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[[>]] [[module Rate]] [[/>]] Dr. Harold, level 3 researcher and newly appointed co-chair of zoological studies at Site-44, meandered home, one shoe in hand. Most staff were made to live in the on-site accommodation, but since Harold owned property in the nearby city of Southend-on-Sea, he was one of the few exceptions. He managed to get off work early, and decided to spend his evening at one of the many Wetherspoons between his office and home. He generally tried to avoid them as he felt they were crippling the nightlife in the home counties, but it'd been a while since his last pay day and the local indie pubs had grown arrogant enough to charge London rates. It had clearly been a while since the place was last wiped down, but frankly, the grime was part of the charm. His friend Mike was able to catch up with him - Mike, unfortunately, was an insurance salesman who worked behind the veil, so Harold could neither boast about his promotion nor bitch about the assistant researcher who decided to microwave fish and stink out the place. Still, they were always able to have a nice time together, talking nonsense, surrounded by partially spilt Coors Light. They also had a knack for daring one another in their loosened states of senselessness. Last time, Mike had the misfortune of having to suck chilli sauce out of the shags of the dirt caked carpet. Harold's turn. Mike had elected to not subject his colleague to such a grotesque punishment, and had instead settled on something that'd get them barred; not like there weren't a million pubs like this one anyway. Thumb over the spout of a Desperado, a grip on the fire alarm, Harold counted down internally to zero, before sounding the siren, and spraying any nearby patron with his bottle of beer. Harold and Mike were just spry enough to avoid getting tackled by the bouncer, before falling into a nearby bush. The evening smog covered their escaped, and they were able to stifle their laughter enough to avoid getting caught. Another sweet memory made, Harold and Mike said their goodbyes and parted ways; not before finding Harold's shoe that'd fallen off whilst they'd fled and fallen into a puddle of what he'd hoped was mud. Mere moments from his door, Harold heard footsteps approaching him. He dismissed them - probably just some other late night partygoer - until he'd been yanked to the tarmac by his collar. Turns out one of the patrons had followed him home, seeking revenge for "putting out the fire". Still damp with beer, he kicked the downed Harold repeatedly in the face. In a panic, Harold reached into his pockets for a phone to call someone, or ideally something he can use to defend himself. He found it in the form of a small cannister with a trigger on top. Pepper spray, from one of the security agents? Adrenaline refusing to let him question it further, he detonated the cylinder right in the assailants' face. A cyan cloud engulfed his head, and he fell to the ground; his conscious mind stolen. Taking the opportunity to actually read whatever he just exposed this guy to, Harold first saw a large "A", followed by usage guides written in the smallest font man can recognise. Amnestics aren't supposed to leave the facility without proper authorisation. Someone from the Containment team must've mistaken their jacket for Harold's; probably Jake, he was always useless. Hopefully this'll get him fired, finally. As it stands, Harold had just robbed this man of a week of his life. He would get the grilling of his life from the site director tomorrow morning, but hey, at least he'd be alive and only slightly bruised for it. ----- No one ever mentions how boring Foundation safe houses are. Agent Leslie had just managed to avoid abduction from some Chaos Insurgents, and has been laying low in a secret location in rural... Oregon, she thinks. Within the first week, she'd run out of Friends boxsets to watch (for some bizarre reason they only had season 3, 8, and 9). After the next week, she'd became proficient at making sure the houses of cards built from the various decks left around here remained erect through wind, rain, and lethargically slumping over table tops. Sure, there were enough resources packed in these places that you could stay in them for years without having to resupply, but it was very obvious the budget was spent on just that; survival. She was at least glad she was alone - Leslie found small talk with out Foundation employees physically painful, and she took bullets for a living! "Hey, how are you finding your assignment to SCP-Whatever?" "Did you hear site-Whocares got a new director?" "I'm thinking of defecting to GoI-Doitalreadysoidonthavetospeaktoyou." At least with that last one she had an excuse to slam the guy into the wall for being a security risk. Turns out he was joking, but hey, officially Leslie isn't allowed to take that chance. The reason she's been here so long is that she's not allowed to leave until she gets the all clear from mission command. Her comms unit had been damaged beyond use during her escape, so her only means of contact with the outside world was the laptop on the desk connected to the Foundation intranet. She initially checked it to make sure it was in working condition, but it hasn't made a peep since. There's no way this mission went that poorly, is there? She was certain the rest of her team made it out fine, with herself being the only complication. After another day of staring at the four walls, she was startled out of her trance by distinct "ping". Overcome with joy at the prospect of having something to do other than count her teeth with her tongue, she bolted the laptop open. She was greeted with an encrypted email. "From: malachi.mulligan@director.scp.int To: jan.leslie@field.scp.int Hey, Evrything accounted for, coast clear. Well send a collection team to your location within the next 12 to 72 hours. Mulligan. Secure. Contain. Protect. Sent from my Galaxy" Up to another three days. She was delighted to know her bosses treated her the same way as her boiler repair man. Guess she'll rewatch The One with the Tiny T-Shirt. ----- You should never pass up the opportunity to be a guest researcher on a new project. Dr. Bark was sure he was being considered for a promotion to level 4 researcher, and he was convinced taking on as many jobs as possible would prove to the Clearance Board he had the motivation and loyalty such a role required. He was sure. He never liked leaving home, but Site-59 was one of the more famous sites; it'd certainly look good on his resume. Plus the cafeteria actually served decent food. It was very difficult to get good Cajun food in the UK, and this microwaved Gumbo they had here was the best he'd ever tasted. Shrimps and sausage eased his mid-shift blues. Unfortunately, it didn't for the junior researcher sat next to him. This kid looked very green. Just granted level 2 clearance, it was very clear he'd been given his first big boy assignment. Bark remembered how that felt. Normally he'd keep to himself, but then he recalled, being an approachable mentor is key to level 4 clearance. Sacrifices would have to be made - in this case, his only lunch break. The kid was slouched over, sulking into a cold bowl of jambalaya. "It gets easier, don't worry." The scraggly doctor assured. The kid looked up at him, eyes bloodstained, tie creased enough that he'd risk a disciplinary if someone who cared about uniform saw him in this state. "What happened?" "Containment breach. Saw a bunch of D's die. I know I'm not supposed to feel sorry for them, but..." The kid slouched back down. One of Bark's strengths, unfortunately, was not comfort. "I'm sure you did all you could. Can't be stopped, sometimes. I've had plenty of days like it." "Days where you see shadowy tentacles drag a teenager through the grate of a floor drain? The only reason I couldn't hear him yell out in pain was because the rifle fire drowned it out. I can still only barely hear you talk to me now." Bark gave a nervous chuckle. "Yeah, it's best to keep some ear plugs on you." The kid clearly didn't see the humour. "D-8835. D-2224. D-9010. I get we give them those labels because their real names would make it harder for us to... Do what we need, but I think those people will stay with me." Bark knew exactly what he was talking about. The first D he saw die was D-1500. Funny guy, always cracking jokes with the researchers. Bark deliberately never asked him what he did to end up in jail. Terminated by his co-worker after being accidentally exposed to an anomaly as it was being moved between sites. Died for no reason other than Foundation safety precautions. Bark had to revaluate a lot of his morals that day. "That's good, it means you still have humanity in you. Not everyone would agree with me, but that's important for working here." That, at least, seemed to give the kid some reassurance. If it could keep him going for one more day, Bark would be happy with what he's done. "What did you do today?" The younger researcher finally asked back. Bark didn't answer immediately. Shuffled in his seat once. Twice. Cleared his throat. "I uh... [[[SCP-3922|Watched TV.]]]" [[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box]] [[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]