The video jumps. 


Now, leaning back again, palms on her knees. "To whoever's 
coming in after me. You've got a lot to pick up. We come in here, 
some of us born with the gift, others taught. But we’re all in here for 
a reason. Reason being there’s no one like us in the whole damn 
Foundation who can run the job like we do. You're going to see 
some shit, my friend. You’re going to loathe it. You’re going to go 
down screaming and try’na claw your eyes out, and when you're 
done, you're jolly well going to get back up and continue. Because 
you’re one of us now — the best of the best. So damn well act like it." 


Masa pauses, ruminating. 


"Y’know," she continues, "I used to tell Charlie, back when we were 
new — | told him, us all better be going to hell when we die. Y’know 
why?" She winks, and brings the camera close. 


"Because the devils will never know what hit them," whispers Jorge, 
along with the woman on the screen. He reaches up and pauses the 
tape just before it reaches the end. Masa’s face hangs in the frame, 
wry grin baring yellowed teeth, raw fire burning behind fierce blue 
eyes. 


"How long ago?" | ask. 
"Six months before you. Replacements here don’t come easy." 
"So how..." 


Jorge swallows. "A part of the wall had collapsed, and we were 
going to fix it. She did nothing wrong. Clara just did something we 
hadn’t seen before. Charles couldn’t shield her in time. Got the rest 
of us out safely, though. | asked how he did it, but he said it’d fry my 
brain to even try." 


"| see." | stare at the woman on the screen. | try to imagine what she 
was like when she was alive. | try to imagine what she would have 
been like in her final moments. Would she have been lucid, in the 
heart of the house? Would the fire still have burned even then, in the 
madness and the cold? 


"So ... do you all have a tape?" | ask. 


"Charles and Jo have tapes. | don’t know what to put on mine yet. 
And Rao isn’t going to leave one — he’d probably rise from the dead, 
and come back with his last words himself!" He enunciates that last 
sentence for dramatic effect. 


"Nope, that doesn't work,” | laugh. "You just sound scared that it 
might come true." 


He rests his head in his hands in mock preponderance. "That it 
might, that it might." 


| lean in with him. In front of us, Masa's face continues to burn. | 


reach for the set and turn off the screen. 
"So ... will | have a tape, too?" 


Now it's Jorge's turn to laugh. "Ha! Ha!" He throws his head back in 
a loud guffaw, baring his yellow teeth. "Not today, chica. Maybe next 
time. But you don't know what you're asking for." 


He smooths his hair down, composing himself. 


"Trust me. You really don't." 


Charlie comes in with Jorge and Rao around his shoulders, with Jo 
trailing behind. He's a mess now, with his undone hair hanging down 
his face drenched with sweat. A trail of dried blood cakes his upper 
lip from his nose. "The truck's still loaded," is all he says to me. He 
lets Jorge and Rao down onto the floor unceremoniously, then 
collapses between them himself. 


Jo enters last, dumping the discharged ward vests into the center of 
the room, then points towards the armoury. "Cleanse tags, six-pack, 
now." | nod, and fetch them for her as fast as | can. | throw them and 
she catches it, popping the first one out of its blister pack and 
unrolling it to its full length. She bites one end between her teeth and 
squeezes, coughing out excess thaumic energy that stains the rest 
of the tag dark brown. | pass the remainder to Charlie, who 
shambles up and onto the couch, biting two tags at once. With each 
of his coughs, | feel the air in the room become a little warmer. 


| move to do the same to Jorge. It's harder when he's unconscious, 
so | pinch the end and feed it between his lips. The working takes 
hold and slowly, the colour returns to his face. 


"Where's the new guy?" asks Charlie. There's tiredness in his voice, 
but also a wary concern. 


| shrug. "He went back to his room as soon as he was done. | didn't 
think he'd have much left to do anything else." 


"You know, he almost died," Jo says, kneeling down to administer a 


tag to Rao. The first one flushes black almost instantly, with an 
audible hiss; she yanks it out and puts a fresh one in its stead. 


"Who, the new guy?" | ask. 
Charlie raises a finger. "She means Rao." 


"| know the tags look like shit, but he'll hold fine. It's Jorge that took 
the brunt of it," says Jo. 


"| thought Jorge looked fine,” | say. 


"He didn't vent the batteries in time," groans Charlie from the couch. 
"Damn fool could've drained his aura flat if | hadn't got to him in 
time." 


Jo tugs the second tag free from Rao's lips. It, too, has been 
drenched pitch black. She gives him a third. This time, the stain 
bleeds a healthier-looking deep brown. "Well, it's only his third 
breach," she sighs. "You aren't him, Charles. He isn't us yet." 


"He'll have to be us anytime soon, Jo. There's only a couple more 
times we can keep doing this until we, you know." He lifts two 
fingers into a scissor shape, then cuts them across his forehead. 
Foundation tactical hand signal: cognitohazard, mind-affecting. 


Jo rolls her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic. So when's Molly going to be 
good enough, hm? Didn't you say you'd have her ready by May?" 


| raise my hand in protest. "Hey, I'm still here. And I've been 
practising. Don't drag me into this." 


Charlie smirks. "She's right. Leave the kid out of this." A sudden fit of 
coughing seizes him, throwing his head back. "Anyway, it's partially 
my fault as well. | should've casted the 102's to run remotely and 
focused on point defense." 


"Point defense? In that mess?" Jo chuckles. "You didn't burn out an 
entire class-four in vain just so you could show off.” 


"| swear it worked in the Christmas breach of '68. Cleaner discharge, 
too." 


Photographed Activity: Sitting at desk reading a stack of 
documents. 

Photo Result: Sitting on the branches of a tree, reading from a 
large book with an embossed cover. SCP-1457 appears to be 
perched on his head. 


Subject: Dr. Berggren 

Photographed Activity: Taking the first bite of a garden salad in 

the Site-19 cafeteria at precisely 10:54:00 AM. 

Photo Result: Laughing and eating salad with delta blues musician 
at precisely 10:54:00 AM. 


Subject: Research Assistant Fourier 

Photographed Activity: Facing the camera with an expression of 
mild contempt. 

Photo Result: Photograph appears to be plain white, except for the 
text "[EXPLETIVE REDACTED] YOU" printed neatly in the bottom- 
right corner. 

Note: Thanks. —Dr. 


Subject: Site Director Aktus 

Photographed Activity: Standing next to Researcher Conwell and 
Agent Navarro, discussing material related to SCP- 

Photo Result: Subject is standing between two men on what 
appears to be the top row of a section of bleachers, outdoors. The 
shortest of the men is laughing and pointing at something out of 
frame, the other has his hands in his pockets, and Aktus is smiling 
widely. 


Subject: Dr. Cimmerian 

Photographed Activity: Sitting at his desk reviewing containment 
procedures for SCP-2091. 

Photo Result: Dr. Cimmerian is shown on a dock with an 
unidentified lake in the background. Also shown is a man later 
identified as Dr. Cimmerian's late grandfather. Dr. Cimmerian is 
shown holding a large fish up for the camera while both men smile. 


Subject: Dr. Hu An 

Photographed Activity: Sending a text message to her colleague 
in regards to said colleague's complaints of overtime work. 

Photo Result: Dr. Hu An is pictured with her two younger brothers 


Jo shakes her head and smiles at me. "Maybe one day you'll be like 
him. Though | dearly hope not." She plucks the last tag out of Rao's 
mouth and crumples it up with the other used ones. "Come help me 
move him to his bunk." 


"Yes, ma'am." 


"And Charles, when you're done moping you go right on and move 
Jorge back to his. Make sure to check for those burns." 


"Fine, fine." Charlie pinches the bridge of his nose and snorts into 
his used tag, clearing out the last of the congealed blood. "Just 
make sure someone clears out the truck before we go to sleep." 


Jo doesn't reply. She picks up Rao's body from below his armpits 
and motions me towards his feet. Together, we hoist him to his room 
and place him down on his cot. He is somehow much lighter than | 
imagined, even considering his meager frame. 


"He's right, you know," whispers Jo to me, once we are out of 
Charlie's sight. The door is ajar, casting yellow light in a narrow strip 
over Rao's cot. 


"About what?" | ask. | reach over and rearrange Rao's legs so that 
they lie evenly on the cot, then drape the thin yellow blanket over 
them. 


"This job. Between the three of us, | mean. Each time we go out to 
put her back in, it takes years off our lives. And we don't have many 
of them left. You know that, don't you?" 


"Is that why he's here?" | ask. 
"Doctor Lim?" Jo's voice drops ten degrees. 
"You've listened to him." 


"Well, we did and we do. He's a professional, and knows what he's 
doing." 


"Why doesn't he talk to us? He's only a month newer than | am. Why 
him and not me?" 


Jo averts my gaze. "I think, over the years - it's something we've 
found - when you have a group of diverse people who need to work 
together - it's hard to find the strength to trust sometimes, especially 
when the world hangs in the balance. It's a gradual process." 


| shrug. "| don't see you making more the effort to bring him into the 
loop, either. He's just - there. And you still listen to him and 
everything, but he's still just this - guy." 


In the light of the door, Jo's face looks far older than | remember. 
Eyes, tired lines. "It's not an easy job, Molly," she mutters. "Some 
people adapt better than others. We take what we can, and that's 
the best we can do. You take first shift, okay?” 


| accept the diversion. "Sure thing, ma'am. I'll see you in the 
morning." 


She smiles. The door closes slowly behind her. 


From inside the hut, it's impossible to tell wnen day breaks. The 
hut's a standard-Foundation-issue end-of-the-world concrete bunker 
- windows are a luxury that safety cannot afford. Even now, waking 
up starts a kind of panic in me that | shouldn't have stayed as long 
as | did - that it's too late, somehow, and the world has gone up in 
flames and dust without me. 


That morning, a dreamless sleep. 


| wake up on the couch. | don't know how long I've slept. have no 
memory of sleeping there, but | assume from the way I'm dressed 
that | must have passed out during my watch. The ventilation's shot, 
and a quick walk around shows that I'm alone, with the exception of 
Rao, still as a stone, lying face-up in his bunk. The door next to his 
remains locked (and silent - Jo must have finally found the peace for 
sleep) so | loop around the back of the armoury and take the stairs 
up to the roof. 


| smell coffee as | poke my head through the hatch. It's Jorge, picnic 
mat and all, looking none the worse for wear after last night's run. 


But | can see the cracks: his hands move just a little too slowly, 
stirring the coffee in his mug, and his eyes are lined with red rings. 
Jorge's injuries are more evident. His shirt is off, and trails of grayed 
skin peek from under the bandages on the sides of his chest. 


"Buns?" he asks, holding up a half-filled plastic lunchbox. It's the last 
of the supplies from the week's drop - pineapple jelly rolls that Jo 
called in from a friend back in Site-20. 


| laugh. "Taking Jo's treats? | see it's a special occasion." 


"Being alive is a special occasion," he says, moving over to make 
room for me on the mat. | sit and stretch my legs out, leaning on my 
elbows. 


"Where's Mum and Dad?" | ask. 
"| think they went for a walk. The truck's not downstairs." 
"Huh." | take a bun from the lunchbox and nibble it. "Any idea why?" 


"Nope. Probably felt they needed some air. It's not every morning 
that's like this." 


He's right - it's warm, almost pleasantly so, or at least as warm as it 
can be on the moors - and there's not a hint of clouds in the sky. 
The last dregs of morning fog hang over the horizon, motionless. | 
bask and take in the rare sunshine. "Last night treat you alright?" | 
ask. 


"Eh. It's been worse. | swear Charlie had it worse than | did. | don't 
know how he does it and still has the nerves left to drive us all back. 
There's no way he didn't pull a muscle in his head last night keeping 
all of his spells in order." 


"Oh?" | recall Charlie on the basement feed, hands braced against 
the aether, field lines curling around him like water. 


Jorge seems to read my mind. "You couldn't see him up close," he 
chuckles. "Old man was damn near speaking two words at once, if 
it's even a thing possible. Fuck!" 


"Well, Charlie said you almost died." 
"Yeah? Okay.” 
"You don't seem very worried about it." 


Jorge doesn't respond. He finishes the rest of his breakfast in 
silence. The lunchbox empties. At length, he gets up and tips back 
his mug, letting the remainder of the brown sludge drip onto his 
tongue. 


"Worry's a difficult word to put together. You were at the consoles 
with the new guy last night - were you worried that the world was 
going to end?" 


"Sure, but not really. The threat was immediate, and it's over. But 
they tell me you can't take much more hits like this." 


"No one can, chica," he shakes his head sadly. "No one can." 


| lean my head back and rest it against Jorge's lap. We watch the 
sun rise over the moor, feel its warmth seep into damp concrete. 
The fog is thinner now, spreading up over the ground, and upon 
seeing it obscure our view | try to sweep it away with my palm. Jorge 
chuckles. 


And yet the fog does not lift. Even as the sun rises, it clings to the 
edge of the water, then climbs onto the bushes and into the jagged 
tops of trees. Still, stubborn and unyielding. 


As much as we watch, it remains. 


Jo and Charlie come back a little while later. | hear them before | 
see them, the truck's characteristic put-put chugging in from the long 
road beyond the woods, and | have the garage open before they 
arrive. 


Charlie is holding something wet and small by the neck. "A rabbit," 
explains Jo. | nod. Can't blame him for having a diversion here and 
there, after all. There isn't much else to do here. 


We have things to do. In the pantry, | hear the spreading of a plastic 
sheet. While | dust down the armoury shelves | hear Charlie prepare 
the carcass, a low humming tune on his lips. The sound of slicing, of 
pocketknife digging into meat. Running water. Soon, the buzz of the 
induction cooker. 


Meanwhile, | run through our stock of sigils - workings, batteries, 
and sinks - looking out for the black spots signalling impurity, the 
white spots signalling discharge, the smeared ink signalling water 
damage. | skim through the blank tags just to check if they're there, 
as well as the accompanying stash of emergency Sharpies. | check 
the lights. | count the tools, categorically, in the five plastic-shell 
toolboxes. | test their clips, make sure that they stay fast. 


| dig into the cupboard and bring out old sigil vests into the garage, 
where | spray them down with a hose. Jo, in sweatpants and work 
shirt, helps me hang them up to dry. She tells me she will put them 
back later. In the hut, | ding the alarms, yelling "Test!" before | do, 
and "Clear!" when I'm done. 


Busywork, prayer beads for the mind. In the pantry, Charlie 
continues to cook the rabbit - bubbling of sauce in pan. Sizzle and 
pop. All is well. 


By noon, he is done. | hear scraping of cutlery, footsteps to the 
armoury. He catches me with my hands wrapped in wiring. "You 
hungry, kid?"