De Luca's sword flashed down in a quick riposte, opening a wide 
slash across Able's back. Another quick step and a thrust brought 
the sword between the stumbling skip's legs, his own movement 
forcing the sword along his thigh opening another major blood 
vessel. 


Able turned, and took a few more swipes at De Luca, his 
movements slowing. De Luca stepped back each time, warding off 
one or two that he couldn't avoid, before 076-2 fell to the ground. 
The blood loss finally caught up to the terrifying warlord that the 
Foundation kept penned up. He looked up at the agent, and 
managed to croak out one final question, "But...but how?" 


De Luca stepped back, maintaining his guard, "Buddy, you fight like 
you read it off a page somewhere." 


Able let out one more frustrated grunt before succumbing to blood 
loss, on the dusty ground. 


Captain De Luca walked over to the body, drew the heavy dagger at 
the back of his belt, and cut 076-2's throat in four places, to make 
sure he was dead. Satisfied, he carefully wiped the blood from his 
sword and dagger, and replaced them in the case, making a note to 
clean the blades later. He reached up and clicked his throat mic, 
"Command, barbarian at the gate down, | repeat, barbarian at the 
gate down." 


The Flytrap 


A story in thirteen parts. Read in order. 
1 


I've taken the briefcase and I'm running, running 
because that's all that's left to do. The embassy is 20 
more miles east, | can see the lights from the suburbs 
already. I'm out of shape but that doesn't matter. All | 
have is this briefcase and the thoughts in my head, and 
we're going to the embassy. Then I'll appeal to the CIA 
or maybe Interpol, ask for protective custody. I'll let them 
put me in prison while they verify everything I'll tell them. 
Hell, | know how bureaucracies work, maybe they'll leave 
me in a cell my whole life, but that's alright, we'll have all 
the time in the world to find out what's in the briefcase. 
And I'll be safe: if | learned anything, it's that not even 
mad men with hammers can cross two feet of concrete. 


Especially if they don't want to. 


Look, pavement at my feet. The briefcase shuffles like 
paper in a breeze and | quicken a little more. 


Take the briefcase and run away? Yes, I'm running, but 
not out of cowardice, I'm doing what no one's been brave 
enough to do yet. What no one's been able to, either— 
but they won't be able to catch me. It's been in the works 
for years, too. | didn't just get spooked, didn't have a 
breakdown, I've known and planned exactly for this since 
years ago, the night of my first promotion. 


God, when they write the report, | hope they get it wrong. 


2 


It was my upgrade to Level 2, three years and some 
important research on something or other under my belt, 
and the first real promotion anyone in my unit had ina 
while. Brenda went crazy— we couldn't leave the site 
because of a security warning, but she got snacks and 
booze in the breakroom, pretty soon the whole residency 
hall showed up. There was a party, there was some 
music, pretty soon everyone was either in their rooms or 
passed out on the couches, and it was just me and this 
aged and completely shitfaced Level 4 named Howey, 
who | didn't know very well. 


“See. The Foundation is like one of those giant-ass 
tropical flowers you can walk by for three-hundred-sixty- 
four days of the year and not notice— but once ina 
while, once in a blue moon, you see it on Resurrection 
Day, the one day it blooms, and it takes so long— the 
first petal pulls back, that’s when you see it, that’s your 
fake SWAT teams and squads, kids in military suits 
doing cover-ups. And another pulls back and you see 
everything that’s been built, all the resources, how can 
you possibly pay this much money for something you 
can't see, for ghost things. You hear stories, that’s all 
there motherfucking is at first, one story or a passing 
rumor, about the thing inside, that strange thing 
everyone Says is at the core. You only see it once ina 
decade. 


“But the final leaf pulls back, and it’s right there, it’s what 
you've been looking for: stinks like rotting flesh, you have 
no idea what it is. But you know right then that everything 
you've been doing is for this thing to bloom. It’s for this, 
this is the most important thing there is, and it looks like 
shit. The flies come down, they like the smell, they flock 
around it and leave, and then the corpse flower closes 
up again, for another fifteen years of hiding out. 


“That’s a fucked-up existence, isn’t it? Spending all your 
time smelling like the dead, 20 years just waiting to 


attract flies? If | were that, I’d hate it. I’d want out. 
Doesn’t mean it’s wrong, even if it’s stupid.” 


| was pretty sure we'd never actually met each other, and 
| only had a dim clue of what he was talking about, which 
scared me, because of all the cameras and microphones 
and god knows what. So | told him that, but Howey just 
laughed. 


“There are no cameras.” 
3 


Howey left site about five months later, they said it was a 
regular transfer. No one ever tried to ask me about what 
he said. 


4 


And it wasn't true. It's not like they tell you anything, 
ever, especially when you're new. But you can't just say 
that all of that, everything that you do, everything other 
people die for, and all that blood and horror, is to attract 
flies. You do it for everyone else in the world, too. Maybe 
High Command did know about that mutinous 
conversation, and didn't do anything (to me) just because 
they knew | didn't believe it. 


Brenda and | were promoted on the same day, the 
second time. She was focusing on containment, by then, 
and | was getting a lot better at fiddling with my drugs 
and compounds. There was a little ceremony, more 
official this time. We grinned and took the pictures that 
ended up on our new security passes. 


A man we hadn't met walked through the door, near the 
end. He had a tweed suit, brown coat, gray hat, tie with 

birds on it, a little blackbird pinned on the hat. The three 
highest-ranking people in the room looked scared out of 
their wits— but we didn't see that, yet. 


He walked in, smiled, didn't introduce himself, and 
congratulated us on our Level-3 clearances. Made some 
joke about the pay raises. Everyone laughed. He walked 
over to me, threw his arm around me, pointed at Brenda 
conspiratorially. He said, "Watch out for that one,” then 
left, chuckling a little. 


And we laughed too, which made it alright. The three 
Level-Fours present all sighed and looked like they'd just 
found fifty dollars in their pants, or maybe escaped a 
mad dog, sweat rolling down their backs. Well, they 
should be happy, right? We were being promoted. But as 
we left, | heard one of them say a name, to the others. 
Just one name. 


"Five." 


And then | went back to just being happy that | was alive, 
like some little Level-One again. 


| got a little scared that night, but thought about my nice 
big office as Head of Material Science and thought I'd try 
it out for a day. Read more black bars, and... it seemed 
alright. This wasn't like being at the bottom at all. | could 
take trips, guards wouldn't stop me, | could finally get a 
good look at whatever | had to work on, and | think 
quality shot up— | got called in on one project off-site, 
then another. 


Then my first paycheck came in, and | bought one of 
those massage chairs for the office, and that was all | 
really needed. Two years happened. 


5 


The O5 council is one of those secrets that's a secret 
until you're Clearance 2— and then it's just creepy. 
They're the people who control the Foundation. Who are 
they? Oh, they have numbers, not names. Who were 
they? Fuck knows. 


But secrets make me bitter. This is what we did. 


We were given samples, and specific instructions. A 
molecular formula— send it on— the primary compound 
in a substance— send it on. The Foundation employs 
scientific sweatshop labor, although, as in sweatshops, 
“employed” is a loose word. We were given some 
designations, real ones, and the opportunity to study 
them— in close containment— as if to show us, yes, the 
Foundation actually possesses miracles. 


You can split a human in these conditions into two 
categories: The ones that take orders as they get them, 
and the ones that are, as | think they call them in youth 
shelters, “flight risks.” Obviously: there are still guards at 
the lab doors, by Level 2. 


The little demonstrations do something for the flight risks; 
and it’s safe, it’s not like the Big F actually needs to know 
why a snail makes chemically improbable acid. Who 
cares about that? Why would you? Why? Why? Why? 


6 


| can’t say why 001 really caught my interest, except that 
it did. The first time | even figured out what an Object 
was, was before Levels One through Five even came 
into the picture, when it was just me and some no-named 
Doctor of something or other in an auxiliary facility. | had 
even just been handed my little employment pamphlet 
full of bullshit, like: 


Why does the Foundation contain? 
Because the alternatives are worse. 

What is the purpose of the Foundation? 
To protect and improve humanity. 


But | didn’t even care about that yet. 


“So, this is 876.” 
“A sample, right.” 
“Object number Eight-seven-six.” 


” 


“Yes. 


“There are eight-hundred-and-seventy-five more of 
these.” 


“Blows the mind, doesn't it?” The doctor, a lanky man 
with straw hair, grinned. 


“What's the first one?” 
“Hell, even | can’t tell you that.” 
“What's the second one?” 


“Computer or something? Check the sample, | think it’s 
getting away.” 


After that, | got recruited for real and sold my soul to the 
Foundation, and learned to keep my mouth shut. But | 
didn’t stop wondering about it. 


But | didn’t stop wondering about it, even when it nearly 
killed me. 


The research director, my boss, called me down one 
day. She had me sit down in her big office, and looked 
me up and down. “Records,” she started, jumping 
straight to the point in her usual way, “have shown you're 
showing a lot of interest in SCP-001.” 


Shit, | had tried to keep the searches subtle. “How do 
you figure that?” 


“We know.” She smiled placidly, and brushed her brown 


hair back past that scar on her cheek, the one my 
predecessor told me never ever to ask about ever. 
“Anything to say about it?” 


| didn’t say anything. 


“Well, Command isn’t very happy.” Neither was she. She 
shuffled through some papers. “You're not the first one, 
you know.” 


“Hm?” 


“To go digging. But like | said, it makes them antsy. 
Command. They don't like people intruding into their 
territory. Long story short, you’re being transferred.” 


“What? Where?” 
“Ghana.” 
“Ghana?” 


“Not permanently.” She closed her folder. “I’m really, 
really sorry to lose you. They’re building a new site there 
and want experts— you happen to be handy. Please 
pack your things.” 


“Wow, fuck you.” 
“Never heard that one before.” She laughed, like a dog. 
di 


It was a project they wanted some coordination on, a 
new site and new containment in West Africa. So | went. 
It was built next to a little runway and some abandoned 
farm units— a few architects were figuring out how to 
retrofit everything into housing and containment units, 
and the rest of us were solidifying the few units already 
built. 


There were four rows of metal silos being converted— 


TRANSPLANT KITS WITH HER. 


Agent Jovahgo: How considerate. The one thing | 
don't get, why not just send an army of little 
robots? Or big robots? If Dr. Wondertainment can 
mass-produce things with that much power, why 
does he need outside help? Why involve kids at 
all? 


SCP-958-A: BECAUSE DR. WONDERTAINMENT 
IS A TOYMAKER. 


<End Log> 


Footnotes 

1. Common examples include condiment bottles, planks of wood, 
glass bottles, duct tape, and rubber bands. 

2. The workers claimed to have entered The Factory "Floor" as early 
as 1928, despite not matching the age that would require. Those 
who could were reintegrated into society, with the remaining number 
integrated into the D-Class program. 

3. SeeSCP-1103for more information. 


« SCP-957 | SCP-958 | SCP-959 » 


that was what we were working with. In A-Silo, where | 
was, it boiled down to cooking up compounds and a 
below-zero cooling system for volatile compounds, under 
an open-air shed, with cooking pots and camp stoves, 
and a bunch of big guys who didn't speak English. In 
short, it was like summer camp. Rolling on a hot, 
threadbare cot at night, under yards of mosquito netting, 
| was starting to consider asking for a full-time transfer. 


Then the sirens started up from B-Silo. 


Every one of us jumped up and started getting dressed, 
making our way to the food-cellar-turned-bomb-bunker 
outside. From the window, what looked like big arms of 
light were ripping into the silo. Were coming up out of it. | 
grabbed the guys who were lingering by the window and 
pulled them on. 


Outside, the bomb shelter was a mad dash away, and 
we started on it, but not before the entire ground lit up. It 
was covered in light, glinting off of nowhere. One of the 
guys stepped where it was lit, and he turned into smoke. 


From the ruins of B-Silo, there was a person made of 
pure starlight and aurora. It held its arms up, in wonder, 
like coming out of Plato’s cave. 


| heard people screaming behind me— at least four of 
them were dead; there were three of us in the last mote 
of darkness. 


Until floodlights came on, slowly, like an early dawn— 
enough to shun the thing back into its cage, and 
illuminate the ruins of the entire almost-site. All the 
buildings were burning, there was nothing higher than 
my head left standing. Thirty people were dead. 


Within half an hour, a helicopter buzzed overhead and 
settled into the charred nest of a building. We moved 
around slowly, trying to extinguish buildings or find what 
we could, or keep up a series of radio communications 


for help. Two guards rolled out and opened the doors, 
and I’m surprised they didn’t lay out a fucking carpet. 
05-3 stepped out of the chopper. 


Suffice to say, everybody stopped. 


Everyone— even some of the sad level-1 saps who 
didn’t speak a word of English— stood up and didn’t say 
a word. Or breathe. The guy theoretically in charge now, 
another three with some history in the military, didn’t say 
anything. Three just looked around. 


“Whose,” he said, “fault is this?” 


| swear to God the wind held its breath. Several buildings 
gently smoldered. 


The other guy stepped forward, looking like he was 
expecting the grand firing squad any time. Three walked 
towards him. 


They talked. 
Three nodded, then looked around, at all of us. 
“Il expect all of this will be cleaned up.” 


Then he got in his chopper and left. Once it drifted 
behind a cloud, the spell broke, and | ran over to ask the 
military guy what he said. It took a few minutes to get his 
attention, and then he just looked at me, staring a 
thousand yards away, terrified. 


“He said to clean up.” 
8 


Two weeks later, | was back on a plane to Site sweet 
Site 27, and that was my encounter with Three. 


For a long time, | thought it was the suit. You could do 
anything in a suit like that. 


S] 


Brenda was ecstatic to have me back— said she knew | 
wasn’t going to stay in Ghana forever, and dragged me 
around and showed me everything she had been 
working on while | was gone. Her department had been 
busy.