A man with the most sunken face imaginable waited for him. His 
time at the observatory had aged him horribly, with his eyes trying to 
recede in the back of his head, while the bags under his eyes almost 
made him look like a turkey. By the looks of things, this was mostly 
self-inflicted. Papers and office utensils were strewn haphazardly 
across the room. The desk was littered with enough cups of coffee 
that, cumulatively, could probably kill an elephant. Maybe the whole 
circus. The junior agent eyed the date of the paper closest to him, 
nailed to the wall with a poorly thrown dart. Dated less than a week 
after he'd received the notice. The man was just doing everything he 
could to prove the universe wrong, and failed miserably. 


Tennyson took a seat, having not received an invitation to and 
forced out the words he had recited in his head for hours in the car 
journey over, desperately trying not to stammer. 


"Dr Brophy, my name is Junior Agent Tennyson, from the 
Department of Internal Affairs. As per Subsection 14 of the False 
Alarm Protocols, | am here to inform you of the actions being taken 
with regard to your designated project. The Ethics Committee has 
reviewed your case and has ultimately decided to proceed with a.. 
withdrawal action." 


Dr Brophy had remained eerily still and non-emotive since 
Tennyson's entrance. The only indication that he was alive at all 
came from periodic blinking, which were rather relieving, albeit brief, 
respites from his glacial stare. 


Tennyson solidified his stance and continued. "The time has come 
to face facts, sir. Your anomaly has yielded no anomalous activity 
for an unacceptable period of time. It has been determined that the 
message produced by Glieces-2554 could well have been an 
improbable coincidence-" 


"So it's already lost its SCP designation, then" the interviewee 
interrupted in the most accusative tone he could conjure. This was 
followed by what could only be described as the halfway-point 
between a grumble and a growl. He was moving dangerously slowly, 
like a leopard analysing his options, judging whether to go for the 
neck, or the kidneys. Tennyson was in the nitty-gritty now. If he 
didn't tread careful, there would be an explosion on his hands, and 
he rather liked his way his hands looked at this moment in time. 


"The anomalous message deciphered from the pulsar's radio waves 
has only ever been observed once. The costs of maintaining a 
facility to monitor further activity is becoming increasingly unfeasible. 
Surely, after all this time, you didn't think actions wouldn't have to be 
taken?" Glieces' message had been discovered when there was a 
lot more money and much fewer monsters to be locked up. A pulsar 
beaming "THR RUSHINNS NOW UF US.. (21-minute pause) 
BRNGG NICCXON" would've dropped down the priority list 
eventually. The doctor shifted his weight in a bored fashion. 
Whatever energy he had, had clearly been wasted in the 
development of this mess. That didn't stop the waves of impatience 
he seemed to be emitting. 


"Don't mind me, young man" a severely drained voice croaked. 


"Though if | could ask you to bring me my reading glasses from over 
there? | would, but-" a demonstrative shrug, "I don't think I'm in any 
state to go anywhere." 


Could hardly argue with that. Tennyson dropped his papers and 
made his way to the cluttered cabinet Brophy had indicated. After a 
few seconds of rummaging, Tennyson decided to confront the fact of 
what he was doing. 


He was stalling, and he knew it. 


He was ashamed of himself, unbelievably so. He was an employee 
of an elite organization dedicated to the protection of normalcy, and 
he was procrastinating, no, cowering before an old man, who 
probably couldn't kill anyone if he tried, even if he was sufficiently 
motivated. And being a man famous for being proud of his work, 
debunking his entire life was alarmingly powerful motivation. 


It was that pride that was responsible for Brophy's continued 
presence in the observatory. The man would be a great addition to 
any research team, provided he was kept behind soundproof glass 
and gagged. Sadly, he seldom was, and many a newbie cowered 
when his towering standards weren't met. But better a trainee than a 
partner, at least in the eyes of his associates. The observatory held 
a thinly-veiled reputation as a "jumping-boara" facility, where 
astronomers could find their space legs, before they started charting 
the unknown. Brophy's own teaching talent was his downfall in this 
respect. Nobody could beat astronomy into the minds of students 
like he could. All he had was Glieces to keep him busy, and any 
other side-projects consisting of more than him were briskly shot 
down and swept under the rug. 


"What is this, this part right here?" A puzzled Tennyson immediately 
wheeled around to find a significantly more agitated-looking Brophy, 
pointing to a sensitive area of the documents he had foolishly left 
unguarded on the desk. The agent's eyes widened, while his 
stomach decided to pop in and say hello to his intestines. 


"Project Heimdall have certainly been busy, haven't they, -" his eyes 
now very visibly bloodshot, "letting access to their equipment very 
early on, | see. Uh-huh. Kind enough to send a bit of tech to Glieces 


and found.... nothing. Not so much as a whisper of psychic 
potential." 


Brophy let out a laugh that was dangerously close to a mad cackle. 


"Why if | had known earlier, | might have taken a gander at it, it 
might have saved you and me a bit of time. Well, a couple of hours 
for you, and-" he glanced exaggeratingly at the papers " six years for 
me. Funny how they never thought to inform old Brophy about that 
little development, don't you think? 


So much for breaking it to him softly. 


Now feeling a lot less in control than he would have thought 
possible, the agent assessed the decaying remains of the situation. 
There was the "just-in-case" argument that was ever popular with 
this sort of dispute, and had the added benefit of being the truth, but 
somehow Tennyson doubted that telling a senior member of 
scientific staff about logical redundancy would do anything to avert a 
rampage. The "just-doing-your-job" speech he composed on the 
way over sounded more like consolation at this point, not a solution. 


"Well, young man, I, for one, believe enough of our time has been 
wasted." At this point Brophy's might as well have been ona 
promotional poster for Bedlam. Reaching out for a pen, he began to 
sign every conceivable area his name could be plastered, 
regardless of whether it was required or not. "You've accomplished 
what you set out to do. You may leave me in bloody peace." A hand 
plagued by uncontrollable shaking indicated the exit. An out had 
been given. Tennyson weighed his options and the Coward gripped 
the door handle and promptly exited. 


It had taken less than two seconds for Tennyson to regret his 
gutless decision. But what could one say to someone now 
convinced he had wasted countless years of his life, chasing a 
phantom? Not even a real one, the Foundation had plenty of those. 
A cruel trick of the universe, a heartless coincidence, had cheated 
Alister Brophy out of a meaningful existence. A young woman, an 
intern, maybe, eyed Tennyson as he descended down the concrete 
steps. He had seen the same look of apprehension on the 
receptionist when he had first arrived. "Did he take it well?" she 


inquired. 


Her answer arrived in the form of a mangled office chair, thrown with 
considerable (though not-too-considerable) might out the window 
above. The plastic and leather construct shattered on impact, 
shedding debris into the surrounding area. Tennyson got lucky. The 
innocent intern, on the other hand, was not favoured by the powers 
that be. It was only a slight gash, but it might as well have been an 
amputation wound in Tennyson's eyes. 


The intern glared pressingly at him, hands pressed firmly on her 
newly minted wound, her eyes very plainly saying, "Please don't 
leave us to clear up this mess". Her message was wasted, though, 
as Tennyson was already making his way back up the steps. It was 
one thing when someone had a temper tantrum, it was entirely 
something else when someone else had to pay for it. The door flew 
open, and gone was the Coward, and in strode the Agent. 


There were no screams. There were no thunderous cries. Nothing to 
suggest Brophy's legendary rage had ignited. Hell, the only two 
things out of place were a few shards of window glass and the 
absence of a chair. There was only Brophy lying collapsed in front of 
his desk, his head resting back on the front of his wooden desk. He 
had stared into the jaws of defeat, and the maw was closing fast. To 
the untrained eye, he might have appeared dead, his glazed 
expression certainly reeked of death, only the slight periodic rising of 
his chest gave any indication that he clung to the mortal realm at all. 
If Tennyson didn't do his job now, that might not stay that way. 


So, Tennyson did what felt natural. He closed the door, walked to 
his left and stuck on the kettle. 


Two minutes later, a freshly brewed cup of tea found its way into 
Brophy's decrepit fingers. "Drink." 

No response. "Drink" he repeated, in a much more assertive tone 
than he thought capable of. At least it worked. 


Colour began to flush back into Brophy's skin, his overworked heart 
going back to its regular scheduled pumping. Tentative sips slowly 
drained the fluid away, and while Brophy did look all the better for it, 
his eyes told a different dispiriting story. A few curious researchers 


had gathered outside, and were subsequently shooed away. 


"Jesus, look at me. What kind of a scientist would act this 
moronically?" That one would definitely be best left interpreted as a 
rhetorical question. For no particular reason, Junior Agent Tennyson 
let himself sit beside Brophy. The weight of the day seemed to lift 
right off his shoulders. It hadn't even been ten particularly stressful 
minutes since he entered the head office, and already the future 
agent was feeling the sting of hindsight. Maybe coming out of his 
parent's basement might not have been the best career choice. But 
you do what you can with what you're dealt. 


Brophy reached into his shirt pocket, taking out a crumpled pack of 
cigarettes and a lighter. After two failed attempts, Tennyson took 
control of the lighter and steadied it for the old man. When he 
exhaled, all the tension holding him together escaped and his body 
went as limp as a wet rag. 


"So, this is what | have to look forward to in 50 years, eh" Tennyson 
started, desperate to ease whatever tensions lingered in the room. 


"So long as you don't spend 'em like | did, you oughta be fine". The 
aged doctor's face slowly swerved to meet that of his temporary 
companion, and it that instant, there was an understanding between 
the two. Before his induction, Tennyson might have been too naive 
to see the signs. But both men knew there was no happy ending to 
be found here. All Tennyson could do was do right by his paycheck 
and get the job that needed doing done. 


In the end, he had achieved what he came here to do.. With the 
papers signed, the final chapter in Brophy's career of seeming 
productivity came to a close. 


"1548 could always use someone else to watch it, sir." That got the 
tiniest chuckle and the hint of an empty smile. Tennyson wanted to 
tell Brophy that a Foundation scientist that lasted this long should be 
proud of himself for beating the frankly depressing odds. But this 
situation was no longer in his hands. It lay with Brophy and whatever 
god (or lack thereof) he held dearest. Maybe he would take this 
opportunity and make the most of it. Help a charity, volunteer, 
inspire the next generation of astronomers with whatever time he 


had left. But would he take the one last step? 


Two weeks later, the news would arrive from an offhand mention by 
a neighbouring agent in the break room. A part of him was thankful 
the ordeal was over for one of them, at least. Unfortunately, he 
doubted that this would be the last time that Brophy would come to 
mind. He would deal with those consequences in time, do his job 
and get on with life. 


But still. Goddamn it. 


Decomm Anon 


The dim fluorescent lights buzzed softly above, as the nine 
individuals looked at one another uneasily. The clock on the wall 
ticked the time down, and there was the occasional nervous cough. 
The windowless room they were seated in didn't do anything to 
improve the mood, with its peeling, yellowed wallpaper or the stale 
donuts by the door. Finally, the man with the stitches on his neck 
who was seated at the front of the room spoke up. 


"Hi, my name is Dyne, and I've been decomissioned." 
"Hi Dyne." 


Dyne stood up, cleared his throat nervously, and went on. "I have 
been decommissioned for about 2 years now, and my life has been 
one of continuous improvements. At first things were very hard, with 
many trials and tribulations. Nobody wanted to use the "super kawaii 
bonsai swordsman" in any of their fictional works. Things seemed 
like a dead end to me. But then | managed to obtain a position as a 
minor character in a tale, and that's been paying the bills. I've 
always been a little bit annoyed that | never got a tale that was 
worthy of my greatness like some of you did, but overall | have been 
living my life to its greatest potential." 


There was a smattering of applause as he sat back in his seat. 


The Moose Man clasped his hand to Dyne's shoulder and spoke. 
"Dyne, these last few weeks you have shown us the best way to 
behave as a -D. You have dignity, you respect the reasons why you 
were bumped off, and you're coming to terms with having gotten 
pneumatic bolts shoved into your balls and then being fired into the 
sun. We can learn from your experience." 


He looked down at the list in front of him. "Alright, | believe that 
Dreamer was next?" 


Dyne sat down, and the teenage kid sitting in the folding chair next 
to him stood up. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, and had a rough 
look about him, like he was seconds away from either going ona 
rampage or breaking down in tears. 


"Hi, my name is Dreamer, and | was decommissioned." 
"Hi Dreamer." 


He wiped his eyes, and began speaking. "It's been really hard living 
as a decommissioned article. Lots of other guys will mock you for it, 
try and tell you that you aren't good enough. | guess that's part of life 
now and | accept that... but it's still hard sometimes." 


The Moose Man put up his enormous hairy hand. "I'm going to stop 
you there, because | think this is an excellent time to go over the 5 
steps of being decommissioned. Anyone care to read them?" 


Ben the Cyborg spoke up. "No problem Moose, | can remember 
them from memory partition 45-B. Can | rattle 'em off?" 


The Invincible D-Class nodded. "Go right ahead." 


"Okay," said Ben. "The first step is to accept that we fall below -10, 
and we see that there is no rewrite forthcoming. We look at our own 
imminent destruction, and we accept it." 


"Very good, please continue.” 


Ben nodded. "The second step is to accept the new author, and to 
work with, not against them as they write your decomm story. 


"The third step is to accept the fact that you have been destroyed, 
and to appreciate any person who reads you to see what not to do. 


"Fourthly, you must learn to deal with other articles harassing you. 
They compare themselves to you, say they're better, but we know 
that any article that does that must be insecure in its own quality if it 
needs to compare itself to a decomm to feel better." 


Moose Man smiled, showing off his horrific and terrible dental work. 
"Very good. Now what is the last step?"