Again, | agree, however we're concerned. These kids 
didn't suddenly get to be a threat without help from 
someone. They're armed up by someone who doesn't 
want to show their hand. 


| suppose that's true, but we're not in any danger from it, 
our current ties are all covert at the moment. 


True, but someone pulled a fast one on us. That does 
not happen. Ever. Yet somehow, someone armed this 
group and trained them to the point where they were 
able to drop a containment site totally off grid, and 
cripple The Foundation communication relay for a 
significant period of time. What happens if the puppet 
master turns his gaze on us? 


Randal, | hardly think this- 


| know, it is unlikely...but that is not even my foremost 
concern. Our members expect the world from us, normal 
reality and laws of physics be damned. We sometimes 
need those items to meet those requests. Which is 
easier, the corruption of staff and eventual theft of a item 
in containment, or the time, energy, lives, and most of all, 
money expended in the tracking, capture, containment, 
and study of these items? 


... You have shown me the light, Randal. Cheeky, but still 
valid. I'll see if | can rouse the old fellow, get him to sign 


off on an open contract. | don't think we need to tip a 
hand yet, but maybe we can get those Americans...what 
are they, blackwood...blackburn...oh dash it, that 
mercenary firm... 


Blackwater, ma'am? 


Yes, that's it! 1 think Marshall may own the staff...or 
maybe that's Howard, on the board...dash it, one of the 
two. We'll get some people on the ground, keep an eye 
on things...if it all goes tail-up, at least we can collect a 
bit off the corpse before the scavengers move in. | think 
someone should post Dark anyway, keep him abreast of 
things. 


|...am not sure he's alive, Mrs. Carter. 


Fuck and bother. Well, let me know if he is or not when 
you find out, and post the letter anyway. He'll get it 
eventually. 


Text of Message sent to O5 Councilon - - , hours 
after re-establishment of containment 


Dear Sirs or Madams, 


Given that you are unable to keep your own affairs in 
order, we will be cleaning up your mess for you. Be 
aware that our interdiction teams have orders to shoot to 
kill on sight any individual who attempts to interfere with 
their mission. 


For your safety and ours, | recommend keeping out of 
their way. 


Sincerely, 


Under-Secretary-General D. C. Al Fine 
United Nations Global Occult Coalition 


To: 05 Command Group 
From : Site 17 Tech Unit 


Re: System compromised 


We are still coming back on-line from the attack, 
however we will be unable to join the larger Foundation 
network, or connect to anything off-site. The cross- 
contamination between 682 and 229 has lead to a near- 
total infection of the on-site network. Thus far, it doesn't 
seem that either of these items have actually attacked 
the network, however they are eating up a ton of 
bandwidth and energy. 


To my knowledge, this is the first time 682 has escaped 
and not gone on a blind rampage. I'm concerned that this 
is a prelude to something very, very bad...a calm before 
the storm, if you will. Thus far, we've sealed the site 
network, and shielded against any ingoing or outgoing 
signals, but there's not much else we can do. The 
connections extend everywhere...just waiting for 
something. 


The physical SCP are down on the D-9 level, and we've 
pretty much lost control of that. The area is too hot to 
send normal staff to, and all the MTF are running around 
after the escaped SCP. There are reports of some bad 
cross-contamination, and 106 has been picking off 
around one staff member a day. 


In short, we need help to bring the site back up. Until D-9 


is cleared and re-secured, we can't reconnect to 
anything. 


Surveillance Log 24-IF12- - - , —: Infirmary 12, Site 24 
Six days after Tempest Night Incident 
: "Hey, motherfucker. How are the legs?" 


A. Clef: "They hurt like fuck. Doctors say I'll be walking 


thank you for the information. But honestly, you know the 
difference between movies and real life, don't you? Do 
you really think the carving will bite your hand off, just 
because some guy in a movie told a story about it? You 
even said that the guy in the movie was lying about it, 
right? 


D-45951: |... | dunno! |... look, | wouldn't'a believed... | 
mean, | don't think | woulda believed it, before | came 
here and saw all the weird shit you guys've got here, all 
the monsters and shit, but now that | seen it all, it made 
me think maybe it... | mean... that's how I'm explaining it 
right now, it didn't all go through my head word for word 
right then, but you know, people... | mean, a /ot of 
people, maybe not everybody in the world, | dunno — a 
lot of people are like that... uh, what's the question? | lost 
— | kinda lost track, only kinda, | mean, we're still talking 
about the statue, right? 


Dr. Rensburg: Uh, yes. Do you think, just because of 
the movie, that the statue will — 


D-45951: Oh, right, right. Yeah, I... well, | don't know for 
sure, but I'm thinking that, that maybe it will, because of 
... well, because of a bunch of stuff, like part of it is that 
movie that I... that | saw part of on TV one ti— at /east 
One time, and | thought it was just a load of cra— |, l, | 
mean, looking back at what | was thinking back then, | 
guess | didn't really believe it, ‘cause it was just 
something in a — | thought it was just something in a 
movie, and stuff in movies isn't re— | mean, a /ot of stuff 
in movies isn't, isn't really real, not like real life is OR AT 
LEAST THAT'S WHAT | ALWAYS THOUGHT EXCEPT 


NOT 'ALWAYS' LIKE ALL THE TIME oh god please don't bite 
my hand off 


Dr. Long: Interesting. Let's see what we had on the list... 
ah yes. D-45951... what's your name? 


D-45951: That's kinda complic— | mean, the question 
isn't, | guess the question isn't complicated, but the 


again in a year, though. 
> "Swell. | brought you a gift.” 
A. Clef: "... rollerblades. You always were an asshole." 


: "| love you too. Jesus, those stupid newbies 
fucked everything up, didn't they? | read your report. It 
was a fucking laugh riot. The part where that one fucknut 
tried to fight the kitskumiho and fell off the balcony and 
broke practically all his bones had me rolling. | hear he's 
still in traction." 


A. Clef: "He's in the next wing over. Multiple compound 
fractures. He was stuck there for over forty-eight hours 
screaming in pain before someone managed to find him. 
Gangrene maybe set in on his legs. Hopefully the docs 
can regrow them." 


: > "I'll bring him a pair of running shoes. He'll love 
that." 


A. Clef: "..." 
>"... All right, talk. What's wrong?" 
A. Clef: "We did that to him." 


: "Bullshit. We didn't push him off that ledge, and 
we didn't order him to either. Hell, you didn't even tell him 
to fight that SCP. He did that on his own." 


A. Clef: "He did it because we did it first." 


: "He was a four-year newbie. We've been doing 
this all our lives. He was in over his fucking head." 


A. Clef: "He should never have tried. We set a bad 
example for him." 


: "What are you, his mommy? Gonna change his 
diaper and feed him his bottle? He was an adult. He 


made a fucking choice, and he fucked up. I'm not gonna 
lose any sleep over it." 


A. Clef: "Did you know the incidence of mental illness 
among Foundation personnel is going up? It used to be 
you had to be a ten, fifteen year man before you started 
getting downchecks for psyche. Now we're getting 
second-year rookies getting red-marked. Glass thinks it's 
because they're not trying to fight it any more. He's not 
sure why, but | know. It's because of you and me. These 
kids, they look at you and me and Gears and think, 
"These guys are nuts. Maybe it's okay for me to be." And 
they just... go over the deep end. They don't even try to 
stay sane." 


j : "What, you're trying to blame this all on me? 
Fuck you. | do what | have to do to save the world. If | 
want to have fun along the way, then who the fuck can 
tell me otherwise? There's too much at stake here to 
worry about being a nice or responsible person. 
Someone wants to flip out and eat dog shit or try to fuck 
a goat, who cares, as long as they do the fucking job? If 
you can't see that, then maybe you need to get the fuck 
out." 


A. Clef: "Maybe | do." 

. well, I'm not wasting a good gift on an emo 
ean like you. Give me those rollerblades, I'm gonna 
give them to Gerald." 


A. Clef: "Yeah, you do that, 


: "Fuck you too, buddy." 


Escapees: SCP-353, SCP-953, SCP-200, SCP-550, SCP-737 
Related Foundation Tales: 


Game Day 1: Johannes Sorts 


Game Day 1: Imago 

Game Day 1: Preliminaries 
Game Day 1: Die Hardest 
Game Day 1: Smilers 
Game Day 1: Lesley Mause 


Game Day Part 1: Attack of the Replicas 


Having suffered from sleep apnea for most of his adult life, Dr. 
Johannes Sorts was quite accustomed to waking up suddenly in the 
middle of the night (or day) because he had stopped breathing in his 
sleep. 


There was a time that this troubled him greatly, but the constant 
disruptions kept him from sleeping for too long, or worse, dreaming, 
so he had come to accept them with a bit of gratitude. This was a 
source of constant concern for the site 17 physician assigned to look 
after him. Dr. Charlene Robertson had been known to break into his 
cluttered office/bedroom and coerce him into wearing a CPAP mask 
so that he didn't suffocate in his sleep. 


So when Dr. Sorts woke suddenly to find himself sprawled out in his 
office chair, he was not immediately concerned. When he heard Dr. 
Robertson's voice insisting that he put his mask on, he was not 
immediately concerned. 


But when a lifeless, sandy hand was clamped over his face to 
suffocate him, he began to remember certain things. Leaving his 
musty office sanctuary at Site 19 on short notice to supervise the 
handling of several SCP artifacts. Setting up in his slightly less 
musty office sanctuary at Site 17. Turning down invitations to some 
social gathering in the break room. Sitting down to write a memo 
about SCP-945's unacceptable temporary containment conditions 
but opening up a game of Atom Zombie Smasher on the side and... 


Dr. Sorts pushed the dusty clay hand away from his face and 
gasped, "Doctor Robertson! I'm not supposed to be asleep right 
now!" 


"Very well, Johannes. | will be back tonight to be sure you are 
wearing your mask. Please get back to work," the figure leaning 
over Johannes did not make any motion to leave, it just hung over 
him and stared blankly with painted, kohl-rimmed eyes. 


"| have work to do right now, and so do you," Dr. Sorts scrambled to 
straighten his glasses and get out of his seat, nervously stammering 
to the clay figurine that was wearing Dr. Robertson's white, 
bloodstained smock, "You're supposed to be in the medical ward 
handling trauma cases, remember? There's a lot of new SCPs on 
site right now so we need all medical hands on call in case of an 
emergency." 


Dr. Sorts was going to miss Charlene fussing over him, if one of 
SCP-945's shawabti replicas was impersonating her in his office 
now it meant that she was dead. It also meant that if he didn't 
destroy that replica or keep it under constant supervision it was 
going to start killing more people, starting with him. 


The figurine turned towards the door "Yes, yes | should be there. 
There are a lot of bad cases there. But... the medical ward has been 
damaged beyond repair by an explosion. That is why | came to 
check on you. You skipped your last checkup, you know. Please 
take your seat and we'll begin." The shawabti produced a tattered 
black bag and pulled a scalpel from it. 


"Wait! Dr. Robertson, you've been exposed to a class A memetic 
agent. Regulation says that you need to do as | say in order to 
prevent a virulent memetic outbreak. Listen to me very carefully. We 
have to pretend we are in... uh... an action movie." 


Debriefing: Dr. Johannes Sorts 
Excerpt from Interview conducted by O5- , regarding Dr. 
Sort's involvement in Incident 234-900-Tempest Night-1. 


O5- : Was it really necessary to convince the replica of 
Dr. Robertson that she was your love interest in an 
action movie? 


Dr. Sorts: Believe me | wish | had thought of something 
else off the top of my head. I've been exposed to enough 
of SCP-945 prior to this clusterfuck, | really didn't want 
to, you know, improvise a love scene with my colleague's 
shawabti. I've prepared a full report on that experience 
by the way. Psych's going to have a field day with it I'm 
sure. 


O5- : What happened next? 


Dr. Sorts: Well, last time we had a really virulent 
SCP-945 outbreak the replicas overwhelmed an entire 
site. But they also kept it operational — when it became 
clear to me that every possible bad thing that could have 
happened DID happen | decided that regardless of the 
danger the SCP-945 replicas posed they were more 
valuable as an ally... er... asset, than otherwise. So | set 
about collecting as many replicas as | could find running 
around the site and convincing them to play roles in this 
movie. It was the only way | could claim any authority 
over the positions those replicas were taking. 


O5- : How many replicas did you have under your 
command? 


Dr. Sorts: Never more than about two dozen at any one 
time, but | think we went through about fifty replicas total. 


O5- : How was the replica of Dr. Robertson lost? 


Dr. Sorts had someone's red tie wrapped around his forehead, and 
his shirt was hanging open over his hairy stomach, "Alright men! 
Let's secure this hallway. | want Johnson, Figgs and Lewis on point! 
Tiberson, cover me. I'm going in!" 


Dr. Robertson's shawabti had tied its smock in a knot across its 
bust, where it had stuffed two rolls of toilet paper, "Wait! Don't go, | 
couldn't stand to lose you again!" the clay statue squealed with the 
enthusiasm of a high school drama student. 


"| have to go, baby, we need to secure the medical ward so that you 
can get back to work on the survivors," Dr. Sorts claimed. He hadn't 
found any yet, though. Just a batch of replicated security guards 
who had already armed themselves and were now following his 
orders and calling him ... 


"The hall is clear, Commander Badass!" shouted the replica of Lt. 
Figgs in a much more accurate representation of the late man's 
voice and mannerisms, "We're go for retaking the medical ward! 


Let's move, people! Go Go Go Go Go!" 


Dr. Sorts and his impromptu squad of clay soldiers burst into the 
medical ward, which was a sea of bloodstained, writhing flesh, 
dripping with maggots. One of the replicas pretended to vomit. Dr. 
Sorts held his breath on the off chance he would wake up. 


The ward was filled with an expanding pile of barely human figures 
anxiously clutching at each other while slurping bits of scattered and 
burnt flesh against their faces. Dr. Sorts had no idea what kind of 
SCP would produce a scene like this, but the nightmare before him 
was content to keep to itself on the other side of the room. 


Dr. Robertson's replica touched his shoulder, "This is a serious 
SCP-726 outbreak. We need to..." 


The replica trailed off with what could only be described as a gasp, 
although the clay figure never moved its lips or breathed. But 
crawling out of the pile of squirming bodies was another replica of 
Dr. Robertson, this one crafted from living flesh and blood. It slurped 
at the air and twitched its shoulders before disengaging from the rest 
of its nightmare spawn, flopping across the broken tile floor like a 
fish out of water towards the group of clay soldiers. 


Dr. Robertson's shawabti pushed forward past the guards, grabbing 
the remains of a chair and rushing forward to bludgeon its rival 
duplicate, "No! No! My body is to be at rest! MY BODY IS TO BE AT 
REST!"