"Indeed it was." Click. A slide filled with depressing statistics popped 
up. "And CON2CAS has, indeed, increased! By... two percent." Clef 
held up two fingers. "This is for those of you what can't count good. 
Two fucking percent. | know we've had some bad recoveries this 
year so far but these casualty rates are just bullshit. And look at how 
many are from operatives trying to save their buddies! | want you to 
focus on getting your MTFs' priorities in order. Containment, Team, 
Self does not mean Containment Gets Ruined Because | Help My 
Special Friends At Expense Of Self! Containment first." Clef 
suddenly pointed. "Doctors Boyd!" 


"Yessir!" The Boyd siblings, temporarily representing MTF 
Omicron-64 ("Food Standards"), did their best rabbits-in-headlights 
act. 


"Second goal. Any time you like." 
"Um," said the male half of the pair. "Uh, take at least—" 


The female Boyd sibling frowned at her brother, holding up a hand 
to silence him. "That's not it. It's, uh, to measurably increase 
operative scores in secondary-role assessments." 


"Which hasn't happened. Has it, Ms. Boyd?" 
"I, uh, | don't know, sir." 


"You can just say 'no,' Ms. Boyd. Context should give you a little 
clue there. Secondary-role scores have decreased over the last half 
a year. | know some of the reasons" — another click, another slide 
— "but it's just not good enough." 


At least he's not going to ask me, thought Weiss. 


682 is literate, is it vulnerable to textual memetic-kill agents? 
Suggested methods for a viability study are welcome. 


Item: SCP-343 


Tissue Test Record: 
N/A 


Termination Test Record: 
See incident report 682-TFTBS1 


Item: SCP-963 


Tissue Test Record: 
N/A 


Termination Test Record: 
See incident report 682-WO2BTL 


Item: SCP-702 


Tissue Test Record: 

Tissue sample offered as trade item to SCP-702-1. 702-1 accepted, 
trading it for what appears to be a two-patty hamburger as 
commonly sold by the [REDACTED] franchise. 


Termination Test Record: 

SCP-682 is contained and offered as a trade item to SCP-702-1. 
702-1 considers the tank for roughly 13 minutes before taking it. 
Item left in exchange is a metal cage, containing a specimen of 
Psittacula krameri manillensis (rose-ringed parakeet). 


16 hours later, SCP-682 is returned to the chamber where the 
trading was effected, without its containment tank. SCP-702-1 is 
reluctant to divulge information regarding this event. Examination of 
debris regurgitated by 682 during the proceeding re-containment 
reveals fragments from a number of curious items, including [DATA 
EXPUNGED]. The parakeet is currently being kept at Dr. Quater's 
office. 


"Weiss." 

Shit. 

"What was the third goal?" 
"I, uh, | don't know, sir." 
"And why not?" 


"Because, uh, this is my first Foundation-wide MTF training meeting, 
sir." 


"So what?" 


Weiss remained silent. Clef remained silent. It would have been very 
tense indeed if everyone had remained silent. Fortunately, there was 
a delegate from RCT-At present. 


"Well, you could have come to us, and... ah." Researcher Kitterman 
trailed off as the searchlight found him but, to his credit, retained his 
composure. Several other delegates glanced at him strangely. 


"| Know you think Delta-T has the magical answer to everything, 
Kitterman, but | have a message from the future for you." Clef 
paused for just over eleven seconds. "It doesn't." Clef turned back to 
Weiss. "The reason you don't know is that Task Force Commander 
Dimaccio" — pivoting again — "hasn't told you about it. Why not, 
Dimaccio?" 


Dimaccio indicated Weiss. "Probationary Specialist. She isn't 
supposed to be doing that yet. And we weren't going to talk about it 
until a full year had passed, per the last meeting.” 


"Dimaccio." Clef's mouth twitched; it looked a bit like a smile might 
look after being put through the garbage disposal. "Why do you 
have to spoil my fun?" 


"I'm known for it." 


"Yes, you are, you miserable bastard. Fourth goal. Green!" 


Agent Green straightened slightly. "The fourth goal was to reduce 
collateral damage by, if | can quote exactly, "a fucking ton" as 
compared to last year's performance, sir." 


"Yes! Yes it was. And despite the sterling efforts of people like 
yourself — no, | really mean it, there was comparatively little in your 
last outing, considering — that hasn't happened, either." Click. "Look 
at this.” 


They looked at it. Nobody said anything for a few seconds. 
Clef slowly turned back to Green. 


"Agent Green. Would you mind explaining to the class why my 
carefully prepared final slide has been replaced by..." Clef mimed 
squinting at the slide, "by a gigantic, childishly drawn, flashing cock- 
and-balls that appears to float out of the screen and would, if not for 
the cognitomemetic safeguards in place in this room, be inducing us 
all to believe that everyone in the room was actually a giant, crude 
phallus?" 


"No, just you," muttered Mackenzie. 
"You're fucking hysterical, Mackenzie. Agent Green?" 
Green sighed. "I'll look into it, sir." 


"You do that, Green. | know those people like to target you in 
particular but when their little vendetta messes up hours of work on 
my goddamned presentations, | tend to take it personally." The 
speakers popped again, and the image on the screen faded away. 
"Okay. Break for lunch. If you can drag yourself from the delicacies 
of the Site cafeteria, be back here by half past one. That's 1330 to 
you, Theta-90, if you'd be so kind. And Weiss?" 


"Yes, sir?" 


"There's never a third item in these lists. We pull that to see how all 
you greenhorns deal with it." 


"Oh." Weiss noticed a few of the faces around the giant table 
smirking as they got up to leave. 


"Don't sweat it. You didn't fuck it up too badly. By the way: your 
name. Whyss or Vice?" 


"Vice, sir." 
"Whyss it is, then. Now go away." 


Weiss opened her mouth to correct Dr. Clef, thought better of it, 
closed her mouth, and went to lunch. 


| Hub | 


Wednesday, 3pm, The Office of Paul Dimaccio 


Weiss carefully pushed open the door and stepped into the office. 


It was sparsely decorated. Just a few cheaply-framed diplomas 
dotted the walls, and a plain desk plus two chairs were the only 
furnishings. Paul Dimaccio, MTF Theta-90's commander, was 
seated at the desk. Across from him, where Weiss had expected an 
empty chair, sat Dr. Mario Sottobosco of MTF Epsilon-242. 


"No, seriously," Dimaccio was saying. "You gotta try my Mom's 
spaghetti sauce. I'll bring some in next week. It'll blow you away, | 
promise." 


Dr. Sottobosco visibly bristled. "And was your mother born in Italy?" 
"Yeah. Well.. Little Italy. But that's just as good, right?" 


"No! It is not ‘just as good'!" Sottobosco stood. "If you were truly 
civilized, you would have learned to appreciate the sublime flavors 
of a well-made carbonara or a good piece of baccala!" 


"Oh, | have this great recipe for penne with carbonara sauce. You 
can just buy it from the grocery store, and—" 


"Carbonara sauce? Cazzo! Good afternoon, Commander!" 
Sottobosco turned on his heel and swept out of the room. 


Dimaccio looked at Weiss, a gleam in his eye. "Take a seat, 
Specialist. Sorry that overran. | can't resist turning Sottobosco's 
crank about Italian food." 


"It's fine, sir." Weiss paused. "I guess he did sound pretty Italian." 


"He's from Rome. Thinks Roman food is all there is. | like to play the 
ignorant American to get a rise outta him. Thinks | can't understand 
him calling me a prick, either." 


"Ah." 


Dimaccio's smile vanished. "Word of advice, though. Don't 
underestimate people like Sottobosco around here. They can be 
pretty weird, but they really know their shit. And they don't lose it 
when things get tricky. If you wanna be useful in Theta-90, you're 
gonna need the same skills." Dimaccio opened the folder in front of 
him. "Which brings us right to business. Know why you're here?" 


"No, sir." 


"Oh, come on, Weiss. | Know you haven't been officially told, but you 
weren't selected for being dumb. Try again." 


"Well... now I've passed my general training classes, | get a meeting 
with my MTF commander to discuss the rest of my training." 


"Good. Like what?" 
"Material that's specific to my MTF's DOS." 
Dimaccio paused. "And what's Theta-90's DOS, Weiss?" 


Weiss' reply was immediate. "Geometric, topological and other such 
spatial anomalies, sir." 


Dimaccio suddenly assumed an aspect of slack-jawed ignorance. 
"Oh, no, | can not understand you cuz | am just a dumb field dog. 
You gots to talk with the small words." 


Weiss stifled a laugh. "It means we operate where the dimensions, 
angles and curves of things are all jacked up, sir." 


"Right again." Dimaccio raised an eyebrow. "So I'm sure, with all 
that college you got, you can work out why we got saddled with 
‘Angle Grinders’ as our punny little nickname." 


"Haha. Uh. Yes, sir." Something occurred to Weiss. "Wait. Didn't you 
go to UPenn? Sir," she quickly added. 


"Did your homework, didn't you, Weiss?" Dimaccio grinned. "BS 
Math. Worked my ass off for it too. But you know how it is. Us Field 


Agents got a reputation as boorish ignoramuses to maintain." 
Weiss wasn't sure whether to laugh or not. 


"Oh, come on, Weiss, you know it's true. And I'll tell you something 
— l'm not the only field dog with a diploma from a fancy school. A 
few of us got more than one, even. But when you work in a place 
like this" — Dimaccio gestured — "stuffed full of PhD's, it's all 
relative. Anyhow, we're getting off topic." He slid a single piece of 
paper from the folder to Weiss. "Look at this and then sign on the 
line. Legibly, please." 


Weiss looked at the paper. Aside from the signature line, the only 
thing on it was a fairly realistic line drawing of an MTF trooper in an 
operational loadout, complete with body armor and respirator. Weiss 
shrugged, and signed J. Weiss on the line. 


And then almost fell off her chair when the drawing nodded back at 
her. 


"Didn't expect that, did ya?" Dimaccio was clearly amused. "But 
then, you should have. You've met our friend here before." 


"No, I... wait." Weiss saw a small stack of notepaper on her side of 
the desk. She took a leaf, placed it in contact with the drawing and 
wrote "Please remove your respirator and helmet" on it. The trooper- 
drawing nodded again, reached up, and removed its headgear, 
revealing a face that Weiss immediately recognized. 


"Sir, how... how is this consistent with the containment procedures?" 
"Ah, well, that's the thing, Specialist. It's not." 


Weiss stared, dumbfounded, at the drawing. Once again, Dimaccio 
grinned, but this time said nothing more. Weiss realized that she 
was expected to fill in the blanks herself. It didn't take long. 


"But... | thought we didn't do that anymore." 


"In general? We don't. That whole clusterfuck with Omega-7 was an 
exercise in throwing shit at a wall and seeing what stuck, except 
none of it stuck and the entire wall almost came down. But in very 


specific cases, we can still make exceptions." 
"| didn't know that." 


"Course you didn't, Weiss. It's need to know. Like most of the shit in 
the Foundation. Eight-Five here sometimes gets to come out and 
play with us because... you know what? I'll let it tell you." Dimaccio 
took the piece of paper and wrote, in neat capitals, "EXPLAIN TO 
SPECIALIST WEISS WHY YOU GET TO WORK WITH MTF 
THETA 90" across the top. 


The drawing looked up, nodded, then looked outward, moving its 
gloved hands in what Weiss immediately recognized as ASL. SIGN 
YOU, with eyebrows raised: Do you know sign? 


Weiss blinked, then wrote on her notepaper. {Yes.} 


Good. My name is Cassandra. | haven't got a last name, so | just 
have to use Eight-Five. The drawing did not look particularly happy 
about this. Commander Dimaccio tells me we've met before. 


{Yes. | was required to talk with SCP— with you for an hour as part 
of my previous assignment.} 


I'm sorry. | don't remember. | talk to so many of you. 


{Why} — Weiss hesitated, then continued — {are you here? | mean 
with us.} 


The drawing smiled ruefully. Because of what | am. 
{I don't understand.} 


The drawing moved slightly, frowned, then resorted to fingerspelling. 
T-H-E-T-A 90 can use someone who exists in two dimensions. 


Dimaccio saw the look develop on Weiss' face. "You think it's 
kidding, Specialist? Since I've been with this Task Force we've 
encountered uncontained two-dimensional anomalies on seven — 
no, sorry, eight — occasions. Some of those, we'd have been 
screwed if we didn't have Eight-Five to deploy." He glanced down. 
"Speaking of which, it has training of its own to get back to." 


Dimaccio wrote "85, RECOMMENCE EXERCISE" on the page and 
placed it back into its folder, looking back up at Weiss. "There's a 
drawing of a ruined city in there. Eight-Five is working on its UO 
skills. Don't worry, it can't get out." 


"Sir.. shouldn't the HMCL for SCP-085 be the one to dictate—" 
"Specialist, | am the HMCL for SCP-085." 
Weiss was totally lost for words. 


"What are we supposed to do, Weiss? | know it's not conventional. 
But considering we have literally zero fucking options other than 
Eight-Five when it comes to dealing with 2D anomalies, it was the 
only choice. Besides, it was going as close to stir crazy as | guess 
you can tell for a walking, thinking drawing. | heard about the 
situation, pulled some strings, gave some presentations, kissed 
some serious ass, and here we are." 


"Not everyone would agree with... that approach, sir." Weiss’ tone 
made it clear she counted herself in that group. 


"Yes, Weiss, | know. And | get it. We don't want to turn into the Gock 
and keep trying to use anomalies against anomalies. Half the time it 
literally blows up in their faces. But there are some pretty fucking 
rare occasions when you just don't have a choice. You have to pick 
your battles in this line of work, Specialist. When you can." Dimaccio 
fell silent. 


"So, uh. Was that a training assignment, sir?" 


"What? Fuck no." Dimaccio pulled out another, rather thicker, folder. 
"That was just a little familiarization exercise. This is your training 
paperwork. Sign the disclaimer and then start with Section 1." A 
smile. "It shouldn't take you more than eighty or ninety hours of 
work." 


"Yes, sir." 
"If you rush through." 


"... Yes, sir." 


"Okay." Dimaccio jerked his thumb towards the door, still smiling. 
"Good afternoon, Specialist." 


« | Hub | Monday, 6am, Escherville Facility Two » 


Monday, 6am, Escherville Facility Two 


The vomit flew over Specialist Jane Weiss' head and splattered 
messily onto Trooper Smithson. 


"Christ on a bike, Weiss, watch where you're puking!" 


"Sorry," Weiss gasped out between coughs. "It's not ex— " A pause; 
more choking. "Not exactly obvious where it's gonna go. And this 
place is—" Weiss doubled up again. 


"Yeah, no shit." Smithson shrugged, sending some partially-digested 
food spiraling away from him. "That's why you shoulda taken anti- 
emetics, like you were told. Crow," he added as an afterthought, 
while scanning Direction Four. 


Specialist Zheng cut in. "Facility Two is nothing, Probationary, so if 
you can't even deal with this, you better just quit now." 


Weiss retched again. The cautions from the bottle of anti-memetics 
rose unbidden into the mush of her forebrain: 


Potential Operational Hazards: 

- May decrease comprehension of rapid operational changes. 
- May cause mild to moderate vertigo and/or dizziness. 

- May cause moderate to severe nausea. 


Between heaves, Weiss heard MTF Theta-90's commander in her 
earpiece.