David knew what that change meant. “The host is dying, and you 
don’t have long. What are you doing here?” 


“No evil is honorable, but death is honorable,” the microchip said 
through its dying flesh, “therefore death is not evil. It is time, 
hominid. The Box is open, and She is rising.” 


The D-class’s eyes closed then, and David saw him die. 


Eskobar wasn’t sure how long he just sat there, crying. But when it 
was over, he picked up the assault rifle off the ground. He knew 
enough to know how heavy it would be, so that didn’t surprise him. 
He knew how to eject the magazine, and it looked like at least...half 
of however many were supposed to be there, however many that 
was. 


The options were limited. He could go back to his office and try 
calling for backup, but he was willing to bet the lines were cut. He 
could stay where he was and wait for the rest of The Professors to 
get back, but— 


You’ve gotta go downstairs, David, he thought. /t’s your site. /t’s your 
responsibility. This is what you have. You have to try to protect 
whoever you can. 


Eskobar was terrified as he forced his way down the stairs. 


The knife came in directly beside Agent MacGilligan’s shoulder 
blade. She screamed; nobody who ever has been stabbed has 
responded to it very well, and this was a particularly surprising 

attack. 


Agent Eastman had just enough time to see the attacker come up 
behind her. He recognized who it was, too; just one of the few D- 
class assigned to Site 38. None of them were particularly 
dangerous, not at this point; they all thought they were going home 
at the end of the month. He hadn’t thought anything about it until the 
knife was already in MacGilligan’s back. He withdrew his 


remaining bread. 


Sample condition: Raised and fed weekly for one month by 
volunteers under the influence of mood-elevating medication. 
Sample use: Sixteen plain bagels. 

Result: Significant improvement of mood and temperament in 80% 
of test subjects for six hours. Remaining 20% experienced nausea, 
abdominal bloating, and fatigue. (May have been undiagnosed 
celiac sprue; the test subjects reported feeling significantly more 
philosophical and mellow about their condition than expected.) 


Sample condition: Raised and fed weekly for one month by 
automated machinery; baked entirely by automated machinery in 
isolation. 

Sample use: Three-stage French pain au levain. 

Result: No emotional change noted. Several testers noted a tinny or 
metallic taste. 


Sample condition: Kept in SCP-682's containment chamber for 
one hour. 

Sample use: One loaf challah (braided style) 

Result: Initial resoonse appeared similar to that of the baguette 
experiment in that test subjects became aggressive and 
argumentative shortly after ingesting several slices. Rather than 
attacking each other, the test subjects finished the loaf, proceeded 
to the test kitchens, and began a systematic attempt at the 
destruction of every other baked good not made with SCP-759 as its 
primary leavening agent. Subjects proved difficult to subdue. 


Sample condition: Also kept in SCP-682's containment chamber 

for one hour. Adulterated shortly thereafter with 10 grams dry 

domestic yeast (Saccharomyces cerevisiae). 

Sample use: One batch English muffins (Experiment supervisor Dr. 
specifically requested the change to 'something with less 

weight to throw around if the testers get stroppy'), baked under 

same conditions as the aggression challah. 

Result: Subjects immediately became cranky, uncooperative, and 

argumentative upon consumption of test product. The result has 

been unofficially dubbed 'grumpy muffins’. 


Sample condition: Raised and fed daily at room temperature under 


Foundation-issue sidearm, took aim, and blew off the D-class’s 
shoulder. 


Eastman had only seen the D-class’s reaction in movies. The man 
casually looked at where his arm had been, looked at Freeman, and 
began trying to climb over the table. He was stopped by the next 
shot, directly in the chest. He fell to the table emotionlessly, passing 
into death like a wind-up toy slowing to a stop. 


MacGilligan groaned. She had never actually been stabbed before, 
and there isn’t training that prepares you for it. She stopped 
screaming once the initial shock wore off, but the pain was 
tremendous. She could feel a flap of her skin and muscle that was 
peeling off right over her scapula; the cold air inside her body deeply 
disturbed her. She knew you couldn't feel temperature past a certain 
layer of skin, but...she knew what it felt like. 


Eastman ran around the table to her. “It’s okay, Jaime, it’s okay. 
Keep breathing. You’re gonna be okay. It’s a flesh wound, and it’s 
gonna hurt, but nothing’s too fucked up, okay?” 


Eastman was lying. He could clearly see bone through the wound, 
and she was bleeding plenty. She started screaming again when he 
began applying pressure to the wound, bandaging it as well as he 
could with T-shirt material, and helping her to her feet. 


Neither of them had carried radios; after all, what could go wrong? 
Eastman called for help and heard nothing, so he started walking 
her to the infirmary. 


“What was that?” MacGilligan asked, her voice becoming woozy. 


“| don’t know,” Eastman responded. “I don’t know. But he’s not 
gonna pull that shit again, | can guarantee that. I’m gonna make 
sure Eskobar hears plenty of shit about this. Jesus, what kind of a 
psycho— 


“No, Jim, not that. | heard something. Sounded like—“ 


Gunfire echoed down the halls in front of and behind Eastman and 
MacGilligan. Sporadic, not constant. Like people gunning down 


unarmed people and moving on. Eastman tried to hurry MacGilligan 
along as much as possible. 


The gunfire was getting closer, but they had reached the infirmary. 
Eastman opened the door and flipped on the lights, wondering if it 
was the last Site without standard motion-activated lighting. 


The doctor wasn’t there. The gunfire was getting closer. Eastman 
barricaded the door with an examining table and helped MacGilligan 
lie down on another. 


“We’re gonna be okay, MacGilligan,” Eastman kept saying. 
“Whatever the hell is going on, we’re gonna be okay.” 


“Jim, it’s here,” MacGilligan said, her voice fading. “Why is it here?’ 
“What?” Eastman said, and turned to look where she was looking. 


A box. A giant, black box was sitting on the floor. Eastman didn’t 
recognize it. “What is it?” Eastman asked.” 


Silence. MacGilligan had passed out. Eastman walked over to make 
sure she had a pulse (she did) and looked at the box. Smooth metal, 
no controls. He assumed it was a device of some kind, but he wasn’t 
familiar with it. Pounding at the door, now, but Eastman knew there 
was no way they were getting throu— 


Pounding. First pounding with fists, one, then multiple people. Then 
silence. 


THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. The door began to give way. Freeman 
glanced around, saw no exit. Of course there’s no exit. Of course 
this is the one building... 


Maybe, if they were lucky, they’d be captured by someone who 
could help MacGilligan out. Captured wasn’t dead, after all. And this 
might be a “captured.” People get lucky sometimes. 


The hospital bed gave way and the door flew open. Eastman had 
never seen this before. Two D-class personnel were in front, two 
MTF agents were in the back, and they had used a battering ram to 
take down the door. The battering ram was one of the researchers, 


head-first, one person each holding the arms and legs. The 
researcher's head was a stain on the door, dripping onto the floor. 
Eastman wasn’t sure if the researcher’s blood was what the 
personnel’s footprints were tracking into the room or not, but it 
seemed likely. 


They shuffled into the room, walking like they hadn’t done it very 
much before then, or like they were out of practice. They held their 
assault rifles by the grip, dragging the barrel along the ground. None 
of them made eye contact with Eastman, or looked at MacGilligan. 
They looked mostly at the floor, examined their surroundings. 
Finally, one of them spoke. 


“You are the hominid Eastman comma Agent James Bartholomew 
this is correct,” one of the D-classes said. He was looking in the 
vague direction of Eastman. 


“This is the hominid MacGilligan comma Agent Jaime Olivia this is 
correct,” one of the MTF agents said. 


Eastman held his hands up slowly. “Look, you've got us. Nothing we 
can do. Just take us—* 


“The hominid MacGilligan comma Agent Jaime Olivia is injured due 
to single edged weapon injury to costal surface of left scapula 
descending to ninth rib accompanied by lateral tearing,” the MTF 
agent said. “Weapon identified as a KA-BAR full-size seven-inch 
fighting knife with fixed plain edge. Hominid MacGilligan comma 
Agent Jaime Olivia is likely in bodily danger.” 


Eastman was confused. “Wait, how did you know—* 


“Hominid MacGilligan comma Agent Jaime Olivia is irrelevant to 
continued progress of Ascension. Eliminate hominid Eastman 
comma Agent James Bartholemew and proceed with...” The MTF 
agent paused, rolled his head upward, and looked at the ceiling. The 
others in the room did the same. Eastman watched carefully. 


They rolled their heads down. “Command from Her Supremacy 
acknowledged. Hominid MacGilligan Agent Jaime Olivia to be 
reeducated. Hominid Eastman comma Agent James Bartholomew to 


be taken to Her Supremacy for Integration.” 
Eastman was puzzled. “Reeducation? Integration? What the hell—“ 


The MTF agent’s Taser crackled. Eastman fell to the floor as one of 
the D-classes opened the black box beside him. He lost 
consciousness as one of the others picked MacGilligan up off of the 
bed. 


David had never actually held an assault rifle before. He didn’t even 
know if he was doing it correctly. He was holding it the way guns 
were held in first-person shooters and hoped that he either didn’t 
look too stupid or that he just wouldn’t find any reason to have to 
use the gun downstairs. The second one especially. 


The gunfire was still sporadic. David hoped that meant that the 
attackers, whoever they were, were going down quickly. He had a 
feeling that wasn’t the case. 


And it was his fault. He didn’t have them trained to deal with this, 
because he didn’t think this would ever happen. He didn’t consider 
that anyone would want anything from his Site. That was how he 
thought about it. 


But that wasn’t loyalty. He let his personal bullshit stop him from 
keeping his people safe, and now they were in danger. Maybe dead. 
Jesus. 


The stairway ended and opened into a wide room. The cafeteria. 
Empty, but David could see blood on one of the tables, and two 
trails of blood leading out of the room. One trail was a series of 
drips, fairly close together but distinct from one another. The other 
trail was an enormous smear following the same path. David 
followed the blood. 


The two trails diverged at the next junction, just outside the 
cafeteria. The spattering of blood grew further and further apart and 
led left, toward the infirmary. The smear led right, toward one of the 
exits. David liked the drops more than the trail and went left. 


Sounds were echoing down the hallway now, mostly footsteps. 
David didn’t hear any talking. None whatsoever. That didn’t seem 
good. He turned another corner. 


Three people walking towards him, carrying a fourth. A body (a 
headless body, David noticed) lying on the floor in front of a nearby 
door, which he guessed was the infirmary. David recognized them: 
Agent Kennison was the taller one carrying the fourth man over his 
shoulder; Agent Thurber was the one with the broken glasses on his 
face; and the other one was a D-class David had personally 
requested for Site 38. A Foundation researcher demoted for 
inappropriate use of an SCP. Nonviolent. He was covered in blood 
from his hands to his chin and across his chest. 


David froze. The three men stopped, as though considering what to 
say. 


“Status report, gentlemen,” David squeaked in his most authoritative 
voice. 


“Hominid Eskobar comma Site Director David Carter you are to be 
Integrated you will accompany these Servus instances to the 
Palace. Please stand by...” 


David was running down the hallway back towards the cafeteria. No, 
in the direction of the cafeteria; he wasn’t running to any particular 
place other than away. He had dropped the gun. He had forgotten 
everything except how to run away. 


He knew what Integration was. Or enough about it to know to run 
from it. 


He followed the smear of blood down the other way. It led to another 
turn, and another. When he had run out of breath enough to slow 
down, he began thinking about what he was seeing. 


Other smears of blood from other hallways had joined in this path. At 
least four or five different trails, left by four or five different bodies 
being dragged carelessly. The trail continued all the way to the exit. 
David followed. 


He reached the door. The map beside it showed it was the door to 
the West Grounds, which just led to woods about a hundred yards 
away from the Site. He opened the door. 


The individuals shuffling towards him out of the woodline scared the 
hell out of him. He had gotten enough of an understanding of the 
situation to know what was going on, and he recognized that shuffle 
from experiments he had seen at Site 19. The shuffle of a humanoid 
being driven by a microchip. Microchips don’t know how to walk 
innately; it takes a while for them to get the motion down fluently, to 
debug the motor cortex and the signals coming from the otolithic 
organs. These models were already doing better than the ones he 
saw a few minutes ago; a hive mind allows for rapid development. 
Very rapid. 


The microchips apparently had also learned a great deal about 
hand-eye coordination. From the woodline, across the length of a 
football field, one of them raised a handgun and fired. The bullet 
pinged off of the wall not two feet above David's head. Two more of 
them began lurching forward towards the door at something 
between running and falling. David had just enough time to think 
What the hell is that concrete thing in the woods? before slamming 
the door shut. He didn’t even think to block the door with anything; 
he stumbled back and retreated down the hall. 


He heard footsteps in front of him from where the MTF agents had 
been carrying the unconscious man. He knew more infected 
personnel would be coming through the door behind him. David 
wasn’t armed, and he wasn’t prepared to kill anyone he didn’t have 
to even if he were capable of it. 


A containment room was nearby. David didn’t have time to read the 
sign above it; he opened the door, threw himself into it, and closed 
the door behind him as quietly as possible. 


The room was dark. Of course the lights were off; it was David's own 
policy. O5 wanted to cut down on costs at smaller Sites and wouldn’t 
pay for motion-activated lights, so David just told everyone to make 
sure the lights were off when they left the room. 


The only light in the room was from a small digital clock, counting 


down to zero. It was at seven seconds. Six. Five. 


David reached the light switch (four, three), flipped on the lights 
(two) and turned around (one) to see a sundial. 


(zero) 


Three Servus instances returned to Anesidora's palace, carrying a 
series of packages. 


The first Servus came to Her throne and deposited a small box. The 
box was a Safe with three separate locks on it; the combination lock 
was opened when one of the personnel in possession of it was 
Integrated; the voice lock was opened by another researcher, who 
screamed the authorization before her captors killed her; the 
thumbprint lock was opened by a third researcher's thumb, recently 
detached from its owner. The Servus opened the box.