 The following files have been classified top secret by order of the administrator. General Notice 001 Alpha. In order to prevent knowledge of SCP-001 from being leaked, several or no false SCP-001 files have been created alongside the true file or files. All files concerning the nature of SCP-001, including the decoy or decoys, are protected by a memetic kill agent designed to immediately cause cardiac arrest in any non-authorized personnel attempting to access the file. Revealing the true nature or natures of SCP-001 to the general public is caused for execution. Warning, any non-authorized personnel accessing this file will be immediately terminated through Barryman Langford memetic kill agent. Scrolling down without proper memetic inoculation will result in immediate cardiac arrest followed by death. You have been warned. Item number SCP-001 Object Class. Data Expunged. Special Containment Procedures. Data Expunged. Description. Data Expunged. You stare at the screen. There's nothing there. You scratch your thinning hair and you click on different fragments of text and bits of source code. You squint your eyes and you will the words to rearrange themselves but the results are the same with every attempt. The confidence you girded yourself with is broken. You're daring edifice crumbles. There's nothing here. You take deep breaths, not intentionally. You aren't self-aware enough to calm down and it feels like death is creeping up on you. Career death. Physical death. Death of everything left to you. So much for investigating workplace rumors. So much for one final indulgence before your life finishes its collapse. But something twinges in the back of your brain. A remnant of the strange image you passed over moments ago. A remnant of the wall that's built around nothing at all. Emit Patrosky. You turn. Office chair groaning as you do. Two people wait at the entrance of your cubicle, both in gray fatigues. Both armed. One is a towering bald man with a slight smile that's surely at your expense. The other is a shorter woman with mud-colored hair and watery eyes. I'm in it. Sergeant Grower cites security, says the man. He gestures to the badge pinned to his uniform. Special agent Morgan. Internal security, says the woman. She has no badge. Come with us please. Your heart thunders at her tone. And mucus drips down your throat. You had a plan for this. The magic words for every situation you've ever encountered in your long years at the Foundation. You're gonna have to talk to my supervisor. This doesn't have to be a scene, says agent Morgan. She sounds ready to drag you down the hall by your feet. Please come with us, Mr. Patrosky. Avoid the stairs of your co-workers as you pass by their tiny little caves. Don't make things worse for yourself. You follow the pair of officers down the hallways of CIDO2. People stare out here too. Everyone can tell. You're not important enough to deserve an escort. Not for any good reason. The sides main hallways form wide arteries, each splitting into narrow capillaries that wind deep into every crevice. You're led to a steel door set in a cinder block wall. Grower punches a coat into it, one firm jab at a time. Your throat hurts as you watch him. Your lungs hurt. You feel like your body is strangling itself. This doesn't have to be a scene, repeats Morgan. You are not religious. But you pray. It doesn't become one. The room is tiny and sparse. A flickering light in the tiled ceiling. A stainless drain in the tiled floor. A narrow chair bolted to the floor. You sit and you can feel the chill seeping through your suit. Your career must outstrip theirs by at least a decade, but you feel like a child in detention when you look up. Full name, date of birth, and foundation ID number. Morgan asks while Grower taps on a small tablet. Emmett Petrosky, February 9th, 1981, and 542313, I think. Current position. Intel analyst. Then you're aware that you were attempting to access classified information. I was just following up on a rumor. You gulp. But the mucus feels like it's crawling higher and higher in your throat. I was about to contact Riza right when you showed up. There's some sort of security gap on that entry. I see. Morgan and Grower look at each other meaningfully. You can't hope to tell what is exchanged in that silence. We'll be back. You swallow as the two leave. And again, as the door slams shut. And again, as the silence sets in. Your body adjusts to the cold, but you shiver all the same. The chair was designed for discomfort. While slouching, its low back drives into your shoulder blades. You sit straight and it slopes forward ever so slightly. One side, the narrow seat offers no support. So you fidget, you turn and fidget some more. And time. Who's is by? There's no clock in this room. You haven't worn a watch in years and your phone is already out of power. Time drips as slowly as the pipe somewhere above you. It crawls as slowly as the distant droning siren. You swallow again and again. But the lump never leaves your throat. Minutes pass. Hours pass. Surely it's been hours. You give up on the chair and lean against the cold wall, but dripping above you has become irregular and the sirens have stopped. Heavy footsteps sound out in the hall. First going to the right and then to the left. You rub the rash that's been spreading down your arm all week. And time passes. You can't say how much. The pipe drips. The sirens drone. Footsteps thud back and forth. Drip. Drone. Thud. You swallow hard and breathe harder. You sink down the wall to sit on the floor and it's even colder. After a small eternity, the door opens. More getting grower walk in. It looks like they might have changed uniforms, but it's hard to say. It couldn't have been a full day already, could it? Did you sleep? Full name, date of birth and foundation ID number asks Morgan as grower taps on a small tablet. Imit Petrosky February 9, 1981 by 42313. Current position? Intelligence analyst. Then you're aware that you were attempting to access classified information. You, you already asked me that. You must not have given a very good answer then, says grower. Mr. Petrosky, please don't cause any more trouble, says Morgan. She rubs her temples and briefly closes her eyes. This is a very serious offense. We're only here to find out the facts. I didn't do anything wrong, you insist. I see, says Morgan. She and grower look at each other meaningfully. We'll be back. The door closes behind them. Time drips. Time oozes. It turns to the near frozen mess you've shoveled off your sidewalk every year. You swallow mucus. You breathe deeply. The pipe drips. Sirens drone. You sit on the chair. You lean against the wall. You regret the idiotic decision to ever follow up on something so ominous. See the foundation's deepest secrets, indeed. Morgan and grower walk in. Her hair is in a ponytail now and his stubble looks thicker. It could have been more than a few days. Could it? Full name, date of birth, and foundation ID number. Asks Morgan. As grower taps on a small tablet. Emmett Petrosky, February 9th, 1981, 5, 4, 2, 3, 1, 3. Current position? Intelligence analyst. Then you're aware that you were attempting to access classified information? I was about to call Riza. Like I said, that's beside the point, says grower. I can't count how many times you should have called them before you reached this point. Now you get to deal with us. Morgan doesn't look at all pleased about the prospect. Now let's go over how you bypass security measures. It's very technical. I don't think the two of you would understand. I see, says Morgan. She and grower look at each other meaningfully. We'll be back. The door closes behind them. Time drips. Time oozes. It moves so slowly. It might as well be solid. You swallow mucus. You breathe deeply. You rub at your rash. The pipe drips. Sirens drone. Footsteps fall. You sit on the chair. You lean against the wall. You lay on the floor. You regret the terrible decision to ever follow up on something so ominous. Secret to health, riches and immortality indeed. Morgan and grower walk in. Her hair is hanging loose now and his stubble looks thicker. It couldn't have been a week yet, could it? Full name, date of birth and foundation ID number. Asks Morgan as grower taps on a small tablet. Emmett Petrosky. February 9th, 1981. 5, 4, 2, 3, 1, 3. Current position? Prisoner. Then you were aware that you were attempting to access classified information? I told you. I was just investigating. What was the project in question? Asks Morgan. I was doing follow-up for a 2025 report on securing internal file systems. Sweat feeds under your arms. You of all people should know how important that is. It's critical, right? And you decided to pry into deeply classified information? You should know the importance of SCP-001. How else can we be sure that it's secure? I see, says Morgan. She and grower look at each other meaningfully. We'll be back. The door closes behind them. Time drips. Time oozes. It settles over you like concrete over a secret grave. It drowns you like an uncaring, unrelenting ocean. You swallow mucus. You breathe deeply. You rub at your rash. The pipe drips. Sirens drone. Footsteps fall. You sit on the chair. You lean against the wall. You lay on the floor. And you regret the terrible decision to ever follow up on something so ominous. The key to the universe's heart. Indeed. Morgan and grower walk in. Her hair is longer, isn't it? This stubble looks grayer, doesn't it? Has it been a month since they threw you in here? Months even? Could you even hope to tell? Full name, date of birth and foundation ID number. Asks Morgan as grower. Taps on a small tablet. Emmett Petrosky. February 9th, 1981. 542313. Current position? I don't know anymore. And you're aware that you were attempting to access classified information. I was going to use it. I see, says Morgan. And she and grower look at each other, but there's no meaning. It's just a ritual now. You can't bear to let them walk out that door again though. You just can't. I mean, it's 001, so it has to be something special, right? Money, health, something. I need something. And what did you plan to do with that power, Mr. Petrosky? Help the foundation? What else would I ever do with that? I thought we would never use it otherwise. It's not our mission. But what if we have to use anomalies to contain them? What if it's necessary? Did anyone ever think of that? I mean, think of all the good we could be doing. Your impassioned plea is met with the dispassionate disregard of the foundation itself. Your breaths are pained. The pair stares. They loom. Time drips. And they turn around. And they leave again. Your nose runs. Your chest heaves. Your throat aches. And the door opens again. Morgan and grower walk in. Her hair is longer. His stubble looks grayer. Has it been a month since they threw you in here? Months, even? Could you ever hope to tell? Full name, date of birth, and foundation ID number. Ask Morgan as grower taps on a small tablet. Each impact is dull as a fist against flesh. Emmett Petrosky. February 9th, 1981. 5-4-2-3-1-3. Current position? Trapped, maybe? I don't know anymore. And you're aware that you were attempting to access classified information? I was going to share it. I see, says Morgan. She and grower look at each other, but there's no meaning. It's just a ritual now. And you can't bear to let them walk out the door again. Just can't. I was going to share it with everyone on the intranet. And to what end? I mean, why share something this important? Everyone's sick of Rise's shit, you grumble. Losing control of something like this would have proved it. They only act like they have everything under control. Like, we're the only ones who ever mess up. Grower stare says that everything is indeed under control. And Morgan says you are indeed the only one to make mistakes. Your breaths are pained. Your throat hurts. The pair stares, but you don't think they can actually see you. They loom. Time drips. And they turn around. And they leave again. Your nose runs. Your chest heaves. Your throat aches. The light above leaks. The drain below glows. And the door opens again. Morgan and Grower walk in. Her wet eyes have turned milky. His beard has turned white. Has it been a month since they threw you in here? The curdling sensation inside you says no. A month. The years. Full name, date of birth, and foundation ID number. Asks Morgan as Grower taps on a small tablet. Each impact is dull. Like a fist against flesh. Each is sharp. That's a gunshot. Emmett Petrosky. February 9th, 1981. 5-4-2-3-1-3. Carrot position. Trapped. Maybe. Alone. Perhaps. I'm here. And you're aware that you were attempting to access classified information. I was going to sell it. I see, says Morgan. She and Grower look at each other, but there's no meaning. It's just a ritual now. You can't bear to let them walk out that door again, though. You just can't. Anything would be better than that. I've been doing it for years, you say. None of you ever found out. What information? And to who? When. And for how much? The chaos insurgency. The new one. They're right, you know. The foundation failed it. Failed humanity. It failed itself. They didn't even need to pay me. I would have done it anyway. There's no other way to wake everyone up. The stupor is a sin. The sleepers are sinners. I'm not ashamed of what I did, so just kill me. Already. I'm a traitor. I know what I deserve. Your breaths are pain. Your throat hurts. The pair stares, but you don't think they can even see you. They loom. Time drips. They turn around. Time oozes to a near stop. And you. You take the easy way out. You lumber out of the narrow chair. There's no one standing in it. You'll be trapped forever if you wait any longer. Time will stop. Time will die. Time will die and you'll be left there. Time will die and you never will. Our gun raises first. It is a second behind. And it feels like hours before they level with you. And then weeks. And then years. You suffer in eternity as their fingers pull triggers. You bear empty eons as the bullets crawl from the barrel and lurch towards you as they finish a long, blessed journey to reach you. The pain is swift. Immediate. And final. And despite that pleasant embrace, the pipe keeps dripping. It drips. And drips. And drips. Steadyer than before. Faster. More. Immediate. And it hurts. You wake. Face down with a rich taste of blood at the back of your mouth. It's at the front of your mouth too. And the feeling of its half-coagulated morass runs a length of your throat. You put a tissue to your nose to try and clean the worst of it off your desk. It's gotten everywhere. Wow. How much is even left in your body? The computer went to sleep sometime during your stupor, but you remember what you were doing before that. It's not cold in your cubicle, but you shiver all the same. You rub your rash. You sniff loudly. Not again. Absolutely not again. You run a finger down the laminated list of extensions pinned to the wall. It settles on the site's RISA representative, X9191. Someone picks up the phone after two rings. Hi. Hello. I'd like to report a security breach.