Agent Lament: “Well, we're not really supposed to give our 
thoughts on the guy. It’s one of those distracting things, the ones 
that they say keep people from their real jobs.” 


Recording, Context Unknown 


Agent Lament: "The Administrator was the original name for Zero- 
One, before the rest of the O5 Council was properly codified. It's 
been that way for years, even since the organization got too big for 
one person to easily handle." 


Unknown: "C'mon. You know more than you're saying, | know. 
You've worked with Gears and all those other muckity mucks." 


Agent Lament: "Well... There is a /ittle more to it than that..." 
Unknown: "Oh yeah?" 


Agent Lament: "Have you ever heard of... Second Havana?" 


Documentation Review - Thaddeus Xyank 


Research has shown that in every reality, there exists a 
person who either calls himself, or comes to be known 
as, The Administrator. This is not unusual, because most 
realities have counterparts in others. The curious part is 
the persistence of his character and his role. Every 
iteration of The Administrator has some sort of job 
related to the Founding of the Foundation. 


Or at least, claims to. Although there are stories of him 
having a role, no documentation has ever surfaced to 
prove it. The only written records are secondhand 
reports of his behavior, or encounters with him. 
Occasionally, a typo-ridden biography will appear on 
Foundation servers, and cause a panic when Overwatch 
thinks they’ve been infiltrated. It always has some 
gibberish, with a couple of coherent lines: “The 


Administrator has been known to exist for much longer 
than the typical span of a human life.” and sometimes 
“The Administrator goes by many pseudonyms, although 
none of them are very convincing.” 


He’s almost like Dr. Gideon. In fact, he’s exactly like him, 
with the only difference being that Gideon always has a 
different role, but the Administrator stays the same. No 
versions exist of him founding the Insurgency, or doing 
something completely unrelated to the paranormal. His 
impact seems to be minimal, limited to a curio piece. 


My final analysis is: The Administrator is an interesting, if 
inconsequential figure. He appears, then quickly 
vanishes, leaving only scraps of information behind. If | 
ever meet one, I'll update this document. 


As of 09/18/2015, the size of the “Administrator 
Biography” file has increased by 20gb on Foundation 
databases. The reason for this discrepancy is unknown, 
as the content of the file is unchanged. Research is 
Ongoing. 


Sorry 


TRANSCRIPT OF A CHANCE 
ENCOUNTER 


“So, does it have a name?” 


“There are so many indentations of me throughout the whole work.” 
He smiled in a fatherly way, as a pox-riddled green tentacle curled 
out of his sleeve to brush some dust of his collar. “Little touches, so | 
can keep my finger on the pulse.” 


“So what, then, you’re just another administrator?” she paced 
around him, keeping her eyes trained on the openings in his coat. 
She saw it shift and move in a way carefully designed to resemble 
the wind, of which there was none to be found here. 


“No, sorry. Unlike you, | am definitive. No offense, of course. There 
are no other versions, counterparts, or duplicates. It’s a very rare 
thing, at least for you, to see something that is one-of-a-kind.” 


“But I’ve seen all of you.” 


“You've seen my little personal touches. | Know you’ve met the 
smoker. Maybe an android, or the idiot who keeps ripping pages out. 
We keep in touch.” Two hands emerged from from his unbuttoned 
middle, one a deep maroon, the other soaking wet, and they shook 
on it. 


“Pages?” 


“It's a metaphor, to keep it explainable when | have company over. 
All of the different everythings out there are like pages in a book. 
You, for example, would be a reader who skips ahead to the good 
parts. You make the world a smaller place.” 


She frowned. “Who's the idiot?” 


“There are a lot of idiots out there. Only one keeps in touch. They’re 
the type of person who rips out any pages they don't like, or in the 
idiot’s case, because they’re bad at explaining themselves properly, 
and worse at lying.” 


“Shouldn’t you stop him?” 


“No, he'll learn eventually. They always do. Not like ripping a few 
pages out of the index ever really mattered, in the bigger picture.” 


“Why did you bring me here?” 


The Administrator shrugged, an infinite wave of misshapen 
shoulders rippling beneath his coat. “You came to me. | don’t know 
what you thought I'd be telling you.” 


“... Then I’m going to be on my way.” 


“See you later. Good luck with your dad.” 


“Farewell, your highness.” 


| remember when they first rolled off the assembly line, 
all of the staffmen. They were just supposed to be a 
temporary measure, but it went on for too long. We 
outnumbered ourselves with half-people, people who talk 
and breathe and fuck like we do, but they're identical 
sets of people stamped out to every site. 


We ruined everything. 


When they pulled me out of the vat for the last time, they asked what it felt like to 
own it all. The world belonged to me. | didn't really mind it, but it gets tiring. You 
start out being god, but then it keeps on going up and up until nothing else 
matters. Too much responsibility, until it becomes meaningless. 


So | depart. Goodbye, au reviore, so long and thanks for all the fish. 


Experiment 919-23 


D-Class subject 919-05 was a very, very bad man. Arrested, tried, 
and convicted of multiple counts of child abduction, rape, and first 
degree murder, 919-05 was on track for death row. The prison 
surgeon was standing at the end of the hall, and with him was the 
needle waiting to dig into his arm. The new correctional officers at 
his sides showed no mercy for the convict. They were tall, large men 
with no-nonsense attitudes, nothing like the officers in the other hall. 
In fact, their uniforms looked different as well. Suddenly, the hall 
disappeared from in front of him, and 919-05 was plunged into 
darkness. 


He was caught literally red-handed, having just disposed of another 
victim in the woods near her home. At his trial, he expressed 
gratitude to the families of the victims for providing him with the 
children that fueled his perverse needs. There were no witnesses 
registered for his execution. His only remaining family was a father 
who wanted nothing to do with the sick man that his son had 
become; and the families of his victims didn’t want to see another 
moment of the monster who took away their children so many years 
ago. The media followed his trial closely; covering 919-05’s story up 
to a week after his execution was carried out. 


Except D-Class subject 919-05 wasn’t executed. Not yet. The 
Foundation had him. 


“... and after careful review of the specific facts of the subject, the 
nature of the experiment, and the nature of SCP-919, permission for 
Experiment 919-23 is granted for Dr. Temke.” 


“Thank you gentlemen. | believe that all the necessary requirements 
have now been met, so | won't waste any more of your valuable 
time...” 


“One more thing, Doctor... we know about your niece. We’ve known 
for a few weeks now.” 


The pallor on Dr. Temke’s face increased significantly. They’ve 
already granted their permission, why would they go back on it now? 
This experiment could help so many tormented families... 


“Oh?” was all he managed to squeak out. 


“Just a warning. Follow the experiment protocols exactly. Any 
deviation will not be tolerated.” 


The relief washed over him like a river. “Of course. Thank you.” 


Dr. Temke left the boardroom, the sweat fogging his glasses, and 
his hands shaking. 


919-05 was right there in front of him. An IV drip provided the 
necessary paralytic to keep him from moving too much, but he could 
still speak. And boy did he speak. He cried, he screamed, he 
begged, he threatened to call his lawyer. Not surprisingly, after that 
last request was denied, he started to calm down a bit and tried to 
assess his surroundings. There wasn’t much to see. He was 
strapped to a wheelchair, and could barely move his arms and legs. 
His head kept flopping side to side as he surveyed his new prison. It 
was as if his neck muscles were just too tired to hold up his head. 
There was no light except for a lone bulb directly above his head, 
making him sweat and squint. The stinging sweat dripped right into 
his eyes and blurred his vision. From what he could see, there was a 
large black curtain in front of him. He couldn’t see what it was 
covering, but it was tall. To the right and slightly behind the curtain 
was a Chair. It was one of those fancy ones with upholstered arms 
and made of leather. Far behind both of those were two guards, 
dressed just like the men who were taking him to the chamber at the 
end of the hall. That was three days ago. 


A door opens out of view of 919-05, and a tall man in a lab coat 
walks in and sits in the chair next to the curtain. The man looks 
through several pieces of paper on a clipboard, and then locks his 
gaze onto 919-05. His eyes stare intently at 919-05, seeming to look 


beyond the eyes at the pathetic little man paralyzed in the 
wheelchair. 


After a few seconds, 919-05 speaks. 


“| want my lawyer,” he says with a tremble. “I want my lawyer right 
now, and | won't talk to you.” 


The doctor adjusts his glasses and looks at his watch. He takes a 
pen out of his pocket and says, “You were convicted of killing almost 
a dozen children over the last two years. Where are their bodies?” 


“Fuck you,” says 919-05. “Il want my lawyer.” 


“Please answer the question.” Dr. Temke wipes his forehead with a 
handkerchief, gripping his pen tightly with the other hand. “Where 
are the children hidden? All of them. Did you bury them?" 


"| want my lawyer..." 

"Burn them?" 

"My lawyer. | want my lawyer now..." 

"Where are they?! Where is Angie? WHERE IS MY NIECE?!” 


“| said | want my lawyer. Who the hell are you?! | WANT TO SEE 
MY FUCKING LAWYER! | WANT TO SEE HIM NOW!” 919-05 
screams, the anger and fear easily visible in his eyes. 


“You don’t have a lawyer. You...you were executed three days ago, 
and dead men don't get lawyers.” Dr. Temke stands up and takes a 
step to the side of the black curtain. 


“I'll ask you once more, where are the kids' bodies? They deserve 
proper burials.” 


“| want to see my lawyer,” is all 919-05 mutters. 


“I'll show you something worse.” At this Dr. Temke pulls down on the 
curtain, showing a large ornate mirror, reflecting back to 919-05 just 
his own image. 


Dr. Temke takes a step away, reaching into his lab coat. He pulls 
out a gun and points it directly at 919-05 stomach, his finger 
twitching with anticipation. The fear in 919-05 eyes crescendos, and 
he stares directly at the gun. For the first time, he doesn’t say 
anything and just breathes in heavily, possibly wondering why he 
hasn’t been shot yet. Seconds feels like hours, but after a short 
while the silence is broken. Not by 919-05. Not by the Doctor. Not 
even by the imposing guards in the corners. The sound comes from 
right in front of 919-05. From the mirror. 


“Please...don’t go...please stay...” 


919-05 jaw drops, but his surprise is interrupted as an explosion 
shatters the silence, followed by a pain in his stomach that feels like 
he just swallowed a piece of red-hot coal. He manages to look up 
and see the smoke curling up from the barrel of the gun. The pain is 
intense, and 919-05 starts screaming. The IV drip is barely keeping 
him from moving. 


Dr. Temke suddenly changes track. He throws the gun on the floor 
and turns to look at the mirror. 


“Please...keep him here. Don’t take him away.” 


“| will,” says the Doctor. “Tell me, can you move? Can you shake 
your feet for me?” 


“No, | can’t. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad. Please don’t take him 
away. | can try again. Give me a minute and | can try moving them 
again. Don’t take him away. Please...” the reflection pleads. 


“| won't. It’s okay, just answer the questions, okay? Are you shot? 
Look at your stomach. Have you been shot?” 


“No, I’m okay, | haven't been shot.” 


Dr. Temke takes out a tape recorder and turns away, “919-05A 
seems to suffer the same disadvantages as 919-05 prior to losing 
synchronicity. Any physical damage done to 919-05 after losing 
synchronicity does not seem to be reflected in 919-05A. Sweat from 
the light and interrogation is still visible on...” 


919-05 lets out a low moan, breaking the Doctor’s concentration. 
The Doctor stares at him, and then quickly turns his gaze back to 
the reflection. 


“...1S still visible on 919-05A's forehead. All physical characteristics 
are identical prior to the gunshot made approximately 15 seconds 
after exposure." 


He pauses to clear his throat. "This man...you...you murdered and 
raped several children, and then hid their bodies. Where are they?” 


“Please don’t take him away. They’re in an old storm shelter; 6 miles 
west off of mile marker 23 on Route 11. You're not going to take him 
there are you?... It's near where my dad used to have a cabin when 
| was younger. He can still show you where...” 


919-05 lets out a loud moan and tries to speak. Dr. Temke’s head 
whips around to look at him. He bends down and picks up the gun, 
pointing it right at 919-05’s skull. 919-05 looks up at the man in the 
lab coat, and at the gun in his hand. His vision is blurred and his 
mind is fuzzy, but he knows this is something...different. Something 
horrifying. 


“Wha...Who are you...” 


Dr. Temke pulls the trigger, terminating 919-05 immediately. He 
gasps at how easy it was, and how immediately 919-05 just slumps 
down. A few seconds pass. He looks up at the camera that was 
stationed behind 919-05. 


“Well? What does the father say? Is it there?” 


A few more seconds pass. Static, and then a voice fill the room, 
“Yeah...he says he hasn't been there in almost a decade, but it’s not 
far from one of our stationed agents. We’re sending him over now.” 


“Please...keep him here.” 


Dr. Temke looks up and sees 919-05A still staring intently at the 
body of the terminated D-Class. 


“Right...we’ve still got some questions for you...” 


An hour later, Dr. Temke puts down his pen. He looks across the 
room at the body of the man who took away his only niece’s life. The 
man was given an extra three days to live, and his contribution to 
this experiment greatly improved the understanding of the nature of 
SCP-919. That thought is secondary. The only thing he truly feels is 
the relief at getting to pull the trigger. He knows he will have to 
submit himself to psychiatric evaluation after this. That and a 
mandatory 2-week vacation were prerequisites of the experiment he 
agreed to. 


“Uh, Dr. Temke? We've got some news.” 


Dr. Temke sits upright and stares intently at the camera. 919-05A 
does the same. 


“Yeah...we found the bodies. We found all eleven of them. Right 
where 919-05A said they were. ” 


“See! | told you | could help! Please leave him here; | can’t do 
anything else to anyone. | can just sit here, now.” 919-05A hasn't 
changed during the entire ordeal. He hasn’t said anything new but 
the truth. He hasn’t changed his demeanor or attitude. He’s still the 
same subject he was when he was first brought into existence. 


There is nothing new to learn here. 


Dr. Temke stands up and walks back to the door he came in 
through. As he leaves, he turns to one of the guards. 


“Get someone down here to clean up. | need the body sent to 
Autopsy, and SCP-919 returned to the containment cell.” 


At this, 919-05A starts screaming and thrashing in his bonds. 
“PLEASE! OHGODOHGODOHGOD...PLEASE NO! NO! YOU 
PROMISED! DON’T TAKE HIM AWAY! OH GOD NO NO NO!”