Site 122 automated optical recognition log of observations of 
emergences through SCP-1322 


Timestamp: 08.24.2016 05:33.06.00803244Z 

Reference: Incident 50738C 

Emergence: 2300 (+ 150) count of bullet-shaped metallic objects, 
typical mass 575g (+ 100g) over period of 3.6 seconds, at velocities 
ranging from 80 m/s to 110 m/s. 


Timestamp: 08.24.2016 05:33.09.20982120Z 

Reference: Incident 50738D 

Event: Explosion of at least 70% of Incident 50738C objects and 
emission of gas cloud. Automated analysis indicates 88.4% 
probability that Incident 50738C objects are miniaturized 
compressed-gas canisters. Miniaturized drones dispatched to collect 
samples of gas for analysis. 


Timestamp: 08.24.2016 05:33.10.18232811Z 

Reference: Incident 50738F 

Emergence: 850 (+ 70) metallic objects of various sizes, at 
velocities ranging from 10 m/s to 18 m/s. 


Vijay Patel stared out of Location 9's porthole and drummed his 
fingers listlessly against the glass. There was nothing to see. He 
sipped water from a plastic bottle. It tasted faintly of urine. The filters 
in the recycling system were probably long past their useful life. 


"Computer?" he mumbled. 


After a few seconds, it responded. "Yes, Dr. Patel?" The system's 
software agent had been designed to distribute computing tasks 
over a large network of interconnected computer systems. But with 
only Location 9's local computer network available, the system ran 
far more slowly. 


"Give me a status report of all living Foundation personnel." 


A few seconds of awkward silence. "Sta-a-a-n-d-b-y-y-y", the 
computer chirped. Patel waited, and took another swig of piss-water. 
He glanced around to see whether there was another bottle of 
booze in the cabin. There wasn't. He had probably consumed the 
last whisky in the universe during his last bender. The silence 
stretched on. Occasionally there would be moments of subtle white 
noise, as if the speakers were connected to an open mike but no 
one was speaking. Finally the computer replied. 


"You are the ranking Foundation personnel on this station. You are 
the only Foundation personnel on this station. No other Foundation 
facilities are responsive to communication at this time." 


The same reply he had received to this question the last time he had 
asked it, and the time before that, and the time before that. It had 
been at least two weeks since... since the last time he had spoken 
to another human soul. 


"Give me.... give me a status report of... a status report of all living 
human beings." 


"Stand-and-and-and-by-y-y," it stuttered innumanly. Patel pushed 
his hands against the wall and idly drifted to the other side of the 
cabin. In the low lunar gravity, he found it easy to succumb to 
laziness and move about the cabin by drifting rather than walking. 
But he forgot about momentum, and sprained his wrist when he tried 
to stop moving. "Fuck." He smiled wryly to himself and wondered 
whether the computer would interpret that as an instruction. 


"The human population is estimated at five. Besides you, Dr. Patel, 
there are four crewmembers aboard the International Space 
Station." 


Again, no change. And there was no way of contacting the ISS, 
even if he wanted to. After the incident, the station had drifted off in 
more or less a straight line, and was now somewhere in space on 
the wrong side of the moon. 


"Have you completed your analysis of the data from the last Site 122 


incident?" 


"Yes, Dr. Patel. Woo-o0-oud you like to hear-ear-ear-ear my 
report?" 


"Um, sure." 


"Analysis indicates 72% probability that Incident 50738F objects 
were tuning forks which generated SCP-1012 event within the 
containment chamber." 


Another long silence. Patel exhaled. Hartle had found a way to win 
the war, just like they had promised. 


"Computer, estimate duration of, um, remaining availability of 
breathing gas, uh, based on current supplies and, uh, best case 
maintenance situation." 


It kept him waiting for maybe an hour or so before replying. Twenty- 
two days, more or less. It would have been less than half that, had 
Garcia not already gone and euthanized himself with most of the 
known universe's remaining pain medication. Perhaps he ought to 
open the pod bay doors, release the air and get it over with quicker. 


Patel looked through the porthole again, at the empty spot where the 
Earth, and everything else that he had ever cared about, were 
supposed to be. The sun was slipping below the western horizon. It 
was nothing like the sunsets back home- no spectacle of pinks, 

reds, oranges and purples in their contest against the blue sky, no 
decrescendo of twilight. Here, as the last limb of the solar disc 
dipped below a crater wall, a zebra-stripe pattern of bone-white 
moon dust contrasted with shadow, and an instant later, all was 
utterly black. 


Time passed, silently. 


MTF Sigma-66 Post-Mission Psychological Evaluation 


Via Davis (Current Foundation Personnel) 


Davis: | can't believe you're making me sit in for one of 
these. 


Dr. Arthur Howell: The supervisor is still a member of the 
team, Ms. Davis. 


Davis: Missus. I'll play along. Get it over with. 


Howell: During the operation, you gave the order to 
prioritize the detonation of the explosive charges over 
the preservation of the task force, despite detonation 
being a non-required secondary objective. Why did you 
make that decision? 


Davis: Because it was up to me. 
Howell: What was your reasoning? 


Davis: | don't know if you were informed on the nature of 
the task force they stuck me with, but they're not trained 
Foundation soldiers. They're prisoners we've already 
pumped for information. This is what our bosses do with 
them because they're slightly too useful to execute. 


Howell: So you view them as tools. 

Davis: Oh, they're a bunch of tools, alright. 
Howell: How's your marriage doing? 
[Davis remains silent.] 


Howell: You said you're a missus, right? 


Davis: | did. I'm the only married member of the team. | 
don't think any of the others are even capable of forming 
interpersonal bonds. Have you seen the so-called art 
we've had to scrape off the walls of the hipster girl? My 
lord, did she smuggle in a blood bank? 


Howell: | hope this disregard for the value and safety of 
others is strictly in a professional context. 


Davis: You nasty little... Listen, Doctor, you can get into 
my head all you want. Make whatever judgments about 
me you like. | know who | am. The people you work for 
know who | am. That's why they stuck me here with the 
human waste products. I'll play along with what games 
you have planned. But | swear to God in heaven, | will do 
what | can with the power I'm given to ruin you as a 
professional and a human being if you do not leave my 
wife out of it. 


Howell: | understand. Let's move on... 


Dominic Alvares (Former Serpent's Hand 
Member) 

Howell: Alright, Mr. Alvares. 

Alvares: Just “Alvares”. 


Howell: Okay, Alvares. Your part of the mission was to 
set the— 


Alvares: [tapping his fingers on the table next to him] The 
perdition charges. 


Howell: That's right. Then, when the facility went into 
lockdown and the two squads were separated, you, 
Simmons, and Grenich— 


Alvares: Hotwired their teleport system and rigged it to 
take us all out. Yeah. 


doorways and landing as they move further down the 
stairs.> 


Agent Washburne (T1L): Trapper Home, be advised: 
I'm starting to smell something rotten down here, and it's 
pretty strong. Something's been dead for a while... stand 
by... Team, halt. Home, I'm looking at some shredded 
clothing down here. No bodies, just the clothes, and 
nothing that looks like our man. There's the cop... 


Agent Hoskins (T1): Jesus man, look at that... it looks 
like something just took a huge bite outta that vest... 


Trapper Home: Lock it up down there, One. Washburne, 
get back on track. 


Agent Washburne (T1L): Copy, Home. Trapper Two, 
watch yourselves. Something around our pos has an 
appetite, and it looks like it's got a pretty mean bite. 


Agent Michaels (T2L): Solid, One. We're almost done 
up here. If our Agent's here, he's down there with you 
guys. We'll be down as soon as we- 


<A muffled human voice is audible through Agent 
Washburne's VOX feed, unintelligible and distant.> 


Agent Washburne (T1L): One and Two, freeze. 
<Unknown source: Help me! Jesus Christ! Somebody!> 


Agent Washburne (T1L): Home, Two, | think we've got 
our man. Hustle up, people. 


<Trapper One can be heard moving quickly through the 
structure. The cry for help is again audible.> 


Agent Washburne (T1L): Home, we've reached the 
source of the noise. We're about to get our Agent back. 
Two, have Doc prep the trauma bag; this guy sounds like 
he's in bad shape. Hoskins, do it! 


Howell: Why do you keep finishing my questions for me? 


Alvares: [tapping more quickly] Because you take too 
long to ask them. You know you can't send me out with 
those assholes if you bore me to death. 


Howell: Okay. How did you feel when Mrs. Davis ordered 
you to not to leave the bombs? 


Alvares: How do you feel when someone literally orders 
you to fuck off and die? 


Howell: | see your point. So you— 


Alvares: | mean, don't bullshit me on this. She thinks 
she's the big dog and she can just go “yap yap yap” and 
we'll gladly blow ourselves up. People like her have been 
fucking with me all my life. I'm talking grade-school 
teachers, probation officers, this fucking 800-year-old tick 
on my balls that no god or man can yank off. Same 
species. 


Howell: It sounds like you have a history of blaming— 


Alvares: Other people? Everyone's looking to fuck me 
over. Everyone | meet... and | don't say this lightly, | 
mean literally every people I've met... has some use 
they're trying to get out of me. You're gonna take me 
through it and twist my words and make it look like I'm 
out of my mind with paranoia. Like I'm wrong about 
everything | know. Then you win. 


Howell: | just want to find out how you're feeling. 


Alvares: [cracking joints in his hands and arms] Pissed? 
Is that a good enough diagnosis or do you want a 
textbook word for it? | get the whole “order through 
eternal prison” gag. You didn't invent it. But to do that, 
and then stick me on a hit squad with a failed bureaucrat, 
a nurse, some kind of mall-goth terrorist, an angry 
teenager, and a magic plumber — the only one of you | 


could respect, by the way, and he's dead — and | get a 
strong inclination that I'm the only one who had any idea 
what | was actually doing out there, blowing up army 
wizards with bombs you stole from terrorist wizards. Not 
to impugn your four years of medical school or anything, 
man. 


Clara Berlot (Former Are We Cool Yet 
Member) 

Howell: Let's start, CI— 

Berlot: My name is [shouted] Aries! 


Howell: Alright, Ms. Aries. Hmm. It says in your record 
that you were born in February. 


Berlot: First off, fuck you. Second off, yeah, I'm a Pisces. 
So what? 


Howell: Then why Aries? 
Berlot: Because | will ram a fucker. 


Howell: | understand that you were on the half of the task 
force which obtained the location of the project being 
targeted so that the other three could place the charges. 
But while you were headed to rendezvous with the rest 
of the team, you were stopped by a GOC agent who 
wanted to check on you, correct? 


Berlot: Oh, the fucking... army wizard? The beady-eyed 
asshole with the mustache? The guy who was all “can | 
help you, ma'am” in that piggy voice he had? 


Howell: Yes. 
Berlot: Nope, no idea who you're talking about. 


Howell: | understand that, when you didn't answer and 
he became suspicious, you shot him with your silenced 


pistol in the stomach and head and kicked his body into 
the nearest storage room. Why did you make this 
decision? 


Berlot: Because | live for the approval of angry lesbians. 
Howell: Can you elaborate? 

Berlot: Chicken butt. 

Howell: Excuse me? 

Berlot: Oh, | thought you said “what?” 


Howell: Are you saying that you're attracted to Mrs. 
Davis? 


Berlot: [laughs for two minutes and fifteen seconds] Do | 
look like I'm into women to you? 


Howell: | can't really tell by looking. What is your 
orientation, if | may ask? 


Berlot: Can't lie, doc. I'm only attracted to blood. Not the 
rest, just the red gushy stuff. Know what that makes me? 


Howell: What's that? 
Berlot: A hemosexual. 


Howell: Interesting. | was looking over the background 
information that the Foundation gave me about your 
past, and | was interested in how much your behavior 
has changed between now and a year ago, while you 
were working toward a gallery exhibition. Your interviews 
portray you as kind and emotionally open. Has anything 
in particular happened since to change the way you 
approach people? 


Berlot: A lot of people ask me, am | afraid of death? Hell 
yeah, I'm afraid of death. | don't want to die yet. A lot of 
people think that | worship the devil. That | do all types of 


TARDIS shit. Look, | can't change the way | think. And | 
can't change the way | am. But if it offended you, good, 
cause | still don't give a fuck. 


[On later research, this and all of Ms. Berlot's 
subsequent answers for the rest of the session were 
found to be partially-remembered lyrics from the album 
The Slim Shady EP by Eminem.] 


Howell: Interesting. So do you think that your changes in 
mood have been brought on by a fear of your own 
mortality? 


Berlot: I'm zoning off the joint, stopping a limo. Cop in the 
window shopping a demo at gunpoint. A lyricist without a 
clue, what year is it? Fuck a needle, here's a sword, 
body fierce with this. Living a month, never giving a fuck. 
Give me the keys; I'm drunk and I've never drivena 
trunk. But | smoke dope in a crab. I'll stab you with the 
sharpest knife | can grab. Come back the next weekend, 
re-open your scab. 


Isaac Grenich (Former Chaos Insurgency 
Member) 


Howell: How are you feeling, Mr. Grenich? 
Grenich: It's Mister Grenich. 
Howell: That's what | said. 


Grenich: Really? Huh. |.. uh... how I'm feeling? Yeah, no, 
| can tell you. So there's this story that Aleister Crowley 
used to tell, more like a joke, about being in the back of a 
cab. No, wait. It was a train. Or a traincar. Or is that the 
same thing? So, this train, | mean, uh, Crowley, he 
says... no, wait, first he has to go there. Hold on, | can 
remember it. 


[Mr. Grenich's full response has been excised for length 


and relevance.] 


Grenich: So he says, “That's fine, my brother's an 
invisible snake!” No, wait, his brother is trying to catch 
the snake. | fucked it up. But, yeah, | think that sums up 
my mood right now. 


Howell: Interesting. Your role in the mission, according to 
my field notes, was essentially to be conspicuous on the 
record as a member of the Insurgency. You used the 
teleportation system with a faulty ID and you and Alvares 
worked on those stolen bombs together. How do you feel 
about that? 


Grenich: Not sure. Well, sure, | Know everything I'm 
feeling, but that's hard to sum up in a sentence. | can say 
that I'm not happy with being placed as bait. | know that 
much. But at the same time... it made me the most 
important person on the team by a mile. Which is a good 
place to be. Under certain circumstances. | remember 
one weekend, the dreadlords thought my wing did a 
good job, so they gave us the mummified remains of... 
not Jim Morrison, but one of the Doors. And so we set 
about the business of disassembly and reappropriation. 


Jeff Simmons (Former Richard and Sons 
Gateway Service Member, Deceased) 


As Mr. Simmons was lost during Mission 2-66-11, there is no post- 
mission interview with the late agent. In its stead, here is a second 
excerpt from the “Alvares” interview in which the agent describes Mr. 
Simmons. 


Howell: You said that you respected Mr. Simmons. Can 
you expand on that?