MIDSIGHT Orientation - SCP Foundation

Connect the cranial jack. Feel its teeth lock, its coolant drool. Be subsumed into the flow of twelve minds kept inside a shipping container far removed from any violence. Let your caretakers melt away. Let the Site dissolve. You are MIDSIGHT conglomerate TARIN-3, and something has gone awry.

Recall the briefing. GOC deniable elements in Greece have escalated activity around Exclusion Zone-067. Transport aircraft with high-ranking Foundation personnel forced down over the island of Lemnos and escorts are being suppressed as of 1430. Extent of enemy capabilities unknown. Presumed objective: detain Site Director Miriam Carras to extract concessions before GOC public assets secure 'release.'

Drink deep of what is provided. Satellite imagery, capturing shadowed dunes and the geography of coastlines. HALE overflight, noting camouflaged emplacements and possible insertion points. OKMGLOS laydown of what lives, what lurks, what continues writhing around that downed aircraft. Exhale the superfluous. Do not concern yourself with how the civilian populace flits and flees. Worry not over geopolitical ramifications. Exhale stale air too, no matter how far your collective minds have drifted from their shells. Grip the armrests until every knuckle cracks. Let the mister pass over your twenty-four eyes—open and visionless, uncomfortably serene.

Sift through sand with fingers immaterial, then peel back layers of foliage. Caress the barrel of that rifle with what connects your lobes. Peer over shoulders. Between fingers. Onto maps unburned minutes before. The immediate past melts into the near future, forming a slurry perceivable only by minds arranged and trained thus. TARIN-3 is a ghost on this battlefield whose soldiers have never been prepared for ANWAR. Disposable. Disposed of. They lack the drilled skulls, the neural bolts, to become invisible by any means that truly matter, and will surely suffer for that neglect.

Their deaths are not your fault though. Recall it and repeat it. Though you indicate them from afar, others will pull the triggers. Others will launch missiles at numb coordinates. Anything approximating guilt is sure to disrupt the conglomerate, a fate worse than any wrought by harder hands. So few exist, and at such staggering cost too. The Foundation can never accept failure in this. Neither can you. Gesture unburdened, mark out foes who cast life aside the moment they chose this path. Encircle the untanned skin of a wedding ring discarded. Trace the absence of formal insignia, so keenly felt nonetheless. Jab deep as fire and smoke streak across the pure blue sky—a rainbow in every gray whose nadir holds no treasure of value.

Gag when your conglomerate becomes undone. Vomit as teeth unclench, enamel and metallic both. Gasp while gloved hands wipe away so many fluids and help you rise. There exists a world outside for each component mind to absorb anew, but in 8 hours, TARIN-3, you, will form once more.