"It's not really dangerous unless you eat it, and anyone who comes 
through here has enough sense not to do that.” Chelsea smirked, 
ruffling one hand through the starburst leaves. "Well, that or get an 
awful lot of the sap on your skin. | got a few big drops on my hands 
once — gave me heart palpitations for an hour, but that was it." 


"Only heart palpitations?" Niels boggled at her. 
"It's not as bad as it sounds." 


"Sounds unpleasant enough." He eyed the plant with mistrust. 
"What's it like if you actually do eat it?" 


"Nausea at first, plus the heart palpitations." Chelsea straightened 
up cheerfully. "Burning in the abdomen. Then tingly numbness, 
weakness, and worse arrhythmias. Ends in paralysis and death, if 
you let it get that far." 


"Sounds nasty." 


"Eh, it's just self-defense." It was still making her stomach roil a little. 
Odd. Toxicology didn't usually bother her, not in the abstract. 
"Besides, anything's useful in the right context. This one's only in 
here because Nathan's group is using it in an antidote. We think it'll 
be half the key to CCR syndrome." Pseudaconitine was the active 
ingredient, she remembered — not a big molecule, but it had an 
intriguingly multi-ringed structure. She could almost picture how the 
plant would synthesize it... 


Her stomach turned again, and she swallowed. / hope that's not the 
pasta. "Anyway, the colony | wanted you to see is over here." 


They struck back out across the greenhouse, weaving between 
tables full of carefully-labeled experimental flats. They'd almost 
found their destination when Chelsea's stomach spasmed outright: 
she doubled up halfway and reflexively clapped a hand to her 
mouth. 


"Whoa! Are you okay?" 


"Yeah, | should —" Again. She swallowed back the acid, which only 
set off a fiery complaint in her belly. "Maybe not. I'm never letting 
Kyle choose lunch again." This almost feels like — 


Nausea. Burning in the abdomen. She stopped dead, just in time to 
feel her heart skip a beat. 


"Oh God." She turned back the way they'd come, one arm wrapped 
around her middle. "How is this even — augh!" 


Niels was on the phone to Medical before her knees hit the floor. 


Elliott: I'd given myself a sublethal dose, it turned out, 
but only just. Lucky for me, everyone assumed I'd 
actually handled [Researcher] Nathan [Fisk]'s Aconitum 
and somehow poisoned myself that way. 


Taggart: If the only plant involved hadn't been so 
carefully monitored, we might have thought the same 
thing. 


Elliott: It's a little insulting, really. | Know full well how to 
handle these things safely. 


Taggart: So you'd rather be insulted than contained. 
Elliott: (oauses) Wouldn't you? 

Taggart: Hmm. (pages through a dossier) 

(Silence.) 


| believe that will be all, then, Dr. Elliott. (begins putting 
papers back in briefcase) Unless there's any other 
information you'd like to volunteer? Any dimensions to 
your anomaly that we haven't covered? 


Elliott: Not that I'm aware of. Yet. | suppose I'll Keep you 
posted. (pauses) May |... well, | know it's not the usual 
practice, but perhaps as a final professional courtesy... 


Taggart: Yes? 


Elliott: May | see my proposed containment 
procedures? 


Taggart: (pauses, surprised) You're not going into 
containment, Doctor. 


Elliott: What? 


Taggart: Your condition is classified 5/2108/E-46693. 
You technically aren't cleared to know about any of it, but 
this is something of an unusual case. Since you don't 
appear to be an immediate danger to yourself or others, 
my orders are to take your deposition and let you 
continue your work. You aren't a danger to yourself or 
others, are you? 


Elliott: Well, no, not with the metabolites under control 
— but I, | don't understand. 


Taggart: You're a valued Foundation researcher, Dr. 


Elliott — 
Elliott: That's not — 


Taggart: — and in this particular case, the Council has 
decided not to remove you from your position unless and 
until it becomes necessary. I'll add this interview to the 
information on review, and you'll be notified of their 
conclusion in due time. In the meantime, please, carry 
on. 


Do remember that this entire phenomenon is classified, 
though. You're not to discuss it with anyone, and if you 
must refer to it at all, use its designation. E-46693. 


Elliott: Standard opsec, yes — but — 


Taggart: Try to eat more, too. Some of your colleagues 
are getting concerned, and that's a security risk. (closes 
briefcase, stands) \'ll schedule another meeting with you 
once the Council has decided what to do with your case. 


Elliott: Of course — 


Taggart: Thank you for your time, Doctor. Enjoy the rest 
of your day. 


END LOG 


March 31st, 2015 
1:04 PM 


Chelsea Elliott finishes reading and looks up, numb with dread, at 
the man called Taggart. "Yes, | remember," she manages. 


"Good." His calm smile doesn't so much as flicker. She'd forgotten 
just how disconcerting the man can be. "Is there anything you would 
like to add? Anything that's arisen in the meantime?" 


She shakes her head. "It hasn't — hasn't much changed. I've been 


suppressing it, mostly." 
"Hmm. Is that perfume you're wearing, then?" 


Damn his nose. She closes her eyes. "Santalum spicatum and Rosa 
damascena, wood and flower volatiles respectively." Distantly she 
marvels at how level her voice still is. "My colleagues have quite 
enjoyed my new essential-oil hobby. No one — no one's had any 
reason to think I'm not distilling them at home. Besides, spending 
photosynthate this way leaves me hungry enough to eat." 


The silence stretches out, pulling Chelsea's nerves with it. She shifts 
in her seat and sets the interview log down, too delicately, on the 
edge of her desk. (It's the wrong side of her desk again. This man 
must enjoy displacing her to her own visitor's chair.) Finally she can't 
hold her tongue any longer: "Have they decided, then?" 


He gives a noncommittal hum, twirling the delicate stem of her 
string-of-pearls vine around his forefinger. "You could say that. 
Ultimately, though, it'll be your choice." 


Her flash of irritable skepticism surprises her, but she manages to 
restrain the snort. "My choice?" she asks, forcing her tone to stay 
polite. "What are my options, exactly?" 


The corner of his mouth ticks upward. "On the one hand, you may 
elect to go into containment. Your conditions will be humane, of 
course, but you'll be an SCP object, designated and treated 
accordingly." 


A lead brick presses down on her lungs. She's seen fragments of 
the containment procedures they'd apply. Imprisoned for life, never 
again seeing the sun — she can't. She can't. 


"Or?" She forces it out on a whisper. 


Instead of replying immediately, he pushes a neatly-bound dossier 
across the desk towards her. She opens it and begins to read. 


"Have a look. Command is prepared to retain you in your current 
position, on condition that you accept reassignment to this project." 


This is... 


This is insane. This is brilliant. She'd have given her right arm to be 
part of this, once upon a time. 


This is no choice at all. 
She looks up at him over the dossier and nods. "I'll do it." 


His smile deepens, and he extends a steady hand for her to shake. 
"We were hoping you'd say that. 


"Welcome to MTF Alpha-Nine." 


Girls' Night Out: Dressing Up 


Breakfast arrived at 0700 every day. Iris tried to make sure that she 
was showered, her bed was made, and her quarters were clean and 
neat by then. Not that she particularly cared what the white-coated 
man with the food trays thought of her, but it was the principle of the 
thing. 


She sat at her desk reading a dog-eared novel, waiting for the knock 
on her door. When it came, she was surprised to also hear a female 
voice saying, "Hello? Miss Thompson?" 


She opened the door curiously. There was an attractive woman of 
indeterminate race standing there, smiling pleasantly. She was 
dressed in a neat skirt suit in light grey, over a pale blue dress shirt. 
The name badge clipped to her lapel read "Adams." It had a 
Lambda symbol on it, crossed with the number 2. 


Mobile Task Forces, then. I'm not familiar with Lambda-2. Must be a 
new one. 


"Iris Thompson?" the woman said. "Andrea Adams. I'm the head of 
your security detail. | was just wondering if you'd like to join me for 
breakfast." 


Iris glanced up and down the hallway. The two guards at the end of 
the hall had their weapons slung over their shoulder. They seemed 
unconcerned about the containment breach. One of them even gave 
her a smile and a thumbs-up. 


"Um," Iris said cautiously. "This must be breaking a ton of rules..." 


"Your SCP file was updated this morning," the woman said. "You're 
being allowed Class 4 Privileges. Consider it thanks for saving all 
those lives." 


Funny that they didn't give me these privileges three weeks ago, 


right after the incident. "| think you mean my reward for joining 
Alpha-9," Iris said. 


"You really want to stay in that cell? Just accept the damn reward." 
"All right," lris said reluctantly. "Shall we go?" 


"Not yet. Blue scrubs are so last year. Here." Adams thrust a plastic 
grocery bag towards the other woman. "I'll wait for you to change." 


"These jeans feel weird," Iris said. "My legs feel all constricted." 


"Did | get your size wrong?" Adams asked. "I looked up the report 
from your last physical." 


"The jeans are fine. | just haven't worn jeans in nine years," Iris 
pointed out. "And I'd almost forgotten how to tie shoelaces, too." 
Special Containment Procedures humanoids were only allowed soft 
slippers. Less opportunity to hang yourself or improvise a weapon 
without shoelaces. 


"Ah. Well, hopefully, you'll have a chance to get back into practice in 
the near future," Adams said. She opened the door of the Site-17 
cafeteria. "After you." 


The din of conversation in the mess hall didn't ebb as the two 
women entered. Word of Iris' updated containment procedures must 
have gotten around: no one turned to gawk at the SCP walking free 
in a restricted area. A few did stare at the strikingly attractive woman 
in the grey skirt suit. Probably some of those stares were also 
intended for her, the moderately attractive one in t-shirt and jeans. 


It was strange how comforting just being looked at felt, compared to 
wondering if the armed agent was going to decide that you'd taken a 
threatening action and go for his weapon. 


Adams shrugged off the stares like rain and walked confidently up to 
the counter, picking up two orange plastic trays and passing one to 
Iris. "Hey, Flames," she said to the bearded man in the white chef's 
apron. "One Denver Omelet Special." She glanced over at Iris. 
"What do you want? I'll buy.” 


"Oh. Um." Iris felt a brief moment of panic: she hadn't had to decide 
what to have for breakfast in years. She thought back over the 
variety of meals that had arrived at her cell room door over the years 
and settled on the one that she'd found most appealing: "Bagel, 
cream cheese, and fruit salad, please." 


"Ah, yes. Breakfast Menu 12," the bearded man said. "You don't 
need me for that: you can pick up continental breakfast stuff at the 
cold bar." 


"O-oh! I'm sorry," Iris stammered. 


"It's all right." The bearded man smiled pleasantly. "First time in my 
cafeteria, Miss Thompson?" 


"... well, yes," Iris said nervously. 


"No problem. Hope to see you again later. If you come back for 
dinner, I'm making my special chili..." 


"... which you should not eat unless you want to suffer the wrath of 
SCP-Six Six Six and a Half," Adams interrupted. 


"... I'm not familiar with that one," Iris said seriously. "Which 
containment block is he in?" 


Adams and Flames both laughed out loud. 


"All right, so SCP-666 1/2 is... horrible digestive problems," Iris said, 
"SCP-006-J is gigantic bugs, and SCP-095-J is Comic Sans. Any 
other stupid in-Jokes | should know about so that | don't 
embarrass myself again?" 


"No, that's about it," Adams said. "I'm surprised you never picked 
them up during your time in the Mobile Task Forces." 


"| hung out with geeks,” Iris said. "They mostly made jokes about 
Portal and Half-Life. 'SCP-003 Lambda is a video game that has the 
anomalous property of never being completed ever.’ That sort of 
thing." 


Notes: SCP-701-1 sustained humming for more than 4 minutes 
before completing the transaction. 


Experiment 702-006 


Name of Researcher: Prof Chasinau 

Interacting Personnel: D-12004 

Object Traded: 1952 printing of Encyclopzedia Britannica 
Object Received: Wooden cuckoo clock ca. 1930 


Notes: None. 


Experiment 702-007 


Name of Researcher: Prof Chasinau 

Interacting Personnel: D-12004 

Object Traded: Inexpensive plastic cups, set of four 
Object Received: Trade refused. Communications ceased. 


Notes: SCP-702-1 "already have some of [the cups]." Peacefully 
ceased communications. 


Experiment 702-008 


Name of Researcher: Prof Chasinau 
Interacting Personnel: D-8090 
Object Traded: Pair -brand running shoes 


Object Received: Player's Guide for , a video game from 
the late 1990s. 


"Hm. | guess even a group like ours has its cliques and circles. | 
suppose it's inevitable in an organization as large as ours." 


Iris picked up her knife and began spreading cream cheese over her 
toasted bagel. "| suppose that's true." 


Adams smiled. "You agree, then? You're a member of the 
Foundation?" 


"When did | ever say that?" 


"Right now. When | referred to 'our' organization and you didn't 
object." 


"Maybe I'm not one of those Sherlock types that picks up on tiny 
turns of phrase. Not everyone makes a big deal out of the specific 
words people choose to use." 


"You also took interest in the in-jokes among the staff," Adams 
pointed out. "Which means you have an interest in being part of our 
culture." 


"So what the fuck's your point?" Iris took a vicious bite out of her 
innocent bagel. 


"No point. Just trying to get to know the person they want me to take 
a bullet for." Adams picked up another forkful of omelet and chewed 
thoughtfully. 


Iris took a bite of her fruit salad. 
The silence continued. 


"You're supposed to ask me something like 'Well?' Or ‘And what do 
you think'?" Adams prompted gently. 


"What, does this conversation have a script now?" Iris retorted. 
"Your containment file didn't say anything about sarcasm." 


"All right, then, here it is without sarcasm," Iris said, soearing a piece 
of cantaloupe with her fork. "As long as you do your job, | don't care 


what you think about me. You're my minder, not my friend." 


"Ah." Adams waved her fork in Iris' general direction. "If I'm not your 
friend, then who is?" 


All my friends are dead. Killed by him. 


Iris looked down into her fruit salad. The dark red grapes looked 
back up at her. 


"Is he really that frightening?" Adams asked. There was no 
accusation in her voice. Just genuine curiosity and concern. 


Iris closed her eyes. "He's like... have you ever looked into the eyes 
of a shark?" 


"I've never seen a shark. Not in real life," Adams said. 


"Neither have I, but... I've looked into Able's eyes... and | think that 
if a shark were human, that's the kind of eyes they would have," Iris 
said. "The kind of eyes who would kill a billion people just to see 

what their corpses would look like strewn from here to the horizon." 


"| can understand why that would be—" 


"You don't understand," Iris interrupted. "| wasn't afraid that Able 
would kill me. | was afraid I'd be the one that he'd keep alive to see it 
happen." 


She pushed her fruit salad away. She wasn't hungry any more. 


Adams, meanwhile, had cleaned her plate. She folded her paper 
napkin up and tossed it onto her tray, then leaned back in her flimsy 
plastic chair and tapped her fingertip against her lips. "How do you 
feel about taking a trip off-site?" she asked.