All this power. They say absolute power corrupts absolutely. 


Enh. Close enough, for Foundation work. The Administrator grinned 
beneath his mustache as he set to work, implementing changes that 
would bring the world into a more ordered state. Little did he know, 
that his plans were not the only plans out there. The Foundation 
planned for everything. Even a rogue O5. 


13 


All of his plans had been built off one assumption, one purposeful 
lie. The O5 who had recruited him told him there was no O5-13. 
That the 13th vote was transferred from one O5 to another, which 
was true. The 13th O5 held no temporal power. While he was often 
invited to listen in on Overseer council meetings, and many of the 
council members treasured his advice, he had never been the 
most... stable of people. 


You see, the 13th O5 made his home at a site that was not quite a 
site. While those who had been to it saw nothing unusual about it, 
Site 67 was on none of the Foundation's official books. It was an 
SCP, a quite powerful one, and one known as a ‘little black box.' No 
number, just aname. The House. The easiest way to hide 
something is in plain sight. So, a natural landmark was built around 
it, and those who had to visit it were given to believe it was just 
another SCP. 


The 13th was a special man. To survive in the House, one had to 
be. After all, time inside this SCP was a little unusual. If one were to 
use popular culture references, one might employ the phrase 'Timey 
Wimey Ball.’ Inside the House, Cause did not often follow effect, and 
could quite easily loop into each other. So, the 13th had to be 
different, had to be able to think in more dimensions than the 
average man. This, of course, resulted in him being, by our 
standards, not altogether there. 


"| think you might be starting to bore people. This is a lot of 
background to get through." 


... Of course, when one spends a lot of time using one's mind to 
explore all manner of eldritch horror and power, one sometimes gets 
confused as to whether the room one is in has three walls, or four. 
So, instead of trying to explain, let's just see what happens. 


"Thank you," the 13th says, to no one specific. Few are those who 
would enter his office. Site 67 doesn't get many visitors. He is a tall 
man, red haired, pale skinned, but no freckles. His office walls are 
lined with book shelves, and even more books somehow stay in 
place in their shelves on the ceiling. A simple old computer sits on 
his desk, an Apple lle, still looking pristine and new. He is currently 
engrossed in the reports of the latest (from his point of view) 
exploration into his house, when a red light blinks on his screen. 


"What's all this then? Ah, yes, the Mann takeover," he mutters to 
himself. He happens to mutter to himself a lot. Sometimes, he is 
even still in the room when he mutters to himself. Sometimes, he 
mutters back. It helps. "I thought | still had another week before that 
happened." His fingers fly across the keyboard, reading the reports 
as they file in. "Ah, yes, interesting. Full TPK. Well, almost full. Ha. 


Should have taken some time to find out more, Mann. Always were 
too eager. Well, let's see what we can do about this." This comment 
appears directed to the old man standing by his door, who seems to 
still be holding his gardening shears. 


There were always fail safes in the Foundation. Each and every O5 
always had a dozen or so on hand, ready just in case. Mann had 
found out the ones that protected the O5s, but he hadn't learned 
about the replacement protocols. 


Which was what the 13th initiated, with a few clicks of his mouse. 


12 


"Is he... is he dead?" The nameless assistant, whom we'll now call 
Tim, for the ease of narration, peered through the doorway, 
watching. He had grabbed the first agent he saw, once his mind had 
cleared. 


"A'yup." Agent Lament made a show of checking the corpse's pulse, 
then leaned back on his heels. "Y'can sorta tell by the big gaping 
hole where his jaw and chest should be." Lament pulled off the 
former Overseer's glasses, curious to see who might be behind 
them. No one he recognized. But, then, he wouldn't. 


"Well, agent, I-" Tim paused, his eyes glazing over. After all, 05-4 
wasn't the only one who could plant commands in people's minds. 
"By the authority vested in me, whomsoever takes the glasses from 
his body shall be named O5-12 in his place. Agent Lament, you 
were never the first choice, but you are still capable of what we 
need. | hope." Tim slumps, his jaw sore. "I... what... did | just make 
you...?" 


Lament can't help but smile. Overseer was never actually a goal of 
his, but, since it was offered... 


"Well. Maybe | can't do a better job than this poor soul. But at least 


He slips on the sunglasses. 


"Can hold my alcohol." 


11 


Clef sat back, staring at the dead body. O5-11 had been a good 
friend, once upon a time. Eleven, or, as he had been known back 
then, Jings, had been the agent who had trained Clef, when he first 
joined up. When Jings got promoted, Clef had hoped the old man 
would change things. They had made plans, had talked things over. 
They would do great things, with Jings in the place to make things 
better! 


But nothing had changed. Oh sure, at first, Eleven made things 
better, eased some restrictions on the Safe humanoids. But he didn't 
let any of them go, as they'd talked about. He didn't ease up on the 
D-class deaths. Eventually, he became just another Overseer, 
grinding down anyone who tried to make things better. 


Mann might not be the best choice to take over, but at least he'd 
follow his plan. 


Ha! Like Clef would let anyone else take over. The only person in 
this world you could trust, was yourself. Clef reached over to the 
body of his dead friend, and slipped off the man's bracelet. 


"If there were a move past Checkmate, I'd say that. But for now, let's 
just say | win." He slips the bracelet onto his own wrist. "I always 
win." 


10 


Some transfers of power were epic. Some were quite interesting. In 
Ten's case, it was a simple matter of an email marked 'Urgent' 
showing up in the inbox of one Dr. Moose. She took a moment to 
read the contents, then sighed as she rolled her eyes. "Really? Me, 
an 05? Fuck a doodle." 


SCP-787: The Plane That Never Was 


Item #: SCP-787 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-787 is currently contained 
within Hangar 04 at Sector-28. Security cameras and sound 
recording equipment are to be stationed in the cockpit, passenger 
area, and baggage hold of SCP-787 to record any anomalous 
events. In the event of any anomalous activity within SCP-787, 
access to the interior of SCP-787 is to be prohibited for a minimum 
of 72 hours. 


Description: SCP-787 is a Boeing 747-200 airliner of unknown 
manufacturing date and call sign. The exterior of SCP-787 has been 
painted over, including all passenger windows: Paint was wet upon 
recovery, drying soon after. The mechanical components of 
SCP-787 are all undamaged and functional, and show no signs of 
use. Nonmechanical components of SCP-787, including carpeting, 
upholstery, and luggage, are in an advanced state of decay. The 
pilot and co-pilot’s seats have been removed, replaced with two 
piles of computer components arranged in the shape of chairs. 


SCP-787 initially manifested on June, 1987, in a field located 
approximately km from Bremerton, Washington. 


SCP-787 contains the bodies of 515 deceased individuals, 
henceforth referred to as SCP-787a. The cause of death varies 
among specimens, with causes including strangulation, 
exsanguination, drowning, starvation, bullet wounds, stab wounds 
and blunt force trauma. Certain mutilations are common throughout 
SCP-787a specimens regardless of cause of death, including 
removal of the tongue (23 instances), scalping (73 instances), 
carving of Cyrillic letters into the left palm (230 instances, no pattern 
found) and removal of fingertips (498 instances). All SCP-787a 
specimens are in advanced stages of decay, but have shown no 


9 


05-9 was the unluckiest O5. 


Dr. Bright glanced down at his cell phone, and made a face. "Fuck. 
Nine got himself offed again?" He tapped his fingers together, and 
frowned over them. There was no one on site currently who fit the 
specifi— No, wait. There was one. Yes. Two birds, one stone. 
"Joshua!" He called to his secretary. "Tell Agent Elroy to meet me at 
the elevators." 


A few minutes later, the doctor and the Agent were riding down the 
main shaft together. Bright stared determinedly at the numbers as 
they ticked down, towards the bottom of the site. Yoric, on the other 
hand, fidgeted, hummed, and otherwise made himself annoying. It 
was his gift. Finally, he could contain himself no longer. "Look, Jack, 
if this is about the cafeteria incident-" 


"It's not about that." 

"Ah, then feeding Kane peanut butter, look, it was really funn-" 
"Not that either." 

"That girl told me she was 18!" 


"... That excuse never worked for me either. Yoric. You are being let 
in on a secret several steps above your current security level. So, 
shut up, and do what | tell you." 


The rest of the ride continues in silence. If he had been any other 
doctor, he might have worried about what he was planning on doing. 
But Jack had stopped making emotional connections to his fellow 
workers. He knew it always ended badly. 


The elevator drew to a halt at the bottom of the site... and then 
proceeded to move sideways for some time. Yoric shot a 
questioning look at the Senior Staffer, but chose not to ask. It wasn't 
until the elevator doors slid back to reveal a sign on another door 
that he actually spoke. "Nine Six Three Two? Wait, there's more of 


you?" 


Jack opened the door, and stepped inside. The room was small, a 
large window showing the room beyond, in which a box rested on a 
pedestal. "Yoric. This is very important. | need you to go into that 
room, and open that box, and bring me back the object within." He 
sighed. "I've been authorized to give you the 006 you've requested if 
you do so." 


Cautious, but optimistic, Agent Yoric Elroy passed into the next 
room. Dr. Bright locked the door behind him, then turned to the 
window to watch. 963-2 had always been his dirty little secret. It was 
his fault it had been created. Yoric carefully opened the box, and, 
when nothing jumped out at him, carefully reached out a gloved 
hand to pick up the odd metal symbol inside. "This the ARGH!" The 
agent screamed in horrible pain as his body was grabbed by an 
invisible force. His bones, his flesh, his entire body was wrenched, 
this way and that. Bright stood watching, hands clasped behind his 
back. This was what you got when working with inferior materials. 
Well. It didn't matter. In a few minutes, Yoric would be completely 
gone, never to be seen again. And his body would rise as O5-9, the 
Overseer who thought he could be immortal. Bright would have to 
bring him up to speed. One of the problems of 963-2: it had only 
copied the memories up to the point of Nine's first death. It didn't 
matter. 


After all, 05-9 was the unluckiest O5. 


8 


Desiree Talleh walked into the O5's apartment as if she owned the 
place. She had always had a habit of being in the right place, at the 
right time. And now? She was going to be in the right place, at the 
right time, to end up an O5. 


Desiree was a young looking girl, of African descent, her hair done 
up in cornrows, looking at the world through coke bottle glasses. 
She opened the door to the bathroom, and reached in to turn off the 
water with an oven mitt. She stared at the remains of Eight with 


some distaste. Ick. Overseer soup. Still. Miss Talleh reached her 
hand into the muck, fishing around for the little ring. It was her 
choice to become Eight, and if anyone wanted to stop her, well, 
she'd been planning this for a lot longer than they had. She wasn't 
afraid to call on help from friends in scaly places. 


"Me and Clef as O5s? What is the Foundation coming to? Next 
they'll be asking 343 to join." And she giggles, at some private joke. 


7 


Dr. Gerald looked down at the burning wreckage of his vehicle. The 
flames could easily be seen for miles around, pieces of the car 
spread across the upper third of the road he'd been driving on. He 
turned his hand this way and that, studying the ivory chopstick 
driven through the middle of his hand. "Huh. Guess this means I'm 
an Overseer now, huh?" 


He glanced down, studying the ground far below. "Now if only | 
could get out of this tree." 


6 


Black looked at what he had wrought, and the corner of his eye 
twitched, just a little bit. His mentor, and his partner, both dead by 
his hand. It shouldn't have been this way. He was supposed to have 
given his life for Six. Thompson was too good to die like a chump. 
But this was how it had happened. All he could do was move on. 


The first step was to remove Six's hat and pistols. They weren't 
special, but they meant something to Black. The pearl handled 
pistols were tucked into his belt, the hat placed jauntily upon his 
head. Then, carefully, reverently, Black picked up the cane. "This 
will not stand. You shall be avenged." 


ro) 


"| feel like goddamn Dorothy," Sorts muttered as he pulled the shoes 
off the body of O5-5. "Really? Shoes? Who makes an object of 
authority out of damned shoes?" He frowned, studying them closer. 
"Okay, these really feel kind of wei- HOLY SHIT it's human skin." 


He pauses, thinking over his statement. "That shouldn't actually 
surprise me. The midgets... they surprise me. Fuck, | hate these 
cameos." 


As he stalked away to get the shoes re-sized for him, a dozen 

instances of SCP-5555-J danced about the body of the former 
Overseer. They sang, in some kind of unison. I'm sure you can 
guess the song. It starts ‘Ding dong.' 


3 


"Hey. Josh." 

"Wassup Gnosis?" 

"That program crashed." 

"Which one?" 

"The one that takes up all that memory on the Cray." 

"Ah, fuck. Oh well, just use the backups and reboot the damn thing." 


"No problem." 


2 


‘Ding! You have a new video message. ' 


Dr. Sophia Light glanced up from her work with a sigh. If it wasn't 
one thing, it was another. Sometimes, she missed being a member 
of the Junior Staff under Bright. No, strike that, that was something 
she never missed. But she wouldn't mind less paperwork. A break 
from the work was welcome at this point. 


The video opened on an older, familiar looking woman. "Sophia. If 
you're getting this message, not only am | dead, but | never found a 
way to tell you. | know what you're thinking, and no, I'm not your 
mother, grandmother or such. I'm you. It's a long story, but let's just 
say, if you ever need to reboot the universe, make sure you're inside 
of it first. Your computer is currently getting an update with all of my 
files. See, you're going to take over for me. You're O5-2. Good luck." 
The video feed cuts off, then turns back on. "Side note: Why the hell 
do the time travelers always go after Hitler? He's got to be the 
luckiest man alive. Look into the possibility of his SCPness." 


Light sighed, rubbing her temples. Less work? Never. 


1 


"... and that is why | have decided to pass on my mantle to you," the 
video continued, as Dr. Gears studied the pale trenchcoat in his 
hands. His face, as always, betrayed no trace of emotion. "| have 
done all | can to lead you to this point, where you can control the 
Foundation. No matter what anyone may try to tell you, your role is 
first among equals." The man speaking betrays no emotion himself, 
a deadpan delivery that wouldn't change even if he were dying while 
he recorded the message. Which he likely was. "And in the end, | 
just want to say, I'm proud of you."