The Records and Information Security Administration theoretically 
had access to all of the records of every documented SCP 
phenomenon, every anomalous object and event, every interaction 
between Mobile Task Forces, every meeting, every dark room 
where every decision was made. Maria Jones had not been 
disappointed by her ability to access raw information yet. Even 
information that various departments tried to conceal, Jones could 
get ahold of. She had made a great deal of enemies, many of whom 
helped her anyway, knowing what she held over their heads. She 
preferred that to having friends. Enemies you just took what you 
needed from. And Jones had taken a great deal. 


The problem was in processing. Maria was now sitting on a series of 
very interesting data, and she knew, in some incomprehensible way, 


that they were connected. The trick was figuring out how. 


Point one: six units of SCP-1043 were classified as "misplaced" four 
weeks ago. Investigation chalked the error to faulty record-keeping 
at Site 33, along with less-than-fully stringent security measures. 
Jones had seen the personnel files of the implicated individuals. 
There was no reason to make that assumption. 


Point two: two dozen D-class personnel had recently been allocated 
from Site 19 to Site 38. 19 had an overabundance of them, it was 
true, but Site 38 had never had any need for significant D-class 
personnel, being a minimum-security area limited to Safe and 
Euclid-class items only. Barely any significant research came from 
the Site; it was used principally to test the ability of Level 1 
personnel to obey instructions before being transferred somewhere 
else. That and a shuffling-off point for personnel deemed too 
incompetent for more serious work but not disloyal enough to 
warrant termination. Jones figured every organization of a certain 
size had a place like Site 38. But this place was getting far too much 
attention of late. 


Point three: Incidents involving SCP-877 being captured in the wild 
had increased sharply over the past two months. Point three anda 
half: several specimens of SCP-877 previously contained were 
unaccounted for as of three weeks ago. Research on 877 had 
stopped back when it became apparent that there was simply 
nothing new to discover about the microchips. Site 19 researchers 
had decided to wait for some new breakthrough to reveal itself. Well, 
something's changing now, Maria thought to herself. 


Point four: Multiple technical glitches had been reported from the 
tertiary storage cluster at Site 38. Maria didn't know the relevance of 
that piece of information, but given the significance of that particular 
piece of hardware, Maria wasn't about to consider that irrelevant. 


Point five: After several weeks of remaining on-site, Mobile Task 
Force Rho-1 was now largely in the field, collecting an SCP artifact 
believed to be associated with that particular group of interest they 
worked with. Rho-1 served as Site 38's de facto site security force, 
meaning that Site 38 was essentially unprotected at the moment. 
That had never been an issue before, but now...it looked like that 


was about to change. 


Rho-1 was scheduled to return in two days. Meaning that if 
something were to happen, it would have to happen soon. Maybe 
tonight. 


Maria picked up her phone. 


The Tennessee air was unseasonably chilly, even more so at night. 
David Eskobar had never gotten used to it. He knew it was coming, 
he could throw on a jacket, but he was never quite ready for what 
was coming. The bike made the temperature seem fifteen degrees 
colder, and he shivered as he rode the short distance to the main 
building of Site 38. 


The whole area was heavily wooded, with barely graveled country 
roads connecting isolated houses to one another. There weren't any 
houses, not anymore; the Foundation had bought out the few 
remaining owners, or arranged for “convenient” busts on the nearby 
meth labs. Population density in the area meant that that was all that 
was required to ensure almost complete secrecy. David rode past 
the thick woods, surrounded by almost complete silence. Only the 
lights on his handlebars illuminated the road 


He rode past an area of woods thick enough to almost completely 
obstruct visibility past the treeline. Even if it had been daylight, the 
pool of concrete slowly building an enormous structure outside the 
main grounds of the Site was invisible for the moment. 


Reaching the main building, he leaned his bike against the wall 
beside the door to his office. He had requested a single bike rack 
and been told, officially, that that was seen as an unnecessary use 
of Foundation funds at that time. He tried to call the requisitions 
office once, but he couldn't spit the words out; his stutter always 
managed to make phone conversations nearly impossible. 


David hated the phone. He hated almost everyone at Site 38; the 
way anybody who worked with him for long enough developed that 
look in their eyes somewhere between pity and contempt. He loved 
the first day of orientation, when all of those bright-eyed Level 1 


personnel milled about, chattering happily about their projects. That 

lasted a week, maybe two, before they figure out that Site 38 wasn’t 
a promotion. It was one step away from an assignment in Antarctica, 
or maybe a D-class spot near the Red Pool. 


Site 38 was where failures went to flounder in obscurity. David hated 
that he was the director of “Stumptown,” as he heard two Level 
Twos Call it in Site 19. Heard them. They knew he could hear them, 
and they knew he wasn’t going to say anything to them about it. And 
they were right. He could barely talk as it was. David hated talking 
to...almost everyone. He hated his office, and he hated being away 
from it, away from the only place where he could demand even the 
most rudimentary respect from others. 


He was in his office, now. He heard a knock at the door, and called 
for the visitor to come in. Dr. Collins, one of the higher-ranking 
Researchers. Likely to be promoted over his head and transferred 
away to somewhere useful any day now. Eskobar admired—oh hell, 
he envied John, even if the old prick gave him the creeps. 


John walked in and pointed a gun at his supervisor. 


Anesidora's palace was finally complete. The Being, now in 
possession of a Throne nearly equal to Her glory, commanded Her 
servants to lift Her form onto the seat from which this victory would 
take place. They did so with great difficulty, though they viewed their 
efforts as a tremendous honor. To touch Her Glory's physical form 
and be permitted to live was almost unheard of. Anesidora permitted 
all but one of the Servus used in this task to retain their corporeal 
forms. The last Servus, however, She Integrated into Herself. She 
was very hungry, after all. 


When the last of the servant's limbs were decomposed into Her 
form, the Goddess spoke. As was befitting Her divinity, Her words 
did not take audible form, so as to avoid the stench of this world 
contaminating the pure joy of Her thoughts. She spoke directly into 
the servants’ brains, through a small microchip embedded in each of 
their cerebella. 


You, the Voice rang through the minds of some of Her attendants, 


secure my Birthing Chamber. You two, locate my Crown. Sinking 
deep now into concentration, Her Mind reached out to the complex 
just outside the forest. Site 38, the hominids called it. As Her 
servants left the Palace to carry out Her commands, She made 
contact with several beings that had recently come into contact with 
microchips within the complex, and spoke to them. 


Awaken, my children, Her Voice said. We have work to do. 


Dr. Sariksen was finishing his packing in his lab when he realized 
something was missing. Something was...off. There was a sound in 
the background of the lab. No, that wasn't right. There was a sound 
missing. 


The mopping had stopped. Sariksen had written the program 
himself, and in theory, the D-class should not have been able to stop 
of his own volition. So what was he doi— 


Running towards him. Sariksen turned just in time to be tackled to 
the ground by D-2392, or whatever was left of him. Sariksen's head 
slammed into the tiled floor with a loud crack. 


Rapidly losing consciousness, Sariksen felt teeth breaking his skin 
before everything went black. 


Act I, Scene II: Deontic » 


Deontic 


«Act |, Scene |: Commencement 


David recognized the gun pointed at his face as a semiautomatic 
pistol of some sort. He didn’t recognize brand or caliber, but he 
knew it was the kind he had specifically requested from the armory 
chief. He had no idea why the armory chief had listened to him that 
when the other requisitions he has placed had been ignored. He 
picked it because it looked cool; he knew nothing about guns 
whatsoever, and it was unlikely it would ever be used, given Site 
38’s low hazard rating. But of course it came back to bite him in the 
ass. 


“| want your access codes, and the bottle of bourbon you keep in the 
bottom right drawer of your desk. You serve it.” Dr. Collins 
maintained a bead on David's upper chest. 


“What the fffuck is this, J-John?” David said. 


“This is you not getting me a goddamn drink, Eskobar,” Collins said. 
He fired a round in the air. David noticed the alarms not going off 
with a growing sense of panic. He retreated to his desk and got the 
Scotch and a glass. 


“No, retard, two glasses,” Collins said. “We’re drinking to my 
success. That had better be good bourbon. Don’t worry, you're not 
going to have any better reason to use it.” 


David didn’t ask questions of the man with the gun; he got out 
another glass and poured one finger each of Maker’s Mark. 
Trembling, he slid one across the table to Collins, who gestured 
between Eskobar and the other drink. Eskobar sipped at the liquor; 
Collins downed all of it. 


“Now, let’s get those access codes. | need to get into the Site 38 
central mainframe.” 


“W-w-w-what for?” David stuttered. 


Collins glared. “Don’t fucking question me, goddammit. You don’t 
have the balls to stop me, even if you could at this point. I’m getting 
out of this hellhole tonight. | just need a little something more the 
Insurgency can use.” 


Eskobar just stared. “You're g-g-going—* 


Collins fired over David's head; the director of Site 38 audibly 
squealed. “YES, you fucking idiot, the Chaos Insurgency. Me, 
Sariksen, and Dankman have been doing little...experiments in the 
labs with some D-class personnel. Not that you would have come 
looking. Sarikson got ahold of some SCP-877 samples and brought 
them over. We've been reprogramming them and installing them in 
D-class’s heads. We had a breakthrough yesterday; they're now 
able to infect one another with copies that respond to our 
programming.” 


David was living some surreal nightmare at that moment. He had no 
idea if anything Collins was saying was true, but he was still terrified 
of everything he knew was happening. And it was theoretically 
possible; the 877s were computer chips, maybe ones from another 
dimension, but still programmed by someone. And what can be 
written can just about always be overwritten. But how the hell had 
Collins done it? 


Site 38 had a single Mobile Task Force assigned to it, largely just to 
go out and obtain University artifacts whenever they were detected, 
otherwise used for site security (which was roughly unnecessary). 
MTF Rho-1, “The Professors;” probably the only personnel on site 
with genuine pride in their work. Most of them were out on a simple 
retrieval assignment, scheduled to return in the morning. Four, 
maybe five members were on-site. If he could just contact the ones 
left... 


“Access codes, Eskobar,” Collins said. “I don’t need you drifting off 
on me. And you're going to give them to me whether | say I’m going 
to kill you or not. Just give them over.” 


David was surprised to realize he wasn’t panicking anymore. “Not 


yyyyet,” he said. 


Collins erupted in fury, trying to run around the table to get at David, 
who backed away around his desk, keeping it between him and 
Collins. “You fucking stupid prick,” Collins snarled, “you are not 
going to get in my way. | don’t really want to kill you; you’re not 
worth a bullet. But | will hurt you, Eskobar, in every way | can think 
of, as quickly as | can, to get what | want. | am not going to rot in this 
hole forever, the way you almost certainly will.” 


David was now panicking, but his brain was still going. “Hhhhhow? 
How did you d-d-do it?” 


“I’m not giving you details, idiot. The point is, I’m too smart for those 
Foundation assholes to have put me here, and the Insurgency 
respects talent. I’m not about to—“ 


Gunfire erupted from down the hall. Rapid fire, at least submachine 
gun. Too rapid to be a pistol. Yelling, screaming; the first from the 
shooter, the second from one of the victims. The yelling sounded 
strained, like it was coming from someone who had read about how 
to yell but had never actually done it before. And it didn’t sound like 
English. More like...Latin? 


David shuddered. This was oddly familiar. 


Collins looked down the hall. “What the fuck is th—* before three 
bullets came down the hallway. Two smacked into the wall behind 
Collins; one lodged in his arm. Screaming, he raised his pistol with 
the other arm and fired back. The next round caught him in the 
head. The top of John Collins’s head spread itself across six feet of 
David Eskobar’s carpet; bone fragments landed on his desk. He fell, 
silent, to the ground. 


The silence was not shared down the hall. Collins had apparently hit 
someone. 


David peered down the hall and saw someone vaguely familiar, 
writhing on the ground. There was a big gun, maybe some kind of 
assault rifle, out of his reach. Not knowing what else to do, he 
walked down the hall in a half-crouch, in the hopes that would help if 


someone else with a gun showed up. 


He could hear more gunfire elsewhere in the building, probably 
downstairs. What the fuck is going on? he thought to himself. He 
reached the man on the ground. 


David didn’t know what to say. “Hey,” he said. 


The man was bleeding a great deal. Collins seemed to have shot 
him in the stomach somewhere. He was still conscious, moaning a 
great deal. “Hey,” David said again.” 


“Oh, God, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m fuckin’ dying, here. Please, 
please help me, I’m fuckin’ dying. Please, ohhhh...” He kept 
moaning. 


David recognized the voice; it was one of the Site’s D-class, one 
who had been on-site for a while. “I’m g-g-going to call for hhhhelp, 
okay, you're ffffine. Listen, what’s g-g-going on? What are you d-d- 
doing with that gun?” 


“Jesus, | don’t fuckin’ know, okay? Oh, God, it hurts. | was asleep in 
the D-class quarters, and | was having this dream, right? And | was 
carrying this gun, and | was shooting up the place, that asshole 
Dankman who did those experiments with me, and a couple of other 
people, and | was biting people or somethinohhhhhh—* He was 
moaning again. 


“You were inf-f-f—* David tried to get the words out, through sobs. 
This is too much, he thought, too much, too much... “You were 
infected with a microchip. It’s t-taken over your cccentral nervous 
system. The pain ffffrom the b-b-bullet is maybe...distracting it 
somehow? | think the Site 19 researchers ssssaid that was 
possible.” David thought of the implications of how Foundation 
researchers had come by that knowledge and blanched. 


“Am—uh—am | gonna die, man?” the D-class asked. “I’m...I’m 
getting...I’m starting to get a little woozy, like everything has a 
natural explanation; the moon is not a god, but a great rock, and the 
sun is a hot rock.” His voice was getting more confident, even as it 
grew quieter from blood loss. “Appearances are a glimpse of the 


unseen.”