Item: SCP-500 
Tissue Test Record: N/A 


Termination Test Record: 
DENIED BY 05 COUNCIL 


O5-8 note: Whoever proposed this test is hereby banned from 
making proposals to the Termination Log. Not only would this test be 
a waste of a valuable resource, we don’t know what it would 
accomplish or what effects it would have on SCP-682. For all we 
know, it could make the damn thing even harder to contain. 


Item: Dr. Clef's Proposal 
Tissue Test Record: N/A 


Termination Test Record: 

SCP-682 was flown in a heavily guarded plane squad near 
SCP-001's undisclosed location, It is then ordered to enter the range 
of SCP-001 (Dr. Clef's Proposal), With a small Go-Pro camera 
attached to it. The following log will be shown: 


<Begin Log> 
SCP-001: Forget. 


SCP-682: Do you think | would listen to a cosplayer? 
You forget this all happened. 


<SCP-001 is shown to point its sword towards 
SCP-682, A explosion is seen as it is blown 2 miles 
away from SCP-001's radius.> 


<Blood begins to drip in the camera's shuttle, and 
the footage ends.> 


End Log> 


Addendum: When Foundation personnel arrived at the scene, 
SCP-682 begins to mutter: "Filthy cosplayer." before he faints from 


angry burst of horn from a Mini driver who nearly took the door off. 


He prayed fervently to the god of all mechanics (the most popular 
petition to whom is ‘let it fucking work this time’) and turned the 
ignition key. The Polo's engine turned over with no pops or hops, 
and he careened out into the traffic, hoping the BMW driver behind 
him had enough sense to slam on their brakes as the Polo sailed in 
front of it. 


"Well, the acceleration seems to be fixed, at least." 


Sam was still looking over her shoulder. "He must have been waiting 
for us to leave the apartment. Do you think it's someone from the 
Foundation?" 


"The Foundation, the Insurgency, or the MoD. Did you get a look at 
who was driving?" 


"No, he was too far away." 
"He was ten yards, tops." 
"Well, | must need new contacts then. He was blurry." 


"The good news is that he didn't make a move while we were in the 
apartment. That means he wants to see where we're going." Keagan 
took a long breath. "Okay, here's the plan. The Insurgency is 
planning something big. | don't want to go into it, but you can think of 
it like a terrorist attack. Sir Malcolm is going to use it to seize power 
in a coup. | thought I'd well and truly fucked things up for them but 
Sir Malcolm seemed to think it hadn't done them that much damage. 
Maybe Schaeffer's lying to him, | don't know. We need to handle this 
on two fronts. You need to break the story about the Judge—Wesley 
Kellogg, | mean. Maybe if they've got no-one to step into the top job 
the Insurgency will put the plan on hold. | need to get to the 
Foundation and tell them about this." 


"You mean split up?" Sam sounded skeptical. "Can't we just go to 
the police? Or the army?" 


"A good idea, under normal conditions. Unfortunately the most 
powerful man at the MoD after the Defence Secretary is part of the 


plan. And | don't think the police would consider secret camps in 
Greenland part of their jurisdiction. Even if they were inclined to 
believe it they'd just refer us to Amnesty International. Unfortunately, 
the one group of people | can think of who would take this seriously 
and who have the resources to shut this whole thing down for good 
are the Foundation. And | don't want you getting mixed up with 
them." 


Sam sat for a moment, considering. "Right," she said. "Drop me off 
somewhere with an internet café. | can type the story up and send it 
in by webmail." 


"Are you sure you hadn't better take the car? I'm pretty sure you 
won't be getting it back where I'm going." 


"No, | figure my chances are better NOT driving the car being 
tracked by some kind of shadowy cabal with access to supernatural 
WMDs. If this gets printed, | figure | might be able to afford a better 
car anyway." 


"Just remember to check the oil levels once in a while, okay?" 


Sam chuckled. "Once the story gets to my editor I'll ring around 
everyone from my Journalism MA. | know people who got jobs at the 
Mirror, the Metro, the London Evening Standard... then we'll show 
Malcolm Urquhart what a press pack looks like." 


"You're going to ambush him? Are you sure that's a good idea?" 


"| honestly don't know. But he can't do what he did in front of half the 
local newspapers in London and still hope to keep it secret, can 
he?" 


They made good time along the M8, the engine purring along with 
no trace of the former unevenness. "You're pretty good," Sam said 
sleepily, presumably in reference to his tune-up, before falling silent. 


He pulled off at Exit 4 and rolled through Blackwater until he found 
an internet café and pulled up outside. He looked over at Sam, head 
turned towards him, eyes closed. She was breathing softly as she 


slept and her small breasts rose and fell beneath her shirt. Without 
knowing what prompted it he leaned in, pressed his lips to hers. Her 
eyes opened, suddenly, wide, terrified. She shoved him away wildly, 
scrabbling for her handbag. 


"What the hell are you—doing? What was that? What the hell was 
that?!" 


Keagan found himself at a loss. "I don't know. | can't—” he felt a 
familiar prickling in his eyes and looked away, fixing his gaze on the 
Halifax branch across the street. "| don't know why | just did that." 


Sam looked around, clutching her bag to her. "An internet café. 
Great. I'll get to work. You just get on, go wherever the hell it is 
you're going.” 


"Sam, I'm really sorry." 


"| don't know you. At all. | know you say we met before, but 
according to you that was like, once when you were convicted of 
murder, then once again in prison, when | was looking for 
information on the Foundation. Did | ever give you even the slightest 
suggestion—oh, forget it. Just forget it." She opened the door. 


"I'm sorry." 


"I'm—not sure | want you to contact me again. Thanks for the 
information. Keep the car." Sam closed the door and walked quickly 
over the pavement into the café, leaving Keagan slumped over the 
wheel. How do you manage it?, the little voice said. How do you 
manage to fuck things up so thoroughly, so quickly? Were you 
always like this, or is this just how | imagin- Shut up, he thought. No, 
said the voice. You're going to have to deal with me sooner rather 
than later. But not now, he thought firmly, and started the car. 


Keagan left the yellow Polo in a lay-by on the B3098. He left the 
keys in the dashboard, then, on further reflection, locked the door 
before swinging it shut. With any luck it would be discovered in a few 
days and returned to Sam. He set off along the hiking trail past 
Tottenham Wood, and quickly emerged onto the vast, supernaturally 


empty steppe of Salisbury Plain, a void at the heart of England. Just 
hundreds of square miles of rolling, uncultivated wilderness and the 
occasional grey copse clinging to the chalky hillsides. As he 
continued to walk, the track wore away to a mere suggestion of 
boot-worn soil, hemmed in by nettles and wild poppies. This vestige 
of a public pathway veered off around a chest-high fence of 
horizontally-strung wire; a sign on the gate read ‘Military Firing 
Range—Keep Out’. I'm going the right way then, Keagan thought, 
tentatively prodding the fence with the toe of his boot in case it was 
electrified. 


Having satisfied himself it was not, he put his boot on the lowest 
wire and stepped up to the next. He got as far as standing on the 
second highest wire before he overbalanced, caught his boot on the 
top wire, snatched at it with his frostbitten left hand, which refused to 
close on it, and fell heavily down the other side. He arose quickly, 
spitting dirt and brushing away little stones which had become 
affixed to his flesh. He looked around but could see no-one who 
might have witnessed his trespass, other than a few distant cars 
back up on the road, and set off again. He had driven through the 
night, and now the autumn sun shone on foliage not yet orange and 
yellow, and he reflected that had he not been trying to turn himself in 
to the forces of a vast and occult conspiracy, and were his knee and 
shoulder not painfully bruised from his botched entry into a military- 
restricted area, he might enjoy the stroll. 


He had made an effort at reconstructing the journey in his head and 
had a pretty good idea that the abandoned town he had seen 
around the Sector-25 facility was somewhere near Imber, the town 
he remembered had been handed over to the Americans during 
World War Two. Possibly it was even Par Hinton, a hamlet which he 
had seen mentioned several times in connection with Imber but 
which appeared on no maps of the area. He would be coming at it 
from a different direction—over, he recognised with some chagrin, a 
British Army training area -but felt confident he could at the very 
least show up at the front door and ask to be let in. If, as seemed 
likely, he was told to get lost he could rattle off a list of personnel he 
remembered working at the facility, which should at the least earn 
him an interrogation. 


A couple of shadows cast from behind him merged with his own. He 
turned, caught a glimpse of camo clothing, and prepared his story 
about his dirt bike having broken down, hence the grime and 
scraped-up hands and face. In the event, he didn't have time—a pair 
of pistols were produced and pressed into his shoulderblades. 
Keagan's knowledge of military procurement was shaky at best, but 
was fairly sure the Makarov PM was not the preferred sidearm of the 
British military establishment. 


"Told you it was him," one of the men said. Then to Keagan. "We're 
with the Foundation. You need to come with us." 


"That's fine," Keagan said. "Look, | need to talk to someone like Dr 
Skinner. For the last three months I've been working with the Chaos 
Insurgency. They're going to wake up a giant snake under 
Greenland and launch a coup in Britain. You guys are the people 
whose job it is to stop this stuff, right?" 


The subsequent baffled silence from behind him told him something 
was wrong—as if he shouldn't have already been tipped off by the 
fact that what they were aiming at his back looked to be Russian or 
Estonian military surplus. 


"What the heck are you going on about, traitor?" one of them said. 
"We were told you'd try and get back to the reactionaries and give 
them classified information. We got emailed a photo of you by the 
SE Corps yesterday. You'll have to accompany us back to the 
listening post." 


Wrong Foundation, Keagan thought. Just my luck. 


The two men pivoted around him, forced him to turn around and 
began marching him back up the road. 


"Right here," said the other man, pushing him with the muzzle of the 
gun towards what looked for all the world like a cluster of large gorse 
bushes. "Go in." 


"Erm, is it too late to tell you about my dirt bike?" Keagan asked 
before he was forcibly shoved through a narrow gap between the 
prickly bushes. To his surprise, as he nursed his scratches he 


realised the interior of the copse had been cleared out and replaced 
by a large tent with tables, chairs, and two sleeping bags. There was 
a dull olive radio set on the table together with a number of 
disposable mobiles and a large telescope stood on a tripod at the far 
corner, facing the direction from which they had returned. A hole in 
the tent wall had been made for it and the edges subsequently 
sealed with duct tape, presumably so the telescope could be slid 
through the wall of the tent and out through the gorse bushes. The 
two men who had abducted him entered slightly more gingerly, 
pushing away the thorns. 


"We'll have to trim the fucking things back, I'm getting scratched to 
buggery every time | come in," one of the men complained. He 
looked around. "And the thorns are coming in through the walls." 


The other nodded to a pair of hand-shears at the side. "Be my 
guest. I'm certainly not gonna be the one who blows our cover by 
having neatly cut branches lying around or lugging a load of garden 
waste over the Training Estate." 


"It's a hunting blind," Keagan realised. "You're spying on the 
Foundation. Can you really see the facility through that thing?" He 
moved towards the telescope but stopped when the men gestured at 
him with the Makarovs. 


"Well enough," the first man said, grabbing a bottle of 7-Up from the 
floor and gulping at it. "Now, the question is, what do we do with 
you? You must have epically pissed off someone for the SEC to 
send out a general alert like this." He covered Keagan with his pistol 
while the other man fished out a pair of plastic garden ties and 
bound Keagan's hands behind his back before sitting him down in 
one of the chairs. Keagan wasn't sure, but he thought it hadn't quite 
clicked over the last notch, which meant he might have a little more 
freedom than they intended, but didn't want to try it out just yet in 
case they heard it clicking back onto the previous notch. 


"Do we think it would be such a big deal if we just killed him here?" 


"Oh yes," said the other one sarcastically. "By all means let's just 
shoot him inside our supposedly undetectable listening post on a 
day when there aren't any army exercises scheduled. I'm sure 


absolutely no-one will hear or think it odd that a gunshot came from 
inside a fucking gorse bush." 


"| didn't mean shoot him. We could just strangle him..." 


"And then what? Keep him here for the next few months as he 
putrefies?" 


"| was more thinking we smuggle him out at night, dump him on the 
roadside." 


Keagan decided it was probably best to forestall this conversation 
before it got to the implementation stage. "Do you know what Sir 
Malcolm's doing? He's not going to just get the UK government to 
recognise the Insurgency, he's going to seize power himself. 
Commodore Schaeffer is in Greenland right now, trying to wake up 
some gigantic fucking monster to cause massive chaos and justify a 
‘government of national unity’, whatever that is. They're not going to 
cover it up. What use do you think Sir Malcolm's going to have for 
you once he's Prime Minister?" 


"Yeah, we're completely inclined to trust what you say. You're a 
reactionary mole. I'm amazed you managed to take anybody in." 


"Did they tell you | was D-Class?" He watched their reactions—a hit 
there, he felt. "I'm not going back to the Foundation for the hell of it. 

Why don't you ask your Overseers when Commodore Schaeffer last 
reported in? He's taking orders only from Sir Malcolm." 


The two men retreated to the other side of the tent and conferred 
quietly. When the first man spoke it was in a shakier tone. "Sir 
Malcolm's just Schaeffer's puppet. He's no-one important, just a 
useful tool in government. You really expect us to believe he's really 
pulling the strings?" 


Keagan grinned and shook his head. "You don't know, do you?" 
They seemed nonplussed by this, so he went on. "What Sir Malcolm 
is. He can alter reality, just by thinking about it. I've seen it myself. 
Now, one of your lot told me that your—faction, whatever you want 
to call it—is for using supernatural things for the greater good. But 
I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to be helping them stage a 


coup.” 


More whispering. Keagan caught snippets as their voices rose. "just 
kill him now, it's treason to go against...", "no, it's treason not to look 
into...", "first fucking time we get any kind of support from 
government...", "Sir Malcolm doesn't have a title in the Foundation. 
If he's a Bixby...". Eventually they seemed to arrive ata 


compromise.