Brannovich doesn't seem to hear it. He continues: “I suppose we 
need to stabilize our timeline first. Or... whatever this is. | suppose 
multiverse theory does't quite describe it. Nonetheless, the similarity 
is there. Survival comes first. Cooperation is second.” 


Sethwi nods. “What do you recommend?” 


“I'd have to run some simulations.” He frowns in thought. “I'm not 
brushed up on my game theory. And I'd have to talk to the 
Committee. Out of curiosity, have you checked...” He pauses, 
looking around, mentally trying to match faces with personnel 
records. 


“Oh, cut it, Hans,” says Knight. “Anyone who knows enough to be in 
this room has been operating outside of security clearances for long 
enough.” 


Brannovich nods, accepting it. “Have you checked the Solid 
Archive?” 


“| did, two years ago," says Sethwi. "It was very helpful.” 
“And?” 


“Hold up,” says Morisato. “Sethwi, you didn't tell me about this. 
Before you wind up needing to take me out back with an armed 
information security specialist - and this is my meeting, so that would 
be rude - | don't know what the Solid Archive is. Is it the same thing 
they call “The Oracle” back at the Svalbard Site?” 


“| would imagine so,” says Northrop. “Often times the Foundation 
stumbles across information that's useful to certain parties, under 
certain circumstances, but is dangerous to have around all the time, 
if you follow me. The Solid Archive is a way of making that 
information available when its time comes. If researchers dig 
something up they want to put back in the ground, they can put what 
they know in the Archive's data banks, and set parameters for its 
unveiling. Future researchers can put information they find into the 
Archive, and if the parameters match, learn what's been learned 
about it in the past.” 


“What's to stop new researchers from just letting the info out again?” 


“Ordinarily,” says Northrop, “to put something in the Archive in the 
first place, one has a very clear and understandable reason. And 
researchers in a position to know about the Archive generally have a 
little common sense.” 


“| see.” Morisato nods. “So what did you learn?” 


“First of all,” says Sethwi. “We're not the first one to find this. Once 
we put the data in, a few files in the Archive came loose. They 
indicate that close to a decade ago, another group of researchers 
found out. Did what we're doing now. What they tried, as a solution, 
was... to restructure the Foundation's workings. Subtly. They kept 
containment, research, the building blocks, but changed the mortar 
between them. Hold on, let me think - it was a very novel idea.” She 
flips through a Filofax of tidily ciphered notes. 


“Here. They did an overhaul of the Foundation's personnel 
departments on a massive scale. Rearranged it so that high-risk, 
central positions, and especially high-volume site personnel - Site 
19, 17 - had more unstable personalities that were more reactive 
with each other, while also minimizing actual affects of this on the 
Foundation's critical operations. Most of us will recall that the 
records took a weird turn around this era. Well, now we know why.” 


“Make them argue? How did that help?” 


Sethwi shakes her head. “It wasn't just arguing, Agent. There was... 
romance, and conflict.” She looks around. “Low stakes conflict.” 


“Oh, my god,” says Brannovich softly, after a few minutes. “They 
were trying to change the genre.” 


Sethwi nods. “And it worked, for a while. There were... fewer 
deaths. Less suffering. It's not the kind of trend anyone's looked for 
on a large scale before, but psychological reports listed fewer 
mental illnesses developing in staff. Working for the Foundation 
would have been noticeably more pleasant a few years ago. Then, 
for some reason, that changed.” 


“... They made... more pain and death. Is that what you're saying?” 
Knight's voice is strained. 


“Apparently.” 


“|...” Her paper coffee cup crinkles in her hand. “What are we 
dealing with? Because that sounds right.” She clenches her teeth 
and puts the cup down. “The first time | saw someone die, it was 
three years ago. We lost four sites in a year. | saw an entire MTF - ” 


“You have to understand,” Sethwi cuts in, murmuring gently. “From 
what we understand - they probably don't know we exist, in any real 
sense. They don't think we have subjective experience, or sensory 
capacity, any more than a character in a book. For whatever reason, 
tormenting us is... better, in a narrative sense.” 


“For them.” 
“Obviously for them. Yes.” 


Knight sighs. “They're murderers, you know? For any moral system 
in which loss of life or suffering is wrong, they're evil - thousands of 
us have died, millions more from the impacts of SCP objects overall. 
The overworld doesn't seem to have any of that. They don't even 
understand." 


Northrop speaks up. "! believe | see a possibility." 
"Go on," says Morisato. 


"We're one shard among a vast number represented in H-716's 
fictional database," Northrop starts. 


Sethwi nods. “I've been thinking on similar lines. | think it's very 
promising. If we use the precedent, then it might be possible to seal 
off our splinter - end our role in their stories, so to speak. Nothing 
may change, but at the least, we can likely stop it from getting 
worse. I'm talking about a direct appeal to the creators. 


"And... Actually, that's the reason | recommended we hold this 
meeting.” 


“What?” Morisato asks. Her voice trills at the end of the word. 
Whaaat. Around the table, Brannovich, Knight, and Northrop clearly 
aren't expecting this either. “What do you mean?” 


“Well..." says Sethwi. "... There's very little precedent for this 
anywhere, but we can follow simple reasoning. It's interesting if one 
group in your fictional world knows that the world is fictional. It's not 
interesting - this can be tested, there's a cliche, you run out of 
material quickly - if everyone knows. Therefore, even with a lot of 
authors and an even larger number of splinter universes, there are 
probably only a small number of authors, writing a small number of 
worlds, in which the Foundation becomes aware of its true nature.” 


She stands up. “I called this meeting, with all of you in particular, 
because none of our names appear in the shared archive - or, 
actually, the Senior Staff member who recommended | hold this 
meeting, did. She gave me the list. This way, we're not bringing 
anything to their table, and we can talk without preconceived 
notions.” 


“I'm sorry,” says Northrop, “Whose table? The one who 
recommended that you-” 


“No, Doctor. What | mean is, it's possible that a creator is looking at 
what we're saying, right now. Which means, unfortunately, this is 
turning into a personal appeal.” 


Sethwi tucks her hands into her skirt pocket, and straightens her 
back. Her expression is inscrutable. 


Everyone else sits stone still, straddling various points on the line 
between garden-variety incomprehension and pure muscle-melting 
existential terror. 


“| Know you don't mean it,” Sethwi says, apparently to nothing. “But 
we have consciousness, we have thought - even if it's not quite 
independent - and memory, and personality. And we feel pain, and 
loss, in what | believe is the same way you do. | don't know why you 
do it - but you should know what it's doing to us. What we want you 
to do, we, the unique inhabitants of your world, is to leave us alone. 
Or even fix what you've done already." 


She looks at her colleagues. “This shouldn't just be me,. Does 
anyone else want to say anything? It's possible that this is the only 
chance you'll have in the spotlight - so to speak - and, well. | think 
this will be more powerful.” 


Silence passes around the room. Finally, Katy Knight talks into the 
air. 


“I Know this is ridiculous. ... You probably don't put any value on my 
life, or any of our lives, in particular. Especially if we're not your 
favorites. Which actually makes it easier to say this. You don't even 
know it, but you're all monsters. You're awful people. You're... sick 
fucks. We've lost so much because of you. And you have the 
chance to make things right again. Here, now, for us. | don't know 
how. But you do. You can do it.” She drops her gaze, exhales, and 
leans back into her seat. “There's an experiment for you, Yasmeen. 
If | get struck by lightning tomorrow, we'll know we were right.” 


Knight's gaze softens into the distance. Morisato studies her. 


Brannovich glances around, then stands up to speak. “I think I'd just 
like to Say, whoever you are, if you're listening... Thank you.” He 
didn't look at any of the faces around him. “I know I've seen terrible 
things - | think about terrible things all the time, that's my job - and | 
know there's so much suffering in the world. Your world is full of it 
too. 


“But my life has been... alright, really, overall. And maybe | just don't 
understand it yet, but it could have been worse. | didn't have to exist. 
You're not doing it for our benefit, of course. But none of us would 
be here without you. And | imagine that... while you may not have 
realized it... You've had a little compassion along the way. So thank 
you for that.” He sits down. He doesn't meet anyone's eyes. 


“Alright,” says Sethwi, “Anyone else?” 
General silence. 


“Then... | think that's it.” She exhales deeply. “Now, | had a couple 
of other ideas to discuss. If you'll all refer to your codebooks. There 
are some unusual containment implications involving...” 


It's exactly nine PM, the designated end time of the meeting. Sethwi 
has a flight in an hour and a half. She packs her briefcase, nods to 
the others, and whisks out, promising to keep in touch. 


Brannovich shakes her hand, and departs after her. His next task is 
to assemble his notes to determine which parts would be 
appropriate to send to the Committee, and which would be too 
sensitive or unhelpful. Knight slips out after him to ask about a side 
project he'd worked on at his previous site. 


“He's the real sacrificial goat,” Northrop laughs dryly, after 
Brannovich leaves. “If Hans leaves out anything important, he'll be 
the only one who knows.” 


“Would you like to do it instead?” Morisato looks up from her notes. 
Her eyes twinkle. 


“God no. Thank you for the moderation, Hotaru. | believe I'm going 
to go into town and indulge in a little, ah... controlled 
incomprehension, and pretend that'll help.” 


“Enjoy yourself,” says Morisato. “If you can catch Sethwi, maybe 
she'll delay her flight - she doesn't normally drink at work but | hear 
she'll make exceptions.” 


“| might just do that.” Northrop nods. “I'll see you around, won't |?” 


“Never fear, Doctor.” Morisato agrees. “You and your prodigious 
vocabulary always have a place on my Words with Friends list.” 


™Prodigious’. I'll have to use that." Northrop chuckles, and leaves. 


Finally, Hotaru Morisato stands up, alone in the room. She 
rearranges the chairs, and carefully cleans off the whiteboard before 
stepping out herself. She locks the door behind her. After the 
cleaners hit it, it will be impossible to tell who was inside. Only a few 
people and a few select departments will ever know that the meeting 
has happened, let alone who was there. or what was discussed. 


Katy Knight is waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall, 
looking at her cell phone and tapping on it with glittering silver nails. 


She looks up, then puts the phone away as Hotaru moves closer. 
“| thought you were going to your room?” Hotaru asks. 


“I'm planning to,” says Katy. “I just wanted to make sure you were 
alright. It's hard to tell with you.” 


“I'm... managing. It's a lot to take in. What about you?” 


Katy sighs, and shrugs. “What can | say? | didn't know what 
Yasmeen was going to break out there. | mean... from a reductionist 
approach, free will never made sense anyways. And I'm a scientist. | 
gathered that. But it was never quite so apparent, as now.” 


“| Know what you mean,” says Hotaru. “I didn't see it coming either, 
in all of our research. It's such a... powerless feeling.” She glances 
at Katy. 


Katy nods. “Like looking at writing on the wall, and not knowing what 
it says.” She pauses. “I'm going to my room.” 


“Alright,” says Hotaru. 
“Would you like to come with me?” asks Katy. 
Hotaru's face heats up. 


“It's just,” says Katy, “I know it can be hard to be alone after these 
things, and... Well, no, it's not just that. I've gotten to know you 
these last two months. | don't know what site I'm moving to after this. 
| don't know what I'm doing next or how it'll compare to anything as 
important as this. But | know you, and your devotion, and how you 
believe in me, and how you ordered me a new computer as soon as 
| got here because you couldn't handle the thought of me being 
inconvenienced by a broken screen. You have a lot of heart in you, 
Hotaru." 


Hotaru bites her lip, nods slightly. Her mouth works silently, trying 
out words. Finally, she looks up. “Dr. Knight. | want you to think 
rationally about this. You're visiting this site for a short stay. Guest 
quarters suck. I'm certain my room has a nicer bathroom.” 


Katy lets out a big breath. They both grin, then break into 
incredulous giggles at each other. 


“I'll defer to your expert judgement,” says Katy, regaining her 
composure, in civilized tones. 


They set off down the corridor. Katy's heels click on linoleum. After a 
quiet elevator ride, they arrive in the dimly-lit halls of the residential 
floor at night. Katy looks over. 


“I'm sorry - is this too forward of me?” 


Hotaru swallows. “No, I'm only thinking. These creators, or 
whoever's really running the show. The only reason we even exist Is 
because they want to be entertained. And they don't know we're 
real, or conscious anyways, but here we are. I'm sure Sethwi was 
right - if we let them pass us over, we'll be happier. But | can't help 
but think that they made us with a purpose. It would be right to do 
more. Not to just live safely, but to... to keep the story going. To give 
them the best tale possible.” She looks up. 


Katy meets her gaze, face compassionate but eyes hard and 
blazing. "No, Hotaru. Listen. 


"They put us here without our permission. They never told us what 
they want, or offered us equality. We don't owe them anything. 
Right? It doesn't matter if they think we're real, or not. This building, 
us here, time passing, the two of us... This is real. It's real to us. 
They can't change it.” 


She swallows. “This is our story, and we don't owe them that.” 


Hotaru nods, glancing down, then boldly extends her hand. Katy 
looks down, and takes it. Time seems to slow. Hotaru takes detailed 
mental notes of lacquered silver nails sliding over the skin of her 
palms, of bony fingers folding around hers and squeezing gently. 


Hotaru suddenly finds it impossible to doubt Katy's words. She finds 
also, unbidden, that her mind is flying down new pathways. 


She lets go of the hand, and slides her arm around Katy's waist 
instead. “I hope you brought a tooth brush,” she murmurs. 


Katy's lip curls up. 


And they all lived happily ever after. 


DIRECTIVE A-42 


DIRECTIVE SUMMARY 


Per executive order of the O5 COUNCIL, the following operatives 
are instructed to vacate SITE-42 and relocate to LUNAR AREA-32 
by the specified launch date: 


1. C-511741 
2. A-18012 
3. B-80928 


OPTIONAL: The above listed personnel are each eligible to select 
FIVE (5) additional personnel of clearance LEVEL 2 or higher from 
SITE-42 to accompany them if desired. 


DIRECTIVE LAUNCH DATE 
09:00 July 4, 2041 
OPERATIONS REQUIREMENTS 


1. Per DIRECTIVE 05-230, all personnel permanently 
transferring off-planet‘ following the events of ED-K LETHE 
SCENARIO II are required to undergo installation of a MK. Ill 
PII/N3.9