"Okay, that was harsh. Sorry. Look. We collect this information 
because if we don't, we'll get caught off guard when things happen. 
And | think you'll agree that things are happening." 


"Besides what happened to me?" 


Troy leaned in and lowered his voice. "Look. There have been... 
incidents. Like yours. Absence of motive, planning, coordination. 
Perpetrator dies immediately after. Someone's getting people to 
take the fall for their dirty work. Look here." 


He stood up straight again, and started rummaging through a file 
drawer. He pulled out a plain white file folder, and dropped it in front 
of Casey. He gently picked it up, thumbing through it. Proprietors of 
coffee shops. Artists. Performers. Politicians. Police. All murdered 
by people who worked near them. Closed cases, all of them. 


Casey settled on the last image, a forensic photograph of a man 


spread-eagle on the floor of his study, his head clearly having been 
pummeled by a blunt object. 


Troy looked over his shoulder. "Thoughts?" 
"Uh... | doubt it. | mean, look at the state of his-" 
"| meant your thoughts." 

"Oh. | think he's dead." 


Troy sighed. "Yes. And the person who killed him had as little 
control as you did." 


"How do you know?" 


"Well," Troy managed to smile to himself, even now, "the funny thing 
about complex data analysis is that it's more of an art thana 
science. Oneiroi is hardly the only corporation capable of applying it 
to meatspace. You'd be surprised what you can do with moxie anda 
sufficiently advanced supercomputer.” 


He continued, "Whoever did this wanted to appear unpredictable, 
which is totally predictable for a conspiracy. You pump enough 
background data into a machine, and you can have a list of the most 
expected places for crime to happen. Then you wait at the ones 
where it's least likely to happen. Those are the expectedly 
unexpected locations." 


Casey furrowed his brow. "You just bet | was going to... kill 
someone in Iris Arts today?" 


"Not necessarily you. But someone.” 
"Then what am | doing here?" 


"See, you, you are different from the others. You didn't kill yourself. 
Because you didn't take the murder weapon with you." 


"Wait, they... killed themselves... here?" 


"Oh, god, no. They didn't make it nearly this far." 


Casey gulped. 


Troy only doubled down on his cheer. "But, look. You're here now. 
Whatever meme, hazard, whatever, is in your brain, we can study it. 
We can fix it. | can take you to the bunker, Earthside. We have some 
of the best memeticists in the business. And trust me, if things keep 
going how they're going, you'll be glad to be out of here." 


Casey flinched. "No, |... | can't just get up and leave. | have people 
here." 


Troy's smile faltered. "I.. understand that, but you're caught between 
a rock and a hard place here. You stay, at best, you won't make any 
difference. At worst, well... once the word gets out, the authorities 
aren't going to take you on your word that you didn't mean to murder 
your boss." 


Casey squeezed his eyes shut. His head was pounding. "I can't. I'm 
sorry." 


Troy sighed bitterly. "| guess | have to try again. Do you think | was 
close to convincing you? Or should | try a different tactic?" 


Troy was turning around, but he had something in his hand... an 
aerosol can. Every soul in Three Portlands knew what that meant: 
amnestics. 


Troy clicked his tongue. "I suppose I'll play it by ear. Always have 
time." He undid the safety clasp on the aerosol can, and began to 
turn back around to face Casey— 


—but something knocked into him from behind, nearly pushing him 
over. A round metal object pressed into the small of his back. He 
inhaled sharply. 


Casey enunciated slowly. "I didn't leave the weapon behind. Hands 
behind your head." 


Troy gritted his teeth, complying. Casey pulled the can from his 
grasp. 


"You know this can't work, right? What do you think the chances are 


that the bug in your head wants you to do this? To go back into 
public so you can self-destruct?" 


Casey didn't respond. 


"What are the chances that you're not even you right now? That you 
wouldn't even attempt this if not for that thing worming around in 
your brain?" 


"Wait..." Casey started. "Your computer didn't tell you about that?" 


Troy started to laugh. He laughed until he ran out of breath. When 
he breathed again, it was just amnestic gas. 


Troy's body collapsed, limp. 


Casey dropped the stapler he was holding. And then the newly- 
empty can of amnestics. 


He dropped to kneel next to the downed man, listening carefully for 
a moment. He was still breathing. 


Casey held his own head in his hands for a moment. Out of the 
corner of his eye he could see the files on his desk, all the hard data 
the Chaos Insurgency had on what was going on in Three Portlands. 
He grabbed the file, and made his way to the outside. 


It was dark out. How long had he been in there? 


At least, if he was on this side of the city, he couldn't be too far from 
a certain sort of shelter. So he started walking. 


Casey stood on the steps of a building, built like a courthouse, on 
the outskirts of Three Portlands. Ornate pillars surrounded the 
home, almost enveloping the front door entirely. Through the 
darkness, he could still make out the bronze nameplate over the 
door, which read "E. Rowe". 


The home of his partner's father was perhaps not the best safe 
haven. But it was the best option Casey had. 


Hands shaking, he pressed the doorbell, and waited. 


On the slick linoleum floor of the Headquarters of the Three 
Portlands Cell of the Chaos Insurgency, Agent Troy was jarred to 
consciousness by the tune of Come On Eileen. 


He shot up to a sitting position, coughing up air tasting of battery 
acid and lemon. He had no idea how he got here, or what he had 
been doing for at least the last few hours. 


As he blinked his eyes open, he saw the forgotten backpack and 
ringing phone of an unknown person who clearly appreciated 80's 
classics. Lying haphazardly in the corner of the room, he saw an 
empty can of amnestics. 


"Shit." 


On the other side of Three Portlands, a woman in a pantsuit closed 
her flip-phone, her call having received no response. 


Minutes earlier, she had been in the parking lot of a Chipotle 
Mexican Grill in Portland, Oregon. Now, she was wreathed in 
unfamiliar scents, dazed by the winding streets and flashing strobe 
lights of a city that didn't seem possible. 


She put away her phone, and instead fished out her wallet, for the 
picture she had of her target. The easy way had failed, but she had 
become accustomed to doing things the hard way anyhow. 


Vera Garcia cracked her knuckles. Time to get to work. 


« A Confluence of Clandestine Conferences | Hub | Automatic 
Stop » 


Automatic Stop 


« Slow Animals || 


The parking lot of the Chipotle Mexican Grill was false, and held 
many secrets. 


Once Vera Garcia had reported to Taco Bell and found a false 
bottom in her bag of one Burrito Supreme and one Crispy Chicken 
Quesadilla, she knew that her plan had been approved by the 
Rotisserie Outfitters Bureau. 


Inside the secret compartment, she found three objects of note. 


1. A picture of a young man with cropped black hair, tan skin, 
and a strained smile. He was wearing button-down shirt. Vera 
supposed it was likely taken for some official purpose, 
perhaps an ID card. On the back of the photograph, a phone 
number was written in blue sharpie. Beneath that a name: 
Casey Malik. 

2. Asmall object shaped like a pocket pistol but with a wide, flat 
barrel. Where the hammer would typically be there was an 
LED light. Brief experimentation showed that the LED flashed 
when the gun was pointed a specific direction. A compass, of 
a sort. 

3. A note. It informed her that her subsequent actions would be 
of the utmost importance, and that she would be alone. It was 
reassuring. 


Once she had enjoyed her meal, she made haste across the street, 
past the Chipotle and into its parking lot. The gun in her hands made 
a pleasant buzz as she waved it about in the dark. The pulse of its 
light intensified when she brought it to face the back of the lot — a 
thin strip of trees and bushes separating the concrete from rows of 
compact housing. 


She closed the distance, eyes alert for threats. As she stepped 
carefully over the curb and into the grass, the gun chirped. A small 
blue button had appeared just above her thumb, on the side of the 
grip. She took one more look around before she pressed it and the 
ground beneath her vanished. 


She didn't have time to grab anything for support. She was falling 
now through a tube, or a tunnel — surrounded by a substance like 
vinyl that pressed up against her uncomfortably, but with enough 
friction to keep her speed low. 


Seconds later the constriction gave way. She braced for impact, 
landing feet-first on a hard brick surface. 


For such a long fall, this didn't look like it was underground. The sky 
was a dark, deep blue, and her surroundings were lit by strings of 
lights supported by the air itself, weaving about in the sky. She was 
in a town square, nearly empty, and in each direction she could see 
roads travelling out, flanked by buildings in eclectic styles, a mosaic 
of vibrant shades. 


She could hardly believe her eyes, but she'd have time for disbelief 
later. For now, she had a job to do. 


An ancient necromancer in a bathrobe stood on the threshold of his 
front door. 


In front of him was his son's boyfriend, wearing scuffed slacks anda 
wrinkled button-down shirt spattered with some dark spots. He was 
carrying a file folder under his arm. 


"Hi, Mr. Rowe!" 

Eustace Rowe squinted. "Adam's not here." 

Casey shook his head, "Oh, no, I'm not... can | come in?" 

"To hide from the police? Or to clean the blood off your clothes?" 


"...how did you know that I—" 


"It's called 'the news.’ And 'the police’ who showed up at my door 
asking about you, Casey." 


"...what did you tell them?" 

"That | didn't know where you were. Which is true." 
"Oh. So, can |..." 

Eustace sighed. "Yes. Get in here." 


Casey muttered repeated thanks as he slid into the entryway. He 
could see the dimly-lit hallway proceed into the house, flanked by 
stairs into darkness and leading to a shady kitchen. Behind him, 
Eustace shut and locked the door. "Move," he muttered. Casey 
shuffled out of the way and down the hall. 


The kitchen was clearly in use recently, arrayed with what was either 
a very exotic dinner or a terrifying arrangement of viscera. It smelled 
of formaldehyde, and Casey's nose wrinkled. "Sorry about the 
mess," Eustace grunted, "wasn't expecting to be... interrupted." He 
motioned to a chair, situated at a dinky dining table prepared for 
four. 


Casey sat down, his legs silently thanking him for the relief, and set 
the stolen file on the tabletop. "Right. Sorry. Thank you." 


The elder stayed standing, leaning back on the kitchen counter. He 
was silent for a moment, surveying Casey's ragged figure. "...You 
need to get cleaned up. Quickly." 


"Oh. Why?" 


"Because a child wearing a magician costume could track down 
your thaumic imprint, and Adam would be upset with me if you died 
in my house." 


Casey nodded slowly. "Right. That makes sense." 
"And then you'll get out of my house." 


"What? They'll find me. You just said you couldn't let me die." 


"In my house. You're the one who killed a man. Far as | can tell, I'm 
being perfectly charitable by not turning you in right now." 


"No, it... it wasn't like that. | didn't have control over my actions. 
There's a... memetic worm. Or something." 


"Ah, the mind control defense. That'll make your trial more 
interesting, at least until the Mayor decides to execute you by soul 
amputation." 


"Look, I... can you at least help me contact Adam?" 


Eustace sighed. And then he sighed again. "Fine." He turned walked 
out of the kitchen, vanishing into the darkness of the hallway 
beyond. 


Casey fidgeted in place for a moment. And then Eustace returned, 
bringing a large, blocky phone with what seemed to be an over- 
sized tape recorder attached to it. He sighed once more, for good 
measure, and began entering some code into a number pad on its 
front. 


"From last | checked, Adam should be in Backdoor SoHo. Got some 
shitty medium gig." 


"So, uh... how can we even call him, between enclaves?" 


"A good question. This looks like a phone, but it's actually a psionic 
link to a carrier pigeon selectively bred to survive in the void 

between universes. It flies through the Outside, the formless space 
relentlessly crushing it as it carries messages at the speed of light." 


"Oh. Really?" 
"No." 


He finished whatever calibration he was doing, and a droning beep 
began to play. Eustace held it to his head, and the droning stopped. 
"Wake up, Adam. Your boyfriend killed a man." 


Casey's eyes went wide. 


Eustace covered the receiving end of the phone while confused 
protestations spilled out of the speaker. "Don't have the time or the 
patience to coddle here. Better to just rip the band-aid off." In this 
metaphor, Casey assumed, the band-aid was his relationship. 


"Just. Give it to me." Casey stood up and reached out for it, and 
Eustace reluctantly handed it over. 


He held it up to the side of his head and tried to sound as calm as 
possible. "Honey?" 


The speaker crackled, and a tinny facsimile of Adam's voice spilled 
out. "Casey? What's going on? Are you okay?" 


"Yeah, I'm... fine. Things have gone a bit lopsided." 
"I can tell. What happened?" 


"It's... something infected me. Something memetic. It took control of 
me. Made me—" Casey's breath shortened as what he'd done hit 
him like a slap to the face. 


"Shh, shh. | understand. You don't need to talk about it right now. 
Look, I'll... I'll get to Portlands as soon as possible." 


"No, | don't think that's... the best idea. Whatever's happening, it's 
still going on. And it's probably not going to get better for a bit." 


"| can't let you do it alone. Look, my clients are a wash, and their 
dead relatives aren't going anywhere... | hope. | can pack up and—" 


"Please? Just... stay safe for now." Casey knew that Adam would 
only sit idly by for so long. Hopefully things would be safer by the 
time Adam foolishly rushed in. 


"Fine," Adam pouted. "But surely | can do something out here." 


Casey stopped to think for a moment. As he did, Eustace came up 
behind him with a device like a handheld metal detector and started 
waving it along Casey's arms. He guessed Eustace had taken the 
thaumic scrubbing into his own hands. 


Carter, and Dark Ltd., and installed in a subsidiary restaurant, in the 
“Members Only” section. The highly exclusive restaurant where it 
was located was called "The Cannibal's Banquet" and [DATA 
EXPUNGED] 


Excerpt from Supporting Document SCP-604-XCH Page 32 


As living foods were in great demand, Marshall, Carter, and Dark 
Ltd. owned many specialized cooking and zoological facilities. 
Kittens, puppies, and breeds of tiny monkeys were used for child 
tissue creation. When larger parts were desired, guillotines were 
situated directly over SCP-604, as most parts continue vital signs a 
few seconds after removal. Certain specimens were also raised from 
birth in special cages, causing their bones to grow in a certain way, 
and kept alive while crushed in specific outlines, and fed via feeding 
tubes so Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. could dictate exactly what 
size and shape the results would be. 


Addendum 02: See Log SCP-604-02 
Log SCP-604-02 


(a camera is pointing at a long table, in a dim, crowded 
room) 


(a waiter brings in a pig's head on a platter and then 
slides it onto SCP-604-04)