Wiped Clean - SCP Foundation

Rain thumped against the windshield in irregular rhythms, like a drummer with a bad sense of timing. Detective Karson sat in his unmarked car, stuck in a serpentine line of red taillights on the freeway.

“Los Angeles! It’s Monday and the rain is back. Don’t forget your umbrellas, folks. Stay dry out there.”

The radio DJ prattled on about traffic jams and played a Leonard Cohen song that perfectly matched the mood. Karson tapped the steering wheel with two fingers, willing the gridlock to break.

The call had come in about an hour ago. The day had already been long—too long. The gang shootout had left ten men dead and twice as many wounded. Half a city block looked like it had been through a war. Karson had been there for hours, canvassing witnesses who weren’t talking and counting bullet holes in shattered glass. Lopez, his partner, was riding shotgun, scrolling through his phone. His face was pale, his breath labored.

“You good?” Karson asked.

Lopez grunted, waving him off. “Just a cough. I’ll live.”

Karson’s phone buzzed in the console. He glanced at the number. Dispatch.

“Karson,” he said, putting it on speaker.

“We’ve got a 187 in the Hills,” the dispatcher said, her voice clipped. “Private residence. Not much yet. Uniforms on the way.”

Lopez looked up from his phone. “Hollywood Hills? That’s usually quiet.”

“Not tonight,” Karson said, shifting gears. He turned onto an off-ramp, the tires hissing against wet asphalt.

They reached the address thirty minutes later, a sprawling mansion tucked into the hills, with a panoramic view of the city that was currently obscured by fog and rain. The scene was already cordoned off, yellow tape fluttering in the wind. The driveway was crowded with patrol cars and media vans.

Media, he thought. Probably here to spin tragedy into ratings. ABC, NBC, Fox, MSNBC. But Karson noticed a sleek white van parked just outside the perimeter, its logo catching his eye: Spectre Communication & Productions. New media parasites just keep popping up like mushrooms after rain.

“Detectives Karson and Lopez,” he said, "homicide." The uniform nodded and lifted the tape.

They slogged up the driveway, rain soaking their shoes. A figure stood at the front door, waiting for them. Sergeant Malone, a wiry woman with sharp features and an attitude to match, motioned them over. She’d been a LAPD sergeant for fifteen years and had a reputation for being blunt to the point of brutality.

“Took you long enough,” Malone said. Her voice carried over the rain. “You’re gonna want to see this one.”

“What’s the story?” Karson asked, pulling out his notebook.

Malone’s mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a grin. “Gruesome doesn’t begin to cover it. I’ve been doing this a long time, Karson. Seen a lot of bad shit. This one…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Let’s just say it’s going to stick with you.”

Karson exchanged a glance with Lopez, who looked unimpressed. They’d heard variations of that line a hundred times before. Murder was murder. People were capable of awful things, but after enough years in the job, you stopped being surprised.

They followed Malone inside. The air was heavy with the smell of damp carpet and something else, something metallic. Blood. All too common for Karson. They passed a cluster of uniforms standing by the staircase, their faces pale. One of them whispered something, but the words were lost in the thrum of the rain against the windows.

Malone led them down a hallway, her footsteps soft on the plush carpet. She stopped in front of a door and turned to face them.

“Before you go in, let me just say this…” She hesitated, her eyes darting between them. “Whatever you think you’re ready for, you’re not. I wasn’t.”

They pushed open the door.

Rain thumped against the windshield, drumming in uneven rhythms that seemed to sync with Karson’s thoughts. The unmarked sedan idled in traffic, stuck in the eternal slog of Los Angeles mornings. He rubbed his temple, feeling the pressure of a long day before it even started.

The radio buzzed to life, static giving way to the familiar DJ’s voice.

“Good morning, Los Angeles! It’s another soggy day out there—Tuesday, folks, and it’s rain, rain, rain. Hope you’ve got your umbrellas and your patience. Up next, some golden oldies to keep you company in this downpour.”

“You all right, man?” Lopez asked, his voice raspier than usual. He leaned against the passenger door, a bottle of cough syrup rattling in the door pocket. His ponytail bounced as he coughed, a harsh, chesty sound that lingered in the cabin.

“Yeah,” Karson said, glancing over. “You sound worse.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? You don’t look fine.”

Lopez rolled his eyes and slouched deeper into the seat. “It’s LA. No one looks fine.”

Karson didn’t argue. He watched the rain run in rivulets down the windshield. His phone buzzed in the console. He reached for it, thumbed the screen, and put it on speaker.

“Karson,” he said.

“187,” dispatch replied, her voice clipped. “Hollywood Hills. Uniforms on-site.”

They followed the winding roads into the Hollywood Hills. Karson couldn’t shake the odd sensation creeping into the back of his mind. Déjà vu, strong and insistent. The rain, the roads, even the turns felt like a rerun of a show he barely remembered watching.

“You good?” Lopez asked, catching his silence.

“Yeah,” Karson said, but his grip on the wheel tightened. “Just… feels like we’ve been here before.”

“Because we have.” Lopez gestured out the window. “Hollywood Hills. Mansions. Dead bodies. It’s a loop, man. Every day’s the same in this city.”

“Maybe.”

When they pulled up to the house, black-and-whites crowded the driveway and red and blue lights sliced through the gray morning. The rain made the pavement shine like glass, reflecting the chaos above it.

Malone was by the door, looking soaked to the bone despite her raincoat. Her expression was unreadable, but her stance was pure tension.

“Karson. Lopez,” she said, nodding at them.

Karson tilted his head. “This looks… familiar.”

Malone raised an eyebrow. “Well, murder in the Hills. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”

Before Karson could respond, a black SUV rolled into the cul-de-sac. They stopped abruptly, doors opening in unison. Two men in dark suits stepped out, their expressions stone-cold.

The lead agent approached, a tall man with a sharp jaw, bald head and an air of authority.

“Detective Karson,” he said, voice cutting through the rain. “I am Special Agent Walker and my partner, Special Agent Lincoln. Please step back. This is a federal matter now.”

Karson squared his shoulders, but before he could speak, Lopez grabbed his arm.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

Rain thumped against the tall windows of the precinct, streaking the glass with silver as the city blurred beyond.

The radio played faintly in the background, the DJ’s smooth voice cutting through the low hum of the precinct. “Good morning, Los Angeles. It’s Wednesday, and you guessed it—more rain on the way. Let’s hope the sun makes an appearance soon.”

Karson woke at his desk with a stiff neck with The Beatles playing in the background. Karson rubbed his face, trying to shake off the fog in his head. He didn’t remember driving back to the precinct last night. Didn’t remember much of anything, really.

The precinct door slammed open, and Chief Santos strode in, rainwater dripping from her coat. She was in her forties, sharp-eyed, and carried herself with the kind of authority that made people sit up straighter. Today, though, her temper was running hot.

“Karson!” she barked, her heels clicking hard against the floor. “What the hell have you been doing the last two days?”

Karson blinked, startled. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Santos snapped, tossing a file onto his desk. “The gang shootout. Open case, no leads. And you’re just sitting here?”

Karson straightened, trying to gather his thoughts. “The shootout’s a mess, Chief. We’ve got hundreds of shell casings, conflicting witness statements—”

“And excuses, apparently,” Santos interrupted. “Lopez called in sick this morning, but what’s your excuse? You’ve had two days to make sense of this, and what do we have to show for it?”

Karson hesitated. Two days?

Santos didn’t wait for a reply. She stormed off, leaving the scent of burnt coffee in her wake.

Karson flipped open the folder. It was thin. Too thin.

He pulled up the precinct’s database on his desktop, fingers tapping the keyboard. No new cases. Nothing. He leaned back, staring at the screen. The precinct never went two days without a murder. Not in this city.

Something was wrong.

He left his desk, heading for the morgue.

The morgue was cold, the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air. Karson stepped inside, his footsteps echoing against the tiled floor. Malone was there, standing beside a long row of gurneys covered in white sheets.

“Karson,” she said, nodding.

“Sarge,” he replied. “Busy week?”

She gave him a puzzled look. “Not really. It’s been quiet. No homicides. Just dropped by the morgue for some older evidence.”

Karson frowned. “What about the Hollywood Hills murders? I saw you both days.”

“Hollywood Hills?” Malone tilted her head. “There haven’t been any cases up there this week.”

Karson’s stomach churned as Malone left.

He found the morgue doctor, an older man with thin glasses and a permanent scowl, leaning over a clipboard.

“Detective Karson,” the doctor said, raising an eyebrow. “Something I can do for you?”

“I need to check the bodies from the gang shootout,” Karson said.

The doctor straightened, frowning. “The shootout? That was days ago. You’re just getting around to it now?”

“Just show me.”

The doctor led him to a row of metal drawers, each one labeled with a numbered tag. Karson felt a flicker of relief as the doctor pulled one open, revealing a body inside. One after another, he revealed the dead—dealers, gangbangers, bystanders. Karson noted their faces, matching them to the chaotic scene.

“Ten bodies, Detective,” the doctor said dryly. “Seems like your precinct’s been busy.”

“Typical LA, doc. Anything else came in?" Karson asked.

“Not really,” the doctor said. “Most of these came in over the weekend. Natural causes, accidents. Nothing violent.”

Karson frowned. “Nothing violent?”

He nodded. “It’s been quiet. Aside from your shootout, of course.”

Karson glanced around the room, his eyes landing on a clipboard hanging near the door. South Coast Preservation – Pickup Scheduled.

“Who’s South Coast Preservation?” he asked.

The doctor looked over, his expression guarded. “They’re a funeral service. Private, very high-end. Why?”

Karson didn’t answer. He walked to the clipboard and ran his finger down the list of names. Only two. Both marked for pickup. Both recent.

“Something wrong, Detective?” the doctor asked.

Karson shook his head and walked out without another word.

Back at his desk, Karson stared at his computer screen. The rain outside had turned into a dull roar, filling the silence of the precinct. He typed “South Coast Preservation” into the search bar and hit enter.

The screen blinked, then froze.

Rain thumped against the windows like a drum, steady and relentless. Karson woke with a start, rubbing his eyes, staring at the unfamiliar angle of light cutting across his ceiling. The air smelled damp, stale, like the storm outside had seeped into the walls.

The radio beside him crackled to life, the familiar DJ’s voice cutting through the silence.

“Good morning, Los Angeles. It’s Thursday, and the rain is sticking around. Looks like the storm’s here to stay. So buckle up, folks—we’ve got a wet one ahead.”

Karson turned the radio off. It was always the same—same DJ, same rain, same city. Nothing changed.

His mind was heavy, as if something had been erased, and the more he tried to grasp it, the more it slipped away. He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the grogginess, but it clung to him.

There was no way he had gotten home last night. No memory of the drive, no memory of walking through the door.

He checked his phone. There was a text from Lopez last night, the timestamp showing 11:23 PM: “Call me when you get this.”

Karson couldn’t remember calling him back. He couldn't even remember receiving the text.

He grabbed his jacket and left the apartment. The rain had picked up again, a relentless barrage of water.

Lopez’s house was quiet when Karson pulled up. The lights were on, but the front door remained closed. He stepped out into the rain, pulling his collar up against the cold.

As he knocked, he heard the sound of coughing from inside. Lopez’s wife, Anna, opened the door a moment later, her face flushed, but she smiled as if nothing was wrong.

“Alex,” she said, stepping aside to let him in. “You here to check on him?”

“Yeah. Just making sure he’s okay.”

She nodded, glancing down the hall. “He’s on the couch. Told me he’s getting better, but you know him. Doesn’t take much to get him back on his feet.”

He walked into the living room, where Lopez lay wrapped in a blanket. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale, his long hair a mess but he smiled weakly when he saw Karson.

“Still alive,” Lopez muttered, lifting his hand in greeting.

“Barely,” Karson replied. He glanced at the couch where Lopez’s laptop was open, a browser window with the words South Coast Preservation typed in.

Lopez chuckled weakly. “Yeah, that’s what the doctor said too. Pneumonia. Antibiotics.”

The house was quiet, the smell of coffee heavy in the air. Karson noticed a construction van parked on the curb across the street—its logo barely visible in the rain-soaked gloom. Structural Construction and Planning.

Anna appeared in the doorway, her face lined with worry.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“No thanks,” Karson said.

“LAPD got you both overworked, Carlos is sick and you guys are still working” Anna said, offering a weak smile before disappearing into the kitchen.

Lopez coughed into his sleeve, “I’m taking it easy today, Anna. No worries.”

Lopez turns to Karson. “So, what’s so urgent you couldn’t just call back?”

“South Coast Preservation,” Karson said, sitting across from him.

Lopez frowned. “The funeral home?”

“It’s more than that. Something’s off. I looked into them last night—”

“You mean we looked into them,” Lopez interrupted, leaning forward. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “On the burner.”

Karson blinked. “Burner?”

Lopez sighed, shaking his head. “Man, you’re fried. You called me yesterday on a burner. Told me to dig into South Coast. Turns out, it’s clean. They handle high-profile clients—actors, musicians, politicians. Totally above board.”

Karson didn’t remember that conversation.

“What else?” he pressed.

Lopez hesitated, his brow furrowing. “Not much. It’s just a funeral home. What’s this about, Alex? You’ve been off lately.”

“I know,” Karson muttered. “I just don’t remember why. I don’t… I don’t remember last night at all.”

Lopez leaned forward. “You’re pushing too hard. You’ve been on edge for days. Relax. Like Anna said, you’re overworked, man. We all are.”

“I don’t think so,” Karson said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He stood, pacing in the small living room. His eyes fell on a framed photo of Lopez and Anna, taken at a beach. It was bright, the sun high, the kind of photo that didn’t belong in this apartment. It felt too warm for today, too distant.

“Look,” he said, taking a breath. “I think we need to see this place for ourselves. Go check it out. You with me?”

Lopez frowned, then coughed again. He wheezed, his chest rattling, and it took him a moment to catch his breath.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Lopez asked.

“Yeah,” Karson said. “Let’s go, Carlos.”

An hour later, they pulled up outside the South Coast Preservation offices. The rain had subsided to a mist, the world gray and blurred.

The building was pristine—modern, angular, its facade gleaming even under the dismal sky.

“This feels wrong,” Lopez said, his voice weak.

“Stay here if you want,” Karson said, already stepping out of the car.

“No chance,” Lopez muttered, following.

They approached the front doors, Karson’s hand brushing the holster at his hip.

“You realize we don’t have a warrant,” Lopez said.

“Since when did that stop us?” Karson shot back.

Lopez laughed weakly, coughing halfway through.

Inside, the lobby was immaculate—polished floors, a minimalist desk, and soft music playing from hidden speakers. A receptionist looked up, her smile too perfect.

“Detectives,” Karson said, flashing his badge. “We have some questions.”

The receptionist’s smile faltered, just for a moment.

“Of course,” she said, her voice tight. “Let me get someone to assist you.”

She stood and disappeared through a side door.

Karson glanced at Lopez, who was already leaning against the wall, blood pouring from his eyes, ears and mouth.

Rain thumped against the window in steady, rhythmic bursts, the sound filling the room like a constant reminder of everything that had gone wrong. Karson blinked, his eyes sluggish as he tried to piece together where he was. His head throbbed, the pain dull but relentless, a heavy weight behind his skull.

He was lying on something hard, a thin sheet stretched over him, the sterile smell of disinfectant suffocating in the air. His arms were strapped to the sides of the bed, the restraints biting into his skin. He tugged, but the leather bindings held firm.

“Where… am I?” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

A radio crackled on somewhere nearby, the same DJ’s voice cutting through the static. “Good morning, Los Angeles. It’s Friday, and the rain keeps coming down. Stay safe out there.”

The words were eerily familiar, like a loop he couldn’t break free from.

Karson blinked, trying to focus. Through the haze, he could make out figures in hazmat suits moving around the room. Their movements were swift, methodical. Two of them stood beside his bed, discussing something in low voices.

The man on the left glanced down at him, his face obscured by the suit’s visor. “Results came back,” he said, his voice muffled through the suit. “He already has resistance. All the markers are there.”

The man on the right, slightly taller, gave a short, impatient shake of his head. “Inoculate him anyway. No risks. Not with what’s going on.” His voice was colder, more clipped, like a man used to giving orders.

Karson’s chest tightened, the words sinking in. Inoculate? Resistance? What was he talking about?

“Lucky bastard,” the left hazmat suit guy muttered. “His results are clean. His friend, though…” He trailed off, looking at the other man with something like pity.

“His friend isn’t my problem,” the other one said sharply. “Get it done.”

There was a sharp click, and Karson felt something cold and metallic press against the inside of his arm. A needle. He winced, the pain barely registering over the pulsing headache.

“You’re lucky,” the first one said again, his voice distant as if from a faraway place. “You won’t need to remember all of this.”

Another sharp needle pressed on his arm and the world turned black.

Rain thumped against the windshield, the sound like a persistent drumbeat on a quiet night. Karson’s eyes cracked open, and for a moment, he couldn’t figure out where he was. He blinked hard, trying to shake off the fog in his mind. The car was still, the engine off, but his body was stiff from sleep.

He glanced at the radio. The same DJ from before, smooth and steady, a voice that seemed to ease the tension in the air. “Good morning, Los Angeles. It’s Saturday, and the rain is still coming down in sheets. We’re talking traffic, we’re talking low visibility, but we’re still here. You are too, and that’s what counts. Stay safe, folks.”

Karson frowned, the date not sinking in. Saturday? Hadn’t it just been Thursday? Or Friday?

He rubbed his temples and looked around. The lot outside was familiar—his precinct. How had he gotten here?

His fingers shook as he fumbled for the keys, pushing the car door open with more force than necessary. His legs felt like they might buckle beneath him, and he steadied himself against the hood before heading into the building.

The cold, fluorescent lights of the precinct buzzed overhead, and Karson’s footsteps echoed in the empty hallway.

The lobby was half-filled with officers, but it was Lincoln who caught Karson’s attention. His partner was leaning against the front desk, a coffee cup in hand, his face looking—well, better.

“Lincoln,” Karson said, taking a step forward, his gaze scanning him with a touch of suspicion. “You’re looking better.”

Lincoln’s lips twitched into a grin, the lines of exhaustion softening around his eyes. “Yeah. Antibiotics, man. They’re working.”

Karson gave a small nod, his gaze drifting to Lincoln’s hair. Something about it was off.

“Did you cut your ponytail off?” Karson asked.

Lincoln let out a laugh, the sound familiar and soothing. “I got rid of it a long time ago. Wasn’t practical for the job, you know?”

Karson blinked, his mind grasping for clarity. He could have sworn Lincoln had worn that ponytail for as long as they’d worked together. But there was something strange about the moment, something that didn’t sit right with him.

Before he could ask more questions, Chief Santos appeared at the door to her office, her eyes narrowing as she took in the pair.

“You two are here?” she asked, a mix of disbelief and frustration in her tone. “You’ve done nothing all week, and the gang shootout is still open. What’s your excuse?”

Karson opened his mouth to speak, but Lincoln cut him off with a shrug. “We’ve been on it. Just—catching up. We’re good to go.”

Santos didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press it. She turned back toward her office, muttering, “Get on it. Both of you.”

Lincoln came up with ballistic reports, eyewitness statements, everything to close up the case. Karson turned away, a strange unease still twisting in his stomach. He was supposed to feel like things were normal—he had to. But something was missing. The missing time, the incomplete memories.

He needed answers.

Without a word, he made his way toward the parking lot, his footsteps quickening as his thoughts churned. His car was still parked in the lot, and as he sat behind the wheel, the rain falling steadily, he felt a compulsion to go somewhere. A place he didn’t know but felt drawn to.

Karson drove for what seemed like hours, though the city was small enough that it couldn’t have been. The rain had turned to a light mist, coating the windshield in a hazy blur. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but his instincts pulled him down a familiar street, to a house he couldn’t remember if he had ever been inside—or if he had only seen it in his mind, again and again.

He stopped the car in front of the house. It was a well-kept place, one of those comfortable homes that looked lived-in, but not too much. Karson didn’t think twice as he got out and knocked on the door.

When it opened, Karson was met with Anna.

She was crying.

“Alex… I—” she started, her voice shaking, and then she just broke, leaning against the doorframe.

“Anna?” Karson said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “What happened?”

She wiped her face, trying to compose herself, but it didn’t help. “I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m crying. I can’t stop.”

Something was wrong. He couldn’t place it, but something felt very wrong. The air in the house seemed thicker than it should be.

He glanced around. The walls were lined with pictures, mostly of Lincoln and Anna—together, smiling. It took him a moment to register it, but the familiarity of it hit him like a brick.

There were more pictures of Lincoln here than there had been at the station. More than Karson had ever remembered seeing, even though he had worked with Lincoln for years.

He tried to push the thought aside, but it lingered.

“Anna, I… I don’t understand,” Karson said, stepping toward her.

“I don’t know either,” she whispered. “I just—I feel like I should know why I’m crying, but I don’t. I just miss Carl.”

Karson felt something pull at his chest. His eyes stung, and for a moment, he thought he might cry too. But he didn’t understand why.

“Lincoln is still at the office, just finishing up my paperwork. You know how he is,” Karson said, his voice low.

They stood there in silence, the soft sound of Anna’s breathing the only thing filling the space between them. The pictures on the walls seemed to close in around Karson. He blinked, trying to focus, but the longer he looked, the more out of place everything seemed.

The framed photo of Lincoln and Anna at the beach—he’d seen them before, he knew he had. But the more he looked, the more they seemed unfamiliar.

“Alex, you okay?” Anna asked, her voice distant.

He blinked again.

“I—I don’t know.”

Rain thumped against the roof of the van rolling through the rain-soaked streets of Los Angeles, its wheels cutting through the wet asphalt with a quiet, methodical hum. On the side of the vehicle, the words Structural Construction and Planning were printed in bold, industrial lettering. The exterior, weathered and worn from regular use, blended seamlessly into the surrounding cityscape. It was the kind of vehicle no one would ever look twice at.

The DJ’s voice crackled through the static on the radio, offering a distracted greeting, the kind that only came after days of rain.

"Good morning, LA. It’s Sunday, and we're back at it again. The weather's been relentless, but don't worry, the sun's bound to break through eventually. Stay dry, folks."

Inside, the space was functional. At the front of the van sat a large man in a high-visibility jacket, a helmet perched on his bald head, and a copy of the LA building code manual open in front of him. The kind of worker who could pass for any construction employee on any given day. The seat next to him was empty, but behind him, there were computers and charts littering the back of the van, all linked to a complex web of surveillance equipment.

One of the men, dressed in similar attire, sat at a desk in the rear, speaking into a phone. His voice was calm but incredulous, the faint hum of the electronics around him filling the background.

“Are you telling me,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief, “that the virus we thought was anomalous… isn’t?”

There was a pause on the other end. He waited for the response, fingers drumming on the desk in frustration.

“Yes, I understand,” he finally muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Just send the damn report over.”

Analysis of Virus Outbreak in Los Angeles

A total of three deceased individuals were initially suspected to have succumbed to an anomalous pathogen due to the rapid onset and atypical progression of their symptoms. Each subject presented with a persistent cough and fever over a period of three to five days, followed by the sudden onset of hemorrhagic fever and profuse hemorrhaging from multiple orifices. The widespread blood dispersion observed at the scene is hypothesized to be a result of victim-induced panic during the terminal stages of the illness.

Pathological samples obtained from the deceased individuals were subjected to initial testing at the Los Angeles County Morgue, which yielded a positive identification for Ebola virus (Zaire strain) infection. Subsequent testing performed under controlled conditions at Foundation Site [REDACTED] consistently produced identical results, confirming the presence of the virus.

Further genomic analysis revealed no deviations from the canonical Ebola virus genome. No anomalous genetic markers or properties were detected, and the virus retained all known structural and functional characteristics typical of the Ebola virus.

“So, Dr Pataki, what does the report say?” the man driving called back, his voice still tense.

“Well Walker, they couldn’t find any anomalous properties. The tests conducted by our researcher in the LA morgue confirmed this.”

Walker, still processing, took a deep breath, his frustration clearly rising. “So, that’s it? We’re supposed to just walk away and go back to the Site? How did Ebola even show up in LA?”

Pataki didn’t respond immediately, continuing to scan through the reports. The hum of the van’s electronics filled the space between them.

Pataki sighed. “Right. It’s non-anomalous so local health authorities need to deal with that. We can’t afford to waste anymore time here. Let’s head back to debrief at the Site.”

“Fine.”

Heading back to their Site, Walker glanced into the rearview mirror. "Well, there’s something new on the horizon." He didn’t smile, but his lips twitched as if he was sharing an inside joke. "What about a new man for the team?"

"Karson?"

Walker’s grin finally appeared, but it was more of a satisfied smirk. “You got it. Detective Karson. The one who’s still digging. Even after everything.”

“After everything?” Pataki asked, his interest piqued. “What do you mean?”

Walker’s gaze shifted back to the road, his expression growing more serious. "Amnestic doses. Class A, B, C, and F. All of them. His memory’s been wiped clean more times than I can count. They nuked his mind, and yet… he hasn’t lost his edge. He’s still pushing. It’s rare.”

Pataki chewed on the thought, but before he could respond, Walker was already speaking again. “I think he’ll be a good fit for the Foundation. Our team especially.”

Pataki leaned back in his seat, still mulling over the idea. "I’m not too sure, Walker. Sure he can deal with amnestics but is he the right fit? Do we know enough about him?”

“What do you propose, doc?”

“We need a new man, you’re right, Walker. We can get Agent Lincoln to implement a CRV test and we shadow him for a week, build a psychological profile, to see if he, as you say, is right.”

“Sounds like a plan, doc,” Walker said, making a U-turn back to the city.

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