Welcome To The Foundation
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Over a decade ago, a young amateur photographer named Iris Thompson was taken prisoner by an organization that had no name, but was referred to by most as the SCP Foundation.

She was taken because she could perform a small wonder. Because she was abnormal. Because she did not fit into the way reality was supposed to be.

Iris Thompson was barely a teenager when she was taken. Naive, severely traumatized, and bad at keeping secrets. She'd seen the murder of her boyfriend in real time through a photograph. Intimidated by lawyers and police officers who claimed (certainly falsely) that she was looking at death row unless she told them everything she knew. When she told them everything, no one believed her.

Almost no one.

Her parents were told she was killed by an escaping prisoner. A tragic accident. And so her life in the real world ended. Iris Thompson was examined, assigned a containment cell, and assigned an SCP designation. A number selected at random, one of many others in the Foundation's vast database. SCP-105.

The Foundation was used to containing children, even infants, in their strange, endless prison. Secure, Contain, Protect. Preserve normalcy at any cost.

Imprisoning one little girl was trivial compared to what the Foundation was prepared to do, was doing, had already done. Not a single Foundation member lost sleep over carrying out the containment of SCP-105.

Over a decade and at least one reality ago, a promising biomechanics researcher named Jacqueline Johnson was recruited by an organization that had no name, but was referred to by most as the SCP Foundation.

Traditional practice was not to reveal much of anything to new Foundation doctors until they'd proved themselves on low-level tasks, handled just-barely-classified anomalies that were just a step away from established science. A meteorite emitting slightly unusual radiation. A medicine with statistically unlikely side effects. A snail making chemically improbable acid.

But the Foundation researchers who recruited Jackie were impatient. They invited her for an interview at a prestigious (and fictional) pharmaceutical company, one of the Foundation's many ghostly visages. They asked her to sit. They blacked out the cameras and locked the doors, without a care for how it looked — three white men and a white woman in stiff suits locking a black woman in a small, windowless room — and set an apple on the table in front of her.

"Don't eat it," the woman said.

They stood watching Jackie as Jackie watched the apple, baffled, more than a little worried.

The apple slowly decayed, as if time were sped about around it. The skin wrinkled. Bruises blotched. A bright smell of rot as it crumpled in on itself and became swarmed with maggots, spawned from nowhere as if by spontaneous combustion.

The woman gathered up the rotted apple with protective gloves and stowed it away in a heavy black box on wheels.

"How?" Jackie asked.

"Join the Foundation," one of the men said. "And help us find out."

Decades ago, a nameless witch sought out an organization that had no name, but was referred to by the Serpent's Hand as The Jailors.

The nameless witch arrived at Site-19 in the middle of the night. She stepped through a wispy rent in the fabric of space, hunched over, as if wounded. Her hands crackled with lightning.

"I must speak to O5-2," the witch said.

She lowered her hands and dropped to her knees. Security surrounded her, weapons raised, nervous.

"I come from the Serpent's Hand," the witch said. "I am… defecting. I must speak to O5-2. Please. Please."

The witch closed her eyes and collapsed to the ground.

The witch did not wake up for the next seven days. By the time she did, she was in a containment cell deep underground, and her existence was temporarily classified at level 5. And she had a visitor, who was not O5-2.

"What is your name?" the visitor asked.

The witch hesitated. "I don't remember."

The visitor did not answer. Then: "We know exactly who you are."

The witch choked out a laugh. "I know. Yet even if you told me the name, I would not recognize it."


"Damage." The witch tapped her head. "To my mind. I remember… enough. I remember what is important. And I know what you are."

"And what is that?"

"Factotum." A crooked smile. "That is the name, yes? I can see it. The way they change you… it is like the way I was changed. No, not the same, not at all, only… a kind of idea, the… I am not making sense. I am sorry. I am speaking… conceptually. You have the… technology from the Bookburners, yes? The… Coalition. That shows you that I am a… Blue. A Mage. Perhaps… perhaps they have a color for you, too? But that is not what I wanted to ask. I wanted to ask… are you one of hers?"


"Of O5-2’s. One of her… Factotum."

The visitor was silent.

"I am expecting she won’t come to see me. I knew it was a long shot. I couldn't have forgiven myself if I didn't try."


The witch smiled, again. Spoke in whisper. "The Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End."

The visitor was visibly unimpressed. "You think O5-2 is God?"

"You know what I mean. You know what I know. It’s… it’s why you're here, speaking to me. You know there is a cult, within the Hand, that believes… as I do… that she ended the last world. And began this one. A creator — an Aeon — Wisdom. Sophia. The Light —"

"Enough of that for now." The visitor made an irritated gesture, like flicking away a fly. "We are familiar with this cult. It's a waste of time to discuss it. Did you only come here to waste our time?"

"No. No, I… forgot myself. I am… destabilized."

"You have suffered severe brain damage through anomalous means. You have undergone extensive memory removed. How did that happen?"

The witch smiled, with a flash of guilt. "I did it to myself. I had no choice. I am a traitor. I am a traitor, but I am not that kind of traitor. Yes. I did it to myself. I hurt my mind. I had no choice… I am a traitor. I am a traitor, but I am not that kind of traitor. I could not betray my friends and family. So I forgot them instead. Even if I wished to go back, I could not."


"I want to be one of you."

"One of us?"

"I wish to join the SCP Foundation."

"You are an anomaly."

The witch did not answer.

After a moment, the visitor asked, "What do you have to offer?"

"I wandered off the paths in the Library," the witch said. "I saw things I should not have seen. Visions. Waking dreams. Of the past, and the future. I should have died. Sometimes I believe I did die. Yet I am here. It is these visions, these dreams, that brought me here."

"Let me guess," the visitor said. "You don't remember what you saw."

"No." The witch hesitated. "I remember everything."

They left the witch in a containment cell for a long time.

When they let her out, dubious, keeping her under close supervision, they gave her a Foundation code-name. Perhaps because they found her irritating, perhaps because they simply didn't care, they didn't bother making the name sound reasonable. After all, this was a defector from the Serpent's Hand. A literal witch. Even aside from her strange personal history, she was no one likely to be trusted, in the long term.

They named her "Tilda David Moose".

003 (something she might once have worshipped?)
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