Command: Doctor Allison Taylor can be identified by the 
wine-colored birthmark on her neck. 


Gamma: And probably also by a nametag that reads 'Dr. 
Alison Taylor’. 


Delta: Over. 
Alpha: Is that the entirety of the briefing, over? 


Command: That's all the relevant bits. You're to enter 
Site-22 and retrieve Dr. Taylor, as well as any 
information and other survivors you might encounter. 


Omega: Any information on what skips we can expect to 
encounter at Site-22, over? 


Alpha: We've got a list of all the entities contained within 
the site and their SCP designations. Be advised that this 
may not include unauthorized transfers. 


Command: Come on, give me a break. | promised not to 
pull the ‘unauthorized transfer’ thing on you guys again, 
and | meant it. I'm sticking to the containment list you 
have access to, and that's it. 


Gamma: Should be fair enough, as long as none of us 
take the opportunity to metagame. 


Delta: What does that mean, over? 


Gamma: It means googling the skips in question and 
building your character with a ton of bullshit feats and 
equipment specifically designed to show the rest of us up 
and ruin the fun. 


Omega: | don't understand what you're hinting at, 
Gamma. Also don't forget to follow each transmission 
with the word ‘over’, over. 


Gamma: Goddammit, Jeremy, we're sitting three feet 
away from each other! You can drop the 'over' thing! 


Omega: Gamma, please be advised that the Foundation 
uses the metric sys- 


Loud thumping noises can be heard alongside the 
scratching of a chair against carpet. Unintelligible 


arguing between Gamma and Omega ensues, and 
Gamma's voice grows quieter before disappearing. 
Omega's voice can be heard following a similar pattern. 


Delta: Clair? Jeremy? Are you coming back, over? 


Alpha: | think that's a wash, newbie. Better luck next 
time. 


Command: We'll try again next week. Hopefully then 
we'll be able to get past the mission briefing and actually 
start playing. Thanks for coming over anyway. There's 
still pizza on the dryer if you want some. 


More chairs can be heard shuffling, then muffled 
conversation between Alpha, Delta, and Command. At 
this point, audio cuts out entirely. 


Last One to Die 


"Do you have any idea how mind-numbingly pointless 
this is?" 


Yeah, | said. 
"Why do you keep doing it?" 
Rage. Hate. It's an incredible high. 


"This isn't about how you feel. ‘It's about the human 
race.' Wasn't it you constantly spouting that trash?" 


Yeah. 
"Then why are you helping build weapons to kill people?" 


Everyone is dying. There won't be any more babies to replace us. | 
figure, if there are aliens out there who find our dead world, by the 
time they get here they won't have anything to sift through but ruins, 
so they can say "Look how mighty these people were! Look how 
intelligent and full of potential! And they squandered it all away, 
done in by their own selfish need for individual power, unable to set 
aside their differences and work together!" 


And it's a lie; a lie that abides because the truth is too complicated to 
be found in bones and shattered concrete. How do you even explain 
to another human across the centuries without using words, or 
pictures, or feelings? 


We didn't kill ourselves; they did. Maybe they didn't know any better, 
but seeing as we make contact with them, and we get fucked and 
they keep on living and laughing and making babies... maybe they 
really were at fault. In their carelessness and arrogance, they 
destroyed us. 


Whether they meant it or not, they can't just wipe their hands clean 


and move on to the next curiosity. They need to remember, now and 
forever, that we were here. And we're no longer here because of 
their actions. 


They need to accept responsibility and learn from those mistakes. 
And if those people are the same sorts of people as us, it's a lesson 
that won't be learned until it's been hammered into them. 


"And how does throwing shit through the wormhole show 
future aliens that we were so high and mighty and fell 
victim to a sleazy parallel-universe version of ourselves 
spreading odd viruses to make us infertile?" 


Maybe they find the hole. Maybe they go through it, see humans on 
the other side. Maybe we leave behind some message, a bunch of 
pictures showing how the hole appeared and everything went to shit. 


"You know how | know when you're lying? Your lips start 
to move before you say anything, like you're sounding 
out how your lie will sound." 


I'm not lying. 


"Come on. You've never cared about those people 
before. You told me it was a blessing, that all that 
mattered was the human race, and that it should keep 
going on, no matter where it was." 


| swear I'm not lying. 


"| also know when you're lying when you start to mumble 
like that. You're too easy. If | keep pushing enough, you'll 
crack." 


Okay, so | don't care about actually hurting them. 


"Then why are you working on these weapons ?" 


| just need something to do. | don't want my life to have been a 
study in mediocrity. | wish | could've been a singer or a dancer, so | 


could bring people some bit of pleasure, and they can say "Well 
we're fucked, but wasn't that girl just the best?" 


But making weapons is all | know. 


And if it feeds their lust for vengeance or just plain violence, what 
difference does it make? It's what I'm good at, and | just want to be 
good at something for once in my life. Even if it's at killing people. 


He stopped talking to me then. He doesn't look at me anymore. He 
can't stand the sight of me. 


Laughter 


Most days, | wish | hadn't been given the ability to do anything for 
myself. It's nice that | can feed myself and use the toilet on my own, 
for what | hope are obvious reasons. The act of operating an 
elevator properly is the high point of my day — the moment where | 
can choose the floor | want is like having a weight lifted off of my 
chest. And so on and so forth. 


The thing about agency is that even the smallest drop opens the 
door for guilt. There are an assortment of very good reasons why I'm 
not responsible for what | do, but whenever | do anything more than 
put one foot in front of the other, | can't shake away the thought: You 
could have stopped yourself. Guilt is the one emotion I've always felt 
strongly, and it's doing me no favors now. 


Every so often, I'll try to count the bodies — memorializing them, if 
only in aggregate — but my body is usually steering me away before 
| can get a look at everyone. It's a shame, because I'm very good at 
memorization (always have been, actually) and could keep an 
accurate tally if | was allowed. Now, that has done me favors — my 
memory is what allows me to "write" this. Writing still brings 
satisfaction even when I'm the whole audience. 


But | digress. My point is, | am a writer, and with some effort | can 
still do it in a limited fashion. | construct narratives. Here are two 
narratives. 


The first entails me being placed into a body that goes around and 
makes people kill each other in a blind panic. | am a decent person, 
and | find this very tragic, and | wish that it wasn't happening, or at 
the very least that | was not forced to participate. Even the faintest 
whiff of agency is enough to make me doubt and blame myself. It 
happens anyways. 


The second entails me being placed into a body that goes around 


and makes people kill each other in a blind panic. | am an evil man 
who takes great joy in this, only wishing that | could take control of 
my body and do it more often. Every moment where | can move for 
myself gives me hope that this might happen. Things proceed as 
normal. 


You'll notice that empathy and decency only cause me anguish; | 
doubt they alleviate the pain of being crushed under a pile of 
screaming humanity. My teachers always said that a logical, 
detached perspective was one of my strengths. 


There's a moment, when the crowd's fervor reaches its fever pitch, 
where | have a chance to express myself. Not speech, unfortunately. 
But whatever I'm feeling comes out, if | let it. 


I'm tired of crying. Maybe | should laugh. 


Learning Shit 


Hey, everyone. I'm Agent Bibs. If you really have a hard-on for being 
formal, call me Mister Bibs. | don't, so if you call me Mister Bibs, I'll 
throw a pen cap at you. Now, I've got a few guesses as to why the 
higher-ups wanted me to run this class, but I'll deal with that later. 
For right now, you get the oh-so-wonderful privilege of hearing me 
talk about being an Intelligence Agent for the Foundation. 


You know, | think I'm going to like this group. This isn't me slobbing 
your knobs or anything, I'm serious! See, most of you screwheads 
didn't pick up any of the food and drinks. It means you don't trust 
free food given out by someone you don't know. That's a good thing, 
because in about three seconds.. 


Okay, so I'm off by two seconds, plus or minus. Hey, using knock- 
out drops is an inexact science! Which is good, because I'm not all 
that good on the whole ‘science’ thing. They only gave me the 
Researcher role because | kept figuring out what the eggheads were 
going to do before they did it, for Christ's sake. 


While the Ds get the idiots out of here, let's get down to business. 
By the way, D-44632, take Fred there to a Cell. He's Church. 


Now, how did | know all this, you lunkheads? Am | a genius? Well, 
kinda, but that's not the point. The point is, before you guys came in 
and sat down, | went over each and every one of your dossiers. The 
ones you gave us, and the ones my fellow IAs compiled on each 
and every one of you. It's how | realized the majority of this group 
wouldn't take food from a stranger, and how Fred was a Church 
plant. 


| don't do all this background-looking-into shit because it's 
impressive to newbies. Well, partially | do. Mostly, though, its 
because it's my job to know shit. It's my job because the Foundation 
needs to know shit. Shit we don't know about, we can't keep people 
safe from. Yes, James-Who-Wet-The-Bed-Until-He-Was-Six, | said 


Afterward, SCP-890 will give a series of options to the object, make 
a few notes, and then report back. At no time has an object been 
recorded or perceived to respond to SCP-890's questioning. 


Subject displays an apparent apathy toward humans and other living 
creatures, stating it cannot operate on "animals" because it is "a 
surgeon, not a [veterinarian]". 


SCP-890 came to the attention of the Foundation through the use of 
a routine keyword search before it was scheduled to stand trial in 

, , forthe murder of [REDACTED] on March 1 , 20 . Subject 
was performing an "emergency surgery" to save the "life" of a 
pacemaker, killing [REDACTED] in whom it was installed in the 
process. Subsequent testing revealed that the pacemaker is once 
again fully operational. See INTERVIEW LOG 890-01 for more 
information. 


Interview Log 890-01 
Date: March 2 , 20 
Interviewee: SCP-890 


Interviewer: Dr. 


[BEGIN LOG] 
Dr. : Please state your name for the 
record. 


SCP-890: My name is W 


Dr. : Mr. , what were you doing on 
March 1 ? 


SCP-890: A week ago? | was performing a 
surgery on a patient complaining of 
[REDACTED]. The operation was a complete 
success. | do not understand what all the fuss 
has been about. 


Dr. : How did you become aware of the 


people. Let the eggheads frame things in a way that lets them avoid 
thinking about seven billion people. You're Agents. You're dealing 
with people. Good people, bad people, good bad people, bad good 
people. And Clef, | guess, He's not really ‘people’, though.. | think. 


No, Alexander, put your hand down. I'm not going to talk about Clef. 
He's one of your bosses, and he's smarter than you, and seeking 
out more than that'll give you a headache. But no, you're going to 
think you're smart enough to find the truth about him. If you're lucky, 
he'll warn you off. If you're not, he'll tell you everything. Don't pout, 
Alex. Prove me wrong. It happens so rarely, I'm going to sit down 
and put my feet up on the table to complete the Arrogant Prick Look. 
Yes, these are gym shoes. Running in dress shoes is a bitch anda 
half. 48% of IA's job is based on running. 


Anyways, being an IA? You'll get up, and you'll find a folder on your 
table. Or, in my case, stuck to the wall of the Containment Cell | took 
over when they decided to recruit my surprisingly-firm ass. It'll be all 
professional-like, brief as hell. We're talking location, rough 
approximation of what the higher-ups expect, how you'll be getting 
there, maybe a few suggestions on attire and the like. I'd tell you to 
ignore the last one, but if | do that, you'll wear a clownsuit to a GoC 
facility. That only works once. Or twice, if you count that time in 
March. 


On the way to wherever you're going, you'll be studying the location. 
Not the quote-unquote specific Foundation stuff, no. I'm talking 
about cultural shit. Do the people where you're going have a strong 
oral tradition? Are the men or women more open to talking to 
people? Do they respond well to authority, or is it better to be One 
Of The Guys? You're here because you either know that kinda shit 
already, or you know people who know people who know that shit. 
As long as you don't tell your buddies you're with the Foundation, 
nobody here really gives a rat's ass who you talk to. Yeah, the 
higher-ups talk about Super Obnoxious Secrecy In All Things, but 
that's because most of them were never Agents in the first place. 


You'll get to wherever you need to go, and then the fun stuff starts. If 
there's places the Foundation wants you to examine, you do it. 
Otherwise, do whatever you need to do. Go into a bar. Drink a bit, 
talk with the locals. Ask if there's been any crazy stories floating 


about. Most aren't relevant to what you're doing, but learn them 
anyway. You'll build trust, and you'll have new cover stories for your 
next few missions. Take notes. Follow up on those notes, make sure 
they are legit. In short, learn shit. That's why the Foundation pays 
you a lot of goddamned money, and why you're here instead of 
wherever you were. 


No, Matt, don't raise your hand. Nobody cares you used to work with 
the CIA. | ran loops around your former boss's head a few months 
after | started here. | think | got him fired for it, now that | think about 
it. Long story. His fault. Yes, I'm aware he was your father. I'm 
talking, you're not. | speak, you learn shit. From my massive brain to 
your probably-larger-but-empty brain. Seriously, | don't know if 
anyone has told you, but your head is huge! 


As | was saying... you've done your canvassing and networking, 

and you've found what the higher-ups are looking for. You've got as 
much info as you can get on the thing: where exactly it is, best way 
and time to get at it, things to know to ensure a clean retrieval. If 
y'have to ask yourself if you've learned enough shit, y'aint learned 
enough shit. You want your fellow Foundationites thinking you're 
anal-retentive. Actually, scratch that: be anal-retentive. If you don't 
put down that the skip turns blue at 11:34pm on Fridays, someone is 
going to fucking die. 


This is when you expect me to chuckle and point out how pointless 
that sort of detail is. Newsflash: you're in the Foundation, now. Stuff 
turning blue can and will cause someone to die. I've seen it happen.