Contact
rating: +56+x

Greetings, Doctor.

Before I begin, please know that any attempt to trace this message will lead you to the public wi-fi connection at a McDonalds in Sylvan Lake, Alberta, Canada (a popular vacation spot, and not my permanent place of residence).

As you're already aware, the SCP Foundation is not exactly listed in the Yellow Pages, and as such, communication with the Foundation must be carried out in this fashion.

Allow me to get to the heart of the matter: I am an entity that your Foundation will be quite interested in, and I myself have an interest in your Foundation.

I am a 16 year old male, and have a unique ability relatable to that of your "telekill alloy". In short, my anomaly is such that for whatever reason, I am unable to be affected in any fashion by any form of telepathic instance. For example, SCPs 268, 053, 055, and most notably, 239, would have absolutely no effect upon me.

I'm sure you're able to comprehend not only the research possibilities I may present to you, but also the practical application in an MTF. This is exactly what I am requesting from your foundation: level 3 security clearance for the express purpose of further research of SCPs whose psychic/telesthetic qualities would prohibit further research (most notably SCP 055), and/or to be assigned to an MTF that would deal with psychic/telesthetic SCPs/potential SCPs.

In exchange for loyalty and cooperation with the Foundation, in turn, I request specifically not to be held in any form of containment cell of any kind. Instead, I request to receive a standard salary for an average level 3 researcher/MTF agent (whichever is deemed to be appropriate by the Foundation), and to be housed in a standard Foundation residence with permission to leave the premises as I deem fit, unless of course a situation arises that requires my involvement (as with any other Foundation employee). I wish this request to be discussed among the 05 Administrators, and I will not reveal my location and allow Foundation employees to retrieve me without the above terms being accepted by a majority of the 05 Administrators (at least 7).

I hope to hear from you soon, Doctor, and I hope we will come to a reasonable solution soon.

J. Swift

Bright stared at the email. "I'm a Level Five researcher, god damnit."


Dodridge sighed heavily. “Why do ya think they don’t think we’ll be able to track them?” he asked, glancing sideways at the man crouched next to him.

“Hell, I dunno,” Lament sighed. “This kid is supposed to be some sort of psychic vacuum. Immune to all that brainy shit and mental influencing.”

“And he seriously sent a level four researcher an email?”

"Level five."

"Whatever."

“Yeah. Just… popped it right off.”

“Wow. Seems like he’s immune to his own IQ.”

Lament snickered and picked up his box of McNuggets, chewing them slowly. “God damn, I love this spicy mustard.”

“I don’t know how you can eat that garbage.”

“It’s like foie gras and shit, man. Most delicious parts of the food are always the trash.”

“You’re eating chicken slurry formed into a disc.”

“And it is fucking delicious.”

Dodridge smirked for a moment, then laid down on the ground, getting into position. “So, this one is dangerous?”

“Dangerous enough. You ready?”

“Yeah.”

Lament peered through a set of binoculars as the van pulled up next to the McDonalds for the fourth time in as many days. Dodridge leaned over and stole a McNugget.

“I saw that.”

“Fwuk woo.”

Lament snickered, then held the radio to his ear.

“Good. Oh-Four-One confirmed it. It’s the ugly kid in the yellow hoodie.”

“Oh, nice,” Dodridge mumbled, looking through his scope. “I thought he looked like a ponce.”


SYLVAN LAKE, ALBERTA, CANADA – Teen killed in a shooting at a local McDonalds. Witnesses noted that there was no sound of a bullet firing, but the victim—believed to be one J. Swift—suddenly fell to the ground. An RCMP van was in the area and responded to the scene of the crime. Currently, the event is being treated as an act of random gang violence. Mr. Swift's body is being transported back to Ontario for burial.


Dr. Mann snapped the glove onto his wrist with the efficiency of a prison guard and peered down at the body. “Oh yes,” he said, nodding and lifting the saw. “Many research possibilities, Mr. Swift. Many, many research possibilities…”

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