Mister Cutridge was quiet for a long time. "No," he said, curtly. 


"Seriously? After all I've done for you? After all the times I've pointed 
you towards artifacts that could make you a tidy profit?" 


"You've pointed me to trinkets that your organization is unwilling to 
make the effort to secure for themselves. No, Agent Harken, | 
believe that this time, it is | who am arguing from a position of 
strength. Your Foundation cannot even protect themselves from a 
small group of college students with delusions of grandeur. How can 
they expect to defend against us?" 


"Fine," Harken sighed. "In that case, wait three minutes and we'll 
see who's arguing from a position of strength then." 


"What?" 


Harken stubbed his cigarette out onto a tea saucer. "My smokes are 
laced with a nerve agent. I'm inoculated. You're not. The dose you 
took should be lethal in minutes." 


Cutridge's eyes bulged out, and he leaped up from his chair, 
knocking it over in his haste. "GUA—" 


There was an explosion on the foyer. Harken smiled. "It's amazing 
how much plastique you can pack into a cigarette lighter when you 
really try," he reflected. 


Cutridge gasped and turned purple, grabbing at his throat and 
making nasty wheezing noises as Harken leaned over him. The 
agent pulled a small vial filled with a bright blue liquid from his coat 
pocket. "Now, there is an antidote," Harken said, "But if you want it, 
you need to agree to my terms. Stay at home for this one. All right?" 


Cutridge nodded. Harken handed the man the vial, and he snapped 
it open and swallowed the blue liquid in one gulp. Harken smiled and 
patted him on the face. "See you around, Liam," he said. 


He was walking past the still-smouldering body of the big guy 
(slumped over the reception desk with a surprised look in his lifeless 
eyes) when he heard the familiar but unpleasant sound of a 
handgun being cocked behind him. He sighed. "Can't let it go, huh, 
Liam?" Harken said. 


"Can't let you live, not when you've managed to waltz into my home 
and nearly murder me," Cutridge said, in that cold, reptilian voice. 
"It's not good for business." 


"Yeah, | can see that," Harken muttered. "People might think there 
was blood in the water." 


Cutridge laughed. Harken laughed too. 
Cutridge was still laughing when he shit himself and died. 
"That was blue Kool-Aid, you asshole,” Harken said. 


He tried the elevator button and was surprised to see it was still 
working. "God bless the Otis company," he murmured. The trip 
down seemed very long. He forced himself to walk out of the hotel at 
a measured pace. 


Kramer was still staring at her reflection in the minivan as he 


climbed back into the car and started it up. "How did it go?" she 
asked. 


"Not well," Harken said. "It's sad how few businesses are willing to 
do a little charity work nowadays. Who's next?" 


"A couple of agents from the UIU are investigating a warehouse fire. 
We need to make sure they don't investigate too much." 


"Ah, Wolfram and Uecker. Pair of good kids. This should be simple. 


The car pulled out of the hotel parking lot and drove off to its next 
destination. 


Angle of Attack 


Transcript of tape recovered from Police 
Department 


“Ok, let's start again. | know you were directly involved, 
and for the record, let's just assume I'm not an idiot and 
know you're guilty. So, with that, how about we try and 
make this much easier. What | want to know is this: who 
is it you work for?” 


“ ” 


“Alright. Let me put it this way, then. What is this 
Foundation that you work for?” 


“ ” 


“We managed to recover a lot of documentation from 
that case. You're no idealist, gun-for-hire hack, you've 
got dispatches, mission parameters... this looks really, 
really bad, friend. Like, terrorist bad. Do you know what 
happens to terrorists these days? We can say there was 
an... accident in transport, and drop you down the 
darkest hole you've ever seen. You'll never s—” 


“You have no idea what a dark hole is.” 
“Really? Why don't you enlighten me then, tough guy?” 


“Have you ever seen someone turn in to vapor? Not 
pulped by an explosion or anything, but real vapor. Just 
atomize over the space of a few seconds, screaming all 
the while? I've had to shoot people who I've shared lunch 
with, bummed smokes from, because they had a kind of 
eel inside them that was eating their nervous system 
from the inside out and turning them in to a plague- 


spreading serial rapist. I've sat for weeks in a sealed cell 
with no outside human contact, wondering if I'd start 
showing bumps on my skin, which would mean a long, 
slow degeneration into something lower than an animal. 
If you're going to scare me, you're going to need to step 
up your game from a little recreational waterboarding.” 


“What the fuck are you tal-” 


“None of you get it. | told you, right at the start, you need 
to turn me loose. I'm not a toy that anyone is going to 
leave just laying around. You've taken something that 
doesn't belong to you, Special Agent Danbury, and 
you've taken it from someone who does not share well.” 


“Ahh, | see, friends in high places and everything? You're 
not the first one to try that... cry to me about such and 
such connection, this and that thing you can make 
happen with one phone call. Wanna know the thing 
about that? | don't care. You're not dealing with some 
pig-fucking local beat cop. I'm not bound by anything as 
silly as a code of conduct. My job is to keep my country 
safe. Period. Everything else is secondary to that, 
including your well-being and humane treatment.” 


“As | said, you'll need to step it up a bit. It's been too 
long, which means they've decided not to play it overly 
nice... you might want to pick that up.” 


“What the fuck are you... thought | turned this off. Hold 
on you little shit, i'm not nearly done with you. This is 
Agent Danbury, you shouAAGGG” 


“That's the... oh shit, what's the word... mem-something. 
It's a sound or an image that can make your brain shit 
itself, then die. Can never remember the name. Can you 
hear me still? Damn it...” 


(several loud noises, followed by a door slamming) 


“Took y'all long enough.” 


a noose around his 
neck emerged from 
within SCP-855, 
wielding a large knife. 


personnel killed 
during partial 
containment breach. 
Security later reported 
that bullets had little 
effect on the entity. 


« SCP-854 | SCP-855 | SCP-856 » 


“Sorry, we had bigger stuff on the burner than a fuckup 
like you, Grims.” 


“Can you at least get my cuffs off?” 


“No time. We popped the holding cells, turning into a real 
madhouse. Did you give anything up?” 


“Please. Who cares what a dead man hears?” 
“You'd be surprised... oh dammit, is that still on?” 
“Wait, let me j-” 


End Transcript 


Intercepted GOC Communication collected from 
mobile command post near city, via remote 
audio probe 


“What the hell am | looking at, Captain?” 


“We... uh... actually aren't entirely sure yet. It's definitely 
a target of interest, but it's not really fitting any of the 
preset profiles as yet. We're expanding our search 
parameters.” 


“Why is it wearing a bag on its head?” 


“Ah, we're also not sure about that... we can't compel it 

to remove it, and attempting to do so by force has... not 
gone well. It's otherwise rather compliant, so we've left it 
alone for now.” 


“I see. Now, the most obvious question is why am | 
looking at a big, bag-headed freak who's sitting at a table 
and not lying on a slab?” 


“Yes, indeed... well, that's the thing. You see, we were 
following a lead on the fox-girl thing, and ran intoa 
couple of targets trying to flee the city. Happy accident, 


really... anyway, as we went to intercept, this big guy 
shows up, and starts attacking them. It was weird, 
though... this thing, whatever it is, is obviously extremely 
strong, but all he did was bash them up... then just stood 
there, waiting for us to intercept. | ordered Rodriguez to 
put a couple rounds through the big guy's bag head, but 
he missed.” 


“Rodriguez doesn't miss.” 


“| Know sir. He was pretty upset about it. He double- 
tapped first, then mag-dumped. Every one of them 
missed just by a hair. I'm not really sure how, the big guy 
didn't seems to really move or anything. Anyway, we 
moved in and secured the scene, tried to restrain the 
remaining target. He kept holding up his hands, nodding 
his head. He... it was trying to surrender, | think. Hopkins 
tried to put restraints on him. He got his wrist broken. 
After that, we decided to just go with it for the time 
being.” 


“Is this one of the Foundation strays?” 


“No sir, at least not one that we have any record of. 
We're combing the database now, but other then a 
vague surveillance hit from about four years ago, there's 
been nothing.” 


“All right...so it's big, strong, and somewhat docile, 
ignoring the personal space issues. Again, why hasn't it 
been shot or gassed yet, and why did | need to come 
down here in person?” 


“Ok, here's the thing... it can't, or won't, talk. It has to 
touch someone to communicate with anything other than 
hand gestures and body language. It's...not fun for the 
one being touched...but they apparently can see... 
something, some sort of image or language or something 
that is some kind of communication. It's not a direct 
translation, but the gist of it gets across. We thought he 
was attacking someone for a second, and they looked 


half-dead, b—” 
“Out with it, man!” 
“He...ah...knows where the Library is, sir.” 


“... The Library. As in THE Library? As in KTE-7909- 
Alexandria?” 


“Yes sir. He's an exile, or a escapee, or some such, 
we're not entirely sure yet, but whatever it is, he's kicked 
out and not allowed back. However, there's something 
important there that he wants, and he's willing to show us 
how to get there, if we help him get it back.” 


“You don't actually intend...” 


“Oh no sir, not at all... but this is a unique opportunity, to 
say the very least. Once he shows the initial strike team 
the way, we can dispose of him, then roll the main force 
right in to the nest. No more nibbling the edges, scraping 
off little corners... right to the heart, a direct punch to the 
very core.” 


“This is some fine work, captain. How soon can you get a 
team ready?” 


“It's already on standby, sir... we're... ahh... just waiting 
for the native guide, so to speak.” 


“Why is he just sitting there, looking at the sky like that?” 


“He said something about the sun. We're not sure what, 
but he was insistent that we wait.” 


“| want progress reports every hour, on the hour, 
understood? Keep the team on Ready Two. The moment 
you're ready to jump, begin the operation on your own 
discretion.” 


“Yes, sir.” 


"Oh, and one last thing, Captain. This is real wilderness 
country you're walking into. Aside from rumors, we have 
no knowledge of the Library whatsoever. Expect 
anything, prepare for everything. You're authorized to 
escalate up to Response Five if necessary to complete 
the mission or extract your team. Is that clear?" 


"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. The boys will be happy to hear 
that." 


"Don't be. Just because we're letting you use ray guns 
doesn't mean this is going to be easy. You're heading 
straight into the Wild West here. You'll need all the gear 
you can get just to survive. 


Mr. Dark had settled into his office at the New York Club with a 
minimum of pain and suffering on all sides. It lacked the character of 
The Museum, but with a few homey touches, the odd bunyip-hide 
rug and Olmec knives, it felt almost right. 


Cheryl brought him a short stack of newspaper entries, gleaned from 
a pile of papers nationwide. Mr. Dark browsed it with and chuckled, 
drinking thick, oily coffee. Authorities were debating whether 
Boomer’s work was a terrorist bomb gone off by accident, or a 
clandestine meth lab run by someone who had failed Chemistry 101. 
Even if Harken had escaped, he'd surely gotten the point. Several of 
them, most likely... 


He read further, about a “person of interest” followed by a 
surprisingly accurate sketch and description of Boomer. That was 
going to be a problem. Boomer was too sweet a lad to lose to the 
wolves of the law, and not the sort to stand up to any kind of serious 
interrogation. He scribbled a note to have him replanted a good 
distance away... assuming anyone could uproot him with a minimum 
of explosions. Bah, other people's problems. 


At least he had gotten started on acquisitions. The disease- 
controlling girl was safely tucked away in Facility B, and Willard was 
already starting to teach her the benefits of cooperation. When 
breaking in any bitch, canine or sapien, it was always best to start 


with positive reinforcement. Fine food, lodgings, shiny things, and an 
admirable parade of strapping lads had her in amicable spirits. For 
now. He knew her type very well, she'd soon want more, and 
more... and she'd get it. The anal electrical probe had the amazing 
ability to enact dramatic and rapid attitude change. He could have 
started that way, yes, but he adored watching the loving care people 
took when constructing their own gallows. 


The kumiho was going to be more of a problem. She’d been spotted 
with her associates, and he knew them well enough: that lot of 
mystical (and mythical) riff-raff from The Library. She had to be 
there... he picked absently at the chip in his canine. Perhaps a visit 
would be in order? No reason not to, really... it'd been ages, and he 
could check on a few matters as well. He chuckled deep in his 
throat, tapping his foot on the slick bunyip hide. No matter how 
furious they might be over The Museun,, they had to let him visit The 
Library. Rules were rules. The very idea of that impotent, boiling 
rage was reason enough, really. 


Percival looked up from his book and over to the cat sitting on the 
chair. She licked her paw languidly, pointedly ignoring the sound of 
approaching boots. She looked up at Percival with a slow, sleepy 
wink. “Visitors. Unfriendly ones, | believe.” Before he could ask, she 
promptly curled up, stuffed her head under her ribs, and started 
snoring. 


The three men entered in a clump of boots and the soft tap of 
wingtip shoes. A short, grinning man flanked by two human 
bulldogs, armed to the teeth. The short one had some kind of long 
coat, with thick, frayed cuffs and collars... or some kind of very thick 
fur. The thick sleeves and slight tilt of his head gave the impression 
of some old, threadbare bird of prey. The other two were all 
business, looking somewhere between cops and soldiers...but with 
an oozing aura of pure menace. 


Weapons were drawn before anyone could say a word. Swords, 
sickle, crystal rod, machine guns and massive pistols were quickly 
pointing across the short gap between the three men and the small 
collection of Library residents, all aimed at areas of the body both 
tender and vital. The short man smiled with the slimy, cloying self- 


satisfaction of a ice cream man passing out treats dipped in arsenic. 


She stayed in the back of the room, not sure whether to duck, or 
laugh. It was the most ludicrous standoff She had ever seen, but 
could turn ugly in an instant; She wasn't sure what She wanted to 
see happen more. Fear and tension radiated off the group like the 
heat from sun-baked mass graves. Except for the short man. He 
smelled of spice, and oil, and moss... and something that made her 
nose twitch and tendons tighten like piano wire. 


He waved away the thick blade hanging inches from his nose like it 
was a butterfly intruding on a morning walk. “Now is there really call 
for all this, sweethearts? I'm just here to renew my library card...and 
tarry a bit with that sweet little thing perched up on the pillows there.”