'll get back to you soon.
<End Log>

Menard sat alone in the room again, but now he just stared blankly at the mirror.
Wait, did that— did that actually work? Am I good?
He swallowed.
What have I done?

Three Years Later
What am I doing?
Is what Dr. Menard asked himself when he sat at his desk. He's convinced that his little pata-fuck-up got lost in the swirling vortex that is Foundation bureaucracy. He got approved for a small budget which he mostly used to pay the people who got assigned to his department. He had to let the cat out of the bag to a few of them, but they played along, surprisingly enough. Now it's three years later and Menard is still writing up characters to pretend his department's funding isn't going to waste.
I can't believe I miss my old job.
Menard turned on his desktop and opened up his latest story. He started reading through it from the top, making small edits as he went. It was one of the few parts of his job he enjoyed. Eventually he reached the end of the—
Wait, I didn't finish this yet.
There was a new paragraph on the page.

Have you ever written a character for so long, it stops feeling like you're the one writing it? Like they just act on their own and you just happen to write it down? Actually, characters have a lot in common with lies. They both start out as fake, but the more you play into it, the more real they become.
Pierre, your pataphysics department is about to take on a whole life of its own. But don't worry, I can handle it from here.
- Dr. Panagiotopolous

Menard just sat in his chair for a while. He blinked a few times, and then pinched himself.
Shit, where'd I put that two weeks notice…


So do I just start speaking or – Oh yeah, I see the text on the screen. Delete last sentence. Crap. Okay, I'll just dictate now and edit it later.
Aloha Foundation Staff, new and old alike. To anyone in the anomalous community who's reading a bootleg copy of this: fuck you. Also, fuck whoever's responsible for the leak in the first place. Unless it's me. Or especially if it's me. Whatever.
So the O5s have been on my case for a while now about writing my own field manual in order to pass on my expertise to the younger generation, increasingly so since I find myself less and less of the younger generation as time goes on. I mean, I'm older than Adam – and by that, I mean older than Adam Savage, the guy from Mythbusters. Anyone remember that show? Anyone?
Damn, I am old.
Since there's been a recent uptick amongst the staff in stories about me, I decided now's as good as time as ever to release my field manual: How to Survive When Reality Doesn't by Alto Clef. Within these pages, you'll learn how to deal with Reality Benders and what to do if the laws of physics go sideways without warning. I like to go on tangents though, so you might have to sift through some bullshit to get to the good stuff.

So I wanted to give him mushrooms to see if he affects them the same way he does plants, and they look at me like I'm an idiot.
“Ah, mushrooms aren't plants Alto, they're fungi.”
I know that, but he's a Biblical SCP, and back in ye old Bible times they weren't using the modern system of taxonomical nomenclature. They didn't have a system. All names were colloquial, which is why when the Bible calls Jonah's Whale a Great Fish it isn't wrong. A fish was anything that lived in the water. The Catholic Church even officially declared that beavers were fish in the 17th century so that you could eat them during Lent. So if by Biblical logic a beaver is a fish, then surely mushrooms are plants?
At the time Cain was cursed, no one knew what fungi were. Even Aristotle divided the living world into just Plants and Animals. So it makes sense then that Cain's curse would extend to fungi, which ancient people would not have distinguished from plants!
Of course, due to the Foundation's damn bureaucracy, I still don't know. It would be so simple. Just pick up some mushrooms from the nearest supermarket and give them to Cain, see what happens. Denied, by the Ethics Committee, for reckless endangerment of mushrooms or some bullshit like that. I don't actually know why it was denied. Probably just out of spite. I got close to Cain once with a can of Campbell's mushroom soup but security tackled me before I could open the can.
Actually no, it was Heinz soup. What the fuck was I doing with Heinz soup?

Yes, he really rode 682. Yes, he really got a water bottle stuck on his dick. The question remains: can he ride 682 with a water bottle on his dick?

So at my level, you'd think I'd know how the Foundation's funded, but I don't. The most frequent response to my requests I get is “there's not enough in the budget for that”, to which I most frequently respond “Well what the heck is the budget?”.
How do we acquire resources, and how do we allocate said resources? That's not an unreasonable question. Is a little transparency too much to ask of a covert international organization? Like, I'm pretty sure we built a fake moon once but Lombardi couldn't get coffee and donuts for his orientation? How does that make sense?

So the Pataphysics Department is imaginary, but it still exists, because that's what pataphysical means, I think?
God, I am not stoned enough for this shit.

One of the most common questions I'm asked by lower-ranking personnel is how many SCPs are actually in containment. I tell them it's above their pay grade, but what I don't tell them is it's above my pay grade too.
What I do know is you can't go by the Database. Entries appear and disappear from that thing multiple times a day sometimes. Some of the files are definitely deliberate disinformation (and not just the 001 entries either), SCP designations get reassigned, there are outdated files still floating around for some reason, plus due to CK reality shifts some of the files are from alternate realities and don't exist for us anymore. It's very confusing. I swear, I've been to facilities with multiple empty cells that allegedly held SCP objects. Maybe they were all out for testing or something, who knows?
Sometimes I fear we've become so entangled in our own web of lies that none of us knows the truth anymore.
Sorry, got a little spacey there. Now I think I might be too stoned.
Ah, if you still want an estimate on the SCP count, I'd say at least a few hundred based on my own personal experiences in the Foundation, and at most tens of thousands based on the maximum capacity of all Foundation sites and areas that supposedly exist. Or maybe the anomalies are normal and everything we think of as normal are anomalies. Yeah, let's go with that.

So we open up the hatch and there was a kilometer-deep silo filed with 173 knockoffs, all of them producing a never-ending stream of blood and shit. I said it must be some weird Japanese porn thing, and they called me racist, but… that is a legitimate possibility, isn't it?

Dammit, Apollyon was supposed to be exclusively for SCP-2317! It was this (stop reading if you don't have high enough clearance) colossal eldritch demon bent on destroying the world that was only kept in check by ancient forgotten magic that was slowly failing. Its escape and the subsequent extinction of the human race was inevitable and there was nothing we could do!
That's what Apollyon means!
But then Talloran's like ‘oh, this reality bender that's torturing me in a living hell for all eternity and will do the same to everyone else if it gets free is pretty extra, so I'll classify it as Apollyon too,” and now literally the entire database is classified as Apollyon!
I exaggerate for effect, but it still sucks! Now granted, 2317 turned out to be not quite as invincible as we first feared. The O5s ended up taking it out with a couple of Howitzer rounds to the cranium, and even if that hadn't've worked, how would it have fit through the damn door?
I'm not saying that makes it okay to just use Apollyon for anything but… I don't know what I'm saying.
I guess, Keep Calm and Apollyon.

I'm going to let you all in on a little secret: memetic kill agents are nothing but a scare tactic. Nothing happens. Go on and look at one. I dare you. I double dog dare you. You cannot say no to a double dog dare.

Let's see, which 001 proposals are true? We know mine's not, because I'm a liar. Everything I say is a lie, including this. Locke's can't be real, because that obviously didn't happen, unless that's one of those CK reality shifts again. The Factory is real, so Bright's proposal is at least somewhat true. Gear's Prototype I've actually seen, so that one's true at least.
It also explains why Keter is pronounced the way it is. Did you read that, Dr. Miller? It actually has nothing to do with Kabbala, it was some German doctor's name!
Let's see, if The Broken God one's true then that means the Gulf of California didn't exist before 1942, but if that's true then California never would have been mistaken for an island… unless we made that up as well.
See what I mean about getting lost in our own web of lies?

You know, back when the O5s starting cracking down on gratuitous cross testing and general shenanigans they were even going to forbid staff from using the Pizza Box, but pretty much all Site-19 threatened to go on strike so they had to back off. For some people, that Pizza Box is the only reason they're still with the Foundation.

As one might imagine, I've butted heads with the Ethics Committee a few times over my practice of secretly drugging trainees with designer hallucinogens to simulate a reality bender attack. The Memetics and Infohazards guys do something similar, but apparently, that's okay because they tell people beforehand and get ‘consent' or some hippy bullshit.
My training program only works because people think it's real, that's the whole point! Have some people harmed or killed themselves or others during my training sessions? Yes. Have people committed suicide or otherwise suffered long-term psychological damage due to the guilt or the psychological trauma inflicted during their bad trip? Yes. Wouldn't it make more sense to gradually acclimatized trainees to the stresses of reality-bending attacks instead of subjecting them to a full-blown simulated attack all at once and losing valuable personnel to death and madness? Yes.
I mean… goddamnit!

I hate the metric system. I write everything in imperial and just let the containment specialists convert it. It's cost the Foundation time, money, and maybe even lives, but I don't care. Fucking. Hate. Metric.

I know no one wants to talk about June, but I still cannot believe how many staff and scips we lost over a frickin' rainbow logo. I thought Gears was crazy when he was worried that it might stoke division between staff of different ideological leanings, and next thing I know the SCPS Solidarity is gone! Just gone!
And we needed that thing for space threats, like that giant alien robot in Jupiter's red spot that's gunning for us. Trump's Space Force isn't going to be able to hold that thing off, that's all on us!
Maybe that Moon Champion guy could help.

Everyone likes to make fun of junior researchers for suggesting we use titanium, but I have a titanium ceramic frying pan and I love it. Sure, a lot of the time titanium would be overkill, but considering what we're trying to keep contained I'd say overkill's the way to go.

Draven, kiddo, are you reading this? Are you and Talloran doing the double groom cake toppers for your wedding? I personally think that's a little passe, since it's not ‘gay marriage' but ‘marriage equality' now.
We should move away from gendered cake toppers and switch to something more universal, like two swans with their necks in a heart shape, so long as you can't tell the gender of the swans. Or maybe something more abstract, like a pair of neutron stars circling each other ever faster, doomed to destroy each other but powerless to escape each other's pull.
I'm being facetious, I don't give a rat's ass. Just save me some cake.

SCP speed dating isn't as dumb as it sounds. It seems everyone's super concerned about the psychological well-being of the monsters we keep locked up in bunkers, and most of those monsters don't want to go the rest of their lives without getting laid, right? Give the dudes condoms, some hormonal implants for the ladies, and we're good to go.

I've got a question for you now: why wasn't I, the Foundation's go-to-guy for dealing with reality benders, not part of Project Orpheus, a Cronenbergesque nightmare of mind rape and body horror to turn reality benders into plug-and-play eigenweapons?
Because I'm not stupid. What happened to Doctor Castelo and her team was inevitable. You can't control reality benders with reality anchors. Anchors are for emergency, short-term containment only, because sooner or later the bender either figures out how to bypass them or they just plain break down because they're shit. We don't contain benders, we terminate them when they're vulnerable. An anchor might give you a window of vulnerability, but you're a fool if you think it will keep you safe forever. Shoot the bastard when you have the chance.
God knows the Foundation regrets not taking their shot with me.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… agh, if I'm quoting classic literature I must really be running out of steam. I guess I'm done.
So congratulations, you are now certified for low-hume encounters and type green combat scenarios. Well done agent. I'm not sure how long I was talking for and my attention wandered a bit at times, but I'm sure I said something useful in there. Just use your new found abilities responsibly, like I do.
Aloha


David drew a cup of water from the cooler. Room-temperature, as always.
"Holy shit," a voice said.
Dr. Aktus slapped David on the shoulder as he walked around. "David? Jesus, man, what are you doing around here? How are you, dude?"
David took a sip while looking very consciously unembarassed. "Jean! Hey, man. Long time no see! Yeah, no, I'm good. Everything's good. Just checking things out."
Normal. Normal. Make this be normal.
Jean wasn't finished, though. "How's the…uh, kids, right? The wife? Sorry, it's been a while. That's why you left, right? Family stuff?"
"No, they're great, just great," David said. "I just decided I was missing out from the work around here, and I talked to my wife about it, and she agreed that I used to really enjoy what she saw me doing. She didn't understand it, obviously. Couldn't talk to her about it much. But she saw how happy I was with my work, and we agreed that as long as it didn't take all of my time away from her, she'd love to see me get involved again."
Normal.
"And your son? Kids, plural? Remind me."
"Tyler, yeah, no, he's good too," David replied, his mouth growing dryer. "He was having a lot of behavioral issues, but honestly, he's growing up a lot. He doesn't need all of my time and attention, like he used to. I'm available, I'm interested in working here again, and honestly, I think I used to be pretty damn good at this."
"I'll say," Dr. Aktus. "Hey, you going to talk to Personnel? They'll need to update the file."
"May as well," David said. "I am back, after all."

AUTOMATED REPORT FORM
DEPARTMENT OF PERSONNEL INTEGRITY

I was visiting Site-19 for a conference today, and I just happened to run into David Eskobar, you remember him? Anyway, I remember from training where we were told that if any personnel irregularities occurred, to come find this form and mention it for the record. Weirdest thing, I don't remember seeing this on the intranet last time I looked for it. Just so it's noted, I did what I was told to do.
—Jean Karlyle Aktus
Director
Site-81

AUTOMATED RESPONSE
DEPARTMENT OF PERSONNEL INTEGRITY

Mr. Jean Karlyle Aktus Director Site-81,
Thank you so much for using this form! We at the DPI appreciate all cooperation in personnel integrity management! The Foundation couldn't do it without you!
Please drop us a line anytime if the personnel named in your complaint appears again or attempts to establish contact with you.
—DPI AIAD "Meadow"

MEMORANDUM
DEPARTMENT OF PERSONNEL INTEGRITY
OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR

TO: DANIEL XIAO, DPI INTEGRITY OPERATIVE

Daniel,
Intensify.
—Pedro

The Personnel Office was cold. You could see the air vent working overtime. Nobody could mistake this for an accident. Someone sitting in the seat David was in was supposed to think they were shivering for purely organic reasons. David knew better.
This was a formality, of course. Of course it was a formality.
"Mr. Eskobar," said the man playing bad-cop at the end of the comfortably small table. Not even bad-cop, exactly. Surprisingly-harsh-cop. "Welcome back. We certainly hope you've received all the hospitality befitting a returning employee of your rank and prestige."
That was sarcasm, David thought. "Absolutely, Mr. Xiao. It's been a real pleasure. I've just been reintegrating myself into the Foundation. Stretching my legs. Reacquainting myself with the other personnel. Old friends."
"Good, good, We just had some questions to add to your Reintroduction Form S-19. Little things, nothing major. We just like to fill in the gaps."
"Yeah, sure, not a problem," David said. "It's understandable."
This is going to go badly at high speeds, he thought.
"Okay, getting started. On your sabbatical application, you put as your reasoning for asking for leave 'spending time with family.' Is that correct?"
"It's correct that I wrote that on the form," David said, carefully.
Xiao's brows narrowed. "Interesting phrasing. Is there something you would like to add to this explanation?"
David shook his head. "No, that's a fine explanation. That encompasses all of the most relevant details. I don't see a need to go beyond that."
"There's no reason to be cagey, Mr. Eskobar. You have to understand, your departure was very surprising to us here at the Foundation. We wouldn't have expected it. We need to understand all the possible motivations at play, both to help us integrate you successfully back into the fold here and to help us help future employees who might find themselves in similar positions later.
David gulped. He felt that shivering sensation come over him, the one he was supposed to think came from the air conditioning.
Give them what they want.
"I worked here for years, you know," David said.
"Your record is clear, Mr. Eskobar. Your output is undeniable. By pure numbers, you would be considered a remarkable success as a researcher." Xiao was making notes surreptitiously, never breaking eye contact. "I'm sorry, I'm interrupting. Please, go on."
"Yes, of course, the numbers are there," David said. "But the numbers aren't really what you come to work for. Nobody does that."
"What did you come to work for, then?"
David took a deep breath. "At first, you come to work for the work. You love the work, or you wouldn't be here. But once you're good at the work, it isn't as challenging. I mean, it's always challenging, what we do here, trying to make the pieces fit. But you get better at doing it, and you get better at getting help in doing it, and helping others."
"And that's where the next stage comes in. The peers around you. Those become the people that you care about, the people you come to work with and know. And you see them with each other, the way they get along, the way they mesh, the little jokes, the personalities. The growing friendships."
Xiao nodded, but did not speak. David was already on his way to the point, so there was no point stalling.
"I didn't feel like I was ever a part of that. I watched it. I knew what it looked like when people were that close, bonding with each other over the work. And I didn't see it happening with me. It sounds so childish, I know."
Xiao kept writing.
"I was rising through the ranks, and I was becoming more competent, but I just didn't feel necessary. I didn't feel liked. And you tell yourself you can ignore it, and so you do. But then one day, you just can't anymore."
Xiao nodded.
David wasn't sure where else to go with this, so he just stayed silent as Xiao kept writing.
He got too uncomfortable to stay silent for long. "So anyway, between that and the family things I mentioned, I decided to take some time off. And then that time just kept going."
Xiao's eyebrows raised at that. "So you're saying that the reason documented on the form at present is accurate, just…incomplete?"
"Right, right. I mean, like you said, I was here for years. There couldn't just have been one reason, right?"
Xiao gave a slight grunt as he jotted more notes. "Thank you, Mr. Eskobar. We'll be in touch."

MEMORANDUM
DEPARTMENT OF PERSONNEL INTEGRITY

DR. PIAZZO,
RESEARCHER ESKOBAR HAS GIVEN TESTIMONY IN ACCORDANCE WITH DPI INTERROGATION PROTOCOL SIGMA-2. I DO NOT BELIEVE ANSWERS ARE COMPLETE. RECOMMEND INTENSIFY TO PROTOCOL SIGMA-3.
—OPERATIVE XIAO

MEMORANDUM
DEPARTMENT OF PERSONNEL INTEGRITY
OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR

Daniel,
Intensify.
—Pedro

"…accordance with disciplinary procedure Sigma-3, you have the right to have a union representative present to assist you with your testimony. If you waive your right to a representative, this will not change the manner in which your testimony is interpreted by this committee. Any and all utterances made during this hearing will be documented and may be interpreted in favor of or against your innocence. Do you understand?"
David was now aggressively hoping that this was also a formality. "Yes."
"And do you waive your right to a union representative at this point in time?"
"Yes." There was nobody who could speak for him now. The clock on the wall ticked off the seconds.
"Please sign here." Her nametag identified her as Kennedy Davenport, whose affiliation was apparently with the "Department of Personnel Integrity", which David had never heard of, and whose title was apparently "Integrity Specialist", which David felt was a very bad sign, and who placed the plastic clipboard on the wooden table in front of David with a practiced motion that made no sound. Professional. Disturbingly professional.
David signed. The clock kept ticking.
"Very well. David Anthony Eskobar, this committee has been convened — " Davenport gestured to the rest of the table, which was empty, as she was the committee. " — to determine other possible motives behind your absence of the past three years, and to determine if your return is linked to certain individuals or groups of interest which might have played a role in your absence or reappearance. Do you wish to make a statement at this time?"
"I've said all I think I can. I don't know what this is about. You haven't told me what this is about. I've answered the questions. What else is there?"
"We need you to tell us," Davenport said. "We wouldn't be here if people didn't make a habit of lying during awkward situations, and if those lies didn't have the potential to harm or destroy the project that we are collectively building here. And if we didn't have a very good instinct for when those lies are happening. As for what the truth is, well, we've found that the easiest and most cost-effective solution is just to ask. We typically get the answers we're looking for, because we know to never, ever stop asking until we do."
David sat quietly. Somehow, Davenport sat more quietly. The clock was still ticking.
Time passed.
"This is about those junior researchers, isn't it?"
Davenport looked up. "Which junior researchers would those be?"
"They've been in touch with me while I've been gone," David said. "They contacted me. Asking about some past research that I did. They said they were working on some project that involved my research. Followed up on it."
"You're sure they were Foundation employees?"
"I mean, if they weren't, they certainly had a great deal of knowledge about my research. And several other researchers' work as well. And the names of several former personnel. I assumed they were working with other, still-employed people."
"But you disclosed details. Unpublished details about your work. Classified details."
"Oh, for fuck's sake," David snapped. "You people never gave a shit about my work. Referenced me in footnotes every now and then, maybe. Mentioned my work in passing. I know it was from pity. Not like the others. Other researchers, off in their circles, all buddy-buddy, collaborating together. Then they get attention from the other researchers, all buddy-buddy, collaborating together. A nifty little circle, huh? But I was never in the circle. Just standing nearby. Maybe thrown a bone or two, now and then. More pity."
Davenport just sat there. David had ruined himself forever with that.
"Those kids wanted to expand what I had done," David said, trying to salvage something from this disaster. "They wanted to see it go deeper. Go farther than I had gone. If they had attempted it with just the work they had, it would have ruined all of us. They would have been humiliated. So yes, Ms. Davenport. I gave them classified information. I gave them suggestions about what to look at, what connections could be made. Eventually, I even looked at their preliminary reports. Helped them with revisions behind the scenes now and then. Helped them polish their work. I didn't want…" David trailed off.
"I didn't want to see them end up burnt to ash. Like I was."
Davenport kept taking her notes.
"What is it that initiated your return to the Foundation, Mr. Eskobar?"
David was about to raise his voice again until he realized a careful distinction, which was key in interviews like this. This isn't the same question as before.
"Those researchers messaged me with thanks. They were about to go public with their work and wanted me to know how grateful they were. So I used my access codes to get back onto the Foundation intranet. I started reading some of the newest developments — have you seen the controversy about the reports on recent translunar satellites? — and I realized how much I missed the challenges of it all. I figured I hadn't done anything wrong. At least, I thought I hadn't. Suddenly, I'm realizing this may have been…in error."
Davenport's pencil kept writing. David was silent, his face now in his hands. Now, this time, he really had nothing else to say.
The clock ticked.
"I wouldn't be that hard on yourself."
David's head turned slowly as he processed this. "I'm sorry, what was that?"
"You're back now. I don't know what's going to happen to you. I doubt any of us do. But if this is a place where mistakes can be made, this is a place where amends can be made, too."
Davenport stopped writing and stood from the table while David just looked at her.
"I have all I need for my report. This committee is adjourned. We'll be in touch."

MEMORANDUM
DEPARTMENT OF PERSONNEL INTEGRITY

Dr. Piazzo,
Researcher Eskobar has been questioned per DPI interrogation protocol Sigma-3. If his responses are believed to be satisfactory, we can be said to have concluded our investigation.
—Specialist Davenport

MEMORANDUM
DEPARTMENT OF PERSONNEL INTEGRITY
OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR

Kennedy,
Do you believe he's telling the whole story?
—Pedro

MEMORANDUM
DEPARTMENT OF PERSONNEL INTEGRITY

No.
—Specialist Davenport

MEMORANDUM
DEPARTMENT OF PERSONNEL INTEGRITY
OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR

Kennedy,
Intensify.
—Pedro

David wished he were the sort of person who could say something cute and quippy at a time like this. He would have wanted to be that sort of person. But he found it hard to speak as the man, all six-and-a-half feet of him, shoved David's stretcher-bound face and body beneath the running water again.
"You speak," the man said in a heavy accent. "All speak."
David thought his arms and legs would break with the intensity with which he fought against the restraints. All he was, as a human being, was reduced to flight instincts and fear.
The man pulled him from the running water and raised him up. He was holding David's stretcher one-handed by a handle below David's feet, like an oblong pizza peel. He didn't seem to be straining.
David tried to shake the water out of his eyes and see as clearly as he could, without his glasses. The man had a scar above the left eye, maybe an animal bite. Bald. Dull eyes. Lined, worn face. Tanned. He was wearing nothing above the waist that David could see, except a laminate badge that appeared to be pinned directly to his chest. The badge read

"GOD"
DEPARTMENT OF PERSONNEL INTEGRITY
SUPERVISORY SPECIALIST

David gasped for air. "Your name is 'God'?"
The torturer shrugged. "What people call me. Speak now."
David shook his head desperately. "I don't have anything. There isn't anything more. I've told you everything! Please, God, I've told you everything!"
God looked away, as though contemplating something. "You polite. I like that."
He pushed David back into the water.

Time passed.

"God, maybe there is something," David gasped.
"Always," God said. "Speak."
"Please, just give me a second. Please? I just need to breathe."
God grunted what was apparently agreement. David took a couple of minutes to cough and wheeze.
"The Dodridge hearing," he said when God started to look impatient "This has to be about the Dodridge hearing."
God grunted what was apparently encouragement and shrugged his shoulders. "Speak."
"I never got over the Dodridge hearing," David said. "Tilda Moose convened it. Selected staff members to form a jury. Abuse of authority. Harassment of personnel. Conduct unbecoming. All those things."
God grunted.
"Moose, she…she came to all of us, one at a time, individually. You couldn't call it 'manipulation' or 'tampering', of course. That's what makes it effective. She just wanted to 'poll' us. Get a feeling of where we were at in our heads. She made it seem like she was so worried about the outcome. Like there was ever any doubt."
God grunted again.
"We found him guilty, obviously. And we all spoke. He was a friend of mine, and I spoke out about what he'd done. He was so sure I would be on his side, because I'd never talked to him about it before."
"You say he innocent?" God grunted. "I see lots of innocent. They say innocent, anyway. They say my name, too. Too many words."
"No, God, he did all of it. It was all true. Not a single lie was told in that room," David said.
"That good!" God said. "Lying bad! God hates lies!" He picked the slab, with David's body strapped to it, and started to slam it down on the water rack.
"No, no, no, no!" David said. "Please! I have more!"
God paused, then slowly lowered the slab. "No, not do that. Don't break rack again, boss say. This one have more. Talk more, this one."
"It was how she did it," he said. "One at a time. Whispers behind everybody's back. Low and slow. Setting the tone. Arraying the dominoes on the board. Waiting for the opportune moment. Dodridge just blundered through the situation. He was a soldier. He knew how to fight opponents. But nobody can fight ghosts, phantoms. I watched it happen, his reactions, her movements. It was fascinating. He was an asshole. He deserved to go."
"But she wouldn't just pull the trigger," David said. "She wanted it to look like the will of the people. So she brought the people to her will. One at a time. Whispers."
David was so, so very tired. He started to drift off, now that the running water was just background noise.
God gently slapped him across the face. "Not done yet," he said. "More."
David didn't argue, and now that his face was burning with the impact, the reality of the room was back in full force. He kept talking.
"I don't hate the ends, God, I really don't. We're all better for having Dodridge and his kind gone. But as long as Moose and her kind are around, it could be any of us. Once you have that kind of power, once you can justify that kind of power, nobody's safe. Right and wrong become fluid, and the crosshairs are always flickering around. First it's him. Then it's someone angry about him being gone. Then it's someone who didn't even know him. Eventually, it's anyone who disagrees with the powers-that-be. The real powers-that-be.
"And it'll never be Moose who's doing it, it'll always be the will of the people. And behind them, the whispers. You'll never hear the whispers. And the ones who do hear them won't tell you. Because they could be next."
God grunted for a final time, contemplatively. David didn't care anymore what came next. Then he felt his feet lowering to the ground as God set down the slab he was strapped to.
"Maybe you done," he said, then nodded, and walked away.

MEMORANDUM
DEPARTMENT OF PERSONNEL INTEGRITY
OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR

Kennedy,
Your instincts are excellent as always. Interrogation protocol Sigma-4 yielded some additional answers. Thank you or your usual dedication.
—Pedro

MEMORANDUM
DEPARTMENT OF PERSONNEL INTEGRITY

Dr. Piazza,
Are we done with him, or do you need me to intensify to Sigma-5?
—Specialist Davenport

MEMORANDUM
DEPARTMENT OF PERSONNEL INTEGRITY
OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR

Kennedy,
I'll handle Sigma-5 personally.
—Pedro

The water in the pitcher was room-temperature. Not hot enough to be warming, not cool enough to soothe. It was exactly the temperature David needed it to be.
He had one of the most unique sorts of headaches, the kind that felt like his brain had been gently spanked on all surfaces, every nook and cranny, at the same time. He felt like he could feel his corpus callosum for the first time in his life. At least, what he thought was the first time in his life.
His brain felt like someone had exfoliated it. The other man in the room was explaining why.
"Class-B amnestic treatment will do that," Pedro Piazzo said, in an incredibly gentle voice. "Take some Advil; it should fade away in the next five to six hours."
"I'm very confused," David said.
"That will happen. As a general precept of life, as well as in relation to chemical antimemetic therapy."
"You're calling it therapy now?" David asked.
"As soon as that became the accepted parlance. Just as it used to not be called 'antimemetic', because we didn't have a separate word for something that killed thoughts. If you go back far enough, none of us ever had the words we needed to describe almost anything in the world. And as we gained the words, so did we gain the power to control the world. Or at least, the part of the world we inhabited. Which, for each of us, is all that really exists."
David sat for a moment, contemplating. "This is going to seem like a non-sequitur, but is this a fucking chaise lounge I'm reclining on? What is this, suede?"
"Synthetic microsuede. Designed for maximum comfort."
"And you're sitting over there in a chair, talking to me about control," David said. "Shit. This is a therapy session."
"You're calling it therapy now?" Pedro replied, smirking.
David scoffed. His head was pounding, and somewhere deep inside of him were the remnants of some old animal fear, some fight-or-flight response trying to enact itself but never fully surfacing.
He shivered.
"You're experiencing the after-effects of massive cortisol and adrenalin release," Pedro said, as gently as possible. "We recently finished torturing you for several hours prior to the amnestic treatment."
David's shivering intensified. He thought about the version of himself from just a few hours previously, screaming. He imagined what the Foundation used for torture. Then, more perplexingly, he wondered what the Foundation had used torture for.
"Jesus," he said. "What could I possibly have done? I just walked t…" He trailed off.
"No, I just…I just left the house. I was driving up here to ask about my old job. Yeah. I remember the car being hotter than I expected."
"Tactile sensations, as well as smells, root memories deeper than we can fully destroy," Pedro said. "I really would recommend not fully exploring what you're missing."
David's shivering would not stop. "Do you have…I know this sounds silly, but do you have a blanket?"
"There's a drawer below the chaise lounge," Pedro said. "Has a blanket with the same material as the chair. Very nice. I will warn you, though, the shivering is a chemical reaction to what you experienced, not temperature-related. It will help with shock and blood flow, but that's about it.
"I should explain what it is that we do here," Pedro continued as David fished the blanked out of the drawer and wrapped himself on the lounge. "I don't want you to get the wrong idea. You haven't done anything wrong in any sense that hurts or threatens us. We aren't angry. We harbor no ill will towards you, your work, or your career prospects. There basically is nothing that your personality would allow you to do that could actually, meaningfully hurt us. What we wanted to address is your psychological integrity."
"Integrity?" David said.
"If your mind, your thought process, is a car, we are the wind tunnel. We seek to find the places where useless or harmful thoughts are creating drag and holding you back. We wouldn't have done this to you without your consent, but frankly, as per our policy and general experience with this sort of thing, coming back here was your consent. You knew questioning would happen in some form, even if you didn't know how thorough we would be."
There may well have been a great deal of anger that David could or should or might have felt under different circumstances, but as it was, he was too grateful for the blanket and the water to notice. He skipped the anger stage and tried to find understanding.
"I'm really grateful not to remember that," David said.
"Folks in your position usually are."
There was silence in the room.
"So what are we doing now?" David asked.
"That depends on you. We waterboarded you for several hours. You told us any number of things, many of them true, some of them false, probably imagined. All of them are significant to one extent or another. Even the lies you could tell us would give us information as to your mental state. But the operative who…worked with you was convinced that there was something else. Something that couldn't be asked of you. Something that couldn't be broken from you. Something you may not realize about—"
"Daddy issues," David said.
More silence.
David poured himself another glass of water, swallowed some Advil sitting in a cup next to the pitcher.
"Is this the part where you ask gently probing questions, pull details from me, build some kind of thesis to explain everything?" David said. "I think I've seen this movie."
"That's good that you've seen it, because I'm not paid to reenact it," Pedro said. He pushed his glasses up a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken a few times, especially with the scar right above his left eye. But that looks like an animal bite more than anything, David thought.
"I have to do all the work now?" David asked.
Pedro shrugged, crossed his arms.
"It isn't complicated. My biological father died when I was six. My mom hooked up with a guy. He raised me, sort of. They made sure there was food in the house. I was pretty much left alone beyond that. I don't know what sort of things dads teach their kids, but I hear that that's a common thing for dads to do. I didn't get any of that. Anything I learned came from books.
"I didn't learn a lot of social skills or practical skills except from jobs I worked. I worked hard to pick up on things, but I was always behind. Everyone around me understood all these interactions and bonded with each other so fluidly, but I was on the outside. I missed too much shit that other people got when they were kids. I never got over the frustration.
"I clung onto any older man that showed an interest in teaching me things I didn't know. Did you see who the operative was who recruited me into senior staff? Was that in my file?"
Pedro nodded.
"I revered Lament. We all did. He brought all my peers into ranking positions, and the generation before me, and the one after me. And because of that, he was hounded by all the staff. Everyone went to him with their problems, badgered him to resolve all of their disputes, look over their work before they submitted him. I wanted to be…God, I don't even have the words for it."
"You wanted to be the good son," Pedro said.
David nodded. The tears in his eyes didn't affect the tone of his voice. "I wanted to be the mature one. The balanced one. The reliable one. The one who didn't need his help, and as such, the one he thought was the best. The one he loved the best."
David stood up, paced around the room to the bookshelves in the corner, along the bookshelves on the wall to the door he walked in through, and back to the corner. "But I couldn't be that all the time. The Dodridge tribunals. The purge of all of Dodridge's friends. Hell, just the day-to-day practice of doing everything I could to stand behind a set of values I could defend to myself. It was more exhausting than I ever could have imagined. And all the while, all the staff around me seemed like they were such good friends, and yet again, I was on the outside. Just like always.
"I wanted to talk to him, talk to someone," David continued. "But I was so determined to be the one who didn't need him. And I didn't know who else to talk to. And I didn't know what else to do. So when the pressure got to be too much, I just…I just left."
David was still pacing silently once he was done talking. Pedro let the pacing continue for four, then five, then six minutes. David was obviously working through something that needed to be worked.
"I need to be the sort of person who tells people when something's wrong. I know that. I know what I need to do. I know what I need to be. And I need to be that here, first. I need to be back here. I need to finish what I started here." David came to a stop, nodded. "I need to be here. I have work to do here."
Pedro had been staring at a pad of paper while David had been talking. Finally, once David was finished, Pedro wrote some words on the topmost piece of paper, ripped it off of the pad, folded it in half, then half again. He stood up and looked directly at David.
"Okay."
David just stared.
"Okay?"
Pedro stared back.
"Okay. Go back to work. You've got a lot of catching up to do."
He handed the folded piece of paper to David, walked past him to the door, and walked out.
David held the piece of paper and kept looking around the room, confused at whatever was happening. Assuming that he was trusted not to steal anything, he turned for the door himself.
He unfolded the piece of paper and looked at the blocky, surprisingly legible handwriting.
"FUCKING FORGIVE YOURSELF ALREADY, ASSHOLE."
David shook his head, reread the text, and left the office.