Somewhere in the abandoned basements of Site-19 is the Administrator's office. If you find it, he'll answer one question about the Foundation… no matter how classified.
Testing, testing, one two three. It's easy to tell the depth of a well. The fish twisted and turned on the bent hook.
Before you listen any further, be warned that the contents of this device are classified Level 4/SCP-9314. If you somehow managed to access it without such clearance, you'd best turn this in to your local RAISA liaison and pretend you didn't hear any of it. I can't be held responsible for what happens if you don't, but I can tell you amnestization is likely to be the best-case.
Alright. Now that that's out of the way, this is James Carver, auditor for the Records And Information Security Administration. You're hearing the log of my investigation into SCP-9314, recorded, transcribed, and photographed with my brand-new Foundation PDA to ensure, appropriately enough, information security. The transcripts are mostly automated, and the machine does a fair job of identifying noises and distinguishing speakers, but I'll be going back to edit for clarity when possible, in third person, as is the standard.
Now, let's see how well this document scanning function works.
Item #: SCP-9314
Object Class: Pending
Special Containment Procedures: There is no proof of SCP-9314's existence. If any new and credible evidence to the contrary surfaces, this file is to be amended accordingly.
Description: SCP-9314 is, allegedly, the personal office of the Administrator. According to assorted rumors and institutional folklore, the office is located on one of Site-19's abandoned sublevels, but anyone who finds it can only do so once. These same stories claim that a person who enters the office may ask the Administrator a single question about the Foundation, which he will answer fully and honestly.
Though stories about SCP-9314 have circulated among the personnel of Site-19 at least since the year 2000, no formal investigation of them occurred until the year 2050, during RAISA's third Mass Audit of improperly documented anomalous phenomena in all Foundation facilities. The Administrator's alleged office was deemed extremely unlikely to exist, but a tremendous security risk if it did, and therefore in need of further investigation. To that end, RAISA auditor James Carver was dispatched to Site-19 and charged with collecting evidence of SCP-9314's reality or lack thereof.
And with only that to go on, I set out for Site-19. At the time, it was parked on a dry stretch of tundra somewhere in Nunavut, which is much further from Site-7 than you think it is, but probably still closer than it's likely to get again any time soon, and not so far that the shortest route goes over the pole. Mostly it goes over rocks, lichen, permafrost, and the ice-choked Northwest Passage. The most interesting thing I saw between the Bering Sea and Victoria Island was a herd of caribou.
Until, of course, I spotted Old Nineteen. The square shape of it was clearly manmade, but I might've believed that it had always been in Canada if not for the snow still dusting its rooftops, picked up somewhere wetter but just as cold, and still not melted after two weeks in the Great White North.
Site-19 is big.
Everyone knows this, of course, but knowing a thing is different from realizing it. I knew from my preliminary research that 19 has the population of small town. But only when I saw it for myself did I realize that it was one.
24 square kilometers, that's the area of Site-19, and all of it has been put to use. Most sites don't get to do that, because they have to be pretend to be something else, or else hide everything underground. But 19 is always in the middle of nowhere, wherever that happens to be, so it doesn't need to hide. Instead, that square of teleporting ground is covered in barracks, apartments, offices, and warehouses full of food, constructions materials, and everything else a Site might need and have a hard time getting on demand when its supply chain breaks every two weeks. There's a fire station, a police station, and a hospital. The cafeteria is a food court with a full-sized Spicy Crust Pizzeria, a Sawyer's Cheesy Pretzels, and a Senor Consuelo's Palateria. Or you can buy your own food at the onsite grocery store, then have a beer with your buds at the bar and bowling alley, or even take your date to the little movie theater. As I touched down on the airstrip, I remember thinking that the only obvious difference between this place and an exceptionally monochrome urban neighborhood was the twenty-foot wall around the edge, topped with barbed wire and broken glass and punctuated by guard towers at regular intervals.
If my first impression was of size, then my second was of silence. They gave me the grand bus tour of the whole place (in a van) and through the whole thing I didn't see a single other vehicle on the crisscrossing roads, still half-buried in Sahara sand. There weren't any people out and about, either. It started to feel like one of those fake nuclear-testing towns, or maybe one of those Twilight Zone episodes. I asked what the problem was, but not before I should've guess the answer — every one of those hundred or so buildings is connected to the others by tunnels, so nobody has to walk through desert heat or Arctic cold that doesn't want to. I found it funny that even a site this big and open still mostly keeps its people underground.
But of course, people aren't the only things sealed up under Old Nineteen, and you don't think about fire stations and restaurants when you picture the place. The thing that people think of, the thing that gives any of the rest of it a reason to exist, is the containment complex. It's the biggest building onsite; four stories tall, and as wide as at least that many city blocks. It's also the only one with no windows. Looks like a prison, because that's mostly what it is. Besides offices, records, storage, and the other kinds of miscellaneous rooms you need to run a place like that, the aboveground part is mostly D-class cellblocks and all the security that those need. The first floor — which would've been called the ground floor, if it hadn't been built in America before it teleported here — is nothing but security, so that anything going in or (more importantly) out has to go past a bunch of checkpoints, choke points, and other things meant to stop it from going where it wants. There's a lot of them, because that ground floor is the cold meat in a securely contained sandwich — D-class above, and thirteen floors of skips below.
I wanted to head straight there and start my search immediately, but that would've been reckless, inefficient, and rather rude. Instead, I accompanied my security escort to the administrative offices next door, and headed up to meet the Moose. Site Director Tilda D. Moose, to be exact.
Moose: So, to what do I owe the pleasure? It's been awhile since RAISA took a personal interest.
Carver: I've been sent here to investigate SCP-9314.
Moose: We don't have that one.
Carver: That's what I'm here to confirm.
[rustling as Carver hands his PDA to Director Moose]
Moose: Are you good at your job, Mr. Carver?
Carver: I like to think so.
Moose: And your superiors, do they like you?
Carver: As much as Ms. Jones likes anyone.
Moose: Are you perhaps a spy from the Chaos Insurgency?
Carver: Ma'am?
Moose: You've been sent on a snipe hunt, Mr. Carver.
[rustling as Moose returns the PDA]
Moose: You're chasing a ghost story.
Carver: That is the Foundation's mission.
Moose: Touche, I suppose.
[Moose sips her coffee]
Moose: Well, what do you need from me?
Carver: Any documents you have pertaining to the sealed sublevels or the Administrator.
Moose: Neither of us has the clearance for anything pertaining to the Administrator. I suspect that Maria only let you investigate his "office" because she's already sure it's not real.
Carver: The sublevels, then.
Moose: I'll see what I can find. Should be some floorplans lying around.
Carver: I'll also need access to the sublevels themselves.
Moose: Don't be ridiculous.
Carver: I was sent here to search them.
Moose: Then the people who sent you don't know much about them.
Carver: That's something I'm trying to fix.
Moose: Well, you can fix it secondhand.
Carver: Respectfully, ma'am, I will need firsthand evidence to confirm SCP-9314's existence.
Moose: Then you're out of luck, because there isn't any. You're after a ghost story, and that's all you're going to find.
Carver: But it's not all I'm looking for.
[Moose takes another sip]
Moose: I'll consider it, if you can find me a good reason to believe you'll find anything other than abandoned office supplies down there.
Carver: I'll do my best.
Moose: And I'm going to confirm with Maria that she's actually serious about this before I give you that access, or anything else classified.
Carver: Of course.
Moose: Somebody gave you the outside tour already?
Carver: Yes, ma'am.
Moose: Great. So we're done?
Carver: Unless you want to tell me a ghost story.
[Moose chuckles]
Moose: I have, or have access to, near-total knowledge of hundreds of skips, thousands of personnel, decades of history, and probably millions of files. I know almost everything there is to know about this site, and certainly everything that needs to be known. I don't have to make up stories about it. If you want a good story, look outside the halls of power. Talk to people who know nothing. Janitors, gullible new hires, hell, maybe some D-class if you're feeling adventurous. Somebody who's still afraid of this site, not just annoyed by it.
Carver: I'll keep that in mind.
Moose: And speaking of fear, I've asked our resident bogeyman to give you the inside tour of the containment complex.
Carver: Bogeyman?
[The door opens, revealing a grinning man wearing a floral shirt under his labcoat and a wide-brimmed hat.]
Moose: Alto! I was hoping your love of dramatic entrances would outweigh your laziness.
Clef: Well, it's not every day you get to terrorize a RAISA audit.
[Clef winks at Carver. There's something odd about his eyes.]
Moose: You kids have fun. I've got things of substance to work on.
Clef: Oh, sure, but when I work on substances I get written up.
Moose: Goodbye.
Clef: C'mon, Creeper.
Carver: Carver.
Clef: That's what I said.
[Clef and Carver exit Moose's office and proceed through the office building toward the containment complex.]
Clef: Man, Moose must really not like you, to stick you with me.
Carver: I've yet to meet a Site Director who did.
Clef: Most folks don't like people trying to get them fired.
Carver: That's not why I'm here.
Clef: You think Tilda believes that?
Carver: She should. If RAISA wanted her gone, they wouldn't have to send me for it.
Clef: Is that right?
[The pair board an elevator and descend to the first floor of the offices.]
Carver: It is. Just between you and me, 19's spreadsheets have so many inconsistencies that we make a drinking game out of them every Christmas.
Clef: How's that work?
Carver: Every time you fix an error, take a sip, 'til you faint or finish.
Clef: Has anybody ever finished?
Carver: Only Ms. Jones.
[The elevator arrives. Clef and Carver exit and descend the stairs to the connector tunnel.]
Clef: And does she go back and double-check the "fixes" when she's sober?
Carver: No need. Ms. Jones never makes mistakes, no matter how drunk.
Clef: Must be nice.
Carver: Must be.
[Clef and Carver ascend the stairs at the other end of the connector, emerging at the entry checkpoint on the ground floor of the containment complex.]
Clef: You'll have to turn that recorder off before we go through.
Carver: What recorder?
Clef: I'm not stupid, record boy.
Carver: Sorry.
Carver: Why did you press all the buttons?
Clef: Moose said to show you all the floors. 'Cept the ones you're here to see, of course.
Carver: Of course.
[Elevator doors close. Clef and Carver stand in silence.]
[With a ding, the elevator doors open on Sublevel One. It has tile floors and white-painted walls decorated with a green stripe at waist height. Several personnel begin to board the elevator, notice that Dr. Clef is already inside and has already pressed all the buttons, and decide to take the stairs instead.]
Clef: Here's Sublevel One.
[Elevator doors close.]
Carver: That's it?
Clef: I showed you the floor.
Carver: Yes, but-
[With a ding, the elevator doors open on Sublevel Two. A scientist who was waiting avoids eye contact with Dr. Clef and does not board.]
Clef: But what? I ain't gonna walk you over every inch of this joint, if that's what you think.
[Elevator doors close.]
Carver: You could at least tell me about each floor's function, what it has contained, any unique architecture —
[Another ding. The elevator doors open on Sublevel Three. Two security guards who were waiting salute Dr. Clef, then head toward the stairs.]
Clef: Fine, then. This is Sublevel Three, where we contain boring Safe-class objects nobody cares about, just like the other two above this one. It was constructed in 19-something when those two ran out of space, and then when it filled up they built they next one.
[Elevator doors close.]
Carver: How were these built down like that?
Clef: Same way you dig a mine. This elevator shaft used to be for hauling rocks up top.
Carver: Interesting.
[The elevator doors ding open on Sublevel Four. It resembles the previous three, save that the waist-high line on the walls is yellow instead of green.]
[A scientist rounds a corner into the lobby and jogs toward the elevator, clearly in a hurry. Dr. Clef presses the "door close" button. The scientist breaks into a run, but the doors close just before he reaches them.]
Clef: Euclid, yellow.
Carver: Are all of these floors as large as the ones aboveground?
Clef: Bigger.
[With a ding, the elevator opens on Sublevel Five. Clef exits the elevator and Carver follows.]
Clef: And this is the bottom of Light Containment. We gotta go through another security check to get to Heavy.
Carver: At that checkpoint there?
Clef: Yep. They're gonna want you to turn that off.
Carver: -eemed awfully suspicious of me.
Clef: Of course they did, that's their job.
[A ding signals the elevator's arrival. Dr. Clef tries to board at the same time as another scientist, who was looking at his PDA. He nearly drops it after the collision.]
Scientist: Hey, watch — oh, uh, Dr. Clef! I'm so sorry.
[Clef grins.]
Clef: That's okay. You can go first.
Scientist: Uh, no thanks.
Clef: Ya sure? It'll be a bit before it comes back.
Scientist: No, it's okay. I'll wait for the next one.
Clef: C'mon, I insist.
Scientist: No, really, it's fine.
Clef: Get in the elevator.
Scientist: Uh, I'll just take the stairs.
[The scientist runs toward the stairs. Clef laughs and enters the elevator. Carver follows.]
Carver: Ten floors of this… how many objects are contained here?
Clef: Less than there used to be. All the cool stuff's been moved to newer sites, more specialized. All we got left is cursed rocks and weird bugs.
[With a harsh beep, the elevator opens on Sublevel 6. Unlike the Light Containment Zone, this level's walls and floors are bare concrete, save for the yellow line. Two security guards lead three handcuffed Class D personnel across the lobby.]
Clef: You know, stuff that'll kill ya.
[The doors close.]
Carver: Why do these levels have different architecture than Light Containment?
Clef: This is just what they look like without all that white paint.
[The doors open with another harsh beep. A J&M technician boards, exchanging nods with Dr. Clef.]
Clef: Last Euclid level. It's all downhill from here.
[The doors close.]
Carver: Then why is Light Containment painted, but not heavy?
[Clef shrugs.]
Clef: I guess the budg-
J&M Tech: Blood's too visible on white.
[The elevator beeps and opens, revealing that this level has a red stripe instead of yellow. The J&M tech tips his hat to Dr. Clef and leaves. Clef tips his own hat as the man walks away.]
Clef: Funny bunch, these guys in Heavy.
[The door closes.]
Carver: I take it these levels are for Keter-class objects?
[The door beeps open. In Sublevel 9's elevator lobby, a group of security guards and containment engineers are removing a large metal crate from the central freight elevator. The crate's occupant howls loudly.]
[The door closes.]
Clef: Got it in one.
[With a longer, louder beep than before, the doors open on Sublevel 10. There is no one in sight.]
Clef: End of the line, bud.
Carver: Are there elevators to the lower levels?
Clef: Not anymore.
[Clef raps the button panel.]
Carver: Stairs?
Clef: They're locked.
[The doors start to close, but Clef presses and holds the "door open" button.]
Clef: But I guess you're not satisfied with that, are you?
Carver: I am not.
[Clef sighs.]
You wanna know the truth?
Carver: Yes.
Clef: Well, that's too bad.
[A loud, high-pitched beep begins to sound, complaining that the door has been open too long. Clef speaks quietly, barely audible above the noise.]
Clef: We don't deal in truth, here. Not at Nineteen, and not at Seven. The Foundation, we're all about secrets. We keep nine thousand things secret from eight billion people, and then we keep 'em secret from each other. Your clearance, my clearance, your department, my department. Both our bosses, not tellin' either of us the whole story. And their bosses, not tellin' anybody anything, 'cept what to do.
Clef: You know what's true? I don't know what's on those sealed-off sublevels. I remember when we built 'em, and when we sealed 'em off, but I ain't been down there since, and I know better than to think they're still the way we left 'em. I don't think Moose knows, either. But she knows that if the Administrator really is down there somewhere, handing out secrets to anyone who asks, then that's gonna be a problem for just about everybody.
[Clef releases the button, silencing the alarm.]
Clef: So watch it, kid.
[He exits the elevator, and it closes. By the time Carver has opened it again, Clef is gone.]
As Director Moose advised, the next step of my search was to chew the fat with her subordinates. I started in the food court, with a personal-sized Spicy Crust Pizza and a bunch of containment engineers out to lunch.
[indistinct voices, clattering dishware, and other cafeteria ruckus]
Carver: Excuse me, folks. Mind if I sit?
[several voices assent, with varying enthusiasm]
Tim: Tim.
Carver: Hello Tim, I'm James.
Tim: Jim?
Carver: Just James, thanks.
Tim: Alas, we could've rhymed. Just James, meet Sasha, Martin, and Jon.
Carver: Podcast fans, are you?
Tim: Mostly we're fans of not telling our real names to RAISA auditors.
Carver: My reputation precedes me.
Tim: Here to pick apart the old Moose's spreadsheets?
Carver: Not quite. I'm… well, you could say I'm chasing a ghost story.
Jon: Whose ghost?
Carver: The Administrator's. I hear his office is somewhere downstairs.
Tim: Oh, and RAISA wants to have a look, does it?
Carver: If there is, in fact, anything to look at it.
Martin: Well, I'm sure there's something down there worth seeing.
Carver: Like what?
Tim: Oh, all sorts of things. You wouldn't believe what slips through the cracks in a Site this big and old.
Jon: Escaped D-class, eating rats to survive.
Martin: Or each other.
Sasha: Insurgency holdouts that hid down there after the siege.
Martin: Breached skips that we've lost track of.
Tim: The ghosts of breach victims, oooo!
Sasha: Maybe even the real reason those levels were abandoned.
Carver: The real reason?
Tim: Oh yeah. The powers that be say it was just a budget thing, some "necessary downsizing". But I heard different. The way I heard it, they found something down there, thirteen stories underground. Maybe the same thing that makes the Site teleport. But whatever it was, it didn't much like being dug up. So now those sealed-off sublevels, they're not really abandoned; they're one giant containment cell, for something we're not supposed to know about. Something that could breach at any time and come crashing up through the floors, crushing us all in a storm of fire and rubble, and rise triumphant from the ruins of Site-19 to wreak its wrath upon the world of men!!!
Jon: Get nuked by the failsafe, more like.
Tim: Yeah, or that.
Carver: And the Administrator's Office? You've heard of that?
Tim: Sure, everyone has. Nobody's ever found it, though, not that I know of.
Martin: Not like the bigwigs would want us to know, though.
Carver: Where did the story come from, then?
Tim: Nobody knows, same as any legend.
Sasha: I heard that one guy made it down there and back, a security guard.
Carver: What did he find?
Sasha: Nobody knows. Dude was loony when they found him, couldn't say anything but "the black moon howls".
Martin: I thought it was "we die in the dark"?
Jon: You're both wrong, it was something about a "drooling path".
Carver: Whatever he said, do any of you have a name for this guy?
Tim: 'Course not, the higher-ups covered it all up.
Carver: Of course they did.
Tim: Why're you sayin' that like you don't believe it? We've all been amnestized. Moose could absolutely make somebody disappear if she wanted to, much less the O5s.
Carver: Then how would you even know the story?
Tim: [shrugs] It slipped through the cracks.
[Carver sighs and begins to stand.]
Carver: Well, I'm going to go look for some more usef-
Tim: Oh, here it comes!
[Carver groans and falls roughly back into his seat, then out of it. The lights flicker.]
Carver: What was-
All: Shh!
[The cafeteria falls silent. Personnel turn expectantly towards the various PA speakers.]
Site-19 Automated Announcement System: It is 13:29 local time. Welcome to… Namibia.
[loud cheering]
[Tim helps Carver out of the floor and back into his seat.]
Tim: You alright, mate?
[Carver groans]
Carver: I think so. Did we just teleport?
Tim: Sure did! And that means these bozos owe me money.
[Tim extends a hand toward the center of the table. Begrudgingly, several of the others give him handfuls of Foundation scrip.]
Jon: Of course, the one time it's not Asia.
Sasha: Hey, at least it's someplace warm for once.
Jon: Yeah. One more trip to Antarctica and I was going to start burning you lot like The Thing.
Tim: Pretty sure the Human Torch is the one that burns people.
Jon: Shut up.
Tim: You too, Al- I mean, "Martin."
Martin: Nuh uh! You still owe me from last month.
Tim: Greenland isn't in Europe!
Martin: It's literally Denmark!
Tim: It's an autonomous territory!
[Sasha stands up.]
Sasha: Anyway, I'm going to go look for some lions.
Jon: They won't let you keep a lion.
Sasha: That's what you said about the monkeys.
Carver: Monkeys?
Sasha: Oh, yeah. They climbed over the wall in Guyana and rode with us to Kazakhstan. Couldn't leave 'em outside to freeze to death-
Martin: Or become invasive.
Sasha: -and they were too cute to hunt down, so… well, let's just say that containment and zookeeping are basically the same thing, when you get down to it.
Carver: You have a zoo.
Tim: Of course not! But we do have some monkeys, and some penguins…
Martin: And puffins!
Tim: Yeah, and puffins, and a couple snakes, and a kangaroo. Maybe we'll get a lion if L- ahem, "Sasha" gets her way.
Jon: She usually does.
Martin: What I really want is a polar bear.
Carver: …and there's budget for this?
[silence]
Tim: Of course not! We're just messin' with ya.
[laughter, variably forced]
Sasha: A kangaroo, can you imagine!
Martin: Woo, we really had you going there, huh?
Carver: Uh-huh.
Tim: Just a little good-natured hazing, you know. Gotta mess with the greenhorns a little bit. Happened to all of us, didn't it?
Martin: Yeah, when I first got here Dr. Clef convinced me there were drugs in the food.
Tim: If only.
Sasha: Well, that's your fault for believing anything that lying misogynistic bastard says.
Martin: Hey, I was new!
Tim: He told me that anybody who tries to leave gets terminated.
Jon: He probably just meant "fired".
Tim: From Clef? No, he was definitely threatening to shoot me.
[laughter. Carver stands up.]
Carver: Speaking of leaving.
Martin: Ciao!
Sasha: Adios.
Tim: Later.
I've omitted my other attempts to salvage any useful information from the word on the street, because they all failed. Nineteen's colorful cast of characters seems unable or unwilling to give me anything more than the runaround. Somehow, everyone here already knows who I am, and most of them already don't like me because of it. They won't even let me see the puffins.
If nothing else, at least Moose made good on her offer of some sublevel documentation. It would've been too much to hope for that the Administrator's office would be neatly marked on the blueprints, but there's plenty else of interest.
All three of the now-abandoned sublevels were approved as part of the same budget package. It provided for one new level each for Safe, Euclid, and Keter containment. It would've made more sense to me to expand the existing levels horizontally, but it turns out digging further down was easier. That way, they could just use the freight elevator to haul all the rubble back upstairs and dispose of it. Digging out sideways, they'd have had to block off whole sections of the existing containment floors until the work was done, and that just wasn't possible when the site was already at capacity.
It also seemed weird to me that all three of the new levels were put below the Keter ones, or rather, that two of them ended up being Safe and Euclid, but it must've been easier to do that than try to shift everything downwards and repaint. Probably because they didn't feel too great with a Safe level right next to a Keter one, they installed another checkpoint between the HCZ and what is, apparently, officially called the "Auxiliary Containment Zone." I saw that checkpoint the other day on Clef's "tour," and I've spent some more time poking around it since then. Somewhat surprisingly, it isn't guarded, and the first set of doors in the airlock isn't even locked. The second set is, though, and the old-fashioned way, too. None of that keycard nonsense. I suppose I could pick my way in, if I knew how to do that and fancied losing both my clearance and my job, but I'd rather not wind up on the Moose's antlers just yet. I think the next thing to try would be-
Hello?
Oh dear. I'm being summoned.
Carver: This is outrageous! you can't just refuse my clearance.
Moose: I can, I have, and I will continue to do so until RAISA sends someone who can stop me. And you I both know they don't care that much about your little wild goose chase.
Carver: My clearance comes from Maria Jones herself!
Moose: But your rank does not. You are in my Site and you will obey my authority. If Maria Jones has a problem with that she can come down here and tell me herself.
Carver: Director Moose, I can promise you that you do not want RAISA on your bad side.
Moose: I don't want it up in my business, either. So get out.
Carver: This isn't over, Director.
Moose: I'm afraid it is. Guards?
[Two security officers enter the room to stand behind Carver.]
Moose: Your plane leaves tomorrow.
Carver: I won't.
Moose: Then I hope you like Namibian food.
I don't understand it. the Director wasn't exactly friendly in our first meeting, but she wasn't hostile either. What changed? All I've done is what she allowed me to. Hell, talking to people in the cafeteria was her idea! What changed her mind all of a sudden?
Hmm. Maybe it was changed for her. Could I be about to incur the wrath of an Overseer? I can't imagine the Ethics Committee would care about this.
I wonder, could it have been the…
Clef was right. This is big trouble.
[Carver sighs. His voice sounds flat in the confines of the locked checkpoint airlock.]
This is ridiculous.
I had expected some opposition, of course, but I can't believe the Director would just defy Ms. Jones's orders outright like that. It almost makes me wonder if she's actively hiding something down there. But that's ridiculous, isn't it? A conspiracy theory.
[A long pause.]
I say, from the very heart of the greatest conspiracy in the world.
Well, not its heart. That is still outside my reach, just beyond this infernal locked checkpoint.
[Carver kicks the metal door.]
What am I going to do?
Janitor: I was wondrin' that meself.
Carver: Jesus! You startled me.
[Carver turns to face the newcomer, an elderly janitor with long, gray facial hair. He stands just outside the airlock, holding an extendable grabber and pulling a large, wheeled trashcan.]
Janitor: Don't call me Jesus. And don't hotbox in here, ye'll suffocate.
Carver: I'm not smoking.
Janitor: Well this is no place fer a wank either.
Carver: I am certainly not masturbating!
Janitor: Then what are ye doin'?
Carver: What are you doing?
Janitor: Cleanin' up after all the smokin' and wankin'. Or I will be, if you'll get outta me way.
[Carver exits the airlock, squeezing past the unmoving janitor and his cart. With the grabber, the janitor starts picking up the scattered bits of trash from the airlock floor.]
Carver: Do people really go in there to, uh…
[The janitor holds the grabber, with a condom wrapper clenched in its claw, toward Carver, who recoils.]
Carver: Lovely.
Janitor: Not really.
Carver: Do you think you're funny or something?
Janitor: Funny lookin', maybe.
Carver: Can't argue with that.
Janitor: So, if ye're not smokin' or wankin', what are ye doing down here? Better not be nothin' I gotta clean up after.
Carver: Don't you know who I am?
Janitor: That ain't what I asked ye.
[Carver straightens and adjusts his shirt.]
Carver: If you really must know, I'm investigating a possible SCP on behalf of RAISA.
Janitor: In the beerlock?
[The janitor brandishes his grabber, which is clutching a crushed beer can.]
Carver: In the Auxiliary Containment Zone.
Janitor: Well ye can't do that, the door's locked.
Carver: Oh really? I hadn't noticed!
Janitor: Yeah, see?
[The janitor presses the button that should open the other side of the airlock. It makes only a disappointing thunk.]
Janitor: If you wanted in there you'd need these.
[From his belt, the janitor pulls a ring of old, jangling keys.]
Carver: What?! You have a key to that door?!
Janitor: Yeah. It's, uh… this one.
Carver: Why?! How?!
Janitor: Gotta clean in there somehow.
Carver: You clean in there?!
Janitor: 'Course not, nobody goes in there anymore.
[Finished now with the trash, the janitor stuffs his grabber into the can and closes the outer airlock door.]
Carver: But you still have a key.
Janitor: Aye.
Carver: They didn't… take it away when the ACZ was abandoned?
[The janitor shrugs.]
Janitor: Somebody was probably supposed to.
[The janitor starts to leave, but Carver grabs the rim of the trash can to stop him. He looks back at Carver in consternation.]
Carver: Let me in.
Janitor: What, so ye can go make a mess for me to clean up?
Carver: So I can complete my investigation! Prove or disprove the existence of SCP-9314!
Janitor: Is that the big pig?
Carver: What? No! It's the Administrator's Office.
Janitor: Oh. So you want the deep secrets, then.
[Carver doesn't answer.]
Janitor: I can't say I recommend that, lad. If there's one thing I've learnt in fifty years of sweepin' this joint, it's that the less I know the happier I am.
Carver: Yes, well, I'm not that easily satisfied.
Janitor: Of course ye ain't. Ye're young. But if ye wanna get any older, ye'd best learn when to quit.
Carver: Will you let me in or not?
Janitor: Lad, I don't wanna be responsible for whatever happens to ye in there.
Carver: I'll pay you.
[The janitor looks around. There is no one there but him and Carver.]
Janitor: How much?
Carver: A hundred.
Janitor: Two hundred.
Carver: Hundred and fifty.
Janitor: Two hundred, dammit. I know what I've got.
Carver: Fine. It's a deal.
[The janitor spits on his hand and offers it to Carver. He takes it reluctantly, and they shake over the trash can.]
Janitor: I'll unlock it for ye tomorrow morning. But don't show up until ten, I don't wanna be seen with ye again.
Carver: You folded awfully quick.
[The janitor shrugs.]
Janitor: Man's gotta eat. Ain't my business if ye wanna pay for trouble.
a hallway on Sublevel-11
Well, I can barely believe it, but it looks like that crazy janitor was good for his word. I am now standing within the Auxiliary Containment Zone, on Sublevel-11. It looks just like the Safe parts of the LCZ, white paint and all. The lights that are supposed to stay on all the time have all burned out by now, but the rest still work when I switch them on, at least so far. That'll save me a lot of batteries.
All these floors have the same basic plan, which is to say, they're all a bloody maze. When I walked it upstairs, each one took a little over an hour, and that was without extra time to really go through every nook and cranny, which is definitely what I'll need to do down here. Best get started.
Breaking for lunch, from my packed supplies. I also found some vending machines, but they're all empty, of course. There was a plastic container of something in an unplugged breakroom fridge, but it's been molding in there for so long it's more likely to eat me than the other way around. That's just about the only sign of life I've seen down here aside from spiderwebs and rat droppings. It's surprising, how fast these underground spaces go to hell when they stop being cleaned. The HVAC is still running a little, or else I doubt there'd even be oxygen down here, but the air's still thicker and dirtier than would fly in any active containment area. The various bits of furniture that got left behind are slowly succumbing to rats and termites.
Still no sign of the Administrator, and I've been checking every office, even the ones with someone else's nameplate still on. They're almost all locked, and the ones that aren't are just full of the same junk such spaces always accumulate — old posters, empty staplers, file cabinets full of memos to and from people who don't work here anymore. Nothing classified, thankfully, so at least they were careful on their way out.
Well, there's still no sign of rogue D-class or escaped SCPS, but I did find someone's moonshine still. I think that janitor might come in here more than he admits — or else he opens the door for other people besides me. Probably doesn't charge them two hundred bucks, either.
And that's Sublevel-11.
Nothing even remotely interesting, as all the doubters said. And it only took me… three hours, give or take. Ugh. It's a good thing I brought extra food. Can't exactly head back upstairs for dinner; if Moose catches me on camera coming out of here, I'll be booked for sure. She probably won't, if that janitor's been letting people in and out and getting away with it, but she'll know I had to be somewhere suspicious for the last three hours. I'm not even supposed to be in this Site anymore, much less its secret basement.
a hallway on Sublevel-12
According to the records I scanned before Moose confiscated them back, Sublevel-12 was never fully occupied, unlike -11. They finished building it, at least as much as any of the Heavy floors are finished — all bare metal and exposed concrete — but the second Mass Audit hit before they filled more than a couple cells and freed up some more convenient ones in the HCZ. By the time they closed this floor off, there was only one skip left on it — 8314, now -D — and it looks like they decided to decommission the thing instead of moving it. Not sure how they got that approved, since it seemed like a pretty standard murder monster from my skim of the file, but maybe that's another thing that "slips through the cracks" around here. No wonder these people don't like RAISA.
This was a problem on -11, too, but especially down here there are a lot of labs, testing rooms, containment chambers, and mysterious unlabeled doors with keycard readers locked to clearance I don't have. I'm choosing to look at this as a good thing, saves me the time it'd take to look in there, but I can't help but worry what might happen if, fore whatever reason, the Administrator keeps his spooky ghost office behind one of these. I might've already walked right past it, none the wiser. But I don't think so. The story makes it seem like he wants to be found, at least some of the time. No use lurking around, handing out forbidden knowledge, if the only the Site Director can get to you, right? I shouldn't try to logic out a ghost story. It'll be here or it won't.
Carver: It's a damn good thing they didn't put more checkpoints between these floors. Though I suppose if they were as unmaintained and unmonitored as the one I went through to get down here in the first place, then-
[distant scream]
Carver: What was that?
[door slams open]
Woman: Run!
[two sets of running footsteps, one farther away. Carver breathing heavily.]
[A door opens and closes in the distance, and the second set of footsteps stops. The door opens and closes again, much closer, and Carver's footsteps stop as well. His voice echoes up and down the stairwell when he speaks.]
Carver: Hello?
[Carver runs up the stairs and opens the door to Sublevel-11.]
Carver: Hello?
[After several seconds, Carver closes the door, runs down the stairs, and opens the door to Sublevel-13.]
Carver: Hello?
[After only a few seconds, Carver closes the door. He slowly ascends the stairs, panting heavily now. He opens the door to Sublevel-12 again, then closes it. He sits down with a grunt. When he speaks, his voice shakes and he is out of breath.]
Carver: I think I just saw a ghost.
[Gradually, his breathing slows to a normal rate.]
Carver: No sign of her, and no sign of whatever she's running from. No footprints in the dust but mine.
[Carver sighs.]
Carver: God, I'm out of shape.
Well, now I know what scared — what must have killed — that woman. The room she came out of was the antechamber to a containment cell. A breached containment cell. What's left of the concrete wall says "8314" on it.
I'm starting to understand why they decommissioned that thing.
Now all that's left is lucky number 13. If it's not here, it's not anywhere.
I had really hoped it would be somewhere else.
13 was never used, never even finished. The walls, floors, and ceiling are all just bare bedrock here, except for some extra roofing bolts to keep the other sixteen stories from crashing down on me. They look like they were supposed to be temporary.
Obviously, if they didn't have time to install the bloody walls, they didn't bother with the wiring either. If I do find the Administrator's office, it'll be by the grace of God and Foundation-issued flashlights.
Perhaps I should've bought a more powerful brand.
[Carver is speaking very quietly, but his voice still echoes noticeably.]
Carver: You know, before I came here, I did some research about the deepest underground structures on Earth. This one doesn't beat the record on either side of the Veil — there are deeper bunkers, and 43 is at least a kilometer down — but I do think it's the record for most basement levels stacked on top of each other. The Sydney Opera House's parking deck only has twelve. Not sure why a bloody opera house would need-
[Carver stops walking.]
Carver: What's that?
[Carver takes a few more steps. A low, guttural sound is distantly audible. Carver whispers.]
Carver: That doesn't sound like an office.
[Slow, careful footsteps. Carver tries to step quietly on the rough, naked stone. The noise grows louder.]
Carver: Some kind of engine?
[The guttural sound is punctuated by a noise like a loud snore. Carver stops.]
Carver: No. Not an engine.
[No movement from Carver for almost a minute. The grunting and snoring continue.]
Carver: I smell… bacon?
[Carver takes several deep breaths. Then, slowly, he continues moving.]
[A loud, wet crunch echoes down the hall.]
Carver: Oh no.
[Carver's flashlight clicks off. He stops moving.]
[The noises are still getting closer.]
[A heavy, wet thump. A slimy sound, like something sticky being dragged.]
[The guttural noises stop. The heavy breathing of something very large.]
[The wet sounds come closer. Loud sniffing.]
Carver: Oh no. No. No.
[A loud tearing sound.]
[Pigs grunting, oinking, and squealing.]
[Crunching. Tearing. Writhing. Pig noises intensify.]
[Carver vomits.]
[A pig squeals, loudly enough to distort the audio. Faintly, Carver can be heard screaming.]
[Carver is gasping and out of breath. He whispers.]
Carver: Oh God. Oh God.
[Carver retches, then groans.]
Carver: Oh God. Listen. Listen. It's 8314. I don't know how. 19 must've somehow fucking forgotten to terminate it, or maybe one of its… babies got away and grew into another one, I don't know. It's down here, it's not contained, nobody knows about it, it could, if it…
[Carver struggles to catch his breath.]
Carver: It isn't fast. It's too fat. Its arms can't move it, it just oozes along like a, like a worm. But the babies, God, the babies…
[Somewhere nearby, a piglet squeals. Two others join in.]
Carver: Shit. No no no no no.
[Carver runs. He curses until he becomes too out-of-breath. Then he staggers to a halt.]
Carver: What?! No!
[A hand slapping stone, then pounding on it.]
Carver: No! Where are the stairs? Where am I?
[Piglets squealing.]
Carver: WHERE ARE THE FUCKING STAIRS?!
[A heavy clunk. Hinges creak.]
Carver: Huh?
[Piglets squealing, loudly.]
[Carver sprints.]
[A heavy door slams shut.]
[The warm crackle of a fireplace, the heavy tick-tock of a grandfather clock, and one man's rapid breathing can be heard.]
Carver: Wh-
The Administrator: Tea first.
[A teapot whistles.]
The Administrator: Perfect.
[The quiet clinking of porcelain.]
The Administrator: Sugar? Milk?
[Carver does not answer.]
[More quiet clinking. Someone takes a sip.]
The Administrator: Ahh.
[A saucer clatters.]
Carver: Ah!
The Administrator: Too hot?
[coughing, spluttering]
The Administrator: You should drink it more slowly.
[Carver continues coughing. His voice is hoarse.]
Carver: I'm sorry. I'm very thirsty.
The Administrator: And hungry, I imagine? I think there's a tin of biscuits here somewhere…
[Sounds of multiple drawers and cabinets rapidly opening and closing at once. A metallic rattling.]
The Administrator: There we go. Help yourself.
[Chewing. Sipping.]
The Administrator: Better?
Carver: Yes. Thank you.
The Administrator: Of course. I haven't had guests in a while. I've got to be a good host.
[Quiet sounds of eating and drinking.]
The Administrator: Well?
Carver: What?
The Administrator: What's your question?
Carver: Are you really him? The Administrator?
The Administrator: That's your question? What you came all the way down here to ask?
Carver: No, wait! Let me think.
The Administrator: Sure.
Carver: I have so many questions.
The Administrator: Well, you only get the one.
Carver: Why?
The Administrator: Is that-
Carver: No! No.
The Administrator: Alright.
Carver: Don't you… you haven't asked me who I am.
The Administrator: James Carver, RAISA auditor. Level 3 general clearance, Level 4 for matters of SCP-9314.
Carver: I don't suppose that should surprise me.
The Administrator: I don't suppose it should.
Carver: So you already know why I came here, then.
The Administrator: To prove I'm real. Or at least that my office is.
Carver: Right.
The Administrator: Well mission accomplished. But you and I both know that's not all.
[Carver does not answer.]
The Administrator: Sure, maybe it started as just an assignment. But you've been thinking, haven't you? Thinking about all the secrets they handle over at RAISA, and how you can't ever get your hands on them. With good reason of course. RAISA knows better than anybody that secrets are needed. But it's still not fair, now, is it? You're not a spy, just curious. Maybe a little skeptical. Not quite sure that the Foundation is what you hope it is. But you know that I can clear that up for you. If you ask the right question. But there's really only one that makes sense isn't there? If I had to guess, I'd say that you-
Carver: What's SCP-001?
The Administrator: And there it is.
[The drawer of a metal filing cabinet squeaks open. Papers rustle. A folder slaps onto a desk.]
The Administrator: And here it is.
[Papers rustle.]
[Carver is breathless]
Carver: Can — may I take a picture? I don't want to forget it.
The Administrator: Certainly.
Item #: SCP-001
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedures: Simon resides in a dedicated memorial garden at the center of Site-01. At least one Overseer is to stay with him at all times, watching from the safety of the attached observation gallery. It is recommended, but not required, that each Overseer spend his allotted observation time in silent contemplation of SCP-001 and the Foundation's mission. The memorial garden is to be cleaned, maintained, and decorated according to the wishes of the Founder. In the event of the Founder's death, this responsibility shall pass to his and Simon's next of kin.
The Founder has died. By unanimous agreement of the 12 remaining Overseers, they shall assume responsibility for the maintenance of the memorial garden instead of the Founder's next of kin, as none of his remaining family members possess the expertise and qualifications necessary to safely deal with anomalous objects.
Due to the increasing number and importance of the Overseer Council's responsibilities, the responsibility of constant observation shall henceforth be devolved to designated representatives of the Overseers.
After the recent attack on Site-01 by agents of the Chaos Insurgency, the large skylight necessary to provide the plants in the memorial garden with sunlight has been deemed an unacceptable security risk. By agreement of the O5 Council, the skylight shall be replaced with a solid ceiling, and the memorial garden converted into a mausoleum.
Due to the increasing need for more office, residential, and security space at Site-01, SCP-001 has been relocated to a smaller tomb. Its former mausoleum has been converted to an armory.
In a scheduled Mass Audit of containment procedures across the whole Foundation, it has been determined that constant observation of SCP-001 is a less efficient means of containment than simply sealing the tomb would be. Procedures have been adjusted accordingly.
In response to the recent containment breach of SCP-███ and resulting death of [DATA EXPUNGED], a new policy forbidding close proximity between Overseers and unapproved SCP objects has been instituted. All objects currently contained at Site-01, including SCP-001, have been relocated accordingly.
RAISA NOTICE
A scheduled Mass Audit has found the current description of this object noncompliant with modern standards of conciseness, clarity, and clinical tone. The noncompliant description has been moved to an addendum, and a suitable replacement is to be created by containment staff immediately.
Description: [pending appointment of new containment staff following transfer to new facility]
Addendum 1: Archived Description
SCP-001 is Simon Charles Peterson, my only son. He was a happy and healthy child, with brown hair and eyes that turned from blue to brown when he was seven months old. He knew twelve words, and the first of them was "dada." He had almost learned how to walk. He lived happily in the house my father built, surrounded by loving family and caring servants. For thirteen months, he lacked nothing I could give him. Had he found the words to ask for the world, I would have done my best to make him king of it. He was already the king of mine.
Then he was taken from me.
September 7th was a cold, cruel night, full of stinging rain and deep, thundering darkness. Simon was not afraid of thunder, but I feared for him on that wicked night. I stood at the windows of the palace, squinting through the pour as if my anxious attention, unattenuated by the miles between us or the empty-headed socialites chattering around me, could shield him from all the unspoken horrors that haunt the nightmares of new parents. But of course that was not enough. Of course the royal host of that dreadful ball demanded my attention, and of course that crowd of crowns and courtiers in their wigs and ruffles muffled the storm outside, of course the telegram did not reach me until it was far, far too late. I had not even seen the flames.
While I had been across the city, gladhanding highborn fools and smiling politely for the nouveau riche, my world had been destroyed. A troupe of maniacs had burned my home, slaughtered my servants, and stolen my son. That very night, I used the magic at my disposal to erase them from the Earth, but I was still too slow, had been too slow from the beginning. My enemies had fallen upon my son, and they had worked their unspeakable evil upon him. When I finally found him, alone in the ruins of their sanctum, there was little left of my little boy — he had been transformed, by a ritual whose components I cannot bear to contemplate, into a cursed idol of a maniac's mad god. They called it art, the red actors who did this unthinkable thing. They MURDERED my SON, and called it a performance. I destroyed them so utterly that nothing remained for Hell to claim, but it was still not enough. It could never be enough, because it could never restore my son.
I wept in his stony arms, inconsolable, unconscious of the blood and filth and stinging rain that soaked me to the bone. I think I hoped that he would kill me, just as the actors had already forced him to kill sacrifices to their vile god, but he did not. Despite all that had happened to him, Simon still knew me. Still loved me, as I did him, as I always will. And it is because of that love that you are here today.
I swore, in that evil place, on that evil night, that the nightmare which had shattered my family would never again befall another. No father should see his child become a monster. No one so pure should be subject to such horrors. Innocent hands should not be bloodied by the will of evil. Madmen and murderers should not wield the powers of gods and devils. But neither should the victims, the innocents swallowed up by monstrosity and forged into its implements, be damned and destroyed for the sins of their tormentors… or their fathers.
And so, with what little wealth and influence that remained to me after that night, I created the Simon Charles Peterson Foundation. In memory of all those who died in the dark, and as a promise that someday, no one will.
Carver: That… that's it?
The Administrator: That's it.
Carver: But — but — I don't understand. Where's the rest of it?
The Administrator: The rest of what?
Carver: The bloody description! What is it? Where is it?
The Administrator: Ah, that's a good question. Maybe you should've asked me that one.
[A chair scrapes on a wooden floor.]
Carver: Did you trick me?!
The Administrator: Sit down, Mr. Carver.
Carver: I came all the way down here, and now you-
The Administrator: Sit DOWN.
[Carver yelps. Sounds of a struggle. A wooden thump.]
The Administrator: That's better.
[choking]
The Administrator: It was very rude of you to shout at me like that.
Carver: [choking] I'm sorry! Please!
The Administrator: I accept your apology.
[Carver takes a loud, gasping breath and coughs.]
The Administrator: Now, where were we?
The Administrator: Ah, yes, you were demanding to know where they've stuck poor little Simon Charles Peterson.
[opening of drawers, rustling of papers]
The Administrator: Well, I don't normally do this, but since that particular question is only unanswered because of bad recordkeeping — something you take very seriously — and since you came all this way, and since you asked so nicely, I'll couple your question with a complimentary clarification.
[the scratching of many pens on paper]
The Administrator: See, as it happens, and conveniently enough for you, SCP-001 was moved to the biggest Site at the time, the one that was sort of a "go-to" for containment of all sorts back then.
Carver: …this site?
The Administrator: That's right. And if you just follow these directions, they'll take you right to Simon's containment chamber.
[The scratching stops.]
Carver: These go… up. What level is this even on?
The Administrator: I'm afraid you're well past out of questions.
[A door creaks open.]
The Administrator: And I'm out of tea.
[Rustling as Carver quickly stands, picks up his PDA, and hurries out of the office.]
The Administrator: Good luck!
[A door slams shut.]
Well. I found it.
I found it, and I'm going to be amnestized to Hell and back if I tell anyone. Dammit.
What was I thinking? I didn't — I swear I wasn't planning to ask about 001, I didn't even know I was going to, it just — I just blurted it out. I didn't even think about it.
…but, now that I did do it, I don't regret it. What I'd regret is, after getting this far, not finding out the answer for real. Might as well, since you're going to wipe my memory anyway. In for a penny and all that.
Please know that I am still loyal to the Foun…
Well. To what I thought the Foundation was, or what I thought it was supposed to be, rather. But if the Administrator was telling the truth…
The Administrator. God. He's… horrible. He's not human, and I don't think he ever was. He's got too many arms. And the way he moves… he's like a spider. Like a big, fat spider, sitting at the bottom of his web. Thirteen floors of silk and secrets, drawing flies like me down here to die.
I really thought he was going to kill me. Maybe he still is. These direction are insane; maybe he wants me to die like a cave diver, stuck in some godforsaken crawlspace between floors until I suffocate. At least he didn't let 8314's piglets get me. They… ate each other while I was in the office.
I know there must be a more direct way to SCP-001's — to Simon's — containment chamber, but I'd have to sit down with thirteen floors of blueprints and full diagrams of all the vents and pipes and maintenance tunnels and everything to figure out which one it actually is, and Moose sure as hell won't give me all that after I've done this. I wish he'd just told me what number got misassigned to Simon after they moved him here. But that would defeat the whole purpose, wouldn't it? He only answers one question, and that's not enough to cut through a web of lies this thick. All it got me was more questions.
More questions, and a long, hard path to one final answer.
I'll see you on the other side, Maria.
Item #: SCP-9314-EX
Object Class: Explained
Special Containment Procedures: RAISA investigations have found no evidence of SCP-9314-EX's existence.
Description: SCP-9314-EX was, allegedly, the personal office of the Administrator. According to assorted rumors and institutional folklore, the office was located on one of Site-19's abandoned sublevels, but anyone who found it could only do so once. These same stories claimed that a person who entered the office could ask the Administrator a single question about the Foundation, which he would answer fully and honestly.
Though stories about SCP-9314-EX have circulated among the personnel of Site-19 at least since the year 2000, no formal investigation of them occurred until the year 2050, during RAISA's Mass Audit of improperly documented anomalous phenomena in all Foundation facilities. The Administrator's alleged office was deemed extremely unlikely to exist, but a tremendous security risk if it did, and therefore in need of further investigation. To that end, RAISA auditor James Carver was dispatched to Site-19 and charged with collecting evidence of SCP-9314-EX's reality or lack thereof.
Carver thoroughly searched Site-19 for evidence of SCP-9314-EX. On the morning of September 28th, he disappeared. Carver was not seen again until the night of the 30th, when he broke through the corroded covering of the sealed sewer drain in SCP-173's containment chamber and was fatally attacked by that object. Monitoring personnel resumed observation of SCP-173 before it could escape down the opening that Mr. Carver created. It is not clear how or why Mr. Carver found his way into the sewers of Sublevel-4, but the Director of Site-19 has suggested that he was attempting to find a path to the sealed sublevels through the Site's various crawlspaces and maintenance tunnels after he was unable to access through the decommissioned checkpoint.
Mr. Carver's PDA was not found on his person, likely because he lost it in the crawlspaces. Site-19's Janitorial & Maintenance staff have been instructed to turn the PDA in to Director Moose if it is ever recovered, though this is unlikely.
In light of Mr. Carver's failure to produce any evidence of SCP-9314-EX's existence, it has been deemed a myth and reclassified to Explained.