4. Incident -3c resulted in the deaths of numerous personnel. Of 
those, three (D-21943, D-21978, and Dr. Christopher ) were 
within twenty (20) meters of SCP-916 at the time of their deaths. 
These personnel have been identified as SCP-916-1-42, -43, and 
-44 respectively. SCP-916 was not directly involved. 


« SCP-915 | SCP-916 | SCP-917 » 


blusepth: ah hell noes 

jackomundo: nope 

Phenylalanine: No 

CoolGuy95: but, | thought you guys did post- 
phenomenological art? 

jackomundo: well yes 

CoolGuy95: i thought that was kind of AWCY?'s thing. 
Phenylalanine: We do post-phenom art, but we're not 
AWCY. You can't really be AWCY. It's like, a kind of 
meme really. 

blusepth: AWCY? is definitely not cool. 
Phenylalanine: Everyone is really damn tired of AWCY 
jokes. 

CoolGuy95: okay 

jackomundo: .tell AWritingDesk http: // 
i.imgur.com/bnCs3. jpg 

VanGogh: Acknowledged. 

Phenylalanine: So we've moved away from using 
AWCY in just about anything. It's an old, worn out joke 
that no one laughs at anymore. 

blusepth: Also, AWCY? kind of got used by people who 
used post-phenom art in a way we don't really approve 
of. Like Stendhal's Nightmare. What's the point of 
making beautiful art if people can't appreciate it without 
dying or going crazy? 

jackomundo: “ 

Phenylalanine: These days, not many people do much 
of that "edgy" crap. At least not in our little circle. 
CoolGuy95: | really didn't know all this, | just heard a 
little about AWCY and | thought it was interesting. | 
figured it would be a good way to expand my experience 
in art. 

Phenylalanine: Its fine 

jorgumander: yea, you're new here after all. can we see 
some of the stuff you've done before? 

CoolGuy95: Sure. let me dig some of this stuf up 
Epimonsterous has joined #post-phenomart 
CoolGuy95: it's not post-phenom, but here it is: 

http: //i.imgur.com/AD9Lz. jpg 

Epimonsterous: ooh are we reviewing art? 


jorgumander: not bad, but not good either 
Phenylalanine: | kind of like it, but it feels like it needs a 
lot refinement. 

blusepth: it needs to be in color, like psychodelic swirls 
and stuff 

Phenylalanine: Hey Epimon, we're just taking a look at 
this new guy's stuff. 

Epimonsterous: Eh. The shapes are a little lopsided, 
and your shading needs work. 

CoolGuy95: Is it really that bad? | mean, | know I'm not 
great but.... D: 

blusepth: keep practicing, its the only way to get better 
jorgumander: * 

jackomundo: background landscape would help too. 
CoolGuy95: thanks for the feedback guys 
Phenylalanine: You take criticism pretty well, that's 
good. 

CoolGuy95: thanks 

jorgumander: so people, today | put together a quick 
tutorial for people new to post-phenom. just a simple 
animated picture. 

jorgumander: http: //i.imgur.com/xsnISqj. jpg 
blusepth: lemme look 

jackomundo: the writing is kind of sloppy. 
Phenylalanine: | can barely read it, but | think | know the 
process you're describing. 

Phenylalanine: The one with the crystals and rat blood? 
jackomundo: yes 

Phenylalanine: That's a good one, tried and true. Still, 
you really need to improve your handwriting. Maybe use 
the text tool in Photoshop instead. 

CoolGuy95: it sounds interesting 

blusepth: jacko's tutorial is pretty hard to read, but itis a 
good technique for you to try out CoolGuy. 
jorgumander: yea, it is pretty simple and cheap. 
CoolGuy95: | think | will. | can read the tutorial well 
enough since my own handwriting is bad. 
Phenylalanine: It would be good for you as an artist. It's 
always a good idea to experiment in new mediums. 
CoolGuy95: I'll get started right away. | can get a mouse 


from the pet store down the road. 

Phenylalanine: One thing before you go CoolGuy. 
CoolGuy95: ? 

Phenylalanine: If you see the letters "SCP" in that order 
anywhere, on a truck, on a building, on someone's 
clothes, anywhere, drop what you are doing run. 
Phenylalanine: Run like you have never run before. 


Priorities 


Researcher Rose Labelle gave a heavy sigh as she entered one of 
many Site-19 interview rooms, slowly closing the door behind her. 
She waited a few seconds, then turned. Already sitting at the table 
therein was a skeletal, pale skinned cyborg. His cybernetic eyes 
reflected the light of the room, Labelle catching her reflection in their 
lenses as she sat down and quickly looked over the report she had 
been given. Eventually she looked up and frowned at the cyborg. He 
gave a smug smile in return. 


"To what do | owe the pleasure of this interview, Miss Labelle?" 
Anderson asked in his deep, metallic voice. 


Labelle remained silent and pulled out a series of photographs of a 
humanoid containment cell, barren and undecorated. In the first, 
Anderson was visibly coughing up several tiny scraps of metal onto 
the floor. In the next, the cyborg hastily set about assembling the 
pieces into something. The third image showed Anderson kissing a 
small spider-like drone made from the scrap parts, the drone 
glowing briefly at the contact. In the fourth, he set the drone down 
and let the creature crawl away. In the fifth, the tiny drone had 
vanished from the camera's view, and the thaumatological 
countermeasures in the cell began to glow, the walls of the room 
alight with bright runes and symbols. In the final shot, Anderson 
could be seen shaking in pain as the anti-magic field wracked his 
body. 


"We've been doing so well," Labelle sighed. "Years of good 
behavior. Years of cooperation, and in exchange we let you make 
repairs to your systems. Should have known you'd have used your 
components to pull some stunt like this." 


"What can | say," Anderson said with a shrug, "I'm an inventor. | 
invent." 


Labelle rubbed her temple in frustration. 


"I guess... | just don't see the point, Vincent," she finally said with 
another sigh. "Your commercially-made Amur drones can't get very 
far on their own, let alone one that's made out of paperclips and 
gum. I'm assuming the thaumatological effect you casted on it is 
weaker too, which means even if it gets to where you wanted it to 
go, it might fail upon arrival. There's going to be serious 
repercussions for this. They're moving you to a tighter security cell, 
with stronger thaumatological blocks. You're not getting any more 
components for yourself ever again." 


"Oh, I'm well aware of how hard you're set to crack down," Anderson 
chuckled. "I'll take that as it comes. This needed to be done. A 
message needed to be sent." 


"To who?" 


"Trade secret," Anderson grinned. "Sorry, Miss Labelle, but this is 
one ace that's staying up my sleeve." 


"We'll see, Vince." Labelle sighed and stood up. "You've got strange 
priorities. | hope that whoever is on the other end of the line for that 
Amur can appreciate all it cost you." 


"| can guarantee you they won't," Anderson's grin shrunk into a 
melancholy smile. "But, hey, what can you do?" 


Labelle shook her head, and took her leave. 


Erica Herring, now Erica Lister, stood on a hotel balcony, 
overlooking the central Oregon Coast. The last few days had been 
filled with so much excitement, that she was now finding it difficult to 
sleep. Behind her, in the darkness of the hotel room, her husband of 
three days could be heard snoring. She smiled to herself, and 
continued to listen to the waves crashing on the shore in the 
darkness. She closed her eyes, and took in a deep breath. 


When she opened them again, a small, ramshackle drone sat on the 
railing in front of her. 


She froze, her smile turning into a sad frown. It had been a while 


since the father who had abandoned her all those years ago had 
sent one of his little messengers. She eyed the drone cautiously. 


"You're a shoddy little thing, aren't you?" she said, and poked at the 
droid. The tiny robot sputtered and gave a little jerk. 


"Pzzzwrd?" The droid buzzed. 
Erica rolled her eyes. 
"My little inventor..." she sighed. 


The droid exploded into a fine silver mist. Erica coughed, attempting 
to catch her breath. As she wheezed, a voice entered the back of 
her mind. 


Hello, my little inventor... 
Erica froze. Her father's deep metallic voice sounded clear as day. 


| learned, through some distant sources, that you and Luke finally 
tied the knot. Congratulations. 


Erica closed her eyes, tuning in on the voice. She was tempted to 
bang on something around her to drown it out. 


This is going to be the last time I'm going to be able to contact you, 
Erica. My chickens have finally come home to roost, and there is no 
getting out of it. | just wanted to let you know how sorry | am. When | 
left you and your mother, | always justified it that it would keep you 
two safe. The world | entered was dangerous, and you two would 
likely get hurt. That was a lie. 


Truth be told, | couldn't chase the dream | wanted with you two tied 
to me, so naturally | cut the weight. And it worked. | soared so very 
high before it all came crashing down. I've had so much time to 
myself to think over these last few years, and in the end, | can tell 
you it wasn't worth it. You deserved so much better than me. Glad 
your mom found Tom, and he could be there for you. 


Erica tightly gripped the nearby railing. Her face turned into a scowl. 
Still, she kept listening. 


I'm not going to ask for your forgiveness. And you shouldn't give it. | 
just wanted to use this last chance to reach out and tell you how 
proud of you | am, and to provide one last gift. In your memories, 
once this message finishes, you'll have knowledge of a few bank 
accounts | set up under a dozen or so aliases. All in all, there should 
be over a few million in there by now. Drain them, and do anything 
you want. 


/ love you, Erica. 
Have a great life. 


As suddenly as it had started the voice stopped. Sure enough, in the 
back of Erica's mind, several memories popped up out of the ether. 


¢ Pin Numbers 

« Names 

¢ Bank Account Numbers 

* Security Questions 

¢ Branch Locations 

¢ Her name as a joint member on all the accounts. 


Erica's scowl vanished. She opened her eyes and looked back out 
over the ocean. 


"| fucking hate you..." Erica mumbled to herself. "You manipulative 
bastard..." 


Tears ran down her cheek. 
"You can't buy me..." 


« Assault on Site-64 | Anderson Robotics Hub | Family 
Disclosure Protocol » 


Programmed to Receive 


Faraway Voices Hub (TBA) | Showing the Way » 


Janice sighed as she settled back into the seat of her rental car. 
Behind closed eyelids, she wearily tried to wipe everything about the 
past several hours from her memory but found that the attempt 
merely recalled the tedium and annoyance with even more clarity. 
She slowly pried her eyes back open, took in and released several 
deep breaths, and started the car. 


People were the problem, really. They always were. 


Pulling away from the airport parking lot, she left the noise, mess, 
and chaos of her former fellow passengers behind to join the noise, 
mess, and chaos of her new fellow drivers on the highway. She 
knew her nerves should be jangling with every horn blast, sudden 
cut across her lane, and occasional traffic jam, but they had already 
been jangled to death during the coach-seating flight from Missouri 
to California and unexpected two-hour layover in Colorado. 


She wanted to find a hotel. Preferably one with soundproof walls 
and staff that understood that they were performing their job at peak 
efficiency if she never even knew they were there doing it, like the 
deftest of stagehands between scenes, completely unseen as they 
restocked her towels and placed tiny mints on her pillow. 


But, much to her dismay, her employers wanted her on-site 
immediately and for the duration of her stay. There would be no 
downy mattresses, no fluffy towels, no room service. There was only 
the red eye flight, the interminable drive, and the eventual arrival at 
the site halfway into an ungodly hour in the morning. 


Serenity Cove Psychiatric. Janice's eyes felt like they were sliding 
across ice from the moment she first spied the lettering emblazoned 
across the building in the distance. She could feel her brain rebelling 


against retaining memory of the name or building, wanting simply to 
believe that it was some kind of normal psych ward, nothing else, 
not worth noting or talking about. With the practiced ease born of 
Foundation training, she forced her eyes to focus and clamped down 
on her scattering thoughts. As much as she wanted to let the sign's 
soothing memetic effect tell her that Site-3408 was somebody else's 
problem, she had a job to do. 


Someone's itchy horn finger got the best of them as Janice moved 
into the far right lane. She fought and lost to the impulse to flip them 
off as they zoomed around her left side, then pulled into the short 
drive that led up to an automated security booth. Her Foundation ID 
slid easily into the provided slot, which spat it back out a moment 
later. 


The parking spot that had been temporarily assigned to her ended 
up being a bit more difficult to find than she would have assumed. 
Her original intent had been to simply look for whatever empty spots 
there were in the undoubtedly overcrowded lot and check each one 
until she saw her number-letter combo. The hope of not actually 
having to look up at the aisle signs was dashed when she saw that, 
aside from a handful or two of other vehicles, the massive lot was 
entirely deserted. It struck her as a bit odd given the size of the 
attached facility, but she quickly shrugged it off. It was early 
morning. The non-essentials were probably out getting coffee and 
donuts. 


Having finally found her spot, she pulled in, shut the car down, and 
threw off her seat belt and glasses. Her hands swiped across her 
eyes almost of their own accord as a cavern-deep yawn escaped 
her chest. Perhaps she could snag one of those coffees when 
everyone got in. She could dream, anyway. Throwing her glasses 
back on, she stepped out into the salty air. 


The car beeped twice, loudly, when she pressed the lock button on 
her key fob. The sound echoed oddly across the enclosed lot, 
bouncing around between the evenly-spaced palm trees that were 
softly swaying in the ocean breeze. Her boots thumped dully on the 
asphalt as she made her way toward the front entrance. A warm, 
floral fragrance hit her, and she breathed it in, letting it suffuse her 
system and calm her nerves a bit. 


Fewer people currently at the site was a good thing, she reminded 
herself. With any luck, she would be able to get in, get whatever it 
was she was supposed to be doing done, and get out with the 
minimum amount of human contact possible. 


A soft whir from overhead caused her to look up. A surveillance 
camera bolted just above the entrance was focusing in on her. 
Janice didn't smile or wave, and after only a few seconds of eye 
contact with the lens to ensure security got a good look at her face, 
she dropped her gaze back down. She stepped through the first set 
of double doors, then the second, something that always reminded 
her of going through an airlock. Which, undoubtedly, the small 
vestibule would operate as in case of an emergency. On the other 
side was a large waiting room with a wide counter lining the right- 
hand wall. 


"Good Morning, Miss Bell," the man behind the counter said, his 
friendly face beaming widely at her. "| hope you enjoyed your flight.” 


"Doctor Bell. And | didn't," she stated flatly. 


"Ah, I'm sorry to hear that. Maybe the flight back will be better. In the 
meantime, if you'll just have a seat, Director Wilson will be with you 
shortly." 


Janice frowned but nodded. She turned around and found that, 
aside from the receptionist and herself, the waiting room was 
entirely empty of people. Several plush chairs were arranged in rows 
while a few were set around small tables covered in various reading 
materials.