Hayakawa closed the blinds and turned off the fluorescent lights. A 
hazy afternoon sun crept across his labcoat and his sofa, filtered by 
the blinds into razor-sharp lines of brightness cutting the cool 
darkness of his fifteenth-floor workspace. He took off his wire rim 
glasses and rubbed his eyes, grateful for the momentary reprieve 
from Site-17's daily business but dreading what he had to do next. 


His late afternoon naps had become the stuff of legend among 
researchers. Experienced staff knew that anything requiring 
immediate attention had to be submitted to Dr. Hayakawa before 
1600 hours, or they were liable to wait for an answer until the next 
morning. Once, the deputy security chief had even waited to relay a 
Euclid-level containment breach until 1730 for fear of disturbing the 
boss' "siesta". This custom was a useful illusion to Hayakawa, 
however much the reputation that it bestowed irritated him. So much 
of the appearances of Site-17 and its functions bothered him, even if 
Overwatch Command knew the true state of affairs. Hayakawa was 
a practical man, but not without his vanity, and the idea of appearing 
to condone free interaction between staff and an SCP was an 
undercurrent of discontent beneath his placid exterior. Nevertheless, 
the game must be played. The stakes were high indeed. 


The kettle started to whistle. Hayakawa unlocked a desk drawer and 
retrieved a small envelope of green herbs and a small plastic bag 
containing three pills. He emptied the herbs into a small white cup 
and poured some of the now-boiling water. He locked the drawer 
again and waited for the herbs to steep. 


He didn't know why the girl troubled him. In his three decades of 
service time, Hayakawa had seen impossible things do other 


Ramesh: So, if the brain is a computer, maybe 
you can program it like one. That's pretty much 
what language is, if you think about it. You 
teach people through, like, writing and 
speaking and feed them knowledge and that 
sort of thing. And you feed people information 
through speaking and writing and they process 
it automatically. So | was thinking about that 
one day, and | was wondering, the brain is like 
a computer right? So maybe you could create 
a brain virus. Uh, | mean, a computer virus. 
For like the brain. Not like, a real virus like, uh, 
Ebola or something. Something that when you 
hear it, you automatically process it and start 
replicating it. 


Dr. Pichai: | see. That sounds a lot like a 
meme. 


Ramesh: Yeah, actually! Something like, uh, 
‘Keep Calm and Carry On’. Well, actually, 
that's a bad example. Something like... 
hmm... 


Dr. Pichai: Don't worry. | know what you 
mean. But those kinds of memes are just 
things that are easy to remember or fun to 
parrot. [EXPLETIVE REDACTED] doesn't just 
do that, it actively hijacks the brain. Making 
people only use it as a swear even if they try to 
say something else. How did you accomplish 
that? 


Ramesh: Language is the key thing, right? 
When you hear a new word, you have to 
remember what it means. The word is 
meaningless by itself - you also need to know 
the meaning or the context of the word for it to 
do anything. But once you know the meaning, 
the brain automatically processes that word to 
have that meaning in the future. So the trick is 


impossible things to innocent people on many occasions. As an 
Agent, he had ended many lives in the service of the Foundation. 
Some were those who had once been friends. He had overseen 
experiments and authorized containment protocols that would have 
had him standing before a tribunal in the Hague if the world knew. 
The girl suffered in containment, but she was hardly alone in that. 
Few went to the lengths that she did, though. 


He shook the three pills from the plastic bag into his hand. He 
tossed them into his mouth, and washed them down with the entirety 
of the white cup's contents. 


Hayakawa lay on his sofa. Under his breath, he began to recite the 
mantra. 


"Let go to get in." 


He began to focus on his breathing, slowing it down and keeping it 
steady. 


"Let go to get in." 


Repeated practice and intense discipline allowed him to navigate the 
drugs. No one really knew if 343 could read minds or not. Hayakawa 
could not take the chance. He closed his eyes and imagined 
nothing. 


"Let go to get in." 


He felt himself floating. He forced his mind back down and calmly 
repeated his mantra, the words losing all meaning and taking all 
thought with them. Something deep in his gut clicked. The 
Foundation manual called this part the "self locking into place,” but 
to Hayakawa it felt more like the self dissipating away into the air. 
Either way, he was now ready. 


He opened his eyes. The edges of his desk shimmered, and the 
corners throbbed with color where the walls met. Slowly, 
deliberately, he rose from the sofa. A low, echoing hum was now 
coming from the ceiling vent over his head. The Advanced Security 
Protocols liaison had once told him that this particular regimen of 


drugs made the mind impenetrable to those with extra-sensory 
capabilities, and that in over 1200 attempts in controlled conditions, 
not once had a test subject's thoughts been breached. Then as now, 
the "controlled conditions" caveat troubled Hayakawa. The last word 
he would use to describe what they faced was "controlled." 


A quick check with the detector confirmed that the room was free of 
unauthorized electronics. Hayakawa snapped open his briefcase 
and took out a black laptop. As he started it up, he was greeted in 
turn by the usual retinal scan, thumbprint authorization and voice 
confirmation. The communication link was established, and he now 
addressed a video feed of an elderly man, his tailored black suit a 
stark contrast to his shock of gray hair. 


"Things are coming to a head over here, O5-7." 


The old man's left eyebrow raised slightly. "| had gathered such from 
your request this morning for Lambda-19's presence at Site-17. 
What's new on the ground?" 


Hayakawa took a breath. The drugs made high-pressure situations 
especially tricky. "I've gotten confirmation that 343 finally made 
contact with a skip. My source says the encounter took place 
yesterday afternoon, with 105. She's currently being held in the sick 
bay, in a coma." 


O5-7's features darkened. "That certainly is new. Did 343 put her in 
the coma?" 


"No, one of 105's suicide attempts went even further than usual. The 
chatter on the security networks is that 343 has been telling staff 
that they had a visit while she was passed out from an intentional 
overdose.” 


The Overseer sighed. "We're in a sorry position indeed when we're 
relying on an anomalous item's arrogance for intelligence gathering. 
Though | think it's generally a safe calculation when dealing with a 
spacetime distorter pretending to be God." He ran his hand through 
his hair and continued. "What are the implications?" 


Hayakawa took three breaths this time. "Somehow, 105 has induced 


some change in herself allowing her to become perceptible, and by 
extension manipulatable, by 343. We don't know to what extent 343 
maintains contact with 105, but we have to assume that 343 knows 
what 105 can do. And if he knows that-" 


"All hell breaks loose. What's your plan?" 


"Our hand's been forced. We don't know what 343's combat 
potential is. We can't even model it for fear of tipping him off. But the 
risk for a mass containment failure is too great now. We have to act. 
Lambda-19 has experience with reality benders, and I've drafted 
about 34 combat scenarios involving the most likely objects to go if 
343 wants to make trouble. Not that any of them are going to matter 
once they engage." 


"And if Lambda-19 cannot neutralize 343?" 


Hayakawa struggled to preserve his state of mental equlibrium. 
05-7, no stranger to Advanced Security Protocols, patiently waited. 


Hayakawa massaged his temples. "...then it's the failsafe." 


O5-7 shook his head. "We always knew that was a possibility when 
that thing showed up there in the first place. But it was one | never 
liked thinking about. And you're prepared to do that?" 


"I'd better be. Request permission for deployment of Lambda-19 to 
the clandestine staging point, arrival at O600 on the 14th. We move 
at the first sign of trouble." 


"Permission granted. This problem is going to be solved one way or 
the other, John. Good luck." 


The video feed ended abruptly. Hayakawa closed the laptop. 
Possible outcomes raced through his mind. None of them were 
good. Even the not-so-bad outcomes relied on the element of 
surprise. And he was not certain at all that it was possible to surprise 
343. 


As he sat back on the sofa and waited for the drugs to wear off, he 
started to smile despite himself. Maybe there were positive 
outcomes. He would soon be free of an uncontainable skip whose 


very existence had troubled him since he came to Site-17. And it 
was quite likely in the soon-to-be-ensuing chaos that 105 would get 
what she wanted after all. 


One way or the other. 


« Strangers of Site-17: 343 


Strangers of Site-17: 343 


She awoke in a plush, high backed chair, facing a delicately-carved 
marble fireplace containing a layer of glowing embers. As her eyes 
adjusted to the dim light in the room, she noticed ornate mahogany 
wood paneling on the walls, and a grand piano in the far corner 
behind her. Bookcases lined the opposite wall, and she noticed a 
finely-wrought crystal chandelier hanging over her head. Thompson 
uncomprehendingly took in her elegant surroundings, putting her 
hands to her face as if to reassure herself she still existed. She 
noticed an empty chair next to hers, facing the fire as well. As she 
looked back at the fireplace, she noticed a bust of Apollo, oriented to 
face her, its pupilless eyes communicating no feeling or purpose that 
she recognized. Thompson stirred herself and moved to take a 
closer look at the statue. 


"Please, there's no need to get up just yet. Can | interest you in 
refreshments?" 


Thompson started at the voice behind her. As she turned, she saw 
an older, heavyset man, with a mop of gray hair and a bushy white 
beard. His face expressed kindness and knowing, though not 
without a hint of mischief. He wore an orange jumpsuit much the 
same as hers; the customary ID number, stenciled over the heart, 
read SCP-343. In his hand was the largest hamburger she had ever 
seen. 


She searched for words. "Is this...am I..." 


The old man took a large bite from his hamburger. "Why yes, you 
are indeed thirsty. Please, help yourself to some mineral water from 
the side table next to you," he said while chewing. 


Thompson looked to her left, and saw a pitcher of water and a glass. 
Why not? She poured herself a glass, and realized that she was 
indeed parched. After draining her glass and refilling it, she turned 
back to the man, who was now sitting in the chair beside her. 


"Are...you?" 


The man genteely dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a silk 
handkerchief, all traces of the hamburger vanished. "Jones in 
Accounting asked me if | had ever had a burger from Dale's in 
Schenectady. It's not often that someone can recommend a new 
place to me, I've been around. Ever since, | can't get enough of 
these things. I'll have to send him a Christmas card." 


He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. He turned to look 
at Thompson and smiled. "If | said that | was who you're implying | 
am, would you believe me?" 


Thompson thought for a moment. "I don't think so." 


The old man laughed. "Well, you're one up on most of the guys in 
here. You do look a little old to be believing in Santa." 


She leaned back in her chair. "Something's not right. I'm in here, but 
| get the feeling I'm still in Site-17. SCP-343. What should | call 
you?" 


The old man winked. "How about Dale today. | have a lot of respect 
for his work." 


"Okay, Dale. | don't think I'm dead. | can't be. But I'm not exactly 
‘here’, either." 


"Right you are, Iris." 
Thompson paused. "You know who | am, then." 


The old man looked into the fireplace. "In a way, yes, | do. I've heard 
of you. And I've heard a lot about you. But until today you've been a 
stranger. Right now, at this moment, you are unconscious, 
temporarily removed from your typical position and lying in a heap 
on the floor of Cell 58 in Corridor Twelve. In 4 minutes and 28 
seconds, Security Technician Reinhardt will notice that something's 
not right, and an emergency team will be dispatched. You are also, 
presently, in Cell 21 in Corridor Five. It's a pleasure to finally make 
your acquaintance, Iris." 


She looked at the old man. "...you're that guy that the guards talk 
about. The one everyone wants to go visit. If you're him, | can't 
understand why you didn't just pop me into your cell to talk to me 
earlier." 


Dale scratched his beard. "It's not quite as simple as that. | perceive 
many things, Iris. What appears to the staff here as parlor tricks and 
miracles is merely movement in other forms." 


Thompson poured another glass of water. "What, like other 
dimensions?" 


Dale pulled a slightly sour-looking face. "If you must, | suppose. | 
dislike that term, it makes me sound like a horrible Flash Gordon 
villain. But yes, | move in worlds stacked on top of this one. As do 
you, though you don't know that yet." 


The old man continued. "But, for all of my artifice, all of my ability, | 
am surrounded here by things for which | have no account. This 
chamber of horrors, this grubby little bunker that would crack the 
sanity of most by means of an afternoon tour, to me, it's a ghost 
town. Every containment unit, every storage locker, every cell an 
empty space. All of them. Every single item in containment here is a 
blank to me. It's fascinating.” 


Thompson considered Dale carefully. "What you were saying earlier. 
What don't | know yet?" 


The old man leaned closer. "You poor girl. Many things. We have 
three minutes and twelve seconds remaining, so | shall be brief.” 


Dale stood up and started ambling towards the piano. "The good 
news," he said, theatrically pointing a finger skywards, "is that you 
are no mere curiosity with a penchant for photography. That parlor 
trick is just that. A trick." Dale turned back towards Thompson. 
"Have you ever considered that looking at pictures was simply a 
focal point, a way to wrap your mind around something that, in your 
world, should not be?" 


She opened her mouth to answer. 


"No, surely not," Dale continued. "You are something far more 
otherworldly and dangerous than they suspect. The potential you 
have to wreak changes on the realms around you is far in excess of 
what could be expected by man or god. However!" The old man 
assumed a position behind Thompson's chair, peering at her from 
around the side. 


"However," said Dale, in a subdued, yet dramatically inflected voice, 
"your mind, or what will become of your mind, or what's left of it, is 
ill-suited to such circumstances. Whatever fills this wonderful little 
facility with invisible treasures seems to have seen fit to play a 
particularly complex joke on you. Whatever you started out as, you 
are far less human than they suspect. Than you yourself suspect." 


Through the improbability and absurdity of the moment, Thompson 
felt her face turn red; her hands balled up into fists. "That's not what 
it's like." She looked away. "Everyone here ‘suspects’ alright. 
Everyone suspects, but I'm the only one who really knows. The only 
one who knows, but none of you ever ask me. No, they'd rather run 
their tests, write their reports and then go home like it doesn't 
matter."