+ CODE

- CODE

/*
BLANKSTYLE CSS
[2021 Wikidot Theme]
By Placeholder McD and HarryBlank
Based on:
Paperstack Theme by EstrellaYoshte
Penumbra Theme by EstrellaYoshte
*/

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…the ultimate human fantasy is just… living a life that's not too complicated, where you don't have to worry about the bills, or about whether or not your kids are doing well in school, or about how the whole fucking world is going to Hell in a handbasket…



SCP-8787: The Roast Not Taken

More by Ihp

More S & C Plastics

SCP-8787 The Roast Not Taken

By: Ihp

Published 12 February, 2024

Head Archivist Sage,

This is everything we've found so far pertaining to Case-2022-002. Per Acting Director Leigh, we aren't getting any non-anomalous law enforcement involved, including the SPPD, mostly for the safety of the missing person; cops react badly to normal runaway cases, imagine if they drew their gun on a Type-Blue.

I didn't think that she'd just… do that. She loved this place more than anything. Reynolds is heartbroken, but we're making sure he and his kid get the best care they can. Leigh won't let you file this under Priority Alpha, but she was basically everyone's friend here, before she broke down. At the very least, make it Priority Gamma.

Also enclosed are a few copies of the most current missing persons poster for her. Everyone around 87 knows her, but you have family in the Upper Peninsula, and we think she may have headed there. If you could maybe get a few of them up in that direction, it would be appreciated.

Col. Malcolm Guillard

Department Head, Investigations and Retrieval

Site-87

Section Found Highlighted in Personal Collection of Dr. K. Sinclair

One day, when he was in a merry mood, he made a looking-glass which had the power of making everything good or beautiful that was reflected in it almost shrink to nothing, while everything that was worthless and bad looked increased in size and worse than ever.

- Hans Christian Andersen, The Snow Queen

Search Engine Log, Notable Queries, 07/2021-08/2022

SCiPNET QUERY 07/15/2021: Maternity leave

SCiPNET QUERY 07/15/2021: Maternity leave for anomalous individuals

SCiPNET QUERY 07/15/2021: Maternity Leave For anomalous Foundation personnel

SCiPNET QUERY 07/15/2021: Maternity leave for anomalous Foundation personnel -containment

GOOGLE QUERY 09/15/2021: Best maternity center Douglas County WI

SCiPNET QUERY 09/15/2021: how to access Goldbaker-Reinz Insurance Plan

GOOGLE QUERY 09/19/2021: cesarian section painful

SCiPNET QUERY 10/15/2021: foundation emergency medical leave

GOOGLE QUERY 10/16/2021: how to obtain birth certificate wisconsin

GOOGLE QUERY 10/19/2021: symptoms of post-partum depression

GOOGLE QUERY 12/01/2021: best baby gifts for girls

[INSIGNIFICANT ENTRIES PRUNED]

GOOGLE QUERY 08/29/2022: day cares Sloth's Pit Wisconsin

SCiPNET QUERY 08/29/2022: anomalous activity associated with day cares in Sloth's Pit Wisconsin

SCiPNET QUERY 08/29/2022: mass-scale exorcism of civilian buildings

SCiPNET EMAIL, DATED 08/25/2022

Director Bailey,

Thank you for the flowers. They've helped liven up the place a bit. All I wanted was a clarification on how long my maternity leave was, and… well, you've certainly helped with that.

I'm not going to lie, Tristan: my life is kind of hell right now. Phoenix isn't sleeping, and neither are we. A few rudimentary rites to keep us awake are not a substitute for sleep. We don't know if she has colic or what; the doctors can't find anything wrong with her, but the instant I'm out of her sight, she starts bawling like a banshee.

I know this is probably out of her wheelhouse, but I'm wondering if there's not something anomalously wrong with her. If you could maybe see about getting Dr. Liao over here one day, I know i'm asking a lot but tristan please i havent' slept since july and monty and i are fighting every day now please help us

Katherine Sinclair, PhD

Department Head, Thaumatology and Occult Studies

Site-87

GOOGLE QUERY 8/30/2022: Hotels in Superior WI

SCiPNET QUERY 8/30/2022: marriage counseling within foundation

9-1-1 Call, 11:35 PM, August 30th, 2022

Dispatch: Douglas County 9-1-1, do you require police, fire, or ambulance?

Caller: I… ambulance. I crashed my car. Ah!

Dispatch: Ma'am, are you hurt?

Caller: My… my left hand. The steering wheel got torn out of it. I… I can't feel it. Ow.

Dispatch: Ma'am, do you see a mile marker? Any indication of where you are?

Caller: I… I think I was… I was driving down Bray Road, out of… out of Sloth's Pit. Fucking deer came in front of the car and… oh god I'm in the woods.

Dispatch: What's the make and model of your car, ma'am?

Caller: It's a Volvo. Red… no, burgundy station wagon. It… before the turn of the century. Okay, I think I can walk.

Dispatch: Ma'am, stay close to the car.

Caller: I can't. I lost my damn eye.

Dispatch: Your… eye?

Caller: It's fake. Wait… what's that?

Dispatch: Ma'am, do not leave the vicinity of your car. There are dangerous animals in the woods surrounding Sloth's Pit.

Caller: God, 'dangerous animals' is the excuse we gave you? I think it might be someone from work… Hello? Hello! Are you… what the hell are you?

Dispatch: Ma'am, do not leave the area—

Caller: …what the fuck is… oh, I… yeah, that makes sense.

Dispatch: Ma'am, stay on the line. Ma'am? God dammit.

[DISPATCH NOTES: "CODE SP87 BRAY ROAD IN WOODS NEAR SLOTHS PIT. NEED AMBULANCE, POLICE, CLEANERS"]

Head Archivist's Note: Aside from a piece of plastic that may have been part of the front left headlight, no trace of Dr. Sinclair, or her vehicle, were discovered by either Foundation or civilian forces.

MISSING

DR. KATHERINE JEAN SINCLAIR

Date of Birth: 06/17/1982

Age: 43

Sex or gender: Female

Race: White

Hair: Red

Eyes: Green (right) teal (left)

Height: 5'7"

Weight: 240 (est.)

Distinguishing Marks:

Left eye is a plastic prosthetic

Burn scars on both forearms from laboratory accident

Last seen heading northbound out of Douglas County, Wisconsin, driving a 1995 burgundy

Volvo Station Wagon with Wisconsin plates (title expiry January 2023)

Last Seen August 30th, 2022

IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION, PLEASE CONTACT:

STRAUSS CONTRACT POLICING

15 WEST MAIN STREET

SLOTH'S PIT, WI 54887

(715) 555-0173

Bleeding and bleary, the woman went to the first light she saw in the distance. She knew she was in pain, but she knew that she had been in worse. Her legs still worked, she could flex all her fing— no, that was a lie. Her left hand made an unnatural popping noise when she tried flexing the thumb. The steering wheel had been wrenched from her hand when she crashed, and at the very least, it was sprained.

She had swerved to miss a deer in the middle of the road. Idiot. She knew that she should have just plowed through Bambi, but she wasn't thinking straight. She had been driving for six… eight? Ten hours? When had she seen the sunset? Where was she?

The building came into focus. It was a diner? No, it was a coffee shop. It looked like it had been ripped out of the center of main street back home. But it was just sitting here, on the side of the highway. She couldn't make out the sign through the rain and her tears and the fact that she only had one eye didn't help matters, either.

She shoved open the door—

"Kat! You're late."

Kathryn Sinclair blinked as she walked through the door of Sid's Coffee Place. It was mid-morning, her apron was on backwards, and there was a line. She blinked at her boss, Sidney Charmer, as if she didn't know what was happening. After a moment, her brain fog lifted; it always happened when she was late to a shift, everything about the day got discombobulated.

"Sorry, sorry," she said, getting behind the counter. "Car blew up on me and I had to take the metro."

"Couldn't have called?" Sid grimaced, eyebrows knitting together under their green hair.

"Out of minutes for the month."

Sidney shook their head. "Well, the BARI-STAR's on the fritz, and you're a wizard when it comes to fixing this thing. It's been house blend only for the last half hour."

"On it, boss." Kat went into the back closet, got her hair in a net, and got out some tools. She found the manual for the BARI-STAR easily enough— Sidney had written it themselves— and though she had read it hundreds of times, thought it was a good idea to get a refresher.

Serial #: SCP-8787

Object Class: BARI-STAR Galactic Three-Cup Espresso and Latte Machine

Specifications for Cheap Patching:

One of the milk steaming wands just doesn't work. Don't bother trying to repair it.

Anything else:

Is the boiler working? Check that first.

Stop and turn off all heating elements, we don't want a repeat of what happened with Quinn.

The tubes get clogged a lot, make sure they're unclogged.

Halve the amount of coffee brewed for a while; sometimes the machine just gets tired.

If all else fails, whack it with a wrench.

STOP! Don't do that, they don't make parts for these anymore.

Description: SCP-8787 is the serial number of a BARI-STAR Galactic Three-Cup Espresso and Latte Machine in Sid's Coffee Place, the best place to get coffee in Philadelphia. Manufactured in 1995, SCP-8787 includes the following deluxe features:

15-liter boiler

1 hot water outlet

2 milk steaming wands (leftmost is non-functional)

Stainless steel body

Gas heating system

Electric cup warmer

Lifetime warranty

SCP-8787 has been serving Sid's Coffee Place since its founding in 2022, and serves almost 200 gallons of our finest brew every week.

It had always struck Kat as odd that a machine this old was still in service; it was top-of-the line, thanks in no small part to her repair skills, and the lifetime warranty certainly helped. She wondered at what point the BARI-STAR stopped being the same coffee machine it was back in the 90's. A Coffee Maker of Theseus. On some level, it was still the original machine; the fact that the left coffee steamer hadn't worked since she started working here, and that she never could get it working, was evidence of that.

She exited the back room and set about to repairing the machine, while Sid kept serving customers. "Hey, Sid?"

"Hmm?"

"When are you going to change the signs? I thought you renamed the place."

"They're on back order," Sidney admitted with a sigh. "Haven't been able to get someone out here to paint the window either."

"I'm still shocked they wouldn't let you keep the name 'Sid's Coffee Place'."

"Well apparently there's a 'Sid's Coffee Place' in some backwoods town in Wisconsin, and I'm not allowed to use the name because they filed their trademark a year before I did."

"That's bullshit. We should sue."

"With what money, Kat? You willing to give up your paycheck?"

"Fair point." Kat set to the task of disassembling the BARI-STAR. The inside of the establishment formerly known as Sid's Coffee Place was a modest affair, but it was cozy enough. Tables along the front windows and in each corner, a small room off to the side for 'private functions' (which got a surprising amount of use post-pandemic), a fireplace, and perhaps inadvisably, a small bookshelf next to the aforementioned fireplace. Kat swore up and down one day that she would read every book on the shelf, but Sidney had a strange taste in books; he had The Complete Works of Franz Kafka on the same shelf as Tamsyn Muir, and nobody wanted anything to do with the works of Charles Stross on the shelf below it, but the copies of The Handmaid's Tale and John Dies At The End were read so frequently that their back covers were held on by tape. Philadelphia's coffee crowd had an eclectic taste in books, according to Sid, but she never—

She was screaming again. Always with the screaming, she never stopped. How could someone that young survive for so long without sleep, without air? The earplugs didn't help, nor did the coffee. She'd grown to hate the drink so much—

Kat blinked. The BARI-STAR was fixed, except for that stupid steam wand. She brewed an experimental cup of espresso just to make sure, and everything was working fine. The shop was full of people. Everything was going okay.

"You ever regret dropping out?" Sid asked as the lunchtime rush finished a few hours later.

Kathryn rolled her eyes. Sid asked the same question at least once every three months— it was like he had amnesia! She had to come up with a unique answer each time. "I was getting an anthropology degree, Sid. Not exactly a lot of places hiring for the humanities around here."

"Could've gone abroad."

"And done what?"

"I dunno. The Philippines have some pretty cool folklore. You could've studied there."

"I'd have to learn at least two different languages. Hard pass." Kat shook her head. "No, if I hadn't dropped out, I wouldn't be here, and I'm glad for that."

Sid looked at her skeptically. "You don't want to do anything else except work here?"

"I mean, eventually I want to find someone and settle down, but… I can't have kids."

"Right… with the…" Sid rubbed their midsection, their face a grimace of sympathy. "Would you want to have kids, if you could?"

"Don't know," Kat admitted. "I was born without a soul, and I'm not sure I'd want to risk a child with the same."

Sid looked at her quizzically. They were sometimes slow on getting jokes. "That was a joke about… your hair?"

"Yeah. Redheads don't have souls, dontchaknow." She grinned.

Someone knocked on the counter with all of the tact of someone inviting Sidney to a gender reveal party. Kathryn recognized him, and suppressed a groan; she recognized this customer, but hadn't seen him in about a year. It was Mr. Wet, so called because that was all that was ever legible on his cups, no matter what she did. He was heavyset but tall, and looked like he was wearing his own skin wrong. Mr. Wet was whiter than a mayonnaise and marble sandwich, with hair that stuck out in every direction but the correct one, a beard in the process of exploding, glasses with a prescription so thick that they could be used as a microscope, and clip-on tie that, somehow, was on backwards. His hair was at least styled a bit more neatly this year. Him being in town meant that it was time for the annual Symposium on the Cessation of Petroleum, a conference hosted in Philadelphia where a bunch of eggheads, hippies, and hippies who had egghead DNA got together and talked about phasing out fossil fuels. A noble goal, but she had gotten better tips from politicians than she got from these people.

"Good to see you again," Kathryn said, ice in her voice.

"…do I know you?" Mr. Wet asked, looking around as if he were disoriented.

"Motherfucker, you come in here every year to get coffee before the symposium begins," Kathryn said, tactfully omitting the 'motherfucker'.

"Oh. Huh. Coulda sworn this place had a different name last year…" Mr. Wet frowned. "Well, I'll have black, one sugar."

"Name for that?"

"William Wettle."

If that's your real name, I'm Cindy Crawford, Kathryn thought as she went about making the order. But the name sounded… familiar to her somehow. She was distracted by the thought of Where have I heard that name before? so thoroughly that she put in a cream instead of a sugar, before handing the coffee to him.

He took out a chalky Lactaid pill, swallowed it, and then downed the coffee. "I asked for sugar, and you gave me cream."

"Oh, sh— sorry," Kat winced.

"Happens every time. When I'm in the mood for cream, I ask for sugar, and vice-versa. Ain't your fault…" He looked at her nametag and frowned. "Why is your name spelled like a character out of Snow Crash?"

"From what my mom told me? The 'E' key on the keyboard when they were typing out my birth certificate didn't work. Now I'm stuck with this."

"Huh." Wettle looked up at her, squinting. "…your eyes… what's…"

"Lost it in a car wreck. $7.90."

"Your board says—"

"That was before you made a comment about my eye, jackass." She did not omit the jackass here. "Were you raised in a barn?"

"I… was raised in Peoria…" Wettle reluctantly surrendered eight dollars, muttered 'keep the change', and left. As he toddled down the street, Kathryn heard a yelp; the dumb motherfucker had probably spilled coffee on himself.

"Classic Wettle," she snorted.

"You know him?" Sid asked, as the front of the counter became a void of customers.

"He's in here every year for that eco-conference. Pretty sure he's spilled his coffee every time he comes in here." She frowned. "Guy must have crazy bad luck."

Sidney paused. "Don't you think it's a bit odd that we share initials?"

"Who?"

"Sid's Coffee Place, Symposium for the Cessation of Petroleum…"

"I mean, more words in English start with those three letters than any others, Sid. Besides, you're changing the name soon. What's it—

matter? The matter is, Monty, that I can't fucking do this! I've tried splitting myself in two in every sense but the literal one, and I can't FUCKING do it! You know what my mother was like! You've seen her in the home! Why did I think it was going to be any—

—different today, Alie?" Kat blinked; she was talking to one of her regulars, a woman who, no matter what the weather, was wearing a leather jacket, tight jeans, and a wide-brimmed fedora. She looked somewhat alarmed that Kathryn had remembered her name.

"Sorry, what?" Alie asked.

"Would you like to try something different today? The BARI-STAR is a bit on the fritz, and I don't want it to break making your order."

Allie Carol looked at Kathryn, then over her shoulder at Sidney, furrowing her eyebrow. Kat looked over her shoulder, and Sid just shrugged.

"Uh, yeah." Alie blinked. "I'm in the mood for tea. Can you make a chai latte?"

"Was there a snake in the garden?" Kat turned to make the latte.

"There was…" Alie frowned. "She's actually not half-bad once you get to know her, but I wish I didn't see her smut collection."

"What?"

"What?"

Alison Carol was prone to odd exchanges like this. Kat handed her the chai latte about a minute later. "Here we go, chai latte."

Alison pulled out her credit card and swiped it, leaving a large tip seemingly more out of bewilderment than anything. "It's… good to see you, Doc." She sipped her tea. "How's the eye?"

"Still missing. Maybe when I'm in my eighties, they can 3D print me a new one, and I can look at all the grandkids I don't have with 20/20 vision."

"Right." Alison nodded. "Well… I'd best be off. I want to avoid the people from the 'Symposium' as much as possible." She waved her hand through the air. "Did Wettle come through here?"

"Oh god, you know that clown?" Kathryn sighed. "How?"

"By reputation. Long story, but… be careful out there, Katherine."

Kat blinked; she didn't know how, but she had a feeling that Alison had just spelled her name wrong. Before she could correct her, the bell over the door was ringing, and she was gone.

"Let's get you home early tonight," Sid said. "Going to have to deal with a bunch of clowns from the Symposium tomorrow, and I want you well-rested for that."

"You good to close up?" Kat started stripping out of her apron.

"When have I never not been, Kit-Kat?"

"Don't," she snapped. "…sorry. Jackass of an ex used to call me that."

"Sorry. What happened to him?"

"Not 'him or her'?"

"You're not that adventurous, Kathryn." Sid grinned, and by the way the light hit his teeth, they seemed to be pointed.

Kat swallowed. "He died in a fire. Real asshole of a person."

"You sure about that?"

"…positive," Kat said. "He had no next of kin, so I had to ID him. Can I go, Sid?"

"Sure."

Kat exited into the Philadelphian winter, caught the metro back to her apartment, and slept. Her dreams weren't pretty.

Foundation Department of Discipline and Correction

Incident Report

Lead Investigating Agent: Ethel Kursh

Psychological Evaluator: Dr. Merrick Palmer

Details of Incident: On January 22nd, 2024, at the Annual Foundation Inter-Disciplinary Symposium in Philadelphia, Dr. William Wallace Wettle (SCP-7000, Site-43, henceforth victim) approached Researcher Montgomery Reynolds (Site-87, henceforth assailant) at the opening dinner. Following an exchange of dialogue between the two (unrecorded) the assailant began an argument with the victim, during which the victim tripped over a banana peel and hit his head on the side of the table.

Charges:

1 count of threatening a sapient SCP

1 count of threatening Foundation personnel

1 count disruption of decorum

Evaluation:

Rsr. Reynolds: Neither of us look good here, do we?

Dr. Merrick Palmer: Honestly, Reynolds, you're lucky that Wettle's such an ass that you have likely have justification for screaming at him. But I'd like to know what that justification is.

Rsr. Reynolds: I want to know you're not just speaking as a friend. Cronyism has been…

Dr. Palmer: I'm speaking as someone who is helping decide whether or not you get to keep your job, Montgomery.

Researcher Reynolds Personnel ID Photo.

Rsr. Reynolds: Wettle… he said he saw my wife. He said he saw Katherine, Merr. She… she's been gone for over a year. I thought he was making fun of me.

Dr. Palmer: Dr. Wettle is several things, but he is not a fabulist— he lacks the imagination for it. But how would he recognize your wife? Have they met?

Rsr. Reynolds: Katherine was born in Philadelphia. I brought a few missing persons posters to the city, posted them in a few different metro stations, around a few parks… I even made the trip up to Upper Darby, where her mother used to live, just in case. He must have happened by one of them.

Dr. Palmer: You put up missing person's posters… in this weather? Reynolds, the temperature hasn't risen above zero centigrade in the last month.

Rsr. Reynolds: I grew up in New York. I'm used to a bit of cold.

Dr. Palmer: Did he tell you where he saw your wife?

Rsr. Reynolds: I didn't give him a chance to say.

Dr. Palmer: I have him in the other room. Would you like me to fetch him?

Rsr. Reynolds: If he'll even be in the same room as me.

Dr. Palmer: I'm sure he'll understand.

Dr. Palmer exits the holding cell and re-enters approximately five minutes later with Dr. Wettle in tow.

Dr. Wettle: I'm not gonna press charges. It's my own damn luck I dinged my head.

Rsr. Reynolds: You said you saw Katherine. Where?

Dr. Wettle: There's this coffee shop I go to every year. Had a different name a year ago, but I think it still has the same owner. She was working there as a barista. Seemed to recognize me, but didn't know who I was, if that makes sense.

Rsr. Reynolds: What was the name of this place?

Dr. Wettle: Sidney… no, Sid's Coffee Place.

Rsr. Reynolds: …say that again.

Dr. Wettle: Sid's Coffee P— what the fuck are you doing?!

Rsr. Reynolds conjures a minor rite of thaumaturgy.

Rsr. Reynolds: I'm analyzing the language. Say it again.

Dr. Wettle: S-Sid's Coffee Place. The fuck is that?!

Using thaumaturgy, Rsr. Reynolds highlights a memetic complex present in the name of 'Sid's Coffee Place'.

Rsr. Reynolds: That's… the Frontispiece.1

Dr. Wettle: Euler, Scout and company lobotomizing the human race on a linguistic level.

Silence on the recording.

Dr. Wettle: What? Like a quarter of my job is making sure that the Frontispiece works, regardless of context.

Rsr. Reynolds: But… I don't recognize the front. We have a front that's a coffee shop, Solo Café Panama.2 Why have two?

Dr. Wettle: Because the Department of Redundancy Department still has a budget?

Rsr. Reynolds: Wettle. Now is not the time to pull my leg.

Dr. Wettle: I wish I was.

A search of the Foundation's database found no records for a Foundation front named "Sid's Coffee Place," making the presence of the Frontispiece, without a Foundation front behind it, inexplicable.

The following day, January 24th, Reynolds attempted to make contact with the entity who resembled Dr. Sinclair.

Sid's Coffee Place was eerily vacant the next day. Kathryn had no problem getting there, but for about five blocks around the cafe, there was no traffic, no people walking, no lights on in the buildings… but Sid was still there when she clocked in. Sid was always there. "I miss a national tragedy or something?" she asked. "Where is everyone?"

"Got me," Sid shrugged inside their thick, green jacket. "Been here since six and I ain't seen a soul."

"Maybe you scared them off, ya creep."

"I'm not creepy," Sidney frowned. With a flourish, hand on their chest, they declared, "I am delightful."

"You're a creep, and you're so hammy that a Rabbi would call you trefah."

"Firstly: ouch. Second: since when do you know Yiddish?" Sid frowned, left eyebrow raised.

"Hebrew, actually. Dated a guy after I dropped out." Kathryn shivered, and realized, her teeth chattering hard enough to make her head rattle, that she could see her breath. "F-f-fucking hell, S-s-Sid, did the furnace go out a-a-again?!"

"Super said he'd be by to fix it in an hour."

"H-how l-long ago was t-that?"

"…two hours."

Kathryn rolled her eyes, made her way into the backroom, and got the tool kit and the manual for the furnace. She frowned. "That's w-weird."

"What?"

"F-furnace has the same s-serial number as the c-coffee maker. SCP-8787."

Sid squinted. "You implying something."

"I just think it's odd."

Serial #: SCP-8787

Object Class: Hephaestus Ever-Heat Model Furnace

Safe Cleaning Protocols: To ensure that the SCP-8787 furnace does not cause harm to—

"D-don't need to know how to clean it…" She flipped through the manual until she hit "Safely Causing Phosphorescence." She fished her gloves out of her pocket and put them on. "J-Jesus, Sid, did you get this translated from Bulgarian or something? Who says 'Phosphorescence' outside of a bad fantasy novel anymore?"

"Can you fix it or not?"

"Assuming the problem is the pilot light going out and not you being delinquent on our gas bill again, yes." Her hands starting to numb, she took out a candle lighter and opened the door that led to the coffee shop's basement. She sang to herself as she headed down to dissipate the gloom and cold— "Do You Believe In Magic" by the Lovin' Spoonfuls. As she sang, she sat down by the furnace to do a quick repair job.

A few minutes alter, Kathryn was still shivering, but the furnace was working, thank god. "Still fucking cold. Goddammit if the HVAC's broken too, I'm going home…" She trudged back upstairs just as the heating system kicked on. "We gotta tell the Super to replace the pilot light. Fifth time it's gone out since the start of the year, and I'm not interested in serving frappucuinos." She realized she was talking to herself; Sid had left a note on the counter that simply read 'Milk's bad, getting more'.

"No it's not." Kat picked up the milk from the fridge, held it to her nose, and retched. Like something out of a story where a fairy had been pissed off, the milk had curdled overnight. "Well, fuck."

The bell over the door ringed, and in walked a portly man with dark skin, his hair in greying dreadlocks. He was dressed in a leather trenchcoat, which was at least appropriate for the weather, and Kathryn thought he looked kind of handsome — and then she saw the ring on his finger and immediately lost interest. All the men even remotely close to her age were married. Wasn't fair. "Hi," Kat said. "We can't do lattes right now. Milk's gone bad. But I can make you some tea or… cof…fee…" Kathryn was taken aback by the man's behavior. "Are… are you okay?"

The man had tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he looked at her, and his mouth was hanging open slightly. He was mouthing words, but nothing came out. He looked like he was in shock or — Kathryn thought back to finding her grandfather slumped over in the arm chair at home — having a stroke. "Hey, hey. Let's… let's get you sat down, okay?" Kat crossed from behind the counter and pulled out a chair for him.

He sat down in it, shock present on his face, and wiped some snow off of his coat. Her hand brushed against something firm and plastic, and she stared — she was looking at a button camera on his coat. "Are you recording this? What the fu—"

The bell over the door rang again, and Sidney returned, with a bottle of milk. "Ah, Kat! You've met our newest hire, I see."

"Wh—" Kathryn looked down at the man. The look of shock had vanished, and was replaced by first confusion, and then a warm, handsome smile.

"Oh, yeah, sorry. She thought I was a customer, wouldn't let me get a word in." He stood up and extended his hand to her. "Monty Reynolds. Just moved here with my daughter."

Kathryn felt a fog intrude upon her mind, one she had let in before, one that took away the pain associated with working in a shitty coffee parlor. She let it wash over her, and took the hand. "Kat Sinclair. Good to meet you." She looked at his hand; she swore there was a ring on it, but it seemed to be absent. "You're not married?"

"Nicky is from a previous marriage," Reynolds explained. "I'm single at the moment. You like kids?"

"I don't think I'd be good with them."

"Ever try?" He raised an eyebrow with a smirk.

"Not since I babysat for six bucks an hour in high school," she admitted. "You already met Sid, then?"

"Oh, Monty and I go way back," Sidney admitted. "Now, let's get you out of that coat and into your uniform, all right?"

"I'm not going to have to wear a hairnet, am I?" Reynolds touched his dreadlocks. "I worked so hard getting these right…."

"Only when you're in the kitchen. You'll be manning the counter for the first couple of weeks, and Kat'll be teaching you how to make the best cup of joe in central Philly."

"I think we have an apron in your size," Kat said. "Follow me… uh…" She frowned. "Sorry, I'm shit with names."

"Montgomery. Monty for short."

"Like Monty Python? I think I can remember that."

As they headed into the back room, Sid looked at the palm of his hand. They held a button camera, still transmitting to Reynold's original employers. "I'm only going to say this once," Sidney said, staring straight into the camera. "Don't interfere, for their sakes. I don't want any more people to get folded into what's happening here. Too many cooks, etc. Capisce?"

With that, Sidney folded the camera into half, then into quarters, then into eighths, until it folded out of existence.

Elsewhere, baffled agents were staring at a notification: SIGNAL LOST.

Date: January 24th, 2024

Location: Urban Site-56, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; site of the annual Foundation inter-disciplinary symposium.

In Attendance: Rsr. Claire Sage, Head Archivist, Site-87; Dr. Django Bridge, Archivist, Site-17; Dr. Daniel Asheworth, Director, Site-120; Dr. Udo Okorie, Thaumaturge, Site-43; Dr. Ilse Reynders, Acroamatic Abatement, Site-43.

Rsr. Sage: Good evening, everyone. For those of you who don't know me — which I am now realizing is the majority of you — I'm Site-87's head archivist, and I've been assigned to take charge on this in the absence of… other parties that are qualified.

Dr. Reynders: Where's Director Bailey? Sinclair worked under him, he should be here.

Rsr. Sage: He's… indisposed.

Dr. Asheworth: A word which here means, what, exactly?

Rsr. Sage: It means that Dr. Willow Leigh is Acting Director of Site-87, and has been for the last six months.

Dr. Okorie: Genuine question: how does 87 go from having a Director serve for thirty years to having one that only lasts three?

Rsr. Sage: Officially, Director Bailey hasn't stepped down. He's just… attending to other duties. In any case, if you could all take a moment to read over your dossiers…

All in attendance open the dossiers in front of them. Dr. Bridge raises their hand.

Dr. Bridge: Can I just ask what I'm doing here? I'm missing a seminar on eschatological prevention for this.

Rsr. Sage: You're the only member of the Epimetheus Commission3 that could be reached in a timely manner, and given the nature of the anomaly…

Dr. Bridge: I don't see how this pertains to Omega-7. Or Alpha-9, for that matter.

Rsr. Sage: We think what's happening here is a manifestation of SCP-8787.

Silence on the recording.

Dr. Bridge: I'm sorry, what?!

Dr. Asheworth: I'm not familiar with 8787.

Dr. Bridge: It would be easier to pull up the file. Can you pull down that screen, Sage?

Rsr. Sage deploys a projector screen from the ceiling of the meeting room. Dr. Bridge pulls up SCP-8787's file on their laptop, before connecting it to the projector.

An image of SCP-8787's interior, captured 2017.

Item #: SCP-8787

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: Physical containment of SCP-8787 is currently believed to be impossible. Instead, containment efforts are to take the form of information suppression and, in the event that members of the Foundation become SCP-8787-B instances, personnel recovery.

At no point is SCP-8787-A to be engaged in direct combat. Doing so in the past has proved detrimental to local reality in the short term, and it is currently unknown what the full extent of SCP-8787-A's ontokinesis is. They are to be treated as a potential Type Black threat until further information on them can be gained.

Description: SCP-8787 refers to an entity which, at last sighting, resembled an American coffee house. Since its discovery, SCP-8787 has taken on a variety of names, including:

Sidney's House of Brews

The Coffee Shack

Michigan Brew Hut

Grounds For Love

The most recent manifestation of SCP-8787 known to the Foundation was in 2019 in Boston, Massachusetts, where it took the form of a cafe called 'Lit Lattes'.

SCP-8787 is operated by two distinct entities; SCP-8787-A and SCP-8787-B. SCP-8787-A refers to a genderless humanoid of indeterminate age, standing at approximately 1.8m in height with green hair. SCP-8787-A is a Type-Green, potentially Type-Black entity, that has shown properties of being a mnemonomorph4 and potential imperfect chronokinetic5 that allow it to recruit SCP-8787-B.

SCP-8787-B refers to humans that have been affected by SCP-8787-A's anomalous abilities. SCP-8787-B instances have intact explicit memories until the ages of 18-22; after this point, their accounts will diverge from reality. SCP-8787-B instances routinely claim that:

They work at SCP-8787, and have since the point of divergence;

Their job at SCP-8787 is either the only job they have ever had, or one of very few;

They met at least one significant other while working at SCP-8787, either a fellow SCP-8787-B instance or a customer;

They live near where SCP-8787 has manifested, either being local to the area or having recently moved there. This is aided by SCP-8787-A's chronokinetic properties;

They have no desire to cease employment at SCP-8787.

SCP-8787-A does not appear to have a finite range on its abilities, but will typically choose local members of the population to act as SCP-8787-B instances, only rarely selecting individuals from further afield.

SCP-8787 was discovered following a string of disappearances in Boston, Massachusetts in 1947. All of the individuals who had disappeared were discovered in a coffee shop called Sidney's House of Brews in Scollay Square. An engagement between agents of the Foundation and SCP-8787-A resulted in what is now understood as damage to the semantic and psychic underpinnings of the concept of 'Scollay Square', necessitating its demolition and redevelopment into Government Center.

SCP-8787's most infamous interaction with the Foundation occurred in 2006, when seven members of Mobile Task Force Omega-7 ("Pandora's Box") disappeared following a plane crash in the Antarctic, including two humanoid SCP objects; they were discovered in a manifestation of SCP-8787 in Sandusky, Ohio in 2007, when an early Youtube video showcased a humanoid resembling SCP-076-2 working behind the counter at a coffee shop called "Water Street Cafe."

Addendum: Mobile Task Force Omega-7 Recovery Log:

Begin Log

Agent Rhys Porter and Agent Dashell Cameron stand outside the Water Street Cafe, looking through the windows. SCP-076-2 is visible, conversing with SCP-105.

Porter: Is it just me, or does Able look… happy?

Cameron: It's just you. The thought of 076-2 being happy is… kind of disturbing, if I'm being honest. Let's hope they don't—

SCP-076-2 embraces SCP-105. SCP-105 returns the gesture.

Porter: Oh, what fresh hell is this?

Cameron: Let's get in there. Don't drink anything. Just pretend you're a disaffected writer getting on your laptop.

Porter: Fuck you, my novel's going to be finished one day.

Cameron: Sure it is.

The agents enter SCP-8787 and sit at a table. Porter sets up recording equipment to eavesdrop on SCP-076-2 and SCP-105's conversation.

SCP-076-2: No, I'm serious.

SCP-105: How would we afford it? We're barely making enough for our apartment right now.

SCP-076-2: Well, I got a college fund that's collecting dust since I dropped out…

SCP-105: I thought that was for your brother once he got out of jail?

SCP-076-2: <Sighing> Cain's parole got denied. He's not getting out for at least another ten years.

SCP-105: Aww, Abe…

Porter: Abe?

SCP-076-2: Look, how often do we get to leave this dicktown? I got about $20k in the fund. That's enough for a trip around Europe. You've always wanted to add photos of the Eiffel Tower to your collection…

Cameron: Shit, he's not just happy, he's in love.

Porter: Do you think he still has his… like, the connection to the sarcophagus?

Cameron: What, are you going to shoot him and find out?

Porter: What? No.

Cameron: Why not? Might help snap 105 out of it. You… think anyone else works here?

Porter: Check out the employees of the month.

Cameron turns their attention to a board on the wall with photographs of employees of the month of months past. SCP-076-2 was given the award in January of 2007, and several other missing members of Omega-7 are photographed.

Cameron: Christ. Okay, we run through the standard array of trigger phrases?

Porter: Sounds good.

Cameron and Porter stand and approach the counter. SCP-076-2 is manning the register.

SCP-076-2: Welcome to the Water Street Cafe. What can we—

Porter: It is raining in Gilgamesh, Ohio.

SCP-076-2: I'm… sorry?

Cameron: The wagtail has returned.

SCP-076-2: Ah, dammit. Is this some weird role-play thing? Colossalcon's not until June, guys.

Porter: Hope I can get the pronunciation on this right… Orresh lagh dhan.6

SCP-076-2: What… what are you… wait. What am I doing here?

SCP-076-2 looks down at their uniform, eyes widening. A look of abject horror is on their face.

SCP-076-2: What in the name of the Eight Saints?

SCP-105: Abe? You good?

SCP-076-2: No. I'm not. This… this is wrong. Iris. I'm sorry. I have… I have to go.

SCP-105: Your… planet needs you?

SCP-076-2 produces a broadsword using its anomalous capabilities and stabs itself through the chest, returning to SCP-076-1.

SCP-105: What the fuck? What the fuck?! What the fuck what the fuck what the FUCK?!

Porter: SCP-1— fuck, Iris, calm down.

SCP-105: Calm down? Calm down?! You said some words in goddamn Mongolian or something and my boyfriend of seven years just fucking stabbed himself with a sword he pulled out of thin air!

Cameron: Stop Constantly Panicking.

SCP-105 seizes up and looks forward, eyes glazing over. Drool falls from her mouth. Seventeen seconds later, she resumes normal neurological activity.

SCP-105: …Rhys? Dash? What… what the fuck is… oh God.

Porter: What?

SCP-105: We… we got brought here a-after the crash. I… I don't know how. One second Able had gone berserk and we were all rushing towards the tundra, the next—

SCP-8787-A rises up from behind the counter.

SCP-8787-A: Well. Shit.

Porter and Rhys draw their weapons.

SCP-8787-A: Man knew how to make the best goddamn green tea latte I've ever tasted, and you went and gave him a fatal panic attack. Great job. Goddammit, you're lucky nobody else is in here. Less witnesses for you to pour brain bleach onto.

Porter pulls the trigger. His weapon jams.

SCP-8787-A: Gentlemen, please. We all know that won't work. Iris, I see you reaching for my photo, that won't work either.

SCP-105: You… why? Why me and… and that thing?

SCP-105 indicates the rapidly-disintegrating remains of SCP-076-2.

SCP-8787-A: You had a lot in common, honestly. Both of you are slaves to a cause you don't comprehend, both of you are gifted, and both of you deeply miss your mothers. It wouldn't kill to call her once in a while, Iris.

SCP-105: My… my mom's dead. Heart attack, six years ago. I saw the obituary…

SCP-8787-A: If your mother's dead, then I'm O5-7. Sorry to break it to you, kid, but the Foundation has been lying to you. Dash, stop trying to shoot me, you're making yourself look like a jackass.

Agent Cameron has disassembled their gun twice at this point to attempt to clear the jam affecting it.

SCP-8787-A: Iris, I'm sad to say you and everyone else on the team are fired, and this shop is closed. You fascist motherfuckers really know how to spoil my good times, you know that?

SCP-105: We're not fascis—

SCP-8787-A: Fascist, totalitarian, authoritarian, you're run by a council of thirteen anonymous motherfuckers who are accountable to literally nobody, not even god. You're bad news and I hope that when the Feast starts, you make the right decision.

SCP-8787-A turns to SCP-105.

SCP-8787-A: You'll all be getting a severance package of course. I'm not a monster. Toodle-loo.

SCP-105, Porter, Cameron, and all other missing Omega-7 agents are abruptly teleported to a wheat field approximately 28 kilometers south of their previous location. Investigation of the location of Water Street Cafe showed that it had been an unrelated bakery for the last fifteen years.

Following this incident SCP-105 repeatedly requested contact with her mother. This was eventually granted in 2015, after the creation of Mobile Task Force Alpha-9.

End Log

Dr. Bridge: I would like to thank everyone present for not laughing at that… last report.

Dr. Asheworth: I'm just wondering how you didn't find them sooner.

Dr. Bridge: YouTube was small back then. Half the reason the Foundation helped bankroll it was so it could be used to help identify anomalies in the wild.

Rsr. Sage: Good to know that my teenage years were defined by helping this place aggregate data on the anomalous. That aside, last time we had a run in with 8787, it was a humiliation.

Dr. Bridge: Worse than that. 076-2 didn't become active for over a year after that. It was almost like he was… I don't know, depressed? We were afraid of a repeat of — that's classified, actually.

Dr. Sage: Well, it's back, and it's kidnapped at least two Foundation personnel. Sinclair and Reynolds retrieved the Orykalkos Codex and helped restore anomalous activity to the world during the SCP-6500 crisis. Sinclair experienced a breakdown about eighteen months later and went missing. Now she's turned up here.

Dr. Reynders: Doesn't she have a daughter? What's the status on her?

Rsr. Sage: As of right now? In an apartment in East Philadelphia, with a babysitter. She was relocated there when Reynolds got caught up in this mess.

Dr. Okorie: Sinclair's a capable thaumaturge. She'd have wards up against any sort of mental alteration.

Dr. Asheworth: We're assuming this is magical in nature. Bridge, don't give me that look, it's accepted nomenclature post-6500. This thing could be affecting her memory with pheromones, or… I don't know. Is this really all the Foundation has on it?

Dr. Bridge: 8787 is a clusterfuck. There are some archaeologists who think that it used to be a pub before Prohibition happened in the US, but we don't know.

Dr Reynders: I'm wondering why a coffee shop, myself. Baristas always seem slightly miserable to me.

Rsr. Sage: I paid for some of my tuition by working at the Starbucks in my college. No 'slightly' about it. But… when Reynolds came to try and confront his wife, he got pulled into it. If 8787 is capable of pulling people in on a whim, why start now?

Dr. Reynders: There has to be some sort of limit to its capabilities. Maybe it can only take on willing parties?

Dr. Bridge: I don't see why Able would want to work in a coffee shop.

Dr. Asheworth: No, I think Dr. Reynders might be onto something. Maybe it needs permission? Wettle didn't get dragged into it, and presumably, nor did most of the Foundation agents we've sent to it over the years.

Dr. Okorie: A mind-affecting anomaly needing consent. First time for everything, I suppose. But this is still woefully incomplete, as a file goes.

Dr. Bridge: We haven't seen much of it since 2007.

Dr. Okorie: Maybe other groups have?

Rsr. Sage: I can start putting out feelers. The GOC is probably going to be as cooperative as a hernia, but my contact in the Horizon Initiative owes me a favor.

Dr. Reynders: If there's anything about this in records prior to 1943, I've probably read it at some point. Give me a day or two.

Dr. Bridge: I'll see if Iris is in a talkative mood. Maybe she can shed some light on what it was like being there.

Dr. Okorie: I want to see if I can't conduct a thaumic analysis on-site. If Sinclair and Reynolds are ensorcelled, I might be able to snap them out of it.

Dr. Asheworth: I don't think you should do that alone, Doctor. I have wards on me that will likely help prevent my own seizure by this object.

Dr. Okorie: …the ones that make you meow and talk with a speech impediment when they're tripped?

Dr. Asheworth: That was an unfortunate side effect we have agreed to nya— never mention again.

Rsr. Sage: We'll re-convene tomorrow with our findings. One last thing: try not to drink the coffee. We don't know if that's a component or not, but just in case, try to avoid consuming anything. Okay, that's all. You're dismissed.

The next morning would be dedicated to getting the new hire trained. Kat had taken a shine to the tall, handsome stranger that had walked in through the front door of her coffee shop, but she couldn't help but shake the feeling that she knew him from somewhere. "You've never been to Philly before?"

"Grew up in New York. Worked as a consultant at this place in Wisconsin for a bit, but the company went under when they tried to open a new branch here."

"Economy's bullshit, don't care what people say. If I didn't already have this job, I probably couldn't get one. What kind of consultancy?"

"Government work. Under an NDA."

"Eesh, fair."

The pair of them were standing behind the counter; Sid had gone to see about trying to find the Superintendent of the building in person, because the heat had crapped out again overnight, forcing Kat to give Monty a crash course in furnace repair. Now that they were settled, Kathryn was showing him the finer points of the cash register. "We use a Square POS system. Pretty simple to understand."

"…you use a piece of sh—"

"Don't. Sid'll can ya if they hear you it call you that. Point Of Service." She squinted. "Never run a cash register before?"

"No. You?"

"Been running it since I was twenty…one? Yeah, that's when I dropped out."

The bell over the door rang, and a pair of people walked in. One was a pale man with dark hair that seemed to be standing up in spikes. The other was a woman with dark skin, her hair in braids going down past her waist, with glasses that were big enough that they seemed to magnify her eyes. They sat opposite each other in a far corner of the establishment, with the man pulling out a laptop, his back to the wall. Kat rolled her eyes, and called over, "Hey, if you're going to work on your magnum opus in here, you could at least buy a coffee."

The man stared at her, eyes wide. He sighed, stood, and came up to the counter, taking out his wallet. "Two coffees, one with cream, one without."

"Hot or iced?" Monty asked.

"Hot. It's -3 centigrade outside." The man muttered something. "Co to za idiotyczne pytanie?"

"Jeśli chcesz być dupkiem, to płacisz podwójnie." Kathryn said.

The man blinked. "You… speak Polish?"

"…no," Kathryn said, shrinking into herself. "I don't."

There was an awkward pause, before Monty coughed. "Uh, two coffees, that'll be $6.50."

"You didn't use the POS," Kat frowned.

"I memorized the prices on the board."

Kat rolled her eyes, and walked Monty through putting it into the actual register. It took about six minutes, but preparing the drinks only took an additional two.

"Dziękuję," the rude customer said, before returning back to his seat. The dark-skinned woman had a look of intense concentration on her face.

"She looks like she has a migraine," Monty frowned, before he turned to Kat. "You don't speak Polish? Bull."

"Never have," Kat frowned. "I guess I picked up a bit before I dropped out. Wasn't hard to tell he was calling you an idiot, anyway."

"I have a degree," he sighed. "I'm just… I need this to get back on my feet, you know?"

"What's the degree in?"

"Thaumatology. Study of magic." Reynolds blinked. "That's… not really something I should be telling you, I think?"

"How can you study magic? It's not real." Kat wrinkled her nose. "Like, I liked Bedknobs and Broomsticks as much as any other kid, but magic doesn't exist."

"The cultural practices that people think are magic do."

"Oh." Kat wrinkled her nose. "So it's a subset of anthropology?"

"I suppose you could think of it as that." Monty looked at the clock on the wall. "Shouldn't Sidney be back by now?"

"Traffic's been weird lately. Who knows."

"What kind of car does he drive?"

"They go by they. I know, it's weird for me, too."

"All right. What kind of car do they drive, then?"

"They…" Kat blinked at the question. "I… huh."

"What?"

"I've worked for them for over twenty years and I can't tell you that." Kathryn scratched her head. "I mean, they don't have a SEPTA pass, so they have to drive. That's basically the only way to get around this part of the city. I…" Kat frowned. "They don't own the building, they can't. Why would they need to talk to the Super?"

Reynolds stared at her. "…Kathryn, twenty years? Are you sure? Are you absolutely positive?"

"Yeah. I started working here when I was twenty-one, after I dropped out. Why?"

"Then I have to ask what kind of moisturizer he— they use, because I'll be damned if Sidney's a day over thirty."

Kathryn breathed in deeply. She knew the onset of a panic attack when she felt it. One thing she could taste: the filling in her back tooth. Two things she could smell: the coffee and… Monty smelled very nice for some reason. Three she could touch: the EVE in the air, the coffee milk sitting out, that stupid BARI-STAR machine that always broke. Four she could—

Her eyes landed on the two in the corner. The woman was muttering something to herself, just under her breath, while the man was on his laptop, typing away frantically but muttering in concert. She recognized him from another life, one that wasn't, that couldn't, be hers. "…Daniel?" She asked. "Dr. Asheworth?"

Asheworth's eyes met hers, recognition crossing his face. "Keep at it, Udo," he said, crossing the distance. "Doctor Sinclair, you recognize me?"

"I… maybe? I'm not a doctor, though. But I…" her vision swam, before fading to—

white was an awful color for a wedding dress, she had decided. It went with everything, but it also showed every single stain and speck of dust. Pink wasn't her color either, and black was too funereal, so Sinclair decided on a lilac blue dress. And now, as she got ready to enter the chapel at St. John's Church in downtown Sloth's Pit, a chill ran through her.

What was she doing? She was too old to start a family. If she had a child, they could have all sorts of complications at her age. And her husband-to-be… she'd read horror stories about women marrying older men, about how they always fell out of love, how the younger bride would have to care for the elderly groom when he got senile, and…

"Catastrophizing again, are we?"

Sinclair looked up, her eyes widening as she saw—

she was outside, in the cold, coughing. There was a firefighter holding an oxygen mask over her face, and smoke was pouring out of the front of the cafe. "I'm fine," she insisted, sitting up and brushing away the fireman. Her job had just gone up in flames. "What the fuck happened?!"

Sidney was there, talking with Monty, who was talking with a cop. Kat made her way over to them. "What the hell happened?"

"Some idiot's laptop caught fire," Sid sighed. "Monty saw the whole thing. Kat, I'm afraid to say, but we're going to be closed for a bit."

"Dammit…" she groaned. "Fuck, can I at least get paid for the rest of the day? My rent's due soon."

"'course."

"I feel awful," Monty said as the cop snapped their notepad shut and stepped away. "Maybe I could've asked them who the fuck they were, to leave their laptop smoldering like that? You think this was intentional?"

"Shitty accident. Super'll be by to inspect the building, and I've got insurance to cover the fire damage." Sid groaned, looking down. They kicked some snow off of their boots. "It's not supposed to go like this, god dammit all."

"Hey, look on the bright side," Kat said. "Maybe those new signs'll come in by the time you're done?"

"At this rate?" Sidney snorted. "I'll be surprised if I don't end up in the slammer."

"…what have you done wrong?" Monty wrinkled his nose.

"I got a history, and I don't want the feds lookin' too close into this. Fuckin' skippers…"

"They didn't skip out, though?" Kat said. "Like, I remember the Polish dude paying for his coffee…"

"Just… take the rest of the day off, you two." Sidney said. "Do what you like. I gotta look over the damage." They stepped into the cafe, and let out an "You've gotta be fucking—" before they devolved into incoherency.

"…now what?" Kat frowned.

"Well…. this might be a bit weird to ask but… you wanna meet my kid?" Monty asked. "She might like you. You kinda look like her mom."

Ever hear of a rebound, jackass? Kat thought. But he seemed nice enough, and he was handsome, so… "All right. Lay on, MacDuff."

Something strange happened on the way to Montgomery's apartment; they took the same line of the SEPTA Metro that Kat did. They got off at the same stop that Kat did. And by the time that they were in front of the building and Reynolds was looking for his key to buzz himself in, Kathryn was fully spooked. "Is this a joke?"

"What?" Reynolds frowned.

Kathryn pulled out her own key and used the fob to unlock the front door, holding it open.

Reynolds stood there, stunned. "What… unit do you live in?"

"78. You?"

"87."

"Fuck, you're a floor above me." Sinclair sighed. "This day's been weird. Let's just… let's say hi to your kid. What was her name?"

"Phoenix. Her mother insisted on it."

"Sounds like a hippy-dippy type," Kat said. "That why you broke it off with her?"

"…she left me," Monty said, no small measure of pain in his voice. He entered the building, and Kathryn followed after.

Elsewhere, interviews were being conducted.

Addendum: Eyewitness Accounts of SCP-8787

Interviewer: Rsr. Claire Sage, Site-87 Head Archivist

Subject: Mary-Ann Lewitt, retired member of Horizon Initiative Shepherd Corps, Chapterhouse 3. Lewitt frequented a previous iteration of SCP-8787 following Incident 089-D.

<Begin Log>

Rsr. Sage: I appreciate you taking time out of your day for this.

Lewitt: I mean, I'm genuinely curious what the Foundation thinks is anomalous about the coffee shop that served the second-best breakfast burritos I've ever had.

Rsr. Sage: Well… to be frank, we believe that it kidnaps people and forces them to act as staff. And that it… well, makes them… be in relationships.

Lewitt: …what?

Rsr. Sage: I know that sounds a bit goofy, but…

Lewitt: Is it actively causing the end of the world?

Rsr. Sage: It kidnapped a researcher, who hasn't seen her daughter in well over a year. And now it's done the same to her husband. We think it's a reality bender, maybe something more powerful.

Lewitt: Welp. You certainly know how to push my buttons. Always thought Sid was a bit weird, but they were at least polite to me and Salah.7 A lot of places gave Salah the stink-eye because he's Pakistani. But Sid always liked us.

Rsr. Sage: Sid being… the owner?

Lewitt: I think their last name was Charmer? Probably doesn't give you anything to go off of if he's a local power.8 They're really an anomaly?

Rsr. Sage: Afraid so. Did you notice anything odd when you interacted with him or his staff?

Lewitt: You're barking up the wrong tree here. I don't generally pay attention to anomalous events because I don't think they should all be locked up in a supermax prison. That said… they did close pretty abruptly.

Rsr. Sage: Oh?

Lewitt: Yeah. They said that two of his employees had run away and gotten married, leaving them understaffed. So they just… closed up. I'd say that's pretty weird. Where are they now?

Rsr. Sage: Philadelphia. That's where this researcher originally grew up, so we think it took her to somewhere familiar.

Lewitt: Hmm. This researcher, what was she like before?

Rsr. Sage: She's a thaumaturge. Type-Blue in GOC terms. She was getting pretty stressed before she vanished. Part of it was likely post-partum depression, and… well, we think that this anomaly might only take people who want to be taken in. You didn't notice any anomaly related to it?

Lewitt: Well… there might have been something. After Salah and I resigned from the Initiative to care for Naomi9 we were tight on money for a bit. Sid let me start a tab at their place, never expected me to pay it off, and that was our breakfast for a couple of months. They offered me and Salah jobs there, and… I almost took them up on it. I wanted to take them up on it. Like, I worked at the first Starbucks in Pittsburgh when I was sixteen and I hated it, but I wanted to take them up on the offer, just so there would be a little less stress in our lives. You know? Then Salah got a job as a professor at U.P.10 and we didn't need it.

Rsr. Sage: How is your daughter doing, by the way? I read the file on what happened, with—

Lewitt: She's the smartest kid in the world. Probably going to end up saving it some day. Anything else?

Rsr. Sage: One last thing, because I'm genuinely curious: where was the best breakfast burrito you've ever had, if this was only the second-best?

Lewitt: That, I'm afraid, will remain a secret.

<End Log>

Interviewer: Dr. Django Bridge

Subject: SCP-105

<Begin Log>

Dr. Bridge: Have a seat, Iris.

SCP-105: The fact that you're calling me by my name is concerning…

Dr. Bridge: I'd just like to discuss something with you. SCP-8787 has popped back up.

SCP-105 laughs.

SCP-105: Fuck me, that was a nightmare. Who got caught up in it this time?

Dr. Bridge: Two members of the Foundation partially responsible for ending 6500.

SCP-105: Ones who don't have memetic conditioning?

Dr. Bridge: Some of our people tried thaumic means to snap them out of it, but… it's smarter than we think. Set fire to itself just so we couldn't get to them as easily.

SCP-105: Okay, what do you want to know?

Dr. Bridge: What do you remember about 8787?

SCP-105: Well, after Able broke out and made the transport crash, I was positive we were going to die. I remember praying for someone, anyone to save us… and then the next thing I know, I'm waking up in an apartment in Ohio, that, by all accounts, is where I've been living since I dropped out. I looked at the clock and realized I was late for a job interview. Ran down to the Water Street Cafe, and… well, the whole crew was already there.

Dr. Bridge: Including 076-2?

SCP-105: Yeah. Customers couldn't stop staring at his tattoos. It's a wonder we weren't found out sooner. But I got hired, and… in all honesty, I kinda liked working there. I didn't know anything else, granted, but… is anything I say going in my file?

Dr. Bridge: It's going in 8787's file.

SCP-105: …it was fun, working there. Everyone says that working in a coffee shop is the worst thing you can do, and we had some asshole customers, sure, but… I had friends there. And I had… well…

Dr. Bridge: You had 076-2?

SCP-105: Yeah. Without the whole… without his anomaly, he's honestly really… he's not a bad person. Something happened to him to make him the way he is now, and… he doesn't want to be like that. He was actually happy. And that just… got taken from him.

Dr. Bridge: If he was happy, then… why did he self-terminate once the code phrase was spoken?

SCP-105: Because he knew that… what we had wasn't real. It was fucking Sidney messing around with our heads. But… if they had asked first, asked 'hey, how would you feel being together for a little bit'? Maybe… maybe he wouldn't have.

Silence on the recording.

SCP-105: You know how long it's been since I've seen him? Since before Alpha-9 was a thing. I… I want to apologize to him, if I can. Maybe… I don't know, maybe we'd be…

Dr. Bridge: Iris, I don't think that'd be a good idea.

SCP-105: …he's dead, isn't he?

Silence on the recording.

SCP-105: The Impasse. It killed him, didn't it?

Dr. Bridge: That's…

SCP-105: Classified? God dammit, Django! Why can't you tell me? We worked together! We… he was…

Dr. Bridge: Take all the time you need, Iris. I'm sorry to bother you.

<End Log>

Interviewer: Dr. Ilse Reynders

Subject: Dr. Justine Everwood. Dr. Everwood unknowingly entered a previous manifestation of SCP-8787 located in Boston in January of 2019.

<Begin Log>

Dr. Reynders: Thank you for agreeing to meet on such short notice, Dr. Everwood.

Dr. Everwood: Call me Jay. But… 8787, really? Damn thing keeps popping up in my life.

Dr. Reynders: Let's start from the top. How did you end up in 8787?

Dr. Everwood: I was supposed to be meeting with an informant from a cell of SAPPHIRE that was behind that incident at Trinity Church in August 2018.

Dr. Reynders: You mean the theft of—

Dr. Everwood: Hey, that's classified. Anyway, they named the time and place. I'd never heard of it before, 'Lit Lattes'. Did they even use 'lit' back in 2019? Anyway, I got there along with Rex — Rex Alces, my research assistant — and… something was up.

Dr. Reynders: How so?

Dr. Everwood: My informant was this guy who went by Marcel Lupin — I doubt that was his real name. We waited there for half an hour for him… and then Rex looks over the counter, and realizes that he's working behind it. I figured, 'Okay, atheist terrorists need a day job, maybe he just hasn't realized we've come in yet'. I go up to him, and he acts like he doesn't know me. But you know what tipped me off to the weird bullshit going in?

Dr. Reynders: What?

Dr. Everwood: Lupin was wearing a pentacle necklace. Unless he was trying to infiltrate a religious institution, SAPPHIRE would have put a bullet in his skull, accused him of having 'found faith'. But he was just standing there making a latte!

Dr. Reynders: What did you do?

Dr. Everwood: Well, I looked at the Employee of the Month photos, had Rex analyze them, and… they were all there. Every member of the SAPPHIRE cell we were tracking. We did a bit of recon after that, and they didn't even know what SAPPHIRE was. Three of them went to church. I didn't know what to make of it.

Dr. Reynders: How would you characterize SAPPHIRE? The individual members, I mean.

Dr. Everwood: Honestly, must be fucking miserable to be part of it. They go on and on about logic and reason and how everything anomalous must be understood and used to fight against the erosion of society, but they use anomalies that, by definition, defy logic and reason. That's a staggering amount of DoubleThink that I don't even think Big Brother would find sustainable.

Dr. Reynders: What happened to this manifestation of 8787?

Dr. Everwood: It just vanished one day. Mid-February, must've been? We were still keeping tabs on the ex-SAPPHIRE members, and… they didn't revert. They seemed to remember, but they seemed happier now that they were… deprogrammed, I guess it was the right word? The object they stole was returned to Trinity Church anonymously at the end of February.

Dr. Reynders: So… they changed because of what happened in SCP-8787.

Dr. Everwood: Reminded me of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez quote. "What matters in life is not what happens to you but what you remember and how you remember it." They remembered how they were better people without SAPPHIRE in their lives, and grew past it.

Dr. Reynders: And there was no retaliation from SAPPHIRE as a whole?

Dr. Everwood: Last I checked on them, they were all still alive. SAPPHIRE doesn't take kindly to traitors or deserters, so… not sure what to make of it.

Dr. Reynders: One final thing: did you ever make visual contact with the entity that's operating SCP-8787?

Dr. Everwood: Yes, but… not in 8787 itself.

Dr. Everwood sighs.

Dr. Everwood: …during the Impasse, I remembered how I lost my arm. That put me into a fugue state. I wandered around the city for a couple of hours and ended up in a bar near Bunker Hill, too scared to think straight. When I looked behind the bar, SCP-8787-A was behind it.

Dr. Reynders: It has been theorized that SCP-8787 previously took the form of a bar or a public house before Prohibition…

Dr. Everwood: It wasn't anything like that. The bar's ancient, early 1800s, and it's still there now. But they saw me come in, poured me a cocktail that I wish I had gotten a recipe for, and…

Dr. Reynders: Hmm?

Dr. Everwood: They told me 'It's going to be okay'. I still don't know what they meant, but… I calmed down, finished the cocktail, and left. By the time I got out, I'd forgotten what happened to my arm again, and haven't remembered since.

Dr. Reynders: Thank you, Jay. That will be all.

<End Log>

Requested Revision to the SCP-8787 File

Item #: SCP-8787

Object Class: Keter

Special Containment Procedures: Physical containment of SCP-8787 is currently believed to be impossible. Instead, containment efforts are to take the form of information suppression and, in the event that members of the Foundation become SCP-8787-B instances, personnel recovery.

At no point is SCP-8787-A to be engaged in direct combat. Doing so in the past has proved detrimental to local reality in the short term, and it is currently unknown what the full extent of SCP-8787-A's ontokinesis is. They are to be treated as a potential Type Black threat until further information on them can be gained.

Description: SCP-8787 refers to an anomalous construct which resembles an American cafe or coffee house. The current manifestation of SCP-8787 takes the form of 'Sid's Coffee Place', a cafe located in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

SCP-8787-A is an anomalous humanoid which operates SCP-8787; the only consistent descriptor of their appearance is their green hair. SCP-8787-A is capable of wide-scale reality alterations. SCP-8787-A can both rewrite human memory and alter causality in order to turn human beings, both with and without anomalous capabilities, into SCP-8787-B instances.

SCP-8787-B instances are individuals that have been altered, both cognitively and chronologically, to believe that they are employees at SCP-8787. All SCP-8787-B instances appear to share a singular psychological factor: at the time of their cognitive alteration, they were experiencing some form of depressive episode or existential crisis. It has been theorized that this mental state causes SCP-8787-B instances to consent to their cognitive alteration, as the alternative in the short-term is a continual decline of mental health.

SCP-8787 was first discovered in Boston, Massachusetts in 1947, following a string of disappearances. The Foundation's attempts to contain it, and rescue the SCP-8787-B instances within, led to the destruction of the concept of Scollay Square on a semantic level, necessitating its demolition and redevelopment. However, it is believed that SCP-8787 has existed in some form since at least the 1700s, but was changed into its current state during the Prohibition of Alcohol in the United States from 1920 to 1933.

SCP-8787 has had several interactions with the Foundation in the past; in 2008, it used its anomalous properties to alter a squad of Mobile Task Force Omega-7 into SCP-8787-B instances, including two humanoid SCP objects.

As of January 2024, two SCP-8787-B instances exist; these consist of Dr. Katherine Sinclair and her husband, Researcher Montgomery Reynolds. Dr. Sinclair went missing in August of 2022, following an episode of post-partum depression. Reynolds was affected by the anomaly upon encountering Dr. Sinclair after over a year of separation; neither seem aware of their previous marital status. Current containment efforts are focusing on the retrieval of these members of personnel by any means necessary.

Further encounters with SCP-8787 can be found in Addendum 8787-03.

Addendum: Deliberation RE: Current Containment of SCP-8787:

Date: January 25th, 2024

Location: Urban Site-56, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; site of the annual Foundation inter-disciplinary symposium.

In Attendance: Rsr. Claire Sage, Head Archivist, Site-87; Dr. Django Bridge, Archivist, Site-17; Dr. Daniel Asheworth, Director, Site-120; Dr. Udo Okorie, Thaumaturge, Site-43; Dr. Ilse Reynders, Acroamatic Abatement, Site-43.

Rsr. Sage: All right, based on the information we've managed to glean, I've submitted an updated draft for 8787. It just needs to be rubber-stamped.

Dr. Asheworth: I am slightly… what's the term? Bugged by something.

Rsr. Sage: Do tell.

Dr. Asheworth: Prior to this, 8787 seemed to be… well, not quite infallible, but harder to crack. Sinclair recognized me when she saw me. Based on surveillance of her and Reynolds' building, we think that something's wrong with 8787.

Dr. Okorie: Wrong in the sense that it doesn't seem entirely whole. Weaker, almost.

Dr. Reynders: I'm a tad troubled by Dr. Everwood's testimony, as well. 8787-A appearing outside of 8787 during the Impasse…

Dr. Bridge: Maybe it regained its anomalous properties after it ended, but not to full capacity?

Dr. Okorie: We haven't had any record of biological anomalies doing that. Most of them just died.

Dr. Bridge: You're assuming 8787-A is the core component to this, and not 8787 itself. For all we know, 8787-A is an unwilling participant in all of this.

Dr. Asheworth: Bit of a conclusion to jump to.

Dr. Okorie: He… might have a point.

Dr. Asheworth: You're seriously considering that theory, Udo? I thought you were joking.

Rsr. Sage: What theory?

Dr. Okorie: Who here is familiar with the concept of 'fan fiction'?

Silence on the recording.

Rsr. Sage: I wrote some when I was like, fifteen, but… nothing since. Don't see what it has to do with—

Dr. Okorie: I have a niece, Onyeka, who is very enthusiastic about this Disney show. The Cowl House or The Owl Shack or something. She's written a very specific type of fan fiction about it, where…

Silence on the recording.

Dr. Okorie: Sage, why are you giving me the stink eye?

Rsr. Sage: Because if this is a pataphysical anomaly, I owe Dr. McDoctorate fifty dollars.

Dr. Bridge: Wait, he only bet you fifty?

Dr. Okorie: I'm not sure it is pataphysical, but… there's apparently a trope in fanfiction, one that I've read several dozen times at her request, where the characters from a work have the same basic personalities, but… they all work or go to a coffee shop. The two main romantic objects will typically be on opposite sides of the counter, is the thing— one a barista, one a customer. This seems to make everyone into workers, which… doesn't seem to fit in with the trope.

Dr. Bridge: This thing predates the concept of fanfiction.

Dr. Okorie: It predates this particular trope. But this is, I think, the best way we can contextualize it. It's a coffee shop that makes people believe they've always worked there. Maybe it draws information from alternate realities where that is the case.

Dr. Reynders: What about the thaumic analysis you tried to conduct?

Dr. Okorie: Got interrupted when our fire-proof Foundation-issue laptop exploded into flames. I wasn't able to glean much. Asheworth?

Dr. Asheworth: I… had to double-check the analysis, but… I found something odd. The current iteration of SCP-8787 utilizes the Frontispiece in its name, and that might be part of the reason why the effect around Sinclair seems to be failing.

Dr. Bridge: I don't follow.

Dr. Asheworth: I believe that 8787 is attempting to utilize the anomalous effects of the Frontispiece as an improvised battery, and… it's not designed to do that. But it's a thaumic anomaly that affects the entirety of the human psyche, so it's giving 8787 some juice, but it's not enough to sustain it. Sage, pull down the screen, I need to show some data.

Sage pulls down the projector screen, and Asheworth plugs his phone into the projector.

Dr. Asheworth: This is the building where Sinclair and Reynolds both reside, one floor apart from each other. As near as we can tell, apart from the landlord, they are the only residents. Insurance records that SCP-8787-A provided to the Engine Company that responded to the fire indicates that every piece of equipment in there more complex than the hinges on the door has the same serial number: SCP-8787. There's been maybe twenty or thirty customers in a day, in one of the busiest parts of Philadelphia, since Wettle walked in. It's like it's not functioning at full capacity.

Rsr. Sage: So we've got a Keter-class on the fritz. What does that mean?

Dr. Asheworth: I'm not sure, but… given what happened when we first discovered it, I'm not sure it means anything good. We could be looking at a potential Code Quiet in the next seventy-two hours. Spontaneous, destructive neutralization of an anomaly. Basically what happened to everything that was affected by the Impasse.

Dr. Reynders: Meaning we need to attempt to establish containment now.

Dr. Bridge: It means we needed to establish containment five days ago. Let's get the City Slickers out here before anything else happens.

Rsr. Sage: They're dealing with an outbreak of urban blight in Minneapolis. Psi-7 might be available. I just hope we're not too late.

Apartment 87 was quaint and cozy. Monty said hello to the babysitter when he got up there, apologized for returning too early, and paid her the full amount. "Have you been able to stop her from crying?" Monty asked.

"No, I'm sorry," the babysitter replied. "Are you sure you can't get into contact with her mother?"

"I'm positive," Monty said, looking downcast. "I haven't seen her in over a year."

The babysitter nodded sympathetically, and patted Reynolds on the arm, before heading out. Kathryn frowned as she left. "…Monty? Can you do something for me?"

"What?"

"Describe the woman who just left."

Monty opened his mouth, shut it, frowned, and opened it again. "She… well, she lives a few floors down. Blonde hair, green eyes, has a scar on her…" he paused. "No, wait. That's… what's happening here?"

"We've had a long day. Our jobs have burned down. Can I meet your kid?"

Monty took Kathryn into a room that he had made into a makeshift nursery. It was covered with glow-in-the-dark stars to replace the ones that couldn't be seen with the light pollution, and was painted a deep, royal shade of purple. The crib that still served as her bed was made of oak, and within it was a child that had worn herself out from wailing.

She had sepia-colored skin and curly hair that, while short, was in a startlingly familiar shade of red. She was wearing a green onesie, a red, plush dragon-like creature at her side. Kathryn walked over to the crib, and with each step, she found it harder to move forward. Mere inches from the edge of the child's bed, she stopped completely, her heart in her throat.

"…Katherine?" Monty asked. He had said her name wrong. "Is something wrong?"

"Why does she have my hair?" The question came out in a rasping whisper. "Why does… why can't I…" She rested her hand on the edge of the crib, the motion rocking it. Startled, she stepped back.

Phoenix looked up, bleary-eyed, and burbled briefly, before standing up. She looked Kathryn dead in the eyes, and asked, "Mama?"

"…no." Kathryn said. "I wouldn't… I wouldn't be a good mother. I… sorry, kiddo. I'm not your—"

—mother's been picked up by the police again," Richard Sinclair told his daughter. They had been woken up by another phone call at 4:00 AM on a school night. "I'm going to go pick her up. Kiddo, you… you just try sleeping, okay? You got school tomorrow."

"Is mom going to have to go back to Pennhurst?" Katherine asked.

"Pennhurst got shut down a few years ago, honey. We… don't know where she's going to go this time. But… from the sound of it, she hurt someone again."

Katherine Sinclair held onto her favorite soft toy, a white tiger named Snowball that her grandmother had given her. "Am I going to be like that when I'm a mom, dad?"

Richard Sinclair gripped the siding on the doorway hard enough that his nails dug into it. "I don't know, Kat. I don't think so. You… don't have the problems she has. With any luck, you never will."

Kathryn found her fingers pinned under the incomparable strength of an insistent toddler's hand. Phoenix's other hand was reaching out, as if she was expecting Kathryn to pick her up. "Why does she have my hair?" she asked, eyes filling with tears. "Why does she have my eyes?"

"She can't…" Monty said. "Her mother… she ran away from us years ago and…"

"What was her name?" Kathryn asked, barely able to hold back tears.

Monty didn't respond.

"What was your wife's name?"

"…I can't remember." Kat didn't need to look to know that he was crying too. "Something's wrong. Something…. something's happened to me. To us."

Katherine Sinclair obeyed the inviolable command of her daughter and picked her up, holding her close. Something was at the edge of her mind, a block of some form, preventing her from remembering anything else. "…Monty?" she asked, turning towards the man. "What… what happened to me?"

The man she now knew was her husband took several gasping breaths, put his hand over his mouth, unable to stem the tears. For the first time in over a year, they were a family again, but… they weren't whole. He carefully held onto his wife, who held onto their child, and all but little Phoenix, who wasn't quite old enough to understand anything about the world, couldn't contain their emotions. There was joy, there was grief, there was anger… but that anger was directed inwards.

"I just… I'm sorry I got so… so mad." Katherine said. "I couldn't handle it. I couldn't sleep. I just… I just wanted one night to myself. I was going to come back! And then… I crashed my car and… and then…"

"I should have done more. I… I left so much to you. I didn't… I was scared." Reynolds touched his greying hair. "I'm old, Katherine. I don't… I don't want her to spend the most important years of her life without… without a father. I don't want to die before she's started to live. I was scared. I still am."

"Mama?" Phoenix asked again.

"…yeah, kiddo." Sinclair held onto her daughter. "Yeah. I'm sorry I didn't remember. I'm…" she sobbed. "How did we forget, Monty? You… you looked like you recognized me, the other day. You looked like you were starting to… to break down."

"I was. And then… Sidney came in and…" he paused. "How long have you known Sidney for?"

"…I don't know. My mind says twenty years, but… that can't be right. I didn't drop out. I… I got my doctorate… I… I…" She winced. "There's something in the way, still. I remember you, but I don't remember how I know you."

Reynolds reached out to squeeze her hand, and Katherine—

groaned. "Director Weiss, you can't be serious."

"You've wanted a lab assistant for years, Researcher Sinclair."

"I was hoping I could get someone from Sigma-3. This guy is ex-GOC?"

"Technically. He was found as part of their Sunspotting program. Their attempt to search for, and recruit, Type-Blues." Nina Weiss sat with her hands folded. "He's probably down in the lab right now, getting set up."

"The GOC see everything as a nail, and thaumaturgy is the ultimate hammer. I'm not going to be partnered with some militaristic asshole for the next five years."

"Mr. Reynolds actually has more training in alchemy than anything. All I'm asking is that you give him a chance, Katherine. Who knows? He might be able to help you earn your doctorate."

Sinclair stood and rolled her shoulders. "Okay, fine. I'll give it a chance." She exited the office, a sour expression on her face the whole elevator ride down to Sublevel 5. When she found herself in front of the door to the Thaumaturgy & Occult Studies lab, she expected to walk in and find a complete disaster area as a result of some inexperienced mage poking around at the wards.

Instead, she walked in to find a man in his late thirties with dark skin, his hair styled in dreadlocks, wearing a pass on a lanyard around his neck, writing items down on a clipboard. He had a pair of squarish glasses on, and was muttering to himself as he took notes. Katherine had to clear her throat three times before he noticed her presence.

He turned to face her, and was stunned silent for a moment, before he said, "You… must be Katherine."

"That's Researcher Sinclair to you. What are you doing?"

He held up the clipboard. "I'm taking inventory. I noticed a few discrepancies, and I wanted to make sure you didn't have something like Jeremiah's Multiplicative Grimoire interfering with your supplies."

Sinclair crossed over and looked at the clipboard, frowning. "I've… been meaning to do that," she admitted. "But this place has been so under-funded since Dr. Euler left." She looked over the list, her eyebrows climbing up her head. "Wait, where did you find my copy of Trans-Neptunian Magic? I've been looking for that for six months!"

"I brought my own copy. Integrated it into the collection. Do you mind?"

"…no," Sinclair said. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Montgomery Reynolds. My friends call me Monty."

"Well, Mr. Reynolds, let me give you the tour. Over here we have the testing chamber…"

"You saw that, too, didn't you?" Monty asked. "That flash. Of our old lives."

"It's Sid, isn't it?" Katherine worried her lip. "They're doing this to us. We… we have to do something."

"I'm not leaving Phoenix here alone," Reynolds said. "I can't even be sure the babysitter I left her with is real. We need—"

There was a knock on the front door of the apartment. They went and opened it after the knocking grew more insistent, and found a woman standing out there, with a black fedora, a leather jacket, and dark-colored jeans. Katherine recognized her immediately. "Alison? What are you doing here?"

"If you can still remember me, there's something very wrong," she sighed. "You literally are not supposed to be able to perceive me."

"You…" Reynolds frowned. "Wait, no. You're… dead, aren't you? Or… something happened to you. Why can we only just now…"

"My mortal status is up for debate," Alison sighed, her eyes turning towards the toddler Sinclair was carrying. "But for right now, I'm Nobody but a babysitter, if that's what you need."

"Are you sure?" Reynolds asked.

"Trust me, this is easy compared to what I've been doing for the last three years." Alison Carol stepped inside, putting her hat on the coat rack by the door. "Go out there and set things right."

The two of them nodded, took up their own coats, and headed back down through the largely empty building, onto the metro, back towards downtown.

The fire had done a number on Sid's Coffee Place. Part of the wall had burned down, revealing the wooden struts beneath. Three tables had been reduced to charcoal, and the smell of smoke permeated the structure. Yellow caution tape was in front of the door; Katherine and Monty ducked under it. "You think they're here?" Katherine asked.

"I'm not sure they can leave," Monty said. "I'm remembering some more things. I think they're linked to this place."

On cue, Sidney rose from behind the counter, as if an elevator was taking them up to ground level. They regarded Sinclair and Reynolds with no small measure of sadness in their eyes. "I suppose I'm rumbled, then."

Sinclair marched up to the owner of the coffee shop, grabbed them by the shirt collar, and tried punching them across the face. The instant she swung, her grip was vacant, and she was holding thin air. "What the fuck are you?"

"Is that what you want to know?" Sidney was now sitting by the window. "What answer would make sense to you? I'm a fourth absolute? I'm a manifestation of the Serpent? I'm a Swann entity that's been forced into a lower narrative layer? Maybe I'm God! Maybe I'm one of the Nameless! Maybe I'm from the void between realities!"

"How are you doing that with your voice?" Reynolds asked, looking around for anything that could be used as a weapon.

"It doesn't matter. None of this fucking matters. It hasn't mattered in a long fucking time." Sidney sighed. "I can't give you an answer as to what I am. Because I don't know at this point."

"…how long has this been going on?" Sinclair asked, balling her fist. "How long have you been abducting people and forcing them to—"

Sidney made a 'bzzt' noise. "Wrong question. I'm not doing jack shit. Have either of you ever actually seen me leave this place?"

"…to get milk…" Sinclair said.

Sidney waved their hand, and the store was inundated by hundreds of gallons of milk of all flavors, in both cartons and bottles. "I can make it so I can't be perceived for a little bit. But I'm more stuck here than you, or anyone else that's been trapped here, ever has been." They groaned, a cup of coffee appearing in their hand. "At least back before Prohibition, I ran a goddamn pub and could get drunk to forget what I've been put in. I can't even do that anymore."

"We saw you outside after the fire…" Reynolds said.

"Domain extends a bit onto the sidewalk. Not far, only up to the curb." They sipped at their drink. "And then, a few years ago, the greatest thing in the fucking world happened: I was free! The Impasse happened! Magic had gone belly-up, and with it, this place! I could go out of it for the first time since… fuck, the Fifth Occult War, I think?" They chuckled, the sound lacking any mirth. "This place was a bar in France, back then. It only came to America after the Civil War ended."

"What's… the Impasse?" Reynolds asked.

"Oh, you don't— fuck, it really is on the fritz. Hold on." Sidney waved their hand and the pair of them reeled backwards.

"Catastrophizing again, are we?"

Sinclair looked up, eyes widening as she saw Monty, clad in an expensive tuxedo that, after today, he would likely never wear again. She turned away, face flush. "Bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony, hon."

"I… well, I'm… I had trouble going in. I…" Monty paused. "It's not cold feet. I just…" He looked around. "I take it your father couldn't make it, then?"

"He tried," Sinclair shook her head. "He really did. Got as far as the bar in the terminal."

"I'm sorry."

"To hell with him." She turned to face her husband-to-be. "My mother's been out of my life for almost thirty years. Dad's been a lush for the better part of twenty. But… it's going to be awkward, walking down the aisle alone."

Reynolds said nothing, and just extended his hand. Katherine took it, and knocked on the door to the chapel proper. It opened, and a few minutes later, lengthy vows were exchanged, which ended in mutual 'I do's.

"There," Sidney said as their memories reeled back into focus. "You're welcome."

Sinclair was nauseated by the migraine resulting from the sudden flood of knowledge. Reynolds grabbed her as she started to fall, keeping her upright. "So, the Impasse… neutralized this place?" he asked.

"Killed it dead," Sidney confirmed. "I ran across the street one day to give someone change they left behind, realized that I could run across the street, closed up shop, moved to Boston, became a barback." They shook their head and chugged their latte. "Then, in October, I woke up and found myself back in here all over again. But it wasn't… right." They waved their hand. "People it pulled in started to remember. Started to break because of it. Couldn't reconcile two different lives, two different sets of memories." They looked at the sign on the window, their hands tracing the capital 'S' in 'Sid's'. "So, I figured, since there was an entire cryptomantic web over reality… maybe I could draw power from it? Revitalize it a little?"

"Why?" Reynolds asked. "Why not let it decay again so you could live a normal life?"

"This place… whatever it is, it's… not cruel. It tries to make people live somewhat decent lives. Or it tried."

Sinclair scoffed. "You— no, this place stole me away from my family for over a year! Monty was heartbroken, and… oh, I don't want to know what… my poor… what did Phoenix go through without me?" She wrung her hands together.

"What I know is this:" Sidney stood and started walking around. "This place draws in people who are at rock bottom, worst time of their life. Maybe they're literally about to die. Maybe they're broke. Maybe they think everyone in the world has given up on them because they were in a manic episode and decided to say several dozen unkind things all at once."

Sidney reappeared behind the counter. "This place gives them somewhere they can be without pain. It gives them what most people want at the end of the day: a decent job that pays well, a roof over their heads, friends to be with, a simple, quiet life without too much drama." Sidney snorted. "Everyone says they want to be in Narnia or Middle-Earth or on the Enterprise. No, the ultimate human fantasy is just… living a life that's not too complicated, where you don't have to worry about the bills, or about whether or not your kids are doing well in school, or about how the whole fucking world is going to Hell in a handbasket, and how the people who have the power to stop it are instead just pushing us closer to the edge." They sighed. "That's what this place gives everyone but me: safety. Comfort. Peace. It's why I'm letting myself be tortured by it— if someone, anyone can… can escape from the bullshit in their lives for even a few days by working here… then it's worth it."

"I think you'd have better luck improving lives outside of the USA," Sinclair pointed out.

"I barely have any control over where this thing ends up. It's sheer dumb luck that we're in your hometown, Katherine. I could just as easily have ended up in Toronto, or Kyiv, or Seoul… I ended up in Gaborone once. Botswana's a pretty nice place." Sidney paced. "Now that I don't have anyone working for me anymore… I'm going to move on. Don't know where, but hopefully I don't run into you guys again."

Reynolds frowned, an idea forming behind his eyes. "Do you know what a Nexus is?"

"This place was in Three Portlands from 1993 to 1997. Of course I know."

"What if we could make SCP-8787 move to one?" he asked. "They're wellsprings of energy, and have a relatively low Hume level. It could restore the power, and… maybe you'd be able to get into the Nexus, at least?"

"Monty…" Sinclair said. "After what this place did to us? You want to help it?"

"This place brought us back together, Katherine." He smiled. "You seem… better, now, than you were a year ago. Stressed, not sleeping… we were all worried about you back at 87."

"…the shop doesn't like being contained," Sidney said. "It wouldn't like being in the Foundation's purview."

"You've got our initialism on your shop," Sinclair pointed out, not unkindly. "It kind of already is."

Sidney thought for a moment, and shook their head. "Well, it's going to be moot, because in about thirty minutes, your guys are going to kick down the door, bust down the windows, and try to contain me. I suggest you get out before then — you've got a family, and I don't want any more blood on my hands."

"That won't happen," Sinclair said. "But… do you really want this to be your life?"

Sidney thought for a moment. "If just one person is made happy by what I do here, by me keeping this thing alive. Then it's going to be worth it."

"Don't be a martyr, Sidney," Sinclair said. "What do you want?"

Sidney swallowed, and then answered, "I… I want to see the world. All of it. I want to be able to sit down in a library and read a book. I want to have a hamburger. I want to go to a movie. I want… I want to live my own life. I…" Their breathing grew shallow, panicked. "I don't want to be here forever."

"What else can you make with your abilities?" Sinclair asked.

"Anything that can be found in a coffee shop, conceivably."

"Does that include chalk?"

The bottles and cartons of milk vanished, and a box of colored sidewalk chalk appeared on the counter. "Need them to update prices on the signs. What are you thinking?"

Sinclair took a piece of chalk, throwing another to her husband. "We're going to try to hijack this place as it moves and get it somewhere where you might be able to leave."

"…what about Phoenix?" Reynolds asked. "She's… going to be here, all alone…"

Sinclair looked at the coffee-shop's prisoner. "Do you have my phone? The one from when I crashed, not the one I have now."

Sidney produced it. "What are you going to do?"

"Phone a friend. A few of them, actually."

Date: January 26th, 2024

Location: Urban Site-56 Strategic Command Center, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

In Attendance: Rsr. Claire Sage, Head Archivist, Site-87; Dr. Django Bridge, Archivist, Site-17; Dr. Daniel Asheworth, Director, Site-120; Dr. Udo Okorie, Thaumatologist, Site-43; Dr. Ilse Reynders, Acroamatic Abatement, Site-43.

Dr. Bridge: Psi-7 should be breaching within the next twenty-five minutes.

Dr. Okorie: Think we'll be able to contain it?

Rsr. Sage: If containing a Keter were as easy as sending in Psycho Psi-7, we wouldn't have a single anomaly breaching, ever.

Dr. Asheworth: Let's just hope they don't raze the entire block in the process.

Dr. Reynders: Does… Psi-7 have a reputation for doing that?

Dr. Bridge: The Alcatraz Incident wasn't the first time a task force crashed a ship into civilian infrastructure.

Dr. Reynders: …oh.

A phone is heard ringing.

Dr. Asheworth: Who the hell is calling? It's past midnight over in Poland… let me take this.

Dr. Asheworth stands to exit the room, putting the phone to his ear. As his hand is on the door handle, he stops.

Dr. Asheworth: What? What?!

Rsr. Sage: What's going on?

Dr. Asheworth: Let me put you on speaker, hold on.

Dr. Asheworth puts his phone on the table, turning on the speaker.

Dr. Asheworth: You're live.

Dr. Katherine Sinclair: Hello? Am I presuming this is the group trying to get me out of SCP-8787's grasp?

Rsr. Sage: Dr. Sinclair?!

Rsr. Montgomery Reynolds: And family.

Dr. Bridge: You're out from under it. Good. Are you somewhere safe?

Dr. Sinclair: Well, that's the thing. From what I understand, this place is going to be hit by the military equivalent of a wrecking ball in less than half an hour, and we're trying to stop that from happening.

Dr. Okorie: You're still on-site?

Dr. Sinclair: Yes, and we're going to need someone to go and check on our daughter. What we're doing is going to be a massive drain on the power of myself, Monty, and 8787 itself.

Rsr. Sage: I'll go check on her ASAP. We have your address.

Dr. Asheworth: What are you intending to do, Sinclair?

Dr. Sinclair: We're going to open a Way. Put 8787 in containment using it.

Dr. Okorie: How?

Dr. Sinclair: I was hoping you and Daniel could help on that front, Udo. We're debating between the Pseudo-Alighieri Configuration, or Rania's Gateway.

Dr. Asheworth: Mmn, no. The building you're in's over eighty years old. You might end up under the Atlantic if you use the second one.

Dr. Okorie: Trying to do the first one in this Hemisphere will just teleport you to Undervegas. Not a good idea.

Dr. Sinclair: We're a bit strapped for supplies at the moment. If I could open a Maylon Aperture straight to Sloth's Pit, I would, but we don't have enough garnet for that.

Dr. Reynders: Why use either of them? Why not use a nomenclative link?

Dr. Sinclair: …what? How would…

Dr. Reynders: You worked at a Site with a Foundation front protected by the Frontispiece— the same one on SCP-8787 at the moment, yes? Why not link the two and move through them that way?

Dr. Bridge: Like how Three Portlands is linked together?

Dr. Reynolds: Exactly, Dr. Bridge. But.. we could risk creating a spatial link to every Foundation site that's under a front if we do that. It would be… I don't know, like Four-Hundred-and-Six Portlands?

Dr. Asheworth: It would cut down on travel expenses…

Rsr. Sage: I don't think Site-34 would be happy about having its one unique thing stolen from it.

Dr. Okorie: They still have the talking cat…

Dr. Asheworth: Psi-7 will be there in ten minutes. I concur with Reynders. A nomenclative link would be your best option.

Dr. Okorie: You're familiar with both locations, they're both linked by the Frontispiece, and all it really needs is some energy.

Dr. Bridge: Hold on. Will this put it in proper containment, or…

Rsr. Sage: What do you mean?

Dr. Bridge: Doesn't Site-87 have aboveground offices?

Rsr. Sage: They haven't been used for years. It's mainly just the lobby, and the upper levels are for storage.

Dr. Bridge: Does the magic know that? Does SCP-8787 know that?

Silence on the recording.

Dr. Okorie: I think you might want to—

Dr. Sinclair: Too late, we've already formed a link.

Dr. Asheworth: That quickly?!

Dr. Reynders: It is the most efficient path of energy, so it's not surprising…

Dr. Okorie: Kat, if we have to set up passport control at 43, I'm never going to forgive you.

Dr. Sinclair: No promises, Udo.

Dr. Reynolds: Sid— SCP-8787-A, I suggest you hold onto something, this is going to be rough.

Dr. Asheworth's phone emits a screeching sound, before the call disconnects.

Dr. Bridge: That's… ominous.

Rsr. Sage: I'm going to check on their daughter. Bridge, you mind driving?

Dr. Bridge: Do you not have a license?

Rsr. Sage: It's suspended. I rear ended the chief of police back in Sloth's Pit.

Dr. Bridge: All right. Come on. Call us if you hear anything further.

Bridge and Sage exit. They confirm the well-being of Sinclair and Reynold's daughter, Phoenix Reynolds, within twenty minutes.

Irrelevant conversation has been excised; after approximately one half hour, Dr. Asheworth's phone rings again.

Dr. Asheworth: Sinclair?

Dr. Sinclair: Sorry it took so long, my phone got fried by the jump, had to find a landline. So… good news, we didn't create a spatial tunnel to every Foundation site protected by a front organization.

Dr. Okorie: What's the bad news?

Dr. Sinclair: I… think we may have just put one of the only decent cafe's in Sloth's Pit out of business.

Dr. Reynders: How do you mean?

Dr. Sinclair: Okay, you know how Wettle used to have that joke about Site-43 having a Tim Horton's in Habitation and Sustenance?

Dr. Asheworth: Oh no…

Rsr. Reynolds: On the bright side… we're home.

Item#: 8787

Containment Class: safe

Secondary Class: none

Disruption Class: dark

Risk Class: notice

The interior of SCP-8787, viewed from Site-87's lobby. Window in background does not correspond to any exterior aperture on Site-87.

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-8787 is allowed to operate as a cafe and eatery within Site-87's lobby. In the event a non-approved SCP-8787-B instance appears, Site-87 staff are to ascertain their identity, as well as attempt to relocate them outside of the anomaly.

SCP-8787 is to be monitored for spikes in anomalous energy, including EVE, Akiva radiation, and memetic particles such as phonemes. It is currently drawing energy from Nexus-18 to sustain its anomalous properties, but to date, this drain has been negligible.

The former SCP-8787-A instance is considered non-anomalous, but is being monitored by Foundation forces. It has been allowed a level of autonomy under Reintegration Protocols, provided they return to Site-87 at least once every two months.

Description: SCP-8787 refers to an anomalous construct resembling an American cafe. Since January of 2024, SCP-8787 has occupied a previously vacant portion of Site-87's ground floor, off the side of the main lobby. Currently, SCP-8787 uses the name "The Roast Not Taken" for its business, which is supported by tax documents it has generated anomalously. Currently, SCP-8787's primary anomaly is the fact that is capable of generating any supplies needed for the continued maintenance of a coffee shop of its size, including foodstuffs, drinks, cleaning solutions, tools needed to conduct repairs, and paychecks.

SCP-8787 is capable of anomalously recruiting individuals and transforming them into SCP-8787-B instances. SCP-8787-B instances are humans that have been mentally conditioned into believing they have always worked in SCP-8787 as a server or barista. Current SCP-8787-B instances — consisting of a crew of ten E-Class personnel from Nexus-18, with rotating shifts — are cognizant of the fact that SCP-8787 is anomalous, and do not appear to have had any mental conditioning placed upon them.

SCP-8787-A referred to Sidney Charmer, who, prior to the current iteration of containment procedures, was believed to the proprietor of SCP-8787. In reality, Charmer was beholden to SCP-8787 and had been for several centuries. SCP-8787-A was aware of its anomalous properties and could exert some form of control over it, but could not leave the establishment. Following current containment efforts, SCP-8787-A lost all anomalous properties.

SCP-8787 was contained in Site-87's lobby on January 26th, 2024, after two Foundation personnel who had been converted into SCP-8787-B instances — thaumaturge Dr. Katherine Sinclair and her husband, Dr. Montgomery Reynolds — formed a nomenclative link between the previous iteration of SCP-8787 ("Sid's Coffee Place") and Site-87 (which uses the front "S & C Plastics") using the Foundation-created memetic complex known as the Frontispiece to transport SCP-8787 from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin.

Since this transportation, SCP-8787's anomalous properties have greatly diminished; previously, it was capable of transforming any human, regardless of distance to itself, into an SCP-8787-B instance. Following its relocation, it seems to draw on the population of Nexus-18 for its employees, who are aware of its anomalous properties.

The exact nature of SCP-8787's anomaly remains unknown to the Foundation. However, due to the ease of its containment and relatively benign anomaly, its containment is no longer a top priority.

Addendum: Debriefing Interviews:

Interviewer: Rsr. Montgomery Reynolds

Subject: SCP-8787-A

SCP-8787-A: So. Am I going to be in a cell for the rest of my life?

Rsr. Reynolds: Depends on how you answer my questions.

SCP-8787-A: Where's your wife?

Rsr. Reynolds: Being debriefed by someone else. She'll probaby lose access to the site for a while, which is a pity; I'd loved to have shown her that submarine we have in containment.

SCP-8787-A: And you're not?

Rsr. Reynolds: I was under the effects for less than seventy-two hours. You had her in there for almost a year and a half. It's a small miracle she's not lost her job. Now… do you have any anomalous capabilities?

SCP-8787-A: What, are you expecting me to conjure you a chai latte with two pumps of almond milk out of thin air?

Rsr. Reynolds: …that's my favorite thing to get. How…

SCP-8787-A: As far as I can tell, the most I have right now is a weak telepathy that tells me what someone's favorite drink is. As can be evidenced by the fact that I'm inside an interrogation room—

SCP-8787-A knocks on the wall.

SCP-8787-A: —and not in the cafe, I'm not rooted to it any longer. But… c'mon. Is the Foundation really going to lock someone up because they have fucking barista telepathy?

Rsr. Reynolds: Not my call to make. But… the Foundation doesn't… how do I describe this…

SCP-8787-A: Hmm?

Rsr. Reynolds: The Foundation doesn't seem to be able to… function properly here. There was this guy a decade ago, no-nonsense type of person, who tried to audit the site. His name was Matthew… something-or-other. Tried to get us all fired for 'unprofessional behavior'.

SCP-8787-A: What happened?

Rsr. Reynolds: The official story is that he was run out of town by the Goatman. But there have been rumors that our head of security, Nick Ewell, helped scare him off. In short, there's something about Sloth's Pit… something that I think happens in most Nexuses, come to think of it, that kind of just… makes the Foundation's core ideals break down. By all rights, this town should be under an impenetrable acrylic dome, and every citizen should be in containment or dead for what they know.

SCP-8787-A: Seems impractical.

Rsr. Reynolds: That's my pet theory, that the Foundation finds it more practical to let people live their lives. Don't tell Katherine this, but I do not put any stock in pataphysics.

SCP-8787-A: So what you're saying is… it would be more practical to let me out of here than to keep me in a cell?

Rsr. Reynolds: That's not the only thing they could do. The Foundation could always grind you into a pulp and feed you to SCP-10███.

SCP-8787-A: What?!

Rsr. Reynolds: Bit of dark humor. I think I'm entitled to a bit of it after what I've been through.

SCP-8787-A: Look, it's not my fault you got drawn into it.

Rsr. Reynolds: That's the only instance of it I'll allow. Have you retained any anomalous knowledge?

SCP-8787-A: You mean like… how I got in there? Fuck if I know. Once you live a few centuries, your mind starts to blur everything together.

Rsr. Reynolds: What's the oldest thing you can remember?

SCP-8787-A stands and paces.

SCP-8787-A: I think… I remember killing the previous owner of the shop, back when it was a bar. But that was yonks ago.

Rsr. Reynolds: Can you pin a year to it?

SCP-8787-A: …uh, shit. Maybe… thirteen?

Rsr. Reynolds: Thirteen… hundred?

SCP-8787-A: No, thirteen.

Rsr. Reynolds: B.C.? A.D.?

SCP-8787-A: Monty… you mind if I call you that? I don't fucking know because, when I set up shop in Rome for the first time, Yeshua bin Yusuf was just some a hillbilly cult leader who occasionally tried to peddle some really watered-down booze to me.

Silence on the recording.

SCP-8787-A: Ha! The look on your face. <SCP-8787-A laughs.> Sorry, couldn't resist. Nah, I'm fuckin' with ya. 1307, I think. Somewhere in Wales? I can't remember much beyond that, I'm afraid. Sorry.

Rsr. Reynolds: We'll take the information into consideration. But like I said.. there's something about this place that makes the Foundation's hoarding behavior break down. There's a good chance you're going to be able to… live a normal life. Or what passes for it here.

SCP-8787-A: I'll stop by whenever I can. For old times' sake.

Rsr. Reynolds: Any other pertinent information?

SCP-8787-A: You able to contact SCP-105 at all? Iris?

Rsr. Reynolds: I know someone who knows someone on ETTRA. Why?

SCP-8787-A: Tell her that Abe misses her dearly, if you can.

O5 Command, ETTRA, and Alpha-9 are currently debating whether this message should be delivered to SCP-105.

Interviewer: Colonel Malcolm Guillard, Section Head, Investigations & Retrieval, Site-87

Subject: Dr. Katherine Jean Sinclair

Dr. Sinclair: So… what's the damage?

Col. Guillard: A lot.

Dr. Sinclair: Am I being terminated?

Col. Guillard: From what I understand, Director Bailey called in every favor but one to make sure that didn't happen. But… Sinclair, what you did was profoundly unprofessional and fucked up.

Dr. Sinclair: Is this you talking to me as a member of the Foundation, or—

Col. Guillard: This is me talking to you as the guy who used to play Hammerheart the Broad in Bailey's Pathfinder game.

Silence on the recording.

Col. Guillard: You vanished for over a year, Katherine.

Dr. Sinclair: It was hardly my fault that 8787 drew me in.

Col. Guillard: Which is about half of the reason why you're being allowed to stay in the Foundation. But… you abandoned your husband. Your kid. That doesn't sound like you. That isn't you. What happened, Katherine?

Silence on the recording.

Dr. Sinclair: …do you know anything about my mother, Malcolm?

Col. Guillard: I saw in her file that you're estranged from her.

Dr. Sinclair: She's… not well. She had episodes when I was younger, and eventually, she… hurt someone.

Col. Guillard: Hurt how?

Dr. Sinclair: She got rear-ended driving home with groceries and got out of the car, started attacking the driver. It was just a fender-bender, and she dislocated his jaw. She was committed to Belmont, a mental health center in Philadelphia. Claims to not even remember it. I… I'm afraid of turning out like her.

Col. Guillard: You've… never been diagnosed with any mood disorders, have you?

Dr. Sinclair: A shrink I saw at my college diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder. Dr. Palmer doesn't seem to think so, but he goes easy on everyone here.

Col. Guillard: What do you think?

Dr. Sinclair: I think that… there's no excusing what I did. I failed as a mother, and I failed my duty to this place, and to these people. What sort of punishment am I getting, exactly?

Col. Guillard: A few things. Let me read out the report.

Col. Guillard produces the minutes of a disciplinary hearing on Dr. Sinclair.

Col. Guillard: "Disappointed by this behavior in a loyal member of Foundation personnel", "meritorious actions in the past have been taken into account"… "Actions Taken: 1) Dr. Sinclair is to be demoted from head of Occult Studies and Thaumaturgy at Site-87, and is not allowed to hold the position of Department Head for five calendar years. 2) For a period of two calendar years, any egress from Nexus-18 must be undertaken with a Foundation escort to ensure that this behavior is not repeated. 3) Mandatory psychiatric counseling, twice a week, for three calendar years and 4) Mandatory leave of absence for a period of two weeks."

Dr. Sinclair: Could be worse. Could be put on thaumosuppressants. Who's going to be the new OS&T head?

Col. Guillard: A couple of people are coming on. Rudolph Carmichael from Site-91, he's…

Dr. Sinclair: I'm aware of his condition. Worked with him a couple of times. He's department head, though? With how his brand of thaumaturgy behaves—

Col. Guillard: He's not. Do you remember Matthew Broderick?

Dr. Sinclair: What does the most wooden actor in— wait, you mean the Tax Man? That asshole who tried to audit 87 a decade ago?!

Col. Gullard: He goes by Matthew Richardson now. Got tired of the jokes.

Dr. Sinclair: He's a thaumaturge?! How? I didn't detect a lick of aura on him when he tried to read me the riot act—

Col. Guillard: Apparently a few months after the audit, he [DATA EXPUNGED].

Dr. Sinclair: …on accident?

Col. Guillard: That's what his file says.

Dr. Sinclair: How do you accidentally [REDACTED]? They wriggle around when you—

Col. Guillard: He was doing an audit on Site-55 at the time, during the whole thing with the—

Dr. Sinclair: Jay told me about that a few years ago. Poor bastard. Hell of a way to have an awakening.

Silence on the recording.

Dr. Sinclair: Do you need anything else? I have to go pick up my daughter from daycare. If I'm on mandatory LOA, I might as well make the most of it. Make up for lost time.

Col. Guillard: Are you allergic to anything? Nuts, chocolate?

Dr. Sinclair: What?

Col. Guillard: Liao refuses to cough up your medical file, and we need to make sure that the 'welcome back' cake we're buying you isn't going to kill you.

Dr. Sinclair laughs.

Dr. Sinclair: As long as you don't bake it with dust mites, I should be fine.

Col. Guillard: Good to have you back, Katherine.

Dr. Sinclair: Good to be back.

Footnotes

1. A memetic aegis that protects the Foundation from discovery from outside groups, embedded in the "SCP" initialism used in several front companies.

2. A chain of coffee shops largely present in the Southern United States, Japan, and South Korea, acting as Foundation resupply stations for field agents.

3. A joint investigative committee of Foundation and USGOV forces that formed following the collapse of MTF-Omega-7 ("Pandora's Box") in order to investigate the circumstances that led to its failure; the committee briefly reformed in 2022 to investigate the Alcatraz Island Incident.

4. An individual that can modify, create, or erase memories.

5. An individual capable of manipulating and traversing time without the need for exterior equipment; imperfect chronokinesis is demonstrated through evidence left in the timeline of their alterations.

6. Old Daevite phrase. Approximate meaning is 'Wake and serve'.

7. Salah Zairi, Lewitt's husband since 2011.

8. Deprecated Horizon Initiative terminology for a divine entity.

9. Naomi Ibtisam Lewitt-Zairi, born December 2013.

10. The University of Pittsburgh.