Despite the incident at the base, Big Beard Jack never showed up. The one currently in charge was his assistant.
She quickly received feedback from the surveillance room:
"No anomalies detected. Before your team assembled, the cameras didn't pick up anyone—not even a ghost. Infrared sensors didn't register any life signs either."
If the surveillance team said there was nothing, then there was nothing.
Among the anomalies contained by the Foundation, some could indeed be called ghosts—entities that couldn't be tracked by ordinary optical surveillance. Specialized methods were required, such as monitoring radiation sources, heat signatures, or electromagnetic emissions.
Compared to these, standard night-vision cameras were practically obsolete.
If none of these methods detected anything, then even if an anomaly was present, it was something the Foundation couldn't handle—like an anti-meme.
If this was an anti-meme at work, the Epsilon-11 rookies might as well go back to bed.
Aside from Marion Wheeler's Anti-Memetics Division, no other department in the Foundation stood a chance against anti-memes.
The Epsilon-11 team exchanged uneasy glances. They didn't believe so many people could've hallucinated the same thing.
If only Luoshu and his immediate neighbors had heard the intruder's voice, far more people had heard the footsteps as he fled.
Luoshu sighed in relief, closing the Anomalous Item Catalog, and began pondering the same question:
How the hell did IR1901 bypass Site-19's entire surveillance system?
Was this guy invisible?
Probably!
Otherwise, even at night, sneaking into the Epsilon-11 barracks would've meant passing dozens of cameras—impossible to evade.
A transparent man? An invisible man?
No. Both would still show up on thermal imaging—unless they were corpses, emitting no heat at all.
Luoshu racked his brain all night. Then, by morning, a memory surfaced:
SCP-126 - "The Invisible Friend."
The only humanoid anomaly capable of slipping past Site-19's standard surveillance.
Well, calling it "humanoid" was a stretch.
It acted like a person.
It had no form, no weight, no heat signature, no radiation, no electromagnetic trace—just a voice and footsteps.
Its voice was usually feminine, its footsteps like high heels.
It had even requested a bed, a mirror, and a vanity from the Foundation.
How the hell does it use a mirror?
Despite its seemingly benign nature, SCP-126 still posed risks.
It loved discussing art, nature, and philosophy with staff—at a college graduate's level.
But some who engaged in deep conversations with it suffered cognitive hazards, believing they were its family or friends.
Left untreated, these individuals would starve or dehydrate, too obsessed with conversing with SCP-126 to care for themselves.
Because of this, it was firmly classified as Euclid.
Its containment chamber was equipped with audio sensors, using triangulation to track its movements.
Only SCP-126 could bypass Site-19's surveillance and reach the Epsilon-11's barracks.
But there was a problem—SCP-126 had a female voice.
The voice Luoshu heard last night was male, and vaguely familiar.
That doesn't add up.
And was SCP-126 even at Site-19?
Luoshu didn't know.
If it was here, he'd love to acquire its abilities.
But the immediate issue remained—he had no freedom to move.
In some ways, he was worse off than when he was just a D-class.
Back then, he'd at least been assigned to clean the D-class cafeteria, giving him an excuse to wander—and exploit his anti-memetic properties to access restricted areas.
Now? He was stuck with the Epsilon-11 squad, on standby 24/7.
Military discipline plus prisoner restrictions—double the control.
His only chance to explore would be during the next mission.
For now, he had to suppress his curiosity and wait.
That chance came sooner than expected.
Unfortunately, it was a field operation—meaning no sneaking around Site-19.
Still, Luoshu didn't mind. Fresh air was fresh air.
He hadn't seen the sky in what felt like forever.
Truth was, Epsilon-11 was always busy.
Most anomalies the Foundation encountered were first handled by this jack-of-all-trades team until proper classification.
Only if Epsilon-11 failed—and the anomaly's nature was confirmed—would a specialized MTF take over.
After all, specialists were rare. Epsilon-11's rookies? Expendable.
Three nights after the mysterious knocking, a new anomaly emerged in Site-19's jurisdiction.
As usual, Big Beard Jack led the advance team, while Luoshu—now regarded as a containment expert—was placed in the second squad.
Unsurprisingly, the advance team hit a wall and called for backup.
When Luoshu arrived with the second squad, he found Jack and his men securing the perimeter.
The site was a mechanical factory, its interior a maze of pipes and machinery.
The environment was grim, but Luoshu was strangely cheerful.
Through the factory windows, he saw blue sky, white clouds, sunlight.
It made the world feel real again—not some twisted soundstage where he was just an actor in a surreal SCP horror show.
For a moment, he wondered if the truth of this world was that it was a soundstage—and he was just a character in it.
His good mood lasted until he was ordered to take point again.
At the containment team leader's suggestion, Big Beard Jack once again sent Luoshu in first.
Luoshu glared. "Last time, you promised it'd be someone else's turn next!"
If Jack's answer wasn't satisfactory, Luoshu was ready to deploy everything from persuasion to mental enslavement.
But the Epsilon-11 commander proved his management skills just in time:
"It was someone else's turn. Remember the base-wide inspection two days ago? I assigned you the safest task. Compared to what the rest of the team faced, you got off easy!"
Luoshu: "…"
So that's where the trap was.
Fine. You win.
Guess what you really need is a stupidity aura.
Is screwing me over really that fun?