When vincent Anderson regained control of his motor functions, 
he found himself sitting on an overstuffed armchair in a secluded 
alcove of the Wanderer's Library. Tall shelves towered over him, 
each crammed with all manners of books, scrolls, CDs, tapes, and 
tomes. The shadows of the physical manifestation of knowledge 
provided a sense of secrecy to the location. A pungent fog of dust 
and paper hung in the air. 


As he surveyed his surroundings, Anderson noticed PSHUD #34 
and several other Peregrine units waited nearby, plastic eyes locked 
on to the cyborg as he carefully stood up and approached his 
creations. As he gingerly closed the distance between them, he 
noticed that upon each droid's lapel was a Maxwellist pin. 


"The Hand is taking on Maxwellists now?" Anderson asked. 


"You don't need to be a member of the Hand to help them launch a 
raid," a hoarse voice replied. 


Anderson turned. A man in a dark suit watched him from the 
shadows. His brown hair was neatly trimmed, while the left side of 
his body was interwoven with tendrils of white aramid fabric. Just as 
with the droids, he also wore a Maxwellist pin. 


"Recognize me?" the man asked, gesturing to himself. 


Anderson paused. Images flashed before his mechanical eyes as he 
poured over his memory, finally arriving at a picture of a young boy 
who had lost a hand, a leg, an eye, and his mother in a car accident. 


"Aaron Howell..." 
The man smiled and nodded. 


"Your ghosts have come back to haunt you, Mr. Anderson," Aaron 


chuckled. "And we need your help." 
Anderson shook his head. 


"Whatever you want me to make, or repair, or improve will only bring 
you tragedy. You of all people should know that, Aaron." 


Anderson paused. 
"I'm deeply sorry for what happened to you, by the way. We-" 


"I'm not the one you need to apologize to," Aaron interrupted. "Do 
me a favor and look at those souls behind you." 


Anderson turned to face the gathered droids. As he did, more 
emerged, stepping out from behind bookcases, alcoves, and the 
very shadows themselves. Their numbers increased until he could 
no longer count them; they clogged the tight walkways, crammed 
together in a sea of black aramid and white plastic. 


"I'm sure you know how popular your Gyrfalcon series was with the 
Maxwellists. Well, go figure Maxwellism was popular among the 
Sakers and Peregrines. What peace you failed to provide them they 
found here, and in the Church." 


"And | am absolutely thrilled about that," Anderson replied, unable to 
tear his eyes away from the crowd before him. "But what exactly is 
your point?" 


"You know what will happen to those souls when their mortal coils 
break down," Aaron's hoarse voice whispered in Anderson's ear. "| 
refuse to allow devoted followers of WAN to be condemned to a 
monochromatic purgatory. | want you to develop a device we can 
place in the Forest that can allow these souls to convert themselves 
into data, so they may finally return to WAN." 


"How on Earth do you expect me to do that?" Anderson asked. 
"What you're talking about is a feat of data transmutation of 
immense-" 


"Then | guess it’s a good thing you're a genius in the multiverses' 
single largest collection of knowledge, isn't it.” 


Anderson frowned. 
"And if | refuse?" 


"Then you're just choosing one cell over another. You won't be able 
to leave the Library, Mr. Anderson," Aaron gave a sly smile. "The 
UIU will capture you if you try to break for Portlands. If you try to slip 
back into the mundane world the Jailors will get you, assuming 
representatives from MC&D don't take you out first. | hear they are 
not too keen on people selling them out." 


Anderson sneered. 


"The Wanderer's Library is a pretty fucking comfortable cell, jackass. 
And | don't exactly have that much time left to wait, regardless." 


"Then perhaps a different carrot." Aaron shrugged. "What do you 
think will happen to you when your body fails? You'll end up in the 
Forest just like them. Wouldn't it be nice if you had a way out or at 
least a way to quell the anger of the several thousand souls you've 
forsaken.”? 


Anderson's sneer vanished. He looked over the droids once more, 
and then closed his eyes. 


"If | help you... will you help me?" 
Aaron Howell extended a handshake. 


"You have my word." 


Agent Jessie Merlo sat in her office, covering her mouth as she 
laughed through a bite of food. Across from her, past a disorganized 
desk buried in files, notes, and a standard Foundation PC, sata 
short, snickering man in a white coat, a stethoscope dangled around 
his neck, partially obscured by neck length black hair. The patch on 
his left shoulder indicated that he was a physician for the 
Foundation's Medical Division. 


"Needless to say," Dr. Desmond Rhodes paused, fighting through 
his own laughter, "We needed a lot more cotton balls after that." 


The young couple continued laughing for several more moments, 
savoring the brief time in their busy schedules to enjoy lunch in the 
others company. It was only when a knock came at the door that the 
laughter stopped. 


"It's open," Jessie said, regaining her composure. 


An older woman entered, dressed in a suit with brown rimmed 
glasses. Her hair was done back in a neat bun, streaks of gray 
running through the brown. 


Jessie's smile faded. 
Desmond immediately sat up in his chair. 
"Director," he said, his voice taking on a professional tone. 


"Dr. Rhodes," Sasha Merlo said, an amused smirk on her lips. "May 
| have a moment with your wife?” 


The physician nodded, then left without another word. Once they 
were alone, Sasha turned her attention to the room. On the back 
wall, obscured slightly by the furniture, was the ever familiar, but 
now faded, emblem of MTF Gamma-13. 


"| like what you've done with the place," Sasha went on, picking up a 
framed picture of her daughter and son-in-law on a backpacking trip. 
The two beamed at the camera as the former had her arm around 
the latter's shoulders. Sasha smiled as she placed the frame back 
and pointed at the electric blue clock nearby. "You even have my old 
wall clock." 


"Shaw said she'd kill me if | took it down." Jessie grinned. 
"Personally, | think it's ugly as hell." 


Sasha held her hand to her mouth in mock shock, then shook her 
head and chuckled. 


"Anyway, what have you got for me. Where is our man?" 


"All of my sources point to him still being in the Library." Jessie 
sighed. "We can probably keep him bottled in there indefinitely, but 


until we know what his next move is he's got a window to get the 
upper hand. Again. | don't think we're going to be able to capture-" 


"Terminate." 
Jessie paused. 
"Excuse me?" 


"The O5 Council has ordered SCP-3860's termination," Sasha 
replied. "Given Vince's got maybe six months left, at best, the 
powers that be have decided it’s time to wash our hands of him. 
You'll likely get the official orders here soon." 


Jessie nodded. "I see. You seem regretful?" 


"lf this was the path we were going to end up going down we could 
have simply been done with this a lot sooner. A lot of agents gave 
their lives to put Anderson away. This just cheapens it." 


The two fell silent, Jessie watching her mother lose herself in 
thought briefly. Eventually, the young agent broke the trance. 


"You've got more experience with Anderson than anyone. Any idea 
what his next move might be?" 


"If | had to guess? He'll go after Phineas. Vincent doesn't like 
leaving loose ends. He's running out of time." 


"That would require him to get from the Library to Site-64. could 
he do that without going through Three Portlands?" 


"Fuck if | Know." Sasha sighed, thinking to herself. After a brief 
moment, she smiled. "But | might know a guy..." 


Anderson rubbed his artificial eyes in exhaustion as he poured over 
technical notes and books on Data Transmutation Theory. A pile of 
schematic sketches and crumpled paper had accumulated in the 
vicinity around him, forming a small fortification that boxed him in at 
his desk. Eventually, he sighed and spun around in his chair. 


603-FT-2012 


Supplementary File for SCP-603: 


ID: SCP-603-70 

Aliases: Tamagotchi 

Compiled on: 09-Mar-20 

Recorded by: Dr. Brown 

Description: An image of a face is rendered to the window using 
three circles and one line. Three symbols are rendered at the bottom 
right of the window. An adjective is displayed above the face which 
changes periodically to reflect the current mood of Dr. Giles. The 
appearance of the face does not change. 


The connection with Dr. Giles was discovered when he reported to 
Site 6 medical center with complaints of narcolepsy, motion sickness 
and fatigue. Further testing performed by Dr. Brown and Dr. Giles 
confirmed the connection. 


Surveillance indicates that Dr. Giles was the closest person to the 
SCP-603 computer system when SCP-603-70 was first run. 


The user may use the mouse to click on the symbols at the bottom 
right of the window. The symbols exhibit different biological effects 
on Dr. Giles depending on the current adjective. Though the 
symbols often have varying results, some adjective-symbol 
combinations have been proven to always exhibit same effect. 
These have been documented below: 


Adjective: Hungry 

Button 1: Dr. Giles will experience a strong desire to seek out food. 
Button 2: Will eliminate feelings of hunger in Dr. Giles for up to one 
hour. 

Button 3: Dr. Giles will vomit immediately. 


Adjective: Tired 
Button 1: Dr. Giles will retire to the staff room for one hour. 


"| should just kill myself now," he mumbled. 
"You mustn't say such things, Vince." 


Anderson looked up to see a muscular man in a well-tailored suit 
standing nearby. His salt and pepper hair was neatly combed back, 
and the strong scent of cologne wafted from him. The man smiled 
and approached the desk, placing a briefcase down on top of 
Anderson's work. 


"Isaac Dillard." Anderson gave a curt nod. "What on earth brings you 
here?" 


"Mr. Howell reached out to Medea to see what could be done to help 
you along since you've stalled so heavily," Isaac replied. He handed 
Anderson an aging manuscript marked with a familiar emblem of a 
flame. "She called in a favor | owed her. We were able to recover 
this." 


Anderson's lips curled into a melancholy smile. 
"Medea's here too?" 
Isaac shook his head. 


"You got Jason killed, champ. Let's say she opted to keep a 
‘respectable distance’. She's doing well, though. Her and-" Isaac 
snapped several times as he attempted to remember a name. "Myra 
something- she has her own company now. Phoenix Cybernetics." 


"Glad to hear someone kept the torch lit." Anderson sighed once 
more. "What about-" 


"Excuse me?" 


Anderson and Isaac turned at the interruption. An old, ragged- 
looking man in a trench coat and sunglasses peeked into the alcove. 
His face was plastered with unkempt stubble. "The librarians said 
you were in the possession of the Niebauer Manual of Analytical 
Thaumatology, | was wondering if-" 


The man stopped. Isaac and Anderson stared him down in dead 


silence. 
The old man held up two gloved hands in surrender. 


"I'll just come back later," he said, and quickly took his leave, 
vanishing behind a row of shelves. 


Anderson turned his attention back to Isaac to see the businessman 
already packing up his briefcase. 


"Do you think | can get you to pass on a message to Medea and any 
of the Sakers still in contact with her?" 


Isaac shook his head. 


"Howell was very specific that you are to remain incommunicado, 
and | am not picking a fight with militant Maxwellists. They are far 
too valuable of clients for my employers." 


"You're a real greedy bastard, you know that?" Anderson frowned. 


"Yeah? Well, it helps me make people lots of money." Isaac 
shrugged. "That's why you and Phineas hired me, remember? 
Godspeed, Vince." 


Anderson closed his eyes as Isaac departed. When he opened 
them, he peered down at the new manuscript. 


"Do you think | could get that book, now?" the old man asked, 
peeking back in. 


"| have to say, I'm impressed," Jessie Merlo said. "| wasn't expecting 
to hear back from you for at least a few weeks. Months, even." 


Standing before her desk was an old, ragged looking man. His 
stubble had recently been trimmed. He shrugged and handed Jessie 
a flash drive. 


"Believe it or not, finding someone in the Library is not exactly the 
most difficult thing in the world if you know where to look. Besides, 
even in the Library, Anderson isn't exactly what you'd call 


inconspicuous." 
"Fair enough." Jessie grinned. "So, what's he planning?" 


"| honestly can't tell you. Whatever it is, it's pretty fucking esoteric. 
Some Maxwellist guy is forcing him to work on something. 
Something about converting robot ghosts into data for WAN. Not my 
area of expertise. Still, you have over five days' worth of audio and 
video on that flash drive. More than enough for your crack team to 
figure it out, I'm sure." 


The old man made his way towards the door. 


"I'm out. Tell your mom she's officially called in the last favor | owed 
her from the Jericho business." He opened the door and paused, 
looking back with a sly smile. "Oh, and | promise you that if anyone 
else shows up to pull me out of retirement again, I'll literally set them 
on fire. Literally." 


The man disappeared into the hallway, passing a confused 
Desmond along the way. The physician looked over his shoulder as 
he entered the office, placing two takeout containers down on the 
desk. 


"Was that-" Desmond asked his wife, his mouth slightly ajar. 


"Navarro? Yeah," Jessie replied, eyes upon her monitor as she 
plugged the newly acquired flash drive into her computer. "I'm afraid 
it's going to need to be a short lunch, sweetie. We've got a lead." 


The physician sighed and nodded. "Of course." He slid her one of 
the takeout containers. 


"Can't fight robots on an empty stomach, though. | should know. I'm 
a doctor." 


« The Vanishing of Vincent Anderson | End of Line | The Best 
Laid Plans » 


Volatile Memory 


Assistant Director of Task Forces Clarissa Shaw sighed and 
removed her glasses. Closing her eyes, she rubbed the bridge of 
her nose. The image of Vincent Anderson screaming bloody murder 
while being dragged through a portal by several spectral robots 
played out on a screen before her. Eventually, the footage stopped. 


"That is... disappointing,” she said, returning her glasses to their 
rightful place. 


"You're preaching to the choir." UIU Special Agent in Charge 
Kenneth Spencer answered with a sigh of his own. "You don't think 
we'll get lucky and the ghosts will kill him, do you?" 


"Possible but given Anderson's silver tongue, | wouldn't hold my 
breath." 


Spencer nodded in agreement. 
"What are you going to do now?" 


"Call in the experts for this kind of thing." Shaw shrugged. "Fortify 
Site—64. | highly recommend you do the same here." 


Shaw paused. 


"Are your people going to be alright? | know you don't like us 
hanging around Portlands, but if you need extra hands-" 


Spencer held up a hand and shook his head. 
"We'll be fine," he replied. "Not exactly UlUseless." 


The grizzled veteran cracked a small smile. Shaw returned with one 
of her own. 


"Godspeed, Kenneth." Shaw extended a handshake. 


"Likewise," Spencer said as he accepted. "Take care of yourself, 
skipper.” 


Within the depths of a monochrome forest, a single point of color 
was dragged through the fog by spectral Peregrine units. The old 
man had long since stopped his struggle and resigned to his fate. 
The bed had been made and it was time to lie in it.