A string of letters wrote themselves out on screen. 
Overseer 05-1 “Crom” online 
“Did it work?” 


“It worked.” 


Date: 6/8/97 

To: Site 19 Senior Staff 

From: Dr. Adam Pathos Crow 
Subject: Administration Changes 


Dear friends: 


The subject of administration has come up again and again in recent 
months, and several of you have spoken to me of the difficulties in 
juggling overseeing both research of items and administration of the 
Foundation itself. With the recent influx of items and staff, as well as 
our current partnership with the Global Occult Coalition, | share your 
concerns. 


As such, | will make official my position as Administrator of the 
Foundation, and with the aid of Dr. Gerry, will select proven 
individuals for the new O5 Overseer Board. Nominations from senior 


and on an IV-feed for the duration of this form. Natural feeding 
method seemed to involve injecting through [DATA 
EXPUNGED] has fully dissolved, followed by direct absorption 
of nutrients through the skin. Suffered the same level of pain 
that constant exposure to [REDACTED] would cause in a 
normal human. 

Translucent and able to phase effortlessly through objects. 
Tranquilizers failed, sleeping gas failed, successfully 
incapacitated by oxygen removal. Spent most of its time in this 
form attempting to scream and two (2) days in began 
attempting to claw its own eyes out. Emitted a very small but 
measurable amount of gamma radiation. All attempts at study 
failed. 

Two and a half (2.5) meters tall with thick, bulky musculature. 
Breached containment, killing and consuming personnel 
before Dr. incapacitated it accidentally by releasing a 
swarm of flies intended to feed [REDACTED]. ‘Musculature’ 
proved to be a complex and powerful hydraulic system 
powered by ten (10) large hearts in its core pumping an 
unusual ichor. Three additional hearts powered a second 
circulatory system which served to provide the other hearts 
with oxygen. Any pressure applied to its skin caused 
significant pain, including contact with the ground. 


Addendum: An analysis by Dr.E __ indicates even at the most 
conservative estimate, SCP-817 has expended less than ten (10) 
percent of the energy it has taken in since containment. Its method 
of energy storage is presently unknown. Dr.E hypothesizes 
[DATA EXPUNGED] and has recommended that SCP-817’s rations 
be cut to significantly below the current estimated starvation level. 
Recommendation still pending review. 


« SCP-816 | SCP-817 | SCP-818 » 


staff will also be considered. 


The Overseer Board will serve as Foundation-wide administration, 
overseeing all projects across the scope of the Foundation without 
direct involvement, allowing research staff more time and freedom to 
focus on more in-depth study. 


For security purposes, appointments to the O5 board and the 
identities of the appointees will not be made public. 


The Advisory Committee will remain intact under the A4 designation, 
and we will be meeting as usual this upcoming Monday. 


-With sincerity, 

Administrator Crow. 

September 23, 1997 

“Nemo’s in, so is Fats.” 

“I’m not surprised. Do you have the list | asked you to make?” 


“Yeah. 408 and 953 are on the table, Nemo thinks we can take him 
out without using anything special.” 


“The butterflies, they can work. Not the fox. Keep looking.” 


October 20, 1997 


The little feeling at the back of his subconscious assured him that 
the scenes in his minds eye were dreams, not memories. The haze 
of half-sleep made it difficult to tell. He felt the need to do something, 
that there were people he needed to talk to about...something... 
with, but these events weren't real. He knew that. He’d never been 
to these places. He’d never met these people. He was no stranger 
to dead bodies, of course, but these visions were just excessive. 


He brushed away the fake thoughts and made to wake himself up, 
the mental equivalent of swimming through pudding. 


Eyes open, ears open. Hospital bed. Safety. An orderly standing 
nearby, reading charts. 


Some slurred mess of sound dribbled out of his mouth. It hadn’t 
been properly used in some time. The orderly looked up. He didn’t 
recognize her, but the little feeling at the back of his subconscious 
claimed he had nothing to fear here. 


“Good to see you back in the land of the living, Agent Clef.” 


Notes From the Great Mare 


June 21, 2003 


Summer solstice today. That means, if I’ve been counting right, that 
today is my five-thousand, three-hundred and twenty-seventh 
birthday. 


Happy birthday to me. 


| can barely believe it’s been almost two months since | recorded 
one of these journals. They've been running us ragged. We just got 
back to Nineteen maybe two hours ago. It was the Church of the 
Broken God again. We keep trying to stamp them out and they 
always end up hitting back harder. Four agents died today. 


| didn’t know their names. | don’t bother anymore. Numbers work, 
because they’re going to get slaughtered anyway. sigh... It’s gotten 
to me. | can write off someone as a number to be shot down and 
turned into clockwork and not care. | don’t feel anything about it 
anymore. | want to be disgusted with myself, but | can’t. 


I’m too tired. We all are. We're still moving, but | don’t think we’re 
alive anymore. Able tries to keep everything going, never complains, 
carries the whole group on his shoulders, but its grinding him down 
and we can all see it. He isn’t who he used to be. Iris never talks 
anymore, and they can barely get her out of bed without pumping 
her full of drugs. She barely eats, barely sleeps, barely ever leaves 
her quarters. A few days ago | managed to catch her out in the hall, 
and when | asked if everything was okay, she just started crying. 
She’s making mistakes in the field: two weeks ago she forgot to refill 
her supply photographs, leaving us without any medical supplies or 
extra ammunition. | don’t know what to do. She won’t let anyone 
close enough to help. 


Clef’s had it worst, though. They have him under lock and key now. 
He’s become too unstable to let him wander around freely, they say. 


| still try to talk with him when | can, but...half the time he doesn’t 
seem like he’s there. When he is aware enough to talk... he scares 
me. The voices are getting worse, happening more and more often, 
and sometimes he can’t fight them back. He'll lose control and start 
spewing all sort of foul things, or he’ll curl up in a ball and beg to be 
put out of his pain. 


It hurts me to see him like this. | can still feel that much. 


| spoke with Director Dodridge on the way back here. He said that 
he’ll try talking to the Overseers again, try to get them to listen to 
sense and disband us, but | doubt it'll do any good. They never 
listen. 


What was the point of all this? This task force has the highest 
casualty rate in the Foundation. Was what we did against the 
Insurgency that impressive? Enough to throw us at every little thing 
that pokes its head above the ground? 


Why am | even asking this? It’s not like I’m going to get an answer. 
They’ve never answered it before, why would they do it now. 


I’m going to sleep. Hopefully someone will wake me up when all of 
this is over. 


June 22, 2003 


Iris killed herself last night. Slit her wrists. Snuck in a razor blade, did 
it right there under the covers, right under surveillance’s nose. 


| feel hollow. Not sad, not angry, just empty and numb. 
Wherever she is, it's probably better than here. 
June 23, 2003 


He did it. Jason did it. The Overseers saw reason, finally. 


Pandora’s Box is closed, six to one in favor. "Unacceptable losses", 
they said. 


It's still hard to feel happy, but | think | might. Just a little bit. 


lris’ funeral is today. It won’t be much, just a chance to say goodbye. 
Probably just going to be myself and Able and the chaplain. Clef 
won't be joining us. He’s having an episode. 


July 6, 2003 


Apparently they’re using what’s left of Mother to birth test subjects. 
Apparently they've been doing this for years and it was just now 
decided that | should find out about it. 


| say let them. If they want to have sex with a chunk of flesh from a 
dead goddess, by all means, go ahead. | don’t really care. 


August 15, 2003 


| had the displeasure of coming across Dr. Jack Bright today. I’ve 
managed to avoid him for some time, but my luck was bound to run 
out sooner or later. 


It's been so long since I've been truly angry... it feels good. 


The man is completely mad, and why he’s still around baffles me. 
He does nothing productive anything at all, has the maturity of a boy 
who has just figured out what sex is, causes headaches on a near- 
daily basis, and the Overseers outright refuse to get rid of him. They 
outright refuse to decrease his clearance, even. They just let him go 
on his way, completely untouched. 


Just wipe his memory, encase him in concrete and bury him 
somewhere and be done with him. I'd love to kick in his head myself, 
but he’d be back. He always comes back. 


No, death is too good for him. He wants that. Oh, I’m so sorry you're 
immortal boo-fucking-hoo, let me sing you a sad song fuck off and 
suck a nice fat horse cock. You don’t see Able or me doing this 
insipid attention whoring and blatant harassment routine. Take a 
fucking hint that I'm not interested or I'll kick you in the balls so hard 


you'll piss out your ass. 
sigh... 


I’ve filed a complaint with human resources. They said they'd take 
care of it. 


August 17, 2003 
Another entry on that damned list is not “taking care of it”. 
September 1, 2003 


| was able to talk with Clef today, and he was all there. No voices, 
no shouting, nothing like that, we just talked. It was like it used to be. 


| can’t believe how bitter I’ve become. Listening to some of my old 
recordings and all, | know | had a reason to be like that, but...| don’t 
know. It’s this place. It gets to you, drags you down into the muck, 
and it’s nasty and bitter and toxic and you just slog through the 
same trenches. If fills you until that’s all you know, just hate and 
anger and empty bitterness and you don't even realize it, until you 
step back and think about it a bit. 


It's not just me. It’s everyone. All the agents, all the researchers, 
everyone. We’re all completely mad. 


Clean Sweep 


Dr. Gears typed in a last sentence, clicked the "Send" button, then 
leaned back in his chair and allowed himself to feel a small amount 
of satisfaction at a job well done. Smoothing over the "blue on blue" 
incident with the GOC had been no mean task: tension between the 
two organizations had nearly reached the breaking point, but cooler 
heads had prevailed, and in the end, both sides had (unofficially, of 
course) agreed to let the past remain the past. Combined with the 
results from the latest security test (Excellent in all fields), the 
situation at Site 19 was possibly the calmest it had been in years. 
The lack of tension was an odd feeling, but not an unwelcome one. 


There was a low, electronic beep from his computer. Gears sat up 
straight and clicked on the incoming email. He scanned the contents 
and nodded. Just as he had expected. 


He left his office and walked to the reception desk, where the new 
secretary guiltily clicked away from the game of Solitaire she was 
playing. Gears gave her a reassuring nod, then reached over her 
shoulder to click on the intercom system. "Now, hear this," he 
intoned, over the site-wide Public Address system. "As of 10:48 this 
morning the O-5 Council has changed the Foundation-Wide Alert 
Status to Condition Green. | say again, as of 10:48 this morning, the 
F-W-A-S has been updated to Condition Green." He paused and 
licked his lips. "Standard protocols for Condition Green are now in 
effect. That is all." 


There was a moment of silence, followed by a youthful, energetic, 
"FUCK YES!" from the computer lab down the hall, followed by a 
chorus of laughter: not the strained, desperate laughter that usually 
was heard in these rooms, but loud, joyful, genuine laughs. 


The faintest hint of what could have been the ghost of a smile 
quirked Dr. Gears' thin, drawn lips, but just for a moment. 


Dr. Clef waited for the announcement to end, then nodded to the 
classroom, closed up his laptop computer, and turned on the lights. 
"I'll put the rest of the seminar online for you to see later," he said. 
"Dismissed." 


He left the classroom and walked, swiftly and with purpose, to his 
office the next wing over. He smiled as he took down the half-empty 
bottle of Jameson whisky down from the shelf, thought better of it, 
and went to the wall safe instead. After tapping in a twelve-digit 
combination of numbers and pushing aside the handgun and 
ammunition at the front of the safe, he pulled out a red velvet box 
containing a cut-glass bottle of Rémy Martin. He poured himself a 
small glass, toasting the world, then paused before taking the first 
sip. 


It didn't feel right to drink this alone. 


He gathered up the bottle and a couple of snifters, and was just 
opening the door when he saw a very surprised and rather startled 
Strelnikov standing in the hallway with a glass bottle in one hand 
and two tumblers in the other. "Dmitri. Just the man | was looking 
for. Come in, sit down. Help me drink this." 


"Only if you help me drink this," Dmitri said, holding up his own 
bottle. 


The two men sat down. Bottles were opened. Glasses were poured. 
Opinions were exchanged. 


"Seriously, Dmitri? Horseradish vodka? This shit tastes like rocket 
fuel." 


"Is a drink for men and soldiers. Not like this swill." 


"This swill happens to be Louis XIII Remy Martin cognac. It goes for 
over a thousand dollars a bottle, and it's smoother than the silk 
panties on a high class hooker." 


"Tastes like water. Liquor should burn as it goes down. It should 
hurt, so you know you're alive." 


"... are we talking about liquor or women here?" 


"There is difference?" 


"Maybe not. They're both best when they're ten years old and mixed 
up with coke." 


"HA! | prefer women like beer! The best ones give good head, eh?" 


"Yeah, but unlike women, people LIKE it when their beer is frigid." 
Clef laughed, then began to sing. "/ love my beer! There is no doubt! 
If beer is flat, you pour it out..." 


"Is not true. Flat women has their place too." 


"True. How about... Oooooh Danny Boooy... the pipes the pipes are 
caaalling..." 


"Fuck that gay bullshits," StreInikov growled, spilling some of his 
drink. "We sing a REAL song!" 


"FINE!" Clef snarled. The middle-aged man cleared his throat, then 
pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. Putting one foot up on his 
desk, rather unsteadily, he struck a rock-star pose, using his 
computer keyboard as a guitar, then half-sang, half-shouted, 
"WEEEEELL, IT'S ONE FOR THE MONEY" 


"TWO FOR THE SHOWS" Dmitri shouted back in reply, standing 
on the chair and miming an air guitar. 


"THREE TO GET READY AND GO CAT GOF they sang in unison. 
"But don't you step on my blue suede shoes. You can do anything 
but lay off of my blue suede shoes!" 


About an hour later, they'd drunkenly muddled through all the Elvis 
Presley songs they knew, had tried a little "99 Luftballoons" (but 
failed to remember the German lyrics), and were blearily belting out 
the Russian National Anthem in loud, drunken voices, when there 
was a knock on the door. 


"I'll gets it!" Clef slurred, and staggered to the doorway, opening it. 
"WHAT!?" he shouted, leaning against the door frame. "Oh. Hi, 
Karen." 


"I've been trying to reach you and Dmitri for the past twenty minutes. 
Why don't you answer your phone?" Secretary Break asked, 
irritably. 


"| tore my phone out of the wall last week," Clef admitted. "What's 
up?" 


"Emergency situation,” the stern-faced young woman said. "We've 
got a crisis in the lunchroom."