Site-40
A young boy walked lazily around Site 40, watching brooding soldiers and overworked scientists make their daily rounds. He was a janitor, with access only to what he needed to fix, and the general workings of the Foundation. There was nothing to hide from him; all sensitive materials were either secured within locked rooms or on endlessly secured computers. Usually.
He eventually wandered to the cafeteria, moderately filled, with very little noise. The janitor got a small snack and began to exit, but quickly stopped himself as he saw a woman walk through. Very few new people joined the staff, and those who did almost always seemed slightly unsure of themselves. She was different. She seemed like she could stop a bullet with her gaze.
She passed through quickly, with a slightly rushed gait. Silently, the janitor followed her. He knew that it wasn't in his best interests, but he had both a curiosity and an understanding that most people didn't even see in him in the first place.
He watched her dodge through many corridors, eventually stopping at a door he had memorized over many months.
He had been at the site for months, and he could recognize nearly all the staff, but, every couple of weeks, he saw a group of people, small in number, make their way into an unmarked room, and after many hours, file out once again. The members of this group, from what he had gathered from the members of his staff's site, had no noticeable connection. Physiologists, physicists, tacticians, every field under the sun. These shadowy people were very secretive, even by the Foundation's standards, usually not even conversing with other researchers out of purely technical matters. He tried to keep a watch out for them, but if he even saw the edge of their glare, he inched out as fast as possible.
Today, he waited in the cafeteria for the woman to pass through again. He didn't know if she would, but he was on break and had a few minutes to wait and watch. Soon, she arrived. As she walked through, along with three researchers in the site's staff, he heard a researcher a couple of tables away attempt to joke with some half-asleep coworkers about something work-related.
"…explosion with four forty seven. It affects spacetime so everything seems green! Huh, whadda ya think?"
"You're drunk?" The young woman was as visibly bored as she could be without being openly rude.
"No, you're just jealous! Amazing Green, I'm gonna call it. Patent it. Market it. They're gonna call me the Green King before I'm—"
The eccentric researcher's last word echoed as he raised his voice to emphasize. The four professors suddenly stopped in their tracks, and glanced over their shoulders, a mix of anger and suspicion on their faces. They listened for half a minute more, and after realizing what the researcher was talking about, left to their own lives.

An unknown distance away, a woman stood, feeling the world around her. She was angry - as she commonly was. She hated anger. She hated hate. She hated herself. She wanted peace. Tranquility. Freedom. She was trapped, needing to control her actions so she wouldn't be chased by…them. She hated them, only because they were relentless. They hunted her. She knew that they feared her, knew she was capable of changing the world. They weren't the only ones, but they were the most persistent. The constant thorn in her side.
She lost the feeling. When someone thought of her who knew what she could do, they always thought of her in the same way. She eventually found a way to track those thoughts, track those who knew about her. She could erase their memories, or otherwise dispose of them, as long as it was under the radar.
Then, one day, they disappeared. Every person who knew her slowly faded off her inner radar. She didn't know what they did, and she couldn't figure it out. She spent months looking for any sign of where they had gone. Finally, she hit on an isolated location in Alberta. She couldn't be certain, but it was a building with foot traffic going in and out and she couldn't hear any thoughts at all. Someone was hiding something, and she had a guess who.
She stopped reminiscing, and focused on finding someone to throw the Foundation on a wild goose chase. Her mind stumbled upon a person with a dynamic love of bizarreness and creativity that some would describe as "insanity". She saw it as a useful trait under the circumstances. She quickly decided to turn him into her own personal distraction, letting her mind rest as her new pawn wreaked havoc.

Site-40
As the janitor finished mopping up the last hallway of his graveyard shift, he felt the ground shake as an ungodly metallic screech echoed down from the center of the site.
He heard many women and men yell to each other as emergency klaxons started to wail. He quickly retreated to a side hallway as a squadron of soldiers rushed towards the commotion. The boy decided to attempt to find out the cause of the commotion. He had heard of containment breaches, but there were very few SCP-related rooms in the inner structure.
He wandered into a nearby office, attempting to find a reason behind the alarm, and futilely started checking the locked computers until he heard many loud cracks coming from outside the office. He quickly hid under a desk, hearing bullets ricochet and men and women scream.
The clanking grew closer and closer. He quickly made his way into the darkest corner of the room, wide eyes watching the door to the hallway. He suddenly felt the air rush by him as a heavy-built man flew through the wall and into a bookshelf, hanging onto threads of consciousness.
Through the newly-made hole in the wall, he heard a drunken voice half-singing, half-screeching a small poem, with a sadistic snicker.
"Oh Mother, Mother, she hates you so,
She hates you and wished you would go,
And let her be,
Or wipe you from histor-eeeee~"
That tune stuck in the boy's mind, shoveled in next to the screams of pain and maelstrom of whizzing bullets.
He jumped at a sound behind him. He turned to see the solider attempting to get to his feet, despite bleeding from head to toe. The janitor, despite his fears, helped the guard to his feet, and saw him stumble back to the hole, kneeling on one damaged leg, using his assault rifle to attempt to fell the singing madman. The singing stopped for a second, and in the silence that followed, he heard a low growl before hundreds of small objects flew through the wall, scraping him in many places, leaving large gashes on his torso as he finally, realizing inevitably the end of his own bleeding life, wandered to the hole in the wall.
He saw many bloody corpses laid about, many with scratches just like his own. In the middle of the carnage, a skinny, blond haired man whistled the accursed tune that the janitor had heard. There were small pieces of debris - splinters of wood, concrete blocks the size of a mans' fist, and twisted metal, slowly orbiting around the man in a fluid, deliberate fashion. The same debris had just punctured hundreds of holes in the room he was in.
The janitor, blood dripping from his hair, watched as the woman from before held a stone tomahawk, its head pointing at the interloper. She muttered a single word, and a blinding flash enveloped the hallway.
The boy fell limp as the woman heard the tomahawk make a firm "thump" in the intruder's skull.

FROM: MARTIN KRAKE, DIRECTOR, SITE 40
TO: Prof. G. Quaero, Foundation Research

An attack has occurred on my site. Structural damage was moderate, and loss of personnel was severe. When I attempted to inspect the damage, I was stopped by several officers claiming themselves to be of "GK" clearance. They have informed me that they have taken over operations of the assaulted area. I have been told I will be returned control after they finish their investigation.
Please advise.

FROM: OVERWATCH COMMAND
TO: DIRECTOR KRAKE, SITE 40
MESSAGE SENT 2-17-20██ INTERCEPTED.
AUTHORITY OF INDIVIDUALS IN POSSESSION OF GK-LEVEL AUTHORIZATION IS TO BE CONSIDERED VALID AT LEVEL 5 RANK.
NO FURTHER COMMUNICATION RELATING TO GK-LEVEL AUTHORIZATION, PERSONNEL, OR ACTIVITIES IS TO BE MADE TO ANY SOURCE.
NO FURTHER INQUIRIES ARE TO BE MADE.
O5-4