The elevator doors closed. 


They returned to their suite, and Adams took a shower. Aleksander 
took a moment to call home. 


The phone picked up on the third ring, and a young girl's voice 
answered. "Hello?" 


"Hi, Lucille," Aleksander said. "This is Daddy." 
"Hi, Daddy. How are you?" Lucille asked. 
"I'm doing fine. How was your day?" 


"It was good. The caterpillars at school turned into butterflies. 
Painted Lady Butterflies. They're pretty..." 


"| bet they are. Guess what Daddy did today?" 
"| don't know. Shoot somebody?" 


Aleksander frowned. "What makes you think | shoot people, 
Lucille?" 


"| told a kid at school that you were a security guard for a big 
company, and he said that security guards sometimes shoot people, 
like with zappers and stuff." 


"Zappers?" 


"Yeah. They're little plastic guns that shoot sparks and go 'ZAP' and 
make people get electrocuted." 


Aleksander glanced at his gloves on the table next to him. "Lucille, | 
do not have a gun like that." 


"You don't have a zapper? But what if somebody attacks you?" 


Aleksander's gaze now shifted to the two loaded pistols sitting next 
to the gloves. "... | just punch them really hard." 


"Oh. That's good." 


"What else did you do?" Aleksander asked. He continued to nod 
along while his daughter prattled over the phone about her day. He 
was on the phone for another half-hour after that, telling his 
daughter a tale of Baba Yaga and her chicken-legged house, and 
finally ending with a round of soft kissy noises into his phone anda 
promise to bring back a souvenir. Finally, he hung up his phone, 
sighed with satisfaction, and locked the screen. 


"How often do you have to lie to your daughter?" 


He looked up and realized Adams was leaning against the mini bar, 
nibbling on a strawberry. How long she'd been standing there, 
Aleksander did not know. "I did not lie during that phone call," he 
said. "| do not carry a zapper gun. | do prefer to punch people. 
Everything | said was the truth." He put his phone in his pocket, and 
walked over to join Adams at the mini-bar. "How often do you lie to 
your kids?" 


"| don't have any," Adams said. "Guess | never really had the time. 
Or found the right father. Or something." She tossed the strawberry 
stem into the trash and picked up a pear from the fruit basket. "Only 
ever really heard of one woman who managed to balance this job 
and a family, and she eventually chose the latter." 


"Who was that?" 


"Agatha Rights. | never really knew her. She was before my time." 
Adams sliced off a thin sliver of the pear and ate it off the back of 
her flick knife. "You're right. This is some damn good fruit. Wonder if 
| could take some back home for the boys?" 


"I'm certain that the concierge could prepare you a gift basket, if you 
were so inclined." 


"Heh. Never would have thought of that. | don't often stay in places 
that have a concierge," Adams admitted. 


"| could tell. It is probably why Mister LaFontaine took an interest in 
you. There's a... naiveté... about you that marks you as an outsider. 
Someone who does not move in these social circles." 


"| can't say | grew up with a silver spoon in my mouth." Adams 
frowned. "Actually | can't tell you too much about how | grew up at 
all. Don't remember anything before my first day at the Foundation." 


"That is unusual?" 


"It's not unheard of. But it usually happens when something about 
your past life would be a security issue." Adams shrugged. 
"Whatever it was, | chose to join the Foundation anyway. Probably 
wasn't that important to me." 


"You have never wondered? About the person you were before?" 


Adams shrugged again, took another bite of the pear, wiped the 
juice off her chin. "It's bad enough worrying about the person | am 
here and now," she said decisively. "How about you? Any regrets 
about your past?" 


Aleksander thought back to a winter cabin filled with blood and the 
scent of fear, of a smiling man with a shotgun, and a hard, 
impossibly old woman in bear furs. He remembered the smell of 
gunpowder, his daughter's first cry and his wife's last breath. "The 
past... it is what it is," he concluded. 


"Damn straight." 


these actions, many researchers are compelled to allow the subject 
to board and operate SCP-708. If a subject is already engaged in 
operating SCP-708, then those who were previously compelled to 
operate it, and those who maintain visual contact with the object, 
report a feeling of jealousy, wishing to remove the current operator. 
Restraining subjects who express a desire to operate SCP-708 will 
lead to continued emotional outbursts such as are common amongst 
young children. At this point it is vital that any subject with a violent 
history, criminal or otherwise, be restricted from boarding and 
operating SCP-708, due to the incident on 4/25/__, which resulted in 
the loss of researchers and maintenance crew. 


Upon boarding and starting SCP-708, a range of reactions can be 
observed. Subjects with a violent past express the urge to eradicate 
anything immediately obvious to them, making use of the heavy 
lifting capacity of this vehicle, and will do so at the earliest 
opportunity. Subjects with no violent past, however, express a desire 
to lift all objects that they notice. This occurs in order, from lightest to 
heaviest weight, at the subject's estimation. Subjects with a mildly 
violent past behave initially as subjects with no record of violence 
but soon tire of this course and seek to destroy objects at first, and 
subsequently human beings, lifting heavy objects and using the 
forklift as a makeshift battering ram. 


No fuel has been added to the vehicle since the Foundation's 
acquisition, nor does the vehicle produce any detectable emissions. 
It has been theorized by Dr. Lentil that SCP-708 may feed ona 
driver's enthusiasm. This theory is supported by an apparent 
weariness after the driver has been in contact with the vehicle for 
more than approximately 1 hour. It has also been recently noted that 
the vehicle itself does not offer any restraint to the driver besides the 
driver's own resistance towards leaving the vehicle. Despite the 
related exhaustion, drivers can not be removed from SCP-708 
without the use of deadly force. All forms of tranquilizer have failed 
on drivers, presumably due to the amount of adrenaline produced by 
the driver's body. Attempts to remove the driver by multiple 
assistants have failed completely, resulting in termination being 
considered the only option to remove the driver from SCP-708. To 
date, test subjects have been terminated due to testing. 


They mulled over this fact together for a few moments. 


Aleksander awoke before dawn. Took a shower. Put on his suit. 

Made sure his gloves were on and charged. Slipped the PAVISE 
into his inside jacket pocket. Made sure his pistol was loaded and 
his two extra magazines were in place. Emerged to face the day. 


Room service had already arrived with their breakfast: Adams was 
tucking into an herb omelet with just as much enthusiasm as she 
had last night's filet mignon. His own platter was still resting under 
its cover: he removed it and was greeted with the delectable scent of 
freshly made pancakes. He added some butter and maple syrup and 
savored his first bite. 


"Our contact sent a message with breakfast," Adams said. "We're to 
meet him in an hour at the Imperial Suite." She took another bite of 
her omelet. "Seems there was a new development last night. The 
negotiations might have changed." 


"Will that complicate our mission?" Aleksander asked. 


"Not by much." Adams used a a piece of toast to wipe up the last 
bits of egg from her plate, sighed happily, and got up from the table. 
"I've got to go get dressed," she said. "Take your time." 


She retreated into her bedroom as Aleksander enjoyed his 
breakfast. He'd finished eating and was relaxing with a cup of coffee 
when the woman re-emerged wearing a slate grey business suit 
and... 


Aleksander carefully put his coffee cup down on the table. Adams' 
hands were covered in slick black gloves, and her "socks" were 
made of the same material. It even peeked up over the collar of her 
blouse, riding up to her chin line. "Is that the combat suit?" he asked. 


"Yeah," Adams said. "I'm not going to use the helmet, but it would 
be stupid to go in there without at least bringing some protection..." 


Aleksander raised his hand, interrupting her. "| wish to make a 
suggestion..." 


When the concierge came to collect them for their meeting, he found 
them sitting on the couch together. The man, perfectly dressed in his 
immaculate suit and tie in hunter green, and the woman, dressed in 
a slick black skintight suit with red piping, her face hidden behind a 
featureless black helmet. 


The concierge paused. His brow furrowed and his jaw worked as he 
struggled to process what he was seeing. His practiced words died 
on his lips. 


The woman stood. She wore a pair of high-heeled black pumps with 
the combat suit. They clicked loudly as she walked up to him. The 
concierge gulped as he looked up into his distorted reflection in the 
featureless, mirror-like surface. "Is it time?" a female voice asked, 
cold and metallic. 


"Mister..." The concierge licked his lips nervously, stood at attention, 
summoned up all of his inner reserve and smiled. "Your meeting is 
ready. If madam would please follow me?" 


The woman nodded. The man stood, holding a hard-sided locked 
case in his arms, and followed them into the hallway. 


They caught more than one stare as they walked through the lobby. 
Adams saw Richard LaFontaine sitting alone in the hotel dining 
room, eating steak and eggs. The silver-haired man stared at them, 
slack-jawed, as they walked past. His fork clattered to the floor from 
his nerveless fingers. 


Behind the mask, Adams smiled grimly. 


They stepped into the elevator, and the concierge slid back a hidden 
panel and pressed a button that glowed when he touched it, holding 
it down until a light next to it turned from amber to green. 
"Fingerprint scanner?" she asked. 


"Yes, ma'am," the concierge said nervously. "Also heartbeat sensor, 
to prevent unauthorized use of... severed body parts." 


"What happens if an unauthorized person tries to use it?" Adams 


asked. 


"The elevator goes into lockdown and is flooded with knockout gas," 
the concierge said. "In most cases, the guest is interrogated, 
amnesticized, and released. In other cases..." He shrugged and 
smiled apologetically. 


Adams nodded. The concierge coughed nervously, drumming his 
fingers against the seam of his trousers. He kept stealing glances at 
them in the mirrored elevator door. Adams amused herself by trying 
to stay as still as possible, which just seemed to make the man even 
more nervous. 


Aleksander, she saw, had his face turned aside. Supposedly looking 
at his watch, but she thought he was smiling. 


The elevator door opened into a room even more luxuriously 
appointed than the one in which she'd spent the night. Two men in 
perfectly tailored suits stood at attention. 


"Andrea S. Adams," she said. "| have a ten o'clock appointment." 


The guards nodded silently, seemingly unperturbed by her 
appearance. 


A low, hacking laugh came from inside. "Bravo," a low, sonorous 
voice said. "You certainly do know how to make an entrance." 


Adams turned to face the sound. There were two of them: both 
incredibly old gentlemen, one toothless but bright-eyed, the other 
with a radiant, perfect smile but eyes as dead as glass. 


"Miss Adams," the tall, smiling one said. "| am Jeremy Marshall. This 
is my associate, Thomas Carter. Our third partner, Mister Dark, 
sends his regrets, but he is unable to be here today." 


Aleksander wanted to run. Turn around and leave. Just run as fast 
as he could and get the hell out of this room. 


Jeremy Marshall was dead. Everyone knew this. Everyone knew 
he'd died decades ago and passed on the running of his portion of 


the company to his heirs and descendants. But there he stood, tall, 
smiling, and very much alive, looking just like he did in the faded 
photographs that hung in every MC&D corporate office. 


And Thomas Carter... everyone knew that he was still alive. But 
anyone who had been in the corporation knew how and why. That 
alone was enough not to want to be in the same room as the man. 


He looked over at Adams. If the woman had flinched, or shown any 
sign of turning to run, he would have been right behind her. His hand 
was already inching towards his gun: a useless gesture, given the 
number of guards in the room: he would be gunned down in 
seconds, and not even his armored clothing would protect him from 
a headshot... 


Adams straightened her back. Inclined her helmeted head. 
Extended her hand with graceful aplomb. "Andrea S. Adams," she 
said. "Charmed." 


Marshall shook it. Carter kissed the back of the gloved hand like a 
bad romance novel hero. Aleksander exhaled and let his hand drop 
to his side. 


Jeremy Marshall gestured to the chair across from him and Carter. "| 
would offer you tea and refreshments," he said, "But | think, given 
the circumstances, that would be... less than genteel." 


"Indeed," Adams said. She sat down, crossing her legs and leaning 
back with what Aleksander read as affected carelessness. "Shall we 
get down to business?" 


"That does seem to be your modus operandi," Marshall said. "Do 
you have the object?" 


Adams gestured to Aleksander, who laid the case he carried on top 
of the coffee table. Adams fiddled with the combination locks for a 
moment, then undid the latches. She lifted out a fine china plate with 
swirling inlays of gold and platinum, studded around the edges with 
a single row of quarter-carat diamonds. 


A white-gloved guard took the plate from her and handed it to 


Carter, who studied it closely through a jeweler's loupe, then placed 
the plate on the coffee table and snapped his fingers. A young 
woman approached, bearing a silver tray with five uncooked 
sausages resting on a platter. She placed the dish on top of the 
golden platter. 


Instead of sausages, there were now five severed human fingers 
resting on the silver dish. 


"Your Foundation is good at many things," Marshall said, "but one 
thing they were never particularly good at is etiquette. Serving food 
directly on a charger? How barbaric." 


"We usually have more important things to concern ourselves with 
than remembering which fork is for salad," Adams said. 


"Short tines, placed to the left of the dinner fork," Marshall said. 
"Rule of thumb: start at the outside, work your way in." 


"Hm." Adams tilted her head in acknowledgement. 


"This case," Carter barked. "It's not nearly large enough to hold the 
entire set." 


"There is enough here for eight table settings," Adams said. "More 
than enough for small, intimate dinners. We will hold onto the rest." 


"Hmph," Carter sneered. "Maybe we should do the same with the 
information we've picked up..." 


"Thomas?" Marshall interrupted. "With the lady's permission, 
perhaps you should inventory the goods? In the next room, 
perhaps." 


Carter scoffed, but he gestured to a guard, who, after glancing at 
Adams, lifted up the case and carried it into the kitchen. The door 
closed behind them, and Aleksander and Adams found themselves 
alone with Jeremy Marshall (and, of course, a couple of discreet 
guards). "My apologies," Marshall said. "Thomas is a dear friend, 
and no one has a better head for business than he, but when it 
comes to customer relations..." He shrugged and gave a disarming 
chuckle. 


"| Know the type," Adams said. "As it happens, I'm not exactly a fan 
of roundabouts myself. So let's talk."