| combed the house. Nothing was out of place, no murderers 
stashed in my closet, no valuables missing. | slept fitfully that night, 
hugging a baseball bat to myself. When | woke up, | found 
conditions to be the same as before: there was absolutely nothing 
unusual. 


That night | slept with the bat again. In the morning, | poked through 
every nook and cranny of every room in my house. Nothing. | locked 
my door and left for work. And when | got home, it was unlocked. 
This continued for weeks. 


As weeks turned into months | became used to the state of my door; 
even got to appreciate it. | liked that if | stayed out late, | didn’t have 
to fumble for my keys in the dark. 


One night, when | returned home, my door was locked. After a good 
deal of messing about with my keys, | finally managed to unlock it 
and go inside. | clicked on the light - then | spotted the tiny writing on 
my wall. 


"you need me." 


Personal Log of Agent AA 


Personal Log of: AgentA A ___ , Mobile Task Force Omega-7, 
"Pandora's Box." 


Date: October 10, 
| shoulda taken the blue pill. 


When Dr. told me that he had an opening for a doctoral 
research assistant with a high-level government agency, | thought 
he meant the CIA or NSA or something. | never expected... well, 
this. 


This job is a nightmare. | haven't seen my family in months. | sleep 
down the hall from a field agent who has a giant gear sticking out of 
his neck after a bad run-in with some nano-agent. Thirty minutes 
ago, a guy ran in and told me to grab a mop: someone decided to 
feed the seven-legged dog a bit of cheese, and the stink is horrific. 
Sometimes | wonder whether I'm dead and in hell. 


No, hell would be too sane compared to this madness. 


At least | don't have to deal directly with any of the SCPs: my job is 
monitoring staff on site for signs of fatigue and PTSD, and I'm telling 
you, that's a full-time job. When your nine-to-five is trying to keep 
Things That Should Not Be from getting out and killing everyone 
with some mind-bending bizarro power, you tend to get a bit edgy. 
Had a patient the other day tried to put a knife through the back of 
his own hand: he'd been working around some thing that apparently 
gets into your bloodstream and eats you from the inside. He'd been 
getting less than four hours of sleep a night, and apparently got so 
messed up he got hallucinations, started thinking he'd been infected 
even though he checked out clean. Had to knock him out and keep 
him strapped to a bed overnight while he finally got some rest. Then 
he jumped back in and went back to his job like nothing happened. 


Insane. 


It's better than what has to do, though. He's trying to 
build a psychological profile of some freak bastard who apparently 
can't die and can make swords out of thin air. Yeah, just like that. 
Seriously, what is with this place? It's like some sort of insane story 
dreamed up by a fevered madman. My god. 


Gonna try and get some sleep now. Hopefully I'll manage to do so 
without those freaky rolling eye things running in and staring at me 
all night. 


Date: October 11, 


So | walk in this morning, and Dr. Franks tells me that 
is dead, and now I'm in charge of his project. Joy. 


Spent the day going over the file on this SCP-076. My god, it's 
worse than | thought. This guy is not only a complete psychopath, 
he's got all the powers of some freakish adolescent fantasy. How 
the hell am | supposed to analyze someone who doesn't like to be 
analyzed and can kill an elephant with his bare hands? 


This is gonna take a little finessing. I've got an idea, though. 


| met Josie the Half-Cat today. | petted her and she rubbed up 
against my leg. Weirdest feeling having a cat rub hindquarters that 
aren't there against your shin. 


Date: October 12, 
My idea worked. TOO well. 


| thought I'd gain some rapport with 076 by chatting with him over a 
game or something, something to break the ice. As a warrior type, | 
thought he might enjoy a board game, something that needs 
strategy. | chose Stratego, since I've never been a fan of chess, and 
I've never really enjoyed Go or checkers. He seemed amiable 
enough, although he kept staring at me hard the whole time | was 
explaining the rules. 


Tried to break the ice and get him to talk more about himself 
between turns. Didn't work. He was totally engrossed in the game, 
trying to break apart my strategy. After a while, he got me doing it 
too. I'd intended to let him win, but about nine turns in, | realized that 
he was using a really simple tactic: he'd taken his Marshal and was 
using it to beat down everything by itself, carving a giant swath of 
destruction in my ranks. | managed to lure him into attacking my 
Bomb, blew up his Marshal. He then sent his Miners in to take out 
my Flag, but it wasn't there: I'd used the Bombs as a lure to draw 
him away from my left, where my Scouts and Miners were. His Flag 
wasn't too hard to find, and then my Scout ran in and captured it for 
the win, behind a screen of Miners who disabled his Bombs. 


He got really quiet, and | thought he was going to get mad, but then 
he smiled. "Congratulations," he said, shaking my hand (my fingers 
still hurt even two hours later). "You are in." 


"In what?" 


"Task Force Omega-7. You defeated me in a battle of wits and 
honor, and now you are one of my chosen elite." 


That wasn't what I'd planned at all. "I hadn't intended to join your 
group. I'm a scholar, not a warrior." 


"Now you are both." He clapped my shoulder so hard it bruised and 
walked away. 


| tried to get out of it with the section chief. He refused to allow it. 
"You've got a perfect chance to do a psych profile on Seventy Six," 
he said. "You'll be around him day and night. A perfect chance for 
long-term observation." 


So ummmm... yeah. Tomorrow I'm checking in for basic training 
with a bunch of freaks and maniacs who hang around with a 
completely indestructable killing machine and go straight into the 
most dangerous situations the Foundation encounters with the intent 
of kicking its ass. Me, a desk jockey geek with a Masters in 
Psychology. | guess | could transfer out, but given SCP-076's history 
of behavior around people he considers weak, that might be career 
suicide. Or even actual suicide. 


I'm so gonna die. 


Date: October 27, 
I'm not dead yet. 


My first day of training, however, | wished | was. | shoulda known 
something was wrong when | showed up and saw about guys (and 
a few girls) standing around wearing tiny shorts and tank tops: none 
of them seemed to have an ounce of fat on their bodies, and a 
couple looked like they could beat the fuck out of Arnold 
Schwarize... shwan... the Governator... in a no-holds barred brawl. 
And that's when | show up with my slight beer belly and wire-frame 
glasses and milquetoast smile, and everyone turns and looks at me 
like I'm something rather nasty that the dog just did on the carpet. 


Seventy Six started them off with a five mile run, ran along next to 
the group... | should say jogged along... hitting the slowest guy with 
a rattan stick the whole time to encourage him to run faster. I've still 
got the welts. By the time it was over, | was nearly passed out on my 
feet, and then Seventy Six started having us do pushups and 
pullups and other exercises that I'm convinced were originally 
developed by the Spanish Inquisition to deal with particularly 
stubborn heretics. 


So | went to bed hurting in places | didn't know | hurt, but if | thought 
that was pain, | was in for a treat. The next day, Seventy Six started 
me on some Israeli martial art called "Krav Maga,” which I'm 
convinced is Hebrew for "Kill the Fucking Goyim," no matter what 
Wikipedia tells me. The highlight of that day's training was running 
the fuck away afterB decided to pick up a fucking ROCK and 
chase me with it. | think | actually pissed myself. 


The next day was actually worse. 


This is the first chance I've had to write in my diary for a long time: 
I've just been too exhausted to do more than pass out every chance 
| get. But Seventy Six told me to take the weekend off. | slept the 
first thirty hours of it, and god, was it worth it. 


He tells me that tomorrow is my final exam. | don't know what that's 
gonna be like. I'm not looking forward to it at all. 


Date: October 28, 
| wash and | wash, but | can't seem to get it out. 


Seventy Six met me alone outside the testing chamber. | was a bit 
surprised to find any of the members of Omega Seven weren't there. 
"The last test you take alone," Seventy Six said. 


He walked me into the room, and there was a guy tied to a chair: 
Class D Personnel from the looks of his jumpsuit. The entire room 
was very clean. Tiled floor, tiled walls, sprinklers in the ceiling, a big 
drain in the center. There was a tray of surgical instruments next to 
him. 


"Pick up one of the blades, any one," Seventy Six told me, "and start 
cutting." 


| started cutting the ropes. Seventy Six hit me in the face. "No. Start 
CUTTING." 


| dropped the scalpel. "I can't." 


He reached into his shadows and pulled out... it was long, and it had 
a lot of hooks and saw edges and ripping blades to it, whatever it 
was. "You will. Or | will tire of this entertainment and find some 
elsewhere. Probably by killing as many of your people as possible, 
saving you for last, so that you will see them all die." 


| didn't answer. He looked at me for a long long while. Then he went 
to the door. 


| think | screamed when | grabbed the knife and stabbed it into the 
guy. I'm pretty sure | did, because | tasted pennies, which means I'm 
pretty sure that some of the poor bastard's blood got in my mouth... 
Seventy Six smiled at that and turned around. "Good," he said. "Now 
use the hook to pull out his eyes." 


... [don't think | can say any more, but... he screamed the whole 


time, and by the time it was done, | was gone. Stupid of me, | should 
have seen it coming. Break down my defenses, make me pliable to 
commands, classic example of mental reprogramming. | learned this 
in freshman year at _ for crying out loud, but | fell for it. 


He didn't seem pleased. He told me that | needed to get used to 
killing. He told me to go down to the labs every day, choose a cat or 
a monkey or a dog - no rats or mice - and kill one every day. Vivisect 
it alive. Really let myself feel the blood spurt. Said | needed to put 
aside my weaknesses. Learn to become harder. Stronger. 


A monster, that's what he wants me to become. A sociopath. Just 
like him. No empathy, no guilt, no feelings other than fear and anger. 
A monster. 


| won't let him beat me. 


Date: October 31, 
Happy Halloween. 


| was in the lab doing a live dissection of a rhesus monkey when 
B knocked on the door. "Meet up in the deployment bay in 
fifteen," she said. "We've got a mission." 


| gave the screaming monkey a lethal injection of adrenaline into its 
heart: it wasn't hard, given the fact that I'd already cracked the 
ribcage and laid the organ open. B seemed a bit sympathetic 
as she waited for me to wash the blood off my apron. "We've got an 
active SCP somewhere in the area," she said. "Seems dormant, 
but Command believes it could go active at any moment. Keter- 
class." 


"What's our cover story?" | asked. 
"We don't need one," she said, tossing me a towel. "It's Halloween." 


The others were suited up by the time | reached the staging area, 
and we really did look like freaks. The Hostile Environment 
Protective Isolation Suits (HEPIS) are designed to give you 
complete protection from all threats biological, chemical, and to also 


do a decent job against telepathic and mundane threats as well. In 
addition to the standard kevlar weave and biohazard suits, they 
contain a Telekill Alloy lined helmet and [DATA EXPUNGED]. End 
result is it makes you look like a super-soldier out of some 
videogame, all bulked up and scary-looking with a giant gun that 

M = F~ wouldn't mind using againstsome L __. Seventy Six just 
wore his usual outfit, of course, which was scary enough. 


That was the first time | met Iris, too: She was the only other one 
who wasn't wearing a uniform, was in fact dressed up like a video 
game character (whom | later found out was J from" ey 
She had this big camera around her neck and she was wearing a 
very sensible leather jacket and pants. When | saw her, she was 
arranging some polaroid pictures in various pockets around her vest 
and pants. "In case | need them" she said. 


We piled into two vans and drove down to . Fun times. A 
lot of young people standing around wearing fancy costumes and 
generally having a great time in a giant three-block outdoor party. 
We got a lot of attention, and even posed for a few pictures 
[REVIEWER'S NOTE: Upon Covert insertion and review of 
photographs, it has been determined that no essential data has 
leaked. Termination order for civilian bystanders cancelled]. We 
moved fast, though: our guy on-site was waiting for us, and Seventy 
Six looked like he was going to snap and kill some poor drunk 
valley-girl dressed up like L C who wouldn't stop trying to hit on 
the tall, brooding, strong goth guy with the realistic-looking prop 
sword. 


The target was in the sewers underneath the party: SCP operatives 
had managed to trap it in a section of the tunnels, but eventually it 
was going to make a break for it. We met up with our guy on-site, 
who was guarding the only exit door. Two operatives set up 
claymore mines while Iris snapped a picture of the trigger 
mechanisms. "If it tries to open the door without me reaching 
through the photo and flipping the switches, it'll blow itself up," she 
said, sliding the photo into a waterproof bag and slipping it safely 
into a breast pocket. 


Seventy-Six led one team, the other two were led by W and 
K_ . Iris and | were with Seventy Six in the "Special Elements" 


squad. | stuck close to Seventy-Six before Iris waved me back. 
"Don't get too close," she said, making a gesture like swinging a 
sword. "Sometimes, he swings without checking his blood circle 
first." | took a couple of steps back after that. 


Seventy Six seemed to change the moment we went into the danger 
area: he leaned forward, like a panther, sniffing the air and smiling 
as he ran a finger along the slick, moldy brick wall. | wasn't so 
happy. | was in a big, bulky suit that cut down my vision to the sides 
and back, hearing the sound of my own breathing and the pounding 
of my own heart. The flashlight didn't light up the darkness enough, 
and my night vision didn't help either: just made things even 
spookier with its grainy green appearance. 


So when it grabbed me by the neck and dragged me down into the 
sewage, all | could really do was scream a lot. My helmet was 
sealed, and | had my own O2 supply that kicked in the moment | got 
dragged under, so | wasn't in danger of drowning. Choking, yes, the 
thing's tentacles were grabbing me around the neck and squeezing 
the life out of me. | had barely enough time to pull the trigger of my 
gun, feel nothing go off, and realize that I'd forgotten to take it off 
safety before | blacked out. 


| came to in the van, surrounded by a bunch of guys who were 
looking really tired and beat-up. There was something huge covered 
in a tarp and strapped down by bungie cords in the middle of the 
vehicle, something that looked like a cross between a squid, a 
bicycle, and an MC Escher painting. Seventy Six was nowhere to be 
found. "What happened?" | managed to croak out. 


"You got grabbed," W said. "Able killed it. He's still down there 
supervising the burning of the eggs and looking for more of them." 


"| guess | screwed up, huh?" 


"Nah, you did fine." He put a cigarette between my lips and lit it with 
his zippo. "You lived. That's all we can really ask out of a first-timer."