“| don’t know. There’s a reason | prefer not to be on-site 
if | can help it. People watching every single move you 
make, analyzing it, and then not securing it well enough 
to protect the privacy they’ve been given a right to 
breach. But hey, I’m saying that off-the-record. 
Supposedly. Can't be certain you can trust what they tell 
you about our tech these days.” He taps with one finger 
the communications earpiece bracketed into his tragus 
piercing and winks. 


Reggie shudders. “But there’s still no audio, right? In the- 
in the new videos?” 


“Not that I’m aware of.” 


“Thank God. That would make it worse. Did you, uh... 
Did you watch those? I’m sorry, | just, | feel like | should 
know.” 


“Heh. | watched enough to get the gist of it, yes. 
Anything more would have felt a little weird. Notably, | 
scrubbed through one of the seventeen that was just the 
two of you talking for a while while naked in the shower 
before doing your business. I’m betting that the Ethics 
Committee is going to spend this whole week trying to 
decide how to interpret that one and what it means for 
your case.” 


“So... Do you know- | mean, do you think- Do you think 
I’m innocent? | mean, not innocent, | know I’m done-for 
as far as breaking the sexual conduct policy, but not 
guilty of rape?” 


“| think that you are not a bad person and even less so in 
any intentional way, and that you’re learning this lesson 
about what you can or can’t express emotionally toward 
contained objects in a far more painful and public 
manner than how | learned it a few years ago.” 


Reggie takes a beat to process the sentence. “Okay. | 
think | get it. I’m trying. Trying to process all of this when 
we somehow never thought that it would get out.” 


"As a general rule, if you do it in the Site, someone's 
watching. No matter what the activity is." 


"Fuck. God, | wish I'd been smarter." 


“But look, what's happened has happened and now 
you're going to do what you can to right it. The universe 
works these things out. I'll be back down soon.” He turns 
around and heads up the stairs. 


Reggie picks up his bag and ambles into the living room. 
The agent's house is relatively barren with the 
exceptions of a mess of Foundation-issued equipment 


laid out on the kitchen island and a coffee table covered 
in various jars filled with colorful buds and glassware 
apparatuses. He walks past to the pillow-covered 
mattress on the floor and moves the TV trays and tablet 
off of it before collapsing face-down on the white 
comforter. 


Reggie wakes to the sound of pots clanging and muffled 
German curse words. He rolls over and untangles the 
sheets from himself before stumbling into the hallway 
bathroom, head reeling. He dry-heaves into the sink 
several times before sitting on the toilet. Trauss knocks 
on the door, as he expected. “I’m fine, I'll be out ina 
minute,” he says, hand gripping his thigh as his 
intestines churn. 


“You’re going to feel a lot better if you eat protein, drink 
water, and shower,” Trauss tells him once he comes out. 
“It's nine AM and you slept since seven last night.” 


“Christ, what’s wrong with me?” 


“Xanax withdrawal symptoms with extra stressors thrown 
in, it appears.” 


Reggie looks up from his duffel bag to stare himself in 
the mirror. “All my changes of clothes are the same 
uniform. | don’t own a single clothing item that doesn’t 
have the Foundation logo on the arm or chest, other than 
undershirts.” 


Trauss laughs and cracks another egg into the pan. “I at 
least have some dress shirts that don’t have it on there, 
but | don’t own any non-grayscale clothes, | think.” 


“Maybe we should go shopping." He takes a seat at the 
barstools and groans. “Not to sound desperate, but when 
exactly do you usually bring out the weed?” 


“Pff, whenever you want, | guess. It’s been ‘out’ since it 
got legalized. That’s why it’s all over the table. | usually 


smoke a sativa in the morning and an indica at night.” 


“I still don’t know what any of that means,” he mumbles 
into his crossed arms. “I'll just wait for you if you smoke 
in the mornings anyway.” 


“Alright. You want tomato with these eggs?” 
“Yeah, that sounds alright. Thanks for cooking.” 


“Wouldn't be if | didn’t have an excuse to cook, with 
someone in the house and all. I'll grab you a plate and 
we'll get started. | gotta clock in and hit the road at noon, 
though, just to warn you. Be gone until six.” 


“Alright. I'll try not to burn the house down.” 


“Appreciate it. Make sure to close the patio door back if 
you go outside. The sprinklers won’t come on if it’s left 
open.” 


Reggie looks over his shoulder at the bushels of 
flowering cannabis pressing up against the living room 
window. “Got it.” 


“Thanks. I'll be back down to eat with you in a few 
minutes.” 


“Okay.” Reggie watches the agent tiptoe up the stairs, 
his thick hair bouncing on his back. He adjusts his 
position from leaning on the bar counter to leaning on the 
island counter and briefly wonders if it would be rude to 
go looking in Trauss' backpack out of curiosity. He 
decides to wait to ask him, and instead becomes 
distracted with the large case of amnestics occupying 
most of the available space. He recognizes the labels for 
some of the devices — he's permitted to carry and use 
Class-A spray amnestics, but not much else — but has 
never seen some before. 


"Back," Trauss calls as he bobs down the stairs, rubbing 
his hands together. "I see you've noticed the table of 


toys." 
"Ha. Yeah." 


"Well, take a good, long look, because | usually never 
carry that much at once. More than half of it is going 
back to lockup at 42." 


"What about this?" Reggie gestures to the case. 
"Ah, that| do carry. Though | usually keep it in the car." 


"You're authorized to use everything down to Class-C? 
Holy fuck." 


"Mmm-hmm, and I'm working on getting certified to use 
Class-Ds." He picks up the still-hot frying pan and starts 
scooping eggs onto two plates. 


"Maybe this will sound weird, but have you ever, like, 
used these? On yourself?" 


"On myself? Christ, all | can say is that the ‘do not 
deliberately concentrate and inhale contents’ warning on 
the Class-As must be for you." 


"Oh hell, | don't mean in a recreational use way. | mean 
have you ever had to make yourself forget something?" 
Reggie interlaces his fingers and squeezes. His limbs 
feel bloodless. 


"Class-A self-administration is authorized across the 
board for Level 4 personnel. But anything going back 
longer than a few hours, | gotta fill out a lot of paperwork 
if | want it out. The Foundation decides what | remember 
or forget, not me." 


"Does that ever creep you out?" 


He shrugs. "| chose this life. If | want to leave there are 
channels through which it is possible. But | don't want 
to." He picks up the plates and motions toward the 


couch. 
"Why?" 
"What?" 


"I'm sorry, just- Why? Why are you okay having their 
comm-link permanently installed in your ear flesh? Why 
are you okay being known in this region as a Foundation 
agent and only as a Foundation agent? Do you want to 
do anything different, ever? Be your own person?" 


Trauss sucks his teeth. "Well, | wasn't expecting you to 
get so deep. But when | ask myself those questions — 
and | have, for a long time — my answer is always that | 
like the security. Call me a wuss, but | don't like being out 
there in the world on my own. Maybe I'm brainwashed 
because | was hired so young, just like you. But | like 
knowing that if | ever can't take care of myself, the 
people who can are only a second away." 


Something about the agent's phrasing sends a shiver 
down Reggie's spine. "| see," he says under his breath. 


"All of that isn't a topic that you need to be worrying 
about right now, in any regard." 


Reggie stands up and seats himself in front of the 
circular steel table by the couch. "You're right. Sorry. 
Thanks for this," he says, taking a plate from Trauss. 


"No problem," Trauss says, taking a large bite of jelly 
toast before he's fully seated. "But yeah, like | was 
saying. No, I've never had a reason to amnesticize 
myself. I've actually never even had to use Class-As, but 
I'm sure that will change with more years of 
employment." 


"How long have you been an agent?" 


"Signed up for entrance exams the day | turned 18. 
Same as you, kid. And hell, I'd wager I'm not more than 


locations, aimed at determining if SCP-938 is capable of altering 
local weather patterns, has proven inconclusive. 


Addendum 11-16-1987: The deleterious effects suffered by both 
known SCP-938 survivors are the erasure of significant stretches of 
memory and drastic alteration of both individuals' mannerisms and 
personalities. During subsequent evaluation, both professed to 
experience persistent feelings of depersonalization and 
derealization. Medical and psychological evaluation results are 
available to research personnel on request. 


« SCP-937 | SCP-938 | SCP-939 » 


three or four years older than you, anyway." 
"I'm PIPE 


"Right, | thought so. And I'm 23, turning 24 this summer. 
We're all just repainted college kids as far as 
demographics go, here." 


"You sound like Walkers." 


"Heh. He's right about some things. If he's not 
committing libel, he's hitting something eerily accurate on 
the nose. No middle-ground for that guy. But it's usually 
libel." 


"So you tolerate Information Breach? Is that why you let 
them take your picture?" 


"| let them take my picture to piss them off." 


"How would doing what they want piss them off?" he 
asks around a mouthful of egg. 


Trauss swallows, puts his plate down, and reaches for 
his half-meter glass percolator bong. "Because they love 
starting trouble. All | said was 'sure’ and posed. And 
‘yeah, that's fine’ when they showed me what the caption 
for my picture would say. When they asked me about the 
piece they were writing, | said 'decline to comment in the 
exact same tone of voice for every question until they got 
mad and drove off." 


"...) see." 


He braces the bong against his knees and starts packing 
the bowl with orange-haired shredded pieces, shrugging. 
A soft beep sounds in his left ear, making his fingers 
jump. "Yes, I'm here, this thing is supposed to be off until 
twelve-" 


"Correct, I'm afraid we've just got a pressing matter 
here," the dispatcher says. Trauss huffs under his 


breath. "We've got about 20 or 25 protesters outside the 
front gate." 


"What? The front gate of 42, the fake gate, or the front 
gate of the- the back entrance, of our houses?" 


"Outside of the Coast Guard entrance on River Road, 
yes. Can you head down there? They're blocking traffic 
and we don't want to have to-" 


"To get civilian cops involved, yes. | understand. I'll be 
there in no more than fifteen minutes. Get the Coast 
Guard personnel to keep it under control until then." 


"They're doing their best, yes. Alright, radio silence 
unless you need me, Trauss." 


"Gotcha." He leans forward and ignites the lighter. 


"| really couldn't deal with them in my ear 24/7," Reggie 
muses, watching Trauss rip the bong for at least ten 
seconds uninterrupted. 


"Ya deal with it by not censoring anything you're up to 
off-the-clock, and just letting them learn by experience 
not to listen when they shouldn't be," he wheezes, 
coughing a milky white jet into the air above the table. 
"Worked for me." 


"Huh." 
"Welp, guess I've gotta get ready to be out all day," he 
sighs, reaching for one of three grinders on the table. He 


takes a vaporizer pen out of his shirt pocket and 
unscrews the bottom. 


"So just to check, you're okay with me using your stuff, 
right?" 


"The weed or the food?" 


"Or the TV, your desktop, stuff like that." 


"Oh. Yeah, you can use any of that stuff. But hey, don't 
spend the whole day reading about yourself on the 
Internet. | beg of you." 


"| won't, | won't." 


"You're gonna want to," he insists, grabbing the bong 
again. "Any time people shit-talk ya, you wanna read 
about it. It's just what happens. I've been there." 


"I'll fight the curiosity. | Know it's not what | need." 


"Right on." He sniffs, prods a half-gram of the hybrid 
strain from the grinder into the vaporizer compartment, 
and walks over to the door with the bong hit still in his 
lungs. "Back after six. Stay safe in here and don't answer 
the door if someone knocks." He puts his dark aviators 
on, swinging his car keys around his finger. 


"Okay. Thank you. Again." 


"You got it." He closes the door behind him, a wave of 
warm outside air pushing the clouds of smoke toward 
Reggie. Reggie coughs slightly and eyes the array of 
three grinders and a dozen or so bud-filled jars beside 
the two bongs. Not even knowing where to start, he 
reaches for the smaller apparatus, a jar with a purple lid 
and GD Purp scrawled on the label in Trauss' 
handwriting, and the purple grinder. 


He sets himself up at the desk behind the kitchen wall, 
relieved to see that it's not around any low windows. He's 
felt like he's being watched for days. When he 
remembers the empty breakfast plates on the table, he 
stands back up on wobbly legs and takes them to the 
sink. 


From his position at the sink, he squints through the 
sunlit haze in the room and out into the backyard. He 
swears he sees something dog-shaped crawling around 
between the stalks of Trauss' plants, but he can't be 


certain. He shakes his head, turning off the water and 
double-checking the door locks before he sits back 
down. 


To his surprise, Trauss' computer is connected to both 
the public Internet and the Foundation's network. He'd 
been taught in basic training that a setup like that is a 

huge security risk, but maybe something had changed 
since then that he didn't know about. 


His fingers instinctively fly to type out the URLs of all the 
major news networks on his mind. He forces his hands 
off of the keyboard and opens the grinder instead, 
placing fluffy, crystal-encrusted pieces of whatever 
purple flower Trauss had in it already into the bowl. 
When he gets up on trembling, sore feet to fill the bong 
at the sink, he sees the dog in the garden again, only this 
time sitting upright with his face in the window. 


"Oppenheimer! Get out, this isn't your yard!" he hisses, 
waving in a pushing motion with his free hand. 
"Oppenheimer! Go home, boy! Go home!" 


Oppenheimer whines and cocks his head, peering in the 
window with a longing gaze. 


"Go home, boy! | don't want anyone to know I'm here!" 


After several seconds, the dog figures it out and leaves, 
tail drooping. Reggie struggles to hit the bong while he 
watches his pet trot out of sight toward the direction of 
his mother's house. He inhales what he expects is a 
reasonable amount of semi-opaque smoke and seats 
himself back down at the computer. The coughing fit 
comes on a slight delay, and he curses himself for not 
paying attention to his tolerance level as he wheezes 
and rasps. 


When he's had something to drink and he's finally 
reseated, he clicks the IntSCPFN icon on the Windows 
bar and enters his credentials. He can't think of any 


reason that checking his employee account is a bad 
idea, given that he's on standby to hear back from the 
Ethics Committee, even though his pulse jumps slightly 
when he processes the thought. He hurriedly lights the 
bowl again and inhales a somewhat smaller hit. 


Your account has been temporarily suspended, the login 
screen tells him. He gulps and tries again, knowing well 
that doing that won't fix anything. 


He's startled by the front door opening. "Forgot my damn 
wallet and driver's license," Trauss mutters, clanging his 
keys on something. "Okay, I'm gone again," he says 
without looking up, slamming the door behind him. 
Reggie hears it lock a few seconds later.