The following was mistakenly recorded and automatically transcripted via a malfunctioning proximity unit located in the Site-23 break room. Its contents have been deemed unimportant and have been tagged for deletion.

"… florid? Is that the word for it? I guess so, that about fits. I mean Christ, our jobs and sometimes our lives depend on your organization of this information."
"My articles? Florid? I beg your damn pardon."
"I suppose it must be nice in some ways sitting behind your computer screen all day. No sense for what is practical out in the cells your containment procedures call for or the hours of terror and death we endure so you can pen a sentence of the description. You aren't out there having to sift through articles that fail to place all the necessary information in a concise, upfront manner. Not like in the old days, when it was the special containment procedures, the description, maybe an addendum or two. Everything you need to know, succinct, right there.
Case in point; last week, I was trying to get caught up on an anomaly — your anomaly — that we were assigned to on remarkably short notice. The information, and I mean the real crucial stuff, was absolutely nowhere in the description, man! You drop that much of a bomb and not a hint towards it in the containment procedures?! And while I'm at it, why do you just cross out information? What the fuck, do you know where the fucking backspace key is?! Why not replace it with a more informative sentence while you're at it?
(A loud, violent sound occurs; likely the pounding of a fist upon a table.)
Don't smirk, you clever little shit. The information my team and I needed, I mean really needed, were in the fucking exploration logs… very, very lengthy logs. And at the very end, turns out. And hell, it wasn't even spelled out there! If we didn't read between the lines, or apply a good shit's-time of critical thinking to it, we might have missed the part about it having the potential to cause an XK. It was a freakin' miracle nobody died.
I mean shit, I'm not an English major, but I'm not a dumbass either; I can eventually figure it out. But I'm a MTF agent, not a damn critic, and I need the details right the fuck when I need them, not after reading cohort analysis and commentaries only to bank on the most supported theory. Do you know how goddamn dangerous that waste of time is? Do your damn job and extract the pivotal details into the meat of the article, and be direct about it. That's all I'm askin'."
"Now, hold on a minute. I see your point, I do. I may be an academic here but I'm not insensitive to the acuity of the front-line situations involving the anomalies I document. The short answer is that I have to adapt if I want to stay on board here, and it would just be someone else here for you to yell at if I chose not to. I'm well aware of the trends away from your old style, as you called it. But let me explain something to you that you clearly don't know about yet.
Go look at the most recent recipients of Foundation grants and you'll see that they are written in the new style. The ones written in your old style are virtually absent; they're relics now. The most iconic of them wouldn't get past the peer review process. Do you know what this means? It isn't me you have your issue with; the Foundation itself is incentivizing these newer styles. So what am I to do, hm? A whole new generation of researchers and authors, with better techniques and familiarity with exponentially increasing technological aids and more dynamic compositional methods are nipping at my heels, salivating at my rank, 24/7.
And, to be honest, I empathize with you. I do. You might not be able to tell, but I compromise with these demands; others revel in them. I put a bit of the old style in my works because I believe it was a successful formula, and for good reasons. But that time is over, and as much as I hate to admit it, the Foundation might not be alive if it wasn't. Our scientific paradigm — like any other — is not immune to the pressures of taste and transient style."
(Sighing.) "I… I'm sorry, I didn't realize all that is going on. I'm sorry for calling you a clever shit. I… I guess I'm still hot-headed; a field report of mine was rejected and returned to me last week. I'm ashamed to say I'm as upset at that as I am with the near-deaths of a few in my command this week. It was the first submission in twelve years to be rejected like that. The comments said that the 'pacing' needed to be better, and complained of a 'lack of character development'. Why do my reports have to be cryptic when they could be scientific… what are we aiming for here?"
"Survival."
"Survival? Just… don't; I just calmed down."
"I'm speaking of a broader scale than personnel here, no offense… beyond the tithe of individual lives that is unfortunately necessary for the Foundation's work and progress. There is a component to our presentations for outside funding that inarguably relies upon a sort of… entertainment value. And the Foundation has started selling modified reports as fictional accounts, mainly to be sold to movies and video game developers. Our work must be captivating, not quite above all else I'll say, but sufficiently so. That's my opinion, at least, and my best answer for you.
But, and just as important, maybe the answer is sanity. Personally, I can say that when your life is all about cataloging anomalies, one after another, after another; even as unexpected and unusual as they are, it still gets a redundant and boring. That's human nature. Publications can be remarkably rewarding, yes. But only eventually; most of the time, it is a painstaking trudge of a process, oppressed by anxiety over the count of citations it will or won't merit."
"All these anomalies and the real concerns for authors are citations?"
"Oh, yes. They are the currency of reputation in our line of work."
"I had to dig real deep to find your name tied to that publication… aren't authors' names usually part of the classified information?"
"They're encoded, but not usually classified, per se. Unless there is reason to explicitly include names in the documentation or to add further layers of encryption, the Foundation prefers to simply post employee ID numbers with the publications."
"So why do authors worry about a publication's citation count so strongly if it's not immediately apparent who actually wrote it?"
"Citations, like it or not, are the only quantifiable method to indicate quality that we have. It's not the only way to adjudicate a publication's worth, but it is the most expedient. In a simplified but very visceral sense, our citation count is our worth here. Now that's obviously an oversimplification because the system is a very sensitive, but not a very specific gauge. In other words, highly-cited publications are almost always of good quality; but minimally-cited publications are not always an indication of poor quality. Sometimes, the low count can be a function of poor reception or passing tastes instead. The catch is that in our vocation and given this competition, there is little motive for pragmatic separation of an article's quality and its citation count.
I understand how silly this may seem to someone who looks Keters in the eye from time to time, but academic writing can be an unimaginably relentless, unforgiving, and unsympathetic arena. Notoriety, even by proxy, is like oxygen. The ID numbers garner a familiarity all their own. It's funny; I remember a time, for instance, that ID#40232 meant nothing to me! Now I would be… just, honored to publish with them.
But… lately, no, it honestly hasn't been all that enjoyable of a job to me; more of an unhealthy obsession that follows me everywhere, personally. And I'm not sure, but that might especially for those who do have notable repute; I imagine they are under increased pressure and expectation to produce quality papers, one after the other. I almost feel bad for them… but a high count of citations… it's just too desirable to completely feel that way for them.
Why do you hang around here? I know you've had a long career; you could retire with a nice severance package and forget the rat race here.
… Because I love it here. I really do. I am still so happy about having come across this organization. I don't want to think about if I hadn't. It has enriched my life so much, and I can never fall out of love with it, no matter what. And finally too, it seems to me a bit of enjoyment and art are returning to my process, which is the brighter side of these changes in trend. I have to ask myself honestly if I don't truly want these developments, and want them to continue… they are liberating, in ways. Putting it bluntly, they represent more avenues for potential success.
(Sipping can be heard in a pause.)
I think we're going to have to get over our issues with these trends, or become extinct.
(A vocal affirmation and a soft clinking, as in the toasting of glasses, are heard.)
By the way, someone of your clearance level can always contact us about our anomalies; we authors are insatiably eager to discuss our own works."

Records Notice: Discontinuation of Deletion

A detailed proposal has cleared first-pass Administrative approval which stipulates that an article's author or authors are to be immediately available via telecommunications for as-needed, remote consultation. This proposal aims to benefit new object assignees and urgent response teams.
An installment of this collaborative model is being piloted for objects whose documentation has been assigned upper-tier values of compositional obfuscation. Surprisingly, authors have reacted positively to the new (and uncompensated) responsibilities, many exhibiting elation. A vast majority are, as one author put it, "thrilled at any opportunity to further promote my works, which are, in my opinion, criminally under-appreciated."


SCP-2006 was outside. He didn't quite know how or why he was outside. But, in the spur of an hour, a red alarm had gone off, the doors had opened, and he had somehow made it into the surrounding forest unsupervised. SCP-2006 laughed menacingly in response to his new location. It was finally time, he thought, to scare the world, to spook every civilian, and to terrorize the minds of humanity. The feeble brains of humankind are no match to the unspeakable horror of Ro-Man! Or, at least, he could startle them from behind. Surprise and horror together, he had learned, made the ultimate fear.
The bumbling ape-bodied robot trudged through the thick forest. At first annoyed by the mud messing up his clean fur, he realized that the mud would only make him more disgusting, more creepy, more scary than before! He didn't bother dusting it off after this thought. As he walked, his foot snapped on a branch, and a nearby deer looked in his direction. Only after a few seconds did the wide-eyed creature turn around and scram swiftly out of the monster's view. He knew his tactics were working.
After a few hours or so of slowly marching through the woods and screaming at turtles, the fearsome beast found himself on solid ground, a sidewalk. SCP-2006 was delighted; a sidewalk always led to houses and houses always led to people and people always led to chances of scaring the living daylights out of them! He took a left, the scariest of directions.
After a moment or two of walking, he had found his target, multiple targets in fact, all of whom wore various masks, outfits, and other arrangements to hide their true identities. SCP-2006 hadn't a clue as to why they dressed themselves as such, but he knew one thing. No mask is strong enough to hide from the fear of Ro-Man.
Slowly but surely, he crept up behind the pack of kids. He was five feet behind them, four feet, three feet, two feet, one foot…BOO! The kid in front of him dropped a bag that they had been holding, numerous sweets and confections spilling out. The kid stepped forwards a bit, startled, before staring back at the monster, the child's face painted a pale white with sharp, plastic fangs to match.
“Come on, man, you made me drop my candy!”, said the child in a squeaky, annoyed voice.
“THE CONSEQUENCE OF YOUR CANDY DROPPING BARES NO MATCH TO MY POWER! BE AFRAID, HUMAN!” screamed back SCP-2006, waving his hands in the air and jumping up and down.
“Do you know this guy?” questioned another child, wearing a Spiderman costume.
“I have no clue. I suppose this is why they tell you stranger danger,” said the vampire in response. The whole group laughed.
“Was I not scary, children? All I want is to be scary,” said SCP-2006 in a quieter, more depressed tone.
“If that's your job, then you suck at it. Come on guys, let's get out of here before this guy eats our brains!” said the vampire. The kids then ran away, fake screaming before loudly giggling amongst themselves. SCP-2006 was devastated.
“My whole life is a lie,” said the once mighty beast, now desecrated by a group of snarky kids, “What will it take to be scary again?”
Almost like magic, he heard the words “Trick-or-Treat!” sound from the group of kids he had attempted to terrorize. He looked down the sidewalk and saw them wait in front of a door, tapping their toes while checking their watches. Eventually, a woman emerged from the door.
“Why hello, childr- OH MY GOODNESS! Aren't you the scariest vampire I ever did see!” said the adult, with an exaggerated tone. To SCP-2006, this sounded like genuine fear.
“Rawr, I'm a vampire, I'm going to suck your blood! Bleh-bleh!” exclaimed the child in an awful Transylvanian accent.
“Oh my oh my, I'm going to die of fright! Please, take this candy and go away, evil spirit. Oh, and the rest of your friends as well,” shouted the adult. The kids thanked the woman and walked on over to the next house.
SCP-2006 had an idea. He had heard of vampires before, ones like Dracula and Nosferatu, but he had been taught that they were old news. It seemed that he was being lied to. It also seemed that the scariest of creatures weren't monstrous beasts but small creatures, like those children. He had his idea down. He transformed into a small, pale humanoid, resembling a human child, completely naked, blood dripping from the mouth with pointed ears, sunken eyes, and sharp claws and teeth. He jumped up and down with excitement before getting on all fours and quickly crawling to the house the kids were at.
The crawling creep knocked on the door, and hanged from above the door frame. The woman from before came out.
“Hello? Anyone there?” There was a silence. “Damn ki-”
“PREPARE TO FACE THE WRATH OF DEMONS, PUNY MORTAL” screamed SCP-2006, jumping out in front of the adult, before giving off a high-pitched screech. The adult fainted in fright, falling back into the house.
“Hahahahahaha, I gave you quite a scare, didn't I?” There was no response from the lady. “Ha, frozen in fear, aren't you?” There was still no response. “…I'm just gonna go on to the next house, alright? Have a nice day, m'am.” He left the house, the lady still unmoving.
He went from door to door, scaring each and every adult, or child if they were available, in the neighborhood. This was the time of SCP-2006's life. He finally got to live out his life's purpose, his only purpose, to scare as many people as possible, in the best way possible. Could he have perhaps found the best form, better than even Ro-Man? That seemed to be the case. Eventually, he caught up with the kids who were previously unimpressed with his method of spooking others.
“Hey children, I'm back and scarier th-”
SCP-2006's statement was cut short by the children running away, this time screaming for real and sprinting as fast as possible. SCP-2006 laughed in delight. Eventually, he sat down on a tree branch to take a break. He had been scaring people since 6 PM; now it was 10:30 PM. Now was the time for a deserved rest. Yet, just as he was about to lay down and fall asleep, something caught the corner of his eye.
It was a house. It was dark, in shambles, covered in graffiti, yet it seemed to welcome more than repel. SCP-2006 was drawn to it, yet at the same time unnerved by it. The house seemed to pull him in, imperceivable tentacles dragging him closer and closer to the door. SCP-2006 had no physical reason to be afraid; there wasn't any visible monster or threat that could scare him, and nothing could physically harm him.
Yet, he could sense something was wrong, something was utterly terrifying about the house. It wasn't something you could see, hear, taste, smell, or feel, it was something that only existed in the your mind. SCP-2006 thought of the word for it. Dread, perhaps? Maybe suspense? Unknowing? Unknowing. Unknown. The fear of the unknown. The knowledge of uncertainty, the acknowledgement that anything may happen. In this house, there was no certainty, no knowing of what may happen. It was filled and filled and filled with unknown. And SCP-2006 was afraid.
When SCP-2006 walked out of the house, at 3:00 AM, he was met with a number of highly armed soldiers, researchers, and field agents, all prepared for the worst. Yet SCP-2006 simply walked out, his form changed back to Ro-Man, and didn't say a word. He walked into the temporary containment truck, along with a number of confused MTF-members, their guns still pointed at the thing at all times, and was driven back to Site-118, eventually contained once again in his cell.
As the sun rose on Site-118, this time without a missing anomaly, Site Director Owings and Researcher Louef got together for a meeting.
“So, Louef, any progress on 2006?”
“Sir, all he does is sit in the corner of his cell. He doesn't speak, he doesn't move, he won't do anything. In the last 3 hours, we've poked him with sticks, we've played frequencies in his cell that would drive any man mad, we've shown him numerous bad sci-fi flics, nothing can get him to move.
“The only way to ensure he's contained properly is to keep him in his current form. I know it has been difficult, but we gotta keep trying.”
“Sir, with all due respect, we know SCP-2006 learned something last night. We just don't know what.”
“And I'm assuming you have at least some idea as to why this is.”
“He's evolved, not in the physical but in the mental sense. He knows now that any monster, deity, or what have you can and will become stale. But, from what I can guess, he knows that primal fear never evolves. Sir?”
“Yes, Louef?”
“Have you ever seen the Shining?”
“Most certainly, yes.”
“You know that scene where Wendy is going through Jack's papers, all saying the same thing, and Jack is slowly creeping up on her?”
“Yes.”
“Sir, SCP-2006 knows suspense. Lying in the corner, he has become Jack, and we're all Wendy. He knows what he's going to do, he's slowly creeping up on us, while we all scramble around cluelessly and wait. We have no idea what he's going to do, but with all this tension being built up, we know that he needs to release it at some point.”
“We've all feared he'd become a nuclear holocaust, or a large-scale genocide, or something else horrible.”
“But we've never feared that he'd become horror itself.”
There was a tense silence in the meeting room. Researcher Louef broke it.
“Prepare the site for anything. The tension will release any moment.”


"They don't make Corvettes like they used to."
The neon lights of New Miami, Planet 880 ("Pike's Planet") glimmered around an older woman, as she stood in front of a Corvette Z99. A man waits inside the car.
"Aww, I really thought you would like this kind of old-fashioned thing. People kept giving me weird looks, seeing me drive along the ground and all."
The door folded upwards, and the woman stepped in.
"Did you get this car imported from Earth just for me? What a gross misuse of your salary."
"Anything for you, baby."
"Don't talk to me like that with people around. You don't know who might be listening."
"I checked the car. No bugs. Ready to go?"
"Step on it."
The car squealed along the largely disused roads, the purple sky gleaming off of the sky-cars traveling above them, creating shadows on the ground as they blocked the sun. The car swerved to avoid costumed trick-or-treaters playing in the streets. O5-4 and her secretary were on their way to a meeting.
"Listen to this baby purr. You like it?" her secretary asked.
"A little new for my tastes, Marcus, but I appreciate you trying." O5-4 replied, "You didn't steal this did you?"
"Would I steal something and then take it to the most technologically advanced shadow government among shadow governments?"
"Honestly…"
"I'm offended that you would think that of me! I was going to give you this as a birthday present but I guess if you're going to be elitist about the classics…"
"I don't have a birthday, you're making things up."
Leaving the city, the car took a stop at a small side road, and Marcus tapped a button on the top of the car to open the garage to Site-δ-01. After parking the car, Marcus handed the keys to O5-4.
"Take it. Happy birthday."
"Thank you, honestly. No more affection or any more of your grand gestures, people will see."
O5-4 and Marcus parted ways, as O5-4 entered the meeting.

Marcus took a seat at his desk and sighed.
That car was fucking expensive. Hope it was worth it.
Marcus removed a device from a compartment under his desk, and connected an earbud in the ear that was turned away from the open door.
Can't risk typing any of this. Gotta do this the old fashioned way.
Retrieving a scratchpad from his desk, Marcus began to transcribe what he was hearing.

O5-1: We're all here? Good. Let's get this over with. O5-8, could you please give us a rundown of the situation?
O5-8: Of course. As many of you know already, members of the Universal Council are going to be inspecting us personally in just a few short hours, thus the emergency meeting. Apparently, our little planet is performing… unsatisfactorily to their tastes.
O5-7: Can't say I blame them. Five containment breaches just this week, and it's not even Friday. Maybe they just didn't get the invitation to our spooky corporate costume party and are coming to complain. I hear the entire Universal Council was planning on wearing matching clown outfits and come to us in a tiny skycar!
O5-4: Please, 7, this situation is already difficult enough as it is. Please continue, 8.
O5-8: Thank you. Now, I cannot confirm this, but we believe that UO5-5, UO5-9, and UO5-10 will be coming here within an hour to do an inspection. They will be staying here. As such, all personnel who aren't in this room will be removed from the premises, and a thorough search of the premises is being conducted as we check for items that could endanger the well-being of the council-
O5-3: Can we please just address the elephant in the room? Why are they coming here personally? They are the most powerful people in the universe, don't they have aides to send? What is so important here that they need to come to us themselves?
O5-8: We…-
O5-1: To be frank, we don't know. This is completely unprecedented, but as far as any of us could check, it's completely legitimate. They are coming to us themselves, and I think we have reason to take the utmost caution. Do not overstep your bounds with them. Our lives, and more importantly, our jobs may be at stake. Try not to embarrass us. Meeting adjourned.

Shit…
Marcus removed his earpiece and stowed his notes, just before O5-4 entered her office.
"How did it go?" Marcus inquired.
"Stressful. We need to prepare." O5-4 replied, collapsing in her chair, "Some powerful people are coming here to visit and we're either going to get commended for something we don't even know about, or more likely, about to get reprimanded to hell and back."
"Should… you be telling me about this, ma'am?"
"Don't call me ma'am. And it's fine, it's almost at your clearance. I just need to look through the archives to see what they could possibly want here."
"Would… you like me to get you coffee? The good kind, not the shit Foundation office coffee?"
"That would be nice. Thank you Marcus."
"I need the keys. Y'know, to drive the car? I'll give it back, it's your gift, of course."
"Yes yes, here."
Marcus caught the keys tossed at him, and exited the site. Driving out, he parked a few miles away from the Site, and removed the key. Marcus removed the cover from the key.
The safety lock is still on. Nobody detected the bug. I got away with it.
Marcus collapsed in his seat and started laughing hysterically, before regaining his composure.
I can't push my luck here.
Marcus drove another mile and placed the paper transcript and the bug, removed from the key, under a rock.
Hopefully they pick up the drop box. I don't know how long we have before the Universal Council shows up.
Marcus got back in the car.

"You are now arriving at: Planet Pike. Enjoy your stay, and have a pleasant October!"
The jumpship arrived in the New Miami Private Terminal, and a security detail rushed to greet them. A luxury skycar took the three council members, along with their private security detail, and rushed them towards Site-δ-01. In the distance, a red Corvette drives into another garage shortly before the skycar…

"I got your coffee!" Marcus yells into the office.
"You are a godsend." O5-4 replies, grabbing the coffee from Marcus, "What took you so long?"
"You know how bad the lines are there. They even messed up my name."
"So it would seem. How do you get Magnum from Marcus?"
"You ask nicely."
As O5-4 stifled a rare laugh, she got an alert that the Universal Council has arrived. She quickly shoved Marcus into her panic room.
"I'm sorry, I forgot to say, you can't be here!" she whispers, "Please, I need you to be quiet down here until they leave. There should be provisions down there for you, in the event I can't sneak you out. Please, just don't try to leave by yourself."
Without waiting for a response, O5-4 rushed out to greet the Universal Council.
Good, I timed that right. Now, to wait for the-
Marcus's communicator pinged him.
…signal.
Marcus snuck out of the panic room.

It's almost hard for UO5-10 not to laugh, looking at the ragtag O5 Council before him.
So this is what the Foundation looks like in a backwater trash planet. They're barely keeping their composure.
"Do you have any place more… suitable for a meeting?" UO5-9 asks.
"W-" One council member stutters and clears his throat, "We have a council room that we restructured for this. Please, follow me."
Pathetic.

The halls of Site-δ-01 were silent as Marcus snuck to the security center. A single guard stood in his way. Marcus swiftly got behind him and snapped his neck in one satisfying crack, and stole the man's stun rod and pistol. Waving the ID card at the door, Marcus checked the security room.
Empty. As I thought. They were so paranoid of their staff that they only guarded exits. Pathetic.
Marcus sat at the terminal and unlocked a side garage…

"Please, you can be more comfortable around us, we aren't going to kill you or anything." UO5-5 stated plainly.
"I'm going to get right to the point." UO5-9 interrupted, "We have evidence to suggest that there are several Groups of Interests that are hostile to the Foundation staying unchecked on your planet. These groups are now fairly weak and small, but ideological differences like these are dangerous. We also believe that the recent… deficiencies in how well you contain anomalies is connected to this."
"I see." O5-1 muttered.
"How many anomalies have broken containment and are still loose in the last year or so?" UO5-10 inquired.
"We currently have eight anomalies on the loose, and have not resurfaced at all since their escape." O5-4 submitted. "Thus, we believe they accidentally self-neutralized, most likely due to injuries sustained during their escapes."
"And… you never recovered these bodies?"
"…no, we did not."
Oh boy…

A combat unit enters Site-δ-01. Shedding the costumes they had worn to disguise their intent, they move swiftly and silently, dispatching any guards as they see them. A man named Marcus Austerion meets them. They head to the council room.

"Do you believe that any GoI may have contained your anomal-"
UO5-10 is interrupted by a knock at the door. One of the Universal Council's private guard answers it. An average-looking man stands behind it.
"Marcus!" O5-4 shouts, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Something is wrong here, all of the guards are gone, this place is a ghost town! What's going on here!"
"Someone get this man out out of here and amnestize him, we need to get on with this." O5-10 commands.
"Wait I'm so sorry, I'll get out of here."
"Grab hi-"
Marcus dropped to the ground as the flashbang he had rolled exploded in a flash of light. A second grenade dropped, and Marcus put on the gas mask he had held behind him.
"Alert! Intruders are attacking the UO5 council, send bac-"
Marcus pistol whipped the guard.
"Nobody is coming, friend. Your ship is disabled and communications have been severed. We're in control now."

O5-4 woke up. The Pike O5 Council and the Universal Council were strapped to their chairs, the council room destroyed and their guards dead on the ground. A gun is trained to each of their foreheads. Marcus personally trained a gun at O5-4.
"Trick or treat! Welcome to the New Universal Order, or so to speak. I'm going to make this brief, we waited until you woke up for the sake of bravado. In short, you'll be working for us now. Don't try to speak, otherwise we will be a little more… rough with the surgery."
"What's your little plan here?" UO5-10 spat, "They'll just replace us. It doesn't matter."
Marcus whipped around and smacked him aside the head with his pistol.
"Told you, you shouldn't have talked. Now, you're clearly alive of course, so that isn't an issue. After a bit of… neuroscience per se, you can just go home. But, luckily for you, my little Pike council, you don't need that kind of surgery. We just kept you alive to have more people to monologue to."
"Marcus, no, please." O5-4 cried.
"Don't fucking talk! How hard is it?"
Marcus retrained the gun on O5-4's forehead.
"Fire!"
The Pike O5 Council slumped in their chairs, blood spattering the wall. A slight flicker of fear flared in the eyes of the Universal Council members.
"Get the anomaly."

The sun rose on the horizon of Pike. The shadows cast by the trees seemed to project a Red Right Hand over Site-δ-01. A ship exits New Miami Private airport, headed for the Universal Council. Marcus smiles, watching it disappear into the great abyss of space.

Dancing To The Tune >


I was running down that hallway yet again, dreading what I knew would soon occur. I had been subjected to many unpleasant things in my lifetime, but none as traumatic as this. I was about to reach safety, my hand in the process of turning the door handle, when I knew it was over.
"Is that really what you are planning on wearing to the party?"
I looked to see my co-worker Ted. He was dressed as a giant yellow bird.
I sighed, staring at the nameplate above my office door. It read "r. Matthews", the "D" having had fallen off some time ago.
Ted saw the look of discomfort on my face and followed my gaze to my nameplate.
"I am sure HR will send you up a new one sometime soon. No need to worry about it."
"I don't think Claire has forgiven me yet for what happened with Marie."
"It was an accident. Anyway, she still processed your registration for the site bowling team."
"I spilled lemonade down the front of Marie's dress. Her white dress! That both of them had apparently spent the last week designing!"
I remembered both the embarrassment of spilling a cold drink down the front of her handcrafted dress and the horror of watching her best friend's face as she gave me a combo of a wicked grin that promised a slow and painful retribution paired with a gaze that nearly turned me to stone. I had been about to comment on how I had been forced to process my request to join the bowling team with a different member of HR when Ted interrupted.
"But, seriously… You are going dressed like that? I always thought you were more creative."
"It was short notice and it's a classic. Anyways, yours is stupid too!"
Ted looked at me aghast.
"Henry, I would have you know everyone grew up with that show and he is a great and beloved character. Now, stop trying to escape to your office, and let's go to the party! Marie might be there…"
My face betrayed my thoughts and Ted gave me a cheeky grin. I scowled before growling out a response, in what I hoped would be an intimidating enough tone to shut him up.
"Fine. Let's go."

I learned that I was not alone in the lack of creativity department as we entered the main lobby, which had been fastidiously decorated to reflect the season.
"There she is!"
Ted pointed to a pair of hideous monstrosities. The first was decorated to resemble an ophio-scalped female wearing an immaculate white robe and smiling at me in a way that still gave me a feeling of dread.
The second, standing next to her monstrous companion, was dressed in full military combat gear. She took one look at me and then found an immediate and intense interest in the contents of the small plate of hors-d'oeuvres she had in her hand.
I took note that she had managed to make a semblance of a face on her plate out of an assortment of gristly appetizers, with which she had almost managed to maintain "eye" contact with up until Ted and I had gotten into drink spilling distance.
She had looked up and looked like she had been about to speak when the Gorgon from HR spoke aloud in a tone of voice that clearly emphasized her contempt.
"Ted."
Ted stood still for a moment, no doubt remembering the quick temper of the woman who had chased him out of his own apartment with a tennis racket the week before.
"Love what you have done with your hair, Claire."
Ted looked from me to Marie. I took it as a cue to say something.
"Nice face, Marie."
Claire looked at me with a shocked expression, Ted facepalmed hard enough to cause his beak to twang audibly, and Marie looked at me confused before looking back at her plate.
"Thanks?"
I hastily retreated to the punch bowl to see if I could transform it into a flesh-eating anomaly by submerging my head and wishing really really hard. Unfortunately, Ted caught up with me before I could begin my experiment.
"Dude, I know that was awkward but it's fine. I am sure she will find your ineptitude charming."
Neither of us had noticed Marie's approach.
"How about I handle the refreshments this time?"
She wore a look of authority and command that simultaneously made me want to bolt but kept me held in place. I waited for her expression to soften into the look that always drew me in, like a moth to a flame.
"By the way, I don't know what your issue with me is, but if you have something to say, say it."
"What? I… I…"
I had almost managed to eloquently speak aloud when I noticed Ted had abandoned me. Before I could locate where he may have escaped to, Marie received a notice from her pager.
"I have to go… take care of something."
Then she left the lobby.
I stood there alone in a sea of aberrations and apparitions and watched her walk away. After a minute, I ran after her.

I managed to catch up with her at her cubicle. I had been about to say something which may have been profound when the lights went out. There was a brief moment of silence. Not the kind that keeps you up at night or the kind that makes you check all your door and window locks for the third time. But, the kind that every Foundation member dreads. The silence before the backup generator is supposed to activate.
The emergency lights came on and the bulkheads came down. The site was undergoing the mandatory lockdown that occurs in the interim between a power failure and the verification of containment of each onsite object and entity. The security teams would be dispatched to verify containment and rescue any staff that may be in danger. However, Marie and I hadn't told anyone we were leaving the party. Security would have no reason to believe that anyone would be in this area. They might even…
My thought was interrupted by a stream of profanity that snapped me to attention.
"Damn! I was just about to respond to my email… What are you doing here?"
"Following you."
I was still rattled by the idea of being mistaken for a monstrosity by the security personnel.
"Why?"
"To apologize… because nothing is wrong with you. Err… I meant that I have no issue with you. I just have issues and I am sorry for that."
"So you're saying that all the tripping over my laptop power cable at lunch, inane comments, and spilling a drink on a $2000 dress is just how you are with everyone then?"
"No… Just with you."
"So it is just me then? What did I do? Do you not think I have what it takes to be a researcher? Well, I will have you know I just received an offer to be a researcher at Site 76!"
My vision blurred. My heart sank. She hated me, not only was annoyed by me, but disgusted. She would leave thinking I was a chauvinistic pig trying to ruin her career.
"I just really like you."
"What?"
"I just liked you OK! I get nervous and then I get clumsy! I…"
I am sure I had been about to circle back to my previously imminent and profound statement, from just before the power went out, when a sound neither Marie or I could ignore stole both of our attention.
It was the sound of a proximity alarm going off. Neither of us had heard anyone approach, but that hardly was a cause for comfort in this line of work.
"We need to go."
We ran down the hallway, made a right, and entered the nearest unlocked room. It was a supply closet.
Marie pointed up to an air vent.
"Give me a boost."
I complied, helping her onto my shoulders. She produced a small multi-tool and removed the screws.
I heard something moving down the hallway. Marie seemed to hear it too and hurriedly tore off the vent cover.
She got into the vent and reached out to help me up. I thought I heard a sharp scraping sound from outside the door as I made it into the vent. We wasted no time crawling as fast as we could away from whatever it was.
By the time I stopped looking back to verify we were not being followed Marie had stopped. She had begun to take the screws off a nearby vent cover.
We dropped through the opening and into a dark office room. Marie turned on a flashlight and turned to me.
"I am sorry. I had thought that you had been doing it all intentionally. I normally intimidate people and I was worried that you were just…"
"Just what?"
"Just another person making fun of me for not being normal. Claire and I had worked really hard on that dress and I had thought you were…"
"You thought I was what?"
"Well… I thought that your ineptitude was charming. Until you ruined my dress."
"It was an accident."
"Claire thought Ted may have put you up to it."
"No! I just tripped. I swear."
"I know that now."
"But you are leaving."
"I did… I mean I do like you, Henry… but, I have worked hard to get the position over there and it has great potential for my career. We can't work together but maybe we can work together. Site 76 is not that far away. Maybe we could go out for coffee sometime."
My heart leaped into my throat, then the sound of two bursts of gunfire erupted from out of the hallway. We headed back up into the vent and tried to make as little sound as we could. The ventilation system took a downward turn as we continued.
We could only see by the virtue of Marie's flashlight as it reflected off the metal innards of the vents.
I could hear the security teams throughout the facility attempting to quell something or another. I tried not to scream.
After what seemed like an eternity Marie exited the vent as we had finally made it back to the lobby. As I crawled out I grabbed her leg for support. She let out an involuntary yelp. Then I was hit by a painful shock in my upper back.
"What? I thought he was a zombie?"
Claire was motioning toward my costume still holding the taser.
Marie giggled and gave me a warm smile. I smiled back, still twitching, until Ted helped me to my feet.

After normal lights had come on and we had been escorted off-site, as if nothing other than a standard power outage had occurred. Marie and I had found our way to our cars. We were parked next to each other as usual.
"Henry?"
"Yeah?"
"Would you want to go grab a coffee? I know a little place not too far away."

I will always remember that morning, talking, laughing, and sipping our morning cup of joe in that little cafe. I remember the way the rays of the dawn caught her hair. My memory of that particular morning we shared together I will always hold special.


by Captain Kirby

"What do you mean delete everything?"
"I— I was told to get rid of all the evidence."
"That's idiotic and you know it!" Jared said as he clenched his fists, "Like, maybe we can fix it! You can't just give up like that."
Emily didn't turn around from her computer, "It's… it's what Four told me. I just got off a call with him."
"Oh, and now you're following orders. Since when did Emily Young ever listen to her boss?" Jared replied. He glared at the back of Emily's head until she finally turned and faced him. Emily could tell Jared was serious, because he wasn't leaning on the doorframe like he usually did.
"We need to get rid of it all. It's what we were told."
Emily's eyes were distant. Jared knew she wasn't all there. Half the lab cheered, the other half panicked, and everyone's phones were ringing. Tony looked all too smug on the 3448 monitor. Just not a care in the world.
"I— no. I can't. Delete the files yourself. If you want me wiped, do it yourself. I'm leaving," Jared turned to leave.
"Wait! Jared you can't just… leave. I need help."
"Yes you do. But not mine."
Jared went to his desk, grabbed his computer, packed up some of his papers, and then left.

Jared Helburg hadn't seen Site-2718 in about a hundred years. He never quite felt comfortable thinking of memories as being hundreds of years old. A year, five years, a decade, all of those felt like a long time for him still. A lot changes in a few years, it's hard to comprehend a whole century of change. In that time, he'd moved around a lot. Always working for the Foundation, but always in different places. Spent thirty years up in Alaska, another few decades in Vietnam, then a score in Oregon. He just left his station in Calgary, which he had worked at for eight years.
He was probably going to come back to the states soon anyways. His daughter was about to get one of those cybernetic enhancements he'd heard about in the news. If there's one thing his time in Site-64 taught him, it's to be skeptical of any robotics coming out of there.
But that was supposed to happen in a few weeks. Now Jared was traveling for a favor. He abandoned her a hundred years ago, but he won't do that twice. He took a deep breath, and then opened the door.
"Hello?" Jared asked.
A woman wearing a pair of headphones popped up from behind one of the desks. "Are you Jared?"
"And I assume you're the person who called me? You forgot to give your name," Jared navigated the sea of disordered desks and loose papers as he approached the woman.
"Yeah, sorry. I was— it was a strange day. I'm Joyce Michaels."
"Oh. You're Tony's sister."
Joyce nodded.
"Yeah, ok. This makes more sense now. Sort of. Where's Emily?"
Joyce pointed behind her, "Back in the monitor room. She's been talking to Tony ever since this morning. Hasn't said a word to me."
"That sounds par for course. She gets dramatic when she's stressed."
Jared headed for the monitor room. The light next to it flashed red, just how he left it. He knocked once before opening the door. He didn't recognize Emily at first, but then again she didn't look anything like she did a hundred years ago. She started speaking before she turned around.
"Joyce, I need a—"
Emily stopped once she noticed Jared.
"Hey boss," he said, "Still fucking around with dead men?"
"Jared?"
"Miss me?"
Emily stood from her chair, "You piece of shit! Why the fuck are you here?"
"Your friend called me and said you two needed a hand," Jared replied as he leaned against the wall, "Speaking of, aren't you supposed to be in the fetal position begging for death?"
"First of all, I can hate my life and do something else at the same time. Called multi-tasking. And second, that was not a public thing."
"Face it, we're stuck. And you have not been giving me confidence we'll get ourselves unstuck," Joyce called from the next room.
Jared couldn't help but smirk, "How's Tony been? Feeling lively?"
"God, even after a hundred years you're the same fucking person," Emily said. She sat back down in front of 3448's computer monitor.
"Same could be said of you."
Jared smiled a little. Emily didn't return it. She turned back around and resumed typing to Tony.
"You're still a coward," she said.
"Still hung up on that?"
Jared walked toward Emily.
"You abandoned me. And Tony."
"There's a long, long conversation we can have about who was in the right. I don't regret leaving. That's not why I'm here."
Emily turned around again.
"Then why are you here?" she asked.
Jared looked at the ceiling while he thought for a moment. He eventually got his words in order and crouched in front of Emily so they could be eye to eye.
"Because I should've dragged you out with me. So, I'm going to get Tony out of here first, and then make sure you have no reason to come back to this place," he said.
Emily took a moment to really look Jared over. His face looked different, but it had the same smirk. His body was taller, and broader, but it stood with the same slump. His voice was lower pitched, but it was as unreasonably confident as it was a hundred years ago.
"You hate the fact you missed me, don't you? I'm feeling nostalgic already," he said.
"Shut up."
"Yup, just like old times."

It took about half a day to catch Jared up on everything that Emily and Joyce had scrapped together the past few weeks. It was a meager amount of new information, and most of it wasn't useful. Jared cleared out a spot on a desk from his computer and looked through some of his old files.
"What are you looking for?" Emily asked. She peered over Jared's shoulder
"Well… ok so the one thing we're like, 95% sure of is that if we can kill Tony like we did with that girl, he'll actually die, right? Like, if you die in this state, you're just all the way dead."
"Right."
"I remember from my time at Site-64 coming across— ah! There it is," Jared said as he opened a file.
Emily pushed Jared out of the way, "What is it?"
"SCP-3560. It's robot purgatory."
"Elaborate," Emily said
"Aren't you reading it?" Jared said as he rolled his eyes.
"Sort of."
"I can't see it from here anyways," Joyce said from next to Jared.
"Fine," Jared turned to her, "So, you know those new Anderson Robotics bodies they got everywhere now? Well, Anderson Robotics stuff works… strangely. Surprisingly enough, most of their automatons are pretty ripe to act as vessels for immortal people already. They end up fusing the soul into the machine, so it's as if they're already operated by people. At least, that's what they used to do. I can only guess though that they use something similar, but not exactly the same for their exoskeletons."
Emily finally looked behind her, "Wait, wait. Soul?"
"Soul, consciousness, electrical activity that represents thoughts. From what I can tell those are all interchangeable. It's the part of us that Omega-K keeps alive." Jared answered.
"I still can't find the part that has to do with Tony," Emily replied, "He's already half dead. We can't stick his soul in a suit."
"I'm not finished. Although… I'm kind of hoping you're wrong about that. See… if an AR robot dies, it ends up in 3560. I'm assuming the main reason we green-lighted the Buteo Series for public use is because we're banking on the fact that people aren't dying anymore, so we're not sending civilians there."
"Wait. Wait wait," Emily said, still refusing to let Jared sit in front of the computer, "Are you suggesting that we take Tony, put him in a robot suit, kill him, and then fish his dead robot soul out of a forest somewhere in Oregon?"
Jared leaned back in his chair. "Don't make it sound like that's the dumbest plan you ever heard. You thought half-killing a lighter was a good idea."
"We're not going to drag Tony's body to Anderson Robotics. We don't know if we'll lose connection to his consciousness if we take the body out of the machine."
Jared stood up. "You're not even willing to try it? C'mon. I know some people. I could get the body in."
"What if we get a suit, bring it here and send it into the conceptual space?" Emily asked.
"We don't know how much that machine transfers," Jared replied, "We know it gets the basic idea right, but a lighter and a gun are pretty simple. How does this thing work as a concept?"
"I don't know. I haven't heard about these things until today," Emily said as she stood up.
"They've been all over the news for weeks!"
"Well I don't get out much!"
"Guys?"
Emily and Jared both looked down at Joyce. She had a small smile across her face. The kind of smile you have when you know you're about to say something stupid.
"So, those suits operate usually with an entire soul inside, right? Well… what if we got a suit with only half a soul inside, and then got Tony to fill in the other half? Like, maybe there'd be a soul vacuum he'd occupy?"
Emily looked at Jared, and then back to Joyce, "Half a soul? A soul vacuum?"
"… yeah?" Joyce shrugged.
Emily nodded, "That sounds reasonable. I mean, it doesn't, but it's par for course."
Jared also nodded and sat down, "Yeah that makes sense. Except… how would we get half a soul in one of those things?"
"We do what we did when we sent stuff to Tony. We put a suit with a whole soul in, and then half-kill it," Emily explained.
"And then we kill both the souls once they're in the suit, and then get them out of robotory," Joyce said.
"Wait, so how are we going to get the souls in the body?" Jared asked.
Emily took her seat again, "I'm like, 90% sure it'll become obvious once we see what it looks like inside the conceptual space. Things either make perfect sense on the other side, or no sense at all."
"So, who's going in?"
Emily and Jared fell silent. Everyone knew it was going to come down to this. If they were going to try this, someone needed to be the test subject. Someone would have to bank on this being "essentially right". Or be willing to be stuck with Tony for… possibly ever.
"I'll do it," Joyce said.
"You sure?" Jared asked.
"I'm sure. He's my brother after all."
Jared pushed Emily aside so he could get back to his computer. Emily just kept looking at Joyce.
"You ok Emily?"
"I— I mean not really. But I just… I dunno. I don't want to be left alone again."
"Alone?"
"Well… I know that you're willing to deal with the consequences of this failing but I don't know if I can. I mean, I'm not stopping you. You should go after him if you want. I'm just, well, I'm being me. I'm being selfish."
Emily stared off at her shoes. Joyce put her hands on Emily's shoulders.
"Emily."
"What."
"I'm coming back. I promise."
Emily looked up again. The two stared at each other for a few more seconds before Jared turned around from his computer.
"Alright, Joyce. You're due for a new robot body in a week. I managed to get you in cheap because, well, people owe me favors."
"Thanks Jared. I'm looking forward to it."

Ring. Ring.
Click.
"Hello? This is Skylar Credential Portfolios. What can I help you with today?"
"I'd like to short sell my shares in Black Moon LLC."
"One moment."
.
.
.
"Hello, this is Greg Kirklan, secretary for O5-4."
"Hi, this is Erica Dunders from Site-34 accounting. Could you route me to O5-4?"
"I'm afraid he's busy at the moment. His daily meeting with the rest of the council doesn't end for another three hours."
"This is quite important. Could you tell him that uh… how secure is this line?"
"This is Overwatch Command. And before you ask, I probably have higher security clearance than you do. I know an overseer's daily schedule."
"Right, right. Well, if you could tell Four that his uh, pet project from a hundred years ago looks like its been reactivated. I don't think Site-2718 is empty anymore."
"One moment."
.
.
.
"He says he'll be with you in two minutes. Just needs to get to his personal line in the office."

Do You Remember Funerals?

End of Death

Project Damnerung


The Black Garden Pub, Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin
October 1st
Alison Carol was in the same pub for the eighty-ninth night in a row.
She contemplated this fact as the words came into her head again. Creeping in, like a drumbeat, or one of Robert's horrible jokes. That man could force Gears to groan at one of his puns. They had met him, once, at a conference; she could've sworn Gears at least twitched from the conversation.
"The usual?" The bartender, a man of thirty with an impressive black beard, nodded at Carol.
"Yeah."
Pina Coladas were the only form of alcohol that Agent Carol could stomach. And despite everything, despite her trying her best to get rid of it, that damn song always came back in her head.
The dark isn't real, but you are blind without light
"Shut up," she hissed.
The cold isn't real, but you'll still freeze in the night
"No…" she groaned.
Words are not real, and yet you know how to write
"Your drink." The bartender slipped the cocktail over to her just as the final line of the poem rang in her mind. She put the pill in her mouth and slammed back a drink that wasn't meant to be slammed back. A wave of burning, fruity taste washed over her, and the poem went unfinished.
"Ergh." She leaned forward and put her head against the bar. "Thanks, Cecil."
Cecil the bartender shook his head and leaned against the bar. "Y'know, I get dozens of people in this bar every night. Only good watering hole in town. I've seen men flee their families, women flee their husbands, and college kids flee good grades." He stood and looked straight at her. "You're the only one who's ever really worried me."
"Why's that?" She asked, wiping some drink off of her shirt for the Incubi, a local band who, thankfully, only pretended to be sex demons.
"You're with the Plastics people. We ain't stupid, y'know— we know there's more to you than meets the eye." He picked up a glass and pretended to polish it. "I saw you last Halloween, helping everyone evacuate."
Alison chuckled. "That's pretty much all I could do. My boss said I should stay out of the city and look after townies. But… Jesus Christ, what happened…"
"That didn't spook you. Something happened that did." Cecil titled his head. "What are you running from, Alice?"
"Alison. God, you sound like my partner." She sipped through a straw. "And it's… classified."
"I'll put this on your tab, then?" Cecil asked, looking at the set of vampire bat streamers he had put up the previous day.
"Yeah." She stood up, swinging her coat on from her seat. "Thanks again, C."
"Anytime, Alice."
"Alison."
She hated when anyone called her Alice, especially now. It reminded her that there was something down the rabbit hole.

Sloth's Pit was generally not a town that one was afraid of walking in after dark.
The light provided by Edison's pilfered designs was more than enough to drive away most creatures of the night, and the path all the way up to S & C Plastics was illuminated by street lamps that were incapable of burning out or being powered down— a precaution installed following the events of last Halloween.
The Black Autumn, they called it, or SCP-097-D, or the Black Equinox. Alison laughed at the last one— it sounded like a goddamn car. It had nearly opened a hole in reality centered on this dumb town, and they named it after a Chevy.
Alison had been given amnestics months ago, she knew that much. She recognized the symptoms for a few days after the administration— nausea, dizziness, loss of time. Even now, the inside of her arm still had the injection scars. Robert knew what happened, but was ordered to not tell her. But flashes came back every now and again: a pit, a man at the bottom, them in a bamboo forest, a giant shadow—
"Nutella sandwiches on wheat bread with buttermilk and Cheetoes. Nutella sandwiches on wheat bread with buttermilk and Cheetoes. Nutella sandwiches on wheat bread with buttermilk and Cheetoes…."
This mantra was to be spoken every time she felt one of her memories cropping up. Every time she felt it starting to crawl out—
The Pit Sloth isn't real—
Alison Carol leaned on the pole, head hammering. She kept repeating the mantra, like Dr. Palmer had said. Something to focus on to keep the sound out. The sound of something that she wasn't meant to remember, but kept crawling back in.
The Pit Sloth isn't real—
She sat under the unerring lamp post, the light flickering above her. It was never meant to go out, but maintaining the grid 24/7 meant there would be a minor surge or two, a bit of a flicker.
The Pit Sloth isn't real—
"Shut up!" Alison screamed, hands over her head. A shadow fell over her.
The light above her flickered, and the bulb within popped, as Alison's thought finished.
—but he'll still give you a fright.

October 2nd
The police had cordoned off the section of Main Street— or rather, the section where Main Street was missing. A pair of giant gouges in the ground marked the last known location of agent Alison Carol. Her coat lay at the foot of the lamp post, a blood stain on the left sleeve. There was no other sign of her.
Overlooking this was Robert Tofflemire, fidgeting with the flask on his hip. He brought it to his lips, and drank deep. Vodka burned his throat, but it killed the droning rhyme in his head better than coffee.
"It's impossible."
Beside Robert, Katherine Sinclair held up a Pickman-Sinclair Narrative Fluctuation Detector, which was doing the opposite of its job— not detecting any narrative change. Or any narrative, for that matter.
Sinclair ran the detector over herself and got a baseline reading. Then, she ran it over the street, and the detector went silent. She beckoned Robert over.
"You good, Tofflemire?"
"Yeah. I'm functional." Robert took out a second flask, this one containing water. "So, Alice is—"
"If she was here, she doesn't seem to be anymore." Sinclair made her way to where Alice's jacket sat, under the infalliable lamp. The detector's reader did something that it should never have done, that it was never designed to do— it went into the negative numbers.
"…is that… is that saying she doesn't exist anymore?" Robert stepped back, swallowing. "No way. Alice… are the readings saying that she's gone?"
"I don't know what these readings are saying, but I think we both know what caused them to happen." Sinclair looked at the gouge marks in the pavement behind them. "I wish Bailey were here— he helped design this tech. How long until he gets back from 19?"
"Not until at least the 12th." Robert scratched at the back of his head. "I'd go in his office, but he's threatened 'foam-dart deathtraps' on anyone trying to get in."
Sinclair shook her head and stowed the wand. "There's not much I can do, Robert. I'm sorry."
"What?" Robert's eyes widened. "My friend— my partner! —is missing! And you're saying you can't do anything?!"
"That noise coming out of the Pit means something's coming, if it isn't here already. You and Carol were both exposed to it, and… I'm thinking that's what took her. We're walking on eggshells here." Sinclair rubbed her forehead. "I wish I could help more. But this is… in your wheelhouse now, as it were."
"Okay." Robert rubbed his face, and turned to his tablet. With a soft, humming chime, he activated the tracking app. There was a slightly staticy noise as his partner's GPS trackers came online.
Foundation agents were required to have six tracking chips on their person— one on their torso, one implanted in their neck, and one on each of their limbs. That way, if their extremities got separated, they'd know about it. All six of Alice's chips were intact, in the same place.
The only problem is that "the same place" was two different places at the same time— opposite ends of town. He blanched, and showed his readings to Sinclair.
"Hell." She took out her phone and started tracking Alison herself. Same readings, same bilocation. "Okay, uh. Not sure what that means."
"It means that we need two detachments. I'll go with the Wonder Twins, you call… other people, I don't care." He turned away and started for his vehicle, palming his radio. "This is Agent Tofflemire, hailing Agents Blake and Ruby Williams."
"We read ya, Bob." Blake's voice came through the radio, crisp as the leaves that Robert was crunching underfoot. "What's up?"
"Meet me at these coordinates in ten." He transmitted one of the two sets of Alice's beacons to them. "It's an emergency. Bring Scranton rounds and narrative detectors."
"Some emergency." He could hear Ruby's frown over the comms. "Is this about—"
"Do you even have to ask?" Robert climbed into his jeep and slammed the door, starting it up and heading into the woods.

Even in broad daylight, the Baby Bone Woods were menacing.
Perhaps it was the stray wild pumpkin that still grew out there, a reminder of the Black Autumn's influence. It could be the stillness invoked from their proximity to the Blasted Heath— a patch of land, ash white in color, that was said to contain the Hidebehind. Maybe it was the ruins of the houses that it was said were burned down by the Goatman god knows how many decades ago.
Robert considered himself a funny guy. Alice may have seen him as annoying, and she was far from the only one, but he was well-liked. He tried to put on some of that demeanor here, with Blake at one side and Ruby at the other. "So, uh, Dipper, Mabel, how are things?"
Ruby adjusted her ammo sling, and looked at her tablet. "Still amazes me that you can find new names to call us."
"I've been saving that for this time of year," Robert admitted. "Never got to use it last year, because—"
"Just be glad you were in Duluth and not here." Blake felt the back of his neck— right underneath his hair, at the base of his skull, a piece of Sarkic Amber remained. He'd taken the slow route from 1969 to 2017, and not all of it had peeled off.
"Scale of 1 to 10, where one is April Fool's day and ten is Satyr's Reign—"
"Don't even joke," Ruby snapped. "We lost good people last year, Bob. We… it's not a good time of year anymore. At least, not yet." She gritted her teeth.
Confused, Tofflemire looked at Blake. He explained, "She… used to work with Squad 9. The one that went missing in the Pyramid."
"Oh." Robert looked at the ground, avoiding a wild pumpkin. "I didn't know. Sorry."
"It's fine," Ruby lied. She stopped, putting up her hand. "Do you hear that?"
The others stopped, cocking their heads. Robert heard familiar voices in the distance, but he couldn't place where they were from. One of them was a woman's. "Alice?" He called, running forward.
"Toff, wait!" Blake called. "It could be a wisp, or—"
But Robert had already taken off. Alice's location was growing ever closer on his radar. Fifty meters. Forty. Thirty. Twenty.
And then he ran smack into someone else. His eyes had been so fixed on his wrist-mounted tablet that he hadn't noticed the blonde-haired, lithe form of Seren Pryce, Sigma-10's designated sniper. He winced, and stood, rubbing his head. "What the fuck?!"
"I could ask you the same!" Seren stood, adjusting her rifle; the butt of it had knocked the wind out of her. Flanking her sides were Nicholas Ewell and Alexander Carracos. "You were supposed to check out the south end of town!"
"This is the south end!" Ruby protested, coming up next to them, looking at her tablet. "…unless…"
Ewell's skin yellowed in frustration as he realized what was going on. He turned on his tablet, and activated his personal tracking unit. He went in a circle around the group, and his radar showed him flickering between the north and south ends of Sloth's Pit.
"Fuck me," Ewell hissed. "A loop. We're in a spatial goddamn loop!"
"Like Pac-Man," Robert joked, sniffing and rubbing his face. "Fuck."
"If I had to guess, it starts right about where your partner's tracker is." Carracos looked around the woods. "We should be right on top of her."
"Unless she's right on top of us." Seren rummaged in her rifle bag, withdrawing a thermal scope. She clicked it on and brought it up to her eyes, scanning the treetops. "If she was underground, the trackers wouldn't show up at all."
"Wish they'd put altimeters into these," Robert said as he stepped into some shade. At the same time as Seren, he realized that where he was standing had no tree to shade him.
He looked upward, and his face contorting into a look of horror. Pryce dropped her scope, the lens in it cracking.
"Holy fucking shit."
Alison Carol hung above them, suspended in midair. Blood pooled in the air around her, as if she were in a clear plastic bag. A pair of long, sharp claw marks scored her back. Her face was pale, her eyes glazed over, but her mouth was moving. Robert could read her lips.
"The Pit Sloth is real. The Pit Sloth is real. The Pit Sloth is real. The Pit Sloth is real. The Pit Sloth is real."

| Hub | Chapter 2 »


Doctor Bishop had a little ritual. A crack of the wrist, a minute adjustment of the spectacles, and a breathing pattern―two seconds in, one second out. This little ritual would be performed before an interview, with this particular interview being a special one. It'd be the first interview without a supervisor. Suffice to say, he was damn nervous.
After this, it would be a relaxing end day, with just a few routine tests on the anomaly he was scheduled to work on. Seemed easy enough. But then again, trying to keep a bunch of brash, intelligent, and hostile kangaroos somewhat docile was a challenge in its own right. Even with the recent advances in technology, they couldn't get close to the nature reserve where the kangaroos resided, not without ensuring mass panic and provoking a coordinated attack from what were essentially muscles on legs.
Bishop sighed. This was going to be an adventure, he was sure of it. Picking up an audio recorder and a list of questions taped to a clipboard, he looked over the file attached to the list. Another unlucky victim of the anomalous effects of SCP-3502, and from the looks of it, he was quite traumatised too. He didn't want to use anmestics on the poor bastard, but it was standard procedure, and any standard procedure was his procedure.
The doctor opened the ironclad door and saw the man, his head on the table and his arms flopped, swinging like a pendulum. The man looked unwashed, dirt in every crack and wrinkle on his skin and clothes, and his hair in a complete mess. Bishop didn't even want to see what his beard looked like. Maybe if he told him to keep his head down, he wouldn't have t― and it was too late. Bishop held back a gag as he saw the wet clump of what was presumably the beard of this unkempt man.
“Hello Michael, I'm Doctor Bishop, part of the Queensland Police. I'm here to ask you a few questions, is that okay?”
Bishop fought every urge in his body to run when Michael nodded. His eyes, they were bulged out like a bloody cartoon. Bishop tried to regain his composure and sat down. Professionalism is key, the human race would be doomed otherwise. The man tracked the doctor's every movement from the moment he started recording the conversation. Maybe Bishop could ask for a weak amnestic to forget this interview and just listen to the audio.
“Right, now that we've got a yes, we can now start this interview. Great! First things first, your name and your date of birth.”
If Bishop thought the man's looks were jarring, his voice was a whole other thing. It was a mix between a chronic smoker and someone who just swallowed the world's supply of gravel and sand.
“Hm. Thought you guys had that already. Guess I was wrong. Michael Palmer, June 12th, 1946.”
This is going to drag out, isn't it?
“So, that means you're 68?”
“Yeah, so? Not like I get to keep meself pretty these days.”
“Fair, fair." Bishop flipped over to the next page, making a mental note to not space out his questions so much. "Let's keep going, I don't have many questions. Next one is the incident itself, do you remember anything about what happened? Any unusual persons, objects, animals? ”
The man shifted in his seat, making Bishop grip the clipboard just a little bit harder. Taking a deep breath, the man leaned back and stretched his arms, a sickening crack of his knuckles making the doctor flinch.
“I can tell you what happened. Not sure I really believe myself. Lots is foggy, for me, now, but this isn't. This isn't.”
Bishop crossed his legs. “Hm, okay. Interesting. Just tell me the parts you remember the most then.”
The man seemed to be unnaturally calm about this situation. Bishop decided he couldn't take any chances. He hovered his finger under the table, where a button laid. A small push and an amnestic would spray them both, with no harm apart from a 12 hour gap in memory. The wonders of modern technology.
“Fine, if you really need it. I was driving out to Yaraka, grabbing stuff, you know. I get this… bloody migraine that feels like someone kept stabbing me with a needle. Next thing I know there's kangaroos absolutely everywhere, and they all faced me, it was like a fucking horror film. One of them cracked my window, with its claw!" The man held his head in his hands. "All my stuff was in there, my life was in that car! And now it's gone!”
The man made a gesture akin to nails down a chalkboard, with added sound effects for good measure. Bishop tried to keep his professional face on when confronted with such behaviour, but it wavered slightly when the man burst into tears in front of him. This was a good time to end the interview.
“Okay, okay. Michael, from what I can see you have some fuzzy memories, and I'm sorry about that. When they found you, you were on the side of the road dying of heatstroke. Look, I'll get this put in the report and have it investigated, will that make you better?”
Bishop pressed the button underneath the table and stood up.
“I'll get someone to escort you out. It's been a pleasure, have a good day.”
He shut the door just as the gas seeped in from the floor tiles. Bishop threw the papers on the desk in front of him, and pulled out a chair. The effects of the gas were almost instant, with the man starting to slip in and out of consciousness. In a few minutes, his memory would be nothing but static.
The hand phone on the desk rang, and Bishop picked it up.
“Hey?”
“Nathaniel, it's Amil from down the hall, do you know where the papers for 3502 are?”
“You need to be more specific, you mean the tests, the articles, the archives, or what?”
A long, hard sigh came from the receiver.
“The tests, you nitwit! You know damn well which ones I need!”
“Oh. Uh, they should be by your desk drawers, I think.”
The dial tone indicated a very pissed off Amil. No surprise there.
Bishop turned to the interview room. The man was nowhere to be seen. The gas was long gone by now. Of course, the one second his back is turned, the man just so happens to disappear right in front of his eyes. He didn't want to fear the worst, but his mind decided to go against his wishes. He pushed the door open and went through the standard procedures.
Make sure they're not dead.
Ask if they're okay.
Provide a cover story.
Additional steps may be included as necessary.
A wave of dread made him freeze in place. The heavy breathing behind him made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
"Oh no."
A solid arm slid around his neck and tightened. Bishop thrashed and pulled trying to scream, but could only let out small gurgles. He swung the attacker off his feet, but the man had an iron grip, and shifted his weight to accommodate. Bishop couldn't see the attacker, but he had a pretty good idea who it was.
Bishop twisted his hip and threw the man against the wall. A piece of tile cracked and fell to the ground with a clang; it was as long as the blade of a kitchen knife. His suspicions turned correct, it was Michael. But there was something different. This wasn't Michael; his eyes were almost pure white from where Bishop was standing, and he was growling like a pack animal. Snatching the fractured tile, Michael roared and jabbed upwards, missing the doctor by a good inch.
Bishop tried to push Michael's chest, but merely swatted the attacker's hand away. Michael went in for another strike as Bishop held up one of the chairs from the interview. The tile pierced the soft leather-back and knocked the doctor's spectacles. Bishop made a run for the door, but was pulled back by the sleeve of his jacket. His head was all over the place, trying to focus in what went wrong with the amnesia process, and in an instant he remembered what Class A amnestics did. There was no way this should be happening, Class A amnestics induce sedation and nausea, not aggression! Bishop pulled away and threw off his jacket.
“Security! Security!”
They ended up on opposite sides of the table, Michael standing between Bishop and the door. The doctor tried to move left, but Michael followed. He tried to move right, but Michael followed as well. Bishop tried to coax the attacker into going left while he went right, but Michael didn't budge. As the doctor went to jump across one of the interview chairs, Micheal shot across the table and went in for the kill.
Within seconds, it was over.
Bishop's body lay where Michael's chair was, writhing and screaming in agony. A line of blood slithered along the edge of the jagged tile.
“Next time you get up, I'll break yer legs, you government fuck!”
Bishop held his hand against his eye, unable to move as the man raced out the door, barging past facility staff. A group of guards rushed by after him, while another group of armed personnel came to the doctor's aid. As the door alarm for the faux police station rang out, Bishop's last state of consciousness gave him two words to think about before the blackness greeted him.
Oh lord…
«The Outback Sends Its Regards|Outback Law»


The two agents sat side by side on a bench in plainclothes, waiting for their contact to arrive. The smell after a rain permeated the Park Blocks.
"Do you miss it?" Creed asked. "Three Ports?"
"Sometimes." Ross replied with a melancholy smile. "I have a lot of memories there."
She paused.
"But hey, I'm making a difference now. Help sort out the good mages from the bad."
Creed nodded and gently squeezed Ross's hand.
"If the Foundation is to survive much longer," he began, "it's going to need to start adopting the pragmatism Site-64 takes. A rigid rod will eventually snap under pressure. But not one that is flexible. Not one that can adapt to the stress."
"As if that will ever happen." Ross gave a sad chuckle.
Creed shrugged.
"Hey, we can still dream, right?"

Agent Beatrice Ross's thoughts drifted as she sat alone in within the Park Blocks of Portland, Oregon. Catching herself, she shifted her gaze to the black gloves on her hands that covered a thick wrapping of bandages. She had been able to regenerate a bit of the tissue damaged by the frostbite so far. Even with magic, there was a limit to how fast a body could heal safely.
She returned her eyes to the passing foot traffic and scanned for her contact. Soon, she detected a familiar aura and was approached by an androgynous agent from the Unusual Incidents Unit.
"You're late." Ross snickered.
Robin Thorne frowned.
"Yeah, well, it turns out Tolkien was wrong." They gave a small shrug. "Anyways, Gandalf never had to deal with traffic."
They then sat down beside Ross on the bench.
"No counterphrase?" Thorne asked. "Merlo was always a stickler for those."
"I trust a familiar aura pattern more than that cloak and dagger crap." Ross shrugged. "Suit yourself though." Ross cleared her throat. "Tiny curtains opened and we heard the tiny clap of little hands."
"A tiny man would tell a little joke, and get a tiny laugh from all the folks," Thorne replied.
The pair fell silent for a moment.
"How have you been, Robin?" Ross asked. "It's been a while."
Instead of an answer, Thorne handed Ross an unmarked envelope.
"Someone tipped your guy off. By the time we got there, the equipment was smashed, documents incinerated, and about 30 kilos of Seance Dust had been glassed. They probably jumped ship through the Backdoor or Britain. "
Ross's gaze fell to the pavement. She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath.
"Fantastic. Another dead end."
"I didn't say that. Check the envelope."
Ross nodded and gingerly opened it, scanning the contents within. Her eyes widened as her face flushed.
"You've got to be kidding me."
Inside was a collection of about seven receipts to Spicy Crust Pizza.
"Wish I was," Thorne sighed. "You'd think with how meticulous these guys were they'd remember to take care of their trash."
They then stood and began to take their leave.
"The ball is in your court, Bea. Best of luck."

Site Director Edgar Holman looked over the receipts for several moments, a finger tapping his temple as he thought in silence. Across the desk from him, Agent Ross sat on the edge of her seat.
"Sir?" she asked. "What do you think?"
"I think you've confirmed that these guys like pizza," he replied and slid the receipts back towards her. "This is hardly a lot to go on."
"With all due respect, sir, this doesn't seem coincidental. We should-"
"Have you ever eaten at a Spicy Crust, Agent Ross?" Holman interrupted.
"No. I'm afraid not."
"I have," he continued. "It's pretty decent pizza. Turns out running a front operation is a whole lot more believable if you are decent at actually doing what you claim to be doing. For all you know your Seance Dust manufacturer made that his go-to chain. Not everyone on the other side of the Veil knows it's one of ours."
Ross nodded in understanding.
"Sir, this is literally the only place left that the breadcrumbs lead. Just grant me the RAISA clearance so I can take a quick look. I promise you, if I'm wrong I'll consider this to be case-closed. I just want to check camera feeds in the pizzeria."
Holman rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed.
"Three days," he said. "I want regular briefings on anything you find. And the second you do find something that confirms this was an inside operation we hand off to I.A. Are we clear?"
"Crystal."

Black and white CCTV footage of the inside of a pizzeria played on the computer monitor in front of Agent Ross as she finished off her third cup of breakroom coffee. Rubbing her eyes, she sighed and jotted down several notes. Paused on the screen was the image of the Seance Dust manufacturer talking to a gangly young man with thick glasses over a medium Hawaiian.
"Who the hell are you…" Ross whispered to herself, then tapped the computer screen with her pen.
At each of the times on the receipts Thorne has recovered, the footage had proven to play out the same. Glasses would enter the restaurant about half an hour before the manufacturer and head to the bathroom. Once the manufacturer entered, they would place an order at the counter and take a seat. Glasses would then join them and hand them an envelope. They'd then eat the pizza and part ways.
Ross sighed again and drummed on her desk, her gaze turning to the nearby phone. She was still waiting to hear back from RAISA to find out if her target was one of the Spicy Crust Pizza employees.
"Any time now, guys," Ross mumbled.
She then turned her attention back to the monitor and pressed play, frowning as the image remained frozen. The screen then flickered, the CCTV recording being replaced by the indicator of a down intranet connection. The screen flickered again, and the recording was back. However, the Seance Dust manufacturer and Glasses were gone.
"What the hell?"
Ross scrambled her way through the various video files.
"What the hell!"
In each one her suspects had been erased.
The phone then rang. RAISA's number appeared on the dial. Ross picked up the receiver, her grip tight on the black plastic as she spoke.
"Please tell me you guys have good news."
"I'm sorry, Agent Ross," the RAISA tech replied. "We don't have any records of that man working at the Spicy Crust Pizza front, or that they are personnel at all."
Ross sank into her chair.
"I figured that would be the case," she said. "Thanks for everything."
"Of course. Let us know if you need anything else."
Ross hung up and looked at her notes, then back at the CCTV footage.
"Who the hell are you?!?"

Agent Ross rarely found a reason to visit the administration offices of Site-64 outside of the occasional visit to Site Director Holman. However, desperate times called for desperate measures, and for that reason, she found herself in the Accounting Department. Stopping at a door labeled "Gabriel Merlo: Head Accountant" she looked over her shoulder and then stepped inside the office beyond.
"Agent Ross?"
Inside the office, a bespectacled man with a face covered in stubble sat behind the central desk, a look of mild confusion upon his face as he put down a mug of coffee. Ross held a finger to her lips and crossed the room, handing him a slip of paper.

Cameras in here?

Gabe raised an eyebrow, then shook his head.
"Wonderful." Ross sighed in relief. "Do you have access to the cash flow through Foundation fronts? Spicy Crust Pizza in particular."
"Uh, yeah." Gabe gave a confused chuckle. "Hard for me to do my job if I didn't. Why do you ask?"
"I think someone in the Foundation is using our branch in Portland as a means of contracting for an anomalous substance from Three Portlands. Who else has access to that info?"
"What?" Gabe blinked.
"Who else has access to that info, Gabe?"
"I mean, a quite a few. Other accountants, administrators, ethics committee members doing check-ins. It's not exactly level four stuff. You think someone is laundering money through Spicy Crust?"
Ross didn't answer. She stared off into space, a gloved hand on her chin as she thought to herself.
"Does that info get backed up, and if so how often?" She replied.
"I have regular backups of most of the accounts on a portable hard drive-"
"Pull up a backup from last week and compare that to what's currently in the database! Twenty bucks say it doesn't match up."
"Why though?" Gabe asked. His expression was pleading. "Agent Ross, I want to help you but you need to calm down and tell me what is going on!"
"Creed and I have been attempting to bust a large paracrime operation acting out of Three Portlands for months now, Gabe," Ross shot back. "We've never had a solid lead until a few weeks ago. Then out of the blue, there is an assassination attempt on Creed and I by people who know we are skippers, and that I'm a thaumatologist. Then, when the UIU attempts to bust the manufacturers in they not only find that the suspects were tipped off but a shit ton of Spicy Crust receipts. The breadcrumbs are pointing to someone in the Foundation, Gabe! I just don't know who or why yet. But if the info in your backup doesn't match the database then it tells me that its someone with significant RAISA access and that's a very short suspect list. Certainly enough to get Internal Affairs crawling all over it. So please, Gabe, pull up that info!"
"Well why didn't you just say so," he said and began to type on his keyboard. It was not long before the accountant frowned.
"Well?" Ross asked, moving to peer over his shoulder.
"Doesn't match. Someone has cooked these books. This is bad, Ross. Really bad. I should have gotten an alert about these kinds of edits. The system is compromised."
"Can you find out who's been accessing the records?"
Gabe nodded and typed in a few more commands. A short list of names came up. Most were accountants or RAISA techs. One name, however, did stand out: Dr. Lindsey Morgan of the Site Ethics Committee.
"Interesting," Ross grinned. "Dr. Morgan often coming asking about Spicy Crust's bottom line?"
"She does not," Gabe replied. "I don't think I've even met her yet."
"We had a single 'no' vote from the site's Ethics Committee when Creed and I proposed to use an anomalous substance to assist in our investigation. How much do you want to bet that vote was hers?"
The computer screen flickered.
"Fur abeas!"
Gabe and Ross froze as a guttural voice sounded from the computer. The device began to crackle with electricity and the lights in the room dimmed.
"Shit! Get away from it!" Ross shouted, and shoved Gabe to the floor.
A hand made of electricity burst through the computer monitor. Ross held her right arm up. Five crackling fingers interlocked with hers, the force of the contact slamming her against the wall. She let out a sharp cry of pain, the hand still tightly gripped in hers. The temperature of the room plummeted.
"Unplug it!" Ross shouted. Electricity arched up and down her body.
Gabe scrambled for the foot of the desk, sparks flying as he yanked the power strip from the wall. The creature emerging from the screen let out a screech. A second arm emerged from the screen and pierced Ross through her abdomen.
Ross howled in pain, her left hand grabbing the new hand as she maintained her grip with her right. Frost began to build on her as she became cyanotic, the electricity that had been arching up and down her body now concentrated in her arms. With a hoarse yell, she lurched forward, kicking off the wall with her feet. The electric hands in her grip writhed and began to deform, then shot back into the computer screen with a deafening crack, launching the fried electronics off the desk in a plume of black smoke.
The lights in the room died and were replaced a few moments later with the dull red glow of the emergency lighting.
"Ross?" Gabe asked, emerging from cover, "Are you okay?"
Agent Ross nodded as she placed a hand over the puncture wound on her stomach. The bleeding immediately stopped. She stepped backward, struggling to keep herself up against the wall as she shivered.
"I hate… demonics…" she managed to get out. Her breath was visible. "Hey Gabe… think I can borrow… your jacket? I'm a little… cold."
Ross slumped to the floor.
"Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit."
Gabe crossed the room in an instant, pulling a jacket off his nearby chair and wrapping it around Ross's crumpled form. The accountant fumbled for his phone, opening up the texting app keying in a message.

sasha ross in myoffice atked needs medical

Gabe hit send. Then turned his attention back to the downed agent.
"What do I do?" he thought out loud. He froze as he heard his office door open behind him.
"Mr. Merlo." The voice was soft and masculine. "Please step away from Agent Ross."
The accountant looked over his shoulder. A young, gangly man with thick glasses stood in the doorway wearing the jumpsuit of the site maintenance team. He held a shotgun in his hands, its barrel pointed at Gabe's chest.

« Middlegame | Portland Vice | Bare King »


Background: Following the events that occurred as outlined in Incident Report 7154-411314, a new containment cell was constructed for SCP-334, at the newly-constructed Site-1525, in northern South Africa. Transfer of SCP-334 to Site-1525 was completed in November of 2013, joining several other anomalous items in temporary or permanent containment.
On January 15, 2014, Site-1525 was attacked by agents of the Chaos Insurgency, aided by use of at least four anomalous items of their own (see File Report 1525-22525 for further details). During this series of events, SCP-334 breached containment and had to be recaptured in the South African wilderness.
Incident Details: Early in their attack on Site-1525, CI agents managed to cut electricity site-wide, including to site containment. Emergency generators could not produce enough electricity to power its containment cell before SCP-334 burned its way through the walls of its cell. SCP-334 attempted to flee the site, but quickly met a small group of CI agents. An anomalous item carried by the CI agents changed the composition of SCP-334 from plasma to metal, but SCP-334 was able to escape from Site-1525 shortly thereafter.
Once the attackers were neutralized and Site-1525 was secured, recapture of SCP-334 commenced. Recontainment specialists determined that recapture of SCP-334 would be quickest if local civilians were utilized, particularly companies that provided guided tours of the area. Their local knowledge proved invaluable, as SCP-334 was recaptured less than 72 hours after Site-1525 was secured. Civilian assets and witnesses were administered amnestics as necessary. SCP-334 returned to its original composition eight days after recapture.
In addition to hardening of defenses and reinforcement of containment measures at Site-1525, one unusual result of this incident was the creation of a long-form musical composition based on the escape and recapture of SCP-334. Ever since its wildly popular debut, performances of the Chrome Firefox Safari Opera are routinely standing-room only.