 Quinn McAllister felt like a stereotypical cop, eating a doughnut while sitting in an unmarked vehicle, waiting for something to come along and happen. Her partner was with her this time, fiddling with the radio, which had NPR playing on it. In contrast to Quinn's slender, white-blonde form, Darnell Crisman was a rather large black man. He reminded Quinn of a slightly fatter Samuel L. Jackson. Circa, whatever year Pulp Fiction came out, sounds after on mustache, but that was only because he had shaved off the latter. FBI policy to make field agents seem less intimidating. Four hours, Quinn said, and counting, Darnell sighed. Face it, he's not coming. Skippers most likely picked him up already. Head of the biggest spirit dust ring this side of the Pacific and the Skippers got him. Inside, a f***ing course. Sometimes it's better to let them handle stuff. You nearly got killed by that giant anaconda thing in Zanesville. Don't remind me of that, Quinn said, shivering softly. They had the f***ing cut me out. It was humiliating. She rubbed her face inside, leaning against the seat. Alright, try another on me. Alright. Darnell screwed up his eyes. Case file 1939-23. First recorded instance of a werewolf encounter by the UIU. Said werewolf was killed when a knife was thrown over his head. Not killed, Darnell corrected her. Turned back to normal. Back then that actually worked on werewolves. Quinn rubbed her face. My turn. Case file 1981-42. Too easy. Card name White Hat. Murders carried out with a bowie knife in Texas. Knife would always vanish from evidence, only to appear at the next crime scene. Victims were related to people who participated in the Battle of the Alamo. Evidence of existence. Several pictures of the knife, all taken with a Polaroid camera used by special agent Jack Miller, who was not the inspiration for Fox Mulder. I refuse to believe that. Why? Because 1. Miller was gay. 2. He was more handsome than Dukovny. And 3. There is no way the skippers would let that happen. She sighed. Hand me another nacho. Nacho it is. Darnell handed her a bowl of the corn chips. Quinn took one and munched on it, looking melancholy. Quinn? Yeah. Why do you always act like this? Like what? Like you feel like you're competing with the skippers? You've asked this question about a hundred times now. The answers always the same. F*** the skippers, that's why. He sighed, picking at a spot on his arm. You act like you think that they're worse than Hitler. They really in a different, Quinn said, a bitter tone in her voice. They've got a secret police. They round up people who they deem different and undesirable into places where they can be contained. They've deluded themselves into thinking they're a force for good. She sighed. The only difference is that their swastikas are just in the shape of the letters SCP. Cripes, Mac, Darnell sighed, changing the channel to a classic rock station. What's your beef with them anyway? She sighed heavily. You know how I never talk about my hometown? Yeah? That's because I literally can't. She rubbed her throat, coughing slightly. Remember the secrecy agreement we signed? Back when we got the job? Yeah, the one the Gawkers made up. UN Resolution 256A or something? He frowned. Why? It did something to me. I can't talk about what we'd do on this job to anyone but skippers or the director or you. Yeah, I know. Darnell pinched the bridge of his nose. I felt like I was choking when I tried to tell my brother about the job. You work around it after a bit, learn to lie. And with the first time I'd signed something like that, she swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat right where her larynx was. That's all I can say, I think. Darnell stared at Quinn. Mac, what did you do before you got involved with this? Who ever said there was a before? She looked at the windshield inside. Another hour, then we checked in with command and say this was a bust. Right. Darnell looked at the windshield and fiddled with the radio. Say, yeah, Danielle's back in town. Maybe you could get Harley and we could do a double date or something? Don't see why not, Quinn said, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. The headline on the morning newspaper was that the leader of a drug ring had been shot dead by a beat cop. The fact that it probably wasn't true rubbed even more salt in the wound. To learn more about the SCP Foundation, subscribe to SCP Orientation Today and turn your notification bell on so you don't miss any of our videos.