Jeremy Smith (I0-586) is not a particularly interesting man. Every day Mr. Smith kisses his wife and hugs his children goodbye, before driving to his office located inside the Susanne Clyde-Purcell building. Once in his office, Mr. Smith boots up his computer, begins a game of solitaire, and opens up The Numbers.
The Numbers begin as a list that starts at two and counts upwards to three-thousand. Whenever Mr. Smith clicks on one of these numbers the list disappears. It is replaced by what appears to be an article written entirely in long black boxes of different lengths. Periodically a number appears within the page. These numbers are the only text besides black boxes. Sometimes there is only one number, but more often there are many. Sometimes the numbers are very large, and sometimes they are only a few digits. Mr. Smith’s entire job consists of waiting in his office until a message appears on his computer screen. Every message Mr. Smith has ever received has told him to click on one of the numbers in the first list, and then to find a specific number in the article and type it into a small box within the request message.
Mr. Smith’s job is both the best paying and least interesting he has ever had.
Meanwhile, as far underground as Mr. Smith’s office is in the air, there was a much more crowded and better lit room. Of this room’s eleven inhabitants only three were actually standing up. Doctor Kim Nguyen (M3-328) was examining the leg radiograph of the low-ranking site guard who was lying on the bed in front of her. Doctor Alexander Tern (M2-579) was pulling on a clean set of rubber gloves after incinerating his last pair. Finally, Bes (SCP-208) was, well, just standing there. Bes’s presence in the Site-18 medical center without a conscious containment officer had required a direct request to the council, the installation of extra monitoring units, enough red tape to paper a wall and about of month of correspondence between Dr. Nguyen, Dr. Tern, and O5-08.
Neither doctor minded particularly; Nguyen expected nothing else, and Tern believed in the bureaucratic necessity, as he so often did. The Utilization Process had been worth the trouble, regardless. Every medical procedure seemed to go better with Bes nursing, assisting, or just being in the room. Extensive testing had proven the effect was statistically significant, originated from Bes, and did not cause cancer, rage states, or any other noticeable medical problems.
The three medics worked and the eight patients worked on recovering, before a loud alarm sounded over the site intercom: “Keter Class Containment Breach. SCP-058 has breached. Retreat to fortified areas. Keter Class Contain….”
It was half past ten, and Jeremy was having his regular coffee break. He thought about using half decaf, but decided not to. He was a caffeine addict, and it was pointless to pretend to himself that he wasn’t. Bazyli could laugh all he wanted.
Some time into the alarm, (it was rebroadcast periodically in case anyone had been operating loud machinery, amnesticized, or sleeping) after the door to the medbay had been barred shut, Dr. Tern decided to have a look at SCP-058’s containment dossier.
Nguyen objected, “Don’t bother. I’ve read it before. There’s nothing that would be of any goddamned use to keeping it out of this room. Except, perhaps, that if we start hearing random gibberish, we should be a bit more worried. And I’m plenty worried already.”
Tern sighed as he pulled up fifty-eight’s dossier. “Putting aside the fact that it is always a good idea to recheck relevant information when your life depends on it, I happen to know that the document has recently been revised. Let’s see, skip the skips to the description, find the measurements….”
“And they’re blackboxed, aren’t they. All the numbers are blackboxed.”
“…Yes. And the units.”
“Joy and rapture.”
Bes interrupted the doctors, “Lady, Gentleman, perhaps we could keep it a bit quieter? On account of the abomination of Apep?” Bes inquired softly.
Both nodded their agreement and Nguyen said in a, slightly, reduced voice, “Well then, I guess we’re going to have to log a request. Which number is size, Tern?”
Jeremy was finishing his lunch when five new messages appeared on his screen. Requests for the 8th number of 999, section B, the 5th of 87, section C, the 3rd of 58, Section A, and the 3rd of 1436, Section D. Jeremy decided to answer them in reverse numerical order. It was always important to shake up the routine in this job, to the small extent it was possible. Besides, that would leave the section A request until last, and those always had the fewest numbers to sort through.
Shortly thereafter, Foundation ornithologist Diamond Freeman (B2-752) received the number of days between Incident 1436-22 and Incident 1436-23. She wrote it down for later in the day. The datum could prove valuable for research into the effects of metaphysic cycles on avian cognition.
Tern paced around the medical center, checking instruments periodically while Nguyen sat by the center’s communication console, waiting for an absent response. Bes, meanwhile, was sitting serenely on an unused bed.
“Why does it always take so damned long for a simple dammed number request to go through?” Nguyen sighed.
“It probably takes time for our credentials to be processed, not to mention the sheer quantity of requests. I’m sure they’ll get back to us soon,” Tern said, continuing his pacing, this time toward the console.
“If we weren’t cleared to see our request the numbers we got would be meaningless! Can you think of a single situation where a spy knowing, say, ah, the average number of statements fifty-eight makes per day could be of any use? Once they already know what fifty-eight is?” Nguyen shouted.
Tern opened his mouth wide to respond before Bes interjected into their conversation. “As I said before, we should probably keep shouting to a minimum, given present events. Nevertheless, I must point out that Alexander has been sure we would receive a reply message for close to an hour and a half. Perhaps it would be best to fortify the room without a response?”
Tern said to this “How? The proper defenses against something that’s five centimeters long would be almost completely different than for something that would have to batter down a door because it can’t fit through the vents! And we have a somewhat limited supply of barricade adequate material!”
Nguyen stood up. “Well, something is better than nothing, isn’t it? We have a better chance if we at least do something.”
“… You’re right. The door is inherently better fortified than the vents, so I guess we should prioritize the vents.”
“And I’ll put something on the machines to muffle them. Should help.”
“Assuming it has ears.”
“Well, yes.”
Mr. Smith rubbed his temples. He had just to retrieve the 52nd number from 93, section E, the 28th from section G, the 101st from section B and the 6th from section I. Not to mention the requests in the 100s of the 2000s. A new message appeared. A repeat of the request for fifty-eight’s third number. A repeated message which including some very rude comments about his sloth, parentage, and…manslaughter? That was an odd insult. Well, Mr. Rude would just have to deal with a reduced priority.
“Kim, you didn’t have to call whomsoever is on the other sign of that line a ‘lazy goddamned bastard who would get us all goddamned killed’.” Bes whispered reproachfully. His diminutive size meant he was having a much easier time hiding under the surgery beds than either Tern or Nguyen.
“He, or she, or it, completely deserved it,” Nguyen ‘whispered.’
A voice with something that could be considered a British accent if you were significantly more than half deaf spoke next, “The cerulean seraph beats impotently against the wind it cannot understand.”
Tern whispered to Nguyen, “If I have to die in the line of duty, I would have liked to go out in a manner slightly more dignified than listening to random gibberish. Is that so much to ask?”
“Evidently. But it might not come in here. You may yet get to die in a manner more to your liking.” Nguyen replied.
The computer console beeped loudly. After a brief nonverbal argument Tern climbed out from under the bed and looked at the console. It read: “4 (approximated for the reason that I’m not getting close enough to that thing with a tape measure to find out.)”
Tern dived back under the bed and let out a stream of barely suppressed profanity. “Fucking fucker forgot the fucking units! Fuck! What fucking use is the fucking number four?!”
“Wait, really?” Nguyen asked incredulously.
“Yup.”
“The rocky mirrors quake in terror before the rising of fraudulent green.” SCP-058 interjected from outside the medical center.
“So, four centimeters means we should seal up the vents completely, four decimeters means we should use tougher blocks but coverage isn’t as important, four feet means we should reinforce the door, and four meters means we should have run and saved ourselves about fifteen minutes ago.” Nguyen said quickly.
“I suspect one of your researchers could measure a large size from a distance with far more precision than a small one.” Bes said.
Tern stood, “We should prioritize the vents th—” Tern began before the door was torn off its hinges. “God in Heaven….”
“Shit.”
Mr. Smith reflected that this had been the strangest day of his job. He had never seen words in a message before. Maybe this would get him a promotion!
The four meter tall tentacled and multi-legged heart paused in its approach to proclaim that, “Life is in pieces, death is in the whole.”
Fifty-eight’s leg pinned Tern down. “Oh god, Kim, pleas-erk.” There was a sickening splattering sound mixed with Tern’s fading screams as fifty-eight’s tentacles struck downward. Fifty-eight proceeded to do the same thing to the patients in their beds.
Nguyen took the opportunity to run for the door. The massive heart’s leg reached out to trip her. She fell to the ground, and screamed for help, knowing it was almost certainly futile. “Fifty-eight’s got me!”
“Fifty-eight!”
Smith heard screaming.
“Fifty-eight-”
He looked around but could not see where it was coming from.
“Eight.”
This had never happened before
“Eight!”
A woman was screaming his name. And yet, wasn’t.
“EIGHT!”
Jeremiah Smithson (O5-08) awoke from his nightmare with a start.
“I’m here. No need to yell, Six.” He said into the microphone on his desk. Jeremiah could swear he heard muttering coming from the twelve speakers on his desk. He couldn’t believe he had actually fallen asleep during a council meeting. Why the hell did he switch to half decaf? It was too damned quiet in the soundproof communication room, and Four and Thirteen had spent the whole bloody meeting blathering on about some obscure thaumaturgical adjustment to one of the thaumiels. Jeremiah thought about how he had gotten his position via exemplary performance as an info-sec (I4-586 to be precise), not as a scientist, of thaumaturgy or otherwise.
His thoughts were interrupted by a low female voice with a slight South African accent. “I’m not sure about that. Since everyone does, in fact, seem to be here we can move on to our next topic. That is to say, the final vote on the Statistic Information Segregation Initiative.” One waited for Smithson, as the proposer of the initiative, to make a final appeal for it. Not that an appeal would be necessary. After weeks of debate, there was at long last a majority to pass the damned thing.
“I don’t think we should do it.” Jeremiah replied, much to his colleagues’ shock.
A deep male voice with a heavy Polish accent was the first to speak. “Are you feeling well, Eight? You did, after all, propose the initiative and argue for it at length. Such a reversal is…unlike you. Not that I object to you coming to your senses, but could you explain what led to it?”
Jeremiah considered his next words carefully. Sounding suspicious to Bazyil Kopetski (O5-06) would not be a terribly good idea. He remembered the last time they had checked that he wasn’t a lizardman all too well. “I had a bad dream” sounded dumb and unconvincing even to himself. But that was it. Somehow his subconscious had hit him with every last reservation, every last concern, and every last niggling doubt about the SISI. “Well, I’ve been thinking back to when I was just a low ranker in RASIA.”
“And?”
“And we didn’t appreciate constant requests. As estimated, the Initiative will lead to an increase in requests to RASIA of about four hundred percent, right Thirteen?”
A feminine voice with an accent Jeremiah had never been able to identify responded. “Yes, that’s what my people have calculated. You have known this for months, Smithson. I suppose you have an actual reason for bringing this up, not just as a stalling tactic while you think of your next statement?”
“Thirteen, you and I both know that is an optimistic estimate at best. Even if it wasn’t, I am still concerned that the stress increase among RASIA will lead to negative consequences, like… more frequent coffee breaks that could lead to… delays and bad things. Look, I’ll submit to imposter testing. Can we just have the damned vote, One?
“I suppose. Aye.”
“I don’t find that convincing, Eight. Aye.”
“I will defer to Eight’s expertise on this matter. Nay.”
“I will not have Skippers dying for this paranoia. SISI will make that happen. Nay.”
“SISI will prevent unacceptable risks. Aye.”
“Glad you came to your senses, even if you are just looking out for RASIA. Nay.”
“You’ll regret this tomorrow, Eight, you’re just panicking. Aye.”
“Nay. This was my mistake.”
“Inserting fake entries into the database? Okay. But this is just too much. Nay.”
“I will restate that this was always a horrible idea. Nay.”
“My arguments have been made. Aye.”
“Can’t believe I’m voting with Eight. Nay.”
“Well, at least this means less paperwork. Aye, nevertheless.”
One gave the final statement “Seven to six, the Statistic Information Segregation Initiative has been formally rejected. I really hope you know what you’re doing, Eight.”
“I am certain it will be best for the Foundation. I would vote on nothing less.”
“Of course.”
It was a quiet evening in the Site-18 medical ward. All the patients had either been in and out quickly, or were stable and unconscious. Dr. Kim Nguyen was reviewing the schedule of appointments for the staff’s regular medical exams, Bes was adjusting an IV on a field agent, and Dr. Alexander Tern was getting coffee from the surface coffee shop.
Bes was just finishing when Tern returned with the coffee. “You know, I technically shouldn’t leave this level while we’re all still on shift.” Tern said as he passed out the coffee cups.
“And yet, not only did you leave, you got yourself a coffee at the same time. Do you have a point here, Tern?” Nguyen asked.
“I’m just giving fair warning that if a medical emergency happens when it’s my turn to get coffee, I will be dropping it. And when internal affairs asks exactly what happened, I will blame you.” Tern replied.
“Eh, they won’t care; they know we all do it. Besides. Fifty fifty chance I get to blame you.”
Tern was surprised to hear this, but sat down to drink his coffee with the others.
Nothing much continued to happen in Site-18 Medical as its inhabitants drank coffee or saline solution. Nguyen spoke up, “So, Bes. Now that we don’t have to worry about you biasing us, what exactly can you do with those powers of yours? Be good to hear them stated simply, even if we have figured most of them out.”
Bes smiled. “I have many talents to heal the injured and cure the sick. Under my hand wounds knit together more readily, blood flows tranquilly, and the Ka clings to the body tightly. And of course, given what I am, I have a degree of influence over dreams.”
Tern had been nodding along to all of Bes’s “talents” until the last. “Influence over dreams? We never detected any signs of that.”
“It is a subtle and powerful art, Alexander. I can send visions and prophecies in dreams. Well, as long as they would heal or benefit those under my care. We all have our… jurisdictions, do we not?” Bes said.
“Doesn’t sound terribly useful. Could exploit the placebo effect, I guess? Or perhaps send medication instructions.” Tern mused.
“You would be surprised.”