The tram came to a scheduled stop. A Foundation squad, clad in 
nondescript grey security uniforms without any identifying labels, 
silently checked every member of the tram and all the 
compartments. One of them ran a small, humming sensor of some 
kind around the chassis. Ersen blinked involuntarily as one of the 
squad members flashed a camera-like device in his face without 
comment. After a moment, the sergeant in charge of the squad 
nodded, and gave the order to clear the tram. 


Commuting was a nuisance. Ersen was almost looking forward to 
living on-site. In the long run it would be a good change. He wouldn't 
have to keep track of a 'real life’ name and a ‘Foundation’ name. 
Plus, he'd get to work with some of the potentially infectious SCPs; it 
had a higher risk factor, but it was more in line with his training and 
interest. He pushed down a morbid thought, mentally laughing at 
himself for being "emo". Maybe he'd meet a girl he didn't have to lie 
to, living on-site. The thought didn't seem right, at the moment, but 
the scientist in his head drily pointed out that he'd get used to it. 


Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the tram slid to a halt at the 
site. Ersen left with the other commuters, submitted his laptop bag 
for the daily security check, and submitted himself for the daily strip- 
search and shower. Cleaned and freshly re-clothed in a Foundation 
uniform and lab coat, his personal effects save his laptop stowed in 
his locker, he mused for a little while on how normal the idea of 
getting stripped and probed every morning had become. 


A few minutes later, coffee in hand, he flopped down his office chair. 
He took a moment to stare blankly at a face-down photo frame and 
shove it further back across his desk before checking his mail. His 
email account had several messages, mostly cruft about various 
research seminars he didn't really care about. There was an 
anonymous note from administration; he had to go for an interview 
about on-site habitation in... he checked his desk clock. Five 
minutes ago. 


As he rushed to the meeting room, cursing Agents and their lack of 
other priorities, his coffee sloshing painfully over his hand, Ersen 
decided today was another shitty fucking day. 


It wasn't until he'd closed the door on the 'meeting room’ that he 
realised what kind of a meeting this was. One wall of the small white 
cubicle was a one-way mirror, reinforced with a semitransparent 
mesh of some plasticky stuff. SCP-protected, even. That was 
probably because of the stone carving sitting on the table in the 
middle of the room. Ersen looked around for a moment, unsure if he 
should sit at the table. 


"Have a seat, Doctor. The face is quite harmless unless provoked." 
The voice, distorted by some kind of software, came from all 
directions. Ersen noted he could not actually identify where the door 
he'd come in from was. In the bright ambient light of the room, even 
the walls, floor, and ceiling were difficult to recognise. He found his 
eyes adjusting to the glare until it felt like all he could see was the 
chair, the table and carving, and the mirror. He wished this was an 
unfamiliar sensation. 


"What's the occasion for all the pomp,” Ersen inquired, keeping his 
voice as steady as possible. "I thought this was about getting an 
apartment." He wasn't frightened, really, just annoyed. For the last 


few weeks he'd managed to lose himself in his research, and 
something in his gut told him he wasn't going to be allowed to shove 
his memories away for this. 


"Living on-site comprises more than a simple apartment, Doctor 
Ersen, and we need to check for that. More to the point, however, 
your supervisors have requested a performance evaluation in light of 
recent events in your life." The voice was so dry it could have been 
a computer. For all Ersen knew, it was. 


"Oh for fuck's sake. It's trivial. My work's been fine since... that. I've 
nearly cracked that fingernail SCP. Surely my work speaks for 
itself." 


"Doctor, please examine the SCP in front of you." Ersen did. It was a 
face with a sunburst effect around it, carved into some kind of stone, 
marble maybe. Looked Italian, and old. It had a wide, gaping mouth; 
Ersen was pretty sure he could see flecks of blood around it. "You're 
right handed, yes? Please place your left hand inside the mouth of 
the SCP." 


Ersen hesitated. He was pretty confident there was no reason for 
them to try to trick him. He really had been doing good work, and he 
didn't think he'd stepped on anyone's toes. Sighing, he complied. 
The face didn't react. 


"You are presently compelled to tell the truth. Should you attempt 
dishonesty, the SCP in front of you will remove your hand. At any 
point you may remove your hand without harm. However, be aware 
that this will reflect on your performance report." 


Great. A hand-chopping lie detector. Where the hell did they get this 
stuff? At least that mind-reading camera didn't dismember you. 
Ersen blinked once, slowly, then nodded. "I will tell you the truth, 
then." After saying it, he panicked for a moment, wondering if the 
thing was meta enough to punish possible abstractions like that, but 
nothing happened. Good. 


There followed a dry battery of tests much like he'd expect from a 
normal lie detector. When were you born, where do you live, what's 
your office number; nothing interesting. Finally they got to the meat 


of the interview. Ersen's hand was tingling from the awkward 
position he was holding it in. 


"How long have you worked for the Foundation?" 


"Good question, Voice. | suppose in practice, probably over fifteen 
years. | didn't realise | was doing SCP-related research when | 
worked for the Department of Fisheries and Oceans during my 
postgraduate work. I've been an active Foundation researcher for 
eleven years, though. Put me through med school." 


"What is your security clearance?" 
"Level three." 
"Do you have any family outside the site?" 


"Just my wi—" Ersen stopped, realising he'd almost lost his hand. 
"My ex-wife. | was divorced last week. Jesus. Are you trying to make 
me an amputee?" 


"Oh, Doctor, calm down. I'm sure the SCP would have understood 
your mistake." The voice had a touch of amusement that faded 
almost instantly. "What was the nature of your relationship to your 
wife, before the divorce?" 


"What the fuck, Voice? It was a marriage, what do you think?" 
"Please answer the question." 


"| was married to her. | saw her most evenings after work. She 
thought | still worked for the hospital. Couple of months ago, she 
found out | didn't. | guess the Foundation didn't want to spend the 
cash to maintain my cover story." Ersen almost spit the words. "Or 
maybe their story just wasn't good enough. She thought | was using 
the job to cover an affair. My supervisors refused clearance to 
inform her of what my real work was, so she divorced me. It sucked. 
| have a diary if you want to read the names of all the girls | like out 
loud in front of class, too." That one was carefully chosen: he really 
did have a diary. 


"That won't be necessary, Doctor. How do you feel about your 


« SCP-901 | SCP-902 | SCP-903 » 


divorce?" 
"Angry, obviously." 
"Please elaborate." 


Ersen snarled quickly at the mirror. "Have you ever been married, 
Voice?" 


"Please stick to the topic at hand, Doctor." 


"Fuck you. I'm angry. When | entered the Foundation, | was led to 
understand it would have my back. There was a cover established 
for me at my old job. | could come and go from work at normal 
hours. Aside from a few twitches, there wasn't supposed to be 
anything different. | mean, sure, I'm autopsying the creature from the 
black fucking lagoon, but that's the only difference, right? I've toed 
the line, I've done my bit, | haven't acted on my concerns about this 
job, and as soon as | need help from the Foundation, it bails on me. 
How the fuck do you think | feel?" 


"Please elaborate on what you said about ‘acting on concerns’. 


Ersen knew that would come up, but he didn't care anymore. Maybe 
they'd terminate him, maybe they'd dose him with Class A's until he 
forgot how to piss and turn him out on the street, it really didn't 
matter. "Take a wild stab. | took the Hippocratic oath, you 
cocksucker. You think I'm happy putting D-classes into a sealed 
room with something that's going to make... make jam out of their 
bones or something?" He was running out of clever phrases, that 
was bad. He tried to cool down. "I do what | have to because | know 
the Foundation's goals are vital to the survival of humanity. Not 
because | like what the Foundation does." 


The Voice was silent for a moment. Ersen imagined a faceless 
interrogator in the dark room on the other side of the mirror, quietly 
flipping through his files, making notes. Circling decisions. Finally it 
spoke again. 


"Would you consider it accurate to say you hate the Foundation?" 


It was Ersen's turn to be silent for a moment. Finally, he shrugged. 


"Yes, | think | would. | hate it, and what it has made me into." 


"Under what situation do you see yourself betraying the 
Foundation?" That was it. Not 'would you’, but 'when would you'. 
Ersen wondered who'd carry out the termination. Maybe they'd feed 
him to that chocolate fountain... he'd been wondering what that 
thing tasted like. 


"If | was offered a position by a similar group, capable of carrying out 
the same work but without the violence and sacrifice, I'd betray the 
Foundation in a heartbeat." 


"Would you betray the Foundation if it meant getting your ex-wife 
back?" 


Ersen frowned, thinking. They'd blindsided him a bit, he hadn't really 
expected that, but now he realised he should have. "No, | don't think 
| would." Admitting it out loud left him with a dry taste in his mouth 
and a strange feeling in his gut, like his organs were falling off a 
precipice. The Voice was silent for what seemed like a long time, 
although it may only have been a few seconds. 


"Doctor, are you aware that your ex-wife was interrogated by 
Foundation agents one month prior to the events leading to your 
divorce?" 


That was a surprise. Yes, he was. He remembered her coming 
home, fuzzy on how she'd spent her day. Needlemarks in her neck 
and arms. A migraine for two days. Other side effects: dizziness, 
cramps, consistent with repeated dosage of class-A amnestics in 
combination with Formula 3614-10, a truth serum he'd helped 
design. Of course he was aware. 


"Yes." 


"Under interrogation, your wife was informed of your employment. 
Would you like to know how she responded?" 


"You asswipe. You fucking asswipe. You fuck..." Ersen took his 
hand out of the SCP and stood up, looking for the concealed door. 
Some perverse part of his brain decided to focus on his hand being 


on pins-and-needles from the SCP's mouth. 
"Doctor, this interrogation is not over." 


"Yes, itis. What else do you want from me? You ruined my 
marriage, and you already know I'm not going to spill your secrets. 
Terminate me, pump me full of amnestics, | don't care. We're done." 


"Doctor," the Voice, irritatingly, just sounded faintly amused again. "| 
apologise for any misunderstanding. | had meant to offer you that 
information as a reward. The Foundation is willing, in light of this 
interview, to approve your request to live on-site. In addition, you will 
be promoted to probationary level 4 authorisation and given 
command of a small research group, under monitoring for future 
permanent promotion to level four." 


Ersen stopped, glaring at the mirror. "| don't know who you are, but 
you're an ass." 


"Dislike of Foundation supervisors is considered a tradition of the 
organisation." 


"Do | want to know what she said?" 
"| honestly don't know, Doctor." 
"Fine. Spill." 


"Under interrogation, your wife was disturbed and frightened by your 
employment. It was clear you had maintained complete secrecy; she 
had absolutely no idea what you really did. Despite the 
administration of amnestics, she remained disconcerted. We believe 
this caused her prying into your work; although your cover was 
perfectly secure, she continued to pry in an obsessive manner. In 
order to preserve Foundation security and your ex-wife's mental 
health, we created a secondary cover, that you were cheating on 
her. Since discovering this, her mental health has returned to normal 
and she has shown no further obsession with uncovering your 
secrets." 


Ersen mulled silently over the news. Finally, wordlessly, he kicked 
the area where he was sure the door was. It swung open. On the 


other side, the hallway looked dark compared to the interrogation 
room. The Voice didn't try to stop him. 


Waiting on his computer was a memo with his new office number 
and a list of researchers under him. He didn't pack much. 


Lucid Daydreaming 


Misser Sticks was not enjoying his existence. For one he was 
jammed into a storage closet with no company but some paint cans, 
and for another his elbows were pressing into his featureless face. 
For yet another the woman from across the fence had screamed at 
him a few minutes ago. He didn't much like that as it made his head 
ring even though he didn't actually have any ears to hear with. 


Long fingers slid across the wooden door until he found the knob, 
and he slowly creaked it open. He never really had much of a choice 
when opening doors; they always creaked. His long limbs and its 
many joints allowed him to fully open the door without unfolding 
himself from his spot between the two paint cans. Nothing seemed 
to be happening, but he had been told to stay in the closet. 


Soon a small girl slid into the view on sock-skates. For want of a 
mouth a smile was lost, but Misser Sticks silently radiated 
happiness. In turn she exclaimed his name and hugged his leg, 
which was poking out of the closet. 


"Misser Sticks," she said, looking up at him. "I think it's safe to come 
out now. Mrs. Weisgarber is in her house. She's still yelling, but 
she's on the phone." 


After unraveling his other limb from around the mop, he leveraged 
himself against the door frame and slowly lifted himself out and up to 
his full height. Well, most of it at least, as he had to bend two sets of 
his knees and tilt his head slightly. 


Misser Sticks was, to put it simply, not entirely human. He was 
technically asleep, though it was not too deep a sleep. But someone 
was certainly dreaming of him, if not quite fully. 


The certain someone at his feet, one Tiffany Roads, was entirely 
human. She reached up and grasped one of his slender fingers. He 
wrapped the digit around her hand, and they stood together for a 


moment, enjoying the reunion. It ended when he raised his hand, 
lifting her several feet into the air. She squealed and giggled as he 
gently swung her like a pendulum. 


Across the room the clock struck noon, which meant it was his 
young ward's lunchtime. Still tilting her back and forth, Misser Sticks 
ventured into the kitchen. He deposited the child onto the island 
within and set about opening cabinets and drawers around the room 
without ever actually moving his legs. Soon, Tiffany was holding a 
peanut butter and banana sandwich, which she eagerly sank her 
teeth into. He made sure she was also supplied with a glass of 
chocolate milk before patting her head and departing from the room. 


Once outside her vision, Misser Sticks rapped his knuckles together 
nervously as he scuttled over to the door to peer through the looking 
glass. Not that he had any eyes to look through it with. But he saw 
that the street looked as it always did. No screaming humans or 
whining police vehicles. Perhaps all would be well.