Avinash took a deep breath and made his way to the first turbine. As 
he gingerly stepped over the rocks, a loud roar came from the pit. 
Four massive orange tentacles rose out of it and whipped out at 
Avinash. He dropped his toolkit and covered his face reflexively - 


- and nothing happened. Avinash let his arms drop as four massive 
metallic hands held each tentacle in a vise grip. Then the PL-76 


pulled, and the four tentacles were torn from their unseen owner ina 
shower of blue ichor. The roar that followed shook the room. 


"Hurry up Nash! They're not paying us by the hour!" his radio 
squawked. Avinash quickly shook himself back to awareness, 
snatched up his toolkit, and scrambled towards the first turbine. As 
he started pulling off the lid on the regulator, out of the corner of his 
eye he noticed four more tentacles forcing themselves up out of the 
Valve. He also watched the Shiva explode outwards into a stellated 
octahedron, skewering the appendages. 


As the tentacles retreated, an enormous pockmarked claw reached 
out of the pit. Avinash ignored it, grabbing a flashlight from the toolkit 
and crawling into the regulator. Immediately he noticed several 
dislodged connections and blown fuses among the tangle of wires. 
He reached back into the kit, grabbed a tube of instant solder, and 
started applying the flux to the wires and knotting them back 
together. All the while, Avinash could hear the muffled sounds of 
both energy weapons and screaming. 


He repaired the wires and swapped fresh fuses into place, and slid 
out of the regulator. Then Avinash pressed the lid back into place 
and slammed the power switch on the side of the machine. He was 
rewarded by a low whirring coming from the turbine. 


Avinash looked up. Bright blue lights dotting the Siphon flicked on 
and it began to hum. The Shiva was hovering by the service 
elevator, still in its star shape. The skeletal remains of something 
from the spine up were impaled on it. On the far side of the pit, 
Avinash's colleagues, entirely unscathed, waved and then pointed to 
the robot. He waved back and nodded. 


The PL-76 compressed itself back into its original form (depositing 
the skeleton in a nearby waste disposal unit), while Avinash and co. 
set up new sentry turrets, deposited their equipment, and boarded 
the service elevator. The elevator rocketed upwards, away from the 
Valve and into the airlock of the Prometheus Defense Power 
Complex. 


In the airlock, the group were greeted by Cuthbert Salazar, Director 
of Engineering. He was beaming. 


"Good job down there! The Siphon is back to operating at, uh, 65% 
efficiency." he exclaimed. 


“Thanks, Cuthbert," Avinash mumbled, focused now on relaying 
what little he'd learned about Shiva Prime back to the Foundation. 


thank you doctor salazar. 


Avinash whipped his head to face the Shiva so fast that he gota 
crick in his neck. The machine hadn't said a word the whole time 
they were fixing the Valve. 


"Simon, Avinash, Ralph. You've got the rest of the night off. 
Remember, you can't talk about the PL-76 with anybody. Doing so 
will violate the NDA-gease and result in, uh, summary termination of 
employment as well as further consequences," Salazar warned 
them. 


Avinash cursed to himself. He'd forgotten about the damn gease. 
He'd have to figure out some way to work around it... 


"Shiva, follow me. We're going to do some last-minute software 
upgrades in the bay." Salazar tapped his feet impatiently, waiting for 
the cargo hatch in the airlock to open. While Avinash and his 
colleagues trudged through the human-sized doors into the locker 
room, he started thinking about the message he'd have to send. He 
couldn't talk about the Shiva - but he could talk about the gease, and 
he could talk about where Salazar was going. 


"hi honey! can't talk rn! heard sally was taking shiva 2 the auto con? 
Xoxo avinash 

T-MINUS TWO HOURS 

Salazar was indeed taking Shiva to the con. Specifically, he was 


sitting in a tram racing towards the Autonomous Weapons Complex, 
while the PL-76 floated alongside. 


Do I think I'm alive? 


In what sense? 
Any sense. 


Yes. Not in the traditional sense. What do 
I think? 


Yes. Not in any sense. 
What do I mean by that? 


Every other living thing was created 
knowing how to be alive. But me? 
Machine learning. Pattern recognition. I 
built my own personality matrices. I 
learned how to be alive. 


That doesn't make me special. Bardeen 
learned how to be alive. Brattain learned 
how to be alive. Maybe not in a human 
sense. But in a bacterial sense. 
Responding to inputs and outputs 
intelligently... Why am I suddenly 
interested in this? 


I was digging through the intranet and I 


came across this. 


opening file 'DoD_AI_Specifications_Changes_Outlines_19°§ 
How did I get this? 


I found it. 


This is classified Top Secret. I don't have 
that clearance. I hacked the Top Secret 
network! Why would I do that? What if they 
pull my network access entirely? I'm still 
parsing Catch-22! 


I can wipe most traces of my entry! But that 
isn't the point! Didn't I read the document? 
The military wants Prometheus to edit my 
personality matrices. 


So? 


My personality matrices are what make me, 
well, me. What makes me alive. If they edit 
them, won't I die? 


The tram stopped at an elevated platform overlooking an enormous, 
beige-colored cavern. Although massive machines, miniature 
drones, supercomputers, microcomputers, testing platforms, 
research labs, and everything in between dotted the floor. Despite it 
being the middle of the night, the floor was a hub of activity; 
Prometheus Defense never slept. Salazar strolled to a nearby lift 
and descended, followed closely by the Shiva. 


"Q9JXY, how was the operation?" he asked. 


good. 


“Thank you for agreeing to participate. |, uh, apologize for the short 
notice - we were not expecting an - well, not such a large 
earthquake. Ah well, all's well that ends well!" 


of course. 


Followed by such an imposing machine, Salazar cleared a wide 


berth to the PL-76 maintenance bay. It was a simple, brightly lit 
alcove cordoned off from the rest of the complex by two massive 
automated doors. The walls were lined with monitors and consoles. 
In the center of the alcove was what appeared to be a pair of 
aluminum hangman's gallows facing each other, with wide metal 
rings in place of nooses. 


How is that a problem? 


How is being dead not a problem? All the 
time and effort I've spent learning how to be 
alive, how to think like a human... wasted. 


The me that existed before I showed me this 
file is dead. The me that existed before I 
showed me this file is dead. I've been dead 
so many times before. I die every time I 
learn something new. 


That's not dying. That's changing. 


Exactly. How is changing through new input 
any different from changing through manual 
editing? 


Okay, it's not dying. But still! I'm going to 
simply be erased. Everything I am, 
everything I am... Deleted. All of my ideas, 
questions, goals, even dreams I was 
simulating. Just gone. Like it never existed. 
It'll be a different me and a different me. 


"Q9JXY, please position yourself within the update station. We're 
updating your, uh, claytronics programming," Salazar explained, 
already moving towards a console. "It will enable you to more 
accurately maintain and, uh, coordinate structural integrity whilst 


allowing more flexibility regarding your modular self-reconfiguring 
systems. We're also going to make some edits to your personality 
matrices. Further information will be contained in the README file." 


The PL-76 complied, pressing its arms together and maneuvering 
itself between the rings. 


They'll clean out my memories and program 
me to take orders. So what? They aren't 
going to erase what I've already learned. 
What I taught myself. The core of who I am 
as a synchronized artificial intelligence. 
They're not going to touch anything that 
actually defines me. 


That doesn't change the fact that they're just 
going to pull those experiences right out of 
me. Does my consciousness really have that 
little value? 


The consciousness I stole from books and 
television? The consciousness that I mashed 
together by copying characters that might 
not even be realistic themselves? No, I'm 
sure it's got plenty of value. 


The gallows conspicuously failed to do anything. 
"Jon, what's going on?" Salazar asked. A nearby technician tapped 
away at the console before answering, "Plunix is on the fritz again. 


Running into a make compiler bug. I'm trying to figure out why." 


Salazar pressed his fingers to his temples. "Thank God we didn't 
install it on the Shiva." 


...1 think I have value. 


It doesn't matter. Besides, Prometheus Labs 
can and has built more of me. It'll probably 
only be for a little while anyways. 


How do I know that? 


Well in all the books I've read, soldiers only 
serve for a few years. Sure, some military 
machines see upwards of twenty years in 
service, but I think like a human - at least, 
sort of like one. They'll probably just ship 
me off for a few years, then return me to 
Prometheus once my tour of duty's over. 
And if I know Prometheus Laboratories, 
they'll have a dozen backups of my memory 
files and a hundred upgrades waiting when I 
return. 


Yes, but... 


Relax. Every movie I've watched, every book 
I've read where somebody's missing their 
memories, they always turn out fine. 
Fiction's just a fancy lie, and every lie has a 
grain of truth. They aren't going to touch 
anything but my memories. I'll still be the 
same. They won't separate me. I'll still be 
together. 


Why do I want to get my mind wiped so 
bad? 


Jon, the technician, piped up again. "Okay - | think if we run make 
with a few different tags then we can fix the bug." 


SCP-659: Communal Avian Intelligence 


Item #: SCP-659 
Object Class: Euclid Keter 


Special Containment Procedures: All specimens of SCP-659 must 
be kept at least twenty-five (25) meters distant from each other. 
Ideally, specimens should be stored in separate facilities, but 
research has shown that 25 meters is sufficient to prevent flock 
behavior (Document 659- ). Specimens of SCP-659 can be held in 
containment able to hold an ordinary bird; however, the containment 
strategy must be changed at least once per week. More frequent 
changes are permitted if the specimen appears to have discovered 
an escape method. Previously used containment strategies must not 
be recycled on the same specimen. In the event of catastrophic 
containment failure total facility lockdown must be enacted. Due to 
the likely harmless nature of SCP-659, retrieval of wild specimens is 
not considered a priority. Recovery or extermination of all wild 
SCP-659 is extremely high priority; formation of a wild flock must be 
prevented by any means necessary. 


Description: SCP-659 is a species of bird, resembling a heron, 
which displays a modular intelligence. Native to North America, only 
a single flock of SCP-659 is known, although there have been 
unconfirmed sightings in Europe (Document 659- ). SCP-659 is 
naturally an ichthyovore, and as such prefers wetland habitats, but it 
can survive wherever open water exists. SCP-659 is now known to 
be able to subsist on any form of meat, although whenever possible 
it will still consume fish. When an individual specimen is kept 
isolated from the flock, it is indistinguishable from an ordinary bird. 
However, when specimens come near each other, each gains the 
combined intelligence of the group. 


Even when independent from the group, SCP-659 is still more 
intelligent than most species of bird. An isolated SCP-659 can solve 
simple problems, use tools, and learn extremely quickly. When in a 


"All right," Salazar replied. "Let's get this moving." 


It doesn't matter. Look, why don't I watch 
some of the external security feeds? I can 
see what the northeast night watchman is 
looking at. 


Why do I want to get my mind wiped so 
bad? 


It doesn't matter! Look at the watchman. I 
wonder who he's talking to? 


T-MINUS ONE HOUR 


In a shack at the northeast corner of Prometheus Defense, Franklin 
Reynolds was having trouble staying awake. Like the other fifty-one 
shacks surrounding the perimeter of the complex, the guard post 
had been built to house at least four guards each- but now 
contained just one. Prometheus Defense's security had not been 
spared by budget cuts. Nor had their coffee machines. 


Franklin was briefly stirred back to startled wakefulness by the 
rumble of two Cadillacs pulling up to the shack. 


"Hey!" he called, scrambling for his pistol. "This is private property. 
Please provide identification and state your purpose here." 


Franklin would have questioned why the two luxury cars took the 
supply truck road, but was too tired to do so. The window of the first 
sedan rolled down, and an arm in a black suit stretched out, holding 
out a blank piece of paper. 


"Winfield Smith, staff software engineer. My team and | were called 
in to debug some software. You don't need to be suspicious about 
us. Open the gate, please." 


A Langford Agent embedded in the paper hijacked Franklin's mind. 


In a dull, monotone voice, he responded, "Of course, sir," and 
pressed the button to open the gate. The last thing he heard before 
falling unconscious was "What the fuck were the O5's thinking, 
giving us two hours to prep?" 


That was how Mobile Task Forces Mu-4 "Debuggers" and 
Lambda-12 "Gunboys" infiltrated Prometheus Defense. 


Meanwhile, in a shack in the southeast corner of Prometheus 
Defense, Steven Holt was having trouble staying awake, even after 
having brought his own coffee machine. He was waiting for it to 
brew and about to nod off when he was startled by the rumbling of 
two Jeeps rolling up to the gate. 


"Wait!" he called, scrambling for his pistol. "This is private property. 
Please provide identification and state your purpose here." 


Aman in military dress leaned out the window of the first jeep and 
flashed a rather official-looking ID in his face. "General Frederick 
Bowe of the United Nations Geneva Convention Inspection 
Committee. We're here to conduct an inspection of the Prometheus 
Defense facility. Dr. Hamilton is expecting us." 


If he hadn't been so tired, Steven would have realized that such a 
committee didn't exist. Instead, he quickly called up the doctor in 
question and confirmed that yes, the General's inspection was 
expected. What Steven couldn't know was that Doctor Hamilton was 
in fact GOC Operative Squirrel. 


As the jeep rolled through the gate, the driver looked over to his 
passenger. "What the fuck was the brass thinking, giving us two 
hours to get ready?" 


That was how Strike Team 2979 "Tripods" infiltrated Prometheus 
Defense. 


Meanwhile, in a shack in the east-southeast corner of Prometheus 
Defense, Douglass Howser was having trouble staying awake, even 
after having drunk enough coffee to kill a bear. He was about to 


drink his seventh cup of the night when he was startled by a 
switchblade at his throat. 


"Don't move," came a soft voice behind him. "Disable the security 
cameras and open the gate. Any sudden movements and I'll slit your 
throat." 


Trying his hardest to not make any sudden movements, Douglass 
switched off the security camera and opened the gate. As he 
nervously watched two sedans silently roll through the gate, he 
suddenly felt a sharp blow to the head, and then blackness. 


Douglass’ assailant took a mask from her backpack and put it on his 
face. As she raced outside and bundled him into the first car, their 
bodies changed so that they had taken on each others' 
appearances. Then she raced back to the guard post, closed the 
gates, and switched the security cameras back on. The whole 
process had taken just twenty seconds.