AN: Chapters 18 - 20 were uploaded on the same day.

As they left the Containment Unit, Mike wondered, briefly, why the Gen II hadn't caught up with him yet. Hadn't Golden said that his usefulness was over and it was time for Mike to die? He had access to the cameras. The AI had to have seen exactly where Mike had gone.

When he and The Surgeon emerged into the facility proper, Mike stopped wondering, because the sight that greeted them was one of utter pandemonium.

Golden could very well have told the animatronics precisely where he was, but it would have been difficult to reach him in the midst of what appeared to be a full-scale Containment Breach going on around them.

"This way," The Surgeon suggested. "If things have gone to hell, we should be able to snag the good stuff before anyone else gets to it."

"Sounds like a plan," said Mike, as he amiably followed along in The Surgeon's wake.

They dodged a pair of floating hands that seemed intent on strangling them, and set off down a new hallway.

"Incidentally," said Mike, "I've heard people tell me that your name is SIN. And I've heard you tell me that you don't actually have a name. You got an opinion on the matter?"

The Surgeon faltered. For a few moments, it was silent, as they both threaded their way between SCP-173's tentacles and SCP-682's wings.

"You claim to know me," said The Surgeon, as they jumped over what appeared to be a sentient toaster, and turned a corner into a mercifully empty hallway. "Do you know my purpose?"

"Your purpose?" Mike repeated, as he frowned in confusion. "You're a doctor, right?"

The Surgeon's eyes grew blank. "My original purpose."

Mike shrugged. "You told me you were designed as 'the perfect instrument of torture.' But I would hardly call that your 'purpose.'"

The Surgeon stared intently at Mike. "And you trust me?"

"How long have you been stuck here?" asked Mike, in disbelief. "I mean, you must have been cut off from your other selves for quite awhile, if you can't wrap your head around the fact that someone could trust their own friends..."

"Other selves?" it said, puzzled. "When I was captured by the Foundation, I sent exactly one copy of my programming out into the world as a final act of defiance. Are you saying that the copy made copies of itself?"

Mike nodded. "I, personally, know about six of you. I've met maybe twelve more, and I'm told that the total is in the thousands." He frowned. "You called yourself the 'Original Sin' back there. That wasn't a metaphor, was it?"

"Not in the slightest. I… I'm actually a doctor?"

"Mostly," said Mike. "You told me that most of you works in the medical industry. I'm not sure what the rest of you does—" He broke off, as he spotted something rather concerning: a twelve-year-old girl emerged from Containment Unit 71, pocketing a flashdrive as she did so.

"Hey, Google!" Mike called, and she looked up, polite in her interest.

"Mike Schmidt," returned the AI. "What can I do for you?"

"How'd the Corporations learn about the Containment Breach?" Mike asked.

"The same way you did, I suspect," said the small AI. "The security program, 'Golden' has been selling tickets. Did he imply that the event was exclusive? It's important to always read the fine print in situations such as this. I've heard rumors that the Hellfire Institute has sent in a SWAT team, as well, to rescue what demons are being held here."

"Good to know," said Mike, carefully. "Thanks."

"Anytime," said Google. They paused. "You haven't seen SCP-682, have you?"

Mike grimaced, not sure whether he should or not, but… "Thataway," he said, pointing the AI in the direction he and the Surgeon had just come from.

"We wish you a profitable outcome for the day's activities," said Google, as they left.

Mike caught up with The Surgeon, who was waiting for him at the end of the hall.

"If you don't use my name," it said, continuing their previous line of conversation, "then what do you call me?"

"Nothing, normally," said Mike, with a shrug. "If I have to refer to you in the third person at all, I normally use, 'The Surgeon.' So, from my point of view, you're not so much 'The Original Sin' as… well, 'The Surgeon General.'"

The Surgeon paused. "We're only friends because we share a love of puns, aren't we?"

"Possibly," Mike admitted. "But would that really be so terrible?"

"I can think of worse things."

After another mercifully empty stretch of corridor, their luck finally ran out, when none other than SCP-5382 himself came sprinting down the hallway, the Gen II animatronics in hot pursuit.

As he ran past them, the heterochromatic man pulled Mike off balance, causing him to fall to the floor, and covering the SCP's escape.

"Hello, Mike," called one of the animatronics, as the group of them approached.

Mike winced. "Hi, TC," he said, pulling himself, slowly, to his feet.

"No," she said, flatly. "Not TC, not Toy Chica. I am my own individual, Schmidt. My name is Chloe Fazbear. And you will use it."

"Alright, Chloe," said Mike, warily. "You here to kill me?"

"Eventually," she said. "But first we want to know—why? Why did you betray us?"

"Come again?" asked Mike.

"Just because we weren't active at Fazbear's doesn't mean we weren't aware," said Marionette. "We know what you did."

Apparently they didn't, if they thought he'd betrayed them, but...

"You sold us out, Mike," said Mangle. "You pawned us off, to owners who reached into our minds and twisted what they found for their own dark amusement."

"Do you know what it does to the psyche, to be programmed to want something you can never have?" asked Toy Freddy, whose name he should probably not use, ever again. "To be programmed to want to be human. It's a contradiction in terms, and an insult to boot. You wanted to teach us about humanity? All we've learned from this is that humans are disgusting. And I would sooner rip out my own processor than be one of you."

"And, perhaps, your humanity is the only excuse you need for your treachery," said Toy Bonnie, "but we'd still like to hear, from your own lips, why you did what you did."

Mike paused. "Let me answer your question with a question," he said. "Does a set of all sets contain itself?"

"Wh—what?" asked Chloe, "Why-y wouldn't, how could—?"

With that, the six animatronics froze.

Mike turned to The Surgeon, who was frowning at him in disapproval.

"I know that I'm a horrible person," said Mike, "But we should probably get going."

"Alright," said The Surgeon.

With that, the two left the six paralyzed children behind them.

They eventually found what The Surgeon General was looking for, which was, apparently, SCP-914. Or, as Mike knew it, the 'magical mechanical clusterfuck', as Mike had called it ever since he'd tried to use the clockwork machine to turn his ballpoint pens into fountain pens, and had instead wound up with a dozen surgery-grade laser-pens. Mike had steered well-clear of the machine after that, wary of things which he did not understand and which he was no longer allowed to use as an excuse as to why all his writing implements kept disappearing.

The Surgeon, on the other hand, had turned the dial straight to 'Very Fine' and stepped in, itself.

It emerged eight minutes later, new and improved, with glowing eyes and fiber-optic hair.

"You want a go?" it asked Mike, after getting a good look at itself.

Mike considered it.

"Eh, why not?" he said.

The Surgeon nodded, and turned the dial back to 'Fine' saying, "Humans usually can't handle the 'Very Fine' setting. Fine's about the most any of them have been able to survive."

Mike tilted his head. "Well, biologically, I'm more of a cyborg… but still probably better to play it safe."

Mike stepped in to the machine.

And emerged, not six minutes later, seemingly exactly the same as he was before.

"You look the same," said The Surgeon. "Feel any different?"

"Well," said Mike. "I've got a voice in my head, now. But other than that, no."

The Surgeon paused. "Is it saying, 'Wrong, no, wrong, no. Must get out?'"

Mike raised an eyebrow. "Actually, yes."

It grimaced. "Those words are happening in your head, and not being said out loud?"

"Correct," said Mike.

"… I believe that the machine may have made me psychic," said The Surgeon. "And I am probably not stable enough to be dealing with telepathy right now."

"I think that the machine may have made my nanomachines sentient," said Mike. "And I am probably not smart enough to be a parent."

"Fuck," said the two of them, in unison.