Calm - SCP Foundation

Who are you?

Where have you been?

Are you lost?

Will you be found?

You are now Sophia Light.

Ask yourself: What are you doing?

You, Sophia Light, are a Foundation Director. Currently, you are the leader of Mobile Task Force Alpha-9.

We encounter you some time in the past. Mobile Task Force Alpha-9 has recently been approved by the O5 Council.

Oh, and someone just tried to assassinate you. But you aren't going to let that get in the way of doing your job.

Before you, you have a list of files. On them are the names of certain members, or "associates," of Alpha-9. Some of these people you haven't even met yet.

You take a deep breath, and open a file.

Ask yourself: What are you doing?

SCP-2599

Close file.

SCP-2599. Zena Cho. A fourteen year-old reality bender. More to the point, a broken reality bender.

Given Command: SCP-2599 is ordered to fly.

Outcome: SCP-2599 manages to jump 5 meters in the air, but is unable to sustain flight. SCP-2599 suffers injuries upon impact with the ground.

According to the notes, a really nice kid. Pretty traumatized. Not hard to imagine why.

You flip through the tests. First by Dr. Wensley, then Karlyle Aktus. Aktus had put 2599 at the top of his priority list. The opposite reaction of pretty much everyone else who read her reading her test logs.

Including you. Not because you were worried she had low potential — quite the opposite. No one has figured out what the limits to this reality bender's power are — the tests are small-scale: "Kill this D-Class. Show us how high you can jump. Make these rats blue."

Imagine if some joker gets the idea to ask her to destroy the world. What happens? Does she destroy half the world? Or even just her test chamber? If she messes up the command in a different way, each time, how can she ever be safe to use?

But someone went over your head on this one, as they often have on this project. You suspect they approved the project mostly because the O5s were curious. And Karlyle Aktus has a history of turning trash into treasure. Extremely dangerous treasure.

But then Aktus nearly died. The Zena Cho project is backburnered until he can make a full recovery. That could be months. Or it could be never.

You hope this isn't a sign of the future of Alpha-9.

Close file.

Kain Pathos Crow

Close file.

You don’t start with his file, you start by knocking on his door. A gray-muzzled golden retriever answers the door. “Sophia Light. It's been too goddamn long.”

You smile. “Hello, Kain. How's Seventeen treating you?”

“Follow me. It's home. I have a staff again. You know? It's great. Watch that beam. You were wasted on Bright, that old bonobo. You should have worked for me.”

Privately, you have always admired Crow. You'd go to meetings with him and Jack back at Site 19, listen to him explain broad concepts and novel experimental ideas, simplified for a layman of whatever field he was working in at the time. Sometimes you'd take dictation for those meetings, not because you had to, but because you admired him and hated to see him needlessly backtrack. He made most of his adaptive technology himself. When Jack told you he was, what, twenty-five, you didn't believe him.

That was a long time ago. You haven't worked for Jack Bright, or at Site 19, in years. Still, some faces are hard to forget.

“I was a biologist,” you remind him. “You do engineering.”

“Yeah, well, Bright doesn't do anything.” He barks a laugh, climbing up a ramped wooden platform so he can more or less look you in the eye. “That's not true. Anyways, you've done alright.”

“So they tell me.”

“It's a process, Light. Those of us who make it, we make it. Hey, you're not sending me into the field, are you?”

“Wasn't planning on it. Do you want to?”

“Hell no. I mean. Maybe some travel. I'm too old for field missions. But if you've got a site somewhere with tropical beaches and whalewatching, I kindly volunteer for duty.”

You're acutely aware that you're older than Crow. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Ahh, no one wants to throw old Kain a bone. Well. I forgive you.”

“I got you on this project,” you remind him.

Crow woofs. “I do appreciate that. Very much.”

“You'll be wrangling Mann. Not much of a favor.”

“It's worth it. We'll have to do dinner sometime. But you're on official business right now, right?”

“Yes. Hypothetically, as the director of this project, I should be telling you what I think would be most useful to Alpha Nine's field missions at this point in time. Realistically, you can probably come up with something twice as good.”

“Can?” Crow's ears were pulled back in amusement.

“You already have?”

“Let's look at some blueprints. Come on, grab a cushion.”

Crow's drafting table is a foot off the ground. You take a gardening pad from next to the desk and kneel on it, looking over the sketches. Crow grabs a modified pencil with his teeth and makes a few corrections.

“This looks familiar,” you say.

“It should. It'll have some other projects I've been working on integrated in. Some good artillery, great for heavy ops… What do you think?”

“Can it be piloted remotely?”

“You don't want me to have any fun, do you?”

“Safety is fun.”

“Boo. I can build it in.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

Close file.

Zyn Kiryu

Close file.

Dr. Zyn Kiryu. Researcher extraordinaire. Known for her single-minded focus, for her ability to complete an incredible amount of projects in short periods of time. With anyone else, that would be a sign of cutting corners. Not for Dr. Kiryu.

She is very polite when she talks to you. She listens respectfully to you pitching this new, exciting opportunity. She expresses appreciation when you compliment her cutting-edge experiments in altering and engineering biological anomalies. She is very polite when she turns your every offer down.

You aren't surprised. Zyn Kiryu isn't like her brother. She isn't just competent, she's ambitious. People say she'll be a director in three years if all goes well. She has less than no motivation to jeopardize her climb if — or when — things go south with Omega-7 Part Two.

Two weeks later, a grinning, androgynous stranger appears in your office. They flash you credentials that people below Level 4 don't even know exist.

They tell you to ask Dr. Kiryu about her "razor butterflies" project. They mention SCP-2332 and SCP-143. They tell you to talk to her about the future. They tell you to deliver her the following message: "408 is lonely."

Zyn Kiryu accepts a position on the Research & Development arm of MTF Alpha-9 the next morning.

By noon, Zyn Kiryu has taken over research for SCP-408.

By evening, a print-out of Zyn Kiryu's fully un-expunged file lands on your desk. You didn't request it, and your assistant, Vaux, didn't see anyone drop it off.

Your eyes grow wider as you page through the reports.

There's a handwritten note attached to the end of the file, on paper the texture of dried human skin.

The note reads: "The new Kondraki?"

In a different hand, below, a line has been added: "She'll resist."

In the first hand: "We'll see."

The note is unsigned, but you don't need a signature. The drama says it's one of the Council members.

Kondraki was one of the O5's "little experiments." One that went farther than any of the others. One that ended with hundreds of people dead and Site-19 burning.

So what the hell did they mean? You were meant to read this note. Will O5-7 tell you if you just ask her directly? Is this a test?

Should you warn Zyn Kiryu of what might be coming to her? Or should you stay quiet?

You shake your head.

Close file.

Kondraki

Close file.

You have been 'gifted' extensive files on Kondraki. They're largely censored, and none of them are directly related to Alpha-9. How could they be? Kondraki has been in the ground for years, now.

But for some reason, O5-7 wanted you to read these files. Is she trying to be helpful? Is this a hint? Is it a warning?

The deceased former Research Head of Site-17 had a lot to say on the subject of anomalous humanoid research. He pushed hard for SCP weaponization for years, before… before everything that happened. Before Omega-7 and Incident Zero. Before it all… ended.

The evening grows dark as you read. Your mood grows dark along with it. Whole pages here are censored, and what isn't censored makes you feel a little ill. Ghosts here, haunting you from between these pages.

You remember that funeral. You remember not knowing what to feel.

You remember Gears' cold gaze. You remember Clef, not meeting your eyes.

You remember the suspicions that took root in your mind over the months. You remember what you did find out, years later.

All this, after they called Kiryu "the new Kondraki." What is this supposed to mean? What are they planning? Does it even matter?

You put the notes down. You have a headache.

Close file.

Chelsea Elliott

Close file.

“Chelsea!”

“Sophia!”

Chelsea Elliot hugs you. Everything is allowed to be alright in the world, or at least between the two of you, for a few seconds, before you ruin it forever.

You don't have many friends. Maybe Elliot doesn't either. And yet, inexplicably, here are the two of you. You used to send her journal articles and then discuss them via webcam. She sent you cultivars for the Svalbard greenhouses. Farther back, you both had visited each other in the hospital. Yeah, that's right. You have friends.

And here you are, cannibalizing those friendships in the riskiest career move in human history.

“This wasn't my idea,” you tell her, after she lets you go. It's true. “I didn't know what they had told you until after I'd signed on. It must have been High Command, but I can't tell who…”

“I believe you,” says Elliot.

“I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were forced into it.”

“I believe you,” says Elliot again. “Can you change it now?”

You can’t meet her eyes. “What have you been working on so far?”

“I've been helping Kain with some designs. Learning some engineering, not that Kain doesn't have it all down. I think Mann wants me to help him with, uh, he didn't say what.”

“How do you feel about field work?”

Elliot's eyes widen. Then narrow, as she searches your face — maybe she's trying to figure out if you're serious, or what your plan is.

“You mean in the front lines? With a gun?”

“I’m not sure. Chelsea, this is what I know. Your capacities as a researcher are astonishing. But you’re with Alpha-9 as opposed to any of the best labs in the Foundation, because you can turn into a plant.”

Elliot looks simultaneously much more concerned and relieved, like, Finally, somebody said it. “That has limited combat potential.”

“I don’t know that. You don’t know that. What little you do know about what you can do has been discovered on your own, working under the veil of secrecy, in your free time. That’s not even a start. I mean, plants. You can aerosolize material. Have you tried Dendrocnide? Anything transgenic?”

Chelsea nods slowly. “Not yet. I didn’t want to permanently injure myself.”

“But you could. Given safety equipment and the ability to develop more control over the process.”

“I expect so.” Elliot bites her lip, nodding. You can’t figure out what her face is doing. “Sophia, I don’t want to be the next Fritz Haber.”

You have to think about that one for a minute, because Fritz and his fertilizers did a lot of good for the world, and then you remember, Oh. “Don’t be the next Fritz Haber. That was just an idea - it depends on what you come up with, anyway.”

She's still hesitant.

“It still will be research,” you try again. “And you’ll be in charge. It’ll just be on you.”

“I guess I can’t say I wasn’t curious to try this,” Elliot muses. She’s a scientist at heart. Maybe you’ll get to stay friends. Maybe you can trade notes about biosynthetic pathways and enzymatic action, and her enigmatic abilities. She’ll be safe and effective and so will all of Alpha Nine.

And maybe the sun orbits the earth. You mentally kick yourself once she’s out, and reach for the next file.

Close file.

Dietrich Lurk

Close file.

You are no longer Sophia Light.

You are now a lone shield maiden.

The inner sanctum of the eldritch library is awash in flame and ash, as the bulk of the swarm is finally herded into a tight amorphous mass, swirling like a mad cyclone. You still duck behind your battered tower shield, picking off the remaining stragglers with your repeating crossbow. The slot in your shield provides a surprisingly ample amount of viewing range.

"Alright." You're panting. "That's the last of them. He has to be in there."

You squint through the slot and try to shoot through the swarm, but it's too thick. The bolts flick and splinter along the platinum skin of the flying vermin.

All the while, white arcs of arcane lightning continue to strike the shelves upon shelves of codices, causing them to burst into ashes. Knowledge forever lost and will take at least a century or two to recover.

Your brow furrows as your rage reaches crescendo. Each lost text is another addition to your anger, another wound, another casualty. "No more. NO MORE!"

You lift yourself up, pick up your shield, and assume a charge formation. Your pauldrons clank with each foot fall. "I am awaited," you whisper to yourself.

With a mighty leap you dove into the terrible field of battle with your shield as the plow and in stark contrast to your previous utterance, cry out to the world,

"I AM AWAITED IN VALHALLA!"

CRASH

With a mighty heave you tear through the swarm and into the terrible silent center, where the Master awaits. He laughs as he unfurls his long hook and chain.

He approaches you slowly and methodically in terrifyingly spiked silvery armor. "I give you full marks for pushing me this far, Librarian. But this is where it must end."

You throw down your crossbow and draw your gilded falchion. "I agree." You twirl your blade and ready your stance. "But it is you who are checking out."

The two of you dance. You dance the terrible dance. Metal against metal clattered together as the hurricane whirled around you. You scamper across the floor, dodging sweeps of chain and hook. Your tiredness is showing. The shield and falchion feels heavier with each passing moment, until—

TONG

The hook snags your shield. You pull, but the Master pulls harder. Hand over hand, he pulled you closer. "Come now. Did you honestly think this would end any other way?"

You look to your left, and smirk. "Not quite the way I imagined it."

With a swift twist and a mighty heave, you unclasp the tower shield from your gauntlet and toss it into the adjacent swarm. The chain gives a loud rattle as it works against its owner, pulling him into the maelstrom of his own design.

"No… NO!"

With one quick wretch of the chain, the Master is pulled in. His armor and flesh rend into chewed pieces of indiscernible matter. Without a Master, the swarm disperses and flutteres through the open windows of the Grand Library, leaving but a single link of chain.

You limp forward, pick up the chain, examine it, then cast it into the large stone fireplace near the foyer. "Okay… I'm done."

You are no longer the lone shield maiden.

>:/_SCAN COMPLETE

>:/_100%

>:/

>:/_45609 files identified…

>:/_PROCESSING…

>:/

>:/_45608 files sent to quarantine

>:/_1 file purged

>:/

>:/_Remediate quarantine files? (Y/N)

You are now Sophia Light.

With you is Agent Dietrich Lurk, of MTF Lambda-2 ("No Name Entered") telecommunications field engineer, playing technical support and AI custodian for Alpha-9.

"Wow. How long did that take?" you ask.

"All of eight seconds, Ma'am." Dietrich slides his laptop over to you.

You look through the data and nod, your head buzzing with ideas. "And. This is the same virus that crippled Research Site-45 only two months ago?"

Dietrich nods. "The very same, Ma'am."

"AIAD really is worth its weight in gold. And I thought it was just all theory and pipe dreams. What else can she do?"

Alexandra chirps from your cell, startling you. «I have many more functions. Like mobile applications!»

"How? What? Okay… I have to admit, that's pretty neat and a tad scary. But—" You look at your phone, then at Dietrich. "How much of a liability is this? What if she goes rogue?"

Dietrich shakes his head. "Impossible. She's hardwired to just not do them things. She literally can't."

«Nope! Not a dissenting bone in my body. Well, my code, rather.»

You tilt your head a little and huff. "Well, I think I can green-light this for the A-9 staff. We can make it standard issue for the officers as a trial run."

Dietrich clasps his hands together. "Great. I'll get started on getting things set up."

You are no longer Sophia Light.

"Should be an easier shift tonight."

Django Bridge, λ-2 [Technician]

Fri, Oct 12, 15:23

Sophia bought it?

Yup, we're in business buddy.

You wanna tell Clef that I got Alex bugging alpha niner now?

Yeah, I'll mention the implementation in my report.

Good work.

BTW, We need to watch Alex's fascination with this fantasy fiction stuff.

It's getting to be an issue.

You are once again Sophia Light, and you're still not sure what to make of all of this.

Close file.

SCP-2913

Close file.

"She came into the room like a tall glass of water that was uh… tall." SCP-2913 — Han — looks up at you, as you enter the room.

Aware that you're all of five foot two, you can't help but smirk and raise an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry," Han says, raising its little finger into the air. Han is the reverse stump of a hand, a bare bony wrist balanced on five fingers. He's about six inches tall. You suppose that most glasses of water are tall glasses of water, compared to him. "I'm trying my hand at narration."

You step into Han's room and sit down in one of the chairs, which faces the large television that still seem to have Han's attention. "Why?"

"Because the story is just too good not to have a great narrator."

"What story?"

"Monsters! Secret projects to save the world! A devilishly handsome protagonist!"

You shake your head, but smile. "Do you know who I am?"

"Dr. Light? I think? They said you'd be coming by today."

"That's right. I'm in charge of the secret project to save the world."

Han raises his index finger. "Is the world really in danger?"

"Always," you say. Softly, but firmly.

Han stands up a little higher on its fingertips. "I uh… I don't know what to do with that."

You nod. "Neither do I. But that's why we're here."

Han pauses for several seconds, before relaxing its fingers and lowering itself to the table. "You're not sure if I'm ready, are you?"

You lean back in your chair. "I'm not. No."

Han waves its thumb. "I think that's the first time someone's been completely honest since I came here."

"Well. If we're going to work together, we have to trust each other. There are going to be people out there counting on you. If you can't stand up under pressure they'll die."

Han stops moving. "You know about how I got here, right?"

"Yes."

"I let Jimmy get away with a lot of stuff. It wasn't always… There were times I knew I could stop it and I didn't. I was afraid. I could've saved lives. Instead I froze."

You shift in the chair. "Why?"

"I didn't want to be alone. I'd spent most of my life watching everything he did like it was a show. But he was always there. I… I didn't want him to go."

You stand up from the chair and nod. "I understand."

"Do you? Whatever ends the world probably won't end me. But then I'm alone anyway."

"You want to save the world?"

"I do."

You stop for a moment, and then reach a hand out to Han. "Great. We've got some work to do."

Close file.

Iceberg

Close file.

You do not have a file on the deceased Foundation agent code-named Iceberg.

No one has a file on the deceased Foundation agent code-named Iceberg.

The Factotum named Loyalty smiles a malicious smile at you. "Whatever made you think Project Resurrection was devoted solely to Mobile Task Force Alpha-9?"

"I didn't," you say, but they're still going.

"This project has been in the works for years, Doctor. We've been calling it Project Resurrection before Alpha-9 was a twinkling in our eyes. And what would be the point of calling something "Project Resurrection" if we did not at least attempt to resurrect the literal dead?'

You shake your head. "But why him?"

"They assigned him to Gears for a reason, you know. They figured his impressionability would make up for his lack of skill at anything beyond paperwork. Well… you know how that turned out. Even his nasty little habit of sexual harassment was going away, by the end, and the project leads were declaring unmitigated success, right up until the moment he put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger." A wider grin. "Gears molded him, alright. Molded him right into a corpse with an exit wound in the back of its skull."

"I wouldn't blame Gears for that," you say. "He's a good man. He did what he could for Iceberg. It's not on him that he failed."

"Gears found the body, you know," Loyalty says. "Do you know how he reacted?"

"How?"

A thin smile. "He didn't."

"I don't know why you're telling me this," you say.

Loyalty chuckles. "I agree. We're off-topic. This is about Iceberg, not Gears. With all that impressionability, and so much ambition and potential, and yet so little native talent — to interfere with malleability, you understand — Iceberg was the perfect test subject for the arm of Project Resurrection dealing with the defiance of death."

"Was?" you ask.

Loyalty slides a finger across a button on a small remote. Before you, the cover to the steel pod slowly rises, revealing the figure inside.

"Indeed," Loyalty says. "Unfortunately, the experiment didn't quite work. What you're looking at is the only viable product. The prototypes… it's more than your job is worth to have to see those…"

The figure is still, silent, corpse-like, bound in blue metal. Recognizably human, but bloodless. No rise and fall of the chest.

You recognize the features. Iceberg's. There's something wrong with them.

You hazard a guess. "A robot? An automaton?"

"Oh, no," Loyalty says. "This creature is quite human. Perhaps better characterized as a cyborg, or more unfairly as human corpse, but it can animate, nonetheless…"

The word "ghoulish" flits through your head. You've never been one to be squeamish, but this…

Loyalty leans in, and speaks into the corpse's ear. "Rise up… and walk."

The figure's eyes flick open. Cold, cold eyes.

He sits up, frost wicking off his stiff clothing. With a strange, hissing mechanical sound, he moves, and places one foot on the ground, then another.

A dead man stands in front of you.

He looks at you. And it's not the empty stare or an automaton or zombie. It's… a familiar look.

It's a look you know.

"Iceberg," you say, trying and failing to hide your astonishment.

"I am not Iceberg," the man says softly. "I have no name."

Close file.

SCP-105

Close file.

Iris Thompson. One of two officially acknowledged members of the permanently shuttered Mobile Task Force Omega-7 with an SCP classification. The one who didn't kill everyone.

You've already had a meeting with her. A pretty successful one, too. But that doesn't mean you're off the hook.

You have a whole list of complaints waiting in your inbox. May as well bite the bullet.

The first complaint is from an angry director, about the editing freeze on SCP-105's publicly accessible SCP entry. Goes on and on about "being honest with the rest of the Foundation about the mistake we're making" and "implying the object is still properly contained according to standard protocols". They also aren't pleased that Alpha-9 is "violating SCP-105's containment procedures" which is… well, accurate, since you've given her access to her camera again and are actively developing her abilities.

You send Vaux a message asking him to draft a polite note citing security concerns and promising everyone will be informed when or if things change. You ask him to point out that containment procedures can be overridden by a member of the O5 Council, which (in this case) they have been.

The next few complaints are all about the same topic. Plus complaints about the lack of transparency from Alpha-9's organizational structure. If this is going south like last time, they say, we have a moral right to know how and why.

You want to be more annoyed than you are, but Omega-7 wasn't even a decade ago. Some of these people are hard to blame. At least these people are just sending complaints, not trying to assassinate you.

The rest of the complaints are about Iris's leadership role in Alpha-9. Apparently there's been an intelligence leak, because a number of people seem to know that Iris will be (already has been?) leading a team in the field with less than a year of combat training. One particularly angry email reads: "because that worked out so well with 076-2" and then simply lists off the public records of the people killed in 076-2's final containment breach.

You sigh and send Vaux another message.

A note from O5-7, reminding you to make sure termination protocols for SCP-105 are updated on schedule in accordance with her — Seven, unlike several other O5s, writes "her" instead of "it" — her current progression of ability. The note is co-signed by other names you're not sure you're supposed to even know exist.

Interesting. The higher-ups feel skittish about 105's upper limit. Just how much potential does the girl have? How far can you extrapolate the ability to reach through photographs?

If Iris really does have that much growth potential, why are they also eager to push her to reach it?

Well, Alpha-9 does represent the ever-present, never-quite-suppressed impulse amongst the Foundation brass to play with fire. It only makes sense they want to find out what Iris can do. All the better when the consequences will fall on someone else's head.

…Yours, in this case. Which is… great.

At least you feel like you can trust Iris. She's no Able. She never will be.

Right?

You open Iris's progress reports.

Since your chat with Iris, her abilities have stabilized again. Slowly but surely, with access to her original camera, she's been getting better. Improved control when using photographs taken with other cameras. Small improvements, but significant given that it's been such a short time.

Also, confirmation of the emotional component to her abilities. At this rate, it'll be interesting to see what she's capable of six months from now, a year from now, or even longer…

The thought enters your head, unbidden: We're deliberately making an SCP harder to contain. We are doing this. I am doing this.

Potentially harder to contain, you remind yourself. Hopefully it doesn't come to that. Even if it does, you've done worse things in your career as a Foundation member.

Close file.

SCP-073

Close file.

You figure you owe it to both of you to do this in person. You meet him in the library below the ground. Stacks and stacks of objects- the refuse of everyone at Site 17 who didn't make it.

You and Agent Lament had come down here once to look for stuff. You found shoes in exactly your size. Troy found a stack of books that had belonged to his old friend Sandlemeyer, and had run out and never come back. Come to think of it, neither had you.

The tracker told you he's down here. You consider going searching, but instead call out, “Cain?” You dislike being surprised.

There's movement on the far side of the room. Cain is tall and amber-skinned, with a muscular chest and a somewhat stilted way of moving. He approaches slowly, the fluorescent light throwing odd colors off of his prosthetics. “Sophia Light,” he says. “Excuse me.” He’s putting away a stack of cardboard boxes, wearing elbow-length rubber gloves.

“What are you working on?” you ask politely.

“Robert Blankenship’s possessions. I believe you recently had him executed?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Would you like to see them? The possessions.”

“Not particularly, thank you.”

“It’s understandable. You’ve been here before — you know that they’ll be recorded and then, perhaps, passed on to newer staff members. It is the way of things.”

“You remember me?” That was years ago. You were Level One, maybe Two.

“Oh yes.” He peels off the rubber gloves. “It is good to meet you.”

You shake his hand. The metal is surprisingly warm. His eyes are luminous and unyielding. He offers you a seat.

You sit.

“Thank you for joining my task force,” you tell him.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Director.”

“I apologize for not having this conversation earlier. I know Moose already spoke to you. Can you tell me what your general thoughts on the project are? You, well, you were involved on the first one and also have historical insights that nobody else does.”

Cain chuckles. “What a sensible question. I shall tell you what I told Two when she came to me early on, when the idea was still just that. I said, it is dangerous as anything and your allies will turn on you, and blood will spill. You are, by definition, relying on that which you do not understand.”

“I plan to reduce the amount we don’t understand.”

“That may not work. Alpha Nine has already shed its first blood. It hasn’t even started yet. That’s a record.”

Cain is distinctly not looking at the boxes he was shelving, labelled Robert Blankenship in black marker. You, also, do not look at them.

“I suppose it has.”

“You don’t think this is significant?”

“You know what the point of Alpha-Nine is, right? Who was recruited? A lot of people are going to die. We knew that already.”

“And if the first stone flew from your own hand…”

You shrug. “Senior staff have a reputation to uphold, right?”

He inclines his head, slightly, and you wonder if he heard you. “Very unexpected.”

You frown. “The incident? I don’t think it is. I knew I was going to be a target. The rest of the team hasn’t been announced or recorded outside of private channels. My presence at 17 is disruptive.”

“That’s not what was unexpected.”

“What was, then?”

Cain chuckles again. “Many things. What a rare opportunity. I look forward to working with you, Sophia Light.”

“Likewise,” you say. Confused, you shake his hand again. There’s a way things are done.

He puts the gloves back on, and goes back to his boxes, careful not to let the cardboard brush against his bare upper arms. You stare at him for a moment, then at the boxes, then, when it becomes clear that he’s done engaging with you, you turn around and leave the room.

What a strange man. But you’re glad he’s on your side.

Close file.

A Quiet Night In

You could be anywhere, and yet, you’re here.

“Vaux, is there anything on the table after five tonight?”

“Not yet. Did you know that Bright’s secretary just calls him ‘Jack’?”

“Bright also throws tape dispensers at his secretaries when he’s bored. I know. I was there.”

“The one I talked to said he throws tape at them. That’s a little different.”

“Hm. He’s mellowed out in his old age. You can call me ‘Sophia’ if you want.”

“Sophia. God. No. That’s weird.”

“I’m taking tonight off. Hold any calls that aren’t really important until tomorrow.”

“Sure thing, Light.” Vaux looks up from his phone. “Is this a brain thing? Are you alright?”

“No, I’m fine. There’s an event tonight. I thought I would miss it because of, well, Alpha Nine, but since the timing is here…” You trail off. “If you could get some kind of food sent to my room in two hours, that would be ideal. Otherwise, feel free to take the day off.”

“Oh! Thanks. Will do.”

Before you left Svalbard, you’d offered to leave Vaux behind. Security Director Barculo could use help running 41, and Vaux had been there since its beginning and knew it practically as well as either of you. Or, you told him, he could be reassigned somewhere else. There were plenty of low-stress Foundation offices scattered around the globe, where a talented young man who got along with everybody could find satisfying work.

“Low-stress. Low-stress!” You’d waved your arms, practically shouting. Maybe you’re dissociating a little, but if you are, it’s because you care about getting this right that much. “Vaux, I very much appreciate everything you’ve done with me. Our work together. But this is going to be a shitshow. I don’t want to drag you into this.”

Vaux had considered this, for a while. He came back two days later. “Light, I’m coming with you. It’s important. I want to help.”

You mentally sighed in relief. “If it’s too much, I can reassign you later on.”

He thanked you when you said that, so hopefully you’re not ruining his life as well.

The food that gets delivered is spaghetti, bolognese, with green salad and garlic toast. You eat in front of your computer, working on some side projects while checking another screen for updates every few minutes.

It’s frustratingly slow. Thanks to a colleague in the espionage division, because of course the Foundation is keeping an eye on this, you’re getting the update feed directly from NASA, so human timing isn’t the problem. Speed-of-light delays and human-made circuits, operating two billion miles from home, are the problem. No fixing that one.

You put on some music.

People say that to keep your humanity in the Foundation, you have to go for the small things. Go into town and get dinner, get laid, go bowling. Grow a garden. Make art.

It’s not that you’re opposed to them…

You sort folders on your desktop.

…Just that they don’t work for you, for one reason or another. You don’t like leaving the base, for one. (It’s partially just that you’re paranoid you’ll be recognized. There’s makeup for the scarring, but who wants to bother?)

But here’s the thing — humanity isn’t just in the small things. People are worth more than their ability to go to coffee shops or go bowling. You haven’t sold your soul to the Foundation so that the rest of humanity has the chance to grow a fucking garden.

And every once in a while, humanity just…

Your computer beeps. Text rolls across the screen.

“It’s 11:49 GMT- Good work everyone, New Horizons has completed its fly-by of Pluto, and we’re getting the first images sent back. They’re being uploaded to the server… Good work, team…”

You hit “Download”, and the pictures begin to fill your screen. You break into a rusty grin. The dot of sunshine that represents the future looks a little brighter.

You are no longer Sophia Light.

You could be anywhere, and yet, you’re here.

You are now Andrea Adams.

Ask yourself: Why are you doing this?

You, Andrea Adams, are a Foundation Senior Agent. This is an ambiguous title at best. It could mean (as it once did for you long ago) that you're a glorified secretary with a grandiose title. It can also mean (as it once did for you not so long ago) that you're a trained investigator and combat specialist.

Now, it means that you're attached to two Mobile Task Forces: Alpha-9 and Lambda-2. Three if you count the one that doesn't exist on any org charts. And you're the executive officer of one of them.

You can't remember the last time you had this much on your plate.

As we encounter you, you're sitting at your desk in the Mobile Task Force Lambda-2 ("Still No Name Chosen") offices. There is a big stack of file folders in front of you: dossiers on various persons of interest to the Alpha-9 project. Some of them you've known for years. Others you've only met in the past few days.

This is one of those jobs that you've been asked to do, by Director Sophia Light of all people. She wants an outside opinion on the staff and personnel associated with Alpha-9. Having met everyone in person, you're formulating your thoughts before filing your final report.

You take a deep breath, and open a file.

Ask yourself: Why are you doing this?

Sophia Light

Close file.

You pick up the folder for Dr. Sophia Light.

Director Light's what is known as a "lynchpin." The classic definition of the word is "a vital component," like the pin that used to hold a wagon's wheel onto its axle.

Among Foundation employees, it also means "a person whom, if the blame gets pinned on someone under their command, will probably get lynched."

It's her damn fault that you're sitting here in the office on a date night, going through a bunch of files. As you flip through the contents, you think back to the meeting you had with her when she dropped this task in your lap:

"Aren't personnel evaluations your job?" you'd asked.

"Yes. I've already done mine," Light had replied. "This is entirely off the books."

"I'm not sure how much help I can be," you'd said. "I hardly know any of these people."

"That's the entire point. I work with these guys every day. You don't. I need an outsider's perspective… someone who can see with unbiased eyes. Someone who can see the things I missed. And," she'd said, brow furrowing, "maybe fix some problems before I have to bring them to your attention."

It's the closest that she will ever come to saying the words "Tav-666" out loud. Mobile Task Force Tav-666 doesn't exist on any organizational charts. It has only two members: you and Dr. Alto Clef. Even the other members of Lambda-2 don't know that Tav-666 exists.

This is because Tav-666 is the final option: the kill switch, if you will. If the Alpha-9 experiment goes the same way that Omega-7 did, Tav-666's mission is to make sure that this time, the damage gets contained, using lethal force if necessary.

Something in your mind went click. Light will never admit this to herself, but she's hoping that, by getting to know the members of Alpha-9, you might learn some sympathy for them. Maybe hesitate a bit to pull the trigger. Hopefully not enough that you'll let a legit threat go, but maybe just enough that you won't go for the lethal solution as your first resort.

You wonder how well that's going to work.

"All right," you'd said, "but don't count on a very detailed report. Like I said, I've hardly met most of these people."

"That's fine. Take your time," Light had said. "We'll still be here."

That was Monday morning. It's now two in the afternoon on a Friday night. You've got a date planned, and you'd really like to go on it.

You put the folder aside and consider which one to look at next.

Close file.

Chelsea Elliott

Close file.

"Why is it pink?" you ask.

"We had a problem with MTF members stealing our prototype weapons and using them in the field. There were a few injuries. We started painting them pink so they would be less tempted to steal them." Chelsea smiles wanly. "It's had mixed success."

The weapon resembles an M4 carbine, but the barrel is nearly twice as wide, and the receiver appears to have been reinforced. In addition, the collapsible stock has been removed entirely.

Oh, and it's been painted bright pink with white hearts all over it. It looks like an assault rifle for grade-school girls.

"So, what's the point of this thing?"

"Just experimenting with getting you the firepower you need in a smaller package," Chelsea says. "This one's chambered in .50 caliber Beowulf: not nearly heavy enough to crack a White Suit, but it should suffice for most situations. If you like it, you can take it with you."

Something else on the table catches your attention. You pick up an innocuous-looking silver ring, set with a sapphire, an emerald, and a ruby. "What this?" you ask.

Chelsea's smile turns wicked. "Just a little something I was experimenting with in my free time. Put it on, then turn the emerald ninety degrees counter-clockwise, then press down on the sapphire."

You slide the ring over your finger fiddle with the gems. A moment later, a slim, silver needle flips out from under the gemstones, snapping into place over your index finger.

"It's currently unloaded, but I'm working on a model that can be used to deliver a chemical agent," Chelsea explains. "Truth serums, toxins, painkillers…"

"When the hell am I ever gonna have a chance to use this?" you ask.

"Well, you never know." Chelsea shrugs. "You've been doing a lot more infiltration missions lately… maybe they'll ask you to do some more covert ops stuff… assassinations… espionage… extractions…"

You wince. "I'm not James Bond, and this isn't Goldfinger."

"Well, you never know," Chelsea repeated. "It might come in useful."

Time to get to the real reason you're here to talk with Chelsea.

"If you want to be useful, you should look into building another suit. Everyone's been asking me where they can get one just like mine, and I can't say they're wrong for asking. I mean, imagine Iris with one of these things, or Foxx…"

"I'll pass that along to Professor Crow," Chelsea says. "Anything having to do with the suit goes through him."

It's the same answer she gives you every time. But this time, you don't feel like taking no for an answer.

"Honestly, I'd prefer it if I could talk to the elusive Professor Crow myself," you say. "I've got a bunch of suggestions on how we could improve the next-generation model, starting with how tight the thing fits around the chest and hips…"

"Professor Crow doesn't meet with anyone outside the R&D Department, with the exception of the MTF leaders." Chelsea is glaring at you, annoyed. "Like I told you the last nine times you asked."

"Well, let's make this an even ten," you insist, smiling.

Chelsea doesn't smile back. "Look," she said, "if you want to send me an email or something with all your suggestions, I'll pass them on to the Professor, but like I said, he's a very private… individual. He doesn't meet with outsiders."

Yeah. You figured. But this can't last forever. Professor Crow will have to meet with you eventually. "All right, then," you say. "I'll email you my requests and suggestions when I have a chance. But I really think that it would be better if he and I talk one-on-one."

Chelsea sighs. "I'll see what I can do, but I wouldn't hold my breath."

And that seems to be that. Every time you try to meet with the famous Kain Pathos Crow, you get stonewalled by everyone in the department.

You idly wonder why it is that Professor Crow seems so insistent. Maybe he just doesn't like soldiers.

Close file.

SCP-1985

Close file.

You open the file on SCP-1985.

Jacqueline Johnson. "Our Lady of the Apocalypse" (not an official title). Photo shows a tall, black woman with short braided hair. She's some kind of super-woman, who travels to other worlds and witnesses apocalypses. They say she knows how everyone could end the world. Originated in another timeline, herself — one which was erased without a trace. A truly supermassive security risk if you've ever heard of one.

She isn't yet on Alpha-9. Maybe she won't be. Her own handlers are objecting to her inclusion, including Site-19 Director Tilda Moose. They aren't being unreasonable, from the logs you flip through, even if the logs are redacted half to death. This woman can work like a super-soldier — like you can, with your suit — but the whole point of her is to travel to other timelines and see how they end. Why put her in the field, where the most valuable thing she can do is punch something? 1985 seems fine with the whole thing, which just makes this all weirder.

But it's a moot point. They won't let you see her, or speak to her. Not even the people who know what your real job is, your Tav-666 job. They say they're still vetting her, training her, and you'll meet her when they put the Alpha-9 team together for the first time.

Makes you wonder what she knows you could do to end the world.

At least it's more time to catch up on the rest of your workload. You close the file.

Close file.

Dietrich Lurk

Close file.

You pick up the folder for Dietrich Lurk. Out of all the people involved with the Alpha-Niner project, this guy confuses you the most.

You recall calling his supervisor, Dr. Django Bridge, a few days ago. "I don't understand Karlyle's choice on this one… at all," you say. "Just tell me how you got wrapped up in his business."

The man on the other end of the phone takes a moment to respond. "I like to call it voluntarily assigned. I want to figure out who burned my archives at Site-67. And that seems to be privy information, so he's my only way in to be honest."

You lean back in your chair, unconvinced. "You know," you say bluntly, "you really have no fucking business being in on this op. You're only here because Clef thinks having you as Dietrich's overhead in the field is a good idea."

"… And?"

"And what?"

"And how does that disqualify me, exactly?"

"Because you're going to just get in the way or get shot, Bridge. You have no tactical training. Neither does Dietrich, but he at least has specialist skills that The Boss thinks will be useful. Now, I can't reassign you without going over Clef's head, but I want you to seriously reconsider being on this task force."

(It's not that you don't like Bridge, but it's the God's-honest truth: Alpha-9's a combat task force, and Lambda-2's even more complicated. You don't need two non-combatants to keep an eye on when the lead starts flying. Better if Bridge stays back at home where it's safe and he can do the most good.)

"… I understand," Bridge says coldly. "Can't blame you there."

You stop. This might be easier than you expected. "You — ok… so you'll put in your transfer papers, then?"

"No."

You pinch the bridge of your nose. Goddamn it, Django. "So what are you saying then?"

"I'm saying that I understand your concern, but I'm not interested in leaving unless I'm made to." He pauses. You think you hear a knuckle crack. "And there's something you don't really know about Agent Lurk."

"Like?" You reopen the personnel file. Did you miss something? Is there something beyond your clearance?

"He's compromised." Bridge is quiet for a long moment.

"How?" you ask.

"I'm not sure."

"Really? You don't have anything specific?"

"Nothing solid. Yet." Bridge hesitates. "But you'll be very glad when I can prove it to Clef. I just need time to figure out how much of a potential threat he could be."

You tap the pen in your hand against the desk, frowning. "Dietrich may be a little odd, but he's clean. I looked into it myself."

"Uh-huh. Look, you don't want to babysit me, that's fine. Then don't. I'll take full responsibility for myself. Take me off the books officially, make me an internal consultant for your data comms. Or whatever, I don't care, all right? Just keep me in the loop. I'll be doing us both favors by staying on this op."

You roll your pen on the table back and forth in thought. If Bridge is right, and Dietrich's compromised…

You know Django Bridge mostly by reputation. Everything in his files says that he's solid as a rock. Karlyle personally vouched for him. Then again, Karlyle personally vouched for Dietrich Lurk too, and Bridge thinks that guy's compromised.

When in doubt: procrastinate. "All right," you say as authoritatively as possible. "I'll give you some time to convince me. Six months exactly. If I'm not convinced, you'll either put in your transfer papers yourself or I will have Foxx make you do it."

"Fine. Have a good day."

BEEP

You put down your phone and rub your face. This job is hard enough without nerds trying to be James Bond.

-

You close the file on Dietrich Lurk. It reads the same as it always has: Dietrich is eccentric, but trustworthy. Everyone says the exact same thing. The only one who thinks different is Bridge.

If he's right, he has another five months and twenty-seven days to prove it.

You toss the dossier into the "complete" pile and pick up another one.

Close file.

Aleksander Foxx

Close file.

You pick up a dossier and read the name on the cover.

Aleksander Foxx. Interesting guy. Not a bad gun to have at your back in a firefight. Cute kid, too…

Bottle of wine in one hand, Manila folder in the other, you ponder the door carefully for the moment as you decide whether to knock or ring the door bell.

Someone beats you to it. A little girl in a pair of pink pajamas opens up the door and looks at you with wide eyes. You stare at each other for a moment, silent in each other's company. She turns her head and yells down the hallway.

"DAAAAAAAAAAAD. THERE IS A PRETTY LADY AT THE DOOOOORRRR."

Heavy footsteps come up the stair towards you, and a tired voice yells back. "Lucille! What did I say about answering the door!"

"YOU SAID NOT TO DO IT AFTER DARK!"

"Right I did. Now, who could be visiting us at this hour?" A hardened hand grabs the door and pulls it wider. A tall man wearing dress pants and a partially unbuttoned dress shirt — which was covered with a little red apron — scruffs up the little girl's hair, and looks up at you. "Adams. I wasn't expecting you."

You nod. "Figured I'd drop in." You pass the bottle of wine towards him. He gazes at it.

"1942 Chardonnay from Zonnata Winery." He turns it over. "British Columbia." He eyes you suspiciously. "Nobody brings me wine without asking me to do something."

You smile. "Got me. I need your help filling out my end of the report from our missi—."

You bite back the word, but the little girl's eyes light up. "Mission? Is my daddy secretly a spy?"

Aleksander frowns. "Daddy is not a spy. He is a security officer for a plastics company."

She kicks at the floor. "I know, it's just so boring…"

He laughs. "It's not boring. It's very exciting. I have to make sure our competitors don't steal any of our…" He pauses… "Tupperware."

"Tupperware's boring!" She scampers away. "I'm going to go play upstairs!"

"Alright. I'll call you down when dessert is ready." He smiles as she runs away, before turning towards you and beckoning you in with his hand, the warmth and love in his eyes replaced with quiet professionalism. "Come in." He holds up a pie crust box. "I'm making lemon meringue."

"Nice apron, by the way." You uncork the wine, and he pours glasses for both of you. You sip at yours.

"Lucille bought it for me. I like it very much."

"I bet you do. Where are we on that pie, old man?"

He closes the oven door. "Fifteen minutes." His eyes narrow. "We haven't been doing much in the way of paperwork, Adams. Mostly just drinking wine and talking."

"Oh that? I finished that report yesterday. I just wanted to talk to you about it, off the record."

"Alright. What did you want to talk about?"

"Why are you at the Foundation?"

"The money is better."

"Bullshit."

"Language." He points upstairs. "Little one."

"Sorry. Bull-crap."

"What do you want me to say Adams? Surprise, I'm a spy?"

"Well, I don't know. Marshall, Carter, and Dark wouldn't mind getting their hand on some of our… Tupperware."

"Marshall, Carter, and Dark has finer Tupperware then anything you've got."

"That might be so, but we still know things about… Tupperware design… that even the GOC doesn't know."

"You know barely nothing about Tupperware design."

You frown.

Aleksander goes on. "You know how to store Tupperware, I'll give you that. Simon-Cowell Plastics sure do have the best methods for storing Tupperware, but you know nothing about how to make Tupperware."

You frown more.

"Serpent's Houseware, see, they know how to produce Tupperware. Small doses — quality stuff. Marshall Carter and Dark knows how to sell Tupperware. Global Organics Collection? They sure know how to dispose of Tupperware. But Simon-Cowell stores Tupperware."

"God, my head hurts." You rub your forehead. "Can we stop talking about Tupperware?"

"Fine. But trust me — I'm not here for any nefarious purposes." He frowns, swirls the wine in his glass. "I guess unless you order me to do something nefarious."

"Well, then what are you here for?"

"I'm here to work. Listen, I'm getting paid double wages by Simon-Cowell. On top of that, MC&D put a million dollars in my daughter's college fund as a going-away present. I'm at the point, Adams, where I am being paid so much money I'm not really bothering to ponder the bigger picture."

You frown. "How much are you being paid?"

He frowns. "It's rude to compare wages. I'm making enough."

"Yeah, but I want to see if I should fight for a raise or not."

"The answer to that one is yes, you should." He puts on a pair of oven mitts. "Any other questions?"

"Not really."

"Alright then. Stay for dessert, and I'll drive you home."

"Excuse me?"

Aleksander points at your wine glass. "You drank two-thirds of that bottle. I'm not letting you drive yourself." He inhales. "LUCILLE."

You cover your ears. The little girl yells down the stairs. "WHAT?"

"PIE IS READY."

"OOOKKKKKAAAYYY." She runs down the stairs and leaps onto the chair next to yours. She's staring at you, and you frown.

"What is it?"

Lucille looks away. "You kind of look like mum."

"Oh."

"It's alright. Mum was very pretty too." She looks back at you. "I never met her. But you kind of look like she did in photographs." You glance at Foxx. He seems rather sad. She turns to him. "Can we have pie, now, Daddy?"

You smile.

Close file.

Andrea Adams

...

You open your own file.

Then you close it.

...

By Candelight

Nowhere. Somewhere. Not where you were before.

You pull up to the gate of the facility and roll down the window of your car.

The guy in the booth gives you a smile as he notes your state of dress. "Hot date, Adams?"

"With my favorite person in the world," you confirm, passing him your ID. "Return time will be before midnight local. No perimeter security requested."

"Return time before midnight, no perimeter security, confirm," the security guy repeats. He swipes your ID card in his reader, taps a few buttons, and passes it back to you. "Feel free to call in if you decide to spend the night out," he says, smirking knowingly.

"You'll be the first to know," you say, tossing your ID badge into your purse and putting on your sunglasses.

It's about fifteen minutes to your destination, but you take the scenic route down the coast, driving with the top down and the setting sun at your back. The freeway is nearly empty at this time of day, and you let the big V8 under your hood cut loose, the wind whipping through your hair and the taste of the sea breeze upon your lips.

You pull up to the pier just as the sun begins to set over the ocean. Take a moment to activate the car's security system. Sling your purse over your shoulder and wrap your scarf around your neck.

A few heads turn as you stride up the steps of the pier and across the worn wooden planks. The maitre d' smiles as you walk in. "Andrea," he says, giving you a chaste hug and a kiss on the cheek. "So good to see you again. Your usual table?"

"Of course, JP," you say. "Tonight's feeling like a white wine kind of night. What have you got?"

"Mmmm… how about a Riesling? I have a very nice vintage from…"

"Never tell me where the grapes come from, JP," you remind him. "I don't like to prejudge."

"Of course," Jean-Pierre says apologetically. "I'll be with you in a moment." He gestures to a neatly dressed waiter, who leads you up a narrow flight of stairs and out onto a small balcony, where a tiny table with two chairs sits, decorated only by a white tablecloth and a small vase with a single white rosebud.

You take your seat and lean back in your chair. From up here, you can see the entire pier stretch below you, but you know (and have confirmed yourself) that it's nearly impossible for anyone below to see you.

The thing about cover and concealment: it's all about finding those little angles where you can see everything and they can't see you.

Jean-Pierre comes up with a bottle of white wine with the label covered in a white handkerchief. He pours a small amount into a wine glass and passes you the cork to inspect. You give the cork the traditional squeeze and sniff, then take a small sip of the white wine.

"Yeah, that's pretty nice," you say.

The maitre d' smiles and nods. "I thought you'd like it." He pours you a full glass then retreats back down the stairs.

You lift up the glass to the setting sun, take a moment to watch the vermilion hues catch the pale golden liquid.

"Here's to you," you say, then take a sip of your wine in a silent toast.

You are no longer Andrea Adams.

Nowhere. Somewhere. Not where you were before.

You are now Iris Thompson.

Ask yourself: What are you going to do?

Up until nearly a year ago, you, Iris Thompson, were nothing more than SCP-105, the girl who can reach through photographs. You've spent all your adult life in Foundation custody: well over a decade. You don't remember exactly how long. You've lost some sense of time.

Now, you are a Foundation Agent. For the second time. The first time, everyone you knew and loved died.

During your tenure on Mobile Task Force Alpha-9, you've had only one field mission so far. There's still time.

We encounter you shortly after you completed this mission, rescuing a bunch of people from a rather unpleasant reality bender.

It's time to meet a couple people. Take it slow. It'll be fine.

Ask yourself: What are you going to do?

Dietrich Lurk

...

"No, not like that."

Dietrich plucks the smart phone out of your hands and shows you. "See, the wi-fi password changed. So you need to press that then put in the new password all over 'gain."

You take back your new phone. "But it says 'Forget This Network'. What if I can't find it again?" You're trying not to show too much of your frustration and confusion towards this devilish modern device. You're failing.

"It won't actually forget it." Dietrich is trying to sound reassuring. "Just follow the instructions and you'll be fine."

You nod and do as you were told. And again it doesn't connect.

"Ack! This thing comes from hell!" You toss the phone back onto Dietrich's desk.

"Close. Apple." He picks it up again. "I'll do it for you this one last time, but you gotta learn sooner or later, Miss Thompson."

You furrow your brow. "Aren't you just supposed to do it for me? You're IT right?"

Dietrich doesn't look up from the touch screen. "Like my Pa used to say, teach a man to fish and—"

"—He'll never bother you with IT questions?" You smile, crookedly.

Dietrich glances up and gives a subtle wink. "Yer a real spitfire, ain't ya? Like I was sayin'… Yeah I'm s'posed to help all you alpha niner people with settin' up yer special phones and all. But ya gotta learn the day to day stuff." Dietrich hands the phone back to you. "There. Anything else?"

You look at the device in your hand. "What else can it do besides piss me off?"

Dietrich swivels around in his chair and wheels over to you. "Well, I know yer not very savvy on recent tech. And it ain't no Polaroid camera fer sure, but you ever take a picture with one of these?"

You shake your head.

Dietrich shows you the picture icon. "Open this. Then you can take pictures with the little lens on the backsi—"

CLICK

"Oops! My thumb slipped."

You stare at the picture of Dietrich and tilt your head. There is a very non-photogenic Dietrich, his shadow, and a second shadow. You look up from your screen to confirm, only to find one shadow belonging to Dietrich.

"What's up?" Dietrich asks.

"Nothing." You quickly pocket your phone. "Thanks, but I should get going. I'll um — type you if I have any issues." You stand up and head for the exit.

"It's text, Miss Thompson. Don't be a stranger, now."

You put your hand on the doorway and look back at Dietrich with a smile. "Just Iris."

Dietrich nods. "Friends call me Dee, and sometimes by my last name."

You tap the doorway with your palm and step out. "Noted. See you around, Dee."

As your hollow heels clack against the hallway linoleum, you open your phone to look at the picture. "I wonder…"

You concentrate and pressed your fingertips against the screen.

To your surprise, the shadow moves. It moves!

You stop walking altogether, pause, then poke it again.

And again it twitches uncomfortably and slides behind Dietrich's head.

You blink a few times. You open and close the photo to see if you can make the shadow come back. But it's just… gone.

You are no longer Iris Thompson.

You are now Dietrich Lurk.

"Merle. I hate when you hover over me like that." You look over your shoulder at an almost nervous expression on Merle's skull.

SOMETHING-JUST-POKED-ME

"Yeah? Good. Maybe you deserved it. Now go stand somewhere else, I'm tryin' to work on my spreadsheets."

You are no longer Dietrich Lurk.

...

Aleksander Foxx

Stop thinking about this.

This man, Foxx, isn't technically a member of the Foundation. From the debriefing you had on him, you know he's not really human anymore, either. He was a Hunter for Marshall, Carter, and Dark. From what you could extrapolate, he is, or was, a professional assassin.

Still, you're trying to keep an open mind. Not everyone is like… No, there's no point thinking about that. This isn't Omega-7. It's not going to be Omega-7. Cain's the one you'll be hanging around. He'll be the soul of Alpha-9. Not… the other one.

And if this Foxx was an assassin, a professional murderer… well, so were you, ten years ago. When you ran.

Unfortunately, meeting Aleksander Foxx doesn't do anything to allay your fears. He's dressed incredibly nicely. Silk dress pants. Wool dress coat. A tie that even you can tell is horribly expensive.

He's all smiles when he talks to you. Like he's being friendly. A few snide comments about Alpha-9 in specific and the Foundation in general. No such comments about you, though. You don't understand most of what he's talking about — and you don't really know why he's trying to perform coin tricks — but he's unfailingly polite.

But the way he looks at you chills you to your bones. You know that look. That indifference. That cold, casual calculation. The look of someone who knew exactly how to kill you within seconds of meeting you, and would paint the room with your entrails in an instant if he was given any reason.

This man is a monster. A monster with no leash, at least no leash you can see.

You've been here before. You can only hope that this time the Foundation knows what it's doing. That they have something better than an explosive collar this time.

Or that you'll be able to kill this one before he can do what Able did.

In the meantime, you force a smile and try not to show what you're thinking, while he prattles on about some Canadian television show he's apparently rather fond of. It's a relief when it's over, but you don't regret the meeting. Better to know now than to be surprised later.

You are no longer Iris Thompson.

You are now Aleksander Foxx.

"You wanna know my secret?" you say to the Alpha-9 interviewer whose name you've already forgotten. "Here it is. I know kids like that. I know how they work. My daughter, she'll be a teenager soon enough."

She's not a teenager, the interviewer says, Iris Thompson is twenty-four, going on twenty-five.

"Really? Fooled me. Well, she's been here most her life, right?"

Since she was thirteen, the interviewer says. So almost half her life, yes. This is in the dossier we gave you.

"I didn't read that file, but that explains a lot. She's just a big kid. Same principles apply, though. Kids just wanna see that you're willing to operate on their level. But not be afraid to be a little bit of a father figure, too, you know?"

The interviewer looks skeptical.

"Anyway, I think it went pretty well. She seemed pretty shy, but that's just how kids are when you first meet them. Things will only look up from here."

She gives you an 'if-you-say-so' look. These Foundation types, man. No faith.

You are no longer Aleksander Foxx.

You are now Alto Clef.

You have a glass of whiskey in one hand, and a good cigar in the other. For the next ten minutes, you are on break. The sign on your office door lets everyone know that no one is to disturb you unless the on-site nuke is about to blow. The shotgun resting on your desk will reinforce the point should anyone be so stupid to disregard the sign.

Nobody has disregarded the sign in fifteen years. Word gets around.

Then you hear the laughing. Three different voices, laughing loudly, from the outer office.

Immediately, your brow furrows. It's not that you really care that your subordinates seem to be having a good time, but it doesn't do your reputation any good if they think you're soft on them. Subordinates should be giggling under their voices, afraid of being overheard by the boss, not laughing out loud like hyenas.

You take a deep breath, put on your best Annoyed Boss face, and burst open the door.

Bridge and Lurk are circled around Adams, and all three are laughing uproariously at whatever is on the screen.

"What's funny?" You practically snarl it.

Adams snorts. "His fucking search history, that's what."

"Whose fucking search history?"

"Just come over and look!"

So you do. You push Bridge out of the way for dramatic effect.

INTELLIGENCE FILE

USER: Foxx, Aleksander

PART ONE OF SIXTEEEN

BROWSER HISTORY

antique gun auctions

old guns

seqouia revolver

segoiua revolver

pharmacyes nearby

sleep medications

ptsd

dixie dots

what the fuck is dixie dots

my daughter wants dixie dots

where can I buy dixie dots

is it a toy or something

how to avoid family

I don't want to talk to my grandmother

is it legally acceptable to shoot your grandmother

is it legally acceptable to shoot your grandmother if she is a bear

am i too old to get emancipated from my grandmother

hiding from abusive grandmothers

proximity of local zoos

how fast can a bear run

bears

local cinemas

alfred hitchcock

I didnt get citizen kane

citizen kane explained

working with a teenage girl

a teenage girl is my boss

how to be cool

what do teenagers like

teenagers

whats hip right now

cool music

what are the kids listening to

do teenagers like guns

slang words

photography

35mm photography

20mm film

why is cameras hard

used film cameras

polaroid

polaroids

is it still acceptable to do the running man

how to do the worm youtube

magic tricks youtube

where can I biy cards

playing cards

bicyclle company

bicycle cards company

coin tircks

coin tricks

how to be the cool uncle

relax

how to relax

relax you got this

You are no longer Alto Clef.

Stop thinking about this.

You are now Kain Pathos Crow.

Stop being Kain Pathos Crow.

You have been flown in to Detroit, Michigan to meet another member of the newly approved Alpha-9. This one's an SCP object. A person, if you understand correctly. They haven't yet given you clearance yet for anything else beyond its SCP designation: SCP-2099.

You arrive at a relatively ordinary derelict warehouse, apparently owned by Smith-Campbell Publishing LLC. Once inside, you pause at a massive steel door, and wait for the personnel with you to open it. You'd offer to help, but you don't have hands.

"Now, Professor Crow, you have to be careful not to stare at his… disability."

You roll your eyes, wondering if the agent is joking. "I'll try to keep that in mind."

As you walk through the tunnel, you realize that something is slightly off. The dimensions are off, you realize. And the plates used in the walls aren't the right size. The Foundation uses standardized sizes, parts, when they build facilities.

The agent follows your glance. "We didn't build this. We're just using it to house your assistant."

"This is supposed to be my assistant? I already have an assistant. Chelsea Elliott. She's an excellent botanist. And a fascinating anomaly. Very promising."

"Your second assistant, then," the agent says. "You have a lot of projects. You'll need more help."

"Fair enough. Why haven't we moved him?"

"…You'll see."

You finally pass through a very complicated door and airlock system, and into what looks like a junk shop throwing up into a laboratory.

There are shelves everywhere with devices just piled haphazardly. Robots stand at attention, while other machines whirr or beep with no hint to their function. There are Tesla coils and Jacob's ladders. There are even sets of glasswork with chemicals that serve no obvious purpose.

A robotic arm on a track swings by overhead, stopping to pull a piece of paper from a filing cabinet, before moving on.

You suppress an involuntary tail wag. It is so ridiculous.

And at the center of the chaos, there is a vat filled with green fluid. And in the middle…

"Is that a brain?" you ask.

"I told you, don't stare," the agent says, grinning.

"Greetings! I am the Profound Professor V, and this is my laboratory!"

You stare. "My new assistant is a brain in a jar?"

"My new supervisor is a dog?" the brain says mockingly.

You look at the brain for a few seconds longer, then bark out a laugh. "All right, all right, you have me."

"I'm glad we have a leash on the situation."

"Put the grey matter to work on that one, eh?" you return.

"It's a full-body workout, believe me." The voice is friendlier now.

"I think we can work together," you say. "Yeah. I think this is going to work out just fine."

"I'm glad I have the wag of approval."

Stop being Kain Pathos Crow.

You are now Troy Lament.

Stop being Troy Lament.

You are now Troy Lament.

You are not working on Alpha-9, and thank god, you will never be. Probably. Hopefully.

Still, Alpha-9 has represented a small upheaval in your life. You now have a few loose ends to take care of before your transfer goes through.

One of those loose ends is bursting through your door right now, dislodging a "Knock First" sign.

You heave the deepest sigh of all, and turn to deal with the interloper.

The interloper is Dr. Everett Mann. Resident Foundation mad scientist. You've been assigned to him for… jesus, you can't even remember how long now. Almost as long as Gears.

"Lament! Splendid news!" he cries.

You sigh. You've been dreading this. "Yes, Mann?"

"I've been given a new assignment," Mann says, delight in his eyes. "It's—"

"The new Pandora's Box," you say.

"Oh, yes." Mann deflates slightly. "How did you know?"

"They wanted me to run it."

"Oh, you'll be in charge? Why, that's even better news! I'll help you pack, and then we can—"

"I said no." You keep your tone level, even.

"No?" Mann looks confused.

"I turned it down."

"You're… you're not going?" Mann frowns. He always has trouble readjusting himself to new events he doesn't want to be true.

"I think it's a terrible idea," you say. "Look at the last one."

"But… But I had hoped…" Mann stops. "I… You'll visit, won't you?"

Your eyes narrow slightly. "I…"

You pause. You can't put a name to the feeling that fills you, and you can only liken it to the sensation one might feel when giving away a beloved family pet that had just killed your wife.

"I doubt that they'll want me to visit, but I'll write," you offer. "And you are always welcome to come visit when you have time off."

You don't mention that you're going to be transferred as soon as Mann leaves. Other plans and other places.

Stop being Troy Lament.

ALPHA-9 LOG ENTRY 2600-E -- IRIS/CAIN

Time to ask your own questions.

SCP-105: And yeah, I guess that's it. I'm kind of messed up about that woman who might lose her arm. Do you know they didn't tell me her name? I can't decide if it's better or worse that way. I think worse. But yeah. I did a whole lot better than expected. Everything went a whole lot better than expected.

SCP-073: And how are you feeling now?

SCP-105: This all still seems so weird. Like… here I am. Actual Alpha-9 team leader. Like Able was. Uh… sorry.

SCP-073: It's of no concern.

SCP-105: I didn't mean to mention him.

SCP-073: It's alright. You are most welcome to say whatever is on your mind. Even if it involves… Able.

SCP-105: Okay. [Pause.] Well, Alpha-9's first "real" mission is happening. They're putting me with other anomalies.

SCP-073: How do you feel about that?

SCP-105: I dunno. It's kind of funny, right? I mean… anomaly-wise. I get that I'm an anomaly. But… [Pause.] On the one hand, there's you. On the other hand, there's… him. On Omega-7, he was the only other anomaly who lasted. Or I guess I should switch that up, since the whole point of Omega-7 was him… I mean I was the only anomaly who lasted.

SCP-073: Yes.

SCP-105: And now, it's not going to be me and a psycho murder monster. But I… I guess I'm freaked out about this.

SCP-073: How so?

SCP-105: [Pause.] I don't know. [Pause.] What am I going to do? What if we … what if I become like him?

SCP-073: I do not believe you will.

SCP-105: Why not?

SCP-073: Because you choose not to.

SCP-105: Is that enough?

SCP-073: Ultimately, only you will answer that question.

And you felt somehow, disturbingly, seen —

Time to ask your own questions.

What will you do?

There is a sound, distantly, like fingers tapping on glass.

Tap… tap… tap… Looking for cracks, imperfections, unseen flaws. Tap… tap… tap… Looking for edges, seals, fraying bonds. Rotting wood and forgotten latches. Tap… tap… tap…

Looking for a way in.