Since love and fear can hardly exist together if we must 
choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than 
loved. 

And so | am. They have come to fear an accountant. 
How embarrassing. 


This series focuses on the life of one William Cranford, an 
accountant for the Foundation and expert puller of the strings. Of 
course, we do meet his many unique colleagues, friends and 
aspiring murderers. 


¢ Chapter 1: Backstage 
¢ Chapter 2: Unexpected Visitors and Warm Welcomes 
¢ Chapter 3: What a Pleasant Town 


Test Log 564-02: 

Test approved by O5- and carried out by Dr. 

Tools used: Forceps and a nail recovered from the site of discovery 
of SCP-564. 

Subject: SCP-564 


A portion of SCP-564-1 was extended away from the central mass 
with forceps. Subject complained of pain in the left wrist. It was 
manipulated into a hole in the iron ring, where Dr. inserted a 
nail in a fashion that resembled the others. Subject experienced 
intensified pain in the wrist area, and the right leg began to move 
erratically. 


Test was forcibly ended after SCP-564 refused to cooperate. 


Test Log 564-03: 

Test approved by O5- and carried out by Dr. 

Tools used: X-Ray Machine, Drill, Hammer, Forceps and a nail 
recovered from the site of discovery of SCP-564. 

Subject: SCP-564 


A portion of SCP-564-1 was extended away from the central mass 
with forceps. Subject complained of pain in the right hip. Dr. 
attempts to find an opening to the corresponding part of the body, to 
no success. Drill used to create a hole into corresponding part, to no 
success. Hammer used to shatter the outer sandstone layer, to no 
SUCCESS. 


X-Ray Machine brought in, and corresponding part was viewed. 
Wires running through the area were noted, and one that connected 
to that area was traced back to the iron ring of SCP-564-1. Portion 
of SCP-564-1 manipulated through the corresponding hole, and a 
nail was inserted in a fashion that resembled the others. Subject 
complained of slightly increased pain. Movement of the hip was 
noted when subject was asked to attempt to move the leg. 


Nail removed and test was ended. 


Test Log 564-04: 
Test approved by O5- and carried out by Dr. 
Tools used: X-Ray Machine and Forceps. 


Backstage 


The man walks through a bare hallway. He holds a briefcase in one 
hand and a coffee in the other. He stops in front of the door, takes a 
deep breath, and enters. A room filled with cubicles unfurls before 
him. The sound of pens on paper, the clicking of keyboards, and a 
silent murmur washes over him. 


He smiles. 


He makes his way through the room, to a door with a small plaque 
on it that reads, “William Cranford, Head of Accounting”. 


The room behind the door is in contrast with the one it opens into. 
Large bookshelves line the walls and a dark wooden desk 
dominates the center of the room. William closes the door behind 
him and sets his notebook and coffee on the desk before sitting 
down and starting up the computer. 


The nigh-prehistoric machine roars into life and slowly begins to 
boot up. The man finishes his coffee and begins opening up file after 
file. Numbers dance across the screen. 


William sighs in satisfaction. This is his place. The center of his 
power. Here he is above all. Security clearances and censored data 
mean nothing to him. He sees the new plans for a small Site in 
Siberia, the repairs for a destroyed wing. Words can deceive ina 
thousand ways but numbers can only ever be true or false. 


He begins his morning routine. He opens his notebook and the 
credit card details of the employees of the Site. The notebook is 
filled with seemingly random words, phrases, and numbers. But to 
him, each one sets into motion a cascade of memory. 


Oskar Leichtmann. 29. Research Assistant. Looking at his 
withdrawals it seems he has relapsed in his amphetamine use. 
Shame. 


Hannah Saulkalne. 46. Researcher. Has begun visiting some rather 
unique clubs during her husband's business trip to Norway. 


Viago Silvester. 25. Researcher. Has recently begun to purchase 
sleeping medicine. Some sort of opiate judging by the cost. 


William frowns. Viago, Viago... Ah yes. The one they brought in 
from Europe a year back. Why does he suddenly need help falling 
asleep? 


He opens one of the drawers and removes the bottom. A thin, black 
laptop rests there. A gentle push of a button and it turns on in 
seconds. He opens Viago's file. If IT told the truth there will be no 
record of anyone accessing it. The security clearance is low, but the 
absence of information can speak volumes. 


Viago was transferred to another Site briefly it seems. The file 
claims he checked in regularly while there. Will looks over his credit 
card history again. 


Ah. There it is. Apparently, he had been shopping in the city closest 
to his current Site almost daily. Quite a long trip for some groceries. 


Now to find out what little Viago had been assigned to in that month, 
that keeps him from sleeping. William sends a short email. Within 20 
minutes a man from Logistics enters his room and takes a stack of 

folders handed to him. A small slip of paper is hidden in one of them. 


KKK 


The young woman pushes a cart through offices and between 
cubicles. Folders are handed out and pleasantries exchanged. The 
occasional package finds its owner. A few pens are replaced. Stacks 
of blank forms are refilled and new sheets of paper placed on desks. 
Some smile at her, but their eyes slip away from her in moments. 
Nobody really sees the everyday things. 


Nobody notices as Viago Silvester leaves his office for lunch. And 
nobody sees a young woman with a cart slip in the office. 


She’s quick. 


Her eyes run across the room, taking in all details. She flips open a 
journal on the table before placing it back in the same position. She 
looks at the bookshelves lining the walls. The top of one of the 
books is bent slightly. She pulls it out and finds a small notebook, 
nestled in the carved out pages. 


Every page of it is carefully photographed before being placed back 
in its place. A small device finds itself hiding in the lamp on the table, 
a sensitive microphone waiting for the slightest sound. The woman 
leaves as silently as she had arrived. 


And not a single soul sees. 
KKK 


Viago mumbles to himself in his office and a maintenance worker 
listens in a break room. His colleagues pay no mind to their 
headphone-wearing friend. 


With each word, the mind of the researcher crystallizes before him, 
new facets revealing themselves, as Viago mumbles more and more 
frantically. Something inside is broken. His mind is like a shattered 
mirror. Sharp, beautiful but irreversibly damaged. 


He won't stop. There isn't enough left of him to stop. 


The worker slips a small piece of paper to a passing man while 
returning to his work. 


Wheels within wheels. 


KKK 


William looks at the items before him. The pictures, the brief 
transcript, and the man's file. 


He sighs. Poor Viago. He calls for a janitor to empty his paper 
basket. 


Another paper slip. 


This time- the last one. 


KKK 


Viago returns to his office, sits down, and takes a deep breath. Then 
it begins anew. Whenever his mind becomes free of distractions 
everything comes flooding back. Even with his eyes open the 
images feel crystal clear in his mind. Every second of it replayed 
again and again. 


He begins grabbing the folders on his desk and rushing through 
them, words flowing independently between his lips, as his mind 
goes in two different directions. After a few minutes, he stops. You 
can’t beat the classics. 


He opens his laptop and begins working through the safeguards. He 
doesn’t need to be careful. The monitoring on this system is non- 
existent, since it is assumed the ones who have access to it are 
loyal and sane. 


Somewhere in the facility acid begins draining from a chamber. Now 
he has no other options. 


Tick, tock. 


Viago walks through the hallway. His face is neutral, but his eyes 
glow feverishly, a mild reflection of his burning mind. 


Why did they lie? 


It should've worked. It shouldn't be like this. He was supposed to 
forget. To return to work in blissful ignorance. 


Why why-why-why does he still hear her? Why do her eyes still look 
back at him when he closes his? Why do they scream for something 
he couldn't give? 


It burns him, consumes him. 


The alarm begins screaming when Viago’s halfway to his 
destination. He doesn’t think about his actions. A single thought, a 
single image radiates through every single corner of his mind. He 
quickens his pace. She’s getting louder. 


He has to. 


He has to. 
She should have something, if not freedom then at least release. 


A janitor is sweeping the hallway floor, not bothered by the sirens. 
Viago casts his eyes downwards. 


He doesn't see the janitor stepping in front of him. He doesn't see 
the flash of steel. He doesn't have time to react before being shoved 
against the wall. 


The blade is sharp, the attacker experienced and precise. Viago's 
heart begins pumping blood into his chest cavity. He tries to struggle 
and scream, but a hand covers his mouth and the world starts to 
lose focus. 


Two other men in jumpsuits exit from a nearby door. They roll out a 
black tarp on the floor and Viago is placed upon it. Within seconds 
he is wrapped in it and picked up. 


Only a janitor remains, sweeping up the dust and humming a song 
nobody remembers. 


KKK 


Viago had never checked in according to the database. No cameras 
had recorded him, and his colleagues didn't remember seeing him. 


A breach caused by a fatal flaw in the automated systems 
programming was contained with acceptable casualties. 


The world kept on turning. 
Another act is over. The technical crew rests. 
Until the curtain parts again. 


Above All, Stand I. | Unexpected Visitors and Warm Welcomes. 
» 


Unexpected Visitors and Warm Welcomes 


Previously 


A knock on the door roused William from his nap. He reluctantly 
rose out of his armchair and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. 


He opened the door. “Come in.” 


The young woman entered while carrying a stack of folders, her 
office cart left outside. She closed the door behind her, threw the 
folders down on William's desk and collapsed in the armchair sitting 
in the corner. 


“You would not believe the day | just had, Will.” She stretched her 
arms out above her head before settling them behind it. 


William sighed and rubbed his eyes some more.” I’m sure | can't.” 
She pulled her legs up on the chair. “Could you at least pretend to 
be interested? And stop looking like someone just told you that you 


had to work overtime again.” 


“Is that why you’re here? Jesus Christ.” He sat down at his desk and 
let his head drop to its surface. 


“Well, not exactly. | wouldn’t come here just to torture you, now 
would |?” She grinned. 


“Wouldn’t surprise me. Now could you just tell m-” The screaming of 
sirens cut him off. “Please tell me that’s not it, Dionne.” 


“Sorry Will. No rest for the wicked.” 


The piercing sound of the sirens did wonders for his drowsiness. Will 
took his notebook and began flipping through it. 


“MCD, no. None of the churches, the Insurgency’s busy in Siberia 
and the Sarkicists are having one of their celebrations. Our friends 
seem to have arrived without an appointment.” He sat the notebook 
down, opened the drawer with the fake bottom and took out a sleek 
laptop. William turned it on and within seconds the familiar 
Foundation logo greeted him in all its drab glory. 


One after another, footage from security cameras began flashing on 
the screen as Will’s fingers danced across the keyboard. Dionne got 
up from her seat and moved behind him, gazing at the screen. A few 
of the cameras on the outer parts of the facility went dead, but not 
before allowing the two a glimpse of the attackers. 


“Doesn't look like any of the usual customers.” Dionne leaned in 
closer. 


William rewound the recording. “Indeed. Seems like the Foundation 
has made a new friend.” 


“Any ideas?” 


William smiled at her, drew a small pager from the inner pocket of 
his suit and pushed the single button on it. 


The ring of a janitor began buzzing. A woman making minor repairs 
to a locking mechanism felt her earring vibrate. The bracelet of a 
technical consultant shook briefly. An unnoticeable wave of activity 
spread across the Site as countless tiny gears were set into motion. 


“Oooh, how dramatic, Sir William.” Dionne began moving towards 
the door. “Any orders for me?” 


“Just be you.” 


“Oh get stuffed, you paper pusher.” Dionne flipped the account off 
while walking towards the door. 


William gave her another smile as she left. He got up, walked to one 
of the shelves and ran his fingers across the spines of the ledgers, 


his hand stopping after reaching the one he desired. He placed it on 
the desk and opened it. In it, amidst the countless expenses of the 
Foundation, lay hidden the deals he conducted to keep this shadow 
world in equilibrium. Attacks on safehouses and Sites, agreed on 
beforehand. Deals to allow Foundation teams to attack and retrieve 
specific items. Mutually agreed-on casualty limits. Which individuals 
were about to defect, which could be used as moles. Everything 
sitting in rows upon rows of ledgers. 


“Didn't even have the courtesy to call beforehand,” he mumbled to 
himself as he opened up an account for their new associates, 
“where have good manners disappeared to?” 


KKK 


Carmine ran through the halls. The guards on the outer perimeter 
had barely managed to put up any resistance. Such a giant like the 
Foundation, brought to its knees just by him and his brothers and 
sisters in arms. He turned a corner and slammed into a cart filled 
with paper. He stumbled back and took aim, but the paper thrown 
into the air by the collision covered the movement of his attacker. 
Before he could react, a blade was driven into his thigh. Carmine 
keeled over as the pain washed over him. 


His weapon was ripped out of his hand and he found himself staring 
into the face of a woman barely into her thirties, her red hair tied 
together in a single thick braid. He opened his mouth to speak, but 
was cut off as the knife opened his throat into a leering smile. 


Dionne leaped aside from the small fountain of blood and wiped her 
blade on Carmine's jacket. She appraised the weapon. A Beretta 81 
with some rather interesting symbols engraved along the side. 
Looks well looked after but a tad worn. 


“How many?” A voice came from behind her. 


“Four, so far. They seem to be moving alone.” She turned around 
and dropped the weapon into the hands of the janitor. 


“No wonder. Thaumaturges don’t work that well if you put them too 
many of them in an enclosed space. Interference and all that.” He 


threw the weapon in the trashcan on his cart. 
Dionne raised an eyebrow. “Thaumaturges?” 


Two men in Maintenance uniforms arrived from behind the janitor 
and began placing Carmine's corpse in a body bag. 


The janitor nodded. “Oh yes. Apparently, Lucilius ran into a Type 
Red.” 


“Any thoughts on what they’re doing here?” Dionne began gathering 
up the scattered papers and placing them back in her office cart. 


“Saw a few try to get the containment cells open on the way here. 
Doesn't look like they know what's in them.” The janitor looked at the 
two workers who were already finishing up with the body. ”Thanks, 
guys! The incinerator should be ready to go and after you’re done 
with that head to the East wing. | left a few lying there.” 


The two nodded and headed off, the body back on their shoulders. 


“Then | guess it’s time to get back to work. See you around, 
Daumant.” Dionne quickly gathered up the last of the papers and 
headed off into another direction.