We Need To Discuss The Ramifications of Fifty-Five - SCP Foundation

A wild shot in the shark.

Mariet Wheel sits outside of the office of the Eighth Oracle, taking a long drag of her cigarette, and puffing the smoke back out. She needed a quick hit of nicotine before going to meet one of the highest authorities in the Centre. The Oracles call on you when they need a job done, and she knew that it was going to be something big.

The secretary looks at her, a tired gaze that tells her that the man is overworked. "You know that you can't smoke here, I said that about your last four."

She shrugs, looking at him. "Smoking never hurt anybody."

He leans forward at his desk, a sigh coming out. "Oracle Eight doesn't like it when people smoke in here."

"Why not?"

"He says it makes his surfboards smell." He gestures to the walls, as Mariet fully takes in the fact that all four of the walls are covered in surfboards, some with various types of weaponry attached. A perfectly fine waste of possible fist-based weapons.

"Kind of show-boaty, isn't it?" Mariet comments.

The secretary glares at her, standing up and pushing his coat to the side. Mariet catches a glimpse of a comfortably occupied holster.

She slinks back in her chair, looking at the pale blue lining the walls under the decorations. An ocean, painted on all of the walls. It's beautiful, really. Untampered by the evolution of the selachian menace or their servants, a world of peace…

She drifts to sleep with these thoughts.

A creaking comes from the office door behind the secretary, a young man with glassy eyes poking his head out of the door. "Wheel, Mariet. He'll see you now." He gives a toothy smile.

This jolts her awake, as she blinks to clear her eyes. She nods, grabbing her purse and following him through the long hallway. She catches a nametag, noticing the name "Hark Scott". He's new. He presses his keycard against a scanner at the end of their trek, the door automatically opening to show a fat man with silvering locks, likely about fifty, sitting at the fine wood desk. Taking a seat, she leans back in the chair and looks at him, waiting for him to speak.

"Mariet Wheel. Head of the Anti-Selachimitics Department." O-8 comments incredulously, shuffling a few papers around in one hand. His other hand, fingers tapping against the desk, bears a shimmering, bronze set of brass knuckles.

Mariet can hear the taps of Hark's footsteps, as he paces behind her.

"That's correct." Mariet answers, nodding slightly.

"Hm." The Oracle thinks, running his weaponized hand through his slicked back hair, before he slams it against the desk. This action prompts Hark to hold a gun to Mariet's head.

"One reason. Give me one reason I shouldn't beat you to kingdom come. You're obviously a Selachian Spy. You put part of the word in your fake department name, for Ichthys' sake!"

Mariet sighs, looking at O-8 and rubbing above her nose as she thinks. "Right. Of course this has to happen now. Let's get this over with, I can prove Selachimitics are real right here and now."

O-8 looks to Hark, who glares at her. "She's obviously trying to do something drastic." His word bites through the typically cordial air of the Oracle's office, her heart dropping at the language.

The Oracle member thinks, scratching at his chin. "Mariet, are you going to kill one of us if Hark lets you go?"

"No."

O-8 shrugs, as Hark bites at him verbally. "Are you this stupid?! She's got you tricked, hook, line, and sinker!"

The Oracle looks desperately at Mariet, pulling down his sunglasses and looking at her. "What could she do, Hark? She's an old woman."

Hark huffs, relenting. "I'll keep the gun on her, but we can hear her out."

Mariet inhales, calming herself down from the stress the gun and the unceasing pacing were causing her. "Selachimitics. You want to know more about them?"

The Oracle nods, leaning a bit further like a curious child.

"Selachimitics are a broad category of deviant-classes. They invade, they try to hide within the Centre in some way, shape, or form. Vent-dwelling selachians, ones that replace floor tiles or clothing, ones that replace people. Do you know about Compound-55?"

Hark Scott huffs in disbelief. "We don't have a Compound-55, Oracle. You're just going to keep swimming to this tune—"

He raises a hand, silencing the assistant. "No, I don't. Tell me."

"We found it one day, me and my team. We had just performed the Anti-Selachimitic style on each other to tackle a particularly sneaky enemy combatant in the water, and we stumbled across what we thought could be a supply restock center."

She takes deep breaths to try and remember… it's still foggy. "It was empty, dilapidated. It looked like something had taken a bite out of the ceiling, and my team and I couldn't find a single soul. Everything was normal, other than the ceiling… and the floor was a bit damp, I suppose, but there was nobody, no paperwork, not even Sharkics to blame this on."

Hark looks… nervous? Water seems to be running down his face, and his tone displays unease. "So you really got sent into the deep end, hm? I'm sure the fact you're a bitch didn't help—" He falters, his gun moving a bit upwards from her temple.

She turns behind her, uppercutting Hark and throwing another punch into his gut. That brings him to the ground, so he finishes the job with two kicks to the chest. Before O-8 can lunge, she unzips the back of his head, revealing a now-flopping selachian, floating in a pool of salt water, appropriating the superior shape of humans.

"How… my disguise was… perfect… I can't believe… a whore like you did this." The words bit through the atmosphere, hitting Mariet with self-doubt. She steeled her will. She's dealt with many of these before, but it didn't sting any less. She chuckles a bit as she watches the eyes glaze over. It's dead.

"What the—"

"A HATE-CLASS Selachimitic." Mariet stands fully, kicking the disguise and deviant-class corpse away from her, taking out and rolling a cigarette in her fingers. "They eat memories, sir. He took your memories involving work that didn't include him, to make him seem like a regular part of your routine." She spits on the shark. "I used an Anti-Selachimitic attack on myself before this. I wanted to make sure nothing came in the way of this meeting— And he was a coward. He used a gun instead of his glorious fists."

O-8 looks at Mariet, a slight glimmer of memory in his eyes. "HATE-CLASS…?"

"Especially vitriolic selachimitics. They're usually so hostile that it would become unceasingly obvious to anyone not affected by their memory-eating they're not normal."

O-8 stumbles over his words, before nodding at Mariet, his eyes filling with remembrance. "Right. I'm close to remembering what I called you for, now.” He growls at the corpse. “Coward. A gun, instead of his fists. Punch me."

As Mariet prepares to hit him, the deviant-class corpse moves, opening its mouth. It does not move as sound comes out, like there's a voice box hidden somewhere in its body.

"YOU'RE AN IDIOTIC REMAKING OF A PERFECTLY GOOD WORLD."

She tries to think of what this could mean, off the top of her head. Before she can get too far into this, however, she notices that it begins floating—

What was she looking at? Never mind.

She obliges, taking a deep breath and performing an Anti-Selachimitic pugilism technique on the Oracle, obviously non-lethal, but just as potent to restore memories to people who have forgotten or been affected by Selachimitics.

A fist to the gut, palm on the forehead, punch your palm. A small daze and a bit of pain, then they remember it all.

"Right. Before the deviant got in, I called you here about a progress report on Project Alpha-Forget-Me-Not." He hacks, grabbing at his stomach. "I forgot how much it fucking hurts. Couldn't we make gas or something to this effec—"

"Performing as intended, sir. Infiltrators are down by a predicted ninety percent, that's why there's nothing in high profile places like this." She continues to roll the cigarette, channeling stress into that simple motion. "You know that you just could've called."

He shrugs, chuckling and wheezing a bit. "I like my reports in person. Reminds me of the good old days." He hacks a bit more. "Did you hit me harder than usual? I can taste copper—"

"Alright, sir." Mariet stands up, before remembering something. "We need more hires. We have thirty employees, and we need more people to maintain our part of the database. Five or so would do."

"We can do that for you, Mrs. Wheel. Tell the husband I said hello." The Oracle waves, as Mariet ensures that she stomps on Hark's identification.

The Eighth Oracle hits a button on his intercom. "Please send a medic in here."

Mariet walks into her office, tobacco already filling the space. Pat Kempt sits in the visitors' chair. He's a good man, and a better senior agent. She feels like there are needles in the back of her head.

… Why is she rubbing the back of her head—

"Mariet, we have two bad things that are happening, and we need to discuss both. Compound-55 first, or HATE-CLASS Selachimitics?" Pat's voice cuts through her confusion.

"HATE-CLASSes. What's with them?"

"Well, we've found that while traditional selachimitics are decreasing in severity, the HATE-CLASS deviants are becoming more frequent. Up from about two percent of cases last year to twelve now." He fiddles with his hands a bit.

"Concerning. How are our tactics looking for them?"

Pat scratches his neck, nervously. "Well… That's the thing. We have twelve percent, but every one of those cases was the HATE-CLASS slipping up after we attempted our usual tactics. The slip-ups were small, unnoticeable if you're not a trained Anti-Selachimitic personnel. Puns, fish terminology… It's too much. We estimate the events to keep rising."

Mariet inhales, putting her head in her hands. "Okay. We'll figure something out. You can always punch a selachian, there's always a way. Tell me about Compound-55."

"Well… I believe we found something there."

"What's the deal, Pat? I thought we knew it was empty."

"It is," He shifts awkwardly in his chair. "But outside of it, we found something that might interest you." Pat reaches into his bag, pulling out employee identification for two people that do not exist.

Pat stumbles out some half sentences, before he speaks fully. "I don't know who these people are, but they have real Centre IDs. I used one of these to get into your office. They work, but they're not in the database."

A woman named Patricia, and a man named Johnathan. They both look like regular people, and there's nothing inherently deviant about the identification.

She would go as far to say that they look familiar. She touches the cards, shivering as she feels the wood of her desk. She feels something sharp poking at the back of her head, but nothing is there when she touches it.

"Why did you need to talk to me again?" Mariet asks, a small smile on her face.

Pat stumbles over his words, before leaving and apologizing profusely. Something about a "Compound-55".

There's no Compound-55. Oh well.

You don't want to be too hard on him, it's only his first day, after all.