. An Overview of Foundation Journals Published in May 2017, 


So You Can Remember How Fucking Lucky We Were Then 


by other authors 


The One Thousand Deaths of Pastor Lewis Robinson: The 
Ethics of Repeatedly Drowning Baptists by Dr. Cimmerian 
The Ballad of Region 352 by Zolgamax 


These tales are not posted in chronological order. Open the 
collapsible for a chronological listing. 


+ Chronological listing 


1. January 1971 - Creation/discovery of SCP-2558 
2. 1977 - Discovery of SCP-2072 
3.19 - Creation/discovery of SCP-2172 


ONoOas 


. Vignettes 1, 2, 3, and 4 

. 2011 - Discovery of SCP-2972 

. | Double E 

. Vignettes 5 and 6 

. January 2013 - Operation Cannery Row: 


Document 2013§451A3 


. August 2014 - Kate McTiriss's Personnel 


File, SCP-2072, SCP-2558, SCP-2172, 
SCGP-2990-SCP-2272, sUP-2972 


. Fault Lines 

. Going Straight To Hell In A Lincoln Continental 
. The Hyacinth Hymnal 

. Vignette 7 

. Operation Cannery Row: Excerpts from the 


Foundation's Regional Print Media Archive 


. An Overview of Foundation Journals Published in 


May 2017, So You Can Remember How Fucking 
Lucky We Were Then 


Fault Lines 


Quinine’s bitter, sugar’s sweet! The music blared. It was the only 
way she could stay alert in the early mornings. 


Regional Director Kate McTiriss drummed her fingers on the desk, 
whiny lo-fi music playing out of her laptop speakers. She pushed the 
button on the radio again. 


“Outpost 2072, you're late for the sunrise check-in. Do you copy?” 


She heard only static and acoustic guitar. “Jeff, you can’t pull this 
shit, it’s 6:21, you’re almost half an hour late for check-in.” Director 
McTiriss sighed and paused her music, stepping out of her office 
into the bullpen, three tired agents monitoring news wires from all 
across North Florida. “Heads up, guys, we’re heading to Micanopy. 
Jeff’s not radioing in.” They looked relieved to have something to do. 
Solowski downed the last of his coffee and slipped on his 
windbreaker. He asked, “Permission to shoot him myself if we get 
there and he’s asleep?” 


“Provisionally granted. I’m driving. Houghton, let Atlanta know we’ve 
got a potential containment compromise on a Safe-class. Perez, get 
on the database on your phone and tell me if there’s been any news 
relevant to SCP-2072 recently.” 


They barreled down 441, through the early-morning prairie. The sun 
hadn’t been up long enough to burn off the thick fog, lending the 
well-worn horizon more mystery than it deserved, considering how 
many times this exact car full of these exact agents had made this 
exact trip. 


The doors on their Crown Vic closed with a satisfying slam that 
echoed through the woods. The pet cemetery that doubled as 
SCP-2072 was off a long dirt pathway, tucked deep in the timber by 


the Marion County line. The four defenders of fucking nowhere that 
made up Local Mobile Task Force 352-Lamedh — “Stump 
Knockers,” to their friends — tentatively edged their way towards the 
outpost. Houghton and Perez, guns drawn and tall frames crouched, 
flanked McTiriss and Solowski, carrying briefcases full of provisional 
containment supplies. Kate’s eyes darted from grave to grave. This 
place was unsettling even when there wasn’t a thick layer of fog. 


As they approached the one-window temporary office Jeff Pink sat 
in for 12 hours a day, they saw the security camera mounted on it 
shot to pieces. Kate heard Solowski mutter under his breath. “Fuck. 
Fuck. Fuck.” She gestured with two fingers towards the door, put her 
shirtsleeve around her hand (so as to not disturb any prints) and 
twisted the knob. 


When someone gets shot in the head in the movies, they get this 
perfect little circular hole and slump down. Christ-like, really, like a 
personal stigmata for the frontal lobe, Kate thought. Maybe it was 
just on her mind because she was clutching her rosary. Because in 
real life, there’s no pretty little hole. Field Agent Jeff Pink’s head was 
torn open. Brain and blood pooled on the ground, wall behind him 
splattered with viscera, mouth hanging open in an unrecognizable 
howl. Kate McTiriss felt that familiar bitterness in the back of her 
mouth, stomach flipping over. No matter how many times she saw 
this, it didn’t change. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” 


Kate radioed into Atlanta first, voice wavering more than she'd like. 
This was the first staff death since she took over the force. “We’ve 
had a Safe-class containment incursion, region 352, SCP-2072. 
Containment re-established but the info is out, scramble task forces 
near Montenegro with a focus on protecting 2072-Named 
individuals.” Next was Jacksonville for backup. “352-Zayin, send all 
free agents to Micanopy, we’ve had a 2072 breach and an agent 
killed.” 


There wasn’t a soul still around. Whoever did this got in, got what 
they wanted and booked it straight back to Hell. The tarps covering 
the 23 graves that seemed to predict every Prime Minister of 
Montenegro were still there, but the presence of amateur knots 


instead of Foundation-standard constrictors betrayed the purpose of 
the incursion. Solowski summed it up best. “Some Montenegrins are 
gonna try and fuck causality right in the ass.” 


The question was when. The answer was coming sooner than the 
under-staffed and under-rested agents of 352-Lamedh were quite 
ready for. McTiriss felt another lurch in her stomach, but this one 
wasn't nerves. It felt like all the air in her lungs was trying to escape 
and throw a Goddamn party on the way out. Her ears popped. 
Orientation told her about this feeling. It’s the feeling of nearby 
space folding in on itself. Or as her old boss put it, “It’s like Einstein 
and Rosen teaming up to gangbang you, Kate. It’s the feeling of 
your day getting a lot less fun.” 


Not that this day was any fun to start with. 


The four people standing lost their balance, stumbling with sudden 
vertigo. The air cracked like a whip and the sound rustled through 
the surrounding woods. The ground beneath one of the graves 
began to collapse, like the dirt was falling through a funnel. A hole, a 
perfect rectangle, formed in the ground, light pouring out of it. The 
pressure in everyone’s ears disappeared, they could stand up 
straight again. Kate approached the hole. She saw the image 
through it, light wood and large desks tilted at a strange angle. A 
figure was standing, clutching his heart, blocking her view. He fell 
backwards in the image and straight through the hole. Four North 
Florida agents stared at the suit-wearing corpse of a member of the 
Montenegrin parliament, slumped pathetically in the leaves. 


“What in the name of the ever-loving holy fucking mother.” She 
could hear screams in the room through the grave. A gunshot rang 
out, more screams. Kate turned to her men and gestured towards 
the hole with two fingers. They jumped in. 


i | ws | i 
DNM | Going Straight To Hell In A Lincoln Continental > 


Going Straight To Hell In A Lincoln Continental 


< Fault Lines | DNM | Operation Cannery Row: Document 
2013§451A3 > 


McTiriss, Solowski, Houghton and Perez stumbled, but landed on 
their feet. The ninety-degree shift in gravity upon jumping through 
the gravesite hole wasn’t pleasant, but ‘unpleasant’ was a fine 
working baseline for this day, all things considered. They were 
standing on the floor of the Parliament of Montenegro in... whatever 
the capital of Montenegro was, Kate thought. Men and women in 
suits and ties surrounded them, looking terrified and slack-jawed. A 
man in a jacket with a patch on the sleeve lay dead on the ground 
about twenty feet off from where LMTF 352-Lamedh emerged, 
looking like he shot himself. Standard murder-suicide, except the 
victim fell through a hole into a pet cemetery five thousand miles 
away. 


Kate crouched down and opened up her briefcase, switching on the 
signal jammer and putting in her earpeace, activating the emergency 
Foundation radio connection. She was on the line with International, 
and nobody else in this building had any contact with the outside 
world. She spoke softly into the mic, crowd still staring at her and 
her three compatriots in confusion, “International, this is LMTF 352- 
Lamedh, Director McTiriss speaking. I’m in the capital of 
Montenegro establishing preliminary containment on a spacial 
anomaly. Stand by for details, engaging in crowd control. Do you 
copy?” A crackly voice, barely making it through the jammer, 
responded. “Site-19 here. We copy.” She grabbed the fake badge 
she needed from the case and stood tall. Showtime. 


“Hello, folks, Interpol agent Kate McTiriss here.” She flashed the 
badge. “We’re the rapid response team. You are not in any danger, 
our manner of entrance was authorized by the European 
Commission in 1998. | understand all of you have just witnessed 


bioluminescent, powered by water and other nutrients. These plants 
glow a variety of colors, though most instances glow purple, blue, or 
green. This bioluminescent effect can be best seen at night or ina 
dark area. The effect is only active while the plants are alive. 


SCP-621, particularly its glow, seems to have a hypnotizing effect 
on humans, with numerous requests by personnel to store them in 
their personal offices, all of which have been denied. SCP-621 has 
varying effects on other animals. When exposed to bees, 
hummingbirds, or cross-pollinating animals, all of the animals 
subjected have preferred spreading the pollen of SCP-621 as 
opposed to other flowering plants, and due to its bioluminescence, 
are capable of doing this at night, increasing its rate of reproduction. 
However, when exposed to herbivores, such as deer or rabbits, all 
of subjected animals have actively avoided SCP-621. With a high 
fertility rate, a natural defense against predators, and a hypnotizing 
effect on humans, SCP-621 can be deemed a highly effective 
invasive species. 


Addendum 621-4: Upon further testing, SCP-621's pollen gives off 
a strong and pleasant aroma. SCP-621 is completely 
hypoallergenic, and when personnel with allergies are exposed to up 
to five (5.0) grams of SCP-621's pollen, personnel displayed no 
allergic reactions. 


When placed around other plants, SCP-621 supersedes the 
nutrients provided to other plants in order to fuel its 
bioluminescence. As a result, SCP-621 quickly drains the soil of 
nutrients and requires more water than all other plants in the Site 16 
greenhouse. Before being actively monitored by the Foundation, 
SCP-621 had uprooted multiple farming pastures, but because of its 
hypnotic qualities, nothing had been done to stop them. In addition, 
sympathizers actively watered the invading plants during their 
incursions. 


Although government agencies such as the USDA and EPA protect 
against these sorts of invasive species, said agencies have actively 
defended SCP-621 at the expense of commercial farmers. It may be 
of note that these farmers have since accepted the situation, citing 
SCP-621's aesthetic superiority to their own crops and their desire 
to protect SCP-621. The Foundation stepped in when SCP-621 


something very upsetting. We’re here to discover the facts and 
ensure justice is served, so I'll need everyone to remain calm and 
remain in the building.” Rapid-fire, authoritative bullshit, Kate 
thought. It’s how you go from press director to run a Task Force. 
Unlike usual, the crowd didn’t seem to be buying it, though. Most of 
them looked at her, confused and scared as ever. Her arms dropped 
to her sides as she realized her mistake with a sigh. 


“Okay, right. | need someone that speaks English to translate what | 
just said for everyone that doesn’t.” A young man in glasses, 
college-age and wearing a truly awful clip-on tie, stepped forward 
meekly. Kate acknowledged him with a nod. “Uh, I’m Ludovik Miani, 
legislative assistant.” He shook her hand, his palms sweaty. “Okay, 
super. Ludovik, tell the people what | just said.” He nodded and 
turned to the assembled Parliament. She thought back to her old 
boss again. Sometimes, Kate, you’ve gotta put your faith in local 
resources, even if they're miles from ideal. She stepped away from 
the kid, back to her team. 


Perez was clapping. “Great showing, Kate, me and the six other 
people here that could understand it really dug the speech.” 


She looked at him, wishing a glare could set his stupid grinning face 
alight. “Shut the fuck up, Oren. Titus, go back through and take 
pictures of the body. Come back with the unredacted list of 
SCP-2072 graves and a spare sidearm from the squad car, I’m 
feeling underarmed.” 


“Playing field agent, cute. If you ever actually get around to shooting 
a guy I’m sure you'll never shut up about it.” 


She hoped her grimace at that wasn’t as visible as it felt. She shook 
off the memory. “I need everyone to cut the backtalk. Three people 
are dead and / am in charge here, fuckos.” Titus Solowski, his 
anchor tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve, hopped back 
through the hole in the floor. Kate put her finger back up to the 
earpiece to work out a containment plan with International. 


“Forty-eight people, looks like.” Static for a few seconds in return. 


This is where the decisions the Ethics Committee wrung their hands 
about later were made. Three guys in a room in Site-19 were 
thinking on the number forty-eight, deciding the value of that many 
lives. Kate knew about International. Forty-eight was nothing 
compared to keeping the veil on. 


The Einstein-Rosen bridge was stable, displaying no abnormal 
radiation and a constant safe reality level. The other graves from 
2072 were blank, coffins empty, Solowski had informed her. This 
thing was neutralized, all the magic was gone from the place. The 
only problem, then, was these forty-eight Montenegrins that saw a 
man shoot their Prime Minister, shoot himself, and saw four deeply 
underprepared Americans jump out of a grave-shaped hole in the 
ground seconds after. The building had to go, International said. 


The crackling stopped. “Your call, Director. We’ve got the 747 
circling if you give the go order.” 


They pussied out. Kate bunched up her fists. Of course they did. 
They had an autopiloted 747 circling the fucking Parliament, ready 
to bring down the building, the witnesses, *and* set up the easiest 
cover story in the world. People always bought terror. 


But she had to say “go.” She had to be the one to kill forty-eight 
innocent people for the Greater Good. She drew in a breath, closed 
her eyes, and rocked back on her heels. 


afe|e 
EIGHT YEARS EARLIER 


It was an unseasonably cold morning in the District. Kate McTiriss, 
Press Attaché for the FBI, woke up well before sunrise with her 
fiancée in her arms and tears welling in her eyes. She’d cooked a 
nice dinner for Anne the night before, and the taste of the good red 
wine stuck in her mouth. This was her last chance to tell her, to say 
‘fuck you’ to the whole thing and put her life before work for once 
and for good. 


But she fucked up. And she had to make it right. She kissed Anne 
on the head and left their bed for the last time. She broke down as 


she stepped out, putting on her blazer like battle armor.