After the assistant's briefing, Commander Jack—the ever-enthusiastic "Uncle Beard"—came over to deliver some "good news."
"You know, Loshu, today marks your one-month anniversary at Site-19."
Loshu's stomach dropped.
Oh no.
"By protocol, all D-Class must undergo monthly amnestics."
Loshu's mind raced.
This was bad.
Sure, the SCP Encyclopedia could restore his containment memories, but it wouldn't bring back everything—his theories about this world, his riddle sessions with SCP-055, his promise to Gaia...
Losing those would mean losing his purpose. He'd just be another cog in the Foundation's machine.
His fingers twitched toward the Encyclopedia, ready to activate Persuasion—maybe convince Jack he'd been exempted—
But Jack beat him to it.
"Lucky for you, joining Nine-Tailed Fox grants you amnesty from memory wipes!"
Loshu exhaled—but didn't fully relax.
Since when do MTF members get amnestics exemptions?
Even Level-4 personnel like Jack and the Site Director weren't immune. Memory wipes weren't just punishment—sometimes, they were protection against memetic or cognitohazards.
(Hell, Jack's probably been wiped himself.)
MTF operatives might actually get more wipes than D-Class. After all, D-Class were disposable—why bother wiping them when you could just terminate?
But MTF were valuable assets. Wiping them ensured operational integrity.
Loshu didn't call Jack out. Instead, he nodded eagerly.
"I won't let you down, sir!"
Jack clapped him on the back, pleased with his "sincerity."
(Or maybe Rainbow Lollipop's effects are compounding...)
Either way, it worked.
Waiting Game
After settling into Nine-Tailed Fox, Loshu kept a low profile, biding his time in his new quarters.
He hadn't forgotten—he was still D-Class. Drawing attention was dangerous.
(Not that anyone would be jealous of a D-Class... but still.)
Too many MTF members had D-Class execution privileges. Best not to tempt fate.
Two days later, his patience paid off.
A field op.
His first time outside since arriving in this world.
No more blindfolded transfers or underground facilities—
Sunlight. Freedom.
He practically sprinted to the assembly area, dressed in his new blue-gray technician uniform (still bottom-rung, but way better than orange).
(Honestly, the jumpsuits are probably just to make D-Class easier targets for SCPs like 173 or 682...)
But his excitement died when he saw Uncle Beard holding two items:
A black hood.
An explosive collar.
"Regulations," Jack said apologetically, securing the devices. "Site Director's orders."
(Of course.)
Even as auxiliary MTF, he was still property.
The Casino
No sunlight. No freedom.
When the hood came off, Loshu found himself in a deserted casino—midnight, judging by the lack of windows.
(Indoors again. Fantastic.)
Roulette wheels. Slot machines. Poker tables. Chips scattered everywhere.
And in one corner—
A slaughterhouse.
A 100-square-meter zone of blood, pulp, and bone fragments.
Nine-Tailed Fox's External Ops team had the area locked down, but nobody dared step inside.
The air reeked of iron and death.
Jack addressed the Containment Unit:
"Preliminary assessment—this is a brand-new anomaly."
Loshu's pulse spiked.
A new SCP.
But was it one he didn't know from his past life?
Or just new to this world?
The answer could change everything.