As he followed the blinking lights directing him and other staff 
members to the emergency, he knew his string of good luck had run 
out. Since "running towards a major threat" was something Bibs did 
all the time, it gave him the time to mentally tick off all the good 
events in the past month that (in his own opinion) caused whatever 
Bad Thing had just happened. 


At the start of the month, he discovered a new way of containing 
SCP-409. Bombarding a source of 409 with high-impact sonar 
waves causes the crystals to dissolve into a non-contagious gel. It 
made complete sense to him, since 409 was just White Tiberium, 
but it was a surprise to everyone else. Last Bibs heard about it, the 
eggheads-with-actual-eggs-in-their-heads were working on figuring 
out why it worked. 


A week or so later, he had done... something about SCP-055. He 
wasn't sure what he did, or anything, and regularly forgot that he 

had done anything. All that remained of the event in his memory was 
the existence of 055 itself. It was a strange feeling, Bibs thought, to 
have a memory that actively wanted to escape. He could feel the the 
memory of 055 rattling through his brain, careening off memories 
and mental fanwanks and creations, trying to find a gap. So far, all it 


had accomplished was leaving residue of itself on other memories of 
his. 


A little bit after that, there was that... thing with Rights. Even in his 
head, he refused to actually specifically mention it. Every once ina 
while, when he was all alone, he did a little dance in celebration. It 
was almost worth the beating Bright gave him when he found out. 


Of course, the pride of the month was a few days ago. Abel knew 
that Bibs was a jumpy person, and since Abel was a prick, he 
enjoyed taking advantage of that. Without fail, the outcome was the 
same: Bibs jumped upward, urine flowed downward, and Abel 
laughed. But one time, one rare and precious time, only jumping 
happened. So proud that he hadn't wet himself, Bibs proceeded to 
dance a finely-tuned jig in front of the Sumerian warrior. Since Abel 
was a prick, though, he didn't appreciate it. 


At the end of the mental voyage, he jumped through the double- 
doors to where the emergency was. The scene was chaos, as to be 
expected. When the blinking lights and klaxons announcing a 
containment breach were going off, chaos always springs up. 
Something was very, very wrong, and very unexpected. 


One of the few things that kept Bibs employed by the Foundation 
was that his sense of fear was off-kilter compared to everyone 
else's. Things that scared everyone else didn't phase him too much. 
It wasn't bravado or courage, it was simply that almost everything 
the Foundation dealt with had some analogue, even distant ones, to 
some story he read at one time or another. Even if there wasn’t, his 
mind created one. What scared Bibs were the warning signs that 
something the Foundation was handling reminded him of a Bad 
Event from something he'd read. The rate of such worries weren't 
extremely high, but they were high enough that he wasn't fired when 
performance reviews came up. 


What was in front of Bibs and the rest of the Foundation was a 
perfect example of this. To everyone else in the room, the 
frightening aspect was that the SCP attempting to escape 
confinement was SCP-682. They were afraid of how it was spewing 
forth thick gobs of acidic blood from its mouth and eyes, threatening 
to dissolve the walls of its containment. They were afraid of how any 


weapons fired at 682 were bouncing off its flesh with a flash of light. 


Bibs, Agent of the Foundation, wasn't phased by that too much. He 
trusted his fellow co-workers to contain 682 by itself. But what did 
frighten him was what was around 682's neck. It looked like a rusted 
iron necklace, digging into 682's flesh. It didn't look right, but it didn't 
take an idiot to know what it was. 


It did, however, take an idiot (Bibs himself) to fix it. So he ran back to 
his office, knowing he had the tools to stop the problem. 


There was one more thing he was afraid of. He was afraid of getting 
blamed for the containment breach. 


It was his fault. 


Two Weeks Earlier 


Bibs stood near SCP-914, holding what he wanted to refine in his 
hand. He was childishly excited to be given permission to do so. As 
with most of his suggestions, the O5s were hesitant to allow him to 
do it. They had every right to be, since it was a vanity experiment, 
with little actual benefit to the Foundation. Bibs made as such clear 
during his proposal. But in knowing that, he provided as much 
information explaining the objects to the higher-ups, so they 
understood what he wanted to do. These were good ones, not the 
bad ones, and he was only going to set 914 to Fine. There was very 
little chance of anything going wrong. 


Eventually, he was given permission. If there was a line between 
"Giving Bibs Permission To Do Something Because It Had Value" 
and "Giving Bibs Permission To Do Something To Get Him To Stop 
Asking For Permission", he didn't know about it. Thankfully, such 
distinctions only occasionally depressed him. 


Bibs, Agent of the Foundation, stared briefly at the 914's knob, set to 
Fine. The setting Very Fine was tempting, but really, it had taken 
him too long to get permission for Fine, much less Very Fine. To get 
permission for Very Fine, he'd have to start the approval process all 
over again. Even if he wanted to do that (and he wasn't sure he 


wanted to, really), it'd mean a whole bunch more paperwork and 
begging. He wondered which one he'd have to do more. 


Well, it didn't hurt to ask, did it? He turned around to ask the guard, 
required by policy to be with him during the experiment, a question. 
To his surprise, he wasn't there. Odd, he thought. He turned around 
and went through the door. He went to the door to 914's 
containment room to find out why, and the two guards there were 
gone too. Damned odd. 


Bibs wasn't the kind of person who complained when rules weren't 
followed - after all, he was usually skirting the occasional rule or six - 
but never the big ones. Containment Procedures were the biggest of 
the big rules. With 914, one guard was always with the guy doing 
the test, and two were positioned outside. Three guards, all away at 
the same time. He groaned. More likely than not, the Observation 
staff in the booth above 914 had let them take a break. Yeah, Bibs 
whined to himself. /t's not like I'm in need of protection or anything.. 


Time to call the folks in the booth. He flipped open his 
communicator. "Hey, it's Bibs. We got an O5 on-site? Last minute 
request to alter my experiment a bit. It's against the rules to change 
an experiment on the fly, and I'd rather not be shot for doing it 
without permission." 


Nothing. 


Groaning, he craned his head to look at the booth. He just barely 
was able to make out a crudely-written sign saying "BRB COFFEE" 
on it. 


Now, Bibs was annoyed. Sure, his uncanny ability to infiltrate and 
investigate without being noticed was invaluable in his role as a 
Foundation Agent. He could get into places, go where he wanted, 
and nobody bothered him because he always acted like he 
belonged there. Or lost and confused. Or like he belonged there, but 
lost and confused. 


But that ‘gift’ became really annoying when he wasn't in the field, 
and people forgot that he was around. Like today. 


He looked at the objects he planned to run through 914. Little toys, 
of no value to most people but himself. Shiny plastic promotional 
items. He figured 914 would turn them metallic on the Fine setting. 
Maybe fit a little bit better, since they were designed to be worn by 
much fatter people. 


He waited a few more minutes for someone to come back. He 
kicked the wall a few times. He contemplated peeing on the wall, 
figuring that would get someone's attention. But there was a fine line 
between "| Told You Not To Leave Me Alone" and "Actually Crazy." 


Bibs was annoyed at being ignored. He had an experiment to run. 
The Observation Staff and the Guards were AWOL. They were the 
ones breaking all the rules. 


The Very Fine setting was very tempting. 


Today 


Bibs had already worked out how this all happened by the time he 
returned to the containment breach. 


His first assumption was worked out, contemplated, and rejected 
before he even reached his office. Someone e/se had found out 
what he did with 914, and replicated his methods. Whoever it was, 
the ignorant fool decided it would be a great idea to use a different 
ones than he did. They used one of the bad ones, it got away from 
them, and it chose the finest bearer it could. 


As he reached his office, he had already judged that assumption as 
false. Nobody knew he what he had done. Sure enough, it was the 
guards and the Observation Staff that got reamed out for dereliction 
of duty. He was Bibs, Agent of the Foundation, so nobody doubted 
him as he filled out the test results. Two objects, fine setting, Two 
objects, metallic. No other change, with a "Aw Shucks, It's A Shame 
It Didn't Do What | Had Hoped!" note. 


No, this was his fault, albeit indirectly. He, using 914, had created 
two of them. Good Ones. But just like the stories they came from, 
the Good Ones' existence brought forth other ones. Bad Ones. 


Nature abhors a vacuum, a vacuum created by his own hand. 


Bibs slammed into the door to the containment booth, and 682 was 
still trying to escape. The Guards, reduced in number but no less 
determined, had kept the reptile contained. Its cage had seen better 
days, missing sections but still keeping the beast contained. The 
walls steamed from the acidic blood 682 continued to burst forth. 


The red-iron necklace was still clamped to its neck. Nobody else 
would understand what was going on, but to Bibs it was clear as 
day. The red necklace was demanding control and ownership over 
682, and 682 was having none of that. Its physiology was not only 
rejecting the necklace, but attempting to assimilate it. 


Bibs found a big enough hole to fit his fist through. He slipped one of 
the rings onto his finger and stuck his hand in. He closed his eyes 
and concentrated. Whatever 914 had turned them into, they didn't 
work as they were supposed to. But they worked. 


The weapon Bibs used was supposed to make anything he thought 
of, but that one of the ways the ring didn't work quite right. It chose 
whatever images it wanted to, which is why everyone saw a massive 
green Abel suddenly appear in 682's cage. it was wearing a harchat, 
though, and instead of a massive blade, it was wielding a giant 
wrench. That's odd as all git-out, Bibs said to himself. 


The Green Abel pinned 682 underneath its knees, holding 682's 
head down with its free hand. With the wrench-hand, it grabbed at 
the red necklace on 682's neck, twisting and pulling in an attempt to 
remove it from 682. With thick wet snaps of flesh and sinew, the 
necklace released its hold on the neck of the beast in fits and starts. 


When it seemed that the necklace would be completely freed from 
682's neck, the horrible reptile flesh twitched and shook underneath 
the giant green Abel. Its flesh became smooth and shiny, with a 
sickly yellow tint to it. With a Sumerian curse Bibs was unaware Of, 
the green simulacrum of Abel released its grasp on the beast, 
looking at its steaming hand and wrench. With a thick plop, the 
necklace reattached itself to 682. It spoke to 682, telling everyone 
his name and origin in the process. Fascinating, Bibs thought to 
himself. Profoundly pointless, unless | get that thing off it, but 


fascinating nonetheless... 


682 changing his flesh a different color to thwart the Big Green Abel 
wasn't surprising, to Bibs, at least. 682 was very good at adapting to 
things, and the rusted necklace that had been forced onto it. That 
necklace must have dumped all sorts of knowledge into its brain in 
the process, and 682 was using it. Sighing at having to use the other 
illegally-made weapon, he slid it onto his other hand, he shoved it in 
into the enclosure, and thought. 


With a flash of light, the Big Green Abel became Big Blue-Green 
Abel. With newfound confidence in itself, the giant again proceeded 
to pin 682 down. This time, its coloring did the beast no help. The 
wrench found purchase on the necklace on the reptile's neck, and 
pulled. It was still a struggle, but not a large one. 


The excursion was getting to Bibs, Ringbearer of the Foundation, 
and he struggled to maintain composure. He got a second wind 
when, with a final skkr-ktt, the Giant Cyan Abel succeeded in its 
task. The simulacrum raised the red-iron necklace over its head, 
screamed in victory, and crushed the object between its fist. 


The enclosure, or what remained of it, ignited in heat and flame. 
Some would say it was unholy. Some would say it was simply one 
facet of a spectrum that a certain Agent of the Foundation 
accidentally unleashed upon the world. Most, however, simply 
described it as a big fireball. 


When the flames ended, only one thing remained in the enclosure. 
An ash pile, in the shape of 682. 


The crowd, who up until now had fought with every fiber of their 
being, stood silent for only a moment. It was not a moment of 
silence for a fallen foe, but the quiet sound of a paradigm shifting 
without a clutch. SCP-682 must be destroyed as soon as possible. 
At this time, no means available to SCP teams are capable of 
destroying SCP-682. SCP-682 was a pile of ash. |t was impossible. 
Improbably. Profoundly unlikely. 


Before long, a cheer ran out. It started with some clapping. Then 
laughing. Then a full on celebration. People celebrated. Hugged. 


Kissed. Swarmed around Bibs, who didn't like this. As much as he 
refused to admit it, he hated attention. 


He felt hands around him, lifting him up. Carrying him. It wasn't for 
long, though, and before he even had a chance to enjoy the 
experience, he was dropped on his ass. 


"Jesus wept! Aren't you supposed to warn a guy when you decide to 
stop carrying him? | mean... oh." He understood why he was 
dropped, and why his carriers suddenly regained their emotional 
composure. 


An older man, in a well-fitting and expensive-looking suit, stood 
before him. An O5. The crowd, joyous moments before, suddenly 
looked like children who had been caught playing when they were 
supposed to be working. 


The older man looked Bibs over. "Good job, Agent Bibs." 


Bibs blushed. he hated compliments. "It's... it's not as amazing as it 
looked, sir, anyone could have-" 


"Nonsense, Bibs. If it wasn't for you, there's a good likelihood that 
we would have had to nuke the entire Site from orbit. You're a debt 
to the Foundation, sir. And please, Bibs, it's Fred." He smiled. 


A pause. 
"Your name is... Fred?" 


"Indeed. A bit against policy, | suppose, but in this case, | think 
you've earned it." He smiled again. 


He looked over at the smoking, steaming ash pile of 682. 


Figures, Bibs sighed. Fuckin’ figures... 


The Interviews 


| can't easily tell you the story of how | met Charles. 


It was the fall of 2001. In the past year, the country was rearing its 
ugly head, drool dripping from its fangs as a bee stung it right in the 
unmentionables. | was caught up in the passion of the times, ready 
to kick some Middle Eastern buttocks. For us teenagers, that meant 
joining the SWAT's-uprooting the weeds at home before heading to 
their source. 


Looking back now, | see that | was a fanatical, brickheaded 
youngster with delusions of grandeur, but that's not the point.