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In a quiet corner just outside the universe, bookshelves stretched to the heavens. Line upon line of them continued onward as far as the eye could see, and even further beyond that. From nowhere in particular, a soft light beamed down, just warm enough to be comfortable. At the same time, a gentle breeze rustled through pages, creating a soft whisper, reminding patrons that they were in a sacred place. Tread lightly, it said, for this is the Wanderer's Library.
A pleasant smell wafted through, carried by the wind. It came from a hollowed-out space in a particularly large bookshelf, which had been fashioned into a quaint little café. While patrons buzzed around it like flies, it retained the same quiet, dignified feel as the rest of the Librar-
"This place is freakin' awesome!" rang out a high pitched voice, followed by what can only be described as a 'squee'. The hyperactive young Clown spun around, taking in the scene with a smile on her face.
"Since when did the Library get an H.P Brewcraft? Can I get a Frapaccthulhu? Extra whipped cream, extra drizzle, extra existential horror? I can handle it, I'm a Clown," Lolly ordered as she juggled three books excitedly, before all three were calmly pulled out of the air by her companion.
"I think you've had enough sugar though," Icky smirked as she pointed at a small group of dark-robed figures sitting around a table, who were watching the pair with an intense gaze. "Remember darling, we're still on thin ice with the Library because of You-Know-Who. We need to be a bit more respectful."
Lolly noticed the mouthless docents (who enjoyed the coffee shop purely for the aroma), and stopped giggling. She put her hands behind her back and whistled, as if she hadn't been doing anything at all. The two turned back towards the counter, hoping the docents would be gone by the time they had finished their drinks.
"They give me the creeps. Or should I say…" Lolly pointed to a display case by the counter, which contained various baked goods. "The crepes!"
Icky tried to keep a straight face, but couldn't help but snicker.
Across the counter, an unamused barista tapped the cash register with a tentacle impatiently. "So it that a yay or nay on the Frapaccthulhu?" Lolly looked up at Icky with pleading eyes.
"Please? I'm already on a sugar rush, and if I don't get more I'm going to crash," she asked.
"Alright, one Frapaccthulhu with everything she said before, and a Yog-Espressoth, whatever size is the biggest." Icky relented.
The barista punched the order in, and uttered unknowable noises at a server, who began to pour dark liquids into non-Euclidean cups, all of which proudly displayed their Fairtrade certification.
The interior of the café was comfortingly normal, with just enough light to create a soothing atmosphere. The scents of freshly baked goods and hot coffee mixed together with bizarre and alien smells, bringing in patrons of the Library from all over the multiverse. One patron in particular, a human, cleared his throat and motioned for the pair to come over to his booth.
Lolly slid into the booth quickly, as Icky calmly took a seat next to her. The man across from them had dark hair, scruffy stubble, and an eyepatch over his left eye. He regarded the two coldly, before lifting a steaming mug of coffee to take a drink. As he did, he turned his hand, making sure to display a tattoo of a certain symbol.
"I was under the impression that we would be meeting the Captain herself," Icky said, trying to hide her disappointment.
The man spoke in a gruff voice. "She couldn't make it. Something about wrangling a kaiju for some zoo. The usual."
"That's the usual? What's exciting for you? I want to wrangle a kaiju!" Lolly said. "Also, who is this guy? He's not as cute as the Captain."
The man templed his fingers, responding curtly. "Munin, of the Nautilus. Second mate to Captain Nemo."
Lolly leaned forward, scrutinizing Munin, who didn't even blink his eye. "I'm pretty sure all those names are from a book. I don't think any of those names were real. Then again, my name's not real either so I probably shouldn't be so judgey. What is your real name anyway? Is it Jeffrey? You look like a Jeffrey. It's probably Jeffery." She sat back, and whispered to Icky, "Is his real name Jeffery?"
Icky shrugged. "That's hardly any of our concern darling. Munin— or Jeffrey or whatever— is here to inform us about the locale of our next show."
Across the table, Munin nodded. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a small brochure, and slid it across the table. "I'm still not sure why you want to perform there, of all places. You've got a whole Earth to entertain, don't you?"
"More than one, actually."
Their drinks arrived, each bearing an image of the Dread Cthulhu in the style of the Starbucks Siren. Icky picked up the brochure with one hand as she sipped her Yog-Espressoth in the other.
"But we can't keep calling ourselves the Greatest Show in all the Worlds without pushing ourselves to new heights, now can we?"
The pictures in the brochure showed a completely alien landscape. A mess of colors and shapes, all of them bizarre and disquieting. Vague figures, like fetal animals floating in rose-colored bubbles, strange devices with wicked curves and bright colors. Icky absentmindedly ran a fingernail over the image, revealing it to be scratch-n'-sniff. Cute.
"The Nautilus can get us there safely? I know the docents wouldn't be thrilled to see our entire Circus parading through the Library. Even Lolly's too much for them to handle on occasion."
Lolly looked up from her cup, and licked off a whipped cream mustache, "Yeah, sitting quietly isn't really my thing, which can be a problem at libraries. And Doctor's offices. And funerals. And…"
"He gets the idea, sweetie."
"I assure you, the Nautilus can go places even your Kaleidoscope can't. No world, realm, or plane is beyond our reach." Munin scratched the area around his eyepatch, briefly revealing a green light beneath it.
Lolly downed the remainder of her drink quickly. "Does this mean we're going on a road trip?"
"It will be less of a road trip than it will be a…" Munin paused as Lolly looked at him with puppy-dog eyes, and Icky raised her eyebrows expectantly. "…Yes, it's a road trip."
"Yes!" Lolly bounced in place with excitement.
Munin's expression remained as serious as it had been upon first meeting the two. "For my own curiosity's sake; how do you plan to be a Circus of the Disquieting when you're performing for people in a completely alien world?"
Icky hesitated for a moment, thinking. "I'm still working on that. But I do have an idea. Have you ever seen The Little Mermaid?"
Lolly's eyes lit up. "Oh, I have! I loved it when I was a kid, partially for the music and partially because all those half-naked mermaids made me feel funny for reasons I didn't understand yet,"
Icky shot her a perplexed glance, while Munin barely raised an eyebrow.
"Well I understand now, obviously."

The bow of the Nautilus sped through a technicolor void at a breakneck pace, propelled by jets of emerald green light expelled from the backside of the hull. Below it was a swirling ocean of lights and images of other times, places, and creatures.
"Wha'd'ya think of that view, Lollipop?" Rang out the voice of the Captain as she leaped down from the upper deck. Captain Nemo was a young woman with a proud stance. Over both of her eyes, she wore a strange band with various symbols woven into the fabric. On her head was a blood-red tricorne, signifying her status. "I'd challenge you to find a view so breathtaking as the eldritch plane before you."
"Eh, it's alright I guess." Lolly said, as she leaned over the railing on the port bow. She glanced disinterestedly at a technicolor leviathan, which breached a few meters from the ship, before turning back to the Captain. "I was expecting the Not to be a little more 'Mountains of Madness', you know? Iris said she was weeping blood and seeing through time after only eight minutes in here."
Icky appeared from below deck, dusting off her hands. "Everything's secured, for now at least. Manny's making sure that Eugene's taken his seasickness pills, and Bubblegum has already self-medicated herself into a stupor."
Nemo gave the pair what would have been a side-eye, if she hadn't been wearing a blindfold. "You two are sure you want to stay up here when we make the dive below the surface? I appreciate your courage, but it doesn't agree with most of you…"
"'Landlubbers'?" Icky suggested. The Captain shook her head, a sly smile on her face.
"You'll survive. But it's one hell of a sight to see." The Captain's look hardened. She barked a few orders to her crew, who were making the final preparations by tying down any loose equipment. "I haven't made a jump this far since Blackwood and I were smuggling supplies to the refugees of Kul-Manas. Last chance to back out, you two."
Lolly sighed dramatically. "The anticipation is driving me crazy! Let's do it!"
Icky turned to the captain with an excited grin on her face. "You heard the little lady."
Nemo nodded, and motioned to Munin, who was battening a hatch. Quickly, he shifted his eyepatch to the opposing eye, revealing an eerie green glow radiating from a freshly exposed orb. He called up to the other crew members, who all quickly did the same. Finally, Nemo lifted her own blindfold, revealing two emerald orbs of her own. The air suddenly grew tense, as if lightning were about to strike.
The scene blurred around the Nautilus, as it slipped below the surface, and began to pick up speed. Lights and images seemed to blur together as they continued onward. Nemo held her hands in front of her, taking hold of an unseen steering wheel with an iron grip.
Lolly tried to speak, but she found herself nearly paralyzed by the sheer speed they were moving at. She gripped Icky's arm tightly, as the latter gave her a comforting look. The Captain's arms moved to and fro, making split-second decisions to adjust the trajectory of the ship, or avoid monoliths which protruded from the sea. Still, they were accelerating. Light itself seemed to be dissolving and bleeding around them—
As suddenly as it begun, it ended. The Nautilus slowed to its previous pace as it surfaced, and Icky and Lolly found themselves releasing a deep breath they didn't realize they had been holding. Lolly slowly turned towards Icky, her hair still frozen behind her. Silently, she mouthed 'Wow', before collapsing backwards, giggling.
Icky too was left in awe. She turned to the Captain, who had begun to pull her blindfold back down. Nemo merely smirked, and walked up to the prow of the ship. "You're still conscious. I'm impressed. We'll reach your destination shortly. As for the matter of payment…"
Icky nodded. "I have a plan in mind. According to the pamphlets, carbon is pretty rare in this world, so it's used as a currency."
"And where we come from, it isn't. What's your point?"
"They also view arranging the atoms of it into crystal latices as one of the highest forms of art, which increases it in value even more."
Nemo's eyebrows arched beneath her blindfold. "Diamonds. Clever."
The Nautilus neared a large whirlpool, and slowed to a stop. Icky staggered forward, clutching the railing for support. She could already see the reflection of the world they were preparing to descend into. Her eyes gleamed with a mischievious determination.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and assorted Eldritch beings of all genders and the lack thereof, give it up one more time for Charlotte and her arachnid assistants!" Icky paused, as the audience chattered excitedly.
"And now, for our final act of the evening…"
The crowd of alien beings leaned forward in their seats. The Big Top was packed to the brim with attendees. Each one appeared to be a fetal animal, floating in a bubble of deep pink liquid that stayed suspended just a few centimeters from the ground. One or two reached a long, spindly limb out to grab a stick of cotton candy, which rapidly dissolved into the liquid.
Icky signaled to Lolly, who gave her an excited thumbs up in return from offstage, indicating that everything was prepared. "As you know, we have come to you from a far away dimension. So, we have no shortage of wonders to share with you. You've seen our freaks, but now we're going to show you…"
Lolly wheeled out a small cart, covered by a deep purple tablecloth, and stopped just in front of Icky. There was an unsettling squelching noise- like balloons being rubbed together- as the aliens pressed in once more to get a better look.
"… Something truly disquieting!" Icky whipped the cloth off of the cart, revealing a small white box, with a black tail protruding from the backside, ending in three golden points. The crowd broke out in whispers. Uncertainty, doubt, confusion.
After a moment, a smaller alien floated upwards in its seat, and called out in a shrill voice. Icky wasn't sure exactly what it was saying— the device they had been loaned by Marshall, Carter, and Dark only allowed for one-way universal translations— but the curious tone in its voice was universal enough that she understood all the same.
Icky smirked, and took off her hat. From it, she produced a cup, which was full of small orange objects. Each of them tapered to a point on one side, like an egg, which was lighter than the rest of it. Icky applied pressure to one part of the box, causing the front of it to swing open with a loud noise. She placed the cup inside, and pressed another part of the box with her finger.
There was a gasp from the crowd as the box began to emit a low hum, and the front of it lit up with an eerie yellow glow. Before long, there was a series of loud popping noises, as the orange objects began to jump wildly inside, as if they were in pain. After a minute or two, Icky opened the box again, and tiny white things began to fall out.
Icky beckoned to the smaller alien who had spoken out earlier, and Lolly walked into the stands to escort her down to the center of the Big Top, quietly assuring the young alien that everything would be alright. "Alright everyone, give it up for our brave volunteer! She's about to be the first to try this snack from our dimension, eaten across the world!"
Lolly took out a small paper bag, and scooped some of the snack into it, before drizzling it with an orange liquid, and covering it with a light dusting of some strange smelling powder. With a broad smile on her face, she held the bag up to the small creature before her.
Timidly, the alien stuck a limb out of its bubble, and grabbed a tiny fistful of the white material, which was surprisingly brittle and flaky to the touch. It retracted the arm into its bubble, where the food began to quickly dissolve. The alien hummed excitedly, and did a somersault within its bubble!
As the audience looked on in excitement, Lolly popped open the door of the box again, and jumped all the way inside. The popping noise from earlier increased in volume until it was nearly deafening, and the cart fell over, leaving the white box on its back.
With a sound like an explosion, Lolly shot out like a cannonball, sending more of the snack flying in every direction, showering down on the audience like snow!
A chorus of coos and shrill excited shrieks echoed through the Big Top once again as Lolly gently floated downwards, clutching a parasol, back to the center with Icky. As the audience applauded, she let go of the parasol and backflipped onto the ground.
"And we've got more where that came from!" Lolly said, giving Icky a wink.
"A round of applause for my lovely and beloved assistance, if you would be so kind folks," Icky requested. Instead of clapping their hands, the creatures produced a rapid stream of popping air bubbles in the outer membranes to signal approbation. "Lolly my love, seeing our crowd osmosising our earthly fare makes me think that they might be interested in seeing how you and I eat."
The crowd cheered their agreement.
"I know I always like it when our oral activities have an audience," Lolly added with a naughty smile and a pause for laughter, which was only filled with confused silence.
"Lolly, we talked about this, these creatures aren't going to get any sexual references," Icky whispered to her. Lolly nodded and went to fetch the prop for the act.
"You see folks, most creatures where I'm from can't just absorb food through their outer membranes. They have to open their maws and force sustenance down their gullets!"
This fact was met with a collective gasp of shock from the audience.
"Horrifying, I know, and we've got an exclusive demonstration set up just for you!"
The lights dimmed and the spotlight fell on Lolly, who was now holding a long, green… thing, which wrapped around her forearm like a bracelet. After holding it up for everyone to see, she placed the green object on the ground. Icky took out her hat and pulled out a large, white rabbit. It wiggled its nose in an endearing way, eliciting a few 'awws' from the audience.
Icky crouched, allowing it to hop to the ground, where it inched towards the green thing. The mammal sniffed around it, not seeming to take much interest. Still, something felt wrong about the situation. The ground slowly began to rise, ensuring that all of the audience members would be able to see. The air was tense, as if something were holding its breath, waiting for a moment to strike…
The audience began to whisper, confused by the lack of any apparent action. One or two of the aliens began to float upwards to get a—
Moving almost too quickly to see, the green object jumped to life, ensnaring the rabbit's head in its mouth. For an instant the horrified audience thought it was going to bite the animal's head off, but instead it unhinged its own jaw in a display of pure body horror. Its head seamed to split in two, each half independently wriggling down the rabbit's body, its throat ballooning to grotesque proportions as it swallowed its victim whole.
When the ordeal was finally over the green thing's jaws closed, sealing shut as if they had never been opened at all. The green creature was once again still as a statue, the only evidence of its crime being a massive bulge working its way down its digestive track.
The audience gazed in horror as the lump worked its way down the corkscrew length of its devourer. After a moment of this, the rabbit squirmed out of the creature's alimentary canal - disheveled but alive. In a shimmer of light, the rabbit transformed into a Clown.
"And the moral, boys and girls, is to always read your performance contracts carefully before you sign them," The Clown huffed in annoyance, marching out of the ring after being handed a towel.
"Thank you, Eugene," Icky called to him as he pushed his way through the audience, the aliens rushing to get out of his way. Lolly couldn't help but giggle as they bumped into each other, sending the smaller ones flying like inflated beach balls.
Icky picked up the green creature, where it coiled up on her hand. "Give it up for the marvelousssss, ssssspectuacular… Sssssssserpent!"
The snake turned and seemed to give her a dirty look for a second. One of its eyes flashed an emerald color, before it disappeared as a cloud of green smoke, to another round of cheers.
Icky and Lolly held hands, bowing deeply and springing back up. Icky tipped her hat, and turned as if to leave. "Alright, everyone, you've been a fantastic audience! But alas, all good— and disquieting— things must come to an end! It's time for us to bring this show to a close!"
There was a chorus of sad wails, and pulsing, sloshing noises as the aliens shook in their odd bubbles. Lolly played along, turning to Icky and giving her a tearful puppy-dog look.
"Aw, but Icky, don't we have time for just one other thing?"
Icky raised her hand, bringing instant silence. "Alright, I give in. I suppose we still have time for one more trick!"
On cue, a giant cylinder fell from above into the center of the Big Top, hiding Icky and Lolly from view. As it landed, there was a moment of confusion, as all the audience members could see were odd, distorted images of themselves. One or two aliens floated over to it, inspecting the odd monolith, which reflected their every move.
There was a sudden series of gasps as a new figure came into view, prowling around the perimeter of the monolith, twice as tall as any of the aliens. It was darkly colored, covered in strange orifices and glowing eyespots. It poked its head around the ground, as if taking in its surroundings for a moment, before suddenly turning and leaping into the stands!
Panic erupted as a dark, tripodal figure was seen running through the image, and escalated as two more appeared alongside it, sending aliens flying out of the Big Top in a panic as they felt something brush against their bubbles. The first dark creature roared triumphantly, before leaping into the monolith, shattering it into a thousand pieces.
Within a few moments, the aliens had almost all fled, leaving nothing in the Big Top, save for a few small, orange cats, purring contentedly in the center.

About a kilometer away from where the Circus had been mere moments ago, close to a river of dark purple liquid, Icky, Lolly, and a few crew members from the Nautilus and stagehands from the Circus were loading the last shipment of equipment back onto a small boat that would make its way back to the main ship. At the back of the boat, in the Captain's Chair, Nemo eagerly dug through a satchel filled with diamonds of every shape and size, a delighted expression on her face.
Lolly sat on top of a box as it was loaded up, giggling and shaking a small snowglobe styled after the alien race they had performed for. Quietly, she whispered to herself, "Best. Road Trip. Ever."
A small snake slithered up to the scene, before glowing a bright green color, and contorting in size and shape. In a matter of seconds, Munin stood where the snake had been. He glared at Icky silently, before spitting a tuft of rabbit hair out of his mouth.
Icky chuckled and slapped him on the back. "Thanks for being such a good sport. They really enjoyed it."
Munin huffed as he climbed aboard, a palpable tension in the air around him. From her perch on top of the box, Lolly smirked and called down to him.
"Don't be such a sour face. I'm pretty sure it was harder on Eugene than it was on you!"

« Freaks, Friends, and Fiends | Dread & Circuses Hub | A Circus Come To Not »


June 1

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Date: June 1 20██ 09:15
From: Eric Radford (of.pcs.nimda|drofdare#of.pcs.nimda|drofdare)
To: Southeastern Region Requisitions Department (group: of.pcs.qer|sutsaehtuos#of.pcs.qer|sutsaehtuos)
Message Subject: Personnel for Manned Exploration of SCP-████
Attachments: innova_exonera_predictions1.pdf
Message Body:
Good morning,
I'm reaching out on behalf of SCP-████'s lead research team at 42 with a time-sensitive request. Offshore Site-████ is fully operational, and is now capable of housing personnel to supervise a long-term manned exploration of the SCP-████ structure, launched from the access point under Site-████. This exploration has been deemed necessary by the director of Site-████, as well as SCP-████'s current lead researcher and her team.
A full report of what these personnel will be required to perform is included in the attached report. Also in the attached report are the predictions of the research team regarding the progress SCP-████ has made in the past several years; Researchers at Sites ████ and 42 have confirmed that containment procedures have officially been advanced to Stage II. The time for extensive manned exploration is now; the clock is ticking and you know as well as I that the Council does not want to see containment procedures advanced to Stage III for at least another ██ years. We need more time to prepare, and to get more time, we need more data.
While this request is large and will no doubt require going through multiple channels of approval with multiple departments (I'll be sending a similar email to the Ethics Committee shortly), I trust that you will recognize the urgency of this matter and act accordingly.
Thank you,
Eric Radford
Director of Site-42

June. June 1st. It's not a bad day for you. To your knowledge, you've never had a bad June 1st; spring pollen is gone, spring tourism is gone, and summer temperatures and business hours are here to stay for at least three or four months. Things are good, you tell yourself as you pull your tired legs up onto the base of the barstool. Things are good, you tell yourself as you take a halfhearted sip of flavorless domestic beer. You're as unconvinced as you ever were.
A man stops you on the way out of the bar. "Hey, you from around here?"
You turn around. "Just moved here from DC three days ago, actually."
"You got somethin' funny-lookin' about you."
"I could say the same about you," you mutter. Redneck drunkard.
"Aha- I like that! You feisty! I don't mean no harm. All I mean to say is you look like you from the city. Whatcha doin' down here at the beach?"
"Fishing and drinking, I guess. What are any of us doing?"
The man ambles closer to you. "Look, out-of-towner, let me tell you a thing or two. You say you like to fish? You won't be pickin' up normal fish around these parts, here. Not anymore. You know them military folks at Sunny Point, across the Cape Fear, there? Buddy of mine says they're up to somethin', and I can smell it. There's somethin' not quite right about all that across the river. That Sunny Point over there, and that nuke plant. It's messin' with the fish, I reckon, the water ain't right no more."
"Is that so. Well, I have to get home." You pick up your pace and motion to the sidewalk, wishing you'd taken the car.
"Aww, shucks, if you don't wanna be bothered, I can skedaddle. But I saw an out-of-towner in there at the bar, I just had to warn 'em. Me 'n the guys have been readin'. Readin' about some freaky military stuff you won't believe is real, I tell ya."
"Okay. I'll keep it in mind. Have a good night."
The man mumbles something and stumbles back toward the bar. You've only lived in Carolina Beach for a little over 72 hours, and it's about how you expected thus far. You amble back through the windy, sand-covered streets to your apartment complex and double-lock your door for the night.

June 2

ᄅ ǝunſ

Date: June 2 20██ 10:12
From: Southeastern Region Requisitions Department (of.pcs.qer|sutsaehtuos.seilper#of.pcs.qer|sutsaehtuos.seilper)
To: Eric Radford (of.pcs.nimda|drofdare#of.pcs.nimda|drofdare)
Message Subject: Re: Personnel for Manned Exploration of SCP-████
Attachments: none
Message Body:
Director,
Apologies for the delay in response. This required some significant discussion between our staff. This is a steep request. I understand the gravity of what this anomaly is putting at stake, and thus the necessity of the request, but we cannot approve something of this magnitude and with these conditions for personnel selection without first getting Ethics Committee approval (as you are aware). I will compose this email to the Committee on your Site's behalf and send it this afternoon. If all goes well, they will vote on the issue within 24 hours, and your final verdict will be returned to you within 48 hours. I expect the timeframe could be extended to up to 96 hours if obstacles are encountered, but it's unlikely.
Thank you,
Jacob
Southeastern United States Personnel Requisitions Department

"Good morning. It is 10:15 AM, June 2nd, 20-"
You roll over and swipe left on your phone to silence the robotic voice of the alarm. The pure white light of the sun reflects off the Atlantic and into your balcony's sliding glass doors. You remind yourself of how thankful you are to have moved towns, and use the energy to propel yourself up out of bed.
While you're brushing your teeth, you hear your phone ring. You ignore it until you're ready to leave the bathroom. Upon looking at your notifications, you see a new text message from the number that called you. Hey, how you been? It's your old pal Wes from Washington. IDK if you had my number saved. How's North Carolina? Got that lack of government presence you'd been looking for? ;)
You sigh and prepare to type a reply. Sorry, I was in the bathroom. Good to hear from you. And yeah, it does, though this conspiracy theorist was haranguing me last night at the bar, going on and on about how the nearby military base and nuclear plant are poisoning the fish or whatever. Other than that, don't have to think about those things too much. How are you? You hit send and put your phone on the kitchen counter while you pour yourself some cereal.
You consider going out for the day, but figure you might as well take advantage of your one remaining week of post-moving break before you have to go back to work. You sit down on the couch in your pajamas, trying to appreciate the ocean view and bright, friendly color scheme of the decor. You find yourself missing Washington DC's white marble and black asphalt quickly.
A new text from Wes appears on your phone. Remind me, did you stick with the Bureau or go back the civilian route?
You answer, I'm a real estate agent now. I want nothing to do with that world anymore.
I feel ya, his response says.
You figure you'll have a real conversation later, and turn on the television to waste away a few hours.

June 3

Ɛ ǝunſ

Date: June 3 20██ 09:28
From: Southeastern Region Requisitions Department (of.pcs.qer|sutsaehtuos.seilper#of.pcs.qer|sutsaehtuos.seilper)
To: Eric Radford (of.pcs.nimda|drofdare#of.pcs.nimda|drofdare)
Message Subject: Request Approval
Attachments: approval_form1.pdf
Message Body:
Director,
The Ethics Committee voted 2/3 in favor of allowing your request to pass. Today, I'll be tasking my department with finding individuals who fit the parameters requested and arranging retrieval plans. We'll mostly be using algorithms to search for certain physical statistics and employment background, so very little of the work done will be manual or time-consuming. Arranging extraction of personnel will be trickier, especially with a volume this high, but I've contacted the best amnesticist I know and she'll be driving down to 42 tonight to make arrangements with your Containment & Retrieval agents. We'll try to make this as seamless as possible so that your researchers can get started ASAP.
All you need do is print out this approval form, sign it, and fax or scan-and-email it back to me. As soon as you've done that, I'll set the ball in motion on our end.
Thank you,
Jacob
Southeastern United States Personnel Requisitions Department

"What's the date?"
"The third."
"Right, thanks." You finish scribbling on the check and hand it to the gas station cashier. "Sorry, I just moved to town and I'm a mess. Usually I'd pay with card."
"We're fine with the old-fashioned route down here, don't you worry."
"Appreciate it. Have a good one."
"You do the same. Welcome to town."
You smile and walk out to your car. As you're pumping gas, your phone rings. It's the first time someone from the local 910 area code has called you.
"Hello?"
The person on the other end is clear and friendly, and asks for your name.
"Depends, who's asking?"
"I was informed of how to contact you via channels at the Federal Bur-"
"Oh, no no no. I'm gonna have to stop you there. I told all of my superiors that I was cutting all ties. Not on bad terms or anything, but government work wasn't for me. I'm not interested."
"I'm afraid this isn't negotiable. Is there a good time and place for a few of our operatives to meet with you and discuss a matter of urgent security?"
"This doesn't sound real. Look, if someone at the Bureau needs me, you guys need to do it through the right channels. I don't trust this local area code. Are you the FBI's Wilmington office?"
"No, we are not."
"Are you going to tell me which part of the Bureau you're from, then?"
"All of that is sensitive information, but can be discussed in-person if you can just inform us of what location works for you and what time."
"I don't mean to be rude, but I'm not inclined to follow someone to a shady meeting when they won't even tell me which part of the agency they work for. Please inform whoever you talked to at the Bureau that there are more secure and straightforward ways to contact me. I cut all my ties with the Bureau fully legally, no loose ends. I work in real estate now. If it's really, truly urgent, you know the right way to reach me."
The other end is silent for about five seconds. You hang up and take the gas pump out of your car. You make a note to yourself to text Wes about it when you get home.

June 4

ㄣ ǝunſ

Date: June 4 20██ 10:36
From: Eric Radford (of.pcs.nimda|drofdare#of.pcs.nimda|drofdare)
To: Southeastern Region Requisitions Department (of.pcs.qer|sutsaehtuos.seilper#of.pcs.qer|sutsaehtuos.seilper)
Message Subject: Re: Request Approval
Attachments: none
Message Body:
Good morning,
Thank you for your help in keeping this process straightforward. We received the automatic approval confirmation yesterday, and officers from Site-42 C&R have already made preliminary calls to 113 of the selected persons. Some of them, especially the ones with government background, are clearly going to come willingly. I assume that we need not communicate further now that things are in motion, but don't hesitate to reach out to me if anything comes up.
Thank you,
Eric

"Only a month until fireworks!" a young girl pipes up to her mother.
"That's right, honey!"
You give a small smirk at the family hiking in front of you as you scoot around them and further down the trail. It's only 75 Fahrenheit today, but the sun is beating down; still not too bad for June in the southeast, you figure, and you've packed water with you for the day.
As you're taking a picture of the Cape Fear River from the shore by the trail, an incoming call pops up over the screen. It's a 202 area code — Washington. You sigh and answer it. "Hello? Yes, that's me. No, you- Are you the department that called me yesterday? I can't meet in person. I don't know what else to tell you. I quit. I'm not in the business anymore. I don't know what legal recourse you have for trying so hard to contact me, but- Excuse me, how can it be mandatory? I told you I quit. I have an apartment now, and a new job. You can't take me anywhere. No, don't argue with me. Either tell me which department you're from or leave me alone."
The call goes about as badly as the last one. You hang up and try to focus on nature for the day, but the hair on the back of your neck stands on end for the next few hours.
Around 9:30 PM, you arrive back at your vehicle in a rush. You still have 30 minutes until the park closes, but nightfall was heavy and dark and had you jogging out of discomfort for the last half-mile or so. You guzzle water as soon as you're locked in your car, make all attempts to shake off the leftovers of the eerie sensations of the forest, and drive the short distance home.
There is a man in black clothing standing on your porch. You sling your backpack over your seawater-splattered shoulders and walk up the stairs to your door. "Hi, can I help you?"
The stranger greets you by name, confirming your suspicions, and motions to your door as if he's inviting you into your own apartment.
"No, uh- Just slow down, please. I just got back. Are you the branch of the Bureau that keeps calling me? I know you had to have my new address on record, but you guys weren't supposed to come here unless it's an emergency."
"My name is Agent Rogers. I work for the SCP Foundation. We attempted multiple times to explain to you on the phone that we can't disclose that except in person."
"I don't know who you are, then. Are you FBI?"
"No, we are not."
"Then what do you want with me? There are plenty of other ex-government agents to harass."
"Your history as a government employee qualified you for a serious career opportunity. One you may be interested in considering."
"I told the Bureau and I'll tell you: I'm done with government work. Period. I sell beach houses and drink beer now, okay? I'm not a Washington drone anymore."
"We are not government. I would be happy to give you more details if we can go inside."
You suck your teeth and eye your vehicle over your shoulder, watching for any movement. "You're awfully pushy."
"I don't mean to be rude. These are simply urgent matters."
You keep scanning the parking lot, trying to figure out which vehicle is his. You realize you haven't lived here long enough to tell who owns what, and turn back to the man. "Okay. Fine. You can come in and talk."
"Thank you." He smiles with expressionless eyes and follows you through the door, seating himself at your barstools as you walk to the sink to wash your face and hands. "In your time at the Federal Bureau of Investigation, did you ever hear of the Unusual Incidents Unit?"
"Yeah. Once. Figured it wasn't real." You splash your filthy face with cold water, hoping enough small talk will make the man realize you're not interested in the offer.
"It's very real. The UIU does what we do, but on a much smaller scale. You are aware of what the UIU is tasked with, no?"
"All that weird shit. Area 51, Men in Black shit. I never see those things actually happen, they're always hoaxes, so I never thought much of it."
"You never see 'it' happening because my organization contains it. 'It' being anything anomalous. Things regular government and law enforcement don't know how to handle. One such anomaly is here, in our ocean, with our largest research facility situated a few hundred kilometers offshore." He points out the balcony at the smooth, moonlit surface of the Atlantic. "And that one is flaring up. Badly. We need more personnel to staff that site, and if necessary, explore the anomalous structure under-"
You throw your hands down, splattering water. "Okay, and why are you telling me this? Are you going to have to kill me afterward, or something? I don't know why you people won't listen when I tell you that I don't want to know. I'm done with government work. And you say you're not government, okay, fine, but you act like government, with all this sneaking around and hiding phone numbers and not speaking over the phone, and I'm ready to leave that part of my life behind."
"I understand. What you need to understand is that 'that part of your life' is not ready to leave you behind, so to speak. Due to your history with the FBI, you have been selected for mandatory service. At least temporarily."
You freeze and slowly move around the kitchen, trying to keep your panic under control. You just saw two figures flit past your porch window. You wince and look for your phone. It's still in your pocket. You breathe a sigh of relief and take a microwave meal out of the fridge.
"Okay, well, I'm not going to be okay with that. So go have a nice night and I'll take you to court about it, I guess."
"We do not function that way, I'm afraid."
You swallow. "What do expect me to do, then?" you ask, slitting the overwrap on the meal with shaking fingers.
"We expect you to come with us."
"…Right now?"
"Eat your dinner and pack your things and leave within the next hour, yes."
You feel a little anger rise over your nervousness, slamming the microwave shut. "Look, Agent… Rogers, right? You seem like a nice guy. You're nonthreatening, you're well-spoken, you're just doing your job, I get it. I was you once, just without, uh, all of… whatever that is that you guys do. And that's where I'm not you, you know? I'm not your type. I don't think I'd function well around 'anomalous' things. I barely functioned around real human criminals. This work isn't for me, man, and I just want to enjoy this new apartment and my new life."
"Like I said, this can be temporary. And the organization will pay your rent while you're gone. Plus some, obviously."
"I don't want to go. I'm not going."
He raises an eyebrow. "Look, I'm really trying here. You have the background to know how these things work. Are you absolutely certain that you want your official response to be refusal?"
"Okay, you know, you're making me so nervous. Please get out of my apartment."
"I'm not going to leave, but I'm also not going to hurt you. If you would just let us talk about this a few minutes more, I really think you'd be pleasantly surprised with the opportunity."
"I'm sure it's great, really. And I do mean that. I get that there are people who are good at this sort of thing. But it's not for me."
"The Foundation disagrees on that. Your history shows-"
"And does your Foundation know me better than I do?" You start moving toward the door to lock it. You do so slowly, not breaking eye contact with Rogers. He doesn't do anything in response. You shuffle back over to the microwave and take out your food.
"No, I do not think we know you better than you do. But we do know what your previous government employers have told us about you, and you are a perfect candidate for this assignment."
"Or so your superiors have told you. How do I know — how do you, the agent the higher-ups send to do dirty work, know that that's the truth? Like I said, I was you once. You're not always operating for the purposes they tell you that you are."
Rogers sighs. "I have not seen any reason to doubt that the Foundation's motives for contacting you are truthful."
"Right. You haven't seen any. I'm not going with you. I'm really, really not. You can leave now."
A pained expression crosses Rogers' face. "I'm not going to leave. This can be done the easy way."
A lump rises in your throat. The microwave meal suddenly seems inedible. You seat yourself next to the agent at the counter and eat slow, methodical bites. The two of you sit in silence for a few minutes.
"…Are you going to comply?"
You cough and sputter on a bite of meat and reach for your glass of water. "I'm actually kind of panicking right now," you say quietly, looking to the side.
"I understand."
"Please just help me understand, then. Why does my history with the FBI give some agency I've never heard of the power to demand that I work for them? What happens if I refuse?"
"If you refuse, which you have been, I will continue to explain-"
"No, I mean how is this going to happen? I'm saying no. What's your response?" Your pulse is pounding in your head.
"Our response is that this will be easier for you if you don't resist."
"Hooooly fuck, okay. Okay, I can't believe this is happening right now." You put your head in your hands, grasping your hair with sweaty fingers. You shoot a glance at Rogers. He looks somewhat sympathetic, which somehow makes the situation even more unsettling.
"So, again, if you want to eat, shower, change clothes, that's fine. But I'm expected to return to the facility with you sometime tonight."
You look from the balcony to your food to Rogers' holstered pistol and back again. "…Okay. Well, uh, this killed my appetite, so I guess I'll… go get in the shower? Is that okay?"
"You'll come willingly, then?"
"Um… no? I mean, I would not call this willing. You're just making it pretty clear that it's not really an option, so I'm kind of still processing this."
"Alright. Go ahead and take a shower, then. I don't recommend changing into anything too nice, because we'll give you new clothing when we get to the Site."
"Okay." You duck into the bathroom and brace your head against the wall. "Uh, feel free to get a drink or snack or something if you need. I guess." You don't know how to be polite in a situation like this, or if it even applies.
You walk into your closet and take out a plain black T-shirt and pants.
You'll take a shower to get the grime off, leave the water running, and then climb off your bedroom balcony. That's what you'll do. It'll be a 30-second sprint to the bar, where you can tell the bartender what happened, they'll call the cops, and you'll be back in the real world. That's all it takes. In 15 minutes this will already just be a crazy story. You just have to get there.
You turn on the water and wash yourself in a four-minute blitz. When you're out and dressed, you leave the water running against the side of the tub, turn the bathroom vent on for extra noise, and begin sneaking through your closet and into your bedroom. There's one part where the hallway is visible from the open bedroom door, and you wince as Rogers almost looks at you, but he misses you by a split-second.
The fresh air hits your open mouth and eyes in a salty blast. You try to get your bearings as you put your hands on the weathered wood railing. It's only 15 feet down. What's one uncomfortable fall into some bushes in exchange for avoiding kidnapping? You brace yourself to jump over, taking one final look toward the lights of the bar on the other side of the wall of thick foliage by the parking lot.
You're glad you notice them before they notice you. Two people dressed in all black just like Rogers, standing on the sidewalk by your car. Fuck. If there are still two of them on the porch, that means these people sent five agents to come get you. Maybe it actually is important.
Think, think, think.
Maybe it's the action of Rogers standing up and walking toward you that does it, or maybe it's just the panic all spilling over at once, but something compels you to swing over the railing anyway. You crash into the bushes and take far too long to roll out of them; by the time you're on your feet, you can hear the two agents that had been standing outside running a few meters behind you. You make a beeline for the bar, unsure of what's going to happen once people see you, but desperate to reach that point anyway.
You're sprinting down the sidewalk, relieved by the glow of the bright streetlights, when one of the men tackles you from the bushes and puts you in a choke hold. You scream into his palm as he clamps it over your mouth. "You are going to walk back to your apartment with us calmly and slowly when I let you go," he mutters, "or I will inject you with a sedative more powerful than horse tranquilizer and you will be unconscious for twelve hours. Is that clear?"
You nod against his hand, tears flooding your eyes. He lets go of you and you stumble out of the other side of the underbrush and into your apartment parking lot. The two men follow a few meters behind you as you walk up to your porch. You left your door locked. You curse under your breath and knock. Rogers opens it with a less sarcastic expression than you expected.
"Now that we've made it clear that this is non-negotiable, I will ask again: Are you going to comply?"
"Fuck. Fine. Yes. Whatever answer you wanna write in your fucking paperwork," you mumble, wiping your eyes and nose.
"Noted."
You sniff and stumble into your bedroom to pack whatever they'll let you take, and as slowly as possible. You turn the water off in the bathroom and take out your phone. No service. Go figure.

June 5

ϛ ǝunſ

Date: June 5 20██ 14:45
From: Mallory Wickerford (of.pcs.ces|drofrekciwm#of.pcs.ces|drofrekciwm)
To: Eric Radford (of.pcs.nimda|drofdare#of.pcs.nimda|drofdare)
Message Subject: Re: Request Approval
Attachments: dclasstrainingregimen.pdf
Message Body:
Good afternoon,
Thank you for your assistance in acquiring subjects for the planned series of manned excursions into SCP-3069. As you are aware, 3069 is large beyond comprehension and we estimate that unmanned excursions will continue to yield inconclusive results; we are already in Stage II of containment procedures, with an Innova-Exonera Event imminent, and we simply do not have the time or resources to approach this with anything other than raw human numbers. The explorations will be long-term, lasting months, and personnel will be exposed to environments and influences that could be lethal or worse on the regular. Obviously you gather why we could not use Foundation employees for this, and Site-42's supply of D-class personnel was going to be far too few. Thus, I'm thankful that the Ethics Committee approved the Civilian Use Protocol request; I'm told that approximately 250 of the 500 individuals selected from the surrounding coastal area are from government and law enforcement fields, which should lead to significantly less infighting among personnel than the typical behavior for D-classes. Beyond that, I'm told that full amnesticization of the subjects was also approved, which will make everything so much simpler moving forward.
I'm hopeful that these excursions will reveal key information about the internal mechanics of SCP-3069, and potentially even reveal a way to prevent the incoming Innova-Exonera Event(s). Our research director admits that while she has never conducted explorations with this high a number of personnel, she feels confident that efforts — and lives — will not be wasted. Too much is at stake when it comes to 3069; I can only hope that these efforts will be enough.
With respect,
Mallory Wickerford
Site Security Director of Site-3069

"What is the date?"
"June 5th."
"What is your designation?"
"D-104-E."
"To what facility are you assigned?"
"Sites 3069 and 42."
"Okay, thank you. You may proceed to the deck. We'll be leaving port in about an hour."
You nod silently. 104-E. 3069. 42. June 5th. Numbers are all that can occupy your head. Numbers and data. You're smart enough to know there used to be different things in your head, but attempting to articulate what they were gives you a throbbing headache, and you prefer to focus on the numbers.
"104 of 500 cleared," the interviewer says into her microphone. You shudder and zip up your jumpsuit against the harsh winds as you walk out across the deck of the aircraft carrier and toward the endless Atlantic horizon, a sour chemical taste on your tongue.


It's twelve A.M., and we're the guys they called to take down an anomalous furry.
I've seen people and I've seen monsters. Sometimes, the monsters are more human than the people. This guy, the one we're tracking down, he needs an entire specialized operations team, just for him. One kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen, and what he does isn't even that special. He makes people a part of the fandom. Against their will. Couple of months down the line, they've lost their shit, and they're living in a pen of their own filth and barking at everything that moves. The Foundation doesn't want that to happen to any one of their guys, so they put us on the job. Thing is, I'm sure at least a couple of the higher ups are living in a filth pen, barking their orders down at us.
I look to Sgt. Blaine as he shimmies into an orange bodysuit lined with tubes of ammonium nitrate. He fumbles for the zipper and tugs it up to his waist. Next, he slips into a ballistic vest and toys with the straps as he adjusts himself.
Sgt. Merryweather steps up to him, dressed from head to toe in purple and white. Under his arm, he carries his new helmet, cushioned with foam and geared with night-vision equipment, an air filtration system with a fan, and earbuds. It's the works; we've all got one of our own. Funny thing, seeing bulletproof gear inside of a fursuit.
"Need me to get your tail?"
"That'd be great, thanks."
Blaine arches his back, and Merryweather tugs on the end of a kidney belt through a hole in the back of his bodysuit. He swipes up Blaine's puffy, rustic-colored fox tail from the bench and slides the belt through the tail's loops. One pat of the kidney belt back through the hole, and Blaine is set and ready.
You work at the Foundation for long enough, and you get used to seeing weird things. The ghostly, plum-faces of the guys on my team, you'd think they were dead. It's the task force teams that see the worst of it.
They send you into the buildings where someone's got a monster caged up, and usually, you've got some poor sucker watching you. You have to grab that person and jab them with a syringe of 200ml of anaesthesia mixed with amnestics, and your friend grabs them and hauls them out, dragging them by their legs as you watch their head bump against the bottom of the door frame and their hair mop up their own blood from earlier, when they tried to lock the monster up. It's really not the monster that scares you.
After you come back, the scientists in their crisp white coats will pull you aside and ask you some routine questions. They start their pseudo-survey with a patronizing thank-you, as if what you're doing is anything like saving the world, like how they phrased it in the interviews, like what you thought you were getting when they came to you and promised 100% monetary compensation and 0% physical safety. You come in doe-eyed and wet-nosed, like a puppy in the K-9 unit car, and then they give you your first assignment and it's gone. It's nothing special. Every job in this place, whether you're on the front lines or behind the comfort of a full inch of bulletproof glass, it sucks the life out of you. You just keep doing it because, hell, it's better than a desk job.
They keep going, and they ask you about the recovery. How many deceased? The one from last time, he pushed his wire-frame glasses up further on the bridge of his hooked bird nose, and he asked me the same question again. How many deceased?
Twelve, I say back. He looks down at his clipboard, and back up at me again. I can't tell if he can see how sunken my eyes are into my skull, like I'm less than a person; this mission has made me nothing. How many civilians?
Seven, I mutter. He scrawls down notes in that chicken scratch handwriting you can only read when you've got a PhD, like he's prescribing medicine. For all intents and purposes, he is.
Do you require amnestics?
No, I'm fine.
It's not the answer I want to give, but it's the answer they want to hear. Their supply of amnestics is for civilians and memetically-cooked scientists. You're supposed to be able to handle the missions they send you on. They offer it each and every time, though. When you take them, they're supposed to bleach your memories from the past twelve, twenty four, thirty six or so hours. I've heard that sometimes they backfire, or they give you ones that are stronger than you expected if they don't like you. You wake up a blank slate. A nothing in the worst way. The sound of it scares me worse than the nightmares.
I look down into the big, moony eyes of my fursuit head. They're glossy with sealed paint, and if I run my fingers just beneath them on the cheeks, I can feel the endless webs of wires pulsing with electricity. I'm already wearing the rest of him; a bodysuit spotted blue with white, heavy combat-boot hooves, and a pair of resin hoof paws fitted with padding and weights for hand-to-hand combat.
His name is Cloudtail. They wanted us to have characters we were already attached to. If you told me last year that the most freedom I'd have at the Foundation was what character I could have them make into a military-grade fursuit, I'd call you nuts. I'd say, Is it crack? Is that what you smoke? You smoke crack? And it's dumb to think it, but there's an odd relief you get when you can make a choice in a place like this, and not just what coffee to drink or what permanently-scarred guards to sit by during lunch.
The excuse they gave us was that it was proof of our "dedication", so to speak. That we were, you know, really furries. If we weren't, we'd shrivel up into a shrieking, spitting mess from whatever Walcott put on his website. It was borderline ridiculous, how serious they were about this, how much time and money went into this. The interview process was absurd.
And what did you say your fursona was again? the interviewer asked me, fondling my papers like I've applied for an entry-level job flipping burgers. He'd sifted through my résume, eyeing all those reference sheets I'd blown so much of my Foundation-made money on. He'd held them up.
A unicorn, sir, I managed to squeak. I half expected him to stand up and laugh in my face, like this was all a big joke. Hah! he'd cackle, and every researcher and doctor would poke their prying faces into the doorway. Hahahah! They'd caw at me like birds, throwing their heads back and showing their shiny, white teeth, sharp and ready for the kill. I'd cower in my chair like a stuck rabbit, compacting my body into a tight little ball, as small as I could make myself.
But, that never happened. Thirty minutes came and went, and I was in and out of the office. I'd started down the hallway, and glanced back at the guys behind me. Some were sitting with their legs pressed together anxiously, others were as calm and collected as frozen pudding. There had to have been at least thirty two.
Yesterday, they'd finally tracked down Walcott. He was holed up in some cozy little house in Maine, blissfully ignorant to the Foundation peering in through his window like sick, spying ghouls. They caught him through his laptop, they'd said. Apparently, Mr. Walcott wasn't smart enough to burn his laptop in a bonfire when Mr. Perry started having seizures and called PETA, begging to be sent home to the North, where all of his polar bear friends and family lived. He whined about his precious snow, and how the polar ice caps were melting, and only stopped briefly to take a hefty bite out of his housecat. Of course, PETA called the cops, and the cops started turning into furries, and look now, Mr. Perry's in a containment chamber, almost due for his third psych eval to determine whether or not he remembers jack shit. Apparently, Ollie caused all of this. It was all the fox's fault.
They'd showed us a video of Ollie in his house after everything that happened. Through the leafy underbrush obscuring half of the camera lens, me and five other guys watched as he slid across his kitchen in mismatching socks. Twelve prying eyes stared as he twisted and turned, doing a silly three-step dance on the linoleum floor. He cracked open a box of Star Wars-shaped macaroni and cheese and twisted the dial up on a radio on the counter, blasting Electric Feel to seven sets of ears. It's strange, the way people act when they think no one's watching. When he turns to the window to see a chirping bluejay, he's got this grand smile on his face, like he lives in Wonderland. We watch as he scuttles across his kitchen to a high-up wooden cupboard and throws it open. Inside is a little jar styled after a honey pot from Winnie the Pooh, the word "HUNEY" proudly misspelled across its ceramic belly. Ollie bounces up on the tips of his toes to reach it — the kid must be 5'9", at best — and drags it to the edge of the cupboard with his finger tips. He wraps his palms around it ever so gently and sets it on the countertop, then digs his fingers in and scoops out a handful of birdseed. With a skip in his step, he canters up to the window and unhooks the latch above to push it open. The bluejay peeps and hops back, but Ollie stretches out an open palm, and the bird scoots closer. It hesitates, then dips its head down to examine the seeds. Ollie's looking at that bird with the most adoring eyes, and for a second, he almost seems normal. That nagging thought in the back of my mind gets crammed deep down, and I think, hey, maybe this kid's not so bad.
When the video cut to static, I had jolted up and earned myself a good staring from the lead researcher on this case. Oliver Walcott is a nineteen-year-old freelance artist from Maine, she'd stated. He should be considered armed and dangerous, as he has demonstrated a number of anomalous abilities that have led to the deaths of several dozen individuals so far. He will infect you without a second thought. He has not shown remorse for his actions. You, Mobile Task Force Y-42, are responsible for locating Walcott and detaining him. You will be provided with modified equipment to protect you from SCP-3312, his work. Preparations for the operation will begin at 2300 hours tomorrow.
Here I am, telling myself that this is normal, as a full MTF squad arrives to a property raid decked out in neon rainbows and cooling gear. I look to Sgt. Pollock, who's in a bog-standard gray wolf suit. Older guy, maybe in his late forties. His kid made his fursona. He nods to me, and I unholster the tranquilizer gun at my side. The muzzle on my suit puffs out hot, stale air. One by one, we traverse in unison to the front door. I look down at Sgt. Moira's tail in front of me as it wags like a pendulum. They're necessities, and they'll protect you, the Site Director had reassured us. I'd wanted to say, Really, is that how being a furry works? I kept my mouth shut.
Two of the guys ahead of me have a battering ram. The big, metal column heaves back and forth as they aim it between the double doors, itching to bash that paint-coated oak to splinters. Ready? Push! It swings and crashes in, sending woodchips flying as the door bends on its frame. The battering ram falls to our feet, and we rush into the house.
This house is an art pop nightmare; popcorn walls lined with Scotch taped-posters of The Lion King and carefully-hung commissioned works. From some distance away, I can hear the frightened pitter-patter of feet. A piece of flesh inside my cheek gives way, and I taste the filthy penny-tang of blood. I didn't know I was chewing on it.
I glance over my shoulder to see a yellow dragon, Sgt. Paisley, gazing at something in the living room. I turn to look, and I can see a giant stuffed fox toy slumped over on the couch. Its gargantuan, bowl-sized eyes gleam white light from our flashlights. They're unnervingly large, and they shine like sinewy, tar-colored oil. We keep our distance and move on through the hallway.
You never get used to raids. My hands are sweating though the fur of my paws, and I can feel the gun in my hands growing moist. I haven't got the steel nerves of every war hero you've ever seen. I'm a marvelous actor. A fraud. I passed every basic test, but every other week, I tell myself I was more cut out for an assistant researcher role. I'd take watching a ghost disembowling someone over confronting one face to face.
With a gun in my hands and five squad members by my side, everything in the real world is muffled, like someone turning the volume down on their TV. I am the law of the land, and even as I sweat and tremble, I can feel every drop of adrenaline surging through my arteries and pumping, ounce by ounce, into my hands, my spine, my brain. Maybe that's the rush Ollie gets from seeing his friends warp and gnarl into caricatures of themselves. They scream and groan, but he keeps on grinning, and maybe it isn't power. There is a chance he's so goddamn deluded that this is all just a game to him, and he's seeing how many people he can finger through like paper in a file cabinet before the authorities catch him. Or maybe, he doesn't know what he's doing is wrong. He could be in such serious need of social interaction that he'll take anything he can get, and when that first chance came for him to make real friends, well, he went above and beyond and created friends. The best of friends that only last for a year at most, a week at least. Followers and worshippers. I think back to the video and those big, awe-struck eyes.
Pollock stops at the door at the end of the hallway and hesitates. We can hear music playing, something with a quick beat and electronic buzzing.
"What are you waiting for?" Paisley barks. Pollock sucks in a quick breath through his teeth and kicks down the door.
The window is jammed halfway open and Oliver's gotten himself through the opening. He's a mess of orange hair and plaid pajamas among the saturated images stuck up on the walls, not a square inch left uncovered. The music has been hooked up to speakers from Oliver's laptop and blasts at full volume. I can see fursuit heads hanging from racks on the walls, their concave eyes following my every move. Hairs on the back of my neck prickle up. Thousands of beady eyes from little orange foxes stare down at me, the faces they're sitting in smiling huge and deceptive. I squirm in my skin.
Pollock starts to retch, and I whip around just in time to see him doubled over, but the vomit's got nowhere to go, and when he tilts his head back to breathe, I can picture his face slathered with bile. He collapses to the ground and begins to writhe, coughing and hocking up spit. One hand shoots out from under him and wraps around Merryweather's leg. He stumbles and trips, coming down on top of Moira.
"Pollock, what's wrong?" I yelp. My cry is met with a guttural, throat-scraping yell from Pollock as he claws his helmet off, tossing it aside and filling the room with the vile stench of stomach acid. There's blood smeared across his lips, and when he opens his mouth to scream, I can see it pooling in the back of his throat. He lashes out and yanks a fistful of Merryweather's neck fur, pulling his head clean off, and opens his mouth to take a chunk of flesh straight from his neck. Merryweather howls in agony, fighting to beat Pollock off of him. He fumbles for his gun, discarding his paws. Moira clambors away from them as Pollock climbs on top of Merryweather, locking his legs around him. I can see slivers of muscle dangling between his teeth.
What the hell is happening? My mind races as I pivot and turn to see Oliver dashing away from his house, stumbling over his own two feet in the cold shadow of night. I hear two rounds being fired behind me, and another yell, but it's not from Pollock. There's nothing I can do but climb through the window and take off on a mad sprint behind Walcott.
A thousand questions flock my brain like vultures to a carcass. What did he do? What is he doing? The wet grass crunches under my feet, and I slip and suddenly there's mud caking the fur on my chest.
All in an instant, it hits me. Pollock didn't make his fursona. His kid made it. It wasn't his, and he wasn't doing this for himself. It was for his kid. He was doing this for his kid!
Fuck it! I clamber to stand, my shoes knocking against my calves as I pull myself together. I reach up and dig my nails into the cheeks of my fursuit head, and with one violent toss, launch the head across the field. It nails Oliver straight in the back, and he stumbles. His fall gives me just enough time to raise my tranquilizer gun and fire. One. Two. Three. Four. Five bullet-sized syringes whiz by his head. Four bite like mosquitos in his spine and throat. For a second, he shudders. His feet slosh through the mud and after a minute, he drops like a corpse to the ground.
I wheeze. Behind me, I can no longer hear the yelling, the tossing, or the fighting. Before me, Walcott is taking in labored breaths. His eyes are glazed over, but when I kneel next to his head, they shoot up at me with the ferocity of a cornered animal. His pupils have expanded to gaping abysses devoid of life. His fingers twitch and curl. Saliva is dripping from his bottom lip into the slimy dirt, and I think to myself, this is the kid we were scared of. I can't help but feel a little bad for him, and I begin to pluck the darts one by one from his skin. There's already enough juice in his system for the whole week.
This kid is a poor excuse for a villain, what with his rosy cheeks and spindly limbs bearing no strength. Hot tears are dripping down his chin, sliding past his teeth and mixing below him, creating a little soggy pillow for his head. His bushy mess of orange hair, knotted from sleep, is matted with blood. He's whining a little. He probably hit his head when he fell. I bite my lip, rob him of what little dignity he has, and wipe the tears from his cheeks.
You screwed up, I whisper to him, not with my mouth but with my eyes. I furrow my brows, and in turn, he coughs up a wad of mucus into the dirt. I think he knows.
I know Pollock is already scheduled to be terminated. Oliver will be locked away in a little hole somewhere deep within the Earth. Our team will be surveyed, and given another mission next week. And me?
I'll keep refusing those amnestics.


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Consent Form 3436-A

(More from this author.)

I was one of them wives to never know what my husband did for a living. He worked for the US government I reckon, on some very private matters to be sure. It bothered me, but he never got sore when I asked him about his work, so I never got sore when he didn't have many answers. He would simply speak less and less until all that was left of a response was a furrowed brow and a look in his eyes that would have just as well been at a scared puppy.
"I'm sorry," he would say, his sigh heavy. "I really am. I am quiet 'cause I want'chya safe. 'Cause I envy your worldview."
People have shamed me. They've said, "She got what she'd always been asking for." But isn't a good judge of character what's most important for a woman? I would rather know well what kind of person my husband was and know nothing about what he did, than to know well of his job but wonder what character flaws I overlooked 'cause of it. Too many women make compromises with the salaries of their husbands…those are the ones I feel shame for.
The men in suits arrived just after I set the water on for tea and the dog barked defensively at the sound of knocking. I thanked him for his alertness and reassured him everything was fine. I opened the door and might as well have closed it right then, knowing well why they were there. They couldn't tell me what I wanted to know. They could only tell me one thing; Jim was someone to be very proud of.
My husband's secrecy outlived him, and I didn't sleep for more than an hour at a time. How did he pass? Was someone responsible? What was so important that he never told his wife of 23 years anything? Where are his remains? Could he still be alive somewhere, his death part of a ploy that'll end as abruptly as it began, his smiling face the next one behind a knock on my door? If I had known, could I have saved him?
That knock hasn't came. It has been twelve years. Twelve years. You can't fill a hole like this with years. Not twelve of them, and not fifty either I e'spect. I live on because no one would look after his dog if not for me. That dog is the only living thing besides myself who seems to remember my husband. He still trots over to Jim's side of the bed every morning, looking for him. I can't leave that dog alone. He is old now. We are both tired. When the good Lord takes him; I will ask to go the very next day, and if ever there was an answered prayer, that'll be it.
Please. Does anyone remember my husband? Where are his remains? Does anyone know, where did he work? Is there not anyone I can talk to?
What happened to my soulmate? Where is James Cohen Abernathy?

Human Resources: Records

+ Security Clearance Level 2

-  Access Granted: Class C/D Personnel Maintenance Consent Form 3436-A-027-JAbe

Consent Form 3436-A Page 1/4

Consent Form 3436-A Page 2/4

Consent Form 3436-A Page 3/4

Consent Form 3436-A Page 4/4


"Glad to see everyone here."
"For those of you who don't know me, I am MTF Commander Jessie Merlo of Gamma-13. This is Commander Damian Creed of Tau-51. Those of you from Mu-13, welcome."
"Let's get right to it then, shall we? Within the near future, we are anticipating a reactivation of SCP-3560, followed by an assault on the site. This assault is likely to be led by SCP-3860, or as more of you probably know him by now, Vincent Anderson."
"Our resident Thaumatologists have identified eight key positions throughout the facility that may serve as entry points for the inhabitants of SCP-3560. These include most of the labs in F and G Wings, sections of H and A, and the administrative offices. These areas have been fortified with several Hoffman Portable Electro-Thaumic Units by our on-site staff. However, they alone will not be sufficient to deter a mass assault."
"Until such a point that Command believes that SCP-3560 is likely to remain inactive, we'll be on standby. Each of your teams has been equipped with the needed materials for rapid exorcism. I'm told that the ammunition was reverse engineered from some old Specter tech by the Conwell Lab before he retired. Good stuff."
"3860 is to be terminated on sight. He'll try to make his way to the AIAD lab; we think he wants to destroy an AI construct housed there. This is why so many of you will be stationed nearby. We believe 3860 is desperate and heavily wounded, so be ready for a fight."
"Heh. Of course, this all hinges on the residents of SCP-3560 not killing 3860. Keep your fingers crossed that happens, and that this all proves to be a quiet, uneventful lockdown."

"-a quiet, uneventful lockdown."

Jessie Merlo's words echoed in her mind as she sprinted through the war-torn halls of Site-64's G-wing. A spectral Taita unit was in hot pursuit, its numerous legs crawling after her. The blood of three of her fellow agents dripped from its blades. Ahead of it, a small hoard of phantom Peregrine units led the charge.
"This is Merlo!" she shouted into her mic as she turned a corner. The Taita unit was closing in. "G-Wing has been overrun, Taita unit inbound, my team is down, need back up n-"
The agent felt her leg slip across a pool of blood. She hit the ground with a loud crack; her momentum carried her into the next intersection.
"No, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO!"
She fumbled forward for her gun, attempting to preserve as much of the distance between her and them. She slipped again.
Flipping herself over, she leveled her pistol and fired off the rest of the magazine. Silver bullets crashed into the spectral automatons. One by one, the Peregrine units were exorcised — popping out of existence. The Taita unit gave a loud mechanical whine in protest, its form beginning to evaporate as the incantation took effect. It still crawled forward, blades whirling. Jessie crawled back on her hands. She hit a wall.
She closed her eyes and waited for the pain.
"STAY DOWN!"
Gunshots. A loud, mechanical whine. Silence.
Jessie's eyes snapped open. From her left, a team of Mu-13 agents approached. Their guns were trained on where the Taita unit had crumpled. The lead agent spoke into his mic.
"Mu-13, Team C. G-Wing resecured, retrieving casualties, over."
He looked at Jessie and smiled.
"You alright, Commander Merlo?"
"Never better," she said with a nervous laugh. A Mu-13 agent helped her to her feet. She reloaded her pistol and surveyed the carnage down the hall. Then, she closed her eyes and sighed. "That thing came out of the fucking floor and eviscerated three of my agents. Too big for the Hoffman units to do much other than give it a tickle."
"Yeah, ghosts will do that from time to time." The Mu-13 leader signaled for the rest of his team to make their way down the hallway and search for survivors. "Always fun."
"Any sign of 3860 on your end?"
"Negative."
She frowned and rubbed her temple. "Come on. You've got to make your move eventually."

"We have to make our move eventually." Hector observed as he loaded a rifle he had acquired from a deceased MTF operative. The apparition turned its head to the frail cyborg that sat at the nearby security console.
"I'm well aware of that… #31," Anderson replied with labored breaths as he typed away at the keyboard. "Our move will go so much better, though… if we know where we are going. Benny will be… back soon. In the meantime, we can prep."
"Right. Couldn't we just have Benny fry the computer now? Save us the trouble?"
Anderson shook his head.
"This was always meant to be… a one-way trip. I need to say… goodbye. You understand?"
Hector nodded.
"It's your funeral."
"So, it is." Anderson gave a wheezing chuckle.
A few minutes later, a shimmering orb on spindly legs phased through the wall. It let out a little chirp to announce its presence.
"Speak of the devil." Anderson held out an open palm. "What have you got for us, Benny?"
The droid vanished, then reappeared on Anderson's hand, delivering an intricate series of chirps. The old cyborg nodded. With his spare hand, he pressed the enter key on the security console.
Throughout the facility, the sound of security doors shutting filled the air. The lights died and were replaced with the soft glow of emergency lighting. Nodding at his work, Anderson removed a black flash drive from the console. A simple white ampersand was branded on its front.
"Help me up, #31." Anderson pressed Benny to his chest. The little droid phased through the tissue and vanished. "It's time for us to leave."

"Report."
Assistant Director of Task Forces Clarissa Shaw stood within the main site security office, which had since been turned into a temporary command post. The low buzz of several Hoffman Portable Electro-Thaumic Units filled the room, ensuring a bubble of ectomorph exclusion. Before her, multiple screens showed video footage of the halls, labs, and offices of Site-64.
"Gamma-13, Team B, Cafeteria has been cleared. We've managed to close the SCP-3560 instance in the kitchen. Tau-51 A assisting in mop up. Over."
"Mu-13 Team C, G wing resecured. Recovered Gamma-13 A operatives and are still assisting with evac of casualties. Over."
"Tau-51 B, standing post. No sign current sign of target or additional hostiles. Over."
"Mu-13 Team B, primary SCP-3560 instance secured top side. No additional hostiles since the fifth wave. Standing by, over."
"Think he gave up?" a security technician asked, looking up from her monitor.
Shaw shook her head. "This was a pretty elaborate effort to just throw in the towel like that. He's got something up his sleeve, we just got to figure out wh-"
The room went dark. Emergency lights kicked on.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Shaw said under her breath. "Alright, everyone, game day, whatever fucking happened I want it fixed! Tau-51 B, incoming!"

Ten members of MTF Tau-51, Team B, stood in the dim emergency lighting. Each had their weapon at the ready. The security doors up and down the hall had been sealed, leaving them alone in the dark. Within a confined space. Nearly half a mile underground.
No member of the team made a sound, save their breath. On occasion, each member of the team swore they could hear the other's heartbeat.
Where are you? A bead of sweat rolled down the operative's face. His eyes panned the dark hallway.
Click.
The lights came back on. The task force members blinked as they readjusted to the brightness.
"Control was that you?" the team leader asked.
"Negative, this is all on Anderson."
"Any visuals? Help us help you."
"Negative, those systems are still down. We're trying to get them back up as fast as we can. Hang tight."
"Easy for you to say," the team leader mumbled. "Looks like we're still in the dark, fellas. Stay-"
Two team members dropped, their armored forms ballistically shredded.
The surviving members turned, leveled their weapons, and opened fire as a phantom Peregrine sprinted across the hallway. It had a machine gun in its hand and phased through the opposite wall.
"Contact!"
The team fanned out and prepared itself for a game of cat and mouse. The game did not last long.
The door behind them opened to the sound of crackling electricity. The team leader turned his head. Vincent Anderson stood at the threshold, his index finger extended. A blue bolt of energy lashed out from its tip.
Three more members of the team dropped. The remainder scattered, only to be struck by globs of neon-orange goo. The material hardened into a shell, incapacitating the unfortunate soldiers.
"I believe… we're done here. #31, would you kindly?" Anderson stumbled to a wall to prop himself up. Soon after, Hector reappeared and approached the cyborg, offering his shoulder for support. The two began to make their way onward.
"I think that went well." Hector stepped over a cocooned MTF operative.
"Swimmingly." Anderson nodded.
There was a series of bangs. The cyborg fell to the floor, his spectral companion evaporating in an instant. Several silver bullets lodged themselves in his torso. He turned his head. The monochrome comedy mask had chipped from where it hit the floor.
One of the MTF operatives squirmed away.
Anderson let out a shallow sigh. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a glob of neon-blue goo, chucking it through the air. It landed on the operative with a small plop, then began to hiss. Anderson watched the agent squirm and howl as their skin began to melt. Seconds later the operative then became still. A baseball-sized hole had been punched through the orange cocoon.
Anderson shook as he got himself back on his feet and hobbled to the nearby wall for support.
"I-I-I-I don't think… we'll-ll-ll-ll… have any more tro-tro-tro-trouble, will we-e-e-e-e-e?"
Anderson crept onward. Eventually, he arrived at the door Benny had informed him Phineas resided behind.
As Anderson reached into his pocket to pull out more of the neon blue goo, the door opened. The old cyborg was met face to face with the business end of a shotgun. Behind it was Director Sasha Merlo. Anderson looked at the weapon then into his nemesis's eyes.
"Well played, Sasha," he sputtered.

BANG

Anderson slumped to the floor. Sasha pumped the weapon again and fired.

BANG

Once for all the agents lost.

BANG

Again for all the careers ruined.

BANG

A third time for the grief he had given her family.

BANG

A final time for herself.
The final shells hit the ground. Vincent Anderson was still.
Sasha let out a sigh and lowered the weapon. She watched the body for a minute in silence, then began to laugh. Kneeling down, she pulled off the comedy mask and threw it away.
"Got you."
Sasha returned to her feet. She wore a satisfied smile as she went to assist the bound MTF members. She stopped when she heard a sad chirp. Slowly, she turned to look over her shoulder. Atop Anderson's corpse was a familiar Amur drone. The drone looked at her, then darted off towards the computer housing Phineas.
"No."
Sasha sprinted to the door, just in time to watch Benny dive through the air, phasing into the computer's hard drive.
"No!"
She pierced the room, slamming her hand into the button to activate the AIC. The computer sparked, and for a brief moment, a message flashed upon the screen.

Goodbye, Director Merlo.

The screen then went dark.
"NO!" Sasha howled and began to beat on the keyboard with her fists. "You don't get to win this time, Vince! No!"
She then shook the console, before kicking it several times.
"Director?"
Sasha did not hear Jessie enter, nor see the multitude of MTF operatives standing in the doorway.
"God damn it! We had you! We had you fucking bastard!"
"Director!"
"Rot in hell, Anderson! ROT IN HELL!"
"Mom!"
Sasha felt her daughter shake her. Her expression of rage melted away.
"Mom," Jessie said. "It's over. You won."
Sasha nodded and closed her eyes as tears built up. Jessie pulled her into a hug, and Director Sasha Merlo, former Commander of Asimov's Lawbringers, broke down.
Silence fell Site-64, save for an old woman's defeated sobs.

Vincent Anderson awoke upon his back, a blanket of mist obscuring the monochrome canopy above. He slowly lifted his head and looked around, he was alone.
With a relieved sigh, he got to his feet and brushed himself off. He was still dressed in the clothes he had worn when he died, the fabric pierced with countless holes from the shotgun blasts. Despite this, however, his pain was gone, and he felt lighter.
"Guess this answers one question," he said to himself. For a moment, the old cyborg took in the silence. "Rest in peace, Phineas. Where ever you are, I'm sorry."
The silence was broken by the sounds of applause.
"Well done." A familiar voice sounded from behind a tree."Selfless as always."
Saker #76 stepped into view.
"Now, I believe a debt has come due."
Anderson raised his index finger and then paused. A frown soon appeared.
"Your magic won't work here, Mr. Anderson." Another voice cooed from Anderson's right. He turned to see a Peregrine unit emerge from the mist. "You're dead."
Anderson backed away and raised his other hand. A long thin wire shot forth and pierced the Peregrine's head. The droid shot back, but within a few moments was back on its feet and resumed closing in.
"We're dead too, you idiot," laughed a third voice from behind. "You have no more cards left to play."
"Stay back!" Anderson shouted. He whipped the wire around, slicing through several droids. The laughter that surrounded him only grew louder.
The wire snagged, and Anderson looked around. His vision was filled with the smiles of scores of androids.
"Hector won't let you do this," Anderson shouted. "The Maxwellists will come for me. I'll get to the Data Transmuters. I'll escape. Eventually, I always —"
"There's no place left to escape to," Saker #76 cut him off, shouting above the deafening roar of laughter. "It's the end of the line, Mr. Anderson. Welcome home."

Six Months Later

Upon the Oregon Coast, a man and a woman sat within the confines of their cottage. Curled together on a couch, each had a glass of red wine in hand. The warm rays of the dying sun cast themselves through the glass patio door and painted the room's interior with vibrant yellows, oranges, and reds. The waves in the distance caught the light and danced with fluid fire as twilight set in.
The woman yawned and rested her head on her husband's shoulder. In return, he wrapped an arm tightly around her and kissed her forehead. She smiled and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
"Thank you," Gabe spoke.
"For what?" Sasha asked.
"Coming through the other side in one piece," Gabe answered. "And not leaving me to spend these years a widower."
"Well you know me, I do try." Sasha snickered.
"Do you miss it?"
"I think part of me always will. But hey, all things come to an end, right?"
"Right," Gabe chuckled. "Still, thank you all the same."
Sasha nodded and then grinned, raising her half empty glass of wine.
"To Asimov's Fuckups," she said.
"To Asimov's Fuckups," he replied.
They then returned their eyes to the horizon, in time to watch the sun fade and give way to dusk, and a sky full of countless stars.

« Volatile Memory | End of Line | END