Radcliffe gave him an odd look, her head tilting almost ninety 
degrees. A sudden hitch in her throat let out a strangled sound 
before she started laughing. Her own hand slapped over her mouth 
and she fidgeted for a few seconds, as if the laugh was trying to find 
some other exit. Eventually she managed to gulp it down and smiled 
awkwardly at Cactusman. She stepped over the messy table and sat 
uncomfortably close to him, wrapping an arm around him. 


"You poor, poor bastard. Well, don't worry!" A very fake looking 
flower ejected itself from her right palm and tickled Cactusman 
under his nose. "We'll fix you right up. | mean, probably. Eventually. 
Until then the three of us can be bestest buddies!" 


"That does wonders for my morale." 


"| know, right? Like, look at me! I'm probably annoying as fuck, and 
I'm Beta Class! That's pretty good. And now | have two super- 
depressed buddies that | can just pour joy and enthusiasm into 
despite the fact that doing so is likely actively damaging you 
mentally, but | can't stop myself because either | genuinely can't 
filter my thoughts or being a loudmouth jackass is just a defense 
mechanism for my utterly fucked up situation of working for an 
organization whose methods | don't fully support. Yet it's somehow 
better than the alternatives because some old motherfuckers behind 
their desks decided | wasn't normal and had to be locked up like 
some kinda side show attraction instead of the main stage magician 
| wanted to be! But hey! At least | might not have to suffer it long due 
to the physical dangers of my missions." 


Flabbergasted, Cactusman just stared at her grin. His mind had 
finally started working at full capacity, and now it felt bogged down in 
gunk again. For whatever reason it decided to notice her left large 
incisor had a small chip on the side. After what felt like a week her 
mouth moved to ask, "So, wanna watch a movie, Cactusman?" 


Daniel Macintyre blinked. "Yeah. Uh. Movie sounds good, actually. 
And just call me Daniel." 


Headhunted 


The Machine had failed and Dr. Molly Jayawadena was fleeing. 


In a filthy subway bathroom, Molly smeared cheap bronzer on her 
face. The dollar store powder left grimy, muddy streaks on Molly's 
golden-olive face, just as she knew it would. The rest of the powder 
was rubbed into the thick, musty smelling anorak bought in a yard 
sale. It had been unseasonably warm for March in New York state, 
not warm enough that one would remember selling a heavy coat, but 
just a touch too warm for that particular jacket. This anorak had 
been very deliberately chosen, and Molly was ready to test that 
choice. She gathered the black trash bag containing everything she 
now owned in the world and shuffled out of the bathroom. Head 
downcast, Molly ambled to the bus station. 


Molly's choice of disguise was a good one. People's eyes slid off her 
as if she was coated with some unsavory perceptual grease. Dr. 
Jayawadena knew it was cynical to rely so strongly on people's 
callousness towards the homeless, but cynicism has a way of 
paying off. Pedestrians gave her a wide berth while refusing to 
acknowledge her presence, shiny young police officers merely gave 
off an air of annoyance, and the bus driver patently ignored her 
fumbling with handfuls of sweaty quarters. Molly took a seat at the 
bus. No one sat beside her. Molly settled in with satisfaction for a 
long ride. 


She would be in New York in a few hours, and then...Molly was 
generally a meticulous planner. That's why she had been able to 
flee the second the Machine melted down. No one else would have 
several thousand dollars in small bills, fake IDs, enough stage 
makeup to render Hitler unrecognizable, and yet... 


Something else was guiding Molly. This was The Machine speaking 
to her. She must be passive now and surrender to the rippling 
currents of destiny. 


This was not her. Molly Jayawadena was not a passive participant in 
the Universe. 


But then again, she didn't design the Machine. 


How could she? She was a physicist, not an engineer. A 
theoretician, mind you. A tinkerer in ideas, not metal. Molly didn't 
know a resistor from a reading light and didn't care to. The Proof 
was her work and hers alone, but the Machine was a collaboration. 


With whom? Pieces of memory swirled in Molly's addled head: 
dreams of schematics in smooth clean lines, notes left in her office 
or falling out of textbooks, whispers from her students. The students! 
The engineering majors, bringing her odd little components they'd 
built "for fun", "on a whim". Damned if they knew what it did, but 
maybe you'd like to have it as a desk piece, Dr. Jayawadena? In 
turn, she'd given them the blueprints formed in half-waking 
moments. Here's a tricky little circuit here. Let's see if you can build 
it. Winner gets drinks on me. Most of those students were male, and 
what a male thing it was to try and win a competition of skill, 
especially to impress a woman. So the Machine was fashioned, 
piecemeal, but undeniably real. 


But who designed the Machine? 


All of a sudden Molly realized that the seats beside and in front of 
her were taken. 


The seats on the bus were in groups of four, a pair of seats facing 
each other. Molly had slid into the window seat. This, she now 
realized, was a mistake on her part. A man in nondescript beige 
clothing sat next to her, blocking her access to the aisle. Another 
man and a woman sat across from her in the same forgettable attire. 
Their outfits and demeanor were so bland that Molly knew they were 
some sort of plainclothesmen. 


"You can't stop me," said Molly in a stage whisper. 


The woman across from Molly removed her headphones and smiled 
a toothy, foreboding smile at her. "Stop you, Doctor? I'm personally 
offended. We're here to protect you, ma'am." 


As the subject enters the second room to record more 
footage, the front door suddenly closes and locks, and all 
of the cameras lose their video signals simultaneously. 
Preliminary analysis shows the cables were cut just as in 
Experiment 1. When the door unlocks, there is no sign of 
the subject or any equipment in the apartment. 


Analysis: 

Right before the signal is lost, one of the cameras 
records something on the front door. Analysis of the 
footage suggests that the object is a wire rack around 
15 cm long attached to the inside surface of the front 
door. The external cameras record the expected drop in 
temperature, though exact data could not be obtained 
through the closed window blinds. Several minutes later, 
external cameras record a sustained spike in Far-UV 
radiation that lasts approximately forty seconds. No other 
unusual emissions are detected. 


Show Researcher's Note 


Note, / /198 : Overwatch has suspended 
exploration of SCP-602 for now, primarily 
because we’ve neared the limit of what we can 
learn using current technology without it 
becoming insanely expensive. At the very 
least, we would need stronger materials and 
more maneuverable robotics, though a cheap 
way to send a video signal without a cable 
would be nice too. 


It’s just as well, though, because I’m 
concerned that Mrs. Jankowicz up in is 
becoming suspicious again. | don’t know how 
she knows what she does, but either way, 
getting that many amnestics can’t be good for 
anybody, particularly a lady her age. | 
recommend she be investigated as a potential 
SCP. —Dr. Devon 


"Protect me? From those people at the test site?" 


The man across from her smiled. "Clever one. No wonder the 
Engineer picked her." 


Molly's head snapped to the man. "Engineer?" 
"I'd better let our scientific representative answer that. Doctor?" 


The man next to Molly peered up for the first time. Steepling his 
fingers, he addressed her in a low, thick voice. "Dr. Jayawadena. | 
must Say it's an absolute pleasure to finally meet you, circumstances 
notwithstanding. | am Dr. Mikhail Kronovich, head of my 
organization's Physical Sciences Research and Development 
Department. My organization has taken quite the interest in you and 
your work." 


Molly cocked an eyebrow. "Me and my work?" 


"Absolutely, Doctor. You see, our...organization is not only devoted 
to finding the proper science, but the proper minds. We want vision; 
we want those minds dedicated to unity and order...ah, | see you 
know exactly what I'm talking about." 


Molly's head was pounding. "Pare it down. Pare it down. The 
anomalies..." 


Dr. Kronovich chuckled. "Comrades, she's practically one of us 
already. Doctor, you Know about the anomalies. They're written into 
the language of the universe. So why, my dear Doctor, do we not 
know about them?" 


"Surely they disguise themselves?" 


"Oh, yes, of course, a few of them do, that's the nature of the 
anomaly. But the others? No. They are being purposely hidden, 
locked away so as not to contaminate our precious grip on creation," 
Dr. Kronovich spat venomously. 


"Hidden?" 


"Yes, by our friends in black. The spooks." 


"They're not government." It was a statement, not a question. 


Dr. Kronovich roared with laughter. "If only! The leader of this 
government cannot trifle with an intern without the world finding out 
all the salacious details. Bumbling idiots. Government indeed." 


"Who are they then?" 


The woman leaned in. "They're a Foundation. The Foundation. They 
exist to keep the human race in the dark." 


The man added, "You see, we're all far too stupid to handle reality 
as it is. We have to be protected. Watched over by our shepherds, 
the lords and masters of The Foundation." His face twisted bitterly. 
"Of course, they're perfectly good enough to use the anomalies 
themselves..." 


"But we'll save that for later," said Dr. Kronovich firmly. "Let us 
attend to the matter at hand." He turned again to Molly. "This is an 
offer of employment. We want to bring order to the universe. My 
organization will bring harmony between the anomalies and 
consensus reality, and we want you to help achieve that vision." 


"Let's not attend to the matter at hand. This Foundation of yours, 
how could they have possibly found my test site so quickly, and 
what could they possibly have to gain?" 


"The Foundation is everywhere, Doctor. They are in every branch of 
every government on Earth, every industrial sector, every religious 
organization. Our records indicate that you enjoy movies. You have 
seen movies where some dark global organization overlooks a small 
resistance by virtue of their cleverness or insignificance?" 


"Yes," said Molly, "One of my least favorite tropes, actually.” 


"Then you will be pleased to learn life does not imitate art. The 
Foundation is not that incompetent movie villain and no part of your 
life is beyond their reach. Within five minutes, they will know exactly 
which seat you have taken on this bus. If it wasn't for certain tricks of 
our own, they would have a transcript of our exact conversation. Do 
you know, Doctor, what they do with all this immense power?" 


"| have no idea, seeing as how I'm only learning of them now." 


Dr. Kronovich brought his fist down on his armrest with a dull thud. 
"Exactly. The Foundation uses that immense power to convince 
humanity that the world is flat and the sun revolves around it. You 
have seen evidence of wonders, Doctor. The Foundation is in the 
business of hiding them from sight. Does this not offend you?" 


Molly slid back into her seat. "Everything I've learned and taught has 
been a lie," she said blankly. All of a sudden, a bright, childlike smile 
burst like a sunbeam onto her face. "Everything | know is a lie! I've 
got a PhD in alchemy! In astrology! In antiquated bullshit!" She fell 
back laughing rapturously. 


"Wonderful, no?" asked Dr. Kronovich with a crooked grin. 


"It's Christmas in March!" she laughed again. "And to what do | owe 
the honor? Isn't there some sort of application process or..." 


"You've passed it. We've been supplying you with a bit of help these 
past few months and you've gotten farther than we have in years. 
Imagine what you could do if you had an entire fully staffed lab 
devoted to controlling your ouroboric anomalies." 


"| presume | must go into hiding with you." 


"You presume correctly. To the outside world you will be as good as 
dead. We will protect you completely from your pursuers. In return 
we want you to research for us what you've been studying already. 
It's certainly not a bad deal, is it not?" 


"Definitely. You're not with the government either. You're some sort 
of cloak-and-dagger bullshit, right? Spanning the globe, men in 
black, hiding in plain sight? 'The Truth is Out There'?" 


Dr. Kronovich smiled. "Sarcasm aside, you have the idea." 
"Well, I'm in. When do | start?" 


The man leaned forward. "What? Just like that? Aren't you going to 
ask what happens if you refuse? Aren't you going to ask who you're 
working for or how you can trust us?" 


Molly turned to him, smiling wryly. "I'm a scientist. Have you ever 
had to explain to a politician why your work is worth funding if you 
can't pick off terrorists with it? | don't give a fuck who I'm working for 
as long as | can research what | want and you're paying me for it. | 
don't have to know what happens if | refuse because I'd be an idiot 
to refuse." 


"And you are no idiot," said Dr. Kronovich with a smile. "I believe this 
is our stop." 


"What are you talking about? We're not stopping for at least another 
hour." 


"Working for us has certain perks. Take this," said the woman. 


Molly took a large wristband with a big yellow button on it. Noticing 
that her new coworkers wore the same device, she strapped it on. 


"Ready? On three, push the button. And Doctor? Welcome to the 
Insurgency." 


Two hours later, the bus made an unscheduled stop. Armed men 
and women in intimidating uniforms swarmed the bus looking for a 
young postdoc who had undergone a mental breakdown and was 
missing. No one looked too closely at the uniforms. 


A thousand miles away in an underground bunker, Dr. Molly 
Jayawadena reached for a pencil and began to write. 


SC-49/785-52/543 


DeCIRO Catalogue Number: SC-49/785-52/543 
Document Type: Step Compilation 

Dates Received: 06-04-1949 through 09-26-1952 
Operation Status: Open 


Foreword: Soon after it was forged, the hidden blade in the 
Foundation's blood-soaked hand was augmented with a stony 
venom. The information of this slow-acting venom had been largely 
struck from their records, and with it the hidden blade downed many 
of the Foundation's foes, often years after they were struck. And 
now, the blade out of their reach, the blade silently strikes its old 
wielder. 


We of Delta Command are confident that Operation Perseus will 
successfully reflect the dire effects of the Foundation's darkest 
secrets on itself. Forced to avert their gazes, the Overseers can do 
naught as the many serpents that wreathe their crown are petrified. 
And when the time is right, Perseus will rise and the crippled gorgon 
petrifying our world will be slain. 


Hereafter we of Delta Command document the Steps of the Plan as 
transcribed by the Engineer of the Chaos Insurgency. 


1. STEP 49/785 


I'm feeling sympathetic toward our members who are beginning to 
question their place with us. Such as the Beta-Class residing in 
Number 233 on Base C. He used to work at Foundation Site-37, and 
is thinking back on how his old job wasn't that bad. On September 
14th, give him two doses of the blue substance located in Locker B 
of Base C's Chemical Storage. Insert a GPS tracker while you're at 
it. If and when he tries to leave, allow him to leave unharmed. 


2. STEP 49/948