Carol pulled out a dark black gas mask from behind her apron; Felix 
stared at the object with the same feeling of awe and fear that it 
forced in anyone who looked upon it. A cheap trick, arguably, but 
one that served the position well. Carol dropped the mask into the 
front pocket of her apron and Felix felt a weight lift off his chest. 


“It’s just a mask and a meter, though it would disagree. That said, 
housekeeping. The only remaining members of our shady little cabal 
are sitting at this table. Everyone else is either predisposed or dead. 
We are looking for new members.” 


Felix raised an eyebrow, Sandra still occupied in thought. 

“| kind of quit.” 

“You didn’t quit. You took a break. Now you’re coming back.” 
Felix sighed. 

“If you say so.” 


“I’ve composed a shortlist for your perusal. Nibman and Aldon are 
probably the best bets at this point, though the final decision rests in 
your hands.” 


Sandra interjected. 
“Ours?” 


“I’m not the one who makes the decisions. It’s your club, I’m just the 
cleaning lady. By the way, one of you has to be The Critic now, so-” 


“Not it.” 
“Not i... damn it.” 
The Critic sipped his cup of coffee. 


“Then that’s resolved. You need three new members in the next 
week. Titles are up to you, as is everything, when it comes down to 


it. You’ve got my number, of course, and I’m normally in here if you 
just want something to drink.” 


Sandra returned to the original topic. 
“What about Duchamp?” 


“He’s dead. The suits didn’t kill him, but they gave him the rope to 
hang himself. Your actions would not have changed the outcome 
regardless. There's little else to say on the matter.” 


“If you say so.” 


A familiar customer walked through the door, cigarette smoke still 
trailing behind him. 


“Why are you working at a coffee shop, though?” 
Carol stood up, smiling the same emotionless smile. 


“Because | like coffee.” 


“Have you ever tried... killing yourself?” 

| have. Many times. 

“What was it like?” 

It wasn't like anything. 

“Nothing was alike?” 

No, everything was alike. It felt like anything else. 
“And what was that feeling?” 


Nothing. Everything up until that point was nothing. And yet, what 
followed was nothing too. Nothings on nothings on nothings. 


“Nothing comes of nothing, live again!” 


Mister Redd walked. 


Mister Redd had been walking for a very, very long time. His shoes, 
once clean, shiny, polished and black, were tattered, scuffed, 
soleless and a dusty, non-reflective grey. His socks had worn 
through hours after the soles fell out. The skin on his feet had taken 
days, but in time, it too fell through. Mister Redd walked, leaving 
bloody footprints along miles of forests and freeways. 


It had been years since he’d been home. 


Mister Redd could not quite recall what had made him decide to go 
home, but then, he could not recall things well at the best of times. 
He shoved his fists in his pockets; his right hand brushed against the 
paper of a forgotten invitation, and he remembered why he was 
going home. He pulled his hands from his pockets and promptly 
forgot. All that was real was walking. The raw flesh of his feet on the 
hot tar of the road. Walking and walking and walking. Fists into 
pockets, out of pockets, into pockets. Day into night into day into 
night into weeks of walking through fields of broken glass with 
nothing to eat or drink or do but to walk and think of nothing but the 
walk. 


For the first time in his life — though, of course, he could not recall 
such — Mister Redd’s mind was focused on a singular objective. the 
lowercase AND UPPERCASE And The Friend Who Talked Like 
This withered away into dust, succumbing to the walking, the 
motion, subsuming themselves into an intensely coherent whole. 
Mister Redd walked for forty days and forty nights. 


And then he stood outside the Wonderworks. 


Mister Redd walked up to the chain link fence. He cracked his 
fingers one by one, then leapt up, grabbing onto the interlocking wire 
mesh. He shoved his flayed feet into footholds, staining the grey 
metal with red. He continued climbing upwards, then grabbed onto 
the roll of razor wire when he reached the top. Mister Redd silently 
grinned as blood dripped from fresh holes in his hands; he pulled 
himself up and over the roll of steel barbs, then fell in a crumpled 
heap on the other side of the fence. He felt his shoulder dislocate 
from the impact; smiling faintly, he stood and shoved it back into 


position with an uncomfortable crunch. Mister Redd stretched his 
arms into the air, blood dripping from his fresh stigmata. 


Mister Redd licked his digits, grinning as his mouth filled with the 
taste of iron. He walked over to the building proper; as he 
approached, glass doors slid apart automatically for him. He moved 
into the empty lobby, dying the white marble floors crimson. The 
front desk was unmanned. 


Mister Redd dinged the call bell sitting on the table. There was no 
response. 


No matter. He turned and started to walk through the labyrinthine 
corridors of the Wonderworks, aimlessly stumbling past innumerable 
doors. The décor was consistently ‘shiny’. Polish on marble, polish 
on glass, polish on cases of thousands of toys. Everything was 
reflective. Mister Redd’s footprints echoed throughout the corridors. 


Mister Redd turned around a corridor and found himself looking at a 
small army of corgis. They excitedly barked at each other, then 
dissipated, waddling off in every direction. Some of them walked 
past him; one of them stopped at his feet, sitting at attention. Mister 
Redd scowled at the dog, blood dripping from his hands onto the 
floor. 


Jeremy barked helpfully, and started leading the guest to his master. 


Mister Redd shuffled along behind the dog’s skittering little legs, 
keeping its eyes fixed firmly on its wagging tail. The dog weaved 
through passages, finally stopping at the large wooden doors of 
office of Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment V, PhD. He 
turned to Mister Redd, barked a parting farewell, then left to take 
care of other business. 


Mister Redd twisted the handle and pulled the door open. 


Isabel Wondertainment had been rolling around on the floor while 
eating a chocolate bar. She heard the door open, then looked at the 
man standing there. The man was taller than her, which was 
unusual to begin with; furthermore, he had deep red strawberry ice 
cream all over his mouth, feet and hands. Why did he have 


strawberry ice cream on his feet? She shouted out to him across the 
large and open office. 


“Why were you walking on ice cream?” 

Mister Redd started walking slowly towards her, growling a query. 
“Where’s your dearest daddy?” 

“Dead! | think.” 


Mister Redd stopped walking. Isabel watched him freeze up, then 
fall to his knees. He rubbed strawberry ice cream from his hands 
through his hair, then looked to the roof and started to scream. 
Isabel shoved her fingers in her ears and closed her eyes, wincing 
at the volume; then, the scream turned into great peals of cackling 
laughter. When Isabel opened her eyes, Emma Aislethorp-Brown 
was standing between her and the man who maybe liked strawberry 
ice cream too much for his own good. Mister Redd cackled, then fell 
to the side, lying on the ground while lightly convulsing. 


And then it stopped. Mister Redd cracked his fingers again, then 
pushed himself up onto his feet. He rubbed blood into his eyes, then 
looked over to the woman standing between him and the girl. 


“And who're you?” 
“Emma Aislethorp-Brown. Miss Wondertainment’s assistant. You?” 


“Redd. A... ‘product’ of her father’s. As is she if you think about it. 
We're siblings, after a fashion.” 


Mister Redd grinned widely, bloodstained teeth poking out from 
between his lips. 


“| did say | was coming. | sent a lot of letters.” 
Emma stared plainly at the man standing across from her. 
“What do you want?” 


“Just saying hello. Thought | might ask the old man for some new 


SCP-728: The Forever Room 


Item #: SCP-728 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-728 is to be kept within a 
class IV containment vault at Sector- . To date the item has shown 
no activity to warrant anything other than standard security 
procedures to prevent unauthorised access. 


Description: SCP-728 appears to be a standard shipping container, 
12.19 m by 2.44 m by 2.90 m. The exterior is painted red, and 
shows some signs of weathering. Markings and numbers on the 
exterior are consistent with the system used by [DATA REDACTED]; 
however, no such designation has ever been assigned to one of 
their containers. Analysis of the material used in constructing the 
container has found it to be made from terrestrial metals, though not 
in any combination usually associated with the construction of 
shipping containers. 


The interior space is consistent with that of a standard shipping 
container, with the exception that it is constantly at a comfortable 
temperature and light level for human occupation, despite no 
methods of heat regulation or lighting being present. 


When the doors are closed, the interior space experiences the flow 
of time differently from the outside world. This difference is neither 
consistent nor predictable, with the flow of time capable of both 
speeding up and slowing down, and in some cases apparently 
reversing. Any equipment which could be used to record the flow of 
time, such as stopwatches, will function normally within the 
container. However, upon opening the doors such devices will suffer 
a catastrophic failure and completely cease to function, with all data 
being erased. This extends to all data recorded while the doors were 
closed, and so far no medium has been found which can resist this 
effect, save for pen and paper. For this reason, the only reliable 


toys. One of mine seems to have broken, you understand. I’d be 
looking for something new. If he’s not here, though, then | guess 
nothing can be done.” 


Mister Redd stared past Emma, looking towards Isabel, who was 
still chewing her chocolate bar. The old man was dead. There was 
nothing left to do here. 


Mister Redd was no longer angry. There was nobody left to be angry 
at. He smiled. 


“’m past my warranty regardless.” 
He turned and shuffled out the door, trailing scarlet behind him. 


Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that’s 
gone. 


« Eulogy For The Living | Hub » 
And Introducing: 
SUBVERSION 


Thank you for reading. 


The Elusive Anderson 


Agent Merlo scanned the folder and whistled. 


“This is... impressive,” she said, and looked up at her 
guest. 


“It sure is,” Agent Navarro said with a sly smile. “You 
should be able to pass one of the Lawbringers off as one 
of Jericho’s secretaries with this information. Apparently 
he was a rather big patron of Anderson back in the 
day. Small world.” 


Navarro’s smile morphed into a troubled frown. 


“This info required a lot of bargaining with Jericho to get. 
Please tell me you're going to nail them this time.” 


“We're more than prepared,” Merlo smirked, “Director 
Holman even managed to secure us one of Dimaccio’s 
most promising newbies to use as a narc. Trust me, 
we're prepared this time. Shit’s going to get done.” 


Navarro chuckled and shook his head. 


“| hope so.” 


Series Overview: 


The individual or group known as Anderson has long been a very 
minor, if not very annoying, thorn in the Foundation’s side. Primarily 
dealers of anomalous robotics and biomechanics, they have 
consistently avoided capture through both the nimbleness offered by 
the small size of their operation and an apparently vast network of 
connections with other groups and individuals of interest. 


Following the acquisition of promising information from a former 
patron of Anderson, MTF Gamma-13 “Asimov's Lawbringers”, 
prepares to launch the largest sting against Anderson to date at 
great risk to not only their own credibility, but to several months of 
meticulous planning. However, the task force soon learns that with 
great risk often comes great reward... 


¢ Part 1: Hunting Anderson 
¢ Part 2: Finding Anderson 
¢ Part 3: Meeting Anderson 


« Series 1: Peregrine | Anderson Robotics Hub | Series 3: 
Austringers » 


All Hallows' 


October 1st, 2017 


Site Director Edgar Holman sat in his office at site-64, a small 
file's worth of paperwork spread out before him. Researcher Cooper 
sat in a chair on the opposite side, her expression confident as she 
watched him read the article. Anomalous items would bubble up 
from Three Portlands all the time, usually ending up within the site's 
low security storage wing to gather dust until the end of time. What 
was rare was when something from Prometheus Lab's days of using 
Three Portlands as a tax haven would surface. In this particular 
instance, the artifact in question was an electric blue powder which, 
when inhaled, allowed the user to speak with the dead. Holman put 
down the Experimental Object file and furrowed his brow. 


"Where did you say Tau-51 recovered this, again?" He asked. 


"Old town, sir," Cooper replied. "A few young anartists were using it 
as part of an experimental performance in which all the actors are 
deceased." 


Holman nodded. 
"So it works then? This isn't just a bunch of people getting stoned?" 


"Well, technically it is," Cooper chuckled. "MRI's showed that it lights 
up the same regions of the brain as LSD, and auditory and visual 
hallucinations abound. But D-class trials confirm that subjects are 
able to speak with the dead, or something that has the memories of 
the dead." 


Holman gave a small smile as he noticed the excitement in Cooper's 
eyes. Most of the objects brought into Site-64 from the Portland's 
anart scene warranted little more than an anomalous item number. It 
wasn't often that they got to submit an item for SCP designation. 


"Provided the draft here meets your approval, we're ready to submit 
as soon as we have your signature," she said with a grin. 


Holman nodded and reached for his pen, but stopped. Cooper's 
smile vanished. 


"I'm going to hang off on that for just a bit..." he began. "As soon as 
Analytics hears about this stuff they are going to start looking toward 
the paratech devs to make our own version. The ability to speak with 
the dead has high mileage. Now that we have the AMAT lab up and 
running at full speed, let's see if we can figure out how to synthesize 
it first, and really put Site-64 on the map." 


October 31st, 1998 


Edgar and Rita sat on the upper deck of their house, overlooking the 
leaf covered street below. A chilly wind blew as the sun vanished 
behind the distant Portland hills. Rita was wrapped in a large quilt. 
Edgar handed her a mug of spiced cider before taking a seat next to 
her and smiling. Down the street they could make out the forms of 
their youngest child trick-or-treating with a group of friends. She was 
dressed as a hot dog, complete with mufstard. Their eldest was 
downstairs, passing out candy to their colorful guests. 


"Happy Birthday," Edgar said brushing a small bit of his wife's long 
black hair behind her ear and giving her a peck on the cheek. 


"Happy Halloween," she replied with a warm smile. "You didn't have 
to call in too many favors to get today off, | hope." 


"Not at all," Edgar instantly replied with a chuckle. "They begged me 
to stay away." 


The two of them clasped hands and turned their attention to the 
menagerie of costumed characters roaming the street below. 
October 2nd, 2017 


Researcher Conwell blinked a few times as he absorbed Director 
Holman's words. 


"A-a month?" He stuttered. "You want this done in a month?" 
"Can you do it?" Holman asked. 


Conwell looked over the paperwork and nervously ran a hand 
through his messy hair. Eventually he shrugged.