"You've got to be kidding me!"

"I'm not kidding you, Marion. You know the policy. Any Foundation employee who demonstrates an innate antimemetic ability shall be offered the opportunity to transfer into the Antimemetics Division."

"Oh, come on! That's a horseshit policy and you know it! Antimemetics isn't like other units. We're talking PhDs, veteran operators, and gifted students that the Foundation has been following from infancy. Top people! According to the file, Park was recruited through the mothball program and barely made it though Level-0 orientation. No specialized training, no credentials, no discernible talents of any kind. He's a.. boob. Putting him on the roster is a threat to the whole team."

O-4 Walker stared at her blankly for a moment.

"How many staff members is the division supposed to be comprised of?"

She sighed.

"According to the last cold storage audit.. minimum four hundred and fifty personnel. Plus or minus a hundred to account for cognitive drift."

"And how many do you have right now?"

"Thirty nine."

"Well, then I don't think there's anything more to say about the issue."

Walker flipped a switch on the little speakerbox on his desk.

"Please send in Mr. Park now."

Jae Park sat alone in the crowded Site 49 cafeteria, eating a small cup of noodles he'd prepared himself from a personal electric kettle, just as he'd done every day for the past two and a half years.

"Hey, worm guy!"

He looked up and gave the best smile-and-nod he could muster at the two lab-coated jocks who were already walking away from him.

Park studied the worms. They were the first antimemetic anomalies discovered by the division after its initial conception in the early 1970s. Tiny, flatbodied infovores which fed on dead and decaying information. Wherever there is information, there are the worms - which means they're everywhere. On nearly every square meter of Planet Earth, there are thousands of them, devouring data and digesting it into the great black beyond of forgetting.

It was only during the first great explosion of mnestic pharmacopoeia in the mid seventies that Foundation researchers were able to identify and study the pervasive little saprophytes. Initially, this was seen as a work of great importance, but as the division soon discovered greater and greater antimemetic threats - camouflauged mind-predators, virulent cognitotraps, wide-area amnesic terror-devices, that sort of thing - the worms quickly fell out of the spotlight. They were uninteresting, unimportant, and most significantly, they posed absolutely no threat to human life and society.

Which is exactly why they were assigned to Park.

Technically, his job was "Senior Biological and Genetic Antimemetics Researcher", but everybody just called him the "Worm Guy." Even though most of the researchers at Site 49 weren't even cleared to know about the existence of the antimemetics division, let alone the worms themselves, they still knew him as the worm guy.

Park had absolutely no formal training in biology, and, in fact, no formal scientific or academic training whatsoever, aside from his correspondence degree in computer systems and network administration. Still, he was competent enough to keep his job. His one and only skill was knowing how to find things out when he needed to, even if he immediately forgot what he had just learned once the task before him was completed, despite the low-powered mnestic pills he was required to take in order to perform his duties in the antimemetic division.

This, it turned out, was a blessing. Many ambitious young researchers from top universities and secret government laboratories had joined Antimemetics over the years, but none of them seemed to last very long. So much so that the constantly fluctuating size of the division had become a grim joke amongst the rank-and-file, with small blames often laid at the feet of colleagues who may-or-may-not have ever existed. "Who was supposed to make the next pot of coffee?" "Oh, it was Smith's turn, don't you remember?"

Specialized and classified knowledge is like catnip to vampiric infopredators. Whereas the worms can feed on any garden-variety raw information source, higher order threats need the kind of densely packed, highly organized knowledge that only resides in the heads of those who had spent years in advanced graduate degree programs. Time and time again, a plucky young specialist would arrive, an uncontained SCP would sniff them out, and by the end of the month there'd be no trace that they ever existed, save for the person-shaped hole they'd leave behind in the bureaucratic minutiae.

And so it was that Jae Park, with his complete lack of any specialized talents, skills or knowledge, became one of the division's longest-tenured and least-important employees.

With lunch devoured, he sat down at his bench station. On a normal day, he might find some excuse to saunter the halls for a solid half hour before returning to work, but today, he was expecting a significant result.

For all of the jokes and snickering behind his back, he had, in fact, achieved some minor success in the field of worm studies. He had been the first to describe their brief lifecycle, from egg to larvae to adult in a 48 hour window. He had figured out what they did and did not like to eat. They particularly enjoyed the brain matter of sacrificed lab mice, which was very convenient given the Foundation's inexhaustible supply of the poor doomed things. He had described their remarkable tolerances to heat, cold, magnetic fields, electrical currents, vacuum, and sources of nuclear particle radiation. Though they were able to tolerate immense amounts of the stuff, they could not feed on it. An isolated worm, placed in a small box with a light blinking out the pages of the Encyclopedia Britannica will feast and become plump. A worm placed in a the same box with a light blinking out a radiographically generated random noise will quickly wither and die.

In his heart, Park was a skeptic. This was a rare trait in the Foundation, where the mandate to secure, contain and protect all sorts of reality-defying anomalies eventually led even the most hardened cynics to believe in some kind of mystical force or another. In the end, they all drank the Kool-Aid, particularly those with prolonged exposure to SCP-22742, who developed such an unquenchable thirst for liquid sugar that they lapsed into diabetic coma.

But to Park, all anomalies were simply scientific phenomena which hadn't been properly explained yet. There were no "ghosties", only corporeal entities made of non-Baryonic matter. There were no invisible monsters, only species which absorbed and reflected light that didn't register to the finely tuned and highly specific receptors of human beings. And it turns out a that a lot of supposedly telekinetic SCPs didn't fare too well in a vacuum, where their ultrasonic emissions couldn't propagate. Pointing out this sort of thing doesn't make a person popular inside the Foundation, but Park didn't care. It was simply how he thought things should be done.

In that spirit, he fired up his NexQTek Genetic Sequencer. Although at first he had absolutely no understanding of the device, over time, he had learned the various ins and outs just well enough to become useful with it, though he still constantly needed to reference the internal Foundation wiki, which was actually quite well maintained due to the vigilant moderation staff and supportive user community.

On occasion, when he was unable to find out how to do something via a tutorial, he would directly contact Devon McLare, the reclusive founder and principle architect of NexQTek, and would usually receive a lengthy and illustrative reply. Over time, the two had even developed a friendly correspondence, discussing their shared thoughts on scientific philosophy and industry, though even when asked, Park never elaborated on why he needed to make such obscure modifications to the machine.

Though his main focus was, of course, the worms, he was usually wrangled into handling the genetic survey of any antimemetic SCP which took physical form. We've recovered a slice of pitch-black sclera, give it to Park. A stray finger, here you go, Park. I've just pulled this massive serrated fang out of the back of my neck, see what you can make of it, Park.

In most cases, sequencing an SCP was merely a box-ticking exercise. Occasionally, an organism would have a completely novel genetic structure with entirely different base pairs than all other life on earth, so no result could be returned. More often, however, at least inside of Antimemetics, an organism's sequence contained no significant anomaly. A mimetic parasite rarely has need to modify the genetic code of the host, as memetic nutritional value is derived from the organization, structure and motion of knowledge, not the grey matter encoding it.

The worms, however, were wonderful to work with. They had no novel organic chemistry, so the machine could sequence them with little modification, but the resulting sequence of any given organism was non-deterministic. Sequence a worm once, get one value. Sequence the same worm again, get a brand new value. This property was not yet explained, though Park had many theories. One was that somehow the metabolic process of informatic digestion modified the genetic code of the individual, as if it were storing a trace memory of everything it devoured. Another far more alarming theory was that the genetic code itself contained a defensive cognitohazard. That's what he was hoping to find out today.

First, he took a pull from the bottle of Old Grandad he kept in the back of his desk drawer. Normally, drinking on the job was a Terminable Offense at the Foundation, but the rules were different in Antimemetics. He was already subjected to such an endless assortment of mnestics and amnesiac as the situation required that a little bit of whiskey in the early afternoon wouldn't necessarily be seen as a misdemeanor, and might in some circumstances even be encouraged. Life in Antimemetics meant that sometimes, you really just didn't want to know. So much so that Park often found himself being injected with potent amnesiacs in order to make him forget things that nobody had ever bothered to tell him in the first place.

One more slug, then he fired up his program. First, he'd run the old code, just to establish a baseline.

$ seqtools (master) > ./load_fw classic_12_0_6.bin; ./nxsec -d /dev/nxqt/gs12
NxQT GS12
Firmware GS-12.0.6
AGTT TTGA CCDD GGAA
TTGG CCGA DDTG AADC
[ ..sequence truncated.. ]
Sequence hash: e35b2de8e8eff8fad94022d285fd3ba6f49b4a53
BP count:  17,445,847,227

17,445,847,227 base pairs. Six times what you'd find in a human, but exactly what you'd expect in a worm.

Now, to try again with the new firmware.

It had taken months to develop the new sequencing firmware. The software had now been formally verified, which required a considerable amount of work from the Cryptologics Division, who in particular don't like working on a problem when they can't be told what the problem is. He'd had to call in more than a few favors to get this made, which was even more impressive given his current social standing.

To Park, it was worth it, as this formally verified firmware would, for the first time, generate a worm sequence which was provably correct. Even if the worm's genetic code was trying to trick the sequencer, this would spot it and deliver a precise result anyway.

He loaded up the new firmware. One more slug from the bottle for good luck, then he smashed the enter key.

$ seqtools (firmware-next) > ./load_fw verified_13_0_0.bin; ./nxsec -d /dev/nxqt/gs12
NxQT GS12
Firmware SCP-13.0.0
AGTT TTGA CCDD GGAA
TTGG CCGA DDTG AADC
[ ..sequence truncated.. ]
Sequence hash: f9fc6ad071757acf70b6c822c697489646f03c51
BP count: 18,125,488,263

He stared in disbelief. 18,125,488,263 base pairs. The exact same number as the baseline. He scrolled back in the terminal to check again. 18,125,488,263. He looked down at his notebook. 18,125,488,263. He looked at the scroll of automatically printed computer printout. 18,125,488,263. He pulled up the security audit log of his own user account. 18,125,488,263, 18,125,488,263, 18,125,488,263.

Months of work, thousands of man hours, all for the exact same result that came from the firmware that shipped with the machine. Worst of all, gone was his chance at proving his theorized new class of antimemetic cognitohazard and forever shedding the moniker he'd grown to loathe so much. Worm guy, strikes out again. Worm guy, forever the lowest rung of the ladder. Worm guy, the forgotten member of a team full of people addicted to drugs that never let them forget anything.

No.

It couldn't be. It simply couldn't. There must be some variable he hadn't thought of. Something he was missing, some bigger picture. Sabotage. Conspiracy. Magic. Something. Anything! Even though the result was right there in front of him, he was simply too stubborn to accept it as true. Antimemetics training actually spend a considerable amount of time on cultivating those feelings. If you can't accept your perceived reality as true, you're probably onto something. You're also probably in danger, so pay attention to those feelings. For Park, it came naturally.

It also meant something extremely unpleasant. It meant he had to go and see Kavendish.

"Doctor Kavendish, there's a Mr. Park here asking to see you. No, he doesn't have an appointment. But he seems.. all right, okay. I'll tell him. Thank you, Doctor Kavendish. Mr. Park, I've let Dr. Kavendish know that you're here. Please, just take a seat over and he'll see you as soon as he's ready."

Park slumped down onto a hard plastic chair in the corner and watched the dozen or so researchers scurry around the lab.

It wasn't always like this. There was a time not so long ago when Biology and Materials were equally obscure subdivisions of Antimemetics. The both had a similar routine, which played out over and over again: catalog anomalies when they came in, write up the reports, then spend the rest of their time working on their own pet projects. Kavendish on his antimemetic-resistant materials, and Park, of course, on his worms. They both had junior researchers working under them, but they'd all inevitably get tired of the grunt work and transfer into the field only to be forgotten about shortly thereafter.

Then all of that changed. Although he didn't know all the details, Park had heard that Kavendish had had some big breakthrough, and now there were no less than 25 researchers working under him, plus an additional hundred-odd construction workers outside, all of whom had to be amnesithized on a daily basis for security reasons, despite the inevitable delays this caused the project. Whispers around the office hinted that the 0-5's had even decided to spend a significant fraction of the Foundation's common fund on acquiring a nearby nuclear power plant, under the guise of a hostile takeover by environmentally-minded activist investors, in order to provide the vast amounts of energy that the project required.

"Hey-hey-hey, Worm Guy! Long-time-no-see! Que-pasa, calabaza?"

Park despised Kavendish. It wasn't professional jealousy, which had no useful function inside the Foundation, but an innate personal dislike. Kavendish was handsome, well-credentialed, pompous, underhanded and undermining. It had been Kavendish who first christened him with the moniker he loathed so much. Park found it both disappointing and mildly suspicious that Kavendish, his head full of arcane scientific knowledge and bureaucratic secrets, hadn't yet been devoured by some beastly vampire of the mind.

"Hello, Rick. Mind if we talk somewhere in private?"

"Uh-oh! Top secret worm talk! Wormspiracy! Haha, I'm just kidding. Let's go into my office. Carol, buzz me in ten, okay? I've got that meeting with the you-know-whos, later, right?" he said, touching Park's back as they shuffled into the office. There was a lot more mahogany in here than in his old office down in the basement.

"So, what can I do for you?"

"Well, Rick, I was hoping you could help me with a little puzzle. A little birdie told me that you've developed the ability to record information into a material which defies antimemetic interference."

"Now, now, where'd you hear that? I don't think your Level-2 clearance entitles you to know anything about what goes on up here! Seems like we need to tighten up around here, it sounds like we've got a mole!", he said, tapping his nose and winking before snorting out an obnoxious laugh. "I'm just kidding, it's not like we could hide all of this hustle and bustle. I'm sure you've noticed the shaft we're digging outside, even if most of the drones around here wouldn't notice it even if they walked straight in."

"I just thought maybe you could help."

"Oh, Park, don't be like that. Look, suppose we did have such a material, what would you need to record?"

"A genetic sequence. Of a worm."

If Kavendish was drinking coffee, he would have spat it out.

"Jesus, Park! I thought you were coming up here to have me check your homework, not bankrupt me! A whole sequence? Of a fucking worm? Do you have any idea how much time and energy that would.. look, Park, I like you, you're a nice guy, but let's be serious here for a second. We're working on important stuff up here. Fate-of-the-human-race type stuff. We don't have the capacity to halt everything for your little science fair project. Maybe after we've completed phase 4, we can loan you the prototype, but even then, the throughput is-"

"-Doctor Kavendish, your appointment. On the thirtieth floor."

"Ah, shit. Look, Park, it's been great catching up with you, and I've really gotta run. If there's anything else I can do for you, please, please, don't hesitate to ask my secretary. Okay? Great. Great."

And like that, he was gone.

Park looked around the room for a moment. The meeting was unpleasant, but not quite as unpleasant as he anticipated. Besides, it was only instrumental.

He slowly circled around the desk and fingered the knob of the top drawer. He let out a loud cough as he yanked it open, and then felt silly, as it gently glided open without even a squeak. He dug around before pulling out a small, orange bottle. He twisted open the top, poured out a handful of the little green pills inside and put them in his pocket before slowly rolling the drawer back into place.

Though Park was a night-owl, he rarely stayed at Site 49 after dark. Even though it was a "Safe Site", he found the Foundation to be quite liberal with its classifications, and the occasional screams which echoed throughout the empty halls affirmed his finding. Tonight, he was willing to take the risks.

Class-Y mnestics were very different beasts than the usual, milder ones he was require to take on a daily basis. The effects of those were essentially unnoticeable - you'd simply remember things that you'd otherwise forget, either by normal human inattentiveness, or from the amnesiac effects of SCP exposure. Class-Ys, on the other hand, made you remember everything, all at once, even all of the sensations that would never normally bubble up to conscious thought. The texture of your clothes on your skin, the way your glasses split light into distinct colors at the edge of your vision, the thoughts of being aware of your own memories - all the sensations were all magnified and experienced simultaneously, and forever buried deep into your amygdala, where they could be recalled in the same level of detail from then on, or at least until a Class-Y amnesiac was introduced to destroy them, which was a far less pleasant experience.

Park took two of them from his pocket, crushed them between his teeth, and let them melt under his tongue for a few seconds before washing them down with a swig of beer.

All right, he thought, this stuff is coming up fast, maybe I shouldn't have taken two, oh well, too late now, terminal terminal terminal, click clack click, the air is cold in here, turn on the sequencer, click, echo echo echo, check the sample, oh boy that's a big one, the skin is so shiny, what if we cast its shadow on the wall, then sent a broadcast of the shadow via telefeed, no time for that, should have worn clean underwear, don't think about your underwear, don't think about not thinking about your underwear, now you'll have to remember that forever, don't think about thinking about that either, loops waste time, load the new firmware, I can see why they don't let the Level-2s take these, bastard Kavendish, start the sequence, since when does he get a secretary, is she Level-3 too, check the command, looks good, cursor blink blink blink, looks good, beer, ohmygod bubbles, malt, hops, spice, burn, spine, eyeballs, teeth, skin, eyelids, WOMEN, absolutely no time for that, what the fuck is Kavendish up to anyway, don't be a coward, press the button, press the button, press the button, clack, fan noise, warm air, skin, teeth, all alone in a scary lab at night, why is this taking so long, smug asshole Kavendish, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine percent, ding.