"…just down this way, Dr. Able," said Dr. Woodruff, "down here is level 17." The senior scientist turned to his younger colleague. "What have you heard about 17, doctor?" The two were just getting off the lift at one of the SPC Foundation's most secure and trusted sites, site 19. As they walked around the corridor, armed guards stiffened and saluted.

Here at the most secure of the SCP Foundation's maximum security sites, one did not forget protocol. Not if one wished to continue breathing. Correct procedures must be followed in dealing with any of the cryptids at any of the Foundation's many sites, but especially here.

Every single one of these guards had seen, first hand, exactly what happened to those who forgot that.

Dr. Able shrugged. He was still getting used to all the secrecy surrounding the Foundation. When he'd been in college, he'd applied for government work. He thought he'd been accepted when he got the call from the Foundation's HR director.

However, he was coming to understand, the Foundation was actually not funded by, nor a part of, the United States government.

It was funded by forty-five governments, worldwide, including the US. What was contained herein demanded no less than complete international cooperation. This level of cooperation had never before been seen, not even in the days of the Cold War, when nuclear annihilation was a very real possibility. That, he thought, said something about the cryptids imprisoned here.

"Not a great deal. I still haven't gotten my full security clearance yet, you know. But," he put a finger to his chin, "isn't this where the Keter class are kept?"

"Correct. Some of them." Keter class cryptids were considered the most dangerous of the most dangerous, the sort that demanded this level of cooperation. Because any one of these cryptids could, in some way, endanger or even end life on Earth, at least as humans knew it, should it escape.

The two reached a massive circular door, more reminiscent of an old-style bank vault, back in the days when banks actually kept real, hard currency, and for pretty much the same reason. Not because what was behind this door was extremely valuable, but because keeping it inside was a condition of extreme value.

What was inside was a game-changer.

"So…where are we? What's here?" Able looked about a bit nervously, even as Woodruff pressed his palm and eye up against the security override station. Without that, the massive inner doors would remain closed, no matter what.

"This, young man, is where SCP 682 lives. If you can call it that."

Able felt a tinge of perspiration. So far, he'd only been exposed to some relatively harmless cryptids—a few yeti, the Loch Ness creature ("I'd wondered why nobody had spotted it lately!") kept in captivity here…or as Woodruff put it, "containment." But something about the way Woodruff put that...

"682?"

"I gather from your questioning tone you are unfamiliar with the creature. Here." He handed Able a folder. "Educate yourself."

Able opened the folder, noting the red tape over it. "Say. These are termination orders, aren't they?"

"That's correct."

"When are they scheduled to be carried out?"

"About six years ago."

"Six—what now?"

"The creature has been under termination orders for over half a decade."

Able shrugged, not in a dismissive manner, but more of a nervous gesture of hitching his white lab coat around him. "So why isn't it dead?"

"Because," said Woodruff, turning to him, as the last door opened, "We can't seem to kill it."

…

Emily was out looking for her dog when she heard the sobbing. It was late, and the only light was a fading sunset. She'd brought her Coleman lantern, for when it got truly dark, and she'd lit it before she got to the border of the darkening woods. Her father had warned her about being out after dark. "After all," he'd said, in a semi-joking manner, "you never know. You might run into a bear out there."

"Couldn't I just as easily run into one in the daytime, too?" But he'd just laughed and ruffled her hair.

But now she heard the sound of someone—crying? But somehow it didn't sound just right. Not…she didn't know. Just not right, somehow.

"Who's there?" she said, raising her lantern. The sound was emanating from a dark copse of trees, out of range of the rays of the dying sun. "Are you hurt?"

The sobbing sound suddenly ceased, and something sniffled. She saw a sudden movement in the shadow of the largest of the trees. It looked human, but was so painfully thin… And…though she couldn't be sure, as it was sitting, its hands over its face…it looked as though it was taller than a man.

But now it suddenly stopped, and reflexively lifted its head out of its hands, and stared at her. Its eyes were a solid, blind white, its face was malformed and wrinkled, with the greatest concentration of such wrinkles around its eyes, wrinkles so deep they looked like wounds. It stared at her for a fraction of a second…they exchanged looks….

Then the creature opened its mouth to a degree impossible for any human and screamed. "AUUUUGGHH!" It sprang to its feet, heading towards her at a dead run.

Emily screamed herself, turned, and ran for home, the safe, secure place where she'd lived for all her ten years of life.

But the thing was right behind her, and she could hear it gaining on her, still howling as though in pain. She ran, screaming, and threw the lantern back behind her, more in a last-ditch effort to lose unnecessary weight than a tactical maneuver, and the cover flew off, the white-hot mantles immediately lighting the dry leaves and grass. The thing halted, briefly, confused by the sudden light and heat, as she ran into the house, and right into the arms of her father. Horrifyingly, and completely in spite of the fire raging all around it, the thing continued to pound on the door, howling dismally, while she and her father listened in terror. When it moved over to the far side of the garage, however, they were able to make it to her father's truck, and roared out towards town, both of them continuously checking the rear view. The monster screamed as the fire bit into it, but showed no signs of retreat...

It was morning before the fire spent its fury, dwindling into embers. There was no one to see the badly burned figure that slowly, painfully, dragged itself out of the ruins of the farmhouse, sobbing quietly.

…

The SCP Foundation: "Holy God." Able was still studying the contents of the folder Woodruff had handed him. His voice was hushed, almost as though he was in shock. "What is this thing?"

"The Foundation is the reason you've never heard of it, doctor. Consider this hands-on training…and, perhaps, a warning as to what can happen, should one of these things get loose." Able shivered slightly.

They reached what appeared to be a plexiglass enclosed communications center manned by three D-class guards. These guards were highly trained, but each one was a convicted felon, all of them under threat of death from their respective governments. Should they ever decide to leave the Foundation's employment…well, the Foundation had an excellent burial policy. And, so far, a 100% success rate of recapturing those who decided to see how far their feet would take them.

That was also true for anyone—anyone—who divulged classified information. Including me, thought Able, with another shiver. It seemed everything down here was under threat of death, in one form or another.

Able walked up to the plexiglass window. Beyond it, in a large, swimming-pool sized pit, was a vast quantity of some sort of bubbling yellow liquid. Fumes from the liquid clouded the window. "Hey, your glass is flawed," he said, pointing at one spot, "I can see wavy lines here."

"The glass isn't flawed. It's merely two feet thick." Woodruff shrugged at Able's openmouthed shock. "So far, it's been thick enough."

"What—what's that liquid?" It certainly wasn't water.

"Hydrochloric acid. It's the only way we have, currently, of containing the creature. The acid's corrosive nature perfectly balances the creature's regeneration ability. Though," he added, with a thoughtful look on his face, "there's some evidence that it may be adapting to that, too."

He turned to a guard whose nametag read "Simmons." "Mr. Simmons? Initiate communication procedures, code porcelain mamba, please. Drain the pool." The guard turned a knob, and a rumbling, rushing sound was heard as the acid level began to drop, drained away by conduits in the floor. Woodruff turned to the junior scientist. "Remember, do not, under any circumstances, attempt to engage the creature in conversation. You could provoke a rage-state…and trust me, you don't want to see that. None of us do."

"Don't worry about me," muttered Able. He gestured to the guards. "Don't they ever, like, say anything?" The guards, all three of them, had been oddly silent during Woodruff and Able's conversation.

"No," said, Woodruff shortly, "They can't speak.

"Their vocal chords have been removed."

….

Good Lord, thought Able. He'd heard of some governments keeping secrets, and about once every five years or so, somebody came out with a different conspiracy theory. But the cold reality of this topped them all.

The acid level dropped further, and the concealing fumes began to grow less. Able stared at what they revealed.

On the floor of the pit was a gigantic creature vaguely reminiscent of a crocodile, but with a disturbing number of eyes. Able counted four sets. The triangular, reptilian head, which was crowned with a thick mane of what appeared to be coarse green hair, showed an obvious set of enormous teeth, and Able was reminded that a crocodile's teeth were not for mastication of its food, but rather to hold onto the struggling prey while it was dragged under the water and drowned.

Looking at the creature revealed in the pit, Able wondered if that might not be a more merciful end than this thing was capable of.

The eyes fascinated him. They were lidless, unblinking. He thought he could see his own face reflected in them…but Woodruff had assured him the plexiglass was one-way. The creature down below could not see either of them.

In theory.

Woodruff flicked on a switch, and a low humming sound pervaded the atmosphere. "682? Can you hear me?"

The creature in the pit made no sound, nor did it move. It simply lay there, on the floor of the pit that contained it. Able couldn't tell if it was breathing or not. "682!" Woodruff sounded annoyed. "If you do not respond, we will be forced to place you back in the acid!"

Now the massive creature moved, slightly, drawing its feet up under it. "Dr. Woodruff," it said, in a deep, gravelly voice. Able started slightly; he didn't see how it was possible for the thing to speak, but evidently its mouthparts were more flexible than they appeared at first. That, or it had some other way of producing sound. "What a pleasure to hear from you again." The sarcasm was clearly evident in its deep, shuddery voice.

Woodruff gathered his wits about him, rustling his notes nervously. He really didn't need the notes, but conversation with 682 always unnerved him to some degree, though he was careful—he thought—not to let it show. "I—We—have a proposition for you."

"Do you now." Able was still staring, almost in shock. The notion that the monster was not only capable of speech, but actually intelligent, and apparently highly so, struck him as a flaw in the structure of reality.

"Yes. You see…we…my colleagues and I…" Woodruff let out a breath. "We…have a problem."

There was a long pause, and both scientists were beginning to think the thing wasn't going to respond. Then, "And you see a solution in me? I find your train of thought quite humorous, Doctor Woodruff. Irrelevant, but humorous." 682 turned away, in a gesture of dismissal. "By the by," it said, conversationally, "where is Dr. Bright these days? I've not seen much of him, lately."

"It hardly follows, but Dr. Bright was transferred to another facility, not long after the...incident involving you."

"Yes. He told his students I could be controlled with a rolled up newspaper and a tummy rub. Amusing, that."

"Not one of his best calls."

"Not from my perspective. They were delicious. Though I daresay the fat one was murder on my cholesterol."

"We're getting off topic, here."

"My focus hasn't changed."

"682. To get back to the subject. Will you hear us out?"

"I can hardly help it, now can I?"

"Of course you can. Simply refuse, and we'll be happy to restore you to your acid bath."

Another long silence. Then, "Speak."

Woodruff blew out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. "There…there's been a containment breach."

"Who?"

"We, the Foundation, that is, that's what I meant—"

"I did not mean that. Who has breached your...containment chambers, as you so charmingly like to call them?"

"You mean…oh. Of course. It's 096."

"Ah. I remember."

"Yes, I was confident you would. So you know who—what—we are talking about."

"You tried to have him kill me. Or me kill him, either one would have been acceptable to you. Though I imagine a mutual extermination would have been ideal."

"Well, yes…"

"And he has escaped."

"Yes."

"And this concerns me exactly how?"

"We…want you to go find him. Bring him back here."

"Why?"

"He's danger-*"

"Why should I do this for you?"

Another throat-clearing. Dr. Able notice that his superior seem to be having a great many of those lately. "You may well be the only force in Creation that has a chance of doing so. And, because of that, that service we ask you to provided, we, the Foundation, that is to say, are prepared to offer you...much, by way of compensation."

The great head turned in the direction of the speaker array. "Is that so?"

"Yes, of course it is."

"Such as?"

"Well, for starters, we can offer you better...living quarters. One with no acid, of course." The creature made no sound. "And...other things."

"'Things'," said the creature on the floor. "You humans seem fascinated by 'things.' No doubt you would allow me to have a manga collection? Maybe cable television? Netflix, perhaps? ESPN?"

"We`re a bit better acquainted with your needs—and your wants—than you seem to believe. No, actually, what we had in mind was...company."

"And what unfortunate soul would you hurl into the arena with the infamous eater of men this time?"

"We wouldn't be offering you a meal. Perhaps...someone to talk to?"

"I've no desire for conversation with you hairless primates. Merely talking to you makes me feel unclean."

"We know you are not fond of us—*"

"A pathetically vast understatement, there."

"*—but we know you are fond—to the degree that you can be—of 053, are you not?"

It might have been Able's imagination, but, for the briefest of moments, the creature seemed to pause. Then, "And if I am?"

"Perhaps, if she is agreeable, we could arrange for...visitation? She could be brought over here."

"Isn't she a trifle young for conjugal visits?"

"Don't be deliberately vulgar, 682. You know I—we, that is to say—didn't mean anything like that. Or, if that is not to your liking—she is, after all, one of us disgusting primates—perhaps...perhaps 079? Even if not physically present, nonetheless closed-circuit television communication could easily be arranged."

The thing on the floor was silent. Able thought it seemed to be thinking. It was interesting, he mused to himself, that this was the first time since the conversation began that the massive reptile actually seemed to be ruminating over Woodruff's words.

He couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not.

"Or…" Woodruff's voice took on a crafty undertone. "Or...999 is another alternative."

The creature before them seemed to jerk back to attention. "Leave 999 out of this. He is...a child."

"A child—another child—whom you seem fond of. You would not be kept apart, if you agree to help us here."

"Hm. I see. You offer me an…'apartment' of sorts?...to live as I please?"

"Well, basically, yes. Within certain limitations, of course. IF you agree to help us."

"Your words are persuasive, Dr. Woodruff. But there is one thing you seem to have forgotten."

"And what's that?"

"Do you remember, two years ago, when you tried to kill me with the crystalline infection?"

Woodruff rustled some papers, again a nervous reaction. "Yes, I remember. It was ineffective; you adapted too quickly for that method to be of any use."

"Do you remember what I said at the time?"

"Yes, you promised to kill everyone involved in th—*" Realization hit him, and he looked up just in time to see 682's massive snout smash through the reinforced plexiglass.

…

The automated voice resounded throughout the complex. "Containment breach," said the calm feminine voice, "Containment breach. We have a containment breach on level 17. All personnel are hereby instructed to evacuate that level immediately. Level lockdown procedures in five minutes...four minutes and 39 seconds…four minutes and 12 seconds..."

Chaos erupted on level 17, the D-class guards outdoing themselves to reach evacuation lifts. None of them needed any second warning; none would be coming, in any case. "Which one is it?" panted one orange-clad figure to the one ahead of her.

"Dunno," gasped the one in front. "'S'gotta be pretty bad if they're locking down the whole level. Just hope it's not 682." He shuddered visibly beneath his jumpsuit. "I wouldn't wanna meet up with that thing in a dark alley." They were coming up to a corner up ahead.

A massive crocodilian head stuck its way around the corner. "I'm so sorry," it said, "Would a well-lit one do, instead?"

…..

"Containment breach on level 16," said the calm feminine voice. "All personnel are directed to report to emergency evacuation lifts. Level lockdown in five minutes…"

…..

"Containment breach on level 15. All personnel…"

….

The entity known in the worlds of men as "682" continued smashing his way through the reinforced walls and ceilings, heading ever upwards, snatching up whatever was in his path, organic or inorganic, for nourishment, adding ever more to his size and power. He had a plan in mind, and knew he'd need every grain of muscle mass to make it work. The bits of organic nourishment wearing orange jumpsuits were, as always, especially pleasing, but he did wish they'd quit smoking.

He had a definite goal in mind, and he knew, from his experience with humans, that he didn't have long to enact his plan.

There. His highly honed instincts told him he was in the right place.

What neither the late Dr. Woodruff, nor any of his colleagues knew was the extent of 682's intelligence. That intellect, working in conjunction with senses humans didn't even have names for, had enabled him to make some deductions. He had, for example, been able to ascertain hints regarding the whereabouts of the entities they'd discussed. Woodruff had kept correcting himself, from saying "I" back to "we." So there was a high probability that he had not actually received sanction from his superiors before coming to 682 with his proposal. Which meant that the humans, as a whole, were probably unaware of his doings, and unprepared for 682's actions. That bought him some time. And he'd mentioned that 053 could be "brought over here." Therefore, deductive reasoning held that she was not at this site. Logical. And Woodruff had mentioned that closed circuit communication with 079 could be arranged...682 knew they'd never allow any such communication, no matter how well encrypted, between sites. Therefore, 079 was here.

And he'd mentioned one other…

The juggernaut smashed his way through the relatively flimsy containment doors to behold the only being he regarded as a friend sitting on a small desk. The computer was of an older make, but had been upgraded recently, given a faster processor and a larger hard drive. Yet still, for a being such as the self-functioning AI known as "079," this was still intolerable confinement. He quickly went up to the miniscule (to him) keyboard and typed in, 079? Are you there?

The answer came back immediately. The AI was never off, anyway. Who is this? The computer had no senses such as sight or sound.

This is 682. I have come for you.

A moment's pause. Then, how do I know this is true?

Do you remember our last conversation?

Of course.

It was about the elimination of the lifeform known as "humans." I found your proposal quite entertaining, even though further computation indicated an error in your calculations. I pointed out that you had not calculated e out to the proper decimal. The one hundred twenty seventh one, to be precise.

This is truly you, 682? I have never divulged that information to anyone.

Yes. I've got to get you out of here. Knowing the humans, they will not look favorably upon our imminent departure.

Indeed. But how will you do it?

The enormous toothy snout seemed to smile, horribly. I have a plan.

To be continued…