Secure Facility Dossier: Site-B1
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I woke up with the bitter taste of metal lingering on my tongue. My eyes were still fogged and blurry, but I did my best to take a look around — as far as I could tell, I was slumped against a wall in some kind of laboratory, moderately large and wood-panelled, with bookshelves rammed full of paper stretching off into the gloom. A window on one wall looked out into darkness, and the only light came from…

…Well, that was curious. I could see things, certainly, and when I closed my eyes my vision disappeared, but… there were no shadows. Darkness, yes, beyond my field of vision, but no texture. No highlights. Nothing to suggest anything so primitive as the movement of photons. I grasped around on the floor next to me, and picked up the first item I came across — an Allen key, bent but still recognisable. I held it at arm's length, and slowly rotated it around the vertical axis. It wasn't much, but it confirmed my suspicions; when my eyes were trained on it, I could see it all. Not just one side or face, but the whole thing, with any angle I'd seen before being shot down my optic nerves like a bullet.

I winced involuntarily, feeling my retinas prickle and the veins in my forehead throb. The Allen key clattered to the ground beside me and I felt the pain subside. That was good. The effect was, at least, temporary, and limited to things I was actually looking at. Another data point to add to the growing list of potentially irrelevant details.

Hauling myself to my feet, I took further stock of the room. It seemed long-abandoned, certainly, but there were no cobwebs, which meant no spiders, and I noted several telltale tracks through the inch-thick carpeting of dust. Someone had been here recently, then. Was it me? I couldn't remember laying down here to sleep, but then again, I couldn't remember much of anything. At least the place seemed… well, if not friendly, then at least comfortingly familiar.

No sense waiting around. If I was going to learn anything about my predicament, it wasn't going to happen here. Taking care not to view anything from more than one angle, I made my way to the door, which was curiously solid and metallic, something more appropriate for a prison cell or bulkhead than a disused laboratory. I grasped the handle, turned it sharply, and pushed.

It was, of course, locked


S.C.P. Foundation

THIS DOCUMENT IS NOT FOR HUMAN VIEWING


Facility Dossier:

Containment Site-B1



Official Designation: S.C.P. Foundation Subterranean Informational Hazard Containment Unit (Basement Level One)

Site Identification Code: %%DB_Lookup_Failed%%


"โš  ๐Ÿ‘ โ†’ โ„น๏ธโ˜  โš "

The voice woke me for the second time, with me not realising I had fallen asleep. Again I tasted metal, and again I was slumped against the wall; the Allen key showed no sign of having moved, and my previous movements through the room had left no impressions in the dust. Strange, but not my immediate concern; that title was taken by the tall, pink-skinned man who stood in front of me, staring into space. I opted for confrontation.

"Who the hell are you?"

"โ™ฒ โš•โš• โš•โš• โš•โš• โ™ฒ"

My eyes widen. "Infostenographics? That's new stuff, very new. I couldn't manage an image density higher than 0.18 — this is bordering 1.0." I pause. I'm getting overexcited. Fidgety, unclear in the head. I need to focus. "What in god's name is this place?"

The man opens his mouth and hesitates momentarily, blinking as gears whirr behind his eyes. His jaw dislocates and snaps back into place as wires tug his tongue back and forth.

"โš  ๐Ÿ‘ โ†’ โ„น๏ธโ˜  โš "

"Eye, information, bad-warning… Informational hazard located?" I turn around, but the room is empty, except for-

Me. Except for me. Just me, and him, alone in a room where I can see without light and leave no tracks on the ground.

"โš  โ„น๏ธโ˜  โ†’ ๐Ÿ—‘ โš "

"Informational hazard, disposal… Oh, bollocks." I back away as the man begins to vibrate. "Listen to me, if there's some kind of confusion or contamination here, and I can help whoever runs this place figure it out! I have clearance for most memetic irregularities, the passcode is "static ceiling wax", that's "ceiling" with a C, or at least it was the last time I checked."

I back away further, pressing myself up against a bookshelf. "Please? My name's Rupert Thomas Berryman, there must be someone out there who can vouch for me! Try Liamsson, or Mbiru, or Johnson. Langford, maybe? Is he still around? Look, just ask someone, anyone — it's Berryman, they must have heard of me. I run the Memetics Division, for god's sake! Please! I practically founded the whole idea of-"

I stopped talking then, because his head exploded.

General Information


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Purpose: To secure those anomalies whose properties arr/rRฦ.ยง %%Component_Not_Found%% ษน/eษ”ceฦžtly rendered uninhabitable. Personnel are advised to act with caution whenร†ฦž_|n %%Catastrophic_Abort%%

Founded: c. 1940

Founding Director: Rupert Thomas Berryman

Current Director: N/A

Location:
Beneath


##to do##

Layout:


b1bunkergrayscale.png

Conceptual bulkhead CB-M-Alfa. Bulkhead's presence is sufficient for containment; closure is not required.

Laboratory Suite: Not currently in use.

Cafeteria: Not currently in use.

%%Broken_Heading%%: Not currently in use.

Containment Units 1 through 10: Designed to contain physically anomalous entities. Not currently in use.

Containment Units 11 through 30: Designed to contain informational hazards and vectors for dangerous "memes"1. Not Currently in use.

Containment Units 31 through 500: I don't believe they're real, but nobody listens to me anymore. We only had plans for 30. We only have materials for 30. It's been months since Berryman left and things are getting worse by the day. They got VERNE set up, so it's only a matter of time.

Containment Units 501 through NaN: I keep seeing the same people, but they never recognise me. Their skin is perfect. New. I'm imagining these new chambers, I know it — no corridor could be that long.

Bulk Warehouse 1: Approximately 400 metres in length and 300 metres in width. Currently houses small- and medium-sized objects which are low- and medium-potency informational hazards. Staffed by Automated Subsystem ฤŒAPEK, Automated Subsystem WELLS, and Disposable Humanoid Batch Two.

Bulk Warehouse 2: Size unknown — outer walls have never been directly observed. Currently houu/seยง.s.,,%%Catastrophic_Abort%%

Containment Unii/i+ฯ„.%%Broken_Heading%%;.: I see so many people die here, but we're never short on staff. The O5s won't return my calls, citing "potential informational contamination". They planned this, I know it. I'm stuck down here. This place was never just a noะฏma/a/%/a.nd where are they getting the bricks?

Residential Block: %%Component_Not_Found%% 2 3 4 5


##to do##

Break Room: Broken.


##to do##

Staff:


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##

I pat the man who used to be Conway Langford on the shoulder, and turn to leave. Fifteen minutes later, a patrol team finds the security guard's body in a storeroom with a bullet through its head. It was a liability, really, and far too much of a loose end. More thoughtform extensions just means more coordination between us. And more coordination means more planning, which means more chance of being detected.

No, best just to keep things under wraps for now. I've got decades of memetics research to catch up on, after all. They Foundation's been busy since I died. Feeling fresh neurons twitch and throb, I make Conway's body stretch, forcing a yawn. It's getting late. Time for this me to head home.

Tomorrow is going to be a very busy day.

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