Job Opportunities
rating: +42+x

On Monday morning, Aleksander awoke in his London apartment to the smell of burnt toast. Assuming he was having a heart attack (the irony of this assumption only occurred to him later in the day), he rushed downstairs in an attempt to reach the telephone, only to find his six-year-old daughter desperately struggling to make him breakfast.

He laughed, picked her up, spun her around, and kissed her on the forehead, before sitting down with her and eating a meal of burnt toast and scrambled eggs. Aleksander drew a face on his eggs with ketchup, and his daughter giggled.

He hugged his daughter once more before she left for school, then went back into his bedroom, disengaged the lock on the personal armory hidden behind his dresser, and started to get ready for work. He got dressed in his nicest black, silk dress pants, and a beautifully dark purple dress shirt, before clipping his two standard-issue Mark-10 handguns underneath his arms, in all of their smoky black steel glory, and threw on a black suit coat over top.

Then, after re-locking his armory, Aleksander went downstairs, did the dishes, threw on his thick wool dress coat, and set out in the pouring London rain on his way to work.

He stopped at the small coffee stand in the square across from his apartment complex, ordering his usual sea-black coffee, which he stood and sipped slowly, until he realized he was six minutes late for work.

Aleksander ran, in the pouring rain, down London’s twisting and turning roads before he finally came to a stop at head offices, a small, inconspicuous building, tucked between a Laundromat and a Grocer. Swipping his glass security pass at the door, he rushed past the oaken panels and leather chairs, waved to the secretary, then swiped his security pass again and stepped into the elevator, pushing the button for basement level 26.

The elevator opened, he stepped out, rushed past a second secretary, and ducked into his office. With luck, nobody noticed he was late.

He booted up his company terminal.


USERID: 4567832790



Aleksander managed to take another three sips of his now cold coffee before the computer finished booting and he saw the blinking email notification in the corner. Not the usual crimson red notification, which meant a new contract was available, but instead a deep, sickly green.

Upper Management. He cursed, and opened it.

Aleksander Foxx,

You have been requested in a meeting with upper management at 11:00 AM in board room six.
This meeting is mandatory. Do not be tardy.

Thank you,
Upper Management

Apparently, someone very important had noticed he was late.

Aleksander had, apparently, been the only one to take the words "Don't be tardy" seriously, as it was now rolling passed 11:17 AM and he was still the only one in the board room. As he wondered if he was in the wrong board room, the door swung open, and an elderly man waltzed in.

"Apologies for my tardiness. I've been having a very busy day, myself. And you, Aleksander?" The man smiled a wicked grin. "How busy has your day been?"

Aleksander swallowed. "Very busy, sir."

The man sat down across from Aleksander. "Good to hear. Has the work been interesting?"

"Always, sir. The work is always interesting."

"Good." The man pulled a file folder out from his briefcase and set it in front of him. "How old are you, Aleksander?"

"36, sir."

"Single father?" He began flipping through what appeared to be a well-thumbed copy of Aleksander's personnel file.

Aleksander felt his legs go numb.

"Yes, sir."

The man looked up from the file folder, and pursed his lips. "You don't have any idea who I am, do you?"

Aleksander shook his head.

"You do actually. My name is Skitter. Skitter Marshall."

Aleksander felt his face go pale. It was bad enough to have to speak alone with upper management, but a named board member? The Mister Marshall? What would a Board member want with a Huntsman like him?

Marshall looked at Aleksander with cold, all knowing eyes. "Relax, my boy. You aren't in trouble. In fact…" He pursed his lips once again.

"You've been working with us for quite some time, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir. Three years as a security officer. Six as a Huntsman."

"You've made quite the name for yourself. What do they call you in the field? Moss Man?"

"Moss Heart, sir."

"Hm. Fitting, I suppose. Bit too literal for my tastes." He slid the file away from himself. "What's your rank?"

"Lieutenant, sir."

"Well, congratulations. You're now officially a Brigadier. Welcome to the big leagues."

Aleksander felt like he had just been hit by lightning. "…Thank you sir."

"Of course. You're the best for the job. Now, I have a very important job for you. In fact, they asked for you personally — As I said, you've made quite the name for yourself."

Aleksander was getting feeling back in his legs. His usual, firm, confident self, was returning. "Excellent, sir. May I ask who the Assassination target is?"

Marshall laughed a false laugh. "I said welcome to the big leagues, boy, and in the big leagues, nothing is ever that simple. I'm afraid you are stepping back from the wet-working department for awhile. I'm putting you in charge of a storage warehouse in east-central London. You can choose six Level One security officers to accompany you in your defense."

Aleksander nodded. "Yes, Sir. What exactly are we storing there, if I may ask?"

Marshall smirked. "You haven't allowed me to finish. You will be defending a warehouse that contains sixteen crates of anomalous artifacts, and three anomalous humanoids in the usual comatose storage state."

Aleksander nodded, once again.

The smirk grew larger. "Then, Wednesday afternoon, at around three thirty, the SCP Foundation will break into the facility, kill all of your security, then kidnap you."

On a freight train that was hurtling down the tracks at a clipping pace, in a box car filled with unmarked crates, two men, armed with automatic weapons, sat around a make-shift table playing cards.

"…What about Ben Affleck? He's kinda funny."

"Some of his older stuff, yeah, but his new films grate on me. Do you have any sevens?"

"Go fish. Got any kings?"

"Go fish. Do you have any eights?"

"Go fish. Do you have any sixes?"

"Damn. Take 'em. Hey, has Nick Cage done any recent stuff? I liked him in National Treasure."

"Nothing good. He kinda just when downhill after that series. Do you have any… Are those gun shots?"

"Sounds like they're coming from the other train car. Get ready. Sounds like this train ride just went to hell."

It was early Thursday morning when O5-4 received two consecutive reports in his inbox, that, to anyone else, seemed completely disconnected. To him, however, they told him he had performed a very, very successful trade.

Incident Report - Marshall, Carter, and Dark Warehouse Raid

At 3:45 PM Wednesday afternoon, at the date of ██/██/████, Mobile Task Force Pi-1 ("City Slickers") successfully raided a Marshall, Carter, and Dark warehouse in London, England. The opponent suffered six casualties, and one Huntsman class MC&D operative surrendered. He is being held in Cell Block 3 at Site 19. A list of artifacts retrieved has been attached.

Incident Report - Unknown Attackers Raid Freight Train

At 5:00 PM in Paris, France, a freight train containing twelve SCP objects of varying classifications, including eight "Safe" and three "Euclid" SCP's, was attacked by an unknown assailant. None of the security detail defending these objects have reportedly survived. A list of objects lost has been attached.

O5-4 couldn't help but smile - after all, in this trade, the Foundation definitely got the better side of the bargain.

Item #: SCP-4758

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-4758 is to be held in a standard humanoid containment cell, measuring three meters by two and a half meters. Two guards must be posted at all times around SCP-4758's cell, and the room must not be furnished with anything more then a standard foam mattress (without sheets, pillow, or bed frame) and a standard toilet.

When being served meals, it is vitally important that SCP-4758 is fed only soft foods, and not given any utensils. As well, his cell must be searched twice daily for improvised tools or weapons.

Description: SCP-4758 (formerly known as Aleksander Foxx) is a male of European descent. Records indicate that SCP-4758 was born in Ontario, Canada in 1978, making him 36 years old. SCP-4758 has brown hair and eyes, weighs 81 kilograms and stands at roughly two meters. Its back is heavily tattooed in various geometrical patterns and shapes.

After being captured by the SCP Foundation during a raid on a Marshall, Carter, and Dark warehouse, SCP-4758 was kept in a standard humanoid cell block until it was discovered, during a standard medical test, that SCP-4758 does not have any internal organs in his chest cavity, and it is instead entirely filled with

"Stop writing." A man in a navy blue suit stormed into the office of Dr. Gunnel. "Who in the right name of hell gave you permission to move Aleksander Foxx?"

Dr. Gunnel suddenly felt very confused. "…It was standard procedure… we discovered he had some anomalous capabilities…"

"And if you had read his prisoner dossier, you would have found that it said not to move him under any circumstances."

Dr. Gunnel stood up. "Which we ignored, since we discovered he had anomalous capabilities. Are you even listening? Who are you to storm into my office and start yelling at me?"

Navy suit flashed a security pass. "I'm your god-dammed fucking superior, that who I am. Now listen to me very, very closely. You are going to burn that special containment procedure, and wipe any records of any of his anomalous capabilities. Then, you are going to walk me over to wherever the hell it is you're keeping him, unlock the door, walk away, and forget any of what happened here today."

"Under whose orders?"


"Who are your superiors?"

He shoved his security pass into Dr. Gunnel's face. "O5 command."

Aleksander was well aware what the plan was. He knew exactly how it was supposed to go down. By now, he should have already done the staged interview, they should have fed him his lines, and he should be working for them.

Being locked in solitary confinement was not part of the agreed plan. Just as he was thinking of all of the brilliantly terrible ways he could execute the doctor that did this to him, he heard the door open.

He sat up from his lone mattress, and saw a man standing in the door frame, clad in a blue suit.


"About damn time. I've been in here three days."

The man in blue nodded slightly. "Apologies. As much as I hate to say it, we are a very large facility, and sometimes…" He kicked at the floor. "Sometimes we misplace people."

Aleksander stood up. "Whatever. Let's just cut to the script and get filming."

The man nodded. "If you would just follow me."

Interviewed: Aleksander Foxx

Interviewer: █████████

Foreword: Aleksander Foxx is a Marshall, Carter and Dark operative who has been working for the past six years under the code name "Moss Heart."

<Begin Log>

█████████: Aleksander Foxx. Is it true that you work as an operative for Marshall, Carter, and Dark?

Aleksander Foxx: Yes. I worked for three years as a security officer protecting their… merchandise before I was offered a position in the Huntsmen program.

█████████: And what exactly was the Huntsmen program?

Aleksander Foxx: Originally?

(Aleksander Foxx tilts back in his chair.)

Aleksander Foxx: We acted as tour guides and armed escorts for clients who wanted to go on monster hunts. Eventually, the program was phased out, due to client casualty rate being so high.

█████████: So then you returned to regular duty as a security officer?

Aleksander Foxx: No. Once a Huntsman, always a Huntsman. We were called that because we were the best — we took out anomalies like you guys take out test subjects.

█████████: Could you give me an example?

Aleksander Foxx: Example? Sure. Budapest, 2006. I killed a cancer. Big thing that kept growing more and more body parts on top of it's already existing ones. We called him Goliath. Cut him to pieces, burned and salted the Ashes. Hell , I'm still having trouble washing him out of my coat…

█████████: That's enough. If you were so combat effective, why was the program phased out?

Aleksander Foxx: Because monsters and cocky rich kids don't mix.

█████████: Alright. So, what did you do after the Huntsmen program was canceled?

Aleksander Foxx: We were all spread around various parts of the company. I, personally, was moved to the wet-working department, and spent another three years killing rich people in exchange for the money of other rich people.

█████████: You don't speak very highly of your organization.

(Aleksander Foxx snorts, leans forward, slamming his chair to the ground)

Aleksander Foxx: Why would I? Marshall, Carter, and Dark made a joke out of my skills. I'm a damned good assassin, but the work is boring. I want something with some actual meat to it. Which is why I willingly surrendered to your organization.

█████████: …Sorry?

Aleksander Foxx: You are going to hire me. You've been planning it the moment I got captured. Go ahead, make me an offer.

█████████: I'm not authorized to discuss any of this.

Aleksander Foxx: Then I'll wait here while you go check on that.

(█████████ leaves. 15 minutes pass before █████████ returns.)

█████████: …We'd like to offer you triple whatever Marshall, Carter, and Dark was paying you in exchange for permanent employment at our organization.

Aleksander Foxx: Agreed. I only have three requests and two questions.

█████████: Let's hear them.

Aleksander Foxx: Firstly, I'm not one of your blasted SCPs. I've spent enough time in cells.

█████████: Agreed. You will be free to come and go as you please, like the rest of our staff.

Aleksander Foxx: Secondly, I need an assistant. That should go without saying.

█████████: Consider it done.

Aleksander Foxx: Thirdly. I had a crate of weapons in the warehouse. Did you get them? They were collectibles. Irreplaceable.

█████████: We did. They're being stored in our armory.

Aleksander Foxx: Excellent. Now, first question: What's the nicest private school in the area?

█████████: …I'm sorry, but why exactly do you…

Aleksander Foxx: My daughter. She's six and an absolute sweet-heart. Would you like to see pictures? Never mind, they're in my coat. Just forward a list of local private schools to me when you get the chance.

█████████: …Alright. You said you had another question?

Aleksander Foxx: Oh! Right! Tell me, I've been dying to know…

(Aleksander Foxx stands up)

Aleksander Foxx: What exactly do you have planned for me?

<End Log>

It was 7:00 PM when Lucille's plane finally landed. Aleksander had arrived an hour before, just in case his daughter arrived early. When his daughter saw him, she dropped her suitcase, let go of the flight attendant's hand (much to her terror), and sprinted towards her father.

"Daddy!" she yelled, before being gripped in a massive bear hug.

"Hey, sweetie!" Aleksander cracked a huge smile. "How was the flight in?"

"Good! The nice airplane lady let me have two whole cookies by myself!"

Aleksander laughed, as he picked her up onto his shoulders. "That sounds yummy! But you ate your supper too, right?"


"Even the vegetables?"

The young girl suddenly looked very down-trodden. "Not all of my vegetables. I didn't like the broccolis."

Aleksander put her down and patted her head. "That's alright. Plenty of time in your life to eat your broccolis. Now, go grab your suitcase and say thanks to the flight attendant. Daddy wants to show you his big-new house, and tell you about his awesome new job."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License