Old Kansas Sector ~ 6: The SCP Foundation
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☦The Old Guard Awaken.☦

The Last Era: 13, August, 2119 AD
Salina, Kansas, USA

A man who had long forgotten his name was driving down the twisting paths of the pinched barrens, his loyal dog at his side. He drove east, into the sunset, deftly piloting his mobile fortress; a custom Marauder, 69’, with a screaming red and black widow paintjob. He was on a mission, following reports of some free radical anomalous jackass terrorizing the good people of OKS and being a general eyesore.

He cranked down the window and tossed out his cigarette. “How ‘bout that? It’s not often you see an anomaly in the wild is it, boy?”

“No, not often at all, and don’t call me boy,” responded the sharply dressed canine, his words slurred by his cigar.

“I thought they had all been all wiped out topside, but I think we got ourselves a goddamn dodo.” He smiled and the dog rolled its eyes. “God, I think I’m gonna ash on my suit. Ash me, One.” One grabbed his cigar and flicked the excess out the window. “There ya go, Nine.” Nine panted excitedly.

As they were pulling aside the recently massacred aboriginal colony, Agent One pulled up the warrant file on his PA. On the screen was a human man, appearing to be in his mid twenties. He slammed the car door and wiped down his suit with his hands before making his way toward the aboriginals. Nine jumped out of the window and galloped happily toward a family of three.

“Hello there. I’m with the SCP Foundation. We received a report that your tribe was attacked,” Nine said in a professional yet sympathetic tone. The family responded in a unified, sinking and rising wail as they twisted around on themselves.

“I see,” responded Nine, turning to One. “Did you hear that?”

One’s eyes narrowed. “Every last word.”

“We thank you for your time, and will be providing assistance and protection for you and your family in the future. If you ever need anything else, please give us a call. We are very sorry this happened to you, and mark our words,” Nine bared his teeth. “He will be stopped. We will not go back to hiding in the dark. We will stand in the light.”

The family gathered around and gave Nine a good pat and belly rub as he rolled around the dirt excitedly.

“Oh, for fuck sake, Nine.”

“Sorry. On my way.”

The SCP Foundation still existed well into the chaotic Age of Rot. Protecting the status quo at all costs. Preserving normalcy. Containing the anomalous. But it was only a shadow of its former self, and not quite the same.

It’s not entirely certain how the Foundation changed its ethos, or when. Some argue that they are simply preserving normalcy as it currently exists. Some claim the Foundation was already under control of something that wasn’t partial to Human normalcy… and there’s also the chance that the Foundation hasn’t changed at all.

Beneath Yellowstone Park, in the fossilized remains of an ancient Foundation machine was a colony of the last few remaining, unchanged humans on Earth. The Foundation’s objective of containing the anomalous had failed, and their priorities shifted. Humanity was contained and sterilized. A containment breach was never an issue, only a perimeter breach.

Years ago, the chambers of Eden were rusted, and their gears whined. They tried for years to restore their miraculous machine to its former glory, but the resources simply weren’t available. It had died from overuse, the systems pushed to their limit. Only tertiary systems remained, which were not capable of creating life, but sustaining it.

Ten years ago, the last nine of the artificial humans stared in confusion at one another in the control room as their memories were suddenly lifted in line with the old protocol. By this time the world would have been reconstructed if the machine were functioning properly, but they did not know what the machine did, or who they were.

In time they learned of the Foundation, and found photographs of personnel in the databanks that looked a lot like them.

One remembered everything, and as his colleagues scratched their heads over the man in the archival photo with the head of a goldfish, he decided to keep it that way.

The backs of Two's forearms were covered in pale pink, raised lines of scar tissue, but he couldn't be blamed for not counting them.

The third was too busy researching their preservation to deal with their existential crises.

Four was propped up against a panel in an obscure recess of the labyrinth, its silver chain wrapped tightly around a control lever.

Five was desperately trying to repopulate Eden, while Six was making sure Seven didn’t. Eight claimed that he knew who should.

And the ninth wasn’t a dog, because nobody knew what a dog was.

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