"BLESSED ARE THE PROTECTORS, FOR THEY KEEP EVIL AT BAY"
FORWORD
Thank you.
This project has been an effort of mine for a while. I originally planned to use a lot of the lore you will read here for an application to the Ethics Committee. After careful reevaluation, I decided to rework it for an O5 Council application; what I want to do with this character far better suits the O5 Council.
But this is also my first big dive into lore writing. I've had a long passion for the SCP lore and its many storylines. This application is an exemplification of that passion.
Thank you for your attention.
CHARACTER NAME | ROLE(S) HELD | DUTIES |
|---|---|---|
| Ryan 'Bloodhound' Marshall | MTF Omega-1 Commander Ethics Committee Assistant MTF Omega-1, All ranks. | I worked my way up through the ranks of Omega-1, eventually assuming Commander towards the end of the month of June. I worked to establish standard for promoting strong individuals into positions of leadership and played a big role in shaping the way Omega-1 operates to this day. This position taught me how to coordinate with other authorities, communicate effectively, develop and enforce comprehensive policy, and develop subordinates. I also involved myself with the Ethics Committee as an Assistant, but did not have much time to dive too far into this role. |
| "The Hound" | Chaos Insurgency, Delta | A more recent assignment, I serve as the Director of Research and Operations of the Chaos Insurgency, helping to develop plans of action for procuring targetted hardward and information for the Insurgency. |
| "The Cardinal" | Overseer Assistant | My most recent assignment, as an underling of the O5 Council, has so far been spent conducting missions on behalf of the council. This includes interviews, department and regiment reviews, and all other administrative tasks deemed necessary by the Council. |
- Delegation. Within the regiments, there existed a lot of centralized power towards the top. I found this as I rose through the ranks of O-1; senior leaders had the interests of their people at heart for most of the time, but had fundamental misunderstanding of how to effectively manage their people. I am a proponent of sharing power. I delegated training officers, human resources officers, and commanders of separate teams. I removed the emphasis of myself being the all-powerful commander and gave more power to leaders within my organization. This allowed more effective leadership and a flow of communication throughout the regiment. Trust is the oil to the machine that drives great organizations.
- Policy. I as commander of O-1 set professional standards for those under my command. I know how to set and enforce guidelines to allow for high productivity, high outcome, and high morale. I made sure that the policy I introduced was not self-serving, and served to create a better environment for the regiment and those who it served.
- Collaboration. I emphasized teamwork within my command, and throughout my regiment. I taught those under me that relying on eachother and honoring those who rely on you ensures a sturdy foundation for the regiment to rest and operate upon.
What O5 role am I applying for?
- I am applying for the O5-3 role. I elected to apply for the council mainly because I have followed the SCP lore for years; longer than I can remember. The amount of time and dedication which went to creating the lore cannot be understated, especially that which surrounds the O5 council. I want to provide my skills as an administrator and a policy maker to the community, as these skills have been developed and refined over a period of years. But just as fierce as my skills is my dedication to the roleplay; particularly the wide scale of roleplay which takes place under the guidance of the O5 council.
Why am I the best candidate?
- I am the best candidate for this position due to my extensive studies of both the SCP lore, and the kind of "Unseen Influencer" roleplay which fits this position so well. My love, dedication, and study of the SCP lore need not be explained further. I am articulate; my words carry power. I am compartmental; I think and operate like an executive. I am dedicated; this is my priority and my passion. I am a contester; I debate and fight for issues I am passionate about. I am passionate; I pour myself into the roleplay and the community. I want to introduce new policies and structures to ensure the Foundation and its many departments run seamlessly and to standard, including refining outdated guidelines for the departments new players interact with most.
The responsibilities of an Overseer are...
- To be the supreme party in charge of holding the Foundation accountable; the ruling council.
- To develop and manage the highest levels of policy and code for all personnel.
- To make only the most important decisions that affect the people, the Foundation, and the community.
- To oversee the foundation as a whole, and those who are charged with leading them.
- To develop and sustain the Foundation to its highest and most professional capacity.
The responsibilities of an Overseer outside of roleplay are...
- To set an example for what a dedicated roleplayer should be.
- To adhere to all server rules and guidelines and encourage others to do the same through words and actions.
- To consistently provide roleplay that far surpasses that which is expected from junior roleplayers.
0600 hours.
Screams. Gunshots. Blood.
It was a common sight, especially when your job is to deal with only the worst criminals the world had to offer.
More screams. More gunshots. Warm liquid hits my face. I can taste the iron. I can smell the dirt and the feces on the drab orange uniform of the prisoner... the "D-Class" that I've just shot. The sound of his shiv hitting the concrete floor does not phase me. The shocked look of the researcher standing not three feet to my right exists in a world I'm not in. "He just tried to kill me!," the researcher screams. The blood is plastered on his face too. The door to the D-Block testing line shuts automatically, and my gaze shifts slowly to the prisoner taking his final breath, a gunshot wound spraying what little blood he has left onto the surrounding floor.
This is my world, my existence. Wrangling a population of the worst monsters known to man so they can be experimented on like rats... with some of the worst monsters men only dream of.
Why?
They say we're saving the world. They say what we do is a necessary evil... to understand. Understand what? I don't know. I don't care. That isn't why they pay me. I'm paid to escort these... prisoners? subjects?... to their tests. I'm here to ensure the researchers are kept safe. I'm here to keep the system going, like an engine. The same routine every day. It rules my life, like a demanding father to an obedient yet fearful son.
My mind comes into focus. There's an Internal Affairs agent screaming questions at me. The researcher who just witnessed me kill a man is crying in the corner. Weird. I'm sure he's seen much worse things happen to those prisoners.
"Hey! What is your name, you?," shouts the agent.
I look down at my Level 2 clearance card pinned to my vest... Covered in blood. Awesome. I wipe it off, unsure of the consequences of the situation that's just occurred. Am I getting my pay docked? Am I getting arrested? Are they going to put me in a set of orange bed sheets? "Ryan Marshall," I say.
The agent takes my gun, and I'm escorted to the interrogation room for questioning. Standard procedure, they say. It's "normal" for situations like this. I'm questioned for 3 minutes about the situation. They quit caring soon after I mentioned that the D-Class nearly stabbed a researcher in the neck. They don't ask for proof, they don't ask for the D-Class' name, they don't care that I've taken a life. I've committed a sin, and in 5 minutes, it's as if nothing happened.
There is nothing "normal" about this place.
Screams. Gunshots. Blood.
It was a common sight, especially when your job is to deal with only the worst criminals the world had to offer.
More screams. More gunshots. Warm liquid hits my face. I can taste the iron. I can smell the dirt and the feces on the drab orange uniform of the prisoner... the "D-Class" that I've just shot. The sound of his shiv hitting the concrete floor does not phase me. The shocked look of the researcher standing not three feet to my right exists in a world I'm not in. "He just tried to kill me!," the researcher screams. The blood is plastered on his face too. The door to the D-Block testing line shuts automatically, and my gaze shifts slowly to the prisoner taking his final breath, a gunshot wound spraying what little blood he has left onto the surrounding floor.
This is my world, my existence. Wrangling a population of the worst monsters known to man so they can be experimented on like rats... with some of the worst monsters men only dream of.
Why?
They say we're saving the world. They say what we do is a necessary evil... to understand. Understand what? I don't know. I don't care. That isn't why they pay me. I'm paid to escort these... prisoners? subjects?... to their tests. I'm here to ensure the researchers are kept safe. I'm here to keep the system going, like an engine. The same routine every day. It rules my life, like a demanding father to an obedient yet fearful son.
My mind comes into focus. There's an Internal Affairs agent screaming questions at me. The researcher who just witnessed me kill a man is crying in the corner. Weird. I'm sure he's seen much worse things happen to those prisoners.
"Hey! What is your name, you?," shouts the agent.
I look down at my Level 2 clearance card pinned to my vest... Covered in blood. Awesome. I wipe it off, unsure of the consequences of the situation that's just occurred. Am I getting my pay docked? Am I getting arrested? Are they going to put me in a set of orange bed sheets? "Ryan Marshall," I say.
The agent takes my gun, and I'm escorted to the interrogation room for questioning. Standard procedure, they say. It's "normal" for situations like this. I'm questioned for 3 minutes about the situation. They quit caring soon after I mentioned that the D-Class nearly stabbed a researcher in the neck. They don't ask for proof, they don't ask for the D-Class' name, they don't care that I've taken a life. I've committed a sin, and in 5 minutes, it's as if nothing happened.
There is nothing "normal" about this place.
The alarm sounds in our bunks, and I wake to the sight of my Corporal sitting in the bed next to mine, frantically putting his boots on, cursing under his breath at each failed attempt.
I grunt at him, still half asleep. He looks at me sideways and barks "CI. They've breached the lobby and are storming Floor 2 as we speak... Wake the fuck up!" I lumber out of bet, still wearing my fatigues from getting off my patrol shift not 2 hours prior. I lace up my boots and put on my vest. No mask. No helmet. Not important enough for that yet, I guess...
I grab my GRY SBR and slap a mag into the underside. I'm carrying about 480 more rounds - enough to turn that stupid orange blob that always roams the halls into jello. I wipe the dirt off of the logo on my shoulder; a white hammer.
It's been two days since I passed tryouts. Nu-7 got me away from the hellish D-Block - away from the screaming researchers and the violent prisoners. Into more violent warzones on the snowy surface. Into the claws of fierce opponents to the foundation; opponents who were much more enthusiastic about putting us into an early grave than any D-Class would be.
We rush to the entrance zone in columns of two, wondering what fresh new hell awaits us. Bullets hit the wall directly infront of us. I, in front of the right line, peaked the right corner and glanced quickly at 7 insurgents ready to take my head off.
I toss a grenade and dive back into the column. An explosion. Screams. Death. I killed two of them that day. The blast took my right ear out of the fight, and I was pulled out to prevent any further casualties. We lost 6 soldiers, but the insurgents were thwarted at the last minute with some help from another regiment. "Internal Security" we called them...
It is a stark reminder of the existence we all shared. Death came every hour. Our dead brothers were only replaced by fresh new faces like my own. Who was in control of such chaos? Did anyone have the power to put an end to the madness?
I grunt at him, still half asleep. He looks at me sideways and barks "CI. They've breached the lobby and are storming Floor 2 as we speak... Wake the fuck up!" I lumber out of bet, still wearing my fatigues from getting off my patrol shift not 2 hours prior. I lace up my boots and put on my vest. No mask. No helmet. Not important enough for that yet, I guess...
I grab my GRY SBR and slap a mag into the underside. I'm carrying about 480 more rounds - enough to turn that stupid orange blob that always roams the halls into jello. I wipe the dirt off of the logo on my shoulder; a white hammer.
It's been two days since I passed tryouts. Nu-7 got me away from the hellish D-Block - away from the screaming researchers and the violent prisoners. Into more violent warzones on the snowy surface. Into the claws of fierce opponents to the foundation; opponents who were much more enthusiastic about putting us into an early grave than any D-Class would be.
We rush to the entrance zone in columns of two, wondering what fresh new hell awaits us. Bullets hit the wall directly infront of us. I, in front of the right line, peaked the right corner and glanced quickly at 7 insurgents ready to take my head off.
I toss a grenade and dive back into the column. An explosion. Screams. Death. I killed two of them that day. The blast took my right ear out of the fight, and I was pulled out to prevent any further casualties. We lost 6 soldiers, but the insurgents were thwarted at the last minute with some help from another regiment. "Internal Security" we called them...
It is a stark reminder of the existence we all shared. Death came every hour. Our dead brothers were only replaced by fresh new faces like my own. Who was in control of such chaos? Did anyone have the power to put an end to the madness?
Today started out so simple. I'd only earned a set of Corporal stripes yesterday, and I'd just finished training a new group of Nu-7 operatives. Things were looking up. I was a leader, in charge of my own piece of the pie, effecting change, even if just a little. I was still in hell, fighting insurgents every day and taking steps over the bodies of my brothers, but it was progress. I was a killer. I'd grown to love it. I could sniff out insurgents on the surface all the way from Pinewood. My squad mates even gave me a nickname... "Bloodhound."
I was on my way back to the NCO quarters when I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head. A rifle butt.
And now, blindfolded, gagged, and restrained, I was being dragged... somewhere. I didn't dare make noise. I didn't know what was happening, but there were legends. The Internal Security seemed to have a knack for plucking people up for one reason or another.
Rumors always flew. "He violated this or that rule... He was caught abusing drugs...". What did I do? Did I mess up? Did I break a rule? Was I already losing my piece of the pie?
I knew we were passing other people. Lots of people. Did they not want to intervene? They weren't even talking. Thoughts of the injustice of it all started flashing through my mind. No, I didn't do anything wrong. What the fuck was I doing here? I gave my life, my passion to this Foundation... all for it all to die in some cold dark room 2,000 feet below the rest of the site? No. They'd have to uncuff me sooner or later. I'd fight.
But how many officers were there? They surely had better skills and tools than I did.
We stopped moving. The echoes of our footsteps ceased; we were no longer in one of the many long hallways of the site. A door shut. The floor moved. An elevator?
The door opens. A shove. I stumble out and am dragged once more.
Carpet. That's unusual? Where in the foundation did we have carpet on the floors? I'd been to the Site Director's room. There was carpet in there. It seemed like a luxury compared to the drab environment of the rest of the foundation. I was somewhere important.
Fuck. There were two groups of people I could be seeing. One was the Ethics Committee, the men in suits who walked the site, taking notes and looking on as the mysterious Internal Security bagged and grabbed their... "suspects?"
The other group... shrouded in mystery. I didn't even like thinking about them. Is that who I was coming to see? They were going to let me get so close? I wasn't making it out alive. My heart raced, my mind raced faster. Think... THINK!
We walk down a long flight of stairs and onto a platform. "Here, tie him there and take off the gag and blindfold," a voice says... Fuck, this was it. The blindfold fell away, and I found myself surrounded with two members of Internal Security on either side. A third stood in front of me, with a black beret on his head and an emblem resembling a hand holding a spear with a weighing scale... a senior officer. Behind him, through a small slit of a window, I notice two men with brown collared shirts and ties. One of them is wearing a cowboy hat with a comically large mustache and eyes the size of bowling balls.
"Hello, Bloodhound. We've been watching you closely. It's time for you to become something greater."
I was on my way back to the NCO quarters when I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head. A rifle butt.
And now, blindfolded, gagged, and restrained, I was being dragged... somewhere. I didn't dare make noise. I didn't know what was happening, but there were legends. The Internal Security seemed to have a knack for plucking people up for one reason or another.
Rumors always flew. "He violated this or that rule... He was caught abusing drugs...". What did I do? Did I mess up? Did I break a rule? Was I already losing my piece of the pie?
I knew we were passing other people. Lots of people. Did they not want to intervene? They weren't even talking. Thoughts of the injustice of it all started flashing through my mind. No, I didn't do anything wrong. What the fuck was I doing here? I gave my life, my passion to this Foundation... all for it all to die in some cold dark room 2,000 feet below the rest of the site? No. They'd have to uncuff me sooner or later. I'd fight.
But how many officers were there? They surely had better skills and tools than I did.
We stopped moving. The echoes of our footsteps ceased; we were no longer in one of the many long hallways of the site. A door shut. The floor moved. An elevator?
The door opens. A shove. I stumble out and am dragged once more.
Carpet. That's unusual? Where in the foundation did we have carpet on the floors? I'd been to the Site Director's room. There was carpet in there. It seemed like a luxury compared to the drab environment of the rest of the foundation. I was somewhere important.
Fuck. There were two groups of people I could be seeing. One was the Ethics Committee, the men in suits who walked the site, taking notes and looking on as the mysterious Internal Security bagged and grabbed their... "suspects?"
The other group... shrouded in mystery. I didn't even like thinking about them. Is that who I was coming to see? They were going to let me get so close? I wasn't making it out alive. My heart raced, my mind raced faster. Think... THINK!
We walk down a long flight of stairs and onto a platform. "Here, tie him there and take off the gag and blindfold," a voice says... Fuck, this was it. The blindfold fell away, and I found myself surrounded with two members of Internal Security on either side. A third stood in front of me, with a black beret on his head and an emblem resembling a hand holding a spear with a weighing scale... a senior officer. Behind him, through a small slit of a window, I notice two men with brown collared shirts and ties. One of them is wearing a cowboy hat with a comically large mustache and eyes the size of bowling balls.
"Hello, Bloodhound. We've been watching you closely. It's time for you to become something greater."
Amnesia. What an amazing phenomenon. Who could guess that with the right mixture of chemicals (and some dark intentions), you could alter someone's memories? How cruel must one be to weaponize such a condition? No regard for a person's personality, their legacy... their identity. All taken away for someone else's "greater good..."
These thoughts didn't even cross my mind as I pumped Class F Amnestics into the bloodstream of the Chaos Insurgency commander who lay strapped to an observation table. With me were several members of my regiment, the Law's Left Hand. There were also two members of the Ethics Committee standing at the foot of the operating table. We did this sort of thing regularly. Dealing with subversive and dangerous individuals on a regular basis, that is. And we were good at it. The CI commander was having a very bad day; from leading his eventually botched raid into the Light Containment Zone, to watching his men get ripped to shreds by our enforcement operatives, to being restrained and lauded throughout the facility all the way to Floor 3... Defeated, humiliated, and now robbed of his entire identi-
"Lieutenant...," one of my Sergeants chirped. "You're about to overdose him!"
I plugged the drip and carefully removed the needle, patching the entry point on his upper right arm. It would be a matter of time before the CI commander woke up, completely unaware of where he was and who he was.
We'd taken everything from him. He would not remember anything he'd ever experienced. His entire life, gone. We would own him, use him to our advantage. We knew the CI owned much intel on us, the Foundation, the Committee, and who knew what else. I wouldn't ever see the intel, but I would ensure it's return to the hands of the Committee. And the CI commander would be the key to it all.
We knew he had a family. God, he'd never shut up about it... Not even over his own screams as he was subjected to the worst torture techniques known to man. His wife... Oh lord, his wife.
I didn't enjoy that part of the job. I knew it had to be done, but... did it really? Were there no better ways of accomplishing the Foundation's goals? Did so many people really need to die? This was the question that stuck with me, and I didn't ever settle on the answer. But I knew my place; I do my job or join the masses in orange.
I'd stay behind this time, watching headcams and directing from base. It was my job as a Commissioned Officer; the NCOs lead in the field. I watched as my men suited up to raid the Insurgency. We'd send in the brainwashed CI commander to retrieve the documentation. But we knew he couldn't just waltz out the front door with top secret files under his arm; CI wasn't that dumb. The commander would gather the files from wherever they were stored, and bring them to their R&D lab, where our team would insert, retrieve the documentation, and terminate the commander to prevent him from experiencing a more painful death.
My men were ready. They prepared to embark. Before the last operative loaded up, they harnessed in the brainwashed CI commander.
He was staring right at me, his eyes which were once red, wild and afraid, were now gray and glazed over, as if he'd accepted his position, his sentence, his mortality. He knew he would die. But there was no fear. Just mute despair.
And suddenly I knew. I knew the answer to my question.
These thoughts didn't even cross my mind as I pumped Class F Amnestics into the bloodstream of the Chaos Insurgency commander who lay strapped to an observation table. With me were several members of my regiment, the Law's Left Hand. There were also two members of the Ethics Committee standing at the foot of the operating table. We did this sort of thing regularly. Dealing with subversive and dangerous individuals on a regular basis, that is. And we were good at it. The CI commander was having a very bad day; from leading his eventually botched raid into the Light Containment Zone, to watching his men get ripped to shreds by our enforcement operatives, to being restrained and lauded throughout the facility all the way to Floor 3... Defeated, humiliated, and now robbed of his entire identi-
"Lieutenant...," one of my Sergeants chirped. "You're about to overdose him!"
I plugged the drip and carefully removed the needle, patching the entry point on his upper right arm. It would be a matter of time before the CI commander woke up, completely unaware of where he was and who he was.
We'd taken everything from him. He would not remember anything he'd ever experienced. His entire life, gone. We would own him, use him to our advantage. We knew the CI owned much intel on us, the Foundation, the Committee, and who knew what else. I wouldn't ever see the intel, but I would ensure it's return to the hands of the Committee. And the CI commander would be the key to it all.
We knew he had a family. God, he'd never shut up about it... Not even over his own screams as he was subjected to the worst torture techniques known to man. His wife... Oh lord, his wife.
I didn't enjoy that part of the job. I knew it had to be done, but... did it really? Were there no better ways of accomplishing the Foundation's goals? Did so many people really need to die? This was the question that stuck with me, and I didn't ever settle on the answer. But I knew my place; I do my job or join the masses in orange.
I'd stay behind this time, watching headcams and directing from base. It was my job as a Commissioned Officer; the NCOs lead in the field. I watched as my men suited up to raid the Insurgency. We'd send in the brainwashed CI commander to retrieve the documentation. But we knew he couldn't just waltz out the front door with top secret files under his arm; CI wasn't that dumb. The commander would gather the files from wherever they were stored, and bring them to their R&D lab, where our team would insert, retrieve the documentation, and terminate the commander to prevent him from experiencing a more painful death.
My men were ready. They prepared to embark. Before the last operative loaded up, they harnessed in the brainwashed CI commander.
He was staring right at me, his eyes which were once red, wild and afraid, were now gray and glazed over, as if he'd accepted his position, his sentence, his mortality. He knew he would die. But there was no fear. Just mute despair.
And suddenly I knew. I knew the answer to my question.
I hated polishing the oak leaves. I didn't see a point in wearing them. Everybody knew who I was, even if they weren't allowed to publicly acknowledge it. The Commander of one of the most secretive organizations in the entire Foundation. The Law's Left Hand. Today was normal. I would oversee the implementation of the will of the Ethics Committee, just as every other day. People would die, sure. Their lives deemed insufficient by a greater being. I wasn't making the decision, I just pulled the trigger. And I expected my operatives to do the same.
But today was not really normal.
I loved my job. I took my position as one of great importance, never faltering to honor the path that led me here. Death became natural, a daily event. All I was concerned about was that I was making a difference.
For so long, I'd done this. Enforcing the Code of Ethics and acting on the orders of the Committee. From humble beginnings I'd come, to push the regiment to its greatest limits.
And today, I'd decided it was time to push for the top of the pyramid; I was going to join the Committee.
For so long, I'd watched them in awe as they fought for the people who made the Foundation what it is. They uprooted corruption and brought integrity to an infringed system. It was a goal I'd fostered for a while. I'd served them with undying devotion, and I knew it was my time to ascend.
Or so I'd thought.
The Committee operates on the will of the foundation, caring not for the ideologies and wishes of a single person. So when I walked back into my office wondering why the Committee didn't wish for my membership, I found myself answering my own questions. Of course I wasn't a fit. I was too ambitious. I had goals for the Foundation. I had dreams. I knew what I wanted, and I knew what the Foundation needed...
But why did it have to end here? I thought as I powered on my computer. The screen turned on, but went black almost immediately after. Weird.. main power must be down again. Probably another 966 breach or something. I took my uniform off and looked over the O-1 training reports. My phone buzzed, probably my Lieutenant Commander letting me know someone else got shot in Personnel Wing... Needed to let the Committee know.
I'd worked to put an end to this sort of thing. My career had been filled with taking others lives. It was time to end this. It wasn't necessary, it wasn't viable, and it was evil. The Foundation had built a legacy on necessary evil, but that line was different shades depending on who you asked. The Committee simply could not put an end to it all by itself.
My computer blinked. It caught me off guard at first, as I dropped my phone to see what on Earth could be interfering with my totally top-of-the-line, not-a-hand-me-down computer system inherited from some back office left abandoned.
The Foundation seal appeared on my screen. It flickered there for a moment, and then a black screen once more.
And then, words.
What the fuck...? Overseer? Administrator?
But today was not really normal.
I loved my job. I took my position as one of great importance, never faltering to honor the path that led me here. Death became natural, a daily event. All I was concerned about was that I was making a difference.
For so long, I'd done this. Enforcing the Code of Ethics and acting on the orders of the Committee. From humble beginnings I'd come, to push the regiment to its greatest limits.
And today, I'd decided it was time to push for the top of the pyramid; I was going to join the Committee.
For so long, I'd watched them in awe as they fought for the people who made the Foundation what it is. They uprooted corruption and brought integrity to an infringed system. It was a goal I'd fostered for a while. I'd served them with undying devotion, and I knew it was my time to ascend.
Or so I'd thought.
The Committee operates on the will of the foundation, caring not for the ideologies and wishes of a single person. So when I walked back into my office wondering why the Committee didn't wish for my membership, I found myself answering my own questions. Of course I wasn't a fit. I was too ambitious. I had goals for the Foundation. I had dreams. I knew what I wanted, and I knew what the Foundation needed...
But why did it have to end here? I thought as I powered on my computer. The screen turned on, but went black almost immediately after. Weird.. main power must be down again. Probably another 966 breach or something. I took my uniform off and looked over the O-1 training reports. My phone buzzed, probably my Lieutenant Commander letting me know someone else got shot in Personnel Wing... Needed to let the Committee know.
I'd worked to put an end to this sort of thing. My career had been filled with taking others lives. It was time to end this. It wasn't necessary, it wasn't viable, and it was evil. The Foundation had built a legacy on necessary evil, but that line was different shades depending on who you asked. The Committee simply could not put an end to it all by itself.
My computer blinked. It caught me off guard at first, as I dropped my phone to see what on Earth could be interfering with my totally top-of-the-line, not-a-hand-me-down computer system inherited from some back office left abandoned.
The Foundation seal appeared on my screen. It flickered there for a moment, and then a black screen once more.
And then, words.
Microsoft Windows Industrial [Version 10.0.19045.18766]
(c) Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.
C:\Users\left_hand_com> handshake 172.66.919.163
Reply from 172.66.919.163
- WHITELIST VERIFIED
- DOWNLOADING MESSAGE "newly-appointed overseer" from ADMINISTRATOR
What the fuck...? Overseer? Administrator?
Reply from 172.66.919.163
"Welcome, Protector."
"You have a new assignment."
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