A Little Malnourished

At 8:15pm Gustov received a knock on his door in the Loudon house.

Gustov gently places today’s newspaper down on the coffee table, rises from the couch in his living room, straightens his vest, and says in perfect English, “Who is it?” (while walking toward the door.)

“The Butler!” After a brief pause the knocked repeated, this time jarring the door’s hinges. “It’s Sargent Davids, Dr. Greco wants to see you in his office ASAP.”

The sounds of retreating footsteps leading down the hall are heard as Gustov opens the door. The hallway is painted pristine white and is lined with portraits of different historic figures, some known to the public some will forever reside in obscurity. Gustov knew that the Doctor’s office was on the other side of the maze of a house, in what was once the master bedroom.

I take a momment to gather a few items and my coat before making my way through the hose toward the Doctor’s office. Wondering the whole way what has prompted him to seek my expertise. Could it have something to do with my old research? I still have nightmares from then. God knows some of those projects should never be uncovered.

The door to the office is ajar, allowing entrance to any and all, as was the Doctor’s way. The office was a sparse affair, the only thing of note being the wall covered from floors to ceiling with safes of different sizes. Each safe had a letter and number on it’s front, with no apparent order to them. The man at the desk was dressed plainly enough with his white shirt standing in stark contrast to his olive skin.

“Mr. Gustov please have a seat,” a wave of his hand indicating the chairs in front of his desk. “How are you today?”

Gustov walks over to the chairs and takes a seat. “I’ve been doing fairly well Dr. Greco. I think I’ve adjusted well to work with the foundation so far.” He leans back in the chair and crosses his legs. “What can I do for you today?”

“I know you’ve been primarily involved in studies here but a lack of suitable personal is forcing me to move you to the field. We have an interesting incident that may require our intervention.” The doctor slid a folder across the desk towards Gustov. “At approximately 9am yesterday morning a man was found dead in his antique shop. Usually this wouldn’t arise our suspicion but the cause of death is unusual, at least anymore. The victim, Mr Henry Clay, was found to have died from starvation. After the depression, and hell even during it, these types of things are unheard of. Though what really set us on the trail is the fact that he had a full pantry and ice box. Your assignment is to go to Williamsburg Kentucky where you will meet with a Detective Samuelson, he has been told that you are on your way. He believes you to be Agent Gregory Adams of the FBI. Find out if there are any SCP’s there and if so recover them. If you need further assistance call us and we’ll send someone if we can. The armory has your equipment and the motor pool has prepped you a vehicle. Any questions?”

“Well Doctor, do we know anything about the man who died? Anything unusual about his habits or what kinds of antiques he kept in his shop? Although I assume I will be the first foundation agent on scene. How much cooperation can I expect out of Detective Samuelson?”

“As far as small town detectives go they’re usually impressed by the badge or resentful of someone being in their business. Though he seemed like a nice enough chap on the phone.” The way the doctor spoke would occasionally reveal his upbringing by an Italian family in England. “As far as I know Mr Clay didn’t do anything out of the unusual but I only have the preliminary report. I don’t know about his collection that’s your job, the Detective has promised to keep the scene empty for you. The body has been moved to the morgue but it too awaits your examination if you deem it necessary. Anything else?”

“No, I’ll grab my things and be on my way then. No point in waiting around” Gustov quickly stands and makes his way back toward the door. How dare he tell me what my job is. He asks me if I have questions, but can’t even say what kind of antiques the man sold. Is there no source of information besides the foundation’s own agents, or is no one asking questions? Whoever wrote that preliminary report should be shot, or at least taught how to gather information. I’m going to end up dead faster than I originally expected at this rate. Following the winding hallways back to his room Gustov carefully gathers everything he would need for his field kit and his wool winter coat to keep out the fall air.

The armory holds a surprisingly large assortment of weapons. It’s a shame none of my designs survived the incident I’m sure they would have come in handy by now Eventually Gustov makes his way to the requisition desk to pick up his equipment and see what vehicle he will be issued for this mission.

The armory was housed in what was once the carriage house. Attached to the main home by a covered walkway it maintained the white Gothic styling of the home. Attached on the opposite side from the home were two large doors originally used to pull in and out carriages, now they were heavily strapped in steel to reinforce them. The interior was half garage and half armory, with all the tools to go with both jobs. Through the walkway there was a small door leading into the side of the armory, walking through one was hit by the strong odor of gun oil and motor oil intermingling. A small room where a man sat working on a new rifle design on a workbench was the only way onward into the armory proper.

The man sitting at the workbench was affectionately called Lucky, he was too old when the War had started so he didn’t have to go overseas. But he earned his nickname through the loss of several of his toes on his right foot, his left leg to the knee, and his left eye to a munitions plant explosion. He was the only one left alive afterwards and was later given the nickname by SCP staff. Despite his injuries he maintained the Armory for the site as well as it’s motor-pool.

Lucky turned at the sound of someone opening the door to the garage that served as the armory, “You the new field agent?” his voice sounded like gravel. A combination of smoke damage to his lungs from the explosion, and many years of smoking cigars.

“Oh it’s you,” his voice carried obvious displeasure. “Your equipment has been loaded into the car for you, didn’t want to get your hands dirty or nothing.”

Lucky dug around a stack of papers occupying the top of a file cabinet in the corner. Finding the one he wanted he begun to read, “You’re being issued two cameras, a Geiger counter, a bag of equipment for field investigations and analysis, a gas mask and suit, and these.” Lucky looked around but whatever he was looking for was obviously missing. “Wait a second”.\

Lucky hobbled out of the work area and into the area containing the weapons. A few minutes later he returned holding a small leather case and a thick envelope.

“Here’s your cover ID. I haven’t been authorized to look at it so i hope it’s in order….or not.” Handing over the case he said, “here’s your weapon, one Colt 1911 with three magazines, loaded, and shoulder holster.” The case contained what he had said, the 1911 looked plain but was obviously well oiled and maintained, the shoulder holster was made of a black leather that matched the case. Lucky begun putting it on the agent and adjusting it so it’d fit right.

“Your car is in the motor pool, " He motioned through the door towards the back of the garage where a dozen or so cars sat. “Second one in from the left.” With that he limped back into the work area. The car in questions was a 1948 Delahaye Sport Berline slick and black, the trunk was open exposing a couple of cases laid open for inspection.



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