"...What's going on is that a terrorist organization just got its hands 
on decades-old research into anomalous phenomena. This is a 
Code Red Situation." 


"...let me guess," Quinn groaned. "We need to have our gag orders 
updated." 


"Yup." 


One Long Night Later... 


"Sign here," Adams said, handing Quinn and Darnell a clipboard 
each. 


She sighed, and looked over the agreement. If she looked hard 
enough, she could almost see the fractal pattern underneath all the 
text, embedded in the paper itself. There was one part where it was 
incomplete: the signature line. 


Not even ten years ago, they'd have been mindwiped and dumped 
back in their office down in Cincinnati. But, as it turned out, a non- 
governmental organization run by people who were almost certainly 
fascists actually could make a scientific breakthrough once ina 
while. Hence, gag orders. 


Defeated, Quinn signed the paper, feeling a slight tug behind the 
eyes as the order took effect. "So. What is Smilodon?" 


"Project Smilodon was a secret CIA project in the 1950s and 60s-" 
"In other words, MK-ULTRA with Carts and Cans?" Darnell said. 
Adams raised an eyebrow. "...how did you figure that out?" 


"Well, your tech mentioned seeing a CIA emblem on the document 
picked up. We just encountered an abnormal terrorist organization 

that makes Aussie look like a bunch of punks with spray cans. One 
plus one is..." 


Quinn chimed in. "Aussies are a bunch of punks with spray cans, 
Darnell. Only difference is that some of them contain smallpox 
instead of paint." 


"Regardless, Christman got it in one. Project Smilodon was an effort 
to anomalously augment special agents for infiltration into the 
Eastern Bloc. Invisibility, mind control, all that good stuff." 


"And now these... Grassroots people have their hands on it." Quinn 
frowned. "How'd they get it?" 


"That's irrelevant. For now... we have a job for you." Adams pushed 
up the glasses on his nose. "You need to transport the sculpture- 
thing we found in the bank back to Cincinnati. We have a lab meant 
for testing out that kind of thing down there." 


"...S0, in other words, we're pack mules." 
"In as many words, yes." 


Quinn sighed, defeated. "When do we leave?" 


«Taproots | Hub | Come Rest Your Head A While» 


Come Rest Your Head A While 


Previously on the UIU Series With No Name 


Agents Quinn MacAllister and Darnell Christman are 
the only two agents of the FBI's Unusual Incidents Unit in 
the Midwest, following the disbanding of the Chicago 
team and the loss of the Cleveland division to a bare 
room with an open door. They get as much respect as 
you'd think as the only two government-employed 
anomalous law enforcement officers from Cincinnati to 
Sloth's Pit, which is to say: fuck all. 


After helping bring down a Spirit Dust ring in December 
of 2014, they were called to Sandusky, Ohio in early 
2015 to assist with a Foundation investigation into an 
explosion at a bank. A briefing from the Foundation 
revealed that this explosion was caused by a para- 
terrorist organization known as Grassroots, created by a 
Dr. Ainsley Kerrigan in the 1950s following the United 
States Government's mistreatment of his research in 
Project Cloudburst. Dr. Kerrigan was killed in a FBI- 
Foundation raid in the 1950s, and Grassroots has been 
quiet ever since... 


Until now. The vault underneath the bank held a portal 
leading to somewhere in Brooklyn, New York. The 
Foundation sent a drone through, and discovered 
documents pertaining to the clandestine Cold War CIA 
Project SMILODON, an attempt to weaponize 
anomalies for use against the Forces of Communism. 
With the knowledge that a highly-dangerous para- 
terrorist organization is in possession of Government 
Secrets, our heroes... 


...are relegated to the role of errand boys by the 
Foundation, having been tasked with escorting the 


remains of the individual who caused the destruction of 
the bank home. We re-join them now, on a street in 
Cincinnati. 


Almost five hours down I-75 later, Quinn MacAllister and Darnell 
Christman stepped out of their van in front of a nondescript office 
building in Cincinnati. They'd been caught in a traffic jam halfway 
past Columbus, which was around the time the van gave out as well, 
meaning they had to call AAA. And then it started sleeting. 


"Fucking hell," Quinn groaned, stretching for the first time since 
Bucyrus, her hair falling around her head and her bones popping. 
"That felt like it took almost two years." 


From the back of the truck, Darnell retrieved a biohazard container, 
looking at it warily. "So, what's the plan after this?" 


"Go home,” Quinn said, "Explain to Harley why I'm almost two days 
late back, and pray that she doesn't think I've actually had an affair." 


Her partner nodded, and started into the building; inside was a white 
hall, with a sign behind the desk reading "South Cincinnati 
Planning". It was allegedly a construction company, but anyone who 
paid the slightest bit of attention to the anomalous world knew what 
the SCP Acronym meant. They usually weren't stupid enough to use 
it anymore. Usually. 


Quinn approached the desk, and looked at the receptionist behind it. 
lt was a man wearing a loose shirt and khakis, talking on the phone 
about a deal that was being made between South Cincinnati 
Planning and a construction union. She leaned over the desk, noting 
a bulge in his sock, concealing either a knife or a gun. 


When the receptionist hung up, he looked at Quinn, and cleared his 
throat. "Was Wilbur right?" 


"Yes, but Orville wasn't wrong either." 


He nodded, and handed her a key from behind the desk. "Turn it 
counter-clockwise in the emergency stop switch, then select the 
basement floor." 


Darnell was already in the elevator by the time she took the key, his 
thumb leaving an imprint in the elevator open button. Quinn inserted 
the key, and when she turned it, the lift shook and groaned, like the 
building was clearing its throat. 


Once she selected the basement, the elevator lurched, groaned, 
and then began dropping at a speed that was disconcerting. When it 
finally leveled out, Quinn was clutching the handrails inside the 
elevator like she was going to fly off. 


"I've heard that there's a Skipper lab in every major city," Darnell 
said as he scratched his nose. "Didn't think that Cinncy qualified." 


"There's at least one. | hear that they have one under Progressive 
Field in Cleveland." 


"No foolin'?" Darnell laughed. "No wonder the Indians keep losing. 
Who knows what kind of shit they're testing under there." 


The elevator eventually stopped with a ding, and opened to the 
sound of air conditioners and halls that were a dull white, illuminated 
by fluorescent lights. Along the walls were posters reminding people 
who visited of safety protocols, or what passed for it in the 
Foundation. 


In front of them, they were greeted by an older man, balding, with 
rimless glasses resting against his face. He looked like he was 
Chinese, and had a missing finger on his left hand; Quinn wondered 
how he lost that. "Agents MacAllister and Christman? You have the 
sample?" 


Darnell held out the biohazard container. "Hell of a sample. It's... we 
don't know what. Sculpture that used to be someone." 


"Hmm." The man snapped his fingers, and a pair of Foundation 
agents took the container from them. "Well, thank you for agreeing 
to transport it. We'll take it from here." 


Quinn stepped forward to speak, but Darnell tapped her on the 
shoulder, and gave her a look that said both ‘don't start shit’ and ‘let 
me talk’. "With all due respect, Dr...." 


"Zhou." 


"Dr. Zhou," Darnell said. "We've just driven non-stop from Lake Erie. 
Do y'think we could at least use the can?" 


Zhou rolled his eyes. "Very well." He pointed back down the hallway. 
"Restrooms are unisex, down 30 meters, to the left. Don't look in any 
of the windows, don't touch any of the doors, don't make eye contact 
with anyone." 


"Thanks." Darnell walked along, and Quinn followed. They looked at 
each other, and Darnell was the first to speak. "Maybe you should've 
stayed topside." 


"Why?" Quinn asked, looking away from one of the researchers who 
passed by. 


"Because, if ya don't mind me saying, you kind of have a hate boner 
for the Skippers.” 


Quinn coughed into her hand to conceal a snicker. "Darnell, you're 
thirty-five in two months. Did you seriously just use the term ‘hate 
boner'?" 


"The concept of a hate boner defies generational boundaries." He 
looked around the hallway. "Wonder what they have in here." 


"Can't be anything world-ending if they're willing to have it under a 
major population center." She looked at her partner and frowned. 
"All right, what's up?" 


"What?" 


"The whole 'using the can' excuse is bunk." She stood in the middle 
of the hallway, a frown on her face. "You're trying to find out more 
about it. As much as | hate to say it: this is their jurisdiction now." 


"Technically," Darnell began explaining, "Under the Paperclip 
Clause of the Whitman-Ross Act, the Unusual Incidents Unit has at 
least partial jurisdiction over any matters that pertain to the United 
States Government and anomalous actions taken by or against it." 


Quinn frowned, chewing a nail, "The Skippers aren't exactly known 
for following protocol. See: Loveland." 


"Yeah, that was a cluster and a quarter." He kept on walking. "Still, 
we may be able to finagle it." 


"Right." Once they arrived at the washrooms, Quinn felt at her head, 
and sighed. She hadn't had a proper wash since yesterday morning. 
"Think they have showers in there?" 


"One way to find out," Darnell nodded. "See you on the flipside." 


She strode into the washroom, the large, metal door slamming 
behind her; if Quinn had to guess, it was about a foot thick, and 
heavy, probably had some kind of piston or hydraulic system so that 
they could open without you needing to break your arm. Probably so 
that you had some sense of security in case something broke out. 


There were no showers in the bathroom, but there was a sink large 
enough for her to, at least, rinse her hair. Bowing her head, she ran 
water over her mane, sighing and feeling pieces of Sandusky flow 
out- debris from the bank, an insect that had nested in her hair in the 
car, and a small stone that had somehow become lodged in her 
bangs. 


"Christ," Quinn shivered, watching it flow down the sink. "| am going 
to need to spend an hour in the shower when | get home." 


She watched the debris circle the drain, the stone stuck in the sink, 
making soft click-click sounds as it pinged against the metal. She 
stood there, and watched it, before a curious hand wandered 
towards it. 


She held it in her hand, and swore that she heard a girl with skin like 
freshly-tilled dirt laughing behind her. She turned, and there was 
nothing. Just her, alone. She pocketed the rock and headed out of 
the washroom. 


The ride back to Quinn's place was mostly silent, bar the NPR 
station. They stopped in front of her apartment, and Darnell gave 


Quinn a wry look. "You'll be fine." 


"| don't want a repeat of last year," Quinn groaned. "I just wish | 
could tell her about half of this. Even a quarter of it. Fuck, at the very 
least, the entire werewolf thing. She was wondering why | kept 
having nightmares..." She rubbed her face, and unlatched her 
seatbelt, opening the door. "Thanks for the ride, Darnell." 


"Mac." Darnell looked at her, hand on the steering wheel. "Ask her if 
she wants dinner tonight with me and Danielle. But... Christ, shower 
first." 


"Same to you, stinkass." She circled around the back of the van, and 
looked at the looming apartment building as Darnell drove off, before 
beginning her ascent into the five-story red-brick complex that 
looked more ominous than it had in almost a year. 


Harley Sterling was waiting for Quinn when she came through the 
door, sitting at the coffee table that Harley's mother had given her, 
reading an issue of National Geographic. She looked over the 
magazine at Quinn, and closed the periodical, laying it on the table 
and sighing. "Hey." 


"Hi, Harl." Quinn looked sheepish as she set her phone down on the 
counter. "I'm... I'm gonna shower. | fucking reek." 


"Right, you do that." Harley rose from the couch and proceeded to 
the kitchen. "I'm gonna make some coffee for you, hon." 


"Thanks. Love you." With that, Quinn vanished into the bathroom, 
and a sound of running water and falling clothing followed. 


Harley made sure the door was locked before picking up Quinn's 
phone, staring at the lock screen, an image of a psychotic clown girl 
that somehow had more fans than Bruce Springsteen. She knew the 
combination. She could look through it, see what she had been 
doing for the last three days, if she had really gone to Sandusky... 
see who the hell those people outside their apartment once a week. 


She had noticed them when Quinn got transferred to Unusual 


containment of workers. The floor is estimated to have been 
designed for the capability of housing 4,000 to 6,000 individuals in 
crowded, unsanitary conditions. 


The second subterranean floor is a rectangular chamber. Despite its 
distance from the surface it appears to be designed for the 
packaging and shipping of products; local signs designate the floor 
“Shipping 03/1200 — ®: 5190”. The floor contains twenty-one 
mechanical lifts including the central elevator - the lifts most likely 
used for the transportation of items from the assembly floor. 


Contained within are three machines of identical design attached to 
the southern, eastern, and northern walls and are respectively 
labeled Noroc,1 Evpoc,? and Bopéac.3 Although disabled, recovered 
documents suggest that their purpose was related to the 
transportation of objects. The western wall appears to have once 
housed such a machine but it seems to have been destroyed. These 
machines have since been classified as SCP-748-1. 


Heavily rusted crates were discovered haphazardly scattered 
throughout the area. The crates are non-anomalous and their 
anomalous cargo has been transferred to Site for study. 
Anomalous objects recovered from these crates include: 


¢ 500 rocking horses, biologically alive. Scream when observed. 
Highly radioactive. 

500 fur coats crafted from the pelts of various unknown 
species. Perpetually on fire. 

2,000 rifles that superficially resemble the M1903 Springfield. 
No observable anomalies but Kant counters have registered 
them at >50 Hm, suggesting high levels of potential unreality. 
800 bowler hats that cannot be removed once worn. Causes 
the wearer to expel wasps from every orifice. 

¢ 200,000 cigarettes. Direct inhalation transforms the consumer 
into a basking shark. Affected individuals will explode after 
complete transformation (a process requiring approximately 
30 minutes). 

10 metric tonnes of rotten meat. Genetic analysis revealed a 
hybrid species of human, pig, and squid. Highly radioactive. 


The third subterranean floor is a semi-circular chamber accessible 


Incidents. UFO Chasers, Quinn said, pointless work. Since then, she 
had seen people walking along outside, usually at night, trying to 
look as normal as possible; talking on cell phones, having 
conversations, getting into fights, having drinks. But they made the 
mistake of sending the same actor twice. 


Someone was spying on them. Did Quinn know this? Did she know 
who they were? Would it have- 


She nearly dropped the phone as it suddenly rang, humming in her 
hand and playing notes that were both incredibly annoying and 
instantly forgettable. She fumbled with it, and in doing so, 
accidentally answered the call. 


Shit. She looked at the number, and saw that it was blocked. Must 
have been government stuff. She didn't know what compelled her to 
bring it to her face. "Hello?"