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A story about power.
Canon Hub »Site-17 Deepwell Catalog /8000 Dead Rats » Chronicle of the Worm
The year is 1992. Thomas Graham is in his new office, having just been promoted to the position of Site Director. The God, they call them Overseers but for all practical purposes they are deities, stands before him, speaking in a labored and pained voice.
His gas mask makes ominous beeps and hisses as he speaks, filtering the demonic curse from his lungs. A reminder that in this world that we live in, even gods suffer and die. O5-3 hacks and coughs before beginning his monologue.
"Ahem. I hope you will understand that my time is at an absolute premium, Mr. Graham. I am ignoring a number of pressing engagements to give you this briefing on Secure Containment and Research Facility Site-17."
O5-3 coughs once more, sounding like Graham's father sucking down cigarettes even as the cancer ate him from the inside out.
"From your record, I understand that you're a man of vision and resourcefulness. Driven by the righteousness of the Foundation's mission."
The Overseer waves his hand, as if to both acknowledge and trivialize Graham's achievements. Graham does his best to look straight into O5-3's eyes, obscured as they are by the mask.
"That's good. It will suit you in your new assignment. Along with cutting-edge parascience, Site-17 is a facility dedicated to the containment ofhumanoids. Humanoids mean sentience. Sentience means the Ethics Committee."
Graham tries to babble out some reassurances to O5-3, some platitudes about his commitment to ethics in the partnership with containment, but he was cut off by that clipped pained voice that brooked no argument.
"This should not be a major concern for you. The Committee is a concession to certain liberal elements in the Council, nothing more. If the trains run on time, if the monsters stay in their boxes, everything will be fine. Key word being if."
Here O5-3 pauses for effect.
"I'm running out of time, so let me impress upon you the importance of your mission this way. You are to keep Site-17quiet andefficient. Or you will be replaced."
Graham understands. He shakes the Overseer's outstretched hand.
"I expect great things from you, Director Graham."
The year is 2010. Thomas Graham is in the prime of his life, the Wizard King of the High Court. His facility is one of the most celebrated among the Foundation. A forerunner in research and development, containment solutions, and everything in between.
And it is all thanks to the personal efforts of Graham. He has penned demons, killed gods, and even managed to shut down any attempt by his staff to create a godless union like they have back in Site-87.
Compared to all those challenges, the whiny representative of the Ethics Committee before him means less than nothing.
"I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Cimmerian. I am no longer interested in pursuing this line of questioning. You have brought no evidence to the table that demonstrates I had any involvement in, knowledge of, or gave any support to any of these quote unquote 'unethical practices'."
Every single word stuck into Cimmerian's case like a blade, making him flinch. Graham continues his deadpan litany, sitting upon the throne-like chair he keeps in his office.
"You have no case that would stand up in the Internal Tribunal, but to be honest? Even if you did, do you really think it would matter?"
Graham allows himself to smirk at this, at the sheer naiveté of the Cimmerians of the world.
"The way this proud organization runs is not by feel-good moralizing, but by concrete results. The arbiter of morality in the world of the anomalous is the one with the biggest stick."
Cimmerian had stopped speaking at this point, browbeaten into submission. His hands played impotently with his files, his meaningless accusations. It felt good. Graham continued.
"As long as Site-17 continues to be the most efficient facility in North America, I am untouchable. The Overseers aren't just going to destroy all of my hard work so you can sleep better at night. Understand?"
"Now…" He says, biting down hard on the words, a feral self-satisfied grin on his face.
"Get out of my facility or I'll have you prosecuted for trespassing."
The year is 2021. Thomas Graham is in his office, drinking. Everything he has ever built is crumbling down. He's listening to music on the radio, the first time in 30 years that he's ever done so. It drowns out the announcements from the interim leadership that have been playing 24/7 since the end of the Impasse.
His Foundation is falling. The Council has decided to betray humanity. The so-called "death of magic" terrified them when it should have been their crowning glory, so they are changing with the times. Anyone with sense can see that anomalies should not be allowed to exist, just look at what they're called. Monsters every one of them, ungodly, unholy, unthinkable. Yet, the Overseers insist on creating this tragedy. Vanguard they call it. A new era.
However bright this new start may be, it requires blood on the scaffolding. Although a general amnesty has been announced, a few Directors who have a reputation for unethicality are still being brought into custody. Trials are coming next.
Graham knows it's only a matter of time before they come for him, the Committee thugs who wander the hall ofhis facility as if they have any decent right to be there. He could try to run like Ryoto back at Site-15, who tried to upload himself to the cybersphere, but that path isn't a path for a man like him. Whatever his other faults may be, Thomas Graham has never been a coward.
Graham takes a few more shots of "Irish courage" to steel his nerves. His hands are shaking as he pours. He's been fiddling with the gun he keeps in his office. If you were to ask him why, he couldn't tell you. Was he planning on taking down himself or the first rat that dared intrude into the Director's sanctum?
He doesn't have time to ponder this before they burst into the door. His old enemy Cimmerian is leading them. He refuses to allow them to see any shock or fear on his face as he stands up, his hands spread. Cimmerian addresses him, likely something he's been dreaming about doing for years. To his credit, though, he doesn't gloat. Much.
"The last time I was here, you told me that as long as you got results, you were untouchable. That's no longer true, Graham. It's a brand new dawn. You are hereby under arrest for crimes against humanity and the world at large."
Cimmerian motions for them to cuff him. Graham does not resist in any way, but he tries to give one last jab to the Committee Chairman.
"In the end, I'll be the one who was considered right. History will remember me the day we take all of the freaks you're letting out and shove them back into their cages. The Veil will live on."
Cimmerian looks at him for a moment, his face twisting in pure disgust. Then he punches Graham once in the stomach. Hard.
He lets out a pained and surprised grunt, breathing heavily. He isn't used to violence. More the type to order it done than do it himself. On his face is that same feral grin he'd had all those years before; in failure as well as in victory. He allows himself to mock Cimmerian one last time.
"Well. I suppose that you feel quite vindicated now."
Cimmerian doesn't respond, just motions for the guards to take him into custody. It was as if Graham didn't matter. As if he were less than nothing.
The year is 2038. Thomas Graham is in court, being forced to answer for nothing more than following orders and directives. He would have expected this to come sooner, but there's a backlog of scapegoats that it seems they can't wait to ruin publicly.
The trial hasn't been going too badly though. He was good enough at covering his tracks to hide the worst of his deeds. And then there's blackmail. But still they make him sit on the uncomfortable bench, forcing him to testify again and again. Dragging his reputation through the mud with their eagerness to ruin him.
With a cough, Graham begins to speak.
"Ahem, the accusations of SCP—"
He is barely able to start before Sheldon Katz, the prosecutor, cuts him off.
"My client has made it abundantly clear that he prefers to be called by hisactual name. Rainer Miller. The name that you stripped from him along with the rest of his human rights. Are you really that incapable of understanding the abuse you put a fellow human being through for decades?"
You damn hypocrites, he almost cries out. You were right there with me Katz, remember Project Remiel? By what right do you judge me? You know that everything I did, I did for normalcy. So that we can keep contained the deviants and monsters and demons. Everything I did, you condoned. You supported. And yet you dare to stand there and chastise me?
But he says none of this. Instead he sighs and begins his testimony again.
The year is 2045. Thomas Graham is in his home. He has just been pardoned of his crimes by President Dan Crenshaw.
His home is untouched by the years, by the legal fees, by the accusations. The Foundation has always paid extremely well to its dedicated staff. On the wall is still that same immense flag of the Foundation's insignia. He remembers what the President said to him in that short meeting as Graham was told he was free to go.
Graham had babbled out his thanks and asked why Crenshaw had seen fit to make him a free man once more. Crenshaw had smiled warmly before speaking.
"Thomas, can I call you Thomas? You want to know the reason I pardoned you? It's because it's a damn shame when a man of your caliber is smeared, absolutely smeared, by the leftists. It's more than that. It's a tragedy. And it just makes me hopping mad to see it. But there's more to it than that."
Graham had leaned in as close as he could to the President's speech. Finally, a man who understood him. Who saw that he was more than a collection of trumped up charges spread by men and women who hated him for his own normalcy.
"I read some of the reports they had of you, reading in between the lines of course. You ran Site-17 for almost 30 years with barely a breach. And you did it while cutting back spending too, didn't you?"
In that moment, Graham had allowed himself to believe that he was more than a relic of a bygone era. Here was someone who realized the danger of letting the anomalies loose. Who appreciated his accomplishments.
"You were the type of man who knew what was right and how to do it. You didn't let anyone stop you, Thomas. You got results. That's what matters."
Crenshaw had looked him dead in the eyes in the moment. Filling him up with nationalistic pride like an Uncle Sam poster.
"You're the type of man who I want in my government. You've got experience dealing with the paracriminals that are destroying this country and I need someone like that. That's why I pardoned you, Thomas. It's 'cause I expect great things from you."
And then their meeting had been over.
Graham looks at the flag once more. He makes a vow there and then.
We're going to rebuild the Foundation together, my Overseer.
The year is 2049. Secretary of State Thomas Graham is in the Capitol of America, the seat of power, preparing to give a speech to the public. He will tell them that their problems are the fault of outsiders, of dangerous foreigners and the queer agenda. He will tell them that 87% of all crimes include an element of thaumaturgy. He will tell them that America will endure against the plots of the far-left. He will outrage them at the sheer cheek of the Coalition for daring to enforce a quarantine. He will envigorate their hope, their fear, and most of all theirhatred. As he recites his words under his breath, he looks into the mirror.
He looks good. The Grahams have always aged gracefully and with the health benefits that the Foundation used to give their most essential staff, he barely looks a day above 60. He is dressed in a fine tailored suit with a red tie, giving off just the message that he wants to send. But there's more to it than that.
For the first time in 20 years, Graham has a purpose. Graham has a home and Graham has a mission. He will fight the abnormality wherever it appears. He will protect Crenshaw, his Overseer, from the smear campaigns that the deviants and filth throw at him. He will guide this nation to greatness. He feels like an angel, the righteousness of his path like wind beneath his wings. Graham is happy.
Straightening his tie one last time, Graham smiles and walks out on stage.
Cite this page as:
"Chronicle Of The Worm" by Cathy Autumn, from theSCP Wiki. Source:https://scpwiki.com/chronicle-of-the-worm. Licensed underCC-BY-SA.
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