fit, and there may be exploitable gaps. Interestingly, the frontal lobe 
facilitates speech, reading, and the fine motor control necessary for 
writing, suggesting that abstract, advanced communication as a 
cognitive skill seemingly unique to humans, is highly localized within 
a certain area, despite the immense superficial disparity [Patricks, 
1993]. 


Many researchers [Yotta, 1997] have suggested that the nature of 
cognito-effective logographs may be due to specific design by the 
Father [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53] who 
engineered our minds to [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL 
AXNN-53] 


From experience, the reader will know that many words carry 
immediate emotional charges (connotations). For instance, politician 
suggests duplicity and untrustworthyness, whereas statesperson 
carries a functionally identical meaning while having almost exactly 
the opposite connotation. Likewise, s/im suggests health, whereas 
thin suggests that the person in question is not in good health 
[Oppler, 1954]. We daily manipulate this tangle of meaning to suit 
our purposes, not only communicating as a means to transfer our 
states of mind, but communicating in order to influence the state of 
mind of another person in a way congruent to our social intentions. If 
we have a sufficiently advanced model of the mind of another, we 
can craft our language so as to trigger a particular state of mind 
within them [Patricks, 1983]. 


This immediately appears to extend the range and scope of the field 
of logopsychology. We are, it seems, investigating a// environmental 
combinations which produce an effect in conscious minds. However, 
logopsychology is primarily concerned with the exploitation and 
analysis of written and verbal communication in order to induce a 
state of mind otherwise unachievable simply through manipulating 
traditional logographic stimuli. This is achieved through the usage of 
non-word memetes, which carry no meaning, yet seemingly 
inexplicably induce a powerful state of mind. For instance, subjects 
categorized as 1DD-G (we refer to the Appleby-Halfshott 
psychographic method) will generally follow most commands issued 
to them after hearing the command memete "d3e3iR?féeiz6", while 
test subjects categorized as 1AC-K to 11HH-J often experience 


extreme drowsiness upon hearing the emotional primer 
"ZehBCWOYZ". 


There are two varieties of memetes, general memetes and specific 
memetes. General memetes are extraordinarily rare, and are 
effective for (almost) all members of the human population, whereas 
specific memetes are plentiful and are only effective for a small 
psychographic subset of the human population. In all cases, general 
memetes are difficult to recognise, as in some sense, they exploit 
the parsing mechanism of the human brain and escape conscious 
perception. General memetes may even be _ morphologically 
obscured in written text, appearing between the boundraries of 
words, such as "unprohibited churning" (as a Foundation asset, the 
reader will likely be vaccinated against this particular g-class 
memete), the effects of which will often be inadvertently activated 
through subvocalization. This makes general memetic vaccination 
very helpful for researchers cataloguing memetes, as logographical 
cognitive agents tend to have a carry-over effect whereby successful 
conscious recognition of stimulus as a memete will result in easier 
recognition of similarly-constructed memetes. 


[SECTION CURRENTLY UNDER REVIEW BY RAISA] 


Chapter | discusses the theoretical basis of logopsychology, bringing 
to light recent advances in morphemic deconstruction, automatic 
metadeformation, and memetic derivation from Proto-Indo-European 
root-words. 


Chapter Il examines usage of logomemetic primers throughout 
history, providing context for the usage thereof. In Chapter Il, we 
critically analyse the usage of logographical cognitive agents during 
the Cold War, in several religious and political texts, and by 
[REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53] to control His Grand 
Civilization [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-59]. 
Furthermore, we show that the so-called "universal command 
primer" as conceived by Yotta, 1997 is not validated by current 
models. [Note from RAISA: this is inaccurate — current models 
suggest the existence of a universal command primer.] 


Chapter Ill introduces the reader to the categorization of primers, 


including command primers, emotional primers, hazardous primers, 
and antiontological "identity-rewrite" primers. 


Chapter IV explains how Foundation field-operatives may construct 
individualized command memetes tailored to ethnographic and 
linguistic categories. 


Chapter V discusses the implications of [REDACTED AS PER 
PROTOCOL AXNN-53] we, the Chosen Children to carry out His 
[REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53] He shall return to 
waken us from our ten-thousand-year slumber. 


Chapter VI lays the basis of discourse surrounding the beginning of 
[REDACTED AS PER O5 ORDER 1019] 


Chapter VII demonstrates [REDACTED AS PER O05 ORDER 1019] 
the Symbols of the Dawn. 


Chapter VIII [REDACTED AS PER O5 ORDER 1019] His Angels 
exercise His control through [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL 
AXNN-53] the media, the schools [REDACTED AS PER 
PROTOCOL AXNN-53] crafted to keep His Children asleep until his 
Return. 


Chapter IX [REDACTED AS PER PROTOCOL AXNN-53] and His 
Children. 


Children obey the Wore 


Prelude: The Facade 


Foundation Gothic 


The holding cell was quiet, serene. Outside the door, the scratch of 
pen against paper could be heard as doctors filled out the forms 
necessary to relocate their latest acquisition to a more secure area. 
"SCP-X was found on Stavely Road, shortly after midnight.’ Does 
that sound correct?" 


"Not quite. Clerkenwell Road." Director Alby scratched a few more 
notes down on his clipboard. Behind his spectacles, he wore a 
determined visage, though it now drooped with barely concealed 
fatigue. Still, he had that strong look about him which radiated 
authority. "Rude of him, making us work at this hour of the night." 


"He didn't seem to care, unfortunately for us." The other doctor, 
Quincy, adjusted his lab coat impatiently. He scowled as he signed 
the fifteenth paper that night. "The wife will have my head for this, 
I'm sure of it." 


Outside, the howl of some unknown beast could be heard in the 
distance, and the serenity of the cell was broken. There was a 
metallic clang, as a pair of hands gripped the barred windows with 
white knuckles, his torn and dirty clothes swaying from the motion. 
The figure they belonged to had wild blonde hair, and an equally 
unstable look in his eye. Barely above a whisper, he spoke. "Master. 
| hear you. | know you'll come to deliver your good and faithful 
servant." 


Quincy sighed, putting the last form in an envelope. "He's at it again. 
Every damn creak in the night. A pox on him." 


Director Alby skimmed over the relocation form for any 


discrepancies, not bothering to look up. "I'd be quite surprised if 
there weren't already. Do you have the date?" 


"Seventeenth of January, 1877." 


The wild-eyed man returned to a seated position in his cell. A spider 
that was crawling down the wall abruptly stopped, and shriveled into 
a dry husk. It fell to the floor, onto an ever-growing pile of insects. 


Elizabeth shifted uneasily in her dress, glancing out the window. She 
fanned herself, feeling smothered by the oppressive air of the garish 
room she was in. The wedding planner before her finished 
rummaging through one of the bags he had brought, and turned 
around. Automatically, her face shifted to a polite and pretty smile. 


"And you're certain the arrangement is to your liking, Miss 
Elizabeth?" 


Miss, soon to be Mrs. Elizabeth Stoke nodded her head, struggling 
to maintain her pleasant expression. She glanced at the slew of 
unopened letters next to her, impatiently, before returning her 
attention the vase of flowers. "Yes, it's quite lovely." 


"And you're quite certain you wouldn't like these-" The wedding 
planner began to grab a vase of differently colored flowers, but 
Elizabeth interrupted him. 


"I'm quite certain," She made a show of being enamored with the 
pink blossoms that had been placed before her. "They'll make a 
lovely wreath, I'm sure. And please, | really must be going soon." 


The wedding planner tipped his hat to her, as he wrote down her 
selection on a sheet of paper, and passed her a complimentary vase 
of the flowers. "Of course, of course! You're to be at the asylum 
again, | gather? It's too good of you to volunteer to help those 
unfortunate souls. You're quite the saint, Miss Stoke!" 


Elizabeth began to respond, but she was cut off. "Not to worry, that 
was the last thing on the agenda for today. Very good selections! 
Randolph always complimented your taste, said you had a man's 


brain behind that lovely face." 


Elizabeth's smile became even more forced. "And it serves me quite 
well while he's away on business." 


The planner nodded enthusiastically, packing up the rest of his 
flowers and displays. Far too slowly, Elizabeth noticed to her great 
annoyance. "I'm sure he'll be very pleased with your selections, 
once he returns from...?" 


"The Netherlands, he's meeting with a client who's interested in 
buying an estate here in London. If all goes as planned, he'll be 
back by February." Elizabeth began to show the planner to the door, 
stopping to retrieve his coat for him. Considering how extravagantly 
he was already dressed, it didn't make much of a difference. 


After slipping his coat on, he collected his packages once again. 
"The Netherlands? He's mad, going that far when he has a beautiful 
fiancé here! Someone could snatch her heart away-" He winked at 
her flirtatiously, "-and he'd be none the wiser." 


He stopped on his way out to bow to her and kiss her hand. 
Elizabeth curtsied in return as he made his way to the waiting 
carriage. She waved to him as he proceeded down the path to the 
street. "Thank you once again, for your services." 


Before he could respond, she closed the door behind her, breathing 
a sigh of relief. Setting aside the vase of flowers, she rubbed her 
temples and took a seat. The wedding planner would have been 
there all day if she'd allowed him to keep talking. 


She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and sighed. She 
adjusted her dark hair into a bun, staring into her own weary brown 
eyes. She shifted uncomfortably in her garish dress. The whole 
room around her felt musty and oppressive, from the ugly pink 
drapes, to the coarse wallpaper, to the mildewed smell of the rug. 
But still, it was home. She slumped into the couch, picking up the 
letters that had arrived earlier that day, which she hadn't had time to 
see due to the wedding planner's arrival. The first of them was 
unmarked, save for a small emblem on the upper left. 


A moment of panic ran through her mind. Immediately, she opened 
it, casting aside the envelope. She cursed internally, leaping to her 
feet and pulling on her gloves and coat. She grabbed a bonnet and 
put it on as she ran out the door, angling her head down so as not to 
be recognized. 


Around her, London bustled with life as horse-drawn carriages rolled 
past down the cobble streets. The skyline was clouded and grey, 
with smog-spewing smokestacks rising in the distance. People 
glanced at her as she walked past, a determined expression on her 
face. Ladies walked arm in arm with their men, whispering into their 
ears as Elizabeth breezed by. Alone, she felt like a fish out of water. 


However, it was a short walk, and at her pace she arrived at her 
destination quickly. Before her was a three-story asylum, encircled 
by a large gate, guarded by a man wearing a rather large bowler 
cap. Elizabeth looked up at him, and the man nodded in response, 
pushing open the gate enough for her to pass through. She 
continued inside, to the reception desk. 


The receptionist smiled at her, tipping his bowler cap and eagerly 
tapping his cane twice on the ground. "Good evening, my lady. Are 
you here to see anyone in particular?" 


Elizabeth bowed her head to him, and tapped her left foot on the 
ground twice, right foot once. It came so naturally to her at this point 
that she barely even noticed she had done it. "Yes, | am. The man 
downstairs." 


The receptionist's smile instantly dropped, and he tapped his foot on 
the ground in an aggravated manner. "Do you have any idea how 
late you are?" 


"I'm aware, Doctor. | was accosted by a wedding planner." Elizabeth 
gave him an apologetic look, as she pulled a small lanyard with an 
identifying badge from her dress, and placed it around her neck. 


The receptionist rolled his eyes in annoyance, flipping a lever. 
Behind him, a section of the wall clicked, and popped ajar slightly. 
"Well hurry on in, Alby's been waiting." 


She pulled off her bonnet, and placed it on the coat rack, before 
opening the hidden door. Checking behind her to ensure no one was 
looking, she slipped inside and sealed it behind her. She passed 
through the dark hallway, and emerged in an open room on the 
other side of the building. 


Around her, scientific instruments clicked and whirred, and men in 
lab coats buzzed around like bees. On one side of the main room, 
there were cases full of objects, ranging from the mundane to the 
bizarre, separated from the rest of the world by a thick pane of 
glass. Beyond that, there was a staircase, leading down to 
humanoid containment areas. She had reached Site-23 of the 
Foundation. 


"Miss Stoke." 


She turned, and was met with a tall man holding a clipboard. Behind 
his spectacles, he wore a blank expression, though his posture gave 
away some impatience, and signs of fatigue. On his lab coat, there 
was an emblem in bright yellow, signifying his high status. Elizabeth 
curtsied to him. 


"Director Alby." 


"You're rather late, we've had the humanoid in the interrogation cell 
for nearly five hours now." He adjusted his glasses, peering over 
them at his subordinate. 


Elizabeth looked away, a bit embarrassed. "My apologies, | was-" 


The Director interrupted her, speaking in a softer tone. "You don't 
have to explain, I'm well aware of your current situation, Miss Stoke. 
And | wish you the best." 


She breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Seymour." 


"Think nothing of it." He cleared his throat, resuming his formal tone. 
"That being said, as your Director, | cannot tolerate continued 
tardiness just because | am serving as the best man at your 
wedding. | will consider this an unofficial warning." 


She nodded to him in a silent display of gratitude, and the two made 


their way through the room, and continued down the stairs to the 
interrogation cell. Seymour flipped through his clipboard, and held a 
lantern up to better see. 


“The total scope of SCP-048's anomalous capabilities is currently 
unknown, but it has been observed to have a noticeable effect on 
small creatures, including insects, rodents, and small avians. It is 
believed to be unable to cause direct harm to humans at this time.’ 
Mm. You'll be accompanied by Quincy, regardless." 


"Understood, Director." Elizabeth responded automatically, mentally 
preparing herself for what was to come. 


"Line of questioning at this time is to focus on origins, knowledge of 
its capabilities, and possible connections to groups of interest." 


"Understood." Her job was simple, but important. Internally, she 
practiced her platitudes, her ' You poor thing's, and her 'won't you 
help me understand what's happened to you?s.