Shades and Polo
Act Two
Making Ghosts

According to the Global Burden of Disease (GBD), 405,000 people were reported to have been killed as a result of homicide in 2017. That's 1 murder for every 1.3 minutes, 78 seconds. Most people don't realize it, believing that they're above it, but the truth is that given the right circumstances, anyone can kill. When you're in a corner and you don't have a choice, you can do anything. The next killer could be your family. It could be your friends. It could be your coworkers. It could be your doctor, or your neighbor, or some random person going for a jog who just decided he wanted to do it. It could even be you.

When we last left our maybe-heroes, they had just recently escaped the clutches of the SCP Foundation's Mobile Task Force Beta-2 by the skin of their teeth. Fearing the uncertainty of their fate if they remained in the provisional prison procured by their captors, they broke free, scrambling through the film studio which was in the process of being raided. After fatally shooting an MTF member, one of them panicked and scrambled into one of the studio sets, not knowing that the set was anomalous! His partner ran in to save him, despite knowing that bad things may lay ahead. How will they get out of this predicament? Let's find out…

Shades felt the wind in his hair, blowing into the overcoat of his suit. His tie flew up, flapping as the air blew by. He felt his weight shift backwards, pressing into the cool leather. The sickly-sweet scent of cigar smoke emanating off the felt carpeting filled his nose. His hearing came back, along with the sound of a roaring engine, rubber burning against asphalt, and old speakers blasting music of an older generation. His ears perked up, recognizing the tune. He couldn't quite remember the song's name. It sat on the very tip of his tongue, so frustratingly close and yet so far out of reach, until the music track solved it for him:
DANCE! BOOGIE WONDERLAAAND!
His eyes shot open. The interior of a 1977 Chevy Stingray surrounded his body. He quickly took in the location. Leather seats, felt carpets, a whole red-orange interior placed against a smooth silver paintjob. The top was off, revealing a spread of stars across the dark purple sky. Air blowing by the car indicated that he was not, in fact, moving at his normal running speed anymore. He frantically looked around him. Behind him, there were stacks of music tapes scattered across the back, and an ominous-looking duffel bag. To his direct left was a leather steering wheel. The wheel was attached to an arm, and the arm was attached to a rather frantic-looking man in a yellow polo. Out in front of him was a long stretch of road. No, not just road; It was a highway. A sign flew by on his right, a blue shield labelled "I-30." Interstate 30. He was doing roughly 90 miles an hour down Interstate 30, which was in-
"Ladies and Gentlemen, that was 'Boogie Wonderland' by Earth, Wind, and Fire. You're listening to KAAY, Little Rock's premiere Top 40 station!" The radio informed him. "It's five past ten, folks, and I'm thinkin-"
"Top Forty!?" Shades yelled. "Oh shit! Where the fuck am I!?"

"Remember how I tried to tell you to not go through that door!? There was a reason for that!" Polo yelled over the sounds of the road roaring beneath the wheels. "We're in a time loop now!"
"Oh shit! Oh god, you can't be serious! This is- wha- fuck! Fuck! Oh god, ohoh god!" Shades blurted out in a panic. Shades slammed his fists into his lap and began hyperventilating. The world around him was new and terrifying and yet old and peaceful and he didn't like any part of that. He fumbled around for the buckle, but after a moment, realized that unlatching it was pointless. Where was he gonna go, anyway?
"Listen! In a couple of minutes here, your vision's gonna go out!" Polo informed him. "You're gonna see some instructions, and if you want to get out, you have to do exactly what it says!"
"How- what- How the fuck do you know any of this!? And would you please take your fucking foot off the gas!?"
"I got dragged into one once! They needed an extra, so they pulled me off the lot, gave me a rundown of the role, and told me to 'stick to the script'!" Polo explained. He shivered and took a deep breath. "I had to play in that well over 200 times! I hated it, but at least we could play cards! This, I'm terrified!" This world operated very different from ours. It conveyed a sense of claustrophobia, as though there were walls just past their field of view, and if they ever left the car, they'd hit one. Polo had gotten used to the feeling by now, but Shades was overcome by it.
"That makes two of us!"
Shades stopped talking to try and breathe. His face began to turn pale, and his stomach began to churn. He tried to shift even farther back into his seat, as if it would somehow help take pressure off his stomach. Polo's face went up a few shades of white too, and as the speedometer slowly turned farther and farther clockwise, he felt himself get sicker. The two had just been instantly shifted from a running speed of 10mph to a driving speed of 90mph. Shades closed his eyes and swallowed as it came up; Polo bent over the side of the car and painted a section of the road green. Shades quickly grabbed the wheel to keep the car steady as he did.
Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" was most-decidedly not helping the situation. Shades pressed in the AM button, just to change it to something else. Easily-ignorable radio talk came on; An opinion block about Reagan's race against Jimmy Carter. Shades tried his best to steady his breathing, which was considerably difficult, as they seemed to be blowing by all of the good oxygen. Polo sank back into his seat with his hand over his weak stomach and his foot finally off the gas. His eyes had watered up, this time more from being sick than being in emotional distress, although he was in the middle of both. Shades finally managed to relax his muscles. He let himself collapse a little, figuring out how to make the best of a bad situation. He started untensing his leg muscles, then letting his shoulders loose, then letting his arm dro-
"BANG!"
The two jumped, each experiencing their very own small-scale heart attack. It was at this point that Shades realized he was still gripping the dead man's gun, and that he had been ever since he stole it.
"Aw fuck. I can't believe I held on to this fucking thing. I'm sorry about that." Shades told Polo. "Fuck, I even put a hole in the floor. I hope I didn't hit anything important."
He had not hit anything important, although there was indeed a hole going straight down to the road beneath them. Shades looked up, then behind him, watching as the road disappeared over the horizon. He tossed the handgun over the roof and watched it bounce against the ground. Something about seeing it leave his general vicinity helped him settle down. Polo noted that they had now slowed down to about 75 mph, and he too finally allowed himself a small muscle relaxation. Not as much, as he was the driver, but he no longer felt quite as sick.
"Hey, don't you think it's odd that there's no other cars on the road?" Polo asked. "I just noticed that." He was right. Before them lay a stretch of nothing but asphalt on asphalt on asphalt, extending out over the horizon. There was an eerie yet peaceful feel to it. No other cars to honk or roar or ruin the moment. No judgement of other drivers. It offered a sense of short-lived false freedom, like a calm moment where the skies are still before the thunderstorm strikes.
"It's like 10pm on a highway in Arkansas. In the 70s. I somehow don't expect it to be populated." Shades responded, slicing through the tension like a warm butter knife.
"Is that where we are? Arkansas?"
"You did hear the guy on the station earlier say 'Little Rock,' right? That would be in Arkansas. In fact, it's the capital, I think. You did pass U.S. history, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did in fact pass U.S. history. I know I look like a himbo but I'm not a complete idiot."
There were a few moments of (relative) silence following that conversation. It was almost peaceful. A cool car out on the open road, wind in their hair, going nowhere with nowhere to go. In an odd way, it almost felt comforting, like home. With no destination, Polo felt as though his future was nothing but the open sea of road lights, and somehow, that felt alright, until a new voice on the radio perked up.

"Breaking news in the Little Rock area!" said the announcer. "Police have blockaded the highway on I-four-forty near Adam's Field Airport and the I-thirty near Community Outreach in an attempt to catch who they believe to be the 'ghosts of the I-thirty.' Now infamous for their string of gas-station robberies stretching across Interstate thirty, the yet uncatchable, unidentifiable duo have stolen what is believed to be around fifty-five thousand dollars from safes, ATMs, and registers. They've hit nearly every gas station from Texarkana to Benton. The only identifiable details about the criminals are their letterman jackets from the University of Arkansas, and their silver nineteen-seventy-seven Stingray Corvette."
The two froze in their seats. Their blood turned to ice and they went into a state of half-baked paralysis.
"That.. th-that c-can't be us, right?" Polo stuttered.
"No. It shouldn't be. It *can't* be."
Polo breathed a sigh of relief, followed by Shades' own sigh. Shades' personal moment of relaxation didn't last, however, as he remembered something. He turned to look behind him and spotted the duffel bag in the back of the car. He grabbed it by the handle and dragged it over to him, knocking tapes off the back platform and on to the ground, under the seats. He had to fight with the zipper for a short while before he finally managed to wrench it open.
Now sitting in his lap were two ski masks, two shotguns, two jackets labelled UA, and a considerable amount of hard, paper cash. Each item seemed to be painted in splatters of a darkening red liquid.
Shades bent his head over the side of the car and vomited. When he pulled himself back in and sat down, his vision turned black once again. Something came to him. A jumbled assortment of thoughts and ideas flooded his mind, none of them making sense to an outside observer, and yet perfectly understandable to him. It was a set of directions, ways to act and things to do and the order to do them in. It was almost like a script.

"What do you mean 'I shoot the clerk!'" Shades shouted, panicking. "What if I don't fucking want to!?"
"It means you shoot the frickin' clerk!" Polo yelled back. "If you don't, we have start all over again! Why do you think it's called a 'loop!' You have to follow those instructions!"
"No, you don't understand! I- I have to shoot and kill a live human being! That last guy, I had to! There was- I- I was panicking and we had to do something about him! I didn't mean to! I am actually going out there with the intent to end another human life. That's.. It's just so fucking different! I can't! I can't and I won't. I can't-" Shades stopped, then lowered his voice. There was a hint of despair and guilt to it. "I can't do this again. Not anymore."
"Look, I'm sorry if you don't like the circumstances. I don't either. The fact of the matter is, we're only getting out of here one way. We have to rob that last gas station, and deliver the money to the plane. I understand if you don't want to shoot them, but unless you want to spend the rest of your life driving down this same strip of highway over and over again, you have to. Have. To."
Shades balled his hands into fists and tightened them, digging his nails into his palms slightly. He squeezed his eyelids shut and grimaced, then took a series of short, quick breaths. He then slumped back and attempted to slow his breathing. He tried his best to focus on figuring out how to calm down. It started with opening his hands again, keeping his breathing deep and slow, then dropping his shoulders and loosening his jaw. It was a series of techniques he had developed over time to help keep himself under control.
It worked, to some degree. At least, it did just up until Polo reached his right hand out to Shades' shoulder, leaving him steering one-handed. Shades leaned away from his hand, looking half-shocked and half-scared. Polo drew his hand back and put it back on the wheel.
"Okay, I understand. I'm sorry dude. Look, it's gonna be alright. We'll get to the gas station, get this over with, and then if you want, we can just turn ourselves over to those guys and all this will probably just blow over. That sounds okay?"
"No, no, we can't turn ourselves in. We- I killed one of them. That means we're probably the "shoot on sight" kind of targets now. We go home."
"I.. well, if you're certain, let's get it done then. How much longer to the exit?"
A couple of green signs flew by overhead. I-440, 3/4 mile. The overpass rolled in across the horizon, illuminated by flashing red and blue lights. Splotches in the shapes of police cars lined the top of the overpass and blockaded the road below it. Before long, the splotches had formed themselves into a nigh-impenetrable wall of cars blocking off the road ahead.
Shades' breathing evolved into a panicked hyperventilation.
"O-oh god, what are you gonna do about that!?"
"I don't know yet!"
"Well figure it out quick before we *fucking* die!"
Polo's eyes darted around, taking in everything they could. Time was of the essence and there never seemed to be enough of it. The car came shooting through the road on a collision course with the line of cop cars and it didn't seem intent on stopping. Something finally clicked in Polo's eyes on observing the ramps to the overpass. He finally told Shades "I have a really bad idea."

Polo let his foot off the gas and pushed the gear shift into neutral, letting the speed that the car had already accumulated do the driving. He waited for a moment as the car sped closer to their impending doom, watching the hunks of steel and aluminum get closer and closer.
A couple hundred feet from the point of death, something hit Polo. It felt like a guide, shifting his hands into position for him. He jerked the wheel to the right just a bit before swinging the entire car to a sharp left. The two left wheels left the ground for a moment in the turn, nearly tipping the car over entirely before returning to the road. Polo cranked the gear back into drive and pressed the pedal to the floor again, driving the car straight through a small gap in the road dividers.
The rear-view mirrors slammed off the sides as the car attempted to slide between the concrete dividers. They raced across the empty oncoming lane and off the side of the road. The car caught a brief airtime as it left the pavement. Polo let out a yell of excitement as each wheel left the ground. The car shook as it made impact with the dirt and then took off again, heading towards the neon lights of a small roadside village.

"How far behind us are they?" Polo asked, trying to talk over the rush of wind and his own adrenaline.
"Actually, they aren't following us at all." Shades responded, peering over the back of his seat at the slowly shrinking vehicles.
"Oh.. We might be off-loop.." Polo said, a slight tinge of concern to his voice.
"Off-loop? What does that mean!? Do we have to do this again!?" Shades' voice raised in building panic.
"No, no, I don't think it's that bad, just a small deviation. The cops just need time to catch up to the loop. It's a bit like we're ahead of schedule. Probably from flooring it earlier."
"Okay.." Shades took in a deep breath. "Alright. Gas station. Shoot clerk. Take money. Go to airport. Leave. I.."
A brief moment of contemplative silence washed over them. Polo had since shifted onto a small portion of road and had slowed down to a reasonable cruising speed. The cool air of the summer night finally hit them and the world began to open up more. Neon lights and signs passed by. Signs and billboards littered the star-covered purple of the sky, beckoning drivers to come to this fast food place or that coffee shop. The glow of reds and pinks and purples and blues washed over the car like a continuous flood of pure neon.

Beginning Video Log Playback..
File Name: GoI6656_RecoveredLog1
MTF Teams: Beta-12
Mission Lead(s): Beta Command Team Leader ██████, GOI-6656 lead investigator Dr. Patra
Camera: MTF Beta-12 05
Begin Log

[[Skipping to designated event portion. A full transcript of this log may be acquired from the office of Dr. Patra, Head of TATS1 ]]

Command: Beta-12, to your right is a large building labelled "Studio Set Seven."
Beta-12 01: I see it.
Command: Enter the building. Search for two men, one in a polo with blonde hair and one with aviator sunglasses and brown hair.
Beta-12 01: On it.

Beta-12 moves across the lot road to the building. A cannonball makes impact with the concrete approx. 500 feet ahead of Beta-12, exploding on impact. Beta-12 02 sustains a shrapnel wound to the right arm.

Beta-12 01: Command, where the fuck did that just come from?

Beta-12 06 begins dragging Beta-12 02 to a small garage.

Command: Unclear. Please continue.

Beta-12 continues past the rubble towards the building. The rubble of a second and third cannon blast can be seen to their left. A fourth shot lands approx. 1000 ft. to their right. Beta-12 approaches the studio entry.

Beta-12 03: Breaching.

Beta-12 03 kicks the door and it swings open. The team enter a small room filled with various film props. A second door, labelled "Ghosts of the I-30" sections off the rest of the building. A small display by the door reads "Filming in standby. Missing Actor(s): 1."

Command: Suspects were last seen entering the film set. Flash and clear, then search building.
Beta-12 01: On it.

Beta-12 01 removes a flash grenade from his vest, pulls the pin, then opens the door a slight amount and tosses it into the room.

Beta-12 waits for approx. 20 seconds. No sound from the flash grenade can be heard.

Beta-12 01: Flash grenade may have failed to detonate.
Command: Open the door.

The other members of Beta-12 stand at the sides of the door as Beta-12 01 pulls it open. A dark shadow is emitted from the doorway and into the room. The team observes the room's interior. It is unfathomably dark. No objects, including walls, floors, or a ceiling can be discerned.

Beta-12 01: Uh.. Command?
Command: We see it. Select a team member for entry.
Beta-12 01: 05?

Beta-12 05 groans.

Beta-12 05: On it.

Beta-12 01 pats Beta-12 05 on the back. Beta-12 05 enters the doorway.

Beginning Video Log Playback..
File Name: GoI6656_RecoveredLog1.1
MTF Teams: Beta-12
Mission Lead(s): Beta Command Team Leader ██████, GOI-6656 lead investigator Dr. Patra
Camera: MTF Beta-12 05
Foreword (Opt.): MTF Beta-12 05's recording is shown to have varied significantly from other team members and has been divided for closer study.

Beta-12 05 stops. He is standing behind the counter of a convenience store. The store appears to be otherwise uninhabited. A small radio on the counter plays "You Should Be Dancing" by The Beegees.

Beta-12 05: God damnit. Command?

There is no response.

Beta-12 05: Command? 01? Fuck.

Beta-12 05 jumps over the counter.

Beta-12 05: Where the hell am I this time..?

Beta-12 05 explores the building. He walks up and down the aisles, explores the bathrooms and the stock room, and steps outside to observe the surrounding property. The location appears to be at a roadside gas station in urban America.

Beta-12 05 spends a few minutes outside before going back into the building, searching for something.

Beta-12 05: Come on, damnit. They've gotta have one somewhere.

Beta-12 05 stops after finding a calendar on the wall behind the counter, covered by a rack of cigarettes. It is opened to the month of July with no date indicated. A woman in a red bikini lays across the top page. Beta-12 05 closes it to read the cover. The year is 1979.

Beta-12 05: Jesus. Okay. 1979. It's.. It's a starting point. I gotta figure out where this is.

Beta-12 05 stands over the counter, apparently taking in his situation and calming himself. His breathing starts heavy and slows over time. After approx. 30 seconds, he freezes.

Approx. 1 minute passes before Beta-12 05 becomes animated again.

Beta-12 05: What do you mean, I get shot!?

The silver bullet of a car finally rolled into the station and came to a stop next to an old, worn-down gas pump. The lights of the roof above them bore down on them with a brightness akin to a ray from God. Amidst the dim glow of the other businesses nearby, it kind of stood out.
Shades began to vibrate in his seat. It was time for him to kill once more, and some part of his body didn't know how to handle that. He reached for the duffel bag with a shaking hand and dragged it up onto his lap. He pulled one of the jackets out of the pool of cash and stared at the lettering, eyes darting back and forth, searching for an escape. Of course, the nature of circumstances kept him bound there, locked in an endless panic, not wanting to do it over again.
Polo tossed himself up over the convertible's door and onto the open road. It was nice to be standing up again, even if he had been running for his life only fifteen minutes or so ago. He stretched his arms back and forth, then reached down and touched his toes. The still air was nice on his lungs, though still laced with gas fumes.
Polo grabbed the hose from the box-shaped machine, but realized after a moment that he had no idea how to operate any gas pump that was older than him. It didn't even take credit cards, which he found extremely off-putting. He turned to comment on it to Shades but stopped himself as he noticed the poor man bouncing off the walls.
"Hey, you okay dude?" Polo asked his compatriot. It took Shades a moment to respond. His mind was still flushed with terror, making it a little difficult to focus on the outside world. Eventually, Polo's voice caught up with his mind, and he gave him a very, very uneasy nod. Polo took a moment to contemplate the response, not satisfied with its delivery.
"Tell you what, I'll go in and scout the place out while you fill it up. Then, when you're ready, we can swap places. How's tha-"
"NO!" Shades shouted at him. Polo was briefly taken aback. He hadn't been shouted at in a good while, and to his knowledge, he hadn't done anything wrong. For a brief moment, a feeling of hurt crossed his face before wearing off. Shades noticed this and his face turned white. He scrambled to cook up an apology. "S-sorry. I.. I just snapped. That sounds good."
Polo took a deep breath, then headed for the convenience store. Shades opened the car door and got on his feet, the weight of his own body now coming back to him. He dragged the duffel bag over to him and dug into it for some change. After digging up a few dollars worth of coins, he walked over to the pump and, as if acting on instinct, filled it with change, opened the car's gas cap, and began to fill it up.

Polo opened the shop's doors only to find that the clerk wasn't standing behind the counter. He looked at the counter with a confused glance but quickly shrugged it off. "Must be in the bathroom," he figured. Polo walked down the aisle of various snack food and back to the fridge section, admiring the various drinks in real glass bottles. "What wonders!" He thought to himself, grabbing a couple bottles of coke off of the shelf. "Real glass!"
It took a moment for him to break his gaze with the various distractions to notice that a man had risen from behind the counter. The man's dark figure was imposing but it was the bright white "MTF" lettering painted on the side of his black helmet that caught Polo off-guard. It was one of them. The man lifted a rifle in his arms and pointed it in the direction of Polo's chest.
"You!" He yelled. "Put your hands in the air!"
Polo froze in place, his hands unable to move. He felt his body temperature drop to zero. He stood there, staring at the man, wondering how he even got there. Polo should've known how, but in the stress, his mind drew blank after blank after blank.
"Drop your shit and put your hands in the air, then get down on the ground!" Polo realized he must've recognized him, or seen the instructions, or worse, both. He let the pile of various things fall as he finally raised his arms, though his hands still clutched the bottles as though his life depended on their survival.
"Get down on your knees!" Polo did as he was told. A new plan began to take shape in his mind. He felt pretty certain that it would get him killed, but he felt pretty certain that this man would kill him anyway. He had talked these people up to himself. Whether or not they would actually shoot him if he stayed in custody was not a risk he wanted to take.
"Where's your partner!? The one with the aviato-" In response to this, Polo grabbed the shelf next to him and pulled it down on top of himself, dumping a cascade of prepackaged chips and cookies onto the floor. The man jumped over the counter and carefully approached the pile.
Polo shoved the shelf off of him and into the man's rifle. He held a firm grip on it, but for a short second, he stumbled backwards. He regained his footing quickly, but by then, Polo was already back on his feet. He slammed a glass bottle against the front of the man's visor, cracking it and shattering the bottle in the process.
Polo grabbed the top of the rifle and the two of them began to wrestle for control of it. Polo threw a solid punch that bounced off the helmet and the man planted his foot directly into Polo's stomach. Polo stumbled back, barely keeping his hands around the firearm. He yanked the clerk towards him and drove his fist directly into the visor, smashing the plexiglass covering even further. He planted his head into the man's chest and rammed him into the shelves in the next aisle over, sending them both down to the ground.
Polo managed to climb on top of him and began slamming his fist into the visor again and again, getting closer and closer to outright punching through it. The man managed to grab hold of Polo's arm in the process and yank it away from the firearm, giving him back control of it. He swung it into Polo's head like a club, sending Polo back down onto his stomach. The clerk then swung it into Polo's back, then steadily got to his feet.
The man stood up, carefully recatching his balance. He pressed a button on his arm, releasing the helmet from the rest of the suit and allowing him to wrench it off. He raised the rifle in his arms again, pressing the end of the barrel against the back of Polo's head. He took a deep breath. He reached his index finger for the trigger.

BANG!

The shop doors swung open. Shades shot the clerk.

The clerk took the blast to the back and and was thrown a few inches forward, landing on his face in a tangle of appendages. At the same time, the recoil of the shotgun knocked Shades to the ground. Polo lifted the clerk's legs off his face and rubbed his back where the gun had smacked him. He slowly stood up, groaning in pain. Shades, still shaking slightly, got back upright and reached out a hand, helping Polo pull himself to his feet. He bent down, hands on his knees, and spit a mixture of blood and saliva onto a crushed pack of cigarettes.
"You alright?" Shades asked. It was relatively obvious that Polo wasn't, but he felt the need to inquire about it anyway. Polo spat out some more blood and a single tooth in response. Polo then lifted his polo, revealing a bruise in the rough shape of a boot across his stomach. He was sore all over and he had a killer headache.
"I've felt better." He told him. "But I've felt worse. Lets just get in the stupid car."
Shades went around behind the counter and popped open the register. He grabbed a fistful of cash and stuffed it into his pocket. Polo managed to limp out of the store and into the now-refueled vehicle. He climbed into the passenger side this time, and Shades got into the driver's seat. Shades handed the money and the shotgun to Polo, who dumped them both into the duffel bag.
Shades put the key into the ignition and the engine roared. He placed his hands around the wheel and eased his foot onto the gas, and like that, they were off again, travelling back down the small road towards the highway. They passed the same group of buildings, the same glowing neon signs. They both wanted nothing more than to get out of there.
It took a while for the thought to hit him, but when it finally did, Shades remembered something important. "Oh shit, what about the cops!?"
They both sat bolt upright. When they'd first reached it, the overpass was littered with police. How they hadn't come to chase them down was a miracle, but if they kept heading in that direction, it wouldn't last long. They needed to get on that road though. They needed to do something. They needed some kind of solution. They needed..

But instead, over the horizon, there it was. Rubble. Chunks of asphalt and concrete covering the tops of the cars, burying them. The overpass no longer existed. Polo rubbed his eyes, not believing what he was seeing. "It was perfectly fine earlier!" He thought to himself.
Standing atop the rubble was the outline of a person. As the car pulled closer and closer, more details came into view. She wore a black top hat, a black suit with a red bowtie, and dress pants that were just slightly too long for her. Her hair seemed to float in the sky behind her. She turned to look at the vehicle and waved at the two men as they turned back onto the I-30.
Shades and Polo were both mildly awestruck. Whoever she was, she was pretty, and she was powerful. As Shades swung the car around and onto the side road leading to the airfield, he felt his mind lose itself again, this time in a brief moment of wonder. The car ran out onto the airfield, then stuttered and skidded to a stop just in front of a small plane.
The plane's side door opened, and there she was again, standing in the doorway. The two men now looked at her with extreme confusion in their eyes. She was just behind them a moment ago, how did she get here? Who is she? What is she doing? Why did she knock over the road? HOW did she knock over the road? What in th-
"Are you gonna keep gawkin', boys, or are ya gonna give me the money?" She interrupted their minds. Shades shook it off and grabbed the duffel bag, then tossed it at her. "Thaaaank you!" She called out to them.
"So.." She started to say. "Who do you work for?"
Polo stumbled for an answer while Shades looked on. Eventually he managed to invent an answer in the form of a second question: "What day is today?"
"Uh.. shit, don't know. Hang on. Hey Claire!" she yelled into the front of the plane.
"YEAH!?" came another woman's voice in answer.
"What day is today!?"
"IN HERE OR OUT THERE!?"
The woman looked back at the car. "In here or out there?" she asked them.
"O-out there, I guess?"
"Out there!" she yelled to the front again.
"SATURDAY!"
"It's Saturday." she informed them.
"We work for Saturday." Polo told them. "Loopside film studio? Y'know them?"
"Hey!" she again yelled to the plane's other rider. "We know a person named Saturday!?"
"NO! WAIT! YES! REMEMBER WEAK BOY!?"
"Yeah! Oh, yeah! Weak boy, week boy. That's clever." the woman said to herself. "Wait a minute, I thought we sent the janitors to that place!" she yelled back.
"WE DID! MUST BE STRAGGLERS!"
"Huh." The woman took her top hat off and reached into it, pulling out a magician's wand. "Well, I'm off, boys. Thanks for the extra cash!" She placed her hat back on her head and broke the wand over her knee, snapping it in two. The pieces, somehow, were the same length as the unbroken wand. She broke another over her leg and again, the length didn't change. She ran her hand over the length of one wand, and as her fingers passed over each little part, it turned itself from a plastic wand into a bouquet of roses. She tossed one bouquet into the car, then another, then tucked the remaining wand into her coat sleeve. She removed her hat and took a bow.
The plane engine kicked in, and the two men, both clutching a bouquet of roses, sat back in their seats, star-struck and dumbfounded. The door of the plane closed and she waved to them from the window. A faint shout could be heard from the plane: "Always remember Rose's roses!"
The two looked at each other, mutually agreeing to not knowing what just happened. They would not have very long to consider this, however, as their vision soon turned completely white.

There was a shock to their hearts and a ringing in their ears. The white covered their vision like a blanket. It was like a bright light shot out from some kind of explosion. It brought out an indescribable sense of almost-pain, like stabbing all their senses with a small needle.
The white eventually began to dissipate. It took a short while, but eventually they could see again. Before them was a studio set. Overhung lights cast a yellow hue on a backdrop of a painting of an airfield. Paints and duct tape had been used to reconstruct the scene. A small portion of an airplane sat in the corner, just big enough to fit the door and maybe a couple of passengers. In the back was a small plastic gas station with the logo of Fisher-Price toys plastered on its roof.
Shades and Polo found themselves huddled behind the wooden cutout of a convertible car. Before them, laying in a mangled pile, was the gas station clerk in his "MTF" uniform, dead. Huddled around the studio's doorway was a crowd of other people in the same uniform as the dead man, still recovering from the flash in the same way that they were. Their vision was just coming back to them now as well.

They saw the body. They saw Shades and Polo, who were battered and bruised. They saw a small 9mm handgun laying on the "road" in the back of the set. They saw killers.

To be continued…

Footnotes
1. ((Department of Temporal Anomalies Temputoric Subdivision) This department would later be split up and absorbed into other departments.)


The most important part of deception is believing your lie wholeheartedly. Singer was right; after Katzin climbed into the ceiling and kicked out a loose panel, he found himself in a huge concrete pit. Above and below him, a patchwork of metal and concrete boxes outlined the actual structure of the site. The construction was efficient with their space, so going from floor to floor felt more like spelunking in a concrete cave.
On the floor with the laboratory, he found a dolly and a cardboard box for an old air conditioner. From that and the tuxedo he already wore, he divined a disguise.
Now, pushing the dolly and box, he continued to push himself into the disguise. He was no longer Agent Patrick Katzin of the SCP Foundation. He was someone else entirely.
Four scientists populated the dome-shaped laboratory. Two were having a conversation, one was mixing chemicals, and the other was reading a copy of a treatise on mathematics. Katzin didn't even acknowledge the scientists at first; he just walked up to the railgun and started unscrewing the cannon.
It took a minute for one of the scientists— the one with the buzz cut, who was reading the book— to speak up.
"I'm sorry, but what do you think we're doing?"
"I'm taking the cannon and moving it," Katzin replied without looking up.
"No, you can't do that," the scientist exclaimed.
"Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in federal prison, I'm doing it," Katzin stopped for a second and turned towards the scientist, making sure to speak with an air of authority.
"Federal prison? We have some experiments we need—"
"As we speak the FBI is launching a surprise investigation on this complex. Your experiments can wait."
"Barret would've said something if we were under investigation. Can I see your ID?"
"Listen, we can continue this conversation from inside an FBI detainment facility, or I can do my job."
One of the other scientists spoke up. "Let him do his job, Jacob. Peters pays us either way."
"Alright," Jacob exclaimed, "go ahead, take it. All this work for nothing."
"He's lying to you!" a voice rang out from behind, before the scientist could speak. Katzin whirled around, hand attached to the gun he kept in his jacket. He saw me. Quite understandably, he looked terrified. I was carrying my trusty Browning Hi-Power in my right hand and had my other one in my pocket.
Katzin backpedaled and drew his duty pistol. Before he could even point it at me, my reflexes kicked in. I raised my gun, pointed it, and shot. Simple as that. The bullet knocked Katzin's pistol right out of his hand. One handed, without aiming, I had made a one in a million crack shot.
One of the scientists screamed and started running. Another hit a button, sending an ear-splitting alarm throughout the entire facility. I'd picked it personally; if there's something happening, I want to know. The high-pitched beeping gave Katzin a potent headache. The remaining scientists backed themselves against the wall, watching the scene with a mixture of fear and fascination.
"Now put your hands behind your head and get on the ground," I said. Maybe I was being cocky, but can you blame me? Realistically, there wasn't much he could do to me.
Katzin did as instructed, feeling his knees fall onto the lab's tile floor. At this point, I heard a noise from the corner of the room. Katzin had come in with a backup plan. I flicked my gun to the side and fired one, two three shots into a set of wooden crates in the corner. I heard someone scream, and I recognized him as Horn, one of the security guards that had been rotated to the island complex recently. It made sense that we had a rat.
Katzin tried to reach for his final contingency: the gas in his pocket. But before he could even wrap his fingers around the gas canister, I had closed the distance between them inhumanly fast. Katzin found himself with a gun to his head.
"Take your fingers out of your pocket. Slowly."
As Katzin pulled his fingers away, he said: "You don't understand what you're doing, Peters."
I took some time to laugh. "I understand what I'm doing perfectly."
He took his fingers out. No knockout gas.
The last thing Katzin saw before he was knocked out was my charming smile, followed by the butt of my pistol.
Katzin had failed. I motioned for the scientists to leave the room while I attended to the man I'd just shot.

While all of the other kids were playing marbles in the neighborhood Cul-de-sac, Pat, age 11, was fighting for his life. He crawled under the rocks and through the rough Midwestern sand, all the while trying to slow his breathing. He could hear him if he breathed too hard.
Pat threw himself behind a rock and listened. He couldn't hear any footsteps. Could that mean he was gone? If Pat rushed, he could still make it too-
"Bang! Bang!" a voice to Pat's left rung out.
Pat swivelled his head and saw his father, pointing at him with a finger gun. Pat was supposed to lie down on the ground and play dead, but he was just too tired. He slumped against the rock and slid down onto his bum.
"You know, son, if I were a German, you'd be dead right now. Lights out." Pat's father's voice was gruff. He walked over and sat down beside him.
"Do I really have to do this, Papa?" Pat asked. He looked up at his father. "None of the other kids do this?"
"Well, none of the other kids' fathers are SOE agents." Pat's father scratched his nose. "Besides, this could very well save your life one day."
"I don't want to have to hide from anyone though."
"It's not about that. It's about being able to think fast, and not making the wrong decision at the wrong time."
Pat and his father sat there for a minute, staring out at the setting sun. In the brutal Midwestern summer, it seemed to glare at them.
"Son, you're going to have to make some hard decisions. The kind where you have less than a second to make them. I want you to be able to make those decisions."
Pat gave his father a quizzical look.
"Let's say you're standing on a bridge above a trolley track. You see that there are five people tied to the trolley track. You also see that there is an out-of-control trolley speeding towards the victims. There isn't enough time to untie everyone, and the trolley will kill all of them."
"What's a trolley?"
Pat's father continued, ignoring the question. "Standing close to the edge of a bridge is a fat man, unaware of this entire situation. If you push him over, onto the tracks, his body will stop the trolley. At the cost of his life, of course. But it would save the five."
"I'd just push the fat guy. Five minus one is four. That's a net positive."
Pat's father nodded. "I've taught you well. Remember, it's always harder to pull that trigger in real life." He smiled and ran his fingers through Pat's hair. "But you need to be able to, because if you're ever in that situation, you need to act fast and decisively. Be. effective." He stood up. "Let's get back home. Your mother'll be pissed if you miss dinner again."
Patrick Katzin would see his father two more times after that. The first was before he was shipped back to Germany on the next day. The second was at his open casket funeral. He ran out into the middle of the street and began firing his gun into the air, giving his squadmates the crucial opportunity to escape. He was the only one who died on that mission. The U.S. Army never gave him any posthumous awards.

The inside of the room was more akin to the guts of a mechanical man than an electronics hub. Wires and pipes ran across the walls like arteries. A generator was placed in the center of the room, permeating it with a soft whirring sound. Monitors mounted on the wall displayed live feeds of the compound and mansion, some of which Katzin had already seen.
"Welcome to the Hub Room," Horn said. "Singer, you know what to do with this better than I do."
Singer was already scanning the room, immersed in "the zone." In her head, she was making electrical diagrams.
"I'll cut that wire once you leave; that should ensure no one comes in. I can use the security console to shut off security cameras."
"Hold on, what's that?" Katzin asked. He pointed to one of the monitors. "In the corner, you can see a cannon. Is that SCP-6904?"
A balding scientist stood in front of the cannon holding a clipboard, jotting down some inconsequential notes. SCP-6904 sat there, clear as day, polish sparking in the fluorescent lights. The scientists, who Oblix spent a fortune hiring, had done well in maintaining it.
"Is that what they're calling it, now?" Horn asked. "Mhmm. That's SCP-6904."
"I should tell Stanley about this," Katzin muttered, taking out his radio.
"Will the radio work down here?" Horn asked.
"It should," Singer asserted. "Our transmitter is the top of the line."
"This is Hansel," Katzin said, "…reporting. Over."
"What's the easiest way to get in there?" Singer asked.
"I don't have the clearance to go down there," Horn, "so I wouldn't know."
"Tell me about new developments, over," Stanley replied.
"We've found security footage of his laboratory, over."
"Tell me more, over."
"Horn took us down to the hub room," Katzin said, "where all of the wiring goes. We found security tape, and we see the lab that the cannon, SCP-6904, is in. Over."
"Fantastic," Stanley replied, "Do you have a plan to extract it? Over."
"We're making progress on that," Horn stated.
"I think this entire complex is built like a Foundation site," Singer explained, "They dig a hole, line it with concrete, and then build the rooms separately in that hole. It's like building with Legos."
"Hold on, I just noticed something," Horn remarked. "Look at the wall over there. The one where the scientist is drinking something. There's a map there. It's been marked up with X's."
"There's more," Katzin added over the radio. "The cannon's integrated into a device that looks like a railgun. Next to that is a map they hung on the wall. It's covered with X's in certain places. Over."
"More the reason to get down there ASAP," Horn responded.
"Like I said," Singer continued, "the entire site's built like a Lego fort. If we can sneak out of the inside, we can just crawl around on the outside. All the way down to the lab."
"That's good thinking," Katzin replied, "I'm sure there's a weak spot somewhere around here."
"Is Peters planning targeted attacks?" Stanley asked. "Over."
"We believe so," Singer said, "Over."
"I've identified a route that will allow me to enter the lab chamber," Katzin explained, holding a map that he'd found in a drawer to the left of the console. "…box up the skip, and leave with minimal chance of seeing security. Over."
"Excellent work as always, Katzin," Stanley continued, "Over."
"Stanley's lying through his teeth," Katzin muttered, glaring at Horn, before reactivating the radio. "Report back to you later. Over and out."

At that point, Maxwell Daniels decided that he'd wasted enough of his valuable time with Peters. His attorney, a fellow by the name of Edmond Mecklen, proved to be slippery. He avoided Daniels' questions and made it nearly impossible for Daniels to find anything incriminating. Daniels had decided he'd rather talk to Peters not in his office, but inside of a Foundation interrogation chamber. Once CARD or a more competent team found SCP-6904, they wouldn't even need a warrant to carry out an arrest.
Before he walked out of the building to his parked company Mercedes, the secretary waved him down.
"Excuse me, Agent Daniels. There's a call for you."
Daniels turned his head towards the secretary with a raised eyebrow that demanded who it was.
"It's Agent Bob Stanley, sir. From the FBI."
God damn it. Didn't he have a mission to be running? What did he want?
Daniels angrily, yet gently, marched over to the desk and picked up the phone.
"We found it," Stanley spat out, "SCP-6904. Our agents are extracting it as we speak."
"Really?" Daniels replied. "Do you have proof? Do you have anything?"
"Not just SCP-6904. They have a whole lab underground on that island. It has enough anomalous equipment in it to fill an entire storage locker."
"And I'm supposed to say 'hey, we've invaded your little island, you're under arrest?'"
"We're the Foundation. The entire point of being removed from politics is so that we don't have to go through bureaucracy. You're the one who'd issue those warrants in the first place. It's now or never."
Stanley hung up. Daniels conceded that, yes, he was right. Then he turned around and marched right back upstairs. He took the stairs this time, since speed was a factor. But when he arrived back at Peters' office, he found it empty.
Daniels waited for a minute, assuming that Peters had gone to use the washroom. After ten minutes, Daniels felt disgruntled that Peters had slipped through his fingers. Had he really slipped out in that amount of time? Turning around, Daniels decided that he'd hand over the case to that brute, Magruder, and really show Peters a good time.

After the pistol whipping, Katzin came to about fifteen minutes later.
He was still in that same lab, hands and feet bound by rope. His blood and the blood of his fellow agents stained the previously clean tile floor. To his left, Horn was tied up in the same way. Peters was yelling at him, pistol in his hand. Horn's right shoulder was bandaged up, presumably from the gunshot wounds. To Katzin's right, Singer was tied up as well. Four, maybe five, security guards provided backup.
"Who do you actually work for, rat?" I asked. I kicked Horn, who visibly recoiled from the pain.
"You're making a mistake," Horn replied.
I squatted down to make eye contact with Horn. "Last chance, friend. Are you CIA? FBI?" I gave Horn a fake smile, trying to see through his lies. "KGB?"
Horn just glared at me, like it changed anything.
I let the smile fade from his face before I stood back up. "You three work for the SCP Foundation."
The glare on Horn's face turned from determination to fear as I pointed the gun at him. He pushed off of the wall in an attempt to escape, but it was futile. Reflexes kicked in, and my gun was pointing at his head. It was just a matter of pulling the trigger then and there. Horn was dead before he hit the ground.
"No!" Katzin shouted.
I turned around and pointed to the back of my head. I slowly took off the fake hair I'd attached, revealing what it was concealing. To give you an idea, imagine a small, brown, metallic object that was embedded into my head. It gave off a brown glow, which was concealed by the rug.
"My team put this together," I said. "If I knew it was so easy to make anomalies, I would've started decades ago. It uses an old energy source from Atlantis, and now I think 25 times faster than I did before."
I reattached the hair and turned back around, making direct eye contact with Katzin. Katzin tried to spit in my face, why? What was he trying to prove. I dodged it anyways. Just another projectile.
"What do you want with me?" Katzin asked. "Just kill me and get it over with."
Katzin was a pessimist, I imagined.
"I want to recruit you, Patrick," I continued, revealing that I knew Katzin's name. "I need hard-working people for my plans. My sources tell me you're not on the best terms with the Foundation, anyways."
"Are you crazy?" Katzin replied, shifting his eyes towards the map in the corner. "You're planning on using the cannon to bombard all of those citites. You're either insane or you have some way of making money off of this."
Did he really think I was here because I wanted to destroy the world? I can't believe he thought so little of me. I shook my head. "I'm neither of those. I'm trying to save the world."
"What are you talking about?"
"You've been in the Foundation, you know how rotten that bureaucracy is. It turns good people into backstabbers, looking for the best way to get one over on their colleagues. I've spent enough time in industry and government to know that it's the same there, too. Society's corrupt on all levels, because no matter what, everyone wants to be up on the next level. I'm just flattening everything, is all."
"You killed 1,500 people to blackmail the Prime Minister of Japan. Why should I believe you?"
"Just a stepping stone. The ends justify the means, don't they? I have specific targets here. The bastions of corruption, around the world. I figured that I'd give him a chance to resign peacefully before I took my shot."
"Your plan conveniently leaves you as the sole heir of everything."
"Obviously," I said, "I'm not resonating with either of you."
Katzin glanced sideways to Singer, who held the same angry glance he'd held until now.
I pointed his gun right at Katzin's temple. "I'm not trusting a disloyal soldier, so unless—"
I heard a bang, and what followed was the most agonizing pain that I've experienced in my life. The lights flickered off, and my brain was overcome with what felt like a hundred migraines at once. In a few seconds, I went unconscious.
When I came too, I was surrounded by my loyal security. The guards I'd brought with me were unconscious; knockout gas. Katzin and Singer were gone.

Before Daniels got into his car and drove away, he noticed something crucial. Peters' car was still there. The space marked "FOR TIM PETERS" still had a red Volvo parked there. Maybe he took the lawyer's car… but why? Then that little bit of information combined with something else that bubbled up into Daniels' mind, and that's when he decided to take immediate action.
He burst right back into the secretary's office, yelling "redial that number!" The secretary, surprised, fumbled with the phone a bit before hitting "redial." Daniels snatched the phone from her and held it up to his ear.
"Hello," the female voice on the other end chattered, "this is the directory for Sacramento Commercial Products. Who would you like to contact?"
"This is Director Daniels," Daniels exclaimed, "ID code 43920-21390. Patch me through to Director Stanley, I need to tell him something."

Do you know how hard it is to find internal radio logs? They aren't uploaded into the Foundation intranet like everything else is. In the best case, they're stored in vinyl and locked up in the archives. Sometimes, though, the only source of them is the tape that they were originally recorded on.
Most of the time, those tapes are stored in Archives as well. Stanley, for some reason, stored them in a locked file cabinet in his office. By locked, I don't mean a key; I mean the memetic and biological locks they use to secure their anomalies. All of this in the office of one of the most paranoid men in the world.
What I'm saying is, I spent a lot of money finding out what I'm about to tell you.
Katzin hadn't gone climbing in years, and it showed. He was still fit, of course. He just had trouble lowering his body through the maze of concrete and metal he'd found himself in. It was a welcome break to catch his breath when he heard something from his radio.
"Katzin, Singer, Horn, are you there?" Stanley asked. "Over."
Katzin dropped down onto the next floor and took out his radio. "I'm here, what's changed? Over."
"Director Daniels called. He thinks Peters might be wearing a Mekhanite Head Implant. Over."
"What's that? Over," replied Singer.
"It's something that you put in your head," Katzin said, "that gives you special abilities. We found some while we were in Siberia. The question is: why does Daniels think Peters has one? Over"
"His hair," Stanley replied. "He was wearing an obvious rug, but he still had a bald spot. Why would anyone do that to themselves? Over."
"Are we going to assume Peters found classified technology because he had a bad rug? Over." Katzin asked.
"Not only that. Daniels saw that he still had his car here. Remember how the Mekhanites were able to use their implants to travel over Ley Lines? Over."
"You think he's teleported here? Over."
"I didn't check until now, but the island's on a Ley Line. Over."
"Shit. If he just met with Daniels, he probably knows we're here. Over."
"How do we beat him, then? Over." Singer asked.
"The best way is to hit them on the back of the head," Stanley replied. "If you can't do that, an electromagnetic pulse will stun them. Over."
"There's actually some electromagnetic equipment in storage here," Horn said. "We're supposed to use it to corrupt the tapes if we're raided. Over."
"I can make it detonate on a timer," Horn explained, "and then deactivate the timer on our way out. Over."
"Just as an emergency plan," Katzin asserted. "Remember, we don't want anyone to know that we were here. Over."
"Of course," Horn replied. "I'll also come with you, as backup. Over."
"Sounds great. Over and out." Katzin finished.

They'd made good progress. I think Horn might've given them a map of the facility, because they took a freight elevator up to the third sub-level. They blended in well enough that no one questioned why two security guards were carrying an air conditioner out of the building. At least, they didn't bother to question. If I could do it all over again, I would've trained them to be more suspicious of people.
That being said, I knew the facility better than they ever did. I designed it myself, you know. Not to mention, I had the advantage of being superhuman. I leaped up flights of stairs and scaffolded my way up ventilation shafts. By the time I managed to catch up with them, they were talking to their superiors.
"Horn is dead," Katzin whispered frantically into a radio once he was sure the coast was clear. "We have the skip, but it's on a timer to fire itself. I can't defuse it. Over."
"It's the most complicated timer I've ever seen," Singer added, breathless.
"Understood," Stanley replied, "Were you intercepted? Over."
"We don't have time for this," Katzin asserted. He put down the box in order to push the supply cabinet out of the way. It seemed to have a little bit less give than it had a few hours ago. "Time is of the essence, we're on our way back to the boat, over." He rubbed the spot on his temple where Peters had struck him. He'd need a doctor to look at that—
The squeal of the alarm was broken by the threatening boom of a gun. Katzin instinctively dived behind a desk, just in the nick of time. A bullet grazed his leg, sending a stinging sensation throughout the entire lower half of his body. Ten more bullets ricocheted right off of the metal desktop.
Katzin turned and saw Singer clutching her right side. Blood oozed out of it. She slumped against the tunnel wall and started hyperventilating.
The speed at which that pistol fired was more like a machine gun. Combined with the giggle Katzin heard as he reloaded, he probably guessed that I'd gotten the jump on him.
Now or never. He thought to himself.
Katzin drew a security pistol he'd take from the guard he'd knocked unconscious, and popped up above the desk he'd used as cover. As he'd suspected, I stood in the doorway. Katzin had murder in his eyes, and so did I. Steadying his elbow, Katzin fired three shots into Peters' center of mass.
The implant whirred, and all of a sudden, the bullets were no longer an issue. I leaned to the left, letting the first one slip right by. Then, inhumanly quickly, I leaned to the right, dodging the second bullet. Finally, while pushing the magazine into the pistol, I stepped to the side, completely avoiding the third. All in a split second, while reloading.
Adjusting his aim and crouching down, Katzin pulled the trigger twice more. I threw my chest downwards, narrowly dodging both bullets, before lunging straight at Katzin.
Katzin made a split second decision. The cheap pistol would be useless at close range. He dropped it and drew the baton that the security carried. I pulled my arm back for a haymaker; my problem is always been that I telegraph my punches. Instinctively, Katzin angled the baton away from him and stepped back. Katzin could hear my punch displace the air by his head as my fist flew past.
Katzin stepped into me and brought the baton into my chin, sending waves of pain throughout my body. I recoiled and staggered backwards. Confidently, Katzin chased him down and tried to bring the baton down on his head. I raised my forearm to block. Simultaneously, I preformed an uppercut, slamming into Katzin's chin. Katzin himself recoiled backwards.
I took the opportunity to strike with another haymaker. While Katzin blocked that with the baton, my implant finally finished warming up. I used my other hand to slam a jab into Katzin's shoulder, probably dislocating it. Then when I followed up with a right hand cross, Katzin blocked that, but at expense to a left hook into his side, followed up with a punch to the chest. Each one sunk into his flesh like a knife and left a horrific bruise. Katzin simply couldn't react, I was too fast.
Out of desperation, Katzin threw his arm into an overhead strike, aiming at my head. He was probably trying to take out my implant. I resolutely blocked his fist with my forearm and pushed the baton out of Katzin's hand, leaving Katzin defenseless. I grinned as I saw Katzin stumble.
A left to the neck, a right to the chest, a hook into the chin, an uppercut to the shoulder. Katzin could only stand and take the blows while I unleashed a torrent right into Katzin's body. My fists moved faster than Katzin could see them, and each punch drove the pain further into his body. The only thing louder than the sound of flesh meeting flesh was the sound of Katzin's bones breaking.
I'm not a violent man, I always outsource that to people with a greater capacity for hurting than myself. That being said, I enjoyed that.
I ceased the flurry of blows; even modified, the human body can only take so much, and my arms had gotten sore. Katzin, excruciating pain echoing throughout his body, fell to his knee. When he tried to get up, I walked up and pushed kicked him down to the ground. Now on all fours, I kicked him in the stomach, breaking yet another rib bone.
Katzin coughed up a little of his blood onto the floor. I stood above him, readying another kick. He'd lost.
"Your Foundation's come to an end, Patrick. I'll make sure it starts with you."
"It's… not… my Foundation," Katzin struggled to breath out.
Katzin braced himself to receive the final blow, which I intended to deliver. But then Singer, who I'd shot, lunged at me with a metal pipe. She was obviously aiming for the implant. I raised his forearm and blocked the pipe.
"Nice try. I can see everything you do before you—"
Katzin jumped up and dug his hands into the hole where my implant was lodged. I yelped; it shorted out my brain. I tried to grab Katzin. Knowing nothing but the pain and desperation of the moment, Katzin started pulling. The attempted grab turned into a flail as Katzin placed his foot on my back for leverage. Katzin was grunting. I was screaming.
With a loud snap, Katzin tore the implant out of my head. My body went limp, and I stood there for a second. At that point, he'd essentially hit the "reset" button on my mind. I wasn't thinking. Then, I fell with a thump to the floor.
Katzin and Singer fell back to the ground. For the next minute, all they could do was catch their breath. Singer looked towards Katzin, who nodded in response.
By the time the security guard checked the hallway in their sweep a few minutes later, all they found was their comatose boss and a dysfunctional head implant.

"Look," Singer said, still wincing from the self-bandaging she had done, "there they are."
Katzin pushed to boat into its full throttle. The cannon was tied down to the boat's surface, and he was desperately hoping to find someone before it fired. With the sight of the helicopter, he slowed down. Within a minute, the helicopter floated on the water right next to the boat. Stanley and a few members of the bomb defusal crew came out.
"We've got a foreign timer attached to a skip," the crew foreman yelled. "No telling what'll happen once it stops."
As the bomb defusal crew worked, yelling out callsigns left and right, Katzin decided on a heart-to-heart with Stanley.
"Why am I here, Stanley?" Katzin asked. "Why am I on this mission?"
"Because—" Stanley said, before interrupting himself, "Horn told you, didn't he."
Katzin nodded.
"If it's any condolence," Stanley replied, "it's a win-win for both of us. Not your most covert mission, but I can pin it on Daniels, anyways. Idiot said too much. I keep my career, and you advance yours."
"Five minutes!" One of the bomb defusers yelled.
"Good men and women are willing to die for you, Stanley," Katzin asserted, motioning towards Singer. "Promise me you'll try to keep it away from your petty office politics."
"You know I can't promise that," Stanley said.
Katzin broke eye contact. "You're honest. At least I can give you that."
"It's over," the foreman revealed. "SCP-6904 has been deactivated."
"Fantastic," Stanley said. "Load it up on the helicopter. I'll stay with the agents on the boat. Radio the rig, tell them we need a medic."
The bomb squad got on the helicopter and flew away. Stanley sat down next to Singer as Katzin started the boat up again.
"What are you going to do from here?" he asked. "I imagine this is a life-changing experience."
"I'm staying," Singer mumbled, "everyone needs a little lead in them every now and then to remind them what life is." She giggled, then hacked up a cough.
"Katzin?"
"I'm leaving the Foundation," Katzin lamented. "Not sure where I'm going, but it has to be anywhere but here."
Stanley smiled. "Truth be told, I don't blame you."

Once Katzin and Singer made it back to Site-39, they were put through a round of surgery. Katzin had broken more than a few ribs; even if he hadn't filed his resignation, he'd never work on a mission again. The surgeons managed to remove the bullet from Singer's side; within a month, she had a clean bill of health.
Katzin filed his resignation form within a week. The Foundation tried to award him with a Kondraki Diamond, but he rejected it. In fact, he didn't even show up to the awards ceremony. After the amnestic treatment, he was convinced he'd spent the last 30 years working a nondescript military posting. After 20 more years as a security guard at a lesser-known nightclub, Katzin retired. As far as I know, he's never tried to get that lakehouse. I think I could block him, if he ever tried.
Singer went right back into CARD, and its new incarnation, SAR/COG. She participated in a great number of missions from that point forwards. Good at her job, too, from what I hear.
Oblix's executives denied all involvement. The island was stripped clean when the Foundation expeditionary force got there. Even thought I was in a coma at the time, I had people on retainer who specialized in cleanup. They never found anything that linked anyone, aside from me, to the project.
They never did find me again. All they found was a sum of $5 million dollars transferred from various cash accounts to a single shell company. That's where the paper trail ended. I'm still working. I still have my projects.
Where am I now? Wouldn't you like to know.

« Dead Reckoning | TEAM M:I | »


The bow of the speedboat crashed into a wave, spraying saltwater into Katzin's nose and mouth. A very unfamiliar sensation to a man born and raised in the Midwest. He reflexively licked his lips. Long ago, he'd decided that the open sea wasn't for him. When he retired, he'd rather have a house on the lakefront.
Agent Patrick Katzin had stationed himself at the helm of the boat, hands wrapped around the wheel. His eyes flicked over to the compass; he was making sure to follow the compass heading that would take them to the island. His partner, Agent Gertrude Singer, stood towards the back and meticulously took inventory for the third time thus far. The sun lingered at its high point, lighting up the high points of the water.
The agents were here for one simple reason: to extract an anomalous cannon from the island. Presently, it belonged to Oblix, a company who'd made a name for themselves through some dubiously legal plays in the public broadcasting sector. Given that they were implicated in a disaster that killed 1,500 people, the SCP Foundation decided that it no longer belonged in their hands. Katzin, Singer and an as-of-yet undisclosed undercover agent had been tasked with covertly smuggling the cannon out of Oblix's island complex without anyone knowing better.
It was a mission just like any other. Quiet. Aware. Effective. No one would know that it had vanished until long after their boat was dry.
Speaking of dry, they were breaking rule number one of a partnership: you have to talk to each other. Singer finally broke that silence.
"So, what makes you the best agent for the job?" she asked. If I understand, their commander selected Katzin specifically for the job. An odd request, given that Katzin was working for another department at the time.
"I've made extractions similar to this mission," Katzin replied. He turned to look at Singer, causing the sunlight to glint off of his mirrored sunglasses. "Directory Stanley wants a sure thing, and I can deliver."
"Really?"
"What are you trying to say?"
Singer reattached her pen to the clipboard and made direct eye contact with Katzin. "Then why did he have to bring you back? If you're the Savior of Sneaking, why did he get rid of you in the first place?"
Katzin paused for a second to think about it, and then turned back towards the empty horizon. He said the same thing he'd told himself every day for the past seven years.
"I made an executive decision seven years ago. I minimized losses and completed the mission. Unfortunately, that caused something of a scandal." Katzin paused, looking down and dusting his suit with his hand. "The Ethics Committee came for my career. It was decided that I should have no further interaction with the Operational Task Force."
"Minimized 'losses?'" Obviously not the best way of putting it.
"I completed the mission. That's all that matters. If I could go back, I'd do it again."
Singer opened her mouth to respond, hung there for a second, and then went back to inventory. She glanced over to Katzin again, who couldn't tell whether she was annoyed or disgusted.
"As of now, we have twenty hours until Peters' deadline," Katzin said, to himself more than to Singer. "We need to act quickly."
Singer did not respond.
Katzin turned his gaze back to the horizon, where the target island had come into view.
"We're here," said Katzin. "Remember: be quiet, be aware. Be effective."

The undercover agent had identified a rocky cove on the island's south end. Oblix hadn't built anything there yet, and it was unlikely a security guard would check there during a regular patrol. To top it off, the water was calm. Katzin barely had any trouble docking the boat and anchoring to a rock.
Back in the day, Stanley would've been on the boat with them. Thanks to new technology, they didn't have to do that. The boat was equipped with a high-power radio transmitter. With it, Katzin and Singer could communicate directly with Director Stanley, who was stationed at a Foundation outpost on a former oil rig.
Shortly after the agents made their way up from the cove and were no longer in danger of getting their dress shoes wet, Katzin took out his radio from inside of his jacket.
"Let's give the radio a test run," he said, extending the antenna. He cleared his throat before he depressed the button. "This is Hansel, reporting that we've reached the witch's house, over."
"That's just idiotic," Singer said.
"I don't know, we don't want Oblix knowing that we're here," Katzin replied.
"I think that, if Peters hears us talking about the Brothers Grimm, he'll know that something's wrong."
"Peters isn't even here. The Foundation sent an ambassador to keep him distracted."
Singers' next thought was interrupted by Stanley's reply. "Understood. What is your current status? Over."
Katzin raised the radio. "We have not yet been seen. My sea legs are coming back. Where do I meet Agent Hor-" He stopped himself and pinched the bridge of his nose before he corrected himself. "…Gretel? Over."
"Look at that," Singer said sarcastically, "now Oblix is about to come crashing down on us, private military and all."
"They wouldn't dare," Katzin replied. "They're holding a ballroom dance in their mansion, way over there. By my reckoning, they have a few dozen VIPs."
"Gretel is currently posing as security for a ballroom dance on the main floor of the mansion," Stanley said. "Pretend to be culinary staff in order to get in. From there, make your way down to the laboratory."
With Katzin's suit and Singers' dress, they looked just like high-class culinary staff. The kind that a certain group of people did not background check as well as they said they did. The agents would be able to sneak in without anyone realizing.
"How are we getting in?" Singer asked. "What's our entry point?"
"I'm a people person," Katzin replied. "I can get myself— us, in."
"You need a backup plan, just in case one of them gets smart."
"You're right." Katzin picked up the radio. "Understood. Do I have the clearance necessary to use knockout gas on any guards that I encounter? Over."
"Knockout gas?" Singer exclaimed.
Katzin fingered the tube he kept next to his gun and his cyanide. He glanced over to Singer. "You don't get as far as I have unless you're willing to tear-gas a cronie. If I have to."
Stanley replied posthaste. "Emergency situations only. Avoid guards if at all possible. Over."
Katzin raised the radio, intending to give Stanley a piece of his mind, but Singer grabbed his forearm and pulled it away.
"Don't. I'm sure Stanley hired you back on the condition that you don't make these calls in the first place."
"Remember that Oblix is using a potential international incident to blackmail the Prime Minister. What's wrong with wanting to see this through?"
"Do you really want to rot in Site Security for the rest of your life?"
"I wouldn't mind it. It's not a bad job. Lower risk of fish people pulling your toenails out for information."
"Patrick. Behave."
Katzin exhaled through his nose before talking back into the radio. "Understood. Over and out."
Singer sighed. "There. Now, before we commit to any atrocities, let's get into the tunnels and find Horn."
"Can't wait," Katzin replied in a patently sarcastic tone of voice. After taking a minute to collect his thoughts, he set off in the direction of the mansion. He had people he needed to convince.

Dr. Maxwell Daniels was an important man. He always walked not only with purpose, but with dignity. When he marched on by, you'd stand up a little straighter and work a little harder. If he wanted to meet with you, you wore your Sunday best and ended every sentence with "sir". At least, that's how Daniels saw himself. However, as the director of the Foundation Corporate Relations Division, he wasn't too far from the truth.
The Oblix Headquarters Tower was an odd duck, being a hybrid between a television broadcasting tower and a corporate office building. Naturally, the broadcasting equipment occupied the top half of the building, while the offices were on the lower floors. This lent itself to the paradox where it was much more prestigious to meet someone on the 3rd floor than it was on the 30th.
Briefcase in his left hand and fake FBI credentials in the right, Daniels walked through the state-of-the-art automatic sliding doors and turned briefly to the secretary.
"Agent Daniels, FBI. I'm here to talk to Peters."
Without missing a beat, Daniels then turned right back onto his path. He wasn't about to be stopped by the secretary's meager protests. If Peters wasn't ready to talk to him, so be it.
Daniels took the elevator to the 3rd floor, in order to avoid wrinkling his three piece suit. He made a beeline straight into Peters' office, making a point of only introducing himself with a simple "hello".
The first thing Daniels thought when he saw Peters was, "time has not been kind to this man." The combed-over bald spot was the first evidence of age that he saw, but then he noticed the saggy skin, the boils and the blatant use of makeup. He might've been muscular once- he had broad shoulders- but the vitality had long since faded.
"I missed a charity party for this," Peters said, "so this'd better be important."
Daniels pulled out a chair and sat down, making level eye contact with Peters.
"The FBI is investigating you for smuggling illegal items," Daniels replied in a monotone. He opened up his briefcase and gently placed a folder on the table. "Your company has bought bonds from several shell companies based in the Soviet Union and South America. These companies are known groups of interest to us."
"So you're investigating my company for… doing business?" Peters leaned back. "Every company buys bonds. Are you really going to indict me for that?"
"We've already talked to some of your executives." Daniels opened the folder and tapped his finger against a set of transcribed conversations. "They weren't consulted." Daniel flipped through the folder to a set of financial statements. "In addition, those groups of interest started sending some interesting cargo to certain addresses. These addresses are owned by shell companies which, eventually, trace back to you."
"Those aren't associated with me," replied Peters, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Your paper trail's a fabrication." Peters leaned in and talked in a loud whisper. "Why are you really here?"
Daniels stood unfazed. "We want to know what kind of cargo you're receiving."
Peters leaned in closer, trying to intimidate Daniels into submission. "I'm on first-name basis with the Director and the Deputy Director. All it takes is one phone call to end your career."
"Go ahead, make your call. I'm not leaving and neither are you."
"Am I being detained? Do I need to call my lawyer?"
"We're already talking to subordinates we know are involved. This is a courtesy. We're giving you an opportunity to avoid pain and anguish." Daniels didn't smile, or even as much as flinch.
Peters leaned back. "I'll continue this conversation with my lawyer present."
"I can wait," Daniels replied.
He watched as Peters dialed the number of a very expensive attorney on his landline phone. Inside, Daniels cracked a smile. A small, clean, well-respected one.

The private mansion was, intentionally, a monument to human greed. By my count, there were thirty bedrooms, two kitchens, a ballroom large enough to hold the Texas State Assembly, and a marble fountain dedicated to wasting freshwater. All made out of materials badly needed in the third wood; concrete, wood and labor. The kind of place that dazzles the eyes, but makes one sick to think about.
Of course, Katzin and Singer didn't take the front entrance, reserved for the guests and the important people. There was a side entrance, reserved for what pretentious people call "the help". Butlers, chefs and the like. Katzin tried the door, only to find that it wouldn't open. Singer pointed to a keycard scanner. Neither of them had a keycard.
"What do we do now?" Singer asked.
"We could always try knocking," Katzin said.
Katzin knocked on the door. Five seconds later, a security guard opened the door for them. Katzin spun a tale about how they'd gone on a walk, tripped, and unfortunately lost their wallets.
"She doesn't have a pocket," Katzin said in a much less rigid tone of voice than usual, "so I was holding hers. Then I trip and fall. First I burn the beef, and now this. Just my luck today."
The security guard brought them inside to check their credentials. Katzin walked ahead of him, opening the door to let him into his office. What happened next was a matter of calling Stanley and telling him to intercept a particular phone call to a particular catering company. After being chastised for their "irresponsibility", the security guard shooed them into the kitchen. They had a lot of work to do, supposedly.
From there, they graciously offered to take a shift from a relatively-overworked chef and a server. Singer was a natural chef, who blended right in tossing seasoning across a varied number of overpriced dishes. Katzin, who could barely make a microwave dinner, decided it would be better to take the place of someone who served the food, rather than prepare it.
The ballroom was just about what you'd expect from one of the richest men in the world. The marble and granite checkerboard floor, the intricately carved wood set pieces and the massive stained-glass window oozed wealth like gold. The live orchestra was overkill, like Peters was trying to throw away as much money as possible. They played a soft classical tune that slowed Katzin's heart rate and made him feel calm.
Katzin couldn't imagine being actually invited to this party. The VIPs, who all seemed to be at least 50 or older, danced rhythmically in their fine silk suits and flowing dresses. I'm in the wrong business, Katzin thought to himself, scratching his index finger against the fine wooden table.
He eyed the security, trying to recognize Horn. He knew he was looking for a blonde with a weak chin who sucked all of the energy out of the room.
"Excuse me, sir, I don't recognize you from earlier."
Katzin turned around to see Agent Albert Horn, wearing a vest labeled "SECURITY" and a blue beret. He'd gotten a little fatter since Katzin has last seen him, but he still had that same permanent frown. Horn motioned for him to come over, Katzin obliged.
"Does the Black Moon howl?" Katzin asked.
"The ravens only crow for four horsemen."
Katzin nodded. "It's good seeing you again, Horn."
"I wish I could say the same."
"Can we conduct business?"
"Not like this. It's suspicious for a security guard to be talking to a caterer for this long."
The live orchestra suddenly cut out, and one of Peters' cronies, who seemed to be missing his right ear, started talking.
"Congratulations, everyone. We've reached our goal of $300,000 for Save The Somalian Children. Let's celebrate with some lobster."
"Looks like I need to prepare some lobster," Katzin said in a way that no one would hear, but provided pretense for leaving. "Guard, could you please escort me to the kitchen?"
"That makes no sense. Why would I escort you to the kitchen?"
"Listen, just take me to a private place, pretty please."
Horn took Katzin down a hallway before he started giving him the evil eye.
"How does it feel, almost blowing the cover that I've worked six months for?" Horn angrily asked.
"We were nowhere close," replied Katzin. "A trust-fund kid raising his eyebrow at me for talking to the help doesn't count."
"Every detail," Horn said, pinching his finger and thumb together, "needs to be *perfect*. Otherwise, that's something the enemy can use to find us out."
"I'm not concerned with the enemy 'finding us out.' I care about extracting the anomaly we were sent to extract."
"Do you know why Stanley wanted you on this mission in the first place, Katzin? Did he tell you?"
"Because I know how to break into a building without being noticed."
"Same as me and everyone else that works for CARD. It's a career move, Katzin. How are you dumb enough not to see that?"
"'Career move'? What does he have to gain from bringing me back?"
"There are people in the Foundation who don't like the espionage operations we've been involved with. I don't blame them; at the Foundation's scale, brute force followed by memory wiping is just as effective. For his entire career, Stanley's done nothing but push espionage. AORD, OTF-CART, and now CARD. So they hate Stanley.
"These people are a majority, but not enough of a majority to just outright cancel it. So their plan is to send CARD on a handful of missions against smaller-time targets. Not Groups of Interest, just small people, like who they think Peters is. Their plan is two sided. One, it makes sure we never get impactful results. Two, if we screw up, they can turn that into a scandal. They can point at us and say 'look at CARD. They barely do anything for us except get us into trouble. Why are we keeping them around again?'
"So Stanley figures this out and then hires you back. If the mission goes well, splendid, he can take credit. If it doesn't, he can pin it on you. Either way, his career is safe."
"Are you serious?" Katzin said. "That's why I'm here right now? Stanley's trying to beat the numbers game?"
"Stanley told me that himself, believe it or not. He still hates you. Everyone does."
"For wanting to complete the mission? For wanting to do what they ask us to do?"
"You killed fifteen people, Katzin. It's not what you're doing, it's how you're doing it."
"Ends justify the means, Horn. You never understood."
"I understood completely. You use this job as an excuse to be a psychopath."
"We don't have time for this. Singer is waiting. Show me what you wanted to show me."
Katzin realized he was now hunched over, leaning into Horn. He straightened himself up and cleared his throat.
"Just letting you know you're on borrowed time, Katzin," Horn said with a shrug. He pointed Katzin down the hallway and the two continued forwards. The silence between them was excruciatingly tense.

« SCP-6904 | TEAM M:I | Wind in the Sails »


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⚠ Content warning: This article contains gaslighting.

⚠ content warning

FIRE SUPPRESSION DEPARTMENT CASE ID-562341673444XP
ISSUE:
 GoI Research Department Lead Steven Rodriguez wishes to leave Foundation employ to spend more time with his wife.
KNOWLEDGE:
 Rodriguez's wife suffers from Muscular Dystrophy (MD) and was projected to expire between the ages of 16-20. Rodriguez's wife is currently 32 years of age. Current timeframe of possible expiration is unknown.
RECOMMENDED PROCEDURE:
 Send standard email reminding Rodriguez of his ample medical benefits which have been expanded to his wife.
NOTES:
 N/A

From:
miverson.site55@scp.int

To:
srodriguez.site55@scp.int

Subject:
Your Recent Inquiry

Dearest Mr. Rodriguez,
I would like to remind you that your current medical plan covers your wife's health in addition to your own. If you were to leave your employment with the Foundation you would lose access to said coverage, thus leaving you and your wife in a rather unfortunate situation.
We cannot stop you from quitting if this is what you truly desire, but just know that we are more than your co-workers here. We're also your family. And as your family, we would hate to see you suffer the loss of your excellent medical coverage, especially considering your wife's condition.
We'll see you bright and early tomorrow, Mr. Rodriguez.
Your friend,

Michelle Iverson
Site-55 Human Resources
Secure. Contain. Protect.

From:
srodriguez.site55@scp.int

To:
miverson.site55@scp.int

Subject:
RE:Your Recent Inquiry

Michelle,
Thank you for your swift response. I am aware and thankful for the Foundation's excellent healthcare options which have no doubt helped keep my wife alive for this long. She recently suffered a pretty bad health scare, and it made me realize I may not have long with her. For this reason, I would like to spend whatever time I have left with her uninterrupted by work.
I would like to submit my one-month notice if it's not too much of a bother.
Thank you,

Steven Rodriguez
Site-55 GoI Research Department
Secure. Contain. Protect.

FIRE SUPPRESSION DEPARTMENT CASE ID-562341673444XP
ISSUE:
 GoI Research Department Lead Steven Rodriguez has refused continued employment despite a reminder of excellent health coverage provided by the Foundation.
KNOWLEDGE:
 Rodriguez's wife suffers from MD and has experienced a recent downturn in her physical health.
RECOMMENDED PROCEDURE:
 Send email offering in situ housing for Rodriguez's wife until her expiration. Include offer for employment bonus.
NOTES:
 N/A

From:
miverson.site55@scp.int

To:
srodriguez.site55@scp.int

Subject:
RE: RE: Your Recent Inquiry

Dearest Mr. Rodriguez,
I would like to remind you that the Foundation offers in situ housing for all employees and their spouses at no additional cost. Accommodations are quite hospitable and offer the trappings of everyday civilian life, but from within the confines of the Site. Surely by reducing your commute drastically and having your wife live with you here at the Site you wouldn't miss a thing.
We are all moved by your wife's plight and have decided to offer you a bonus should you choose to remain on board with the Foundation. Surely you can put this extra money to good use by affording your wife all the comforts she deserves before her passing.
We'll see you bright and early tomorrow, Mr. Rodriguez.
Your friend,

Michelle Iverson
Site-55 Human Resources
Secure. Contain. Protect.

From:
srodriguez.site55@scp.int

To:
miverson.site55@scp.int

Subject:
RE:RE:RE:Your Recent Inquiry

Michelle,
Thank you for the offer, but I really don't think I can manage to both work and spend as much time with my wife as I want to. The offer of the bonus is really generous and I cannot thank you enough for it, but I really must stress that I would rather just leave now that I have the chance.
Have you submitted my one-month request yet? If not, please let me know and I can have it submitted myself in person tomorrow.
Thank you,

Steven Rodriguez
Site-55 GoI Research Department
Secure. Contain. Protect.

FIRE SUPPRESSION DEPARTMENT CASE ID-562341673444XP
ISSUE:
 GoI Research Department Lead Steven Rodriguez has refused continued employment despite an offered bonus and in situ housing accommodations.
KNOWLEDGE:
 No new knowledge is available at this time.
RECOMMENDED PROCEDURE:
 Send email informing Rodriguez he has been allotted a 3-month sabbatical, after which the period ends, his wife is to be Neutralized so he may return to work.
NOTES:
 N/A

From:
miverson.site55@scp.int

To:
srodriguez.site55@scp.int

Subject:
RE: RE: RE: RE: Your Recent Inq…

Dearest Mr. Rodriguez,
We understand you want to spend more time with your wife, and given her medical condition and recent health issues, it is perfectly understandable. That is why it is my pleasure to inform you that we have negotiated for a 3-month sabbatical for you to enjoy as much time together as possible. We feel this is an extremely generous offer, as this sabbatical's time will not come out of your PTO or your sick leave and even be paid. We would hate to see you leave, which is why we are doing our best to accommodate you in these strenuous circumstances.
We'll see you bright and early in a few months, Mr. Rodriguez.
Your friend,

Michelle Iverson
Site-55 Human Resources
Secure. Contain. Protect.

From:
srodriguez.site55@scp.int

To:
miverson.site55@scp.int

Subject:
RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Your Recent…

Michelle,
Again, thank you so much for your continued support. It really means a lot to me and it makes me feel as if I am a truly valued employee. However, I cannot accept this offer. What if my wife lives longer than the three months you permit for me to be on leave? I would hate to have to come back to work knowing her health is in decline and I can't be by her side.
Besides, to be truthful to you, I only took this job because of the advanced healthcare it offered for her and the pay to allow her to live a comfortable life. Once she passes I don't see myself working for the Foundation any longer simply because I won't have the need to. Don't get me wrong, I've loved working here and I will cherish the friends and memories I've made here for a lifetime, but without Luisa, I would rather live a civilian life. Maybe I'll become a teacher.
By the way, don't worry about sending my one-month notice anymore. I will be submitting it in person tomorrow morning.
Thank you,

Steven Rodriguez
Site-55 GoI Research Department
Secure. Contain. Protect.

FIRE SUPPRESSION DEPARTMENT CASE ID-562341673444XP
ISSUE:
 GoI Research Department Lead Steven Rodriguez has refused continued employment despite an offered bonus and in situ housing accommodations.
KNOWLEDGE:
 No new knowledge is available at this time.
RECOMMENDED PROCEDURE:
 Send email requesting Rodriguez fill out an outgoing employee form to obtain new knowledge on the case. Utilize Foundation Webcrawler IO/SAURON to track all social media posts made by Rodriguez and his wife to obtain new knowledge for the case. Utilize Foundation assets to spy on Rodriguez and his wife to obtain new knowledge for the case.
NOTES:
 Use of Webcrawler IO/SAURON has been authorized by Fire Suppression Department Head of Retention Alice Green.

From:
miverson.site55@scp.int

To:
srodriguez.site55@scp.int

Subject:
RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Your Rec…

Dearest Mr. Rodriguez,
We're so sorry to see you go, but ultimately we understand your decision and respect it. It truly is a shame we were not able to retain you as an employee, especially given your astounding work record. On behalf of everyone at the Foundation, I would like to wish you early 'good tidings' as you prepare to take your leave.
However, before you begin adjusting your workload in preparation for your leave, we have a simple request of you. Please fill out the following form regarding your employment experience with the Foundation as well as your reasons for leaving. I wish I didn't have to waste your time with this, but it is standard procedure.
Thank you for your cooperation!
Your friend,

Michelle Iverson
Site-55 Human Resources
Secure. Contain. Protect.

FOUNDATION TERMINATION SURVEY

Following termination, where do you expect you'll work?

Why have you stuck with the Foundation for as long as you did?

In what areas do you think you could improve?

Why do you believe the termination of your employment is appropriate?

FIRE SUPPRESSION DEPARTMENT CASE ID-562341673444XP
ISSUE:
 GoI Research Department Lead Steven Rodriguez has refused continued employment despite various offers of benefits to remaining.
KNOWLEDGE:
 Webcrawler IO/SAURON found that both Rodriguez and his wife are anti-abortion activists according to various posts on their social media accounts. Field agents found that Rodriguez's wife has not menstruated in approximately a month, indicating she is due for a cyclical menstruation period within the coming days.
RECOMMENDED PROCEDURE:
 Dispatch field agents to administer libido-enhancing pheromones to Rodriguez and his wife to encourage sexual activity as well as sabotage contraceptives. Field agents are also advised to administer fertility-enhancing drugs to Rodriguez's wife. Increase applied dosages until sexual activity is observed between the two.
NOTES:
 N/A

From:
srodriguez.site55@scp.int

To:
miverson.site55@scp.int

Subject:
Change of plans

Michelle,
This is embarrassing and I have no better way to say it, but I'd like to rescind my notice. My wife has recently fallen pregnant and I cannot quit with a baby on the way. That being said, I would like to know if the offer for the bonus and on-site living facilities are still available. Because of my wife's medical condition, I don't want to have to travel to and from work every day and I think she would be far better off here than back home.
I would like to apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you.
Thank you,

Steven Rodriguez
Site-55 GoI Research Department
Secure. Contain. Protect.

From:
miverson.site55@scp.int

To:
srodriguez.site55@scp.int

Subject:
RE: Change of plans

Dearest Mr. Rodriguez,
It's no bother at all! And yes, the bonus and in situ housing are still available for you and your wife. All you need to do is speak with a Human Resources representative in the Site-55 personnel office. We're so glad to have you back on board with us!
We'll see you bright and early tomorrow, Mr. Rodriguez.
Your friend,

Michelle Iverson
Site-55 Human Resources
Secure. Contain. Protect.

FIRE SUPPRESSION DEPARTMENT CASE ID-562341673444XP
ISSUE:
 GoI Research Department Lead Steven Rodriguez's wife expired due to complications from childbirth.
KNOWLEDGE:
 Rodriguez's child was born prematurely and remains in the Medical Department's NICU wing. Despite the mother's diagnosis of a genetic disease (MD), the child did not inherit it.
RECOMMENDED PROCEDURE:
 Swap the child for one suffering from MD sourced from a local hospital. Offer Rodriguez two months of paternity leave. Remind Rodriguez of the excellent medical care provided to him and his family by the Foundation. Pay out life insurance policy.
NOTES:
 This case is considered RESOLVED.

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Good evening.
If you're reading this, we've taken notice of your concern and/or sympathy for a certain infamous member of the custodial staff.
I don't mean to imply that such sentiment isn't commendable; quite the opposite. Nor am I at liberty to justify why he must face such abuse. That information is above your clearance level.
Here's what little I am able to tell you:

1. Hank doesn't usually mind.
2. If he does, it's his own fault.
3. Though he's no threat to anyone now, he has a history of extremely questionable deeds and remains unrepentant.

If it's not in you to go out and bully someone, then don't. You have no obligation to that effect. But for God's sake, "leave Hank alone" is not the hill you want to die on.
Let it go. That's an order.
Regards,
Agatha Sykes, Department of Other