Charles shook his head and walked over. “Not a thing. It’s clean, it’s 
been stable since we brought it into custody last month, and no 
anomalies present in the rats we’ve sent through and back.” 


“What about your time signature?” Thad asked. “You said there was 
some temporal dilation.” 


“Stopwatch and camera test says 1 to 140, but only when the door is 
closed.” 


Thad whistled softly. “Quite a ratio. Do we know if it’s causally 
isolated?” 


Charles blinked twice. “...I’m sorry, what?” 


Thad sighed, and looked around at the debris by his feet. he picked 
up a piece of charcoal that seemed sufficiently soft and found a 
blank spot on the wall. “Okay... when the door is closed, we’ve got a 
situation that looks kinda like this. One nice straight world-line, the 
one we're riding...” He quickly marked a long horizontal line. “...And 
another running in parallel.” With all the art of a 60 year old tenured 
math professor, Thad drew a tight sinusoid over the first quarter of 
the horizontal line. 


“...You said this thing is safe, right? I’m not going to get some kind 
of cancer if | put my wrist in there?” 


Charles shrugged and shook his head. “A month plus, no incidents. | 


wouldn't, but—” 


Not waiting for him to finish, Thad opened the door and thrust his 
watch hand inside. The poetic, vast white emptiness on the far side 
of the door was lost on him. Well, not lost, but surely on hold. He 
counted seconds and watched the 442/on his wrist keep perfect 
time with him. “Alright.” The door closed with little ado as he 
returned to his diagram. “Door opens here, and closes here.” he 
said, drawing two quick slashes, and then a second straight line 
above the short stretch of the world line between them. “And 
apparently, the temporal dilation stops, and the two segments 
become causally linked.” This, he represented by drawing four dots, 
evenly spaced, on either side of the two lines. “Then, when the door 
closes, the dilation resumes as before.” 


"With me so far?” 


Charles scratched some stubble on his cheek and nodded. “Yeah, | 
think so.” 


“Good. So let’s say we... Damn, | need another color.” Thad 
scanned the ground and found a piece of clay to his liking. He drew 
a small yellowish stick figure on the line “This person goes through 
the door, here, and does some thing, | know not what, on the other 
side.” 


“And he doesn't want to stay in there forever, of course.” A brief 
flash of a memory rocketed across Thad's skull, and he violently 
shook it away. “So he comes back out.” 


“At some point, let's say here on the world line,” and in so saying, 
Thad flipped the clay and began writing with a much darker red 
color, “someone with a grudge decides to travel back in time, and kill 
our man before he ever stepped foot inside the door.” 


“We know, of course, that means that our little stick man never lived 
a life leading up to the door, and never entered it, and the future of 
the world-line changes instantaneously into a world where the stick 
man doesn't exist.” 


“However, if the dilated region is causally isolated—which it may 
have to be to preserve a stable dilation ratio—does that erase his 
presence from the world behind the door? What’s more, and 
perhaps a more important question, does his retrocausal murder 
prevent his ability to re-emerge later?” 


Charles looked at the diagram good and hard for a few minutes, 
glancing back and forth between it and the expectant eyes of the 
time traveller standing next to him. It almost made sense. Almost. It 
seemed like it shouldn’t be that way; that if the hypothetical person 
was wiped from existence on one side of the door, he must be wiped 
from the other, too. On the other hand, there shouldn't ever be such 
a door; one which had more time on one side of it than the other. He 
had read the papers about tachyon field theory, and at the time they 
seemed to make sense but... 


“How would we ever test that?” Charles asked, finally bringing his 
hand down from his chin. “To us, it just looks like some unidentified 
anomalous person appeared on the other side and tried to come 
through. We’d bump the anomaly up to Euclid if it happened once, 
and probably Keterize it to be certain if it happened more than a 
dozen times.” 


“Well we cou—” Thad started, but did not finish. “Huh... you know 
you’re right. We’d need a third frame of reference to... But we can’t 
do that unless...” 


And while the doctors stood in uffish thought, staring at the diagram 
with their teeth in their mouths, the tiny door inset in the wall 
shuddered and burst outward. A human arm reached out, flailing for 
anything it could grab onto. In a snap of adrenaline Thad Xyank and 
Chuck Anborough jumped backward, drew their sidearms and 
stepped back double quick, ordering the anomaly to stay right the 
fuck where it is as bigger men with bigger guns burst into action 
behind them and moved up. There was a lot of yelling and confusion 
from the construction crew as another arm came into view, raised in 
defensive surrender. The docs dropped their muzzles to low ready 
like clockwork as two guards moved around them and set a bead on 
whatever hellish thing was daring to feign surrender and draw them 


closer to its enormous hidden gaping death maw of razor-sharp 
doom. Still retreating, steady, smooth. Slow is smooth. Smooth is 
fast. Blood coming out of the door, and a scared, squirrelly voice 
they could still hear from 10m away as they holstered the weapons 
and turned to book it. Any minute now there’d be a vortex or a death 
howl or a hail of gunfire, and by god they wouldn’t be alive to care 
for long if they stayed this close. They didn’t stop until they were 
100m away behind a quarter inch steel plate, shepherded around 
the bend by a hard case in tactical black shouting ‘Go-Go-Move it!- 
Go!’ The whole ordeal was over in less than 20 seconds. 


“FUCK!” Charles screamed as he folded at the waist, propped up on 
his knees eyes plastered shut. A decade working with Keters puts 
the fear in you. After handling the unhandleable, training that can get 
you over the wall to safety is all you can really ask for. “Fucking safe 
class! This was my vacation project!” The pinky-side of his fist struck 
the plate of steel as he slid down to the ground. 


Thad raked a hand down his face and took a deep breath. Stupid. 
Fucking stupid. Fucking academic stupidity of the highest order and 
thank god he had gotten re-certified this month. He had put his hand 
in that thing! And then just stood around next to an active anomaly 
drawing curly-q’s and stick figures. If he had wanted to discuss a 
subtle variant of the grandfather paradox he— ... Wait a minute. 


“...You know, it is rather convenient, isn’t it? Us standing there, 
talking about how if it worked, we’d never know the difference, and 
not a minute later an unidentified humanoid busts through the door?” 
Thad said, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his 
mouth. 


“This is Captain Crawford, come back Rally 2?’ the radio on the 
nearest guard squawked. 


“Rally 2 here,” the guard answered. 


“Situation under control. Unidentified humanoid in custody. We're 
uh... We'll be maintaining a 10m radius around the object.” 


“Understood,” the guard replied and raised his voice to address all 
the other poor schmucks at Rally 2 that everything was fine, and just 


to be safe, don’t cross the tape unless you have someone to hold 
your hand for you. 


“Hey stop me if you’ve heard this one before,” another voice came 
over a nearby radio. “The Skip says he knows who we are, and 


yy 


wants to talk to someone from ‘Delta-Tee’. 


“...What are you saying?” Charles asked as the sanity crept back 
into his stare. 


“I’m saying... I’d like permission to interview your detainee,” Dr. 
Xyank replied. “You know. Just in case.” 


Agent Burt Tomlin’s head was in his hands as he heaved a heavy 
sigh. From the corner of his eye he spied the interrogation room 
mirror, and silently asked his reflection why he had agreed to come 
in so damn early this morning. “So, let me get this straight...” Burt 
continued, turning his attention back to the unkempt, red-haired, 
befreckled HCP-1 across the table. “Your name is Kevin McDougal, 
and you're some kind of time-travelling Foundation Agent, sent from 
the future to test...what did you say again?” 


“Yeah. Well... | mean, no. I’m a Junior Researcher under Dr. 
Thaddeus Xyank of Research and Containment Team A-t. | was 
working with him trying to link two known anomalies, SCP-664 and 
SCP-2400.” 


“Uh huh...” Tomlin said, rolling his eyes. “Even though we haven't 
got a 2400?” 


“Yes, but you will! For Christ’s sake, it’s where | was picked up!” 
McDougal exclaimed, shaking his hands in the air. “We were 
interrogating a Daniel Ambridge about 664 when Dr. Xyank got a 
call from... someone, | don’t know who, about 2400. Based on the 
information we had, we decided to test if they were connected by 
sending me through. That was April 10, 1998.” 


“Right, right,” Tomlin said, taking a sip of coffee. “Except... | gotta 
tell you, this sounds like a pretty gross breach of protocol. If what 
you’re saying is true this... What was that name?” 


flow of water aided by peristalsis, and is broken down through the 
excretion of a highly acidic mucus. 


In larger drainage spaces, such as places where piping has burst 
(either incidentally or as a result of a build-up of SCP-840), colonies 
are capable of organising into more complex structures, resembling 
‘organs’, ‘chambers’ and ‘sphincters’. Sphincters serve to restrict the 
flow of fluids and solids, often causing a build-up of matter so as to 
increase the surface contact with SCP-840. Chambers typically grow 
in larger cavities, and aid in the digestion process by secreting a 
highly acidic mucus, or by serving as a storage area for resistant or 
indigestible materials. The largest chamber on record had redirected 
a major sewer system in , United States, and had occupied 
[REDACTED]. Indigestible material will often remain in these 
chambers indefinitely, until it is either pushed further along the 
‘tract’, or forced through the walls of the chamber itself. Chambers 
may also take on characteristics similar to a bird's gizzard, storing 
indigestible materials such as stones for the purpose of crushing 
difficult materials. In an examination of the contents of one such 
chamber, the following was found: 2 rings, $28.20 in coins, several 
goldfish skeletons (number inconclusive), several rat skeletons 
(number inconclusive), 1 pair of glasses, 19 condoms, 1 key, 3 dolls, 
1 turtle shell, 1 pair of false teeth and 0.76 kg of human hair. 


In rare cases, SCP-840 has been observed to organise into other 
‘tissues’ and even more complex structures. Some of these have 
been known to displace dirt, stone, concrete and even metal by a 
combination of acids and physical pressure. Excavated material is 
digested and transported away through the system, enabling 
SCP-840 to extend beyond its ‘exoskeleton’ and establish new 
tracts. There have been rare instances of these branches 
reconnecting with other parts of the same tract, creating a circuitous 
system. Other structures have been known to form complex pump 
and valve systems, circulating digestible material through rhythmic 
contractions similar to a heart. 


In most cases, any material that is ultimately not digested is forced 
out of the system wherever the tract ends, or through the tract walls, 
and often the natural flow of water will direct this material into normal 
sewage systems. However, in more established colonies 


“Thaddeus. Xyank.” 


“That’s it. This ‘Xyank’ character...he’d have to be a pretty big 
wheel. If you were a JR, you’d know cross-tests are almost never 
approved. And sending someone with a clearance through it? | 
mean, why wouldn’t he just use a D to do it?” Tomlin said, feigning 
disinterest. 


McDougal rubbed his eyebrows and shook his head. “He said he 
needed someone he could trust.” 


“Of course he did,” Tomlin said into his mug, hoping after the fact 
that it was too soft for the mark to hear. Another slip-up like that and 
he might give something away. “And why did he trust you?” 


“He hired me and my buddy Marcus right out of grad school! I’ve 
worked with him for over three years on all kinds of temporal 
anomalies.” 


“Oh yeah, where was that?” 


“Ithaca State,” McDougal replied. “...You know, the one in New 
York?” He was Clearly losing his patience. 


“Easy there, wise-ass,” Tomlin said with a sneer. “No one likes this 
process, but mouthing off to me isn’t bound to win you any favors.” 


Two knocks on the interrogation room glass and Tomlin perked his 
head up. “...Alright Mr. McDougal, you just sit tight a minute.” 


Outside the room Marcus Kitterman was a wet dog, soaked to the 
skin in sweat. Thad Xyank had his arms crossed, brow furrowed, 
and lips pasted together in a thin black line. “Chuck Anborough just 
called,” Thad said, eyes not leaving the kid in the hot-seat. “O5-8 
just designated SCP-2400.” 


“Jesus,” Tomlin said, head hanging loose on his neck. “What about 
this shit with 664?” 


“It’s legit,” Thad said, still stolid. “I had that conversation three days 
ago. He said he went through on the 10th?” 


“Yeah.” 


“Good,” Thad said, nodding. “I mean, it sounds like me. It seems like 
something I'd want to test, but | never expected to have an actual 
paradox on my hands. We still have a week to track him down. We 
can still send the original through if we need to.” 


Kitterman shook his head violently. “Noooo you can’t.” 
“Oh? Pray tell why not?” Thad asked impatiently. 


“...What he says is right. We knew each other in grad-school. And 
high school. And kindergarten. Kevin and | are like best friends. 
They used to call us ‘cookies and cream’,” he said chuckling. “... 
He’s about the only one | kept in touch with after | was hired. | 
figured it was alright, since he got all the way to the live interview, 


like | had, but... You remember that week | took off last March?” 
“Spit it out, Marcus,” Tomlin demanded. 


“He’s dead, okay? | went to the funeral, | saw his body. He was on 
his way to work one morning and a car cut him off, broke his neck.” 
Kitterman was very nearly in tears, and Tomlin very nearly felt like a 
heel. 


The color drained from Thad’s face as it came to him. This was a 
situation he could not win. The child on the other side of the one- 
way glass, if genuine, was the end of history as mankind knew it. Dr. 
Xyank was in a position now that required history to change in order 
for history to be preserved. How does one maintain the status quo 
when the status quo is in indeterminate flux? Which status quo do 
you preserve? Without thinking, he turned to a nearby computer 
console, pulling up his notes on Kitterman’s hiring process and who 
was brought on at the same time and wouldn't you know it? There 
was Kevin McDougal. His application had a note written in red pen 
in the upper right hand corner. 


Possible connection to undiscovered anomalies. Do Not 
Hire 
-TX 


Thad knew that name sounded familiar somehow. 


“It looks legitimate,” he said softly, turning back to the window and 
resting his forehead against it as Kitterman and Tomlin looked at the 
screen and shared nervous laughter. 


Kevin McDougal, Age 32. A young man whose life, as he knew it, 
never happened. And never could happen. 


From: thaddeus.xyank@foundation.net 
To: 05-12@foundation.net 

CC: athena.anastasakos@foundation.net; 
marcus.kitterman@foundation.net; 
bertrand.tomlin@foundation.net 

Subject: Re:Frame of Reference Proposal