Dr. Wyclif's Office and Workbench

You've reached the office of Dr. Wyclif. If you are still reasonably sane after the tone, please leave a message. Thank you.

Puzzles
Under construction
"Buy Me NOW!"
Under construction, low priority.
Weapons of the Late Legion
Under construction, low priority.
The Quest for the Grail
Under construction, low priority.
001 Proposal
In the percolation stage, ultra-low priority.

MTF-256/FROSTED GLASS:

SCP-XXXX: Green Fields
Percolating.

Tale: Thesis
Solidifying from nebulous thoughts, low-med priority.

Tale: Tacos, Time, and Talk of Treason.
Rough idea, needs more world building.

Tale: Scrub Week
Rough idea, needs more world building.

Addendum: Cast Notes
Permanent state of flux as lore changes.

MTF-256: SHUTTERBUGS
This section covers the beginning of a potential canon/site I'd like to work up. These tales will explore Foundation HR, hiring/firing policies, uneasy truces for the betterment of society, and of course, how Memetics work. Other fun things include: Where people go when they retire!

+ Wyclif Model of Pyscho-Memetic Layering in Individuals

Two Sentance Summary:
Young Mr. Wyclif draws some odd scribbles that cause mice to go berserk. Further research yields a dead partner and a very unorthodox doctoral defense.

+ show block

– hide block

[Now]Dr. Wyclif attends an unexpected meeting.
Masters in Information Science from University of Michigan School of information.
Doctorate of Neurolinguistics [posthumously]
Doctorate of Applied Memetics [REDACTED]
A bit underwhelming, Jason thought, as far as academic careers go. A decade of brain melting research, countless sleepless nights, and a dead friend had all culminated in this: a small cardboard box with the few belongings he'd been allowed to bring in, with three framed certificates perched on top. He checked the number he'd jotted on the box again, comparing it to the number beside the plain wooden door before him. They matched, and after some careful balancing (along with some mubled cursing), he stepped into his new office.

Outline-
How Dr. Jason Wyclif (Ph.D. Neurolinguistics, Ph.D Applied Memetics) came to the attention of the Foundation.
-Side note: maybe introduce Foundation HR?
Told through flashbacks.
First flashback:
Wyclif approaches his door, touches a small divot accidentaly added when his box of belongings banged against the wall. "Ten years of brain melting academia, countless sleepless nights, and a dead friend culminated in this: a small cardboard box that contained all of his belongings that had been cleared for entry, and three framed diplomas. The one on top (Master of Science, Information Science from the University of Michigain School of Information) was the oldest, and the two below (Doctor of Philosophy, Neurolinguistics (Yale University, posthumous), and Doctor of Philosophy, Applied Memetics (Southern California Postgrad)) were so new, they'd literally been printed this morning.
Second flashback:
Wyclif checks his notes, spots a "Potential New Hire Evaluation", remembers how he'd been recruited.
Third:
Steps into elevator, remembers first day on the job?
doodle someone had drawn. Thank you card from a wounded (rather than dead) security member?
Remembers incident/orientation.

Final: Steps into lecture hall, to teach. All he'd wanted, right?

Dr. Wyclif brushed an errant hair from his lab coat as he exited the elevator. Lost in thought, he walked straight past his office door, only realizing his mistake when he reached the end of the hallway. Eight years and he still managed to get lost like he had on his first day.
Innumerable sleepless nights, ten years of brain melting academia, and a dead friend had culminated in this: a small cardboard box with three framed diplomas, a small selection of pens, and a paperweight with his name on it. None of his other belongings had yet been cleared for entry, so at this moment all of his worldly possessions were in this box. He checked the room number he'd been given (hastily scrawled on the side of the box in permanent marker), and as he stepped off the elevator into the cool subterranean hallway, he spotted what was to be his new office.
With only a small amount of juggling (and a great deal of luck), Jason Wyclif managed to open the door without dropping his box or dignity. A dim shape that suggested a desk was before him, so down went the box while he searched for a light switch with both hands along the while. When he snapped the lights on, he immediately wished he hadn't. Faded green desk and filing cabinet, bland beige carpet, and a chair whose orange hue could best (and charitably at that) be described as 'puke-colored' greeted him.

How the Foundation and GOC became somewhat friendly.
Liu-Zhang sits down across from leader of the STRIKE team that's been ramping up for a raid. Hands him a huge stack of papers.
"What's this?"
"That is a listing of every item we currently have at 73, and the full files on more than a few. Most, if not all, of them are what we would classify as 'Safe'. In layman's terms, if it can be tossed in a box and nearly forgotten without adverse effect, it's 'Safe'. The vast majority of staff at my facility are pure science nerds who've never held a weapon in their lives. Please, for everyone's sake, call of the raid."
"So, let me get this straight. You walk in here, broad daylight, no backup. Hand me files of a scary number of the things you have locked up while assuring me that they're 'Safe'. Finally, you tell me that the bulk of the opposition I would face would be cannon fodder. Then in a fit of…I don't know? Insanity? You ask us to not raid your site. Am I following you?"
"Absolutely. For your own safety, call it off."
Tomlinson, the STRIKE commander is many things, but he's not dumb. Someone being this specific, this open? Only a fool wouldn't pay attention.
"Ok, I'll admit it. I'm very confused, but I'm not stupid. What am I missing in this warning?"
Liu-Zhang relaxes slightly.
"Just because an item is 'Safe' does not mean it is harmless, just easy to contain. Likewise, my staff haven't trained in firearms for the most part, but are easily bored and very, very bright. Guns may be the least deadly things they could hold."
"Let's say for a minute that I believe you, and that a clash between our respective organizations would be bad for everyone. Why tell me? Why not contact my superiors through proper channels?"
"Simply put? Expediency and chorizo. I was hungry, and you've been spotted here before. This way, I get lunch and a chance to talk to you in a public place, where conflict would be bad for both parties. Talking to your superiors is much more complicated. The only way of forcing a face to face would involve a number of actions that would be detrimental to my efforts. You weren't happy when I sat down across from you in public, imagine how he'd feel if (or a projection of me) was suddenly sitting across from his private desk in an undisclosed location. And then, if I went through channels, I'd have to pass my request up the chain, let it rattle about before finally coming down on your end, hopefully in the right place and before your White Suits have begun their assault."

MTF Eta-256 Administrative Staff:

MTF Eta-256 "Shutterbugs":

05 Offices:

Site-73 Staff:

GOC:

+ ___. _____ Tomlinson

+ _____ _____

Well, according to feedback, we're looking at something that is just too unwieldy. Needs to be cut back down.
So: core concepts, as in, idea can't work without them:
Sins of the past lead to current problems.
The Foundation may be cold, not cruel, but they're not infallible.
Changes to be made:
SCP will now be the entity, heavy corruption in data, leads to interview.

Also, what do we do with the ones coming over? How are they getting over? Are they infected, or just scared? Why us?

SCP-XXXX: Green Fields (tentative title)

Item #: SCP-XXXX (Originally SCP-████ (NEUTRALIZED, ARCHIVED 02/08/1976))

+ Archived Containment Procedures

+ Show Archived Description

There exist a large team of writers, artists, social media experts, etc. that set up new identities and memories for retired agents.

+ Retiree Narrative

- Hide Narrative

"I'm done, I'm out, I…I can't take this anymore." the short man, balding and going to fat, sobs to the woman sitting across from him. She steeples her fingers, resting her elbows on the large oak desk.

"Well doctor, I have reviewed your file, and while you are eligible for retirement, I must ask: Are you sure you want to retire? There are several other options available, such as wellness retreats, a transfer to another, less stressful posting, or even-" she offers, speaking softly and slowly.

"No, no I can't. The things I've seen, the things I've…the things I've done…sitting in a cabin and doing nature walks won't erase their screams, and any other duty station is just going to have it's own horrors. I want out."

"Mmm, I can certainly understand that. There is always a course of amnestics, if you'd rather?"

"Look, I know you're just doing your job, but no. I've seen too much, and with 40, 50 years of terrors, the amnestics we're allowed aren't as effective. Sure, you won't consciously recall everything, but they only scrub the service. That fear, that horror? It's still there, deep in the cracks and crannies of the mind. And at night, they bubble to the surface, haunting your dreams and leaving you yearning for the nightmares of youth." the man explained, shaking his head sadly.

She smiles faintly, and nods. "Very well, if you're sure-"

"I am."

"-then you are aware of all of the risks. There is no guarantee you will survive, and if you do, any we cannot constantly protect you, so any enemies you may have made will be able to find you. Mental deterioration is likely to occur earlier than normal, with senility and Alzheimer's almost guaranteed to crop up. Also, given your age, you are looking at a life expectancy of five to ten years. 15, tops. You won't have any family or friends, though your new memories and identity will explain that."

"I understand, and I'm ready." he sighs, relieved that his torment was almost over.

"Alright. It will take about three to four days to get everything processed, and then another three or four days for the treatment. I recommend taking this time to say any goodbyes, and get your affairs in order." she says, stacking the papers in front of her before standing and offering her hand, which he shakes happily.

The next few days pass quickly for the man, as he re-allocates any active projects, wishes friends fond farewells, and makes arrangements for his meager belongings to be either gifted or disposed of. Finally, the woman arrives at his door, knocking sharply.

"Are you ready?" she asks, already turning to walk away.

The man simply smiles, nods, and follows with a bounce in his step.

They wind through the metal corridors of the Site before arriving in what most call "The Soft Room". Plush burgundy carpet covers the floor, and a number of soft, cushy chairs are arranged in a lose semi-circle. Two of these chairs are filled, and the woman takes the one between them, while the man, still smiling, sits opposite, a large coffee table between them.

"Well, today is the day. My compatriots, " she indicates the lady in a suit on her left and the man in a lab coat to the right, "and I will go over your new life before beginning the procedure. This is your last chance to back out, if you have any doubts or concerns?"

The man, eager to proceed, simply shakes his head.

"In that case, sir, let's review your life." the lady in the suit says, placing a large file on the table. She opens it, and begins to lay out it's contents. "You are, or will be, Peter Oxton, a historian and professor from a prestigious college. You have recently retired and moved to this town, looking to spend your newly found free time hiking, fishing, and maybe even writing that book you always talked about. You are an only child, and while you dated and entertained a few short relationships, you never really settled down. You have a thing for quiet, shy girls with auburn hair, though these days a gal who can hold a good conversation is perfect. Your hobbies include fly fishing, writing, and critiquing historical inaccuracies in movies."

"Wow," the man whispers, picking up the papers now covering the table. "And, all of these memories will be verifiable, if anyone tries to dig into my past?"

"Absolutely. You also have a small social media presence, though you rarely check anything other than your Twitter, where you post your movie critiques.
You've got a small following of former students and friends who enjoy your postings, and will occasionally recommend movies for you to, and I'm quoting here, 'shred to pieces'. You left your university on good, if slightly chilled, terms, so you don't hear too much from them, though you do follow their football team."

The woman in the middle smiles at his slightly stunned expression. "In addition to a modest amount in savings, you'll also receive a monthly stipend from the retirement plan you set up in your youth. It's not a lavish sum, but more than enough to keep you comfortable. You will also receive health insurance through Silver Charity Prosperity, and monthly house calls from the same. Mostly, they will be checking on your physical and mental health, but they're also going to be checking that the identity rewriting is holding."

"I've heard some rumors about that, actually" the man says, nervousness creeping into his voice. "Is it true that if the rewriting starts wearing off, they'll kill me?"

The woman sighs, and meets his gaze. "Yes. Once you retire, you are considered a potential threat. You may remember the wrong thing, and mention it to the wrong person. We can't bring you back in, because there is no guarantee you'd regain enough memories to be anything other than a liability.
[Next, financials, maybe? Then, an overview of the procedure]

FLOW:
Man wakes up, putters around making breakfast, humming a tune.

Flashback: Man wakes up screaming, can't keep food down

Man checks to-do list, and heads to market.

Flashback: Man shudders as he reads the testing protocols for today.
The man chewed his lip as he looked over the testing schedule. These were the experiments he'd been dreading. Yes, he'd written the procedures himself, and sure, Ethics had signed off on them. It was necessary, he kept reminding himself, even as the woman in the jumpsuit was escorted into the observation room. His research assistant quickly assessed her pupillary response and overall health before giving the man a nod and a thumbs up. With a tight grimace, the man began explaining the protocols to the woman in the jumpsuit.
"Today's test is simple. You will simply be required to sit in that chair," he explained, gesturing to a plain wooden chair in the testing room, "for ten minutes. After the ten minutes have elapsed, the airlock door will open and you'll be escorted back to your room. Do you have any questions?"
The woman stared at him for a moment, then turned to look at the testing room. Spotting something, her eyes grew wide and she backpedaled furiously, only to be caught by the two security officers.
"No, no nonononono! You're not putting me in there, I've heard what happens, nonono-" her wild ranting was cut off as the man's assistant sedated her. She went limp in the security officers arms, and could only sob as they carried her into the testing room. She was still sobbing as they strapped her into the chair, and the man wasn't sure, but he could've sworn she was staring him in the eye. That was ridiculous, he assured himself. The glass was one way only, and she couldn't possibly know where he was standing. But all the same, her eyes never seemed to leave his, even as the thing was released from its cage and approached her. She was still sobbing as the thing latched onto her and her flesh began changing into machinery as they watched. Finally, the thing let go and scurried back to it's enclosure; she slumped against the restraints, blood leaking from her eyes instead of tears.

Browses the market, unexpectedly runs into an acquaintance. They chat amicably over lunch.

Flashback: Containment breach. Sobbing, the scent of blood and worse.
Containment breach. He hides, even as strange new realities are laid over ours, alien winds howling. He hides in a cabinet, and then runs when he hears something growling, hunting. He trips over a dead security guard. Notes that the mirrored helmet is cracked, revealing a very young adult. Grabs the guard's gun and makes it to his office. He's attempting to barricade the door when a desperate pounding starts. His assistant is outside, flesh beginning to boil and slough off before morphing into something. Or something like that. It's horrific and painful. His last words beg Paul to shoot him. Even when his throat starts birthing birds, his eyes still scream it. Sobbing, Paul pulls the triggers and collapses.

The man feels chilled, and looks above the mountains at the cold grey clouds creeping in. Resolves to pick up a new coat.

Flashback: The man handles a bloody lab coat (either his or a friends).

The man ponders his choices at the market. He decides on some fresh herbs, a few chicken breasts, some rice, contemplates pineapple, but then remembers his dinner guest is allergic.

Flashback: The man ponders the gun in his hand. He briefly puts it in his mouth, breaks down sobbing.

The man returns home, begins getting everything ready to cook. Consults his cookbook.

Flashback: The man sits with HR, discusses options.

The man starts cooking, tossing in ingredients

Flashback: The man goes over several details, talking about his new life and such

The man plates the food, lights the candles

Flashback: The procedure begins. It is graphic, and unpleasant. Wires, electricity, bitter pills, a droning voice and sense-dep tank.

The woman enters, shy. "Hi Pete."

Flashback: The procedure finishes. He emerges, confused. "Hi Pete."

Throughout, there may be other flashbacks to other people.

page revision: 600, last edited: 02 Sep 2017 23:42

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