"I'm ready to keep experimenting if you are." Callahan grinned. 
"We've got another hour until night shift ends," Ricci pointed out. 
"Plenty of time." 


Up above them, the stars slowly turned in their unending dance. 


"Sequence" 
« "Special Observer" | Return to GOC Hub | "AWTOK"» 


SCP-654 studies) Dr. Stephens, had been adapted for use in 
hunting harp seals, SCP-654 being so bold as to uncharacteristically 
attack adults of the species, and having developed a taste for the 
cooked flesh. 


Discovered by the northern shore of Hudson Bay in late 1982, 
SCP-654 had apparently been separated from its pod by clashing 
ice floes. Current speculation is that, unable to escape through 
Hudson Strait, it had become frustrated, and tried to clear a path 
through the closed passage. Conservation officers operating in Polar 
Bear Provincial Park had documented an “Unseasonal lightning 
strike,” and had been sent to quash a possible forest fire. Having 
found only a large amount of strangely melted ice, and the charred 
remains of three polar bears, an incident report was filed, triggering 
an investigation by Sector-28 Northern operatives upon submission. 


A full sweep of the bay was ordered, until SCP-654 was discovered. 
After a short corralling, it was sedated, placed into a porpoise 
stretcher, and airlifted to a park landing strip. From there, it was 
transported by privately-rented jet, sedated for the duration of the 
flight, to Sector-28, where it was held in the Sub-Level 13 flooded 
cavern until its habitat could be constructed. 


Addendum 654-A: Pod migration 


While tracking the pod SCP-654 had belonged to, to determine 
whether similar mutations had presented themselves, researchers 
Robertson, Jones, and Voth discovered that Hudson Bay is not in 
the pod’s usual migratory path. Aside from the one recorded 
instance, it had carefully avoided the strait, most likely to avoid the 
conflicting ice floes. 


Addendum 654-B: Extent of damage 


After a considerable length of time in containment, it has been 
determined that SCP-654 has no natural protection against its own 
ability, having caused itself harm several times thus far. Severe 
burns on and around the dorsal area are untreatable, as SCP-654 
now responds violently to anyone except for the feeding crew, 
including Dr. Earles, and even then only long enough for feeding. 
Considerable damage to the containment area has also been noted: 


"Assessment" 


"It's far too early to put Team Sparkplug back in the field." 


D.C. al Fine, the Undersecretary-General of the Global Occult 
Coalition, stood in an expanse of empty blackness, surrounded by 
one hundred and eight points of light. Today, she'd decided to look 
like Audrey Hepburn, complete with Givenchy dress, umbrella, and 
fancy hat. On the other hand, Audrey Hepburn never had cold, 
sinister eyes, or a haughty, domineering expression. D. C. al Fine 
wore the appearance of the famous actress well, but she could 
never shed the harsh edges that had given her the nickname, "The 
Scary Lady." 


"The first thing you have to understand is that Team Sparkplug is 
one of our best Assessment Teams," she explained. "Between the 
three veterans, they have over thirty years of experience in the 
paranormal field. As a team, they've had over a dozen successful 
missions. They were a finely tuned instrument... and then they lost 
one of their essential components. It has been replaced, yes, but 
they have not had time to adapt to the change in team composition. 
You're asking them to go back into the field after only a few months. 
It's too soon." 


One of the points of light flashed brightly, expanding into the form of 
a tall figure in a black robe, limned in violet light. The caption 
hovering at chest height identified the avatar as belonging to Lord 
Marcus Crowley, Antipope of the United Church of Satan, 
Scientist. "Your concern for your operatives is commendable, 
Madam," the robed figure intoned, "but unnecessary. Your 
operatives are ready. Do not let your mind be clouded by self- 
deceit." 


"The auguries concur with His Wickedness," said a young woman 
dressed in white gowns, holding a skein of threads between her 
hands. She was identified as the Speaker to Humans of the 
Silicon Nornir. 


"Is this a true Concurrence, or simply a Majority Report?" al Fine 
asked. 


"Concurrence," the Speaker to Humans said. "Urthor, Verthandi, and 
Skuldr are all in agreement as to the correctness of this action." 


"Personal feelings must be set aside. Action must be taken. The 
Council is in agreement upon this matter," Lord Marcus said. "Do not 
allow yourself to sin in this matter by choosing stupidity over 
wisdom." 


All around her, one hundred and eight stars blinked and dipped 
themselves in wordless agreement. 


"Then | will take the Council's advice under consideration," al Fine 
said. "If there are no further matters, then | will consider this 
Conclave adjourned." 


One by one, the stars blinked out, leaving al Fine floating silent and 
alone in the void. She closed her eyes and opened them again 
slowly, finding herself in her office on the 40th floor of the UN 
Secretariat Building, overlooking Manhattan. She rubbed her 
forehead and took a moment to compose herself, waiting for the 
nausea of Convergence to fade. 


The Undersecretary-General picked up her phone and dialed a 
number that didn't exist. The call went through before it had finished 
ringing once. 


"Get me PHYSICS Division," she said. 


"What do you know about The Foundation?" Bullfrog asked. 


"They're one of... if not the largest... paranormal organization that is 
not a member of the Global Occult Coalition. They focus primarily on 
the capture and acquisition of paranormal objects. They maintain a 
large network of hidden containment sites across the world, making 
them one of the few non-Coalition organizations that have a global 
presence, alongside the Serpent's Hand and the so-called Chaos 
Insurgency. Standing orders are to avoid engaging Foundation 


agents in the field, except in extreme emergencies. Response Level 
os 


"All right." Bullfrog nodded. "You've proved that you've read the 
handbook. Now tell me what you really know about The 
Foundation." 


Spider sighed inwardly, taking a deep breath. "They're hoarders," 
she said. "Unlike some organizations, they don't seem to have any 
political or economic agenda for what they do. What little exploitation 
of parathreats they do seems primarily oriented towards funding 
their operations. They had a brief alliance with the U.S. 
government's Bowe Commission, but that fell through. Officially, 
they're a rogue organization. Under the table, however, they seem 
to have a lot of support from national governments that don't want to 
deal with the Coalition's red tape and regulations. They also have an 
odd obsession with a particular three-letter sequence. At first, we 
thought it had something to do with their official motto, but the 
current theory is that the linguistic sequence has occult significance 
to them, considering that it comes up in the names of their front 
companies as well as their internal documentation. Current 
directives regarding the three-letter sequence is to avoid using it 
whenever possible, on the off-chance that Principle of Contagion 
could be used to breach internal organization security. Our 
computers can't even use Secure Copy Protocol because of it." 


"Not bad," Bullfrog said. "That's a pretty complete picture... from the 
point of view of a desk worker. Now let me give you the field 
operative's version." 


The big man cracked his knuckles and leaned back in his seat as 
the small private plane continued its long flight above the clouds. 
"The part of The Foundation that a field operative is most likely to 
run into are their Containment Teams. They're about equivalent to a 
PHYSICS Assessment Team. They're damn good. We're pretty 
much evenly matched in terms of training, equipment, and support. 
Where we differ, however, is in our mission and our goals." 


"The Foundation is mostly interested in finding, capturing, and 
retrieving parathreats," Bullfrog went on. "Their equipment reflects 
that: a lot of nonlethal weaponry and capture gear. Whereas a 


Coalition team is primarily focused on the Fivefold Mission. Nowhere 
in that Mission does it say that we need to bring in every parathreat 
we find alive." 


"More importantly, most of the Foundation's assessment work is 
going to be done by conscripts: 'D-Class Personnel,’ they call them. 
Political undesirables and convicted criminals forced into dangerous 
situations where they don't want to send actual Task Force 
members. So morale among their teams tends to be low, given that 
about half their team doesn't want to be there and doesn't want to do 
the mission." 


"Long story short, it's very possible for a good GOC Assessment 
Team to sneak in past the Foundation, scoop out the find from under 
their noses, and get out of there before they even know we were 
there. We've done it in the past, when the Foundation moved in after 
we'd already scoped out a parathreat. Standing orders are to avoid 
contact with Foundation personnel whenever possible... but that 
doesn't mean we have to sit idly by and let them pick up parathreats 
willy-nilly," Bullfrog concluded. 


"In fact, it's probably a good idea to keep as many parathreats as 
possible out of their fucking hands," Skunkboy said. He sat ona 
seat across from Bullfrog, flipping through a pornographic magazine 
with bored detachment. "We don't know what the fuck they're doing 
with them... but it's probably best not to let them stockpile too big of 
what could be a paranormal arsenal." 


"Of course, this all assumes that we're running into a Foundation 
Containment Team, and not a Mobile Task Force," Bullfrog 
explained. "Those are their varsity. Their elites. Think of them as 
Strike." 


"If we run into an MTF, we let them take the parathreat," Skunkboy 
agreed. "Shadow them, log the capture, try to gather as much 
information as we can, but don't get close to them." 


"Got it," Spider said, mulling the information over. "Do we have any 
diplomatic channels with them? Any contacts, any agreements?" 


"The Coalition does. We don't," Bullfrog explained. "A few former 


GOC members have gone over to the Foundation, and vice versa. 
And there have been a few times when our organizations have been 
in agreement about... a particular course of action... and ended up 
working together. On the other hand, the Coalition's official stance is 
that the Foundation, as a rogue organization, gets no official 
recognition by the Council, and especially no invitation to join the 
Coalition itself." 


"What Bull is trying to say is that we try to play nice, but never think 
we're friends," Skunkboy said. "Keep your allies close and your 
enemies closer. That sort of thing.” 


Spider nodded in reply, jotting down a few notes into her notebook, 
using a fountain pen with beautiful ivory-like inlays that were actually 
made from the femur of an executed murderer: an ancient and crude 
(but effective) deterrent against magical spying. "Anything to add, 
Kitten?" she asked the fourth member of the team, who was 
currently doing rapid sit-ups in the aisle. 


The seven-foot tall woman paused in the middle of her stomach 
crunches and ran a hand through her hair, her stern expression not 
changing. "No," she said curtly, before turning over and doing push- 
ups, her taut muscles straining with exertion. 


Bullfrog shrugged. Kitten never had much to say. 


There was a soft dinging sound in the passenger compartment, 
followed by a brief burst of static. "Captain speaking. We're about 
fifteen minutes out from the airport. I'm going to ask you to return to 
your seats, fasten your seatbelts, and return all seats and tray tables 
to their upright position. Time at our destination is four PM. Weather 
is 80 degrees and sunny." 


Spider folded up her notebook and tucked it into her messenger 
bag, next to her grimoire, tablet computer, and a dog-eared copy of 
"The Complete Poems of Robert W. Service." "Any last words of 
advice?" 


"Yeah. Relax. You'll do fine," Bullfrog said. 


"Not that it'll help you if it all goes to hell, but at least you'll feel good 


that you didn't get killed because of something stupid you did," 
Skunkboy interjected. 


"Can the attitude, fartboy,” Bullfrog growled. 


"Yes, sir. Semper Fi, and off we go into the wild blue yonder," 
Skunkboy muttered. 


The sick feeling in Spider's stomach as the plane came in for a 
landing had nothing to do with motion sickness. 


| feel ridiculous, Spider thought, as she glared at her reflection in the 
mirror. She looked like some kind of bad video game version of what 
a soldier should look like. 


The Mark Three Infiltration Skinsuit was definitely an effective piece 
of personal armor, but it had the unfortunate side effect of being a 
close fitting, lightly padded slate-grey bodysuit. Which, she 
ruminated, would probably look just fine on a busty bombshell with 
silicone breasts and an hourglass figure, but was not particularly 
flattering on a wide-hipped academic who, despite several months of 
intense physical training, still couldn't quite get rid of the baby fat 
around her waist and stomach. 


The effect was even more striking on a short, squat, and muscular 
middle-aged man with broad shoulders and thighs like tree trunks. 
Bullfrog stalked into the room and glared at Spider for a moment, 
before making a couple of adjustments to the straps. "Keep it loose 
around the chest and waist," he suggested, "so that it doesn't 
interfere with your breathing.” 


"Kitten's got all of her straps tightened to the maximum," Spider 
pointed out. 


"Kitten's crazy." 


Good point. Spider waited patiently as Bullfrog made a few more 
minute adjustments to her combat webbing and her various pouches 
and attachments. "Wish I'd had more time to get you used to the 
Grey Suit," he said, lips pursed in concentration. "There's a knack to 


wearing it that you don't have yet." 


Not my fault that they pulled us out of training this early, Spider 
thought. She waited until Bullfrog was finally satisfied with the state 
of her gear, before picking up her PDW and slinging it over her 
shoulder. The lightweight weapon still felt awkward and unfamiliar to 
her, despite the time she'd spent training with it. 


Kitten and Skunkboy were waiting for them in the briefing room, 
having already changed into their own skinsuits. Kitten, Spider 
noted, had armed herself with a futuristic-looking carbine anda 
handgun, as well as a frighteningly large knife slung at her left hip. 
Skunkboy was carrying a semi-automatic rifle with a complicated- 
looking scope, as well as a large-caliber handgun, while Bullfrog 
was carrying a squad automatic weapon with a large box magazine. 
The three of them handled their weapons with practiced ease born 
from long years of practice. 


"Camo check," Bullfrog said. 


The four of them tapped the controls on their helmets, and the grey 
cloth over their bodies and weapons blurred and fuzzed. Chameleon 
Fabric wasn't a true invisibility cloak: all it did was match their 
surroundings as best it could, using reactive pigment packets, not 
unlike those in the skin of the creature from which it took its name. 
The downside was that it only really worked well in darkness or at a 
distance, and only if the wearer didn't move. The upside was that 
unlike a lost invisibility cloak, losing a section of chameleon cloth 
wouldn't necessitate bombing fifty miles of countryside to make sure 
+2 Generation technology didn't fall into the wrong hands.