With these three items fulfilled, | can promise we will be 
making a good use of this giant robot. Of course, that 
does not mean it is all it can do (it is, after all, an all- 
terrain, multi-purpose platform), but | am thinking 
primarily of those things we will be able to do with it, and 
only with it. Possibilities are, potentially, endless. 
Construction in remote areas, carrying prefabricated 
habitats into secluded settlements, environmental 
engineering operations (...)3 


Francois Olympe is a thirty-five years old Security 
Executive and Specialist member, and has worked with 
Work Group Opal-1 for three years. He worked with the 
Global Occult Coaltion PHYSICS Branch in combat 
operation in three tours, in which he acquired 
considerable knowledge in sorcerously enhanced 
machinery and diverse alter-technologies. 


Maintenance and Operation: RESERVED TO 
SPECIALIST FRANCOIS OLYMPE (prospectively expanded to 
other trained volunteers, as current Security Restrictions are lifted). 
Recommended use: rapid transportation of large items across mid- 
long distances. 


SCP-764-1: Has that stopped me before? 
D-88778 laughs again, then resumes coughing. 
SCP-764-1 brandishes a scalpel about half its length. 


SCP-764-1 begins humming to itself as it cuts into 
D-88778's throat, who seems to be stifling a laugh. 


SCP-764-1 reaches into the incision and fumbles around 
before grabbing onto something and tugging. 


SCP-764-1: | think I've got it, there's something in his 
throat! We'll save you yet! 


SCP-764-2 shakes its head. 


SCP-764-1 pulls out the hyoid bone and shakes it in the 
air triumphantly. 


SCP-764-1: Toldja | could do it! 
SCP-764-2: He needs that, y'idiot! 


SCP-764-2 begins hitting SCP-764-1 with a tiny rolling 
pin. 


D-88778 makes a noise that may be laughter. 
SCP-764-1: Ow! Stop it! I'll fix ‘im, you'll see, woman! 


SCP-764-1 puts the scalpel back into the incision and 
begins sawing the blade. After a moment, SCP-764-1 
reaches in and begins pulling, as blood begins to spray. 
Approximately four inches of the carotid artery are pulled 
out of the wound. 


SCP-764-1: That's the way to do it! 
Both puppets slump to the ground as D-88778 collapses. 
« SCP-763 | SCP-764 | SCP-765 » 


Safety Concerns: Maintenance and Operation exclusive of 
Security Executive member Francois Olympe and workers 
designated by him. Otherwise safe for all. 


Security Restrictions: As part of Coalition-imposed Second 
Mission restrictions, a) only use during night-time and as away from 
civilian observers as possible, b) do not train new pilots for the 
platform, c) do not train mechanics nor try to develop new versions 
of the platform or its portions, d) do not engage in, or respond to 
acts of aggression while using the platform. 


Footnotes 

1. MSU -Mobile Storage Unit; type of standardized container fit for 
semitrailer-transport.-Ultra-high-molecular-weight polyethylene; very 
tough material used in construction and medical prosthesis 
production, among other uses.-There is no further data in Mission 
Watch reports! If you wish to add further information, please contact 
Mission Watch Staff. 

2. MSU -Mobile Storage Unit; type of standardized container fit for 
semitrailer-transport.-For more information on asset availability, see 
Mission Watch Bulletin, entry 998/12/01-3-Logistics; fora 
comprehensive relation of all related assets available to MCF field 
personnel, call the pertinent Continental Branch Offices. 

3.Full report (34 pages long) can be read in the Mission Watch 
Asset Registry, entry GOC5-03. 


Tales 7 


7 Degrees of Separation 


Note: This is part five in a multi-part story. It is 
recommended that you read the previous entry Paris, 
Texas, or start from the beginning At the Library. 


Carol Paris opened the door. “Hi dad,” she smiled. “Come in.” Her 
countenance changed when she smelt the alcohol on his breath. 
“Are you okay?” 


Her father stepped over the threshold without replying. He looked 
dishevelled. A three thousand dollar suit, and he looked dishevelled. 
She closed and locked the door behind him softly, and waited for 
him to speak. 


“| can't tell you everything,” the man began, then hesitated, trying to 
find the words. “It's a mess.” 


“What do you mean? Are you in trouble?” 


Her father shook his head. “You know we've never talked about our 
respective jobs. Our employers. Loose talk, and all that.” 


They walked into the living room; Carol put the TV on mute. “I don't 
know what you do,” her father said. “I don't want to know. Bult...” 


“But?” 
“| don't know. | don't | know. Maybe it's nothing.” 
“Dad, you're not making much sense.” 


Calvin Paris massaged his forehead as if to push the migraine out. “I 
need a favour,” he admitted. “A big one.” 


Carol studied him for a long moment. He looked washed out, a 
shadow of his former self. “If | were to say to you, | need information 
- any information - on a certain individual, could you get me that 


information? Without compromising yourself?” 
“| Know you're asking me a hypothetical question - “ 
“Oh absolutely.” 


“~ But | can't use company resources for personal reasons. I'm 
sorry. You should go home. | think your favourite show’s just 
starting.” 


Calvin nodded slowly, and turned to the door. “Yeah. Okay. Stupid 
question.” 


“Say hello to mom for me.” 


“Will do,” her father said. And he opened the door and left. 


oo0o000 


Exactly sixty minutes later, Carol Paris called her father from a new 
cellphone that she had never used before and she would never use 
again. She sat in a rental car in a parking lot in a part of town she 
had never been to before, and would never go to again. She had not 
been followed. 


Her father took the call on a cellphone that he too would never use 
again. She did not speak; there were no niceties. He played the 
recording (Monotone Male Voice Number 7) so that his own voice 
would not be recognised: “Harold Maine. M-A-I-N-E. Lives 
somewhere in the Beacon Hill area. He knows you work for some 
“secret organisation” - mentioned the CIA. | don't know how he got 
this information. Be careful.” 


The call was disconnected. Carol took the sim card and battery out 
of the phone and smashed the screen. 


Christ, she thought. Harold Maine. All roads led to Harold Maine. 
She got out of the car and dumped the phone into the nearest litter 
bin, scanning the empty parking lot for witnesses. There were none. 
She climbed back into the rental car and switched on the ignition. 
The rhythmic hum soothed her a little, like a cat purring, and she felt 
the gathered, knotted muscles at the nape of her neck loosen. 


Within twenty minutes she had driven back to her own car and 
swapped over. Forty nine minutes after that, she was walking 
through Harry’s Famous Laundromat, an altogether unremarkable 
and nondescript building in one of San Antonio's less salubrious 
areas. She walked down the steps that the migrant workers could 
not see and would not remember, and into the basement. A door 
shut behind her as another opened in front, and she stepped into the 
suite of rooms that was not shown on any building blueprints, but 
was known to her and a handful of others as the permanent office 
location of Early Warning Unit Wormwooa-33. 


She sat down at a desk and sighed. Every minute there were 
indications of the impossible, hints of the fantastical, promises of the 
magical and unreal; anything deviating from any one of eight million, 
five hundred and ninety seven thousand, nine hundred and forty five 
accepted normality patterns were flagged up here, in this little 
claustrophobic suite. Sightings, rumours, murders, deaths, 
accidents, freak weather, earthquakes, atmospheric disturbances, 
geological activity, religious fervour, celebrity ratings, economic well- 
being, political machinations and deviations from twelve hundred 
points along the moral compass were all logged, sorted, and 
monitored from here. 


Each one of those eight million plus normality patterns had their own 
suite of Anomalous Signature Recognition algorithms; if X deviates 
from Y by Z for N hours, initiate Protocol A. If X is more than 0.007% 
of Yin 2% of the male hispanic population during televised 
broadcasts of WN, initiate Protocol Q. If Protocol Q has been active for 
X minutes and ASR algorithm suite G-G790-AVE has seen more 
than X alerts collectively, initiate Escalation Procedure 697- 
AntiStar-001. And so on and so on, etcetera etcetera. 


In the last four months there had been seventy separate escalations, 
some of them so apparent that their manifestations had made any 
form of covert monitoring immediately and permanently redundant. 


In a jewelry store, a thirteen year old girl had swallowed three 
diamond rings, five gold and platinum eternity rings, one ruby and 
sapphire bracelet and a reproduction Fabergé egg. The girl died 
eight days later of malnutrition; she said she needed to eat shiny, 
pretty things and food was no longer any good for her. The jewelry 


was never recovered from her body. 


In a local cemetery, a vagrant who no longer knew his own name 
was found crying at every grave as if he knew the deceased 
personally. Those that had died during the wars, old folks who had 
finally succumbed to cancer, tiny little children who had died as they 
drew their first breath. Deaths spanning two centuries. The police 
had come for him, with a view to maybe admit him into psychiatric 
care; a Sunday afternoon annoyance towards the end of their shift. 
But he knew all their names, and how they died, and a lot more 
besides; so much so that when Officer Rooney asked the vagrant 
where his parents were buried, he was able to lead them there 
without error. And he was able to tell the officer that John Rooney 
had died of pneumonia on a rainy day, and that he was a keen 
golfer, and that Marsha Rooney had never got over it and died three 
months later of a broken heart. And although Officer Rooney did not 
recollect ever seeing the man before, the vagrant was adamant that 
he had attended the funeral, and could recall it in great detail. He 
had been to every funeral there ever was; he had known, personally, 
every person who had ever died - or so he maintained. And he cried, 
and he cried, and his loss was infinite and unendurable. 


In another incident, a school bus had crashed without warning into a 
fire truck. Nobody was injured, but the driver tumbled out of the cab 
and collapsed onto the highway. He was vomiting fire; and the 
tarmac was bright and shiny and bubbly and melting where he'd put 
his hands. The schoolchildren gathered at the windows, watching as 
his clothes combusted and charred and turned to ash, and the 
highway liquified beneath him, and all the while he brought up fire. 
The heat denuded him; he was thrown an asbestos suit, but no one 
could get near him. The school bus blew up six seconds after the 
last child was plucked to safety. The man wasn't found. 


There were other, more subtle occurrences. Rumours of orthodox 
Jews becoming militant Islamists overnight. Deaf men regaining 
their hearing, only to lose their sight. Previously healthy women 
suddenly developing birth defects. 


And in most - not all - most of these cases, one name kept cropping 
up. The jewelry girl had delivered papers to his door; the fire-man 
had been a close friend; the vagrant was an ex-business associate 


and one-time informer. And who had he informed on? Harold Maine. 


All roads led to Harold Maine. And now, at the exact same time that 
the Escalations demanded immediate action, Carol Paris had to hold 
back. 


She switched the monitor and base unit on and stared at the screen 
as it powered up. The “Gemini Corporation” logo flashed up briefly, 
and her face was basked in soft green light. She took out her 
cellphone - her own, this time - and dialled her father’s number. 


“Hey daddy, it's me,” she said. “Just ringing to let you know I'll be 
coming for dinner tonight. Yeah I'll bring something.” 


She disconnected and put the phone away. She typed in a false 
username and entered the number generated on her security 
dongle, and got to work. 


Next 


728 


I’m walking through the snow. The crunch of my footsteps creates a 
slow, yet persistent rhythm, the lack of a breeze allowing the sound 
to carry surprisingly far. My name is Neil, and | am hunting a flying 
deer across a mountainside in early January. 


It had been a full six hours earlier that one of the Special 
Containment Procedures Foundation vans had pulled up to the 
loading entrance of Sector-28, a horse trailer running doggedly 
along behind it. Given the weather, | was surprised that whatever 
they had brought with them was still alive. The heating must have 
been excellent. 


Just when | think I’ve lost my way, | spot a solitary set of hoofprints. 
It had touched down in this direction recently, and I’m fairly proud of 
myself for being able to track it so well. Silently praying that the wind 
doesn't pick up, | continue my trek and increase my pace. I'll pin that 
furry bastard down eventually. 


Had | been briefed on what was in that trailer, | wouldn’t have been 
so forward in my decision to throw open the doors once the van was 
parked. Immediately, what looked like a whitetail deer had leapt out 
at me, catching its footing on the edge of the doorway long enough 
to vault over my head. It had time enough, then, to deploy those 
eerie skin flaps that flying squirrels have, and glide off toward the 
woods. 


The trees get thicker in front of me. | hope that the poor thing hasn’t 
landed in one and broken its neck. Letting it escape is one thing, but 
having it wind up dead would probably mean the same for me. The 
snowbanks sloping gently from the pine trunks mean more effort in 
every step through the deepening white. A slight clearing appears 
up ahead, and | decide to wait. It has to land sometime, and | might 
as well capitalise on that. 


The deer, if that is in fact what it is, is a strange one. Other than the 


obvious ability to remain off the ground, it can rotate its shoulders 
and bring its legs out perpendicular to its body, in order to unfurl the 
usually-hidden skin folds. As | hurriedly dig myself a spot to hide in 
the snow, | sift through memories of classes and lectures in order to 
find out what that skin is called. Soon enough, an idea comes to me: 
The patagium, that gliding membrane, is useless without the ability 
to adjust its tautness. All | would have to do is hop on the flying 
ungulate, and hog tie it with my belt. Easier said than done, | 
presume. 


Suddenly, a shadow runs overhead, and my eyes are drawn 
upward. It’s the deer, and that flying Bambi son-of-a-bitch has 
decided to land at the end of the clearing opposite from where I’m 
hiding. He lays down, though; the cold is tiring him out far too 
quickly. | guess it’s now or never: Belt in hand, pants precariously 
dropping, | spring toward my quarry with the loudest obscenities | 
can manage. 


Three more hours later, and I’m back at Sector-28. The sun’s going 
down, it’s colder than a snowman’s rump, and I’m carrying an 
unconscious deer. | only managed to tie two of its legs together, but 
it wasn’t in much shape to reach cruising altitude anyhow. Handing it 
off to the crew inside the loading doors, | make my way to my office- 
slash-quarters, for a shower, change of clothes, and hot pocket. No 
sooner am | in the fancy door with my name across the front than | 
wonder what exactly is going to be done with my fuzzy-tailed foe, 
and what number it'll be assigned among the mounting hordes of 
crazy crap that we have to deal with.