The government could never dream of being able to hide itself 
so well. Even this first level is hidden in plain sight, disguised 
as the regional headquarters of a major data analysis firm. Most 
of the employees you see here have no idea what lies beneath 
their feet. But | do. Let us continue. 


Burrows felt his feet edging forward, never stopping to consult with 
his head. He approached one of the desks. A plain featured, slightly 
overweight man in a brown suit was sitting at it, staring at his 
monitor with a blank expression. 


This is Robert Helms, junior data analyst. He's been working 
here for the last nine years, never knowing what this place was 
hiding under its dull facade. He's not a particularly smart man, 
although he considers himself one, nor is he especially 
talented in any meaningful way. He hates his job, likes to fish, 
loves his family, and overall just tries to get by until retirement. 
He never expected much from life, and never got much. He will 
be dead in twenty minutes. His position will be given to some 
other faceless cog, his family will grieve and move on, and 
soon enough, he will be utterly forgotten, having made no 
lasting impact on the world he spent forty two years living in. 


"How can you possibly know that?" Burrows asked, more out of 
anger than anything else. The man, Helms, shook himself out his 
daze and stretched, his hand passing right through Burrows' chest. 
The professor jumped back, startled. Helms didn't seem to notice, 
and stepped away from his desk, heading for a nearby soda 
machine. 


Professor, you disappoint me. I thought you would have 
realized by now you're not actually here, not in your limited 
sense of the word, at least. As for how | know what will become 
of poor Mr. Helms, well, perhaps our next stop will shed some 
light on that subject. Onward and downward, Professor. Always 
downwards. 


Burrows felt a strange sinking feeling, and looked down to see his 
legs passing through the floor. He tried to struggle, but every 


movement he made only made him sink faster. After an extremely 
unpleasant moment where his eyes and the concrete occupied the 
same place at the same time, he found himself in a space quite 
unlike the one he just left; the buzzing chaos of the top floor was 
replaced with an almost total silence, broken only by the occasional 
whisper of the scientists working in one of the many stations. 


This is the true Site-27, or at least its research wing, home to 
some of humanity's greatest minds. Like Dr. Spengler right 
here. 


Once again, Burrows' body moved out of its own volition, this time 
approaching one of the scientists. The man couldn't have been 
much older than twenty five, a tall, bespectacled man in a white 
coat. 


Dr. Henry Spengler, twenty six years old. With an IQ of 190, he's 
one of the smartest people alive on the planet. He could have 
been anything he wanted, and he chose to work for the 
Foundation. He sacrificed a career in the limelight of the 
scientific world in order to work in the shadows, helping 
mankind defend itself from dangers most of them will never be 
allowed to know even exist. He is, by all accounts, a good, 
noble man. In his six years working for the Foundation, he 
saved the lives of at least fifty of his co-workers in one way or 
another, and his research into various SCP objects saved 
countless more. He'll be dead in fifteen minutes. For all of his 
good intentions and talent, his contributions will ultimately 
have no lasting effect on the fate of the world, and like Mr. 
Helms, he is doomed to be forgotten, having squandered his 
potential. 


"Squandered his potential? If this man saved even one life, he 
squandered nothing." 


If you were someone else, Professor, | might have thought you 
actually believe that. You know better, however, as do I. Come, 
one last stop. 


Downwards again. This time, the professor found himself in a long, 
grey corridor, lined in both sides by massive steel doors. 


Site-27's containment area, the heart of the facility. Twenty 
three Safe level items and seven Euclid level items are stored 
here. A few of them are of a particular interest to our little 
expedition. 


Following the voice, the professor entered one of the cells. Inside 
was a small, shimmering creature made of what appeared to be 
multicolored glass. A humming bird. 


This creature is completely harmless in its current form. It is 
classified as Euclid, since what makes it dangerous is so 
incredibly rare. It did not choose to be the way it is, it never 
wanted to be so dangerous. It is an innocent bystander of its 
own power. Still, they keep it locked up, just in case. If you 
think about it, "Just in case" covers about 90% of what the 
Foundation does. Such a careful organization. So...prepared. 
Or so they think. 


A small clink. The door was opened by a large man in uniform. He 
took a small object from his pocket and laid it on the floor next to the 
shimmering bird, a metal bullion. 


Captain Vincent Tallow, vice-head of security. He got tired of 
working twelve-hour shifts for six days a week for the pay he 
was getting, so he went looking elsewhere. He found an 
organization more than willing to pay him what he wanted, an 
organization you will soon grow much more familiar with. He 
thinks he'll have enough time to escape. He's wrong. 


The bird noticed the bullion, and quickly started to suck it dry, as if it 
was a flower. The glow grew stronger and brighter, quickly 
becoming blinding. 


Iridium, its favorite. It will eat and eat until it can eat no more 
and then, well... 


Despite himself, the professor spoke up. "The Foundation is 
prepared to deal with containment breaches. It's what it's here for. 
You're not going to do anything with that." 


No more feigned ignorance? Good, it was getting tiresome. No, 


003 


004 


005 


006 


007 


008 


Tai Cu, then Gu Xian All"scribe" figures 


Nan Li twice, then 
Huang Zhong twice 


Wu Yi four times 


Da Li, then Yi Zé, 
then Lin Zhong three 
times. 


Chord of Huang 


produce brushes, ink 
and paper scrolls from 
an unknown source 
and adopt a posture 
apparently indicating 
readiness to take 
dictation. 
"Shield-bearer" soldier 
figures rapidly move 
into a defensive 
formation around the 
gugin and its player. 

A number of 
"drummer" musician 
figures begin to beat 
their drums in unison. 
It should be noted that 
one of the drummer 
figures that responded 
to this command was 
at this point on display 
in the Louvre in Paris, 
France. 

Hundreds of 
previously- 
undiscovered 
"engineer" figures dig 
their way to the earth's 
surface in cropland 
two kilometers to the 
south of the site of the 
guqin's recovery. 

A number of "scholar" 


Zhong and Lin Zhong, figures step forward 


played twice 


Da Li, eight times 


and orally recite the 
works of 3rd century 
BCE Chinese 
philosopher Han Fei. 
Hundreds of additional 


| agree, one containment breach wouldn't do much. But how 
about two? 


The sound of alarms pierced the professor's ears. It came from the 
next cell over. 


Five? 

More alarms, now coming from many more cells. 
Ten? 

The cacophony was ear splitting. 

Thirty? 

The sound of alarms was now punctuated by screams. 


The professor looked around him in horror. The creature burned like 
a miniature sun, and the steel door of its cell was beginning to melt. 
"You've got to stop this! You have no idea what you're doing! Do you 
know how much damage this could cause, how many people will 
die!?" 


Of course | do, and that is the point of this expedition. People 
will die because they choose to remain powerless, to restrain 
their ambitions for power in order to maintain a false sense of 
safety, of normalcy. So many mindless phenomena like that 
bird can strike you down without a second thought, without a 
first. Do you not realize the sort of power you may possess if 
you only allow yourselves to wield it? I'm destroying Site-27 
because | can, because | choose to. When was the last time you 
made a choice, 05-3, a real choice? When did any of you? 


The thing knew who he was. It knew all along. "What are you?" 05-3 
asked. 


| am the Flame in the South, the culmination of human ambition 
and desire. | am the greatest of the four, that which drives 
forward. | am the Pulse of the World. | am not your enemy, quite 
the opposite. | will be your savior, if you'll only let me. | will 
return humanity to its proper place at the top, even if | have to 


drag it there kicking and screaming. And the way to humanity 
lies through the Foundation, as we both know. 


05-03 had nothing to say to that. 


| believe I left you with quite a bit to think about. It is time for 
you to go home. 


And just like that, O5-3 found himself back at his desk, piles of 
unfinished paperwork undisturbed. Next to them, the red phone was 
ringing. He had no illusions about what the call was about. 


Rising 


The feeling of blinking and opening his eyes to an entirely new place 
was not new to number Five Zero Seven. Just a second ago, he had 
been standing in a dark cell, eating celebratory pumpkin pie. It was 
Halloween, and while Foundation workers longed for the feeling of 
terror, 507 abhorred it. It was too familiar. 


As his eyes adjusted to the light, he breathed a sigh of relief. He had 
been dreading a Halloween trip, still trying to forget the one from last 
year. But he was not in a ghost town, or a dank graveyard. He was 
in the middle of what appeared to be an English mansion, with a 
large coat of arms and an even larger picture of Queen Victoria as 
the centerpieces of the room on the back wall. He felt a peculiar 
sense of deja vu, and 507 suddenly felt a lump in his throat. It was 
too familiar. 


"You're back." 507 whipped his head around in terror, seeing exactly 
what he hoped he wouldn't. An older man, Caucasian, with deep 
blue eyes. But 507 knew he wasn't any of that. The man spoke up 
again. "Did you enjoy your, uh, trials?" 


"| wouldn't call them trials. More of me thrashing around universes 
and other planes like a damn rag doll." 


343 frowned. "Rag doll seems a bit harsh. It's not like | wanted 
anything that way." 


507 sighed audibly. "How could you do this, huh? To me?" 


"Not just you. Did you notice where is everyone else now?" 343 
asked rhetorically, smiling. "Trapped. By their power, like you, or 
unconscious, or stuck within their own mind or body. Or maybe in 
the doorway." 


"But you haven't. I've been just about everywhere, all thanks to you. 
| know for the most part who the players are and where they stand. 


And neither of us stand nearly as high as we'd like to think." 


"Oh, come on. It can't have been that bad. Maybe it was just their 
way of saying hello?" 


507 grimaced. He had been right about Halloween being terrifying. 


"Well, you've entered my home without permission and insulted me. 
Anything you want to do here before you inevitably hop back to your 
cell?" 343 stood, staring blankly at 507. 


There was a long, awkward silence. Finally, the younger of the two 
spoke up. 


"Yeah, okay. Trick or treat?" he asked. 


The older man laughed. "Here's some chocolate." A bar of 
Hershey's appeared in his hand, which was promptly thrust forward. 
507 accepted, and walked to the wall to sit down. "I'm being nice 
and cordial, don't you think? Not like | used to be. We're not 
enemies, you can be afforded a little respect." 


"Enemies? Do you know what I've gone through? You don't know 
half the shit I've seen and learned. And brought with me." He pulled 
out a small chunk of yellow metal. "Remember, asshole, all he 
needs is one hand to strangle you with." 


The older man moved closer to 507, eying the object. "Hand?" he 
asked. 


"Not as broken as you think." 


A blink later, he was gone. In a split second, the old man's face 
changed from mild curiosity to anger and confusion. This was not 
familiar. 

"Do you think he knows?" 


"About what?" 


"The metal." 


"Doubt it." 


Researcher Goldsheiner had far too much paperwork to relax. The 
stack of files on his desk seemed to be taunting him, to the point that 
he could not focus on it without feeling angry. He had planned to go 
on vacation with his family in the near future, contingent on him 
having time to plan. But work was getting in the way, and he was 
getting more stressed by the minute. He kept Zoning in and out, all 
the while semi-focused on the stack of paper neatly on his desk. It 
was too big to do anything about. 


Pushing unproductive thoughts aside, he unenthusiastically reached 
for the file on the top. All he had to do was read the request and 
either accept it or deny it, meaning that he could skim through and 
avoid doing any actual work. He opened the manilla envelope and 
read the memo inside. Sitting back in his chair, he glanced over to 
the potted plant in the corner of his office. Wasn't maintenance 
supposed to do something about that thing? He was certainly not 
strong enough to move the thing himself. He looked it at, admiring 
how the leaves could look artificial even while being wholly natural. 
With a jolt, he moved his attention to the request, deciding to get it 
out of the way. After all, it wasn't like someone like him could do 
anything about the plant. It was too big to do anything about. 


This came to me in a dream. | had meditated for an hour 
or so before | went to bed, hoping to astrally project 
myself. It was around 10:40 when | went fell asleep. The 
next thing | knew, | was sitting in Central Park, throwing 
pieces of panini to the pigeons squabbling on the 
ground. | remember feeling a slight pity for them, having 
to take what | give and getting only the scraps of my 
sandwich. | turned to my side, and there was a man 
sitting there. | don't remember much, except that he had 
a trench coat and fedora on. He asked me if | liked what | 
was eating. 

| replied affirmatively, and he laughed. | don't quite 
remember what he said, but | think it was something 
about irony. 


Goldsheiner yawned. He skipped to the second-to-last paragraph. 


But it couldn't really be just that, could it? An inanimate 
object? Or an entity, trying to free itself from an 
inanimate object, to be contained in an inanimate object? 
Or maybe just an entity, briefly stuck inside a small 
universe before bursting into ours. | can't be sure about 
what the man said; after all, it was in a dream, and we 
know very little about SCP-882. 

A colleague of mine, who would prefer to remain 
nameless, told me that my experience was similar to an 
existing SCP entity, numbered 990. For this reason, | am 
officially submitting a transcript of my dream to Site 
Director Kondraki. | leave it up to the higher-ups to 
decide how to act, if any action is deemed necessary to 
undertake. 

-Researcher Greens, Personnel Code #CN8978, Site 19 


Too sleepy to fully understand what he had just read, Goldsheiner 
reached for his stamp and lethargically smacked the page with it. He 
grabbed a handful from the bag of candy corn the staff had put in all 
the offices and began to munch. There was no reason not to accept 
this request, after all, he rationalized. 990 was a Keter, if he 
remembered correctly. And better for it to be on the site director's 
plate than on his. Assuming the memo was accurate, the 
implications were out of his league anyway. It was too big to do 
anything about. 


507 was sitting in his containment unit, clutching a small piece of 
metal. He had been sitting there for sixty four seconds, which he 
knew because they were possibly the longest sixty four seconds of 
his life. A doctor in a white lab coat entered with a clipboard, 
scribbling notes down. 


"Five Oh Seven, you've been gone for almost nine hours. We can 
schedule an interview later to document your latest shift. Is there 
anything you'd like?"