After all, when you're in the Foundation, the other members are the 
only ones you can really talk to about a lot of things. And when 
someone develops a reputation, everyone eventually gets to learn 
about it. Even if it is undeserved. 


By the time Djoric brought the group back to the large, white arches 
and curved glass of the entrance hall, Lament was almost dizzy with 
the amount of information he’d been deluged in. He got a slip of 
paper with his on-site quarters listed; notes on where the mess, 
armory, and various reserves of equipment were; notes on 
scheduled days off... Then Djoric looked down at his clipboard, 
clicking his tongue as he turned the pages. 


“Right, then. Primary assignments. Most of you will be working 
under a member of the Senior Staff for the next few months. Some 
of you will be stuck with them for the next few years. It all depends 
of how indispensable they think you are,” he said, laughing a little. 
“Sandlemyer...” he said, looking down at the list. “You’re assigned to 
me!” he said, laughing a little. “So... nice to meet you... again!” 


Sandlemyer grinned a little bit, then nodded. “Lab Eleven, sir?” he 
asked. Djoric had shown them his lab with great enthusiasm. 


Djoric grinned and nodded. “Simmons, you’re going to... Kondraki. 
Have fun there,” he said, looking up at the man, then back down 
again. Simmons didn’t seem that bothered by that, Lament thought, 
but then, he had a PhD. He could probably expect some modicum of 
respect. 


“Jones and Brown. You're both heading over to work with Strelnikov. 
Do what he says, exactly what he says, and you'll get out alive, 
huh?” he said, laughing slightly to set them at ease. It didn't seem to 


work very well, though. Lament had heard that Site19’s security 
force was a tough duty, and judging from their expressions, they'd 
heard the same. 


Djoric looked down one last time, then frowned slightly, looking back 
up at Lament. “You don’t have a doctorate or anything, do you?” he 
asked. 


Lament shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. 


Djoric looked back down again, then shrugged and pushed that 
consolatory smile back to his face. “Guess he’s gotten lonely since 
Iceberg left us,” he said softly. “Or maybe it’s just a mistake. 
Anyhow... uh... You’re assigned to Gears.” 


Lament’s eyebrow rose for a moment, wondering if this was a joke, 
and then the other one joined it as he moved from suspicion to 
surprise. “Are you serious, sir?” he asked. 


“As serious as a grave,” Djoric said, still smiling. 


Lament decided, much later in his room, that he hadn’t appreciated 
that comment. 


« | HUB | Interlude 1 » 


In His Own Image: Interlude 1 


August 18, 2007: 


Lament's fingers slid over the chromium frame for a moment. It had 
been expensive, but the joke—which he knew wouldn't be laughed 
at—was worth it. His first failure for a final hurrah. He let a slight 
smirk slip over his lips, looking down at the picture, at the smile that 
looked almost abnormal, and laughed. 


Lament wanted to think 'The look on his face...' or something 
similarly reflective, but he knew that it would be the same as it 
always was. Blank. Calculating. 


He pulled out the wrapping paper, and slowly began folding it 
around the picture with a half smile, humming happy birthday. 


« Part 1 | HUB | Part 2 » 


Mr. Deeds: | cannot say, except to note that | simply 
knew one was impossible while the other was not. 


Dr. Mirth: So you don’t know how you know things like 
my last name or my title, or whether or not a certain task 
is possible? 


Mr. Deeds: That is correct. 


Dr. Mirth: Very well, | believe we are done here for now, 
but | do need to consult with my colleagues on some 
points. Please wait here until | return. 


Mr. Deeds: Certainly. 


Dr. Mirth and Agent Graves leave the room. Dr. Mirth 
returns 2 hours later; video surveillance shows that Mr. 
Deeds did not move during this interval. 


Dr. Mirth: Mr. Deeds, my colleagues and | have had 
some disagreements about you. 


Mr. Deeds: That's most unfortunate. 


Dr. Mirth: We feel that these disagreements can only be 
resolved by examining you more intensely. 


Mr. Deeds: Certainly, Dr. Mirth. 


Dr. Mirth: To be specific, we'd like to examine you 
internally. 


Mr. Deeds: Certainly, Dr. Mirth. 
Dr. Mirth:... We'd like to do an autopsy. 


Mr. Deeds: Ah. Shall | kill myself for you? And since you 
will be examining my internal organs, do you have a 
preferred method for my death? 


Dr. Mirth: Uh. Yes, if that's possible? 


In His Own Image: Part 2 


February 11, 1998: 


He smiled at the bald man, waving with his elbow because his 
hands were too full, then setting his cup on the edge of his desk. 
Coffee—black. 


He carefully balanced the other man’s drink, easing it down onto the 
porcelain coaster gently, then nodding to him. “Morning, Dr. Gears.” 


“Good morning, Agent,” he replied flatly. 


Lament walked to his desk, sitting down and pulling off the 
calendar’s top page, looking down at the next one. He grinned. 
“You'll like this one, sir,” he said, just a touch of humor in his voice. 
“Why do physicists make terrible lovers?” 


Gears stared at him. 


“Because they can find the position, but not the velocity. Or the 
velocity, but not the position,” Lament grinned from ear to ear. 


Gears nodded. “Schrodinger, | believe.” 
“Yes, sir.” 
“Have you finished your report on 106?” Gears asked. 


Lament sighed. Swing and a miss. “No, sir, but I’ve got a few 
ideas...” he said quietly, leaning back to grab the file from his desk 
drawer. 


Gears nodded slightly. 


Lament pointed down at the schematic of the containment chamber. 
“| think we might be able to offset the corrosion if we actually 
suspend the cell," he started, laying it down open on his desk, 


pulling out his notes. "Keep it away from most surfaces. Direct 
contact seems to be the surest method of extensive transition, so...” 
And he was off. 


And Gears listened, expressionless as Lament rattled off the plan. 
Of the original bodies that they’d found, one of them was wearing a 
watch which had a chromium plated band, untarnished, and he 
thought that they might be able to line the inside of the cell with that, 
since it seemed to have decayed slower. 


Gears nodded as he finished. “And the suspension? How would we 
be able to manage it without direct contact with the cell?” 


Lament shrugged. “Magnetics?” he suggested. 


Gears nodded for a moment. “We'll look into it,” he said. “In the 
meantime, | need you to refocus your efforts. A slight conundrum for 
you.” 


“What is it, sir?” 


“SCP-884.” 


April 27, 1998: 


Lament had never heard of 884, and he quickly understood why. 
The Foundation barely had it in custody in the ninety-odd years that 
it had been known. Some group called “The Chaos Insurgency’— 
Lament had cackled over that name—kept stealing it. He looked 
down at the file, tilting his head slightly at the thickness of it, sighing. 


“He’s got to be kidding me...” 


As luck would have it, the only one he needed to give a damn about 
was Dash-Four. The other pieces of the SCP, which had originally 
been a complete men’s grooming kit, had been lost, destroyed, or 
stolen over the years. This last remaining piece was rather... 
innocuous. Just a mirror. It was nothing like the razor or the comb or 
even the shaving cup (all of which were far more interesting and far 
more dangerous). He read over the file a few times before pushing it 
to the side. He has to wonder what was special about it. And 


moreso, why Gears had assigned it to him. It wasn't an immediate or 
serious problem, just... He looked up at the clock. 


Almost 7:00 PM already. He sighed heavily, opening his desk 
drawer and laying the thick, heavily bound document into it. With a 
stretch, he stood up, walking to the door and out into the silent hall. 
It was after hours in the Site19 staff offices, and there were only a 
few people still there. Over the last few weeks, he’d become one of 
those few. 


Gears wasn’t a hard taskmaster. He never gave you anything you 
weren't capable of. There was just... so much of it. He was 
completely amazed that the man had been managing on his own for 
this long, much less with this level of work. It was almost... 
disconcerting. At times, he wondered if he was actually helping or 
not, but Glass had told him—in his last mandatory psychological 
review—that it was a normal response. He took his reassurances at 
face value, and continued plodding along. 


“Hey! Lament!” 


He turned, smiling a little wnen he saw Sandlemyer waving at him. 
“Wait up!” 


The two of them had gotten to know each other fairly well. Djoric, 
who was still the other agent’s supervisor, worked mostly with 
written effects and mild memetics, and Sandlemyer was training in 
the same field. He and Sandlemyer had already worked together 
once on a small project when Gears hadn’t needed Lament for a 
couple of days. It had been... nice. He was working with someone 
normal and even chipper at times. It was the most relaxing two days 
he’d spent since he came to Site19. 


“Hey, Sandy,” he said. The Agent had taken well to the nickname 
Djoric had given him, and Lament occasionally wished he had as 
good a relationship with Gears as Sandlemyer had with the other 
doctor. “What’s been going on in the library?” 


Sandlemyer laughed. The library, as his office had come to be 
called, was just outside the holding room for every currently 
contained copy of The Hanged King’s Tragedy, and just a few doors 


away, dozens of other books that would rape your mind or flense 
your skin sat waiting for someone to look at them. 


It made for a slightly disturbing aesthetic. 


“Not much. I’ve been trying to figure out the containment on this 
thing...” he said. 


And it started. Their ritual. They talked to each other at length, 
discussing the problems that either one were having with their 
respective work. When Lament mentioned the mirror, Sandlemyer 
just shook his head and laughed. “You’re going to have to get 
someone actually inside the Insurgency to figure that one out...” he 
said, a wide smirk on his face. 


Lament just shrugged, suggested that he try setting up a telekill box 
—“It’s like this. If the book is emitting thoughts, this stuff will explode 
and destroy it, which is your orders, right?”—and then headed back 
toward his quarters. 


He walked back into his quarters—which were finally looking lived in 
—and nearly kicked a folder that had been slipped under his door. 
There was a note attached to the top of it, and Lament read it with a 
frown, feeling his stomach slip away as he realized that he would be 
awake far later than he wanted. 


“Chromium ineffective. Reassess.” 


« Interlude 1 | HUB | Interlude 2 » 


In His Own Image: Interlude 2 


July 7, 2005: 
"Hey!" 


Lament jumped at his desk, turning and looking up at the woman. 
Long, lightly curling, brown hair. Constant smirk. Mirthy eyes. 


"Heya, Sophie," he said, grinning as he stood. The smile came to his 
face easy. It always seemed to around her. "Hey, listen, | got you 
something..." 


"Oh... ? Gifts? On a first date?" 
"It's just lunch!" he defended. It was a date. 


"Regardless, sir. Most unbecoming." Still that smirk. God, he loved 
that smirk. 


"Well, | couldn't pay for the meal, since we're on base, so..." He 
pulled out a clear, glass vial, passing it to her carefully. 


"Someone told me you like... ctenophores." 


She looked down at it, then up at him, her face registering a mix of 
shock and joy. 


"Best. Date. Ever." 


Hehe. It was a date. 


« Part 2 | HUB | Part 3 » 


In His Own Image: Part 3 


November 1, 1998: 


Agent Lament noted, almost in passing, that it was All Saints Day as 
he tore off his calendar. He tossed the old day aside, chuckling 
slightly at the new one. "Scientists are all over the place in the sack," 
he started. "Watt did it with power, Joule did it with energy, Ohm did 
it with resistance, Pascal did it under pressure." He grinned. 


"All notable contributors to their fields," Gears said dryly. 


Lament nodded. He'd never heard a chuckle from across the office 
for the past year. Never saw a smile. People seemed to think that 
Gears was a robot or a cyborg or some sort of computer given 
human form. Lament preferred to think of him as just reserved and 
needing to come out of his shell a little. 


It was a damn thick shell, though... 


Lament popped his neck and looked at his inbox. Nothing too much. 
A couple of memos concerning some security issues that he briefly 
glanced over... Nothing too important. He sighed a little, shredding 
the ones that were marked as such, filing the others, then leaning 
back in his seat. His closed his eyes for a moment, thinking. 


"Agent?" 


Lament opened his eyes, looking at the bald doctor across his desk. 
That was a surprise. Normally, it was a process of file, assessment, 
and writing up proposals and schematics. Conversation was not 
something the two of them participated in. "Yes, Doctor Gears?" he 
asked. 


"What was your previous assignment?" 


Lament was caught a little off guard at that one. Hedge. "You should 


know, sir. You received my personnel file.” 
"| did. Please, continue." 


Lament nodded a little. "| was at Site-29, sir," he said. "Just outside 
San Matteo," he added. "! was working on... well... a few... different 
projects..." he finished, looking back at the large, thick file on the 
corner of his desk. Averting his eyes and putting wording together in 
his head. 


"Such as?" Gears asked. 


"Classified, sir," he said, hoping there was some protection in that. 
He didn't want to talk about 919. About his own face screaming at 
him. "I'm not free to talk about them." 


Gears nodded slightly. "So are the ones you're working on with me,” 
he said flatly. "Though the telekill box was rather ingenious." 


And that was it. A pit formed in his stomach. Lament looked back up 
at Gears, then down again. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. But... | never shared 
anything above Level Two clearance, sir," he said quickly. "I'd never 
do anything like that..." 


"Nevertheless, Agent." 


Lament sighed, feeling thoroughly... chastened? He wasn't sure. It 
was the nameless feeling of having disappointed your father or 
mother. "Yes, sir." 


And then, he and Gears didn't say anything for the next few hours, 
until Lament rose from his desk to go to lunch. "Can | get you 
anything, sir?" he asked. 


"That will be unnecessary." 


Lament sighed, nodded, and walked out of the office, realizing 
how... thoroughly he must have just disappointed the man, even 
though he'd never show it. He wondered if a transfer was coming 
somewhere in his future... Would he welcome that? The Assistant 
Researcher position he was occupying was never something he'd 
wanted, nor something that he was exactly qualified for. He felt out 


of his element, and now, it felt worse. 


He met up with Sandlemyer shortly later, as usual. They sat together 
with a gaggle of other assistants; Lament was the only one at the 
table not wearing a white labcoat, though. Sandy had accepted his 
promotion to Assistant Researcher as soon as he finished his 
degree through South Chayanne Point University, and with a smile, 
he and the others started chatting openly about their current 
projects. Lament was almost certain that the only reason he was 
"allowed" to sit with them was because he was working with Gears, 
and the blank faced doctor seemed to be a source of fascination to 
the rest of them. They worked in circuits, providing what details they 
could, omitting what they couldn't. And then, it came to his turn. He 
sighed and shook his head. 


"lam currently not allowed to discuss my project load," he said, flatly 
and to the point. He picked up a french fry and ate it, trying to act 
nonchalant and feeling none of it.