"It should at least get me through the door." Adams parked the car 
and climbed out, wrapping her scarf around her neck. "Besides, 
having you around kills two birds with one stone. It lets me attend 
this meeting without taking an entire MTF with me, and it assures 
your former employers that this isn't a setup for a Foundation raid." 


SCP-708: The Big Orange Forklift 


Item #: SCP-708 
Object Class: Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-708 is to be stored ina 
warehouse at Sector-19, pending further research. Keys to the 
ignition lock of SCP-708 are to be kept in a secure lock-box at Site 
19 accessible only by Dr. Lentil, with a spare set in a secure lock- 
box maintained by Dr. Horrigan. Neither set is permitted to be 
accessed without the consent of at least one (1) Level 4 Personnel. 
Personnel attempting to make use of SCP-708 or gain access to 
either of its keys are to be immediately detained and must undergo a 
psychological evaluation. Keys are to be used in an alternating 
fashion, so as not to cause excessive wear to them. 


Description: SCP-708 is an orange Toyota Model 7FDU80 7-Series 
Forklift with a typical lift capacity of 8 metric tonnes. Records 
indicate it was purchased by [REDACTED] on 7/13/ and delivered 
7/30/ .SCP-708 came to the Foundation's attention when 3 
construction workers employed by [REDACTED], while operating 
the machine, strayed completely from their duties, seeking out 
objects to lift throughout the city of , NY. One other 
construction worker, however, immediately attempted to destroy all 
members of the crew working at the job site. At this point, the 
Foundation launched an investigation, and quickly turned to 
SCP-708 as the culprit, which was proven when Agent 

attempted to move the vehicle onto a Foundation transport, and 
upon starting the vehicle, attempted to lift the transport, instead. 


Upon maintaining visual contact with SCP-708 for more than 20 
seconds, all subjects are rendered into a state of enthusiasm. These 
subjects will exclaim joyous remarks relating to “riding the big 
orange forklift,” not unlike a child. This is often accompanied by 
high-frequency sounds, and hopping up and down as a child in an 
excited temperament would. Due to the reported annoying effect of 


"It isn't?" Aleksander asked. 


"Not that | know of," Adams admitted. "This could be some kind of 
elaborate double-blind. But let's pretend it isn't." 


They walked into a hotel lobby decorated in the kind of opulence 
generally reserved for Pre-French Revolutionary aristocrats and 
Middle Eastern oil barons. Aleksander was painfully aware that the 
marble floors alone cost more than most people would make in their 
entire lives (and that was before one figured in the gold trim and the 
mother-of-pearl inlays). It was a reminder that the people here didn't 
live in the same world as the other 99.99% of humanity. 


They were greeted by an immaculately dressed man in a three- 
piece suit, who inclined his perfectly coiffed head politely as they 
approached the reception desk. "Welcome, Agent Adams. Pleasure 
to see you again, Mister Foxx," the concierge said. "You will be in 
the Gilded Suite." 


"You know who | am?" Adams asked. 


"Ruby Mesa Resorts takes great pride in anticipating the wants of 
our customers before they even know they want them,” the 
concierge said, smiling mechanically. He passed them a small 
leather portfolio containing two keycards and a thin brochure for the 
resort itself. "If you would follow me?" 


"Our bags..." Adams began. 


"... will be brought to your rooms shortly," the concierge finished. 
"Again, if you would come this way?" 


They followed the concierge out of the lobby and down a hallway 
lined with luxurious burgundy carpets and walls. Adams ran her 
fingertips along the wall, frowning. "Silk wallpaper,” she said 
thoughtfully. 


"Only the finest for our guests," the concierge said, face still locked 
in that perfectly practiced smile. 


Aleksander smirked. He knew what to expect from a Marshall, 
Carter, and Dark resort. It was obvious that Adams did not. 


They were led into a five-room suite lavishly furnished in dark 
hardwoods and gold trim. The ceiling chandelier glittered with what 
looked at first glance to be cut-glass crystals, but were more likely 
diamonds. The furniture was upholstered in off-white velvet, 
embroidered with gold thread. Fresh flower arrangements — dark- 
red orchids and purple lilies with a spray of baby's breath — were 
arranged in cut-glass vases that rested upon hand-crocheted white 
lace doilies. 


What drew Aleksander's attention, however, was the basket of fruit 
sitting on the dining table with the cream-colored envelope leaned 
up against it. He picked up the envelope, read the writing (hand- 
drawn calligraphy), and handed it to a somewhat stunned-looking 
Adams. "It's for you." 


Adams accepted the letter awkwardly: her eyes kept being drawn to 
the rich upholstery and luxurious fittings. When she finished reading, 
some of the enchantment was gone from her expression, replaced 
by sourness. "Our host regrets not being able to make it to our 
planned meeting tonight," she reported. "But they will meet with us 
first thing in the morning and encourage us to enjoy the resort's 
hospitality for tonight." She rubbed the cream-colored parchment 
paper with her fingertips, held it up to the light, even took a lighter 
out of her pocket and heated up a section of what appeared to be 
(and actually was) blank paper. Finding nothing, she folded it up and 
tossed it back onto the dining room table. "Looks like we're being 
given the run-around." 


"That seems to be the case," Aleksander said. He picked up one of 
the fruits: (a small, light green pear with a pale pink blush) and gave 
it a light sniff. "Comice pears," he said. "Very nice. Not exactly easy 
to find at this time of year, either." 


Adams shook her head. "I don't like being kept waiting." 


Aleksander shrugged. "It is what it is. It is not like we have a choice. 


"Agreed." Adams sighed. She ran a finger along the polished marble 
mantelpiece, gazed upwards at the chandelier, then gave 
Aleksander a wry smile. "Well, as long as we're here in the lap of 
luxury, we may as well milk it for all its worth. What's for dinner?" 


Dinner (as served in the hotel restaurant) was a dry-aged filet 
mignon (medium rare with white truffle butter) for Adams, and roast 
lamb (served with a side of grilled summer vegetables) for 
Aleksander. Aleksander found his meal a bit disappointing: 
competently made, certainly, and flavorful, but not nearly up to the 
high standards of a Marshall Carter resort's dining room. 


Adams, on the other hand, seemed to be on the verge of rapture. "It 
just melts under your knife," she said, taking another bite and 
making a happy cooing sound. "It's like butter." 


"Certainly a step up from the Foundation's cafeterias," Aleksander 
admitted. 


"Not that Flames and his minions don't do their best, but they don't 
exactly have the budget of this place," Adams agreed. She took a 
sip of her wine: a Cabernet recommended by the Maitre'D (a vintage 
that Aleksander personally found a bit fussy when paired with red 
meat). "Damn, that's good," Adams said, then hurriedly added, "Not 
that I'd want to eat like this all the time, but it's nice to indulge once 
in a while." 


Aleksander picked at the remains of his meal as Adams finished 
cleaning her plate, sighing in satisfaction as she took the last bite. 
As if on cue (possibly because it was), a pair of silent waitresses 
emerged to remove their empty plates. Shortly afterwards, a cut- 
crystal dish containing a complicated-looking chocolate dessert 
topped with a light dusting of honest-to-god gold powder was 
brought out to their table. "Compliments of the chef," the waiter said 
courteously, before retreating from whence he came. 


Adams took one bite of the dessert, closed her eyes, and just 
moaned. "Oh my God, if this dessert were alive I'd fuck it right here 
and now." 


Aleksander flinched. "Please watch your language," he said. "This is 
a fine dining establishment." 


"A ha!" Adams grinned as she took another bite of the incredibly 
decadent dessert. "| knew there was something human behind that 


bland exterior." 
"Bland?" Aleksander asked. 


"Maybe not... bland. Reserved, maybe. The type of person who 
lives most of their lives as a living adjunct to another person." 
Adams ran her spoon along the outside of the dish, took a delicate 
nibble of the gooey chocolate sauce. "You know, one of the little 
people. MC&D doesn't exactly encourage an excess of personality 
in its employees," Adams said. 


"Our clientele prefer to live their lives in private, without 
disturbance," Aleksander said. "| would say that your organization 
has the opposite problem." 


"You think that we encourage too much personality?" 


"One need only look at your 'Four Horsemen’ to see what your 
Foundation thinks of 'personality,"" Aleksander said. 


"Touché." Adams scraped the last of the chocolate sauce from her 
dessert bowl and gave a happy little sigh. "Well, that was delicious. | 
wonder what else there is to do here?" 


Of course she packed a swimsuit. And of course it's a black bikini. 


Aleksander sat poolside, keeping watch for threats while Adams 
swam slow, lazy laps back and forth across the otherwise empty 
pool. At this hour, the place was nearly empty: aside from a couple 
of guests using the hot tub, he and Adams were the only ones here. 


Adams paused in the middle of her endless laps, clinging to the side 
of the pool. "Not a swimmer?" she asked. 


"lam not fond of swimming," Aleksander replied. "Chlorine does not 
exactly agree with me." 


"Huh. | never really thought of that." Adams said. "| guess anti-algal 
treatments wouldn't go so well with your new lungs." 


"It would not kill them, but it would be very unpleasant," Aleksander 


said. He was unsurprised that the woman knew about the moss- 
based matrix that had replaced his alveoli. She seemed remarkably 
well-informed. 


"What's it like?" Adams asked. "Having so many alterations shoved 
into your body?" 


"Not too much different from before," Aleksander admitted. "Some 
things are easier. Other things are harder. You just have to 
remember that you still are who you were before, inside." 


"Guess that could be a double-edged sword." Adams climbed the 
ladder and emerged from the pool glistening and wet, her mahogany 
hair plastered to her head and back. "Depends on whether you like 
who you were before, or not." 


"It's not a matter of liking or disliking. It is what it is." 


Adams stretched her arms out over her head. "I'm gonna go check 
out the hot tub." 


Aleksander winced. 


"So what exactly is it that you do for a living?" the silver-haired man 
asked. He had his arm around a sprightly young blonde woman less 
than half his age who spent a lot of time fiddling with a jewel- 
encrusted smart phone. Neither of them wore swimsuits. 


Aleksander kept his eyes off of them, checking the gates and 
balconies for threats. 


"I'm a junior executive for an international firm, specializing in 
security and acquisitions," Adams said. She had chosen to retain 
her swimsuit, and sat on the edge of the hot tub with her feet in the 
bubbling, steaming water. 


"Interesting," the man said. He was staring at Adams' scantily clad 
body like a wolf staring at a steak. (The girl seemed mostly 
interested in playing Candy Crush Saga.) "My company does some 


work in that area. Maybe we've worked together in the past, miss... 
o" 


"Simmons," Adams said. "Veronica Simmons. And | doubt it, 
Shanghai Consumer Products doesn't have too many interests in 
America itself." 


"Shanghai, huh?" the man said. "You know, I've been meaning to 
expand into the Chinese market. | think maybe we could work 
something out?" 


"| don't have the authority for that," Adams said. "But if you give me 
your business card, | can pass it on to my superiors..." 


"| think maybe it might be better for you if you presented them 
something already wrapped up and ready to go with their 
signatures," the man said, smiling. "It would show some initiative. 
Maybe open up a career path above that of ‘junior executive.” 


"Mmmm," Adams said. Her smile showed a few too many teeth to 
be friendly. "My bosses do appreciate a little... initiative..." 


"Why don't we go to my suite? We could talk a little more over a 
glass of champagne... or, if you prefer, something a bit harder..." 


Aleksander twitched. He took a closer look at the man in the hot tub, 
shuddered, and cleared his throat twice. Adams glanced over, 
surprised, then gave the silver-haired man a winsome, yet 
apologetic smile. "Unfortunately, | need to call it an early night," she 
said. "I'm meeting with my client early tomorrow morning, and as 
important as this is, I'll need to be well-rested." 


"It won't take long," the man said, smiling disarmingly. His hand 
clenched around the waist of his young companion, who gave a little 
squeak of dismay. "Not much longer than half an hour..." 


"Good night, sir," Adams said, still smiling. She stood up and slid 
into the fluffy white bathrobe Aleksander held out for her. 


"Perhaps tomorrow night!?" the man called out. "| can buy you a 
drink..." 


Adams gave him a dismissive wave as she and Aleksander walked 
back into the hotel. "What the hell was that about?" she asked, once 
they'd stepped into the lobby. "/mminent danger, abort 


immediately?" 


"| remembered where I'd seen that man before." Aleksander said. 
"He's Richard LaFontaine, a former client. His hobbies are young 
women, drugs, and surreptitiously dosing young women with drugs." 


Adams froze. "Holy shit." 
"Indeed," Aleksander said. "Best not to join him for that nightcap." 


Adams glanced over her shoulder. Through the tinted glass, she 
could see the silver-haired man knock the girl's smart phone into the 
hot tub, saw her shout in dismay, which triggered a loud argument. 
"You know," Adams said coldly, "maybe | should take him up on that 
offer of a drink. Switch glasses on him and see how he likes it." 


"Wouldn't work. He doses the bottle directly." Aleksander's 
expression was grim. "He also spent a lot of time and money having 
himself rendered immune to Rohypnol, among other things." 


"Christ on a fucking crutch! How is this asshole not in jail?" 
"Enough money can help a lot of things go away." 


Adams clenched her hands into tight fists. "Now I'm thinking that he 
should suffer an unfortunate accident," she said. "Like drowning ina 
hot tub or falling off a balcony..." 


"Don't say that," Aleksander interrupted. "Don't even think that. Not 
unless you want to become the subject of a charity auction." 


"Charity auction?" 


"Traditional MC&D punishment for harming another guest on their 
property. They sell the offender to one of several... specialists... by 
silent auction. If you're lucky, you'll be picked up by The Inquisitor or 
The Butcher. If you're very, very unlucky, the Identify Thief." 


"He steals your credit card number?" 


"And your face... your mind... your past... your family... your 
friends. And then he resells them to anyone who wants to live your 


life and can afford his fees." 
"Jesus," Adams whispered. 


Aleksander shrugged. "The proceeds go to the victim, or their 
families. Less processing and handling fees." 


"But wait," Adams asked. "If he drugged me on MC&D soil, then 
wouldn't he be put up for auction too?" 


"If you could prove you were drugged against your will? His word 
against yours? One woman did." Aleksander led Adams into the 
elevator. "LaFontaine's friends pooled their funds and outbid her. 
Sent him to the Courtesan for ten lashes with a riding crop." 


"Son of a bitch," Adams said sourly. 
"It is what it is," Aleksander said.