A shower could never make her feel clean. No matter how many 
times she washed, she could still feel those things crawling across 
her skin, could still see all the people she'd condemned to death. 
Eight was not a pretty woman. Despite being one of a handful of all- 
powerful Overseers, she'd never gotten any work done, no surgery 
to fix her sloped forehead, her craggy brow, no lap band to cut back 
on her weight. Somehow, despite having no appetite, she'd still 
gained weight. Even naked under the water, she still wore a braided 


ring of sinew on her left ring finger. 


She turned the water up hotter, trying to blast away the horrible 
memories, boil them off. The heat felt very nice. Until there was 
nothing but heat. She didn't even manage a scream when her flesh 
boiled away. In fact, she may have smiled, because the memories, 
at last, were gone. 


7 


"I'm sorry, driver, | don't think I've seen you before. What did you say 
your name was?" Seven asked absently, fiddling with the ivory 
chopstick in her hair. 


"Oh, it's Rodney. But most people call me Dr. Gerald." 


6 


He had been an Agent, once upon a time. When he worked the field, 
they called him Cowboy. People still remembered the agent, even if 
no one knew he was now the Overseer known as Six. He had been 
the best. 


And now, he was an old man. Dressed as always in an immaculate 
white suit, his long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, his trademark 
Stetson tilted at an angle on his head. Between his gnarled old 
hands he held a white cane, the handle carved into the shape of a 
howling wolf. At his back were his two trusted bodyguards, 
Thompson and Black. They were almost as good as him. One day, 
they'd be better. When they were, well, one of them could take his 
number, and he could retire. Maybe spend some time with his 
granddaughter. 


He didn't look back when Black got a text. He never knew that 05-4 
had once been Agent Black's personal physician. Or, if he had 
known, it wouldn't have mattered. He did, however, feel it when 
Black drew his guns. He began to turn, but, no, too slow. As he fell 
to the floor, he noticed Thompson falling beside him. But the hole in 


the back of his head prevented him from noticing any more. 


ro) 


"It's an emergency, sir! We have to get you out of here!" The 
security guard hurried O5-5 and his secretary into the nearest 
airlock, and slammed the door shut behind the three of them. The 
guard leaned against the door, panting. "Keter, sir. It sounds bad." 
The secretary sniffed, but then, she always had pneumonia, or some 
other sinus problem. 


O5-5 was nondescript. He dressed nice, but not well. His hair was... 
enh. His face was... blah. He didn't stand out. In fact, the only thing 
that was noticeable about him was the leather shoes. A nice, tanned 
leather. His secretary was an African-American woman, about 51 
years old, quiet, with a rather large nose. She had always been his 
emergency escape, even if she didn't know it. 


As the room proceeded to move upwards, the guard frowned, 
turning to look at the two of them. "Do either of you hear a hissing 
sound?" 


The gas was fast-acting, invisible, unscented. It poured out of 108's 
nose at a furious pace, killing them all as they rode to safety. 


3 


"Well hey guys, how are you today? It's fantastic to see you!" Three 
looked like a teenage boy, late teens, blond hair down to his collar, 
jean jacket filled with patches, geek-style glasses. O5-3 never let 
himself be seen in person, or, at least, not for many years. He 
always showed up on a monitor, broadcasting from a white room, a 
fancy desk and old-fashioned computer beside him. While he always 
had a prop or two at hand, it was never anything real. In fact, O5-3 
wasn't real. He'd died, decades ago, plugged into a prototype 
computer he'd invented. He just didn't go away. 


The Overseer council took a vote, and decided they didn't care. He 


was still their best coder. He could still do the job. So, they set his 
bone earring on the mainframe, installed some safety programs, and 
let him work. 


An electromagnetic pulse set off inside the hardware that carried 
him removed him from this world at last. 


2 


60 km west of Astrakhan, a garden was in bloom. O5-2 took great 
pride in her garden. Of course, she was cheating, a little. She didn't 
mind. Once you get old enough, you don't mind using a few cheat 
codes to get things done. Two was the type of woman you pictured 
when you heard the word 'Grandma.' She always had a blonde 
shawl on, no matter the weather, and usually a pair of gardening 
gloves. She had a fantastic gardening hat a friend had made for her, 
pushed down tightly on her grey curls. 


Her helper was an old friend, a man old well before his time, and 
maybe after it as well. He glanced up, a slight frown on his face, and 
pointed, looking uncomfortable. He wasn't used to this much 
attention on him. 


Two had the time to look up and smile at the Russian satellite that 
was screaming down through the sky at her. She could have moved. 
She could have run. She noticed the 'rogue' satellite too early, and 
she could have made it to the spring, saved herself. But she didn't. 


If anyone had been around to hear her last words, they might have 
been confused that what she chose to say was "It's about time." 


1 


And One. The first. Once upon a time, he had been known as the 
Administrator. All the power in the Foundation had been his. But he 
didn't trust himself. He knew that absolute power corrupts 
absolutely. So, he parceled off his power. Handed out badges of 
responsibility. Numbered them, and made sure they could balance 


each other. Set up a system, so that if one died, the authority, the 
votes, were passed to another, so the balance would never be 
uneven for long. 


And then he retreated from the world. Buried himself down deep, 
with only electronic means to keep him in touch with the outside. 
Which means that O5-1, still looking like a 13-year-old boy, still clad 
in the rags and bones that hadn't been used to mark the other 12, 
was completely alone. When his systems shut down, he didn't panic. 
When the liquid concrete began seeping out of the air vents, he 
didn't panic. He just lay down, and accepted it. After all, he'd been 
expecting it. 


4 


O5-4 stared at the screen before him, as the 13 lights shifted, back 
and forth, here and there. One dies a little ahead of another, so the 
vote goes to her, then she dies, so vote travels here... until, finally, 
at last, the votes were all his. The power was all his. The Foundation 
was all his. 


Dr. Everett Mann, the Administrator, allowed himself one 
appreciative cackle. Just one. No sense going all maniacal about it. 
Besides, he had so much work to do. His fingers flew across the 
keyboards, as he prepared to change everything. As he typed, he 
muttered to himself. 


"Good evening, Doctor. No, no, don't stand up..." 


Elder Baconator 


The word processor's cursor blinked accusingly at Tilda, goading 
her into finishing the report. 


It was always the same, dull story with directorship: it's lonely at the 
top, and it's lonely because you're sitting on a mountain of 
paperwork. Things took on a lot more gravity when the lives of 
everyone on site (and many other nameless, faceless people 
elsewhere) are affected by the stroke of a pen. Her pen. 


And yet it was still dull. Monotone, monochrome. Easy to forget what 
it meant, what you were doing. Vital that you always remembered. 


There were times when you didn't want to talk to anyone about it. 
No, not didn't want to. Couldn't. Isolation eventually wore down 
anyone, even if you were well-practiced with having few friends. Yet 
no matter what she wanted, there were things that only others who 
had previously occupied the Site-19 directorial office could 
understand, or even be told. 


As it happened, one of those people chose that moment to knock on 
her door. She smelled the cigarette smoke first, then looked up to 
see a greying man in his mid-50's standing in her doorway. 


"Dmitri, good afternoon." 


Dmitri Strelnikov looked at his watch. "It is six o'clock, Direktor." She 
could hear the "k". 


Tilda double checked the time on her computer monitor. "...Damn." 
She paused. "Also, cigarette, Dmitri." 


He nodded apologetically and unceremoniously flicked his cigarette 
into the hallway. Not the first time he'd done that. 


"Sorry. Smoking in this room is an old habit. Hey, you should try it. 


Might be good for you." Not the first time he'd said that. 


Dmitri settled into an armchair and looked around her office, both of 
which used to belong to him. "You should redecorate, too. The 
Brezhnev era does not suit you like it does me, Direktor." 


She gave a tired smile. "What can | do for you, Dmitri?" She 
hesitated for a moment. "And please, just Tilda." When he'd been on 
this side of the desk, he'd insisted the same thing. Call me Dmitri. 


"We had a shorter session today and | thought | would come see 
how you were doing. | say to myself, ‘Maybe she needs a cigarette 
and | am the only one with a spare." He smiled broadly. Tilda had 
never smoked. 


Shorter session. She wondered what they were having Dmitri do. He 
had recently been pulled out of retirement (perhaps more aptly 
described as self-imposed exile) and made a training officer of 
Alpha-9. Perhaps the training officer. 


She could ask. But that would require more paperwork, if the wrong 
people were tapping her office right now. 


Tilda was technically cleared for all of that, but the papers took a 
while to make their way to her desk, and even longer to climb the 
pile. She needed to delegate more of this, but delegation was its 
own paper mountain. 


He was expecting a response, about the cigarette. "It's very kind of 
you to offer. There is still time for me to pick up the habit." She 
motioned to her computer and the reams of paper on her desk. "You 
know how it goes, though." 


Dmitri ground his teeth, stainless steel glinting occasionally as he 
did so. A former Russian airborne infantryman, he had lost a few 
teeth during bad jumps and some hack Soviet dentist had replaced 
the missing ones with stainless steel facsimiles. "I tell you what. 
Leave that go." He waved dismissively at her desk. "I will take you to 
dinner. | know a nice place. Quiet, good food, no questions asked. 
They also serve Coca Cola." 


Might have sounded like a joke to someone else. But it appealed to 
Tilda. The cursor seemed to blink more aggressively. Don't you 
dare, it almost vocalized. Work is more important than food. 


Her work saved lives. Her work ended lives. 


Dmitri was waiting. Tilda looked at him again and nodded consent. 
The moment they left her office, he lit another cigarette. 


She couldn't decide between a Wendy's number 7 or number 8. It 
had been so long since she’d eaten out, even at a fast food 
restaurant, that she really couldn't decide. Something light, maybe? 
Nothing worse than working hard on a stomach that feels like it's full 
of bricks. A salad, perhaps? 


Dmitri approached the cashier. She looked very young, with an 
uncertain look about her. Tilda wondered if she was in college. For 
some reason, that thought aroused a sympathy that bordered on 


pity. 


"Welcome to Wendy's," the cashier said. "Would you like to try the 
Son of Baconator?" 


"No, | do not want the pretender. | want the Baconaitor elder, with 
quadruple bacon." He held up four fingers for emphasis. 


"Sir, | don't know if we can—" 


Dmitri cut her off. "Is this not America? Am | still in the Soviet Union? 
Why did | leave?" Dmitri gave her a hard look. "Why did | leave if | 
must settle for the pretend Baconator." 


"S-Sir it is America, but..." 


"Do you want a bribe? Do | have to bribe for this?" The cashier tried 
to protest, but Dmitri held a finger to his lips. "Shhh, no no. Here. 
Look at this." He placed a crisp fifty dollar bill on the counter and slid 
it towards her. "For you, for you. Quadruple bacon. | want the true 
Baconator father. Maybe even the Baconator grandfather." 


Wide-eyed and confused, the cashier took the bill and punched in 


SCP-834: Marked 


Item #: SCP-834 
Object Class: Anomalous Euclid 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-834 is to be kept ina 
basic containment locker at Site 31. SCP-834 has been moved into 
an unnamed safe containment locker by order of O5-13. SCP-834 is 
to remain locked in containment locker Alpha-12. When being 
tested, D-class upon which 834 is used are to be kept in a standard 
containment cell for the duration of testing, and are exempt from 
monthly terminations until effects can be ascertained. 


Description: SCP-834 is a set of four markers (black, red, yellow 
and blue.) Each marker bears only a'The Factory’ logo, and no 
other distinguishing characteristics. The only effect of these markers 
is that they write permanently on human skin, resulting in tattoo-like 
markings. Testing has proven the ink sinks below the surface of the 
skin, and is only removable via laser dermabrasion, or similar tattoo 
removal procedures. See Addendum. 


Addendum 1: On 2/ /20 Junior Staff Researchers L and C 
appropriated SCP-834 under the pretense of testing it further, but in 
actuality to use it on themselves. When discovered, a decision was 
made by 05-13 to have the item removed to a more secure area, as 
well as to demote the Researchers to janitorial staff for three weeks. 
Dr. L had been given a band of barbed wire around his wrist, 
while Researcher C opted for a depiction of reptilian scales on 
his chest, to, in his words, ‘reveal my inner dragon.’ Both 
researchers are currently denied access to casual testing of any 
SCPs. 


Note: Even if they are only Anomalous, SCPs are not toys. -Site 
Supervisor Nacht 


Addendum 2: On 8/ /20 screams were heard from Dr. L cS 


the order. Satisfied, Dmitri stepped back. The cashier looked up at 
Tilda as if wondering what was coming next. 


"I'll have what he's having." 


It was unhealthy. 
It was delicious. 


Neither of them spoke for a great while, the taste of the cheap food 
and the knowledge of how bad it was for them bringing its own 
peculiar form of catharsis. As Tilda wiped her hands clean of grease, 
she had no recourse but to admit that she did indeed feel a lot 
better. 


“So, how is training progressing, Dmitri? We’d might as well conduct 
a little business while we're out,” she asked. 


He moved to light a cigarette but a sorry look from the cashier 
stopped him. “We are moving along. | have been trying to drill them 
on quick threat detection and reaction.” 


“How does that work?” 


“They must learn that conditions can, how to say, ‘shit the bed’ in an 
instant. Sometimes you have mere seconds to react to a changing 
situation, and it will determine if you live or die.” 


Tilda nodded. 


“| will give you an example.” He pointed with the unlit end of his 
cigarette towards a man who had just entered. He wore an 
oversized sweater that looked a bit too warm for the current climate, 
and his body language indicated that he was possibly nervous or 
agitated. 


“That man there, we will call him Sweater Man.” Dmitri’s and 
Sweater Man’s eyes met for the briefest moment. “What would you 
do, for example, if Sweater Man decided suddenly to shoot up this 
place?” 


“What?” Tilda frowned. “I would call it in, if | could, and wait. Besides 
that, | would probably do nothing.” 


“Nothing?” Dmitri looked displeased. 


“Yes.” She watched Sweater Man staring at the counter, shifting in 
his oversized sweater. She remembered the mountains of 
paperwork. Saving lives, ending lives, whether you signed this piece 
of paper or whether you didn't sign that one. Inaction, action. No 
matter what you did, so much was all the same.