J Dune VII
From: o5-07@overwatch.scp.int
To: J. Dune
Subject: Meeting
Date: x

Greetings,

I've received your inquiry, and I'm happy to inform you that the Council has agreed to meet.

Coincidentally, we're in need of your assistance on a matter relevant to your specialty. At the moment, I cannot divulge any more information.

We've arranged you a flight to Site-01. It will arrive on Sunday, the 22nd on landing pad A-4 at 06:30.


O5-7
Secure, Contain, Protect



From: J. Dune@@
To: O5-04
Subject: Meeting
Date: X

Understood.


Dr. Jay Dune
Secure, Contain, Protect


The snow fell especially heavy at Site-01 that morning. A flame reached the cigar dangling from O5-7's lips, and quickly dissipated. He cursed, haphazardly attempting to ignite the lighter multiple times before giving up and tossing the device into the valley below. He'll probably be told off for that one, but it didn't matter. It was 9:48 in the morning, the flight was late, and O5-7 was becoming increasingly cold. He could've waited inside, but when the majority of your waking day is spent sitting in a chair and staring at a large screen with 12 other men and women, you take these moments in stride — even if you can't have your cigar.

The councilman's growing frustration was cut short by the familiar whirring of a Foundation-issue M5-92 helicopter. A sound so common at Overseer Headquarters, he almost didn't notice it. The sleek vehicle landed itself on the helipad as O5-7 approached. His excitement preceded any sort of decorum, evident from the unlit cigar sitting purposelessly in his mouth. He couldn't help but smile as the door opened. Overseers didn't smile very much.

Out of the helicopter stepped a tall man with an unlined face that held a neutral expression. He looked unremarkable, average, normal. The only indicator that something deeper was concealed within him was the way he moved. An overcautious shuffle, looking both ways and clasping his hands. He was calculating every movement, processing every sight, sound, and smell. He was anxious, and O5-7 knew it wasn't just because he was at Overseer Headquarters.

O5-7 extended his hand.

"Dr. Dune, it's good to finally meet you."

"Not a problem."

Dune did not reach for O5-7's hand. Instead, he performed an awkward display of nodding and 'sorry's that concluded in the Overseers wrist being clasped by two cold, narrow hands. Pulling away with an uneasy laugh, O5-7 motioned for Dune to walk alongside him.

"Christ, you gotta relax. The whole nervousness thing, cut it out. Listen to me, okay? You're lucky to have contacted me instead of, uh, 3 or 9. I'm the easiest one to talk to. I don't do the whole formality gimmick unless I have to."

"Sorry, sir."

"Cut the sir, will you? Call me 'seven'. Pretend we're friends. You walk in there like that, they're going to eat your head off, you know? I'll be doing most of the talking anyway."

"Right. Okay. Right, I apologize."

"No need. Today's going to be a big day. Hell, I'm nervous. The difference is that I'm not wearing it on my sleeve." O5-7 laughed.

"Yeah."

The doors to Site-01's lobby opened, and the two entered. Portraits of previous Overseers, priceless statues that held significance to only a handful of people, and a large seal depicting the Foundation emblem adorned the foyer. Sleek, marble supports elevated the rooms ceiling. Both Dune and O5-7 (who was very familiar with this room, yet could not overcome instinct) looked upwards.

"Beautiful, isn't she? Yeah, they poured some serious coinage into this one."

"It's very — "

"You smoke?"

"Uh, no, sir. Seven. No thank you.

"Ah, that's alright. Figured I'd ask. You're allowed in here."

"That's odd, you're not allowed to smoke in regular facilities."

O5-7 laughed, bouncing the still-unlit cigar between his lips.

"Who's going to tell an O5 what to do?"

-factotum leads them into meeting room

-see machine

-whad da fuck


scp

concept- buildup of anomalies is killing the universe, making things less stable. o5s are looking for a solution.

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