"| just sent an email to the Site Director asking for a transfer, 
actually." 


"Can | see it?" 
"Sure." 
To: Site Director Fletcher 
From: Dr. Joyce Michaels 
Subject: Omega-K research request 
Hi Tom, 
I'd like to request to be on the team researching Omega- 
K. Not only is it in my field, but it's very much a personal 


matter to me. 


I've worked with the analytical teams for SCP-2679 and 
SCP-3138, both of which required me to determine the 
cause of death for anomalous corpses. While I'm more 
than aware that Omega-K won't involve any dead bodies, 
| feel that being part of the research team is something 
that fits my expertise very well. 


Many thanks. 


Joyce 


"No spelling mistakes, nice," Darryl commented, his head hovering 
over Joyce's shoulder as he scanned the text. "Are you sure you 
know him well enough to call him 'Tom'? | think you should go a little 
more formal." 


Joyce dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. "It's fine. We've 
spoken... at least three times. I've sent it now, anyway." 


Darryl sighed in mock exasperation. "You're too late, by the way. 
Emily Young's already claimed the project — it's numbered 
SCP-3984." 


"You couldn't have told me that already?" 
"Hey, not my fault you couldn't wait to send the email." 
"Fair enough. How did she get to it so quickly, anyway?" 


"Seemed like she claimed it literally minutes after it happened. Don't 
ask me how she managed it." 


Joyce shrugged. "I guess she does work fast. How do you know this 
stuff, anyway?" 


"I'm on her research team." 


"Oh, come on now, that's not fair. Do you think you can get me a 
place?" 


Darryl laughed gently. "I'm not sure that | can. She was keen on 
having a very small team." 


"Shame." Joyce sighed. "Look, | actually have to head to a meeting 
in a few minutes, so | don't really have time to chat." 


"You know..." Darryl began, his voice trailing off. 
Joyce looked up at him. A long moment passed. "What?" 


"...It's funny how it's the Rapture, but my neighbors are still out 
mowing their lawn like it's any other Sunday." 


"Rapture? Who's calling it the Rapture?" 


"Uh, | think some hippies on the news started it to raise awareness 
for the growing population or something. Spread over the internet." 


"Right. Sorry, what was your point?" 


"| just find it funny how this is a K-class scenario and all, but the 
mundane day-to-day stuff just carries on." 


Joyce laughed gently, just enough to tell Darryl that she'd 
acknowledged his joke but didn't find it funny. He smiled, rapped his 
knuckle twice against her office door, and closed it behind him on 
his way out. 


She checked her email again. Two new messages — one to her 
work address, one to her personal address. 


To: Dr. Joyce Michaels 

From: Site Director Fletcher 

Subject: RE: Omega-K research request 
Dr. Michaels, 


OK is a personal matter for everyone in the Foundation. 
It's a personal matter for everyone in the world, no less. 


That being said, the reason | can't allow you to research 
OK is because it's already been claimed. Dr. Emily 
Young has taken the project and picked her own staff to 
assist her — a skeleton crew, | might add. I'd suggest 
you pass along your request to her. 


| should mention that she's made it very clear that the 
purpose of research into QK should be to discover its 
limit, not its origin, and I'm inclined to agree. 


I'd recommend you do something more useful with your 
time. The bugs should be a huge problem by now, 
perhaps you can find out why they're not. 


Hoping you're well, 

Site Director Thomas Fletcher 

To: joycemichaels79@gmail.com 

From: administrative@newstarthospital.org 
Subject: Regarding upcoming discharge 
Dear Joyce, 


On account of budget constraints and increasing hospital 
membership, the New Start Hospital regrets to inform 
you that your relative, George Michaels, will be 
discharged from the hospital on the 15th. 


As Mr Michaels is no longer in a terminal condition, we 
trust that this news will only bear a minor inconvenience. 


Be sure to let one of our staff know if you need 
assistance transporting Mr Michaels to your home. 


Regards, 
New Start Hospital 


A long, thin speleothem of spittle drooled gently from her father's 
mouth. Joyce took a piece of tissue and gently dabbed it away. His 
eyes, seeing but probably not understanding, were fixed on the 
television screen. 


The television showed, in silence, the inauguration of Jonathan 
Narsimmes as president of the United States. The election had been 
a landslide. Narsimmes' manifesto was neither left-wing nor right- 
wing — he simply had a solution, which is what everyone wanted to 
hear. 


Three sharp knocks on the front door woke Joyce from her mental 
haze. Her eyes drifted hazily from the television — which was turned 
on but muted — to the door. She rose from her seat and made her 
way over to the source of the noise. She took a quick look through 


the peephole and saw someone she faintly recognised from years 
ago, a face she could barely remember and certainly didn't know by 
name. 


She opened the door and there stood someone dressed in the green 
uniform of South Cheyenne Point, an assisted living facility a few 
hours’ drive away. It was where Tony, Joyce's brother, worked — if 
you believed what the Foundation told people who didn't need to 
know better. Joyce knew the truth, of course, but the fresh-faced 
twenty-something who was stood at the door clearly had a script to 
deliver. 


"I'm real sorry, Miss Michaels." he began. "I-I| hate to have to be the 
one to tell ya, but Anthony's dead. He passed away peacefully—" 


"How old's that script, kid?" Joyce asked, tired eyes boring down into 
him. "No one's died for a year and a half." 


He stuttered, fumbled on his words. He didn't have a backup plan. "I 
haven't had to do this in quite a while, sorry, ma'am." 


"You are Foundation, right? Not civilian?" 
"Yes, ma'am." 

"You know that I'm also Foundation?" 
"N-no, ma'am. But | do now." 


"Then you should know that / know that my brother's been dead for 
quite a while." 


"I'm real sorry, ma'am," the boy mumbled. He was doing his best. "1 
guess that's better than finding out now?" 


A quick glare silenced him. "It's not." 
"I'm sorry. Wh-when did he die, if you don't mind me asking?" 


"Ten days before everything went to shit. Ten fucking days. If 
he'd've taken a holiday or something he'd be alive today." 


"I'm sorry for your loss." 


"You know," Joyce continued — now that she'd started talking, she 

couldn't stop. "| was told he was a good man. A great agent. One of 
the best. | was told he saved countless lives, but they never told me 
how." 


Joyce stepped to the side, letting the boy look into the room, letting 
him see the silent television and the elderly man who sat opposite to 
it, watching intently, probably not even aware that he couldn't hear 
anything. 


"That's my dad," she continued. "| look after him these days. He's 
supposed to be dead. Hospitalized for months — he was going to 
die that very day, you know. He kept his life, just like everyone else, 
but his memory is long gone." 


Tears began to form slowly in her eyes. As she blinked rapidly to 
force them back, she was grateful that she was facing away from the 
boy, that he didn't see. 


She turned back to him. "One survived, but lost his mind. The other 
died. It should have been the other way round, but life doesn't work 
out the way you want it to, huh? So how come my brother's died 
again?" 


The boy stuttered. He didn't have a response for this. It was 
supposed to be a quick visit. "I'm sorry, ma'am. It must've been a 
mistake. I'll... I'll... Y'know, we can maybe do something about your 
father. Look after him for you. That way you-you can maybe even 
come back to the Foundation, have a little more time on your 
hands." 


"I'll think about it," Joyce said, and then she gently shut the door 
over the boy's face. She took a seat next to her father. He asked 
who the boy was, but she didn't answer. He wouldn't remember 

asking by the time she'd finished speaking. 


Joyce sat at her desk, compiling the report that she'd been asked to 
make. A list of anomalies, both in containment and otherwise, and 
any changes that occurred to them as a result of OK. 


Setting: Fine 

Output: A ring of polished quartz 18 cm in diameter, 
levitating off of the ground. Object emitted a continuous 
ringing, and produced light. 


Audio picked up from testing chamber after all objects 
were removed: "Are you trying to give me away, you 
idiotic machine ?! Father above, I'm sorry for whatever | 
did, just stop trying to get me fired!" 


Name: Dr. Veritas 

Date: 2/7/2017 

Total Items: Five (5) identical notes (written and copied 
by Dr. Veritas) reading: 'Are you sentient?’ 


Input: One note 
Setting: Coarse 
Output: A puddle of ink and a small pile of wood pulp. 


Input: One note 

Setting: 1:1 

Output: One note of similar size reading: 'Are you 
capable of feeling, perceiving and experiencing 
subjectively?’ Handwriting does not match Dr. Veritas. 


Input: One note 

Setting: Fine 

Output: One note of similar size containing an excerpt 
from the 1641 treatise ‘Meditation on First Philosophy’ by 
René Descartes in Latin. Note reads: 'Ego sum, ego 
existo, quoties a me profertur, vel mente concipitur, 
necessario esse verum.' (English: 'l am, | exist, 
whenever it is uttered from me, or conceived by the 
mind, necessarily is true.'). 


Input: One note. 

Setting: Very Fine 

Output: One note of similar size containing an excerpt 
from the essay 'An Essay Concerning Human 
Understanding’ by Philosopher John Locke reading: 


She stared at the list, her five most recent entries — the ones she'd 
finished today — staring back. 


SCP 


SCP-1440 


SCP-2935 


SCP-2718 


Declassified Anomaly 
A315 


SCP-2339 


Post-QK Behaviol Post-OK 
Classification 
SCP-1440 entered a) Euclid, pending further 
nearby township and _ reclassification as 
dwelled there for a Neutralized 
week without causing 
an anomalously 
formed disaster. The 
Foundation proceeded 
to capture SCP-1440 
for containment ata 
nearby site. 
The Foundation is no Neutralized 
longer able to access 
SCP-2935; its 
entrance now leads to 
a non-anomalous 
tunnel system. 
System bug making | Reassigned 
entry inaccessible is 
now gone. Entry was 
empty. Possibly 
unrelated. 
A315 no longer Neutralized 
displays anomalous 
properties. 
Population number | Euclid 
has continued to 
increase into the 
millions. Now capable 
of simulating upwards 
of 20 symphonies 
simultaneously. 


Three sharp knocks on her office door diverted her attention from 


her work. 


"Come in," she called. 


The door opened and Darry! Lloyd burst inside. He looked a little 
dishevelled, his hair not quite in place, a little red in the cheeks. 


"Joyce," he began, slightly breathless, "Young just tried to kill 
herself. | know that you've worked with her previously, I... | just 
wanted to let you know." 


"Emily Young?" 
"Emily, yeah." 


Joyce closed the document she'd been working on and rose a hand 
to idly scratch the side of her neck. 


"Weren't you both working with 3984 directly?" she asked. 


"We were. You'd've thought that she of all people would know the 
consequences." 


"What's her current condition?" 


"| got here as soon as | could. She's being taken to medical right 
now. If | had to give a prognosis, I'd say brain damage at the very 
least." 


"How bad?" 
"Bad." 


Joyce pressed both hands to her face and let out a long, quiet 
moan. If Darryl heard, he didn't comment. 


A long moment passed. Darryl broke the silence. 
"I'm sorry, Joyce," he began, "were you two close?" 


Joyce lowered her hands from her face. She took a sharp breath in, 
and exhaled it slowly. 


"No. My brother worked with her, though." 


Darryl nodded. He understood. 

"Can you let someone know that I'll be taking over 3984?" 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah, I'm sure. | wanted to originally, remember? I'll write up the 
post-incident report and everything, just leave it to me. | want to see 


Emily first, though." 


Darryl shook his head sympathetically. "Of course, I'll take you there 
now." 


"Hi, is this the home of a Miss Joyce Michaels?" 


The woman at the door had hair dyed a deep purple, made into curls 
that bounced around her shoulders. Her smile, painted a bright red, 
was big and felt genuine. 


"Yeah, that's me." 


"Good to meet you! My name is Emma Preston, I'm working with the 
Societal Census Program and I'm here to ask you a few questions. 
Can you spare fifteen minutes?" 


"Oh, I've heard about you guys. Didn't you find something weird 
happening in Florida, or something?" 


The woman shrugged, a wry smile on the her face. "I'm sorry, | 
wouldn't know about that. | just ask the questions. Do you mind if | 
come inside?" 


With no excuse readily available, Joyce waved her inside. Preston 
curtseyed and let herself into the lounge. The two sat on either end 
of the long couch. 

"You are Joyce Michaels?" 


"lam." 


"Can | have your age and gender?" 


"I'm fifty-one. And I'm female, but I'm hoping you knew that." 
Preston laughed gently. "Hey, I'm not one to judge." 


She spent another moment writing in her notepad before looking 
back up at Joyce. 


"May | ask if you have any living immediate family?" 


"Uh, sure." Joyce took a moment to think, and saw that Preston was 
already writing even though she hadn't said anything yet. "My dad, 
George, is eighty-three, he lives in an assisted living complex. My 
brother Eric is forty-eight, though | don't know where he's living at 
the minute." 


"Have you visited your dad recently?" 

"I— uh, that's a little personal? No, not recently." 

Preston looked up from her notepad. "I'm sorry. Is that everyone?" 
"That's everyone." 


"Thank you, Joyce. May | ask if you're expecting a child, or if you 
know anyone who is?" 


"I'm not, and | don't. I'm pretty sure we're not allowed to, these 
days?" 


Preston nodded. "You are, but only if the pregnancy is registered, 
which you have to declare a few weeks in advance. And then they 
can deny it — | think it's hideous, personally, but it's the law. Sorry 
for asking — this is what the Census is for, after all." 


Sure it is. "That's no problem. Blame Narsimmes." 


"Of course. May | ask about any lifestyle changes you've had since 
the Rapture?" 


"The Rapture? Oh, you mean omega-kay." 


Preston tilted her head to the side slightly, her hair swinging to 


match. "| mean, since people stopped dying." 


"Yeah, that. Uh... | guess not a lot, really. What kind of information 
are you looking for?" 


Preston smiled. "As much as you're okay with sharing. For example, 
have your living arrangements changed at all?" 


"Yeah, sure. | quit my job a few years back to take care of my dad, 
who would've otherwise, y'know. Eventually he got moved into 
assisted living and | was given my old job back. | still work there. 
Huh, | guess my arrangements haven't changed at all." 


"Where do you work, out of interest?" 


"At the minute, just general admin for the Foundation. | used to have 
a more hands-on role, but it got too much. | stepped down from that 
a few months ago.” 


"The Foundation?" 
"You know, the, uh..." 


It occurred to Joyce that Emma Preston might not know what the 
Foundation was, despite being employed by one of its fronts. Joyce 
had been talking to a civilian this whole time. 


"...the, uh, Manna Charitable Foundation. We're... a charity." 


"Of course, my apologies! Would you say your organisation's work 
has changed much since the Rapture?" 


"It's..." 


Joyce had never worked with the Manna Charitable Foundation, and 
had no clue what they really did. She decided to wing it.