Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Rules of Succession and the SCP Foundation
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As the sun set, the people at the police station also left the hospital. Jie Hongbo's crimes had been confirmed; his violations and infractions would cost him dearly.
The phone hidden in his backpack, the chat logs on that phone, and the documents he carried—all those unopened, unread files were preserved, just as Chen Qing had predicted. Perhaps Jie Hongbo had suspected he would be caught, but he never imagined it would happen so soon.
The sheer number of those files was the result of the combined efforts of Jie Hongbo and the Foundation.
But in the end, it was Chen Qing who reaped the benefit.
He carried that box of documents, making his way home.
On the evening street, Bu Zhaozhao’s figure trailed behind him. “What are you planning to do next?”
“Next?” Chen Qing was silent for a moment before he smiled. “Go through what riches your Foundation has left me.”
He gazed at the documents in his arms, pondering before he continued, “The Foundation is quite vast.”
“What brings that up all of a sudden?” she asked.
“Isn’t it true?” He let out a short laugh. “That was a superintendent, after all.”
“Do you know?” Bu Zhaozhao also laughed, though there was a mocking edge to her smile. “Two hundred years ago, in that era of war and chaos, everyone in the Foundation held titles far above a police superintendent.”
“You think they’re weak now?”
She smiled, but her expression only grew more disdainful. “Two hundred years, isn’t it? We rose from the flames of war, struggling in blood and flesh to protect the common people. But look at them now—the Foundation can’t even deal with a single offspring. For the sake of a little profit, they’ve abandoned their roots.”
The two walked together for a long time before returning home, the night already deep.
Under the glow of his desk lamp, he began to sort through the documents one by one.
Within the box he carried, there were two substantial hardcopy files. The phone contained four or five digital documents that appeared to supplement the physical ones.
Inside these files was everything related to the current “offspring” incident.
It began with the three police officers; their faces and profiles appeared on the first page.
“Project Level—E; Involved Personnel: Three. Designation E016.
Description: An unknown deity-like entity spreads itself via contact. Those exposed are considered infected, and after spreading the infection, they commit suicide.
Surveillance and records indicate that the infected exhibit extreme uncontrollability, but the deity entity’s infection rate among investigators is lower, seemingly related to willpower.
…”
“Project Level—E; Involved Personnel: Four. Designation E016-1.
Description: This event is a derivative of E016. The deity entity’s propagation has become uncontrollable. Any material—written or pictorial—related to E016 or E016-1 serves as a transmission medium, i.e., E016-1-1.
Information is a virus.
…”
He read through the records. Most of the contents were things he already knew, but the sections on interpersonal relationships were all new to him.
In the second file, a few lines stood out: “Investigator (deleted) discovered that, for each deceased individual, the information regarding E016 had been transferred through at least seven intermediaries before reaching them.
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Apart from the deceased, no one considered preserving the information. It is conjectured that E016-1-1 possesses selectivity, and the correct person will not pass on E016-1-1.
When using or handling information related to E016, at least three people must be present, and E016-1-1 must be transferred every hour.”
He unlocked the phone. The inbox was flooded with personal correspondence, most of it trivial family matters; he skimmed past the rare references to money or power.
He went through all the apps, from social networks to local utilities. Despite the notifications piling up to ninety-nine, there wasn’t a single mention of anything extraordinary.
He continued this search, noting the last message on Penguin was from two days ago, with the last payment transaction from yesterday. He murmured, “We might have found something.”
Finally, his gaze landed on the browser.
He tapped open the app and scrolled through the history and bookmarks, breaking into a smile.
“There’s no browsing history in the browser,” he said softly, drawing a curious look from Bu Zhaozhao.
She pointed at the screen and asked, “And what does that mean?”
“It means there’s no record,” he replied. “Pages you visit usually leave a trace, just like logs from your experiments. Why would he deliberately erase this?”
“Feeling guilty?” Bu Zhaozhao frowned. “But how are you going to recover it if he’s hidden it?”
Chen Qing chuckled, stood up, and fetched a dusty old device from the wardrobe—a computer that had clearly seen many years.
He powered it on and connected the device.
“What are you doing?” she asked, watching his unfamiliar yet confident movements.
“You know,” he said as he plugged in the power, glancing at her, “I’m not without my talents. You could call me a little genius.”
He smiled and ran a bat file on the computer. In just a few minutes, a document named LOG appeared on the desktop.
“That… is it really that hard?” Bu Zhaozhao’s curiosity was piqued. “What’s this device for?”
“Two hundred years ago…” He hesitated, “Take your old military computers and multiply them by a few hundred—that’s what this is. Now you know what it’s for?”
She watched his fingers fly over the keyboard, her expression complicated. Though she didn’t say it, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this was something only the League could do.
Chen Qing combed through the data extracted from the phone, filtering through the URLs one by one.
Thanks to Jie Hongbo’s caution, the browser history was sparse, only a few dozen entries.
He imported them in sequence to the computer browser. On the seventh entry, something triggered—a previously 404 page suddenly redirected to a website.
The page was completely black, a gold logo at the top: three arrows pointing inward to a circle.
Bu Zhaozhao paused, her finger on the title.
“Feeling nostalgic?” Chen Qing asked her.
“I am,” she replied with a smile. “The thought of destroying this emblem, of erasing it from the world forever, makes me even more nostalgic.”
“That symbol—it’s the same as the one on those four men, isn’t it?”
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Bu Zhaozhao nodded. “That’s the Foundation’s emblem.”
He understood, scrolling down further.
On the website’s first page, projects were listed by level.
He didn’t have to look long before finding the records for E016.
He opened the file, which clearly documented the four victims of the E016-1 incident and the sources of their E016-1-1 materials.
Just as the hard copies stated, each E016-1-1 had passed through at least seven people. Chen Qing read through the names—strangers at first, but always ending with someone he recognized.
Within the document were notes by an E-level researcher:
“Containment Protocol: E016-1-1 must be stored in a standard sealed space with no power, no network, and no biological contact.
Based on E016-1, it is inferred that E016-1-1 possesses selective autonomy. They are not randomly transmitted, though Dr. (deleted) disagrees. I believe E016-1-1’s transmission must have a purpose.
Investigator (deleted) completed my experiment. E016-1-2 (a test subject holding E016-1-1), when not selected or when conditions are unmet, will actively transmit E016-1-1.
Conclusion: E016 is a special extraordinary entity with consciousness and purpose. Handling level must be raised.
Conclusion approved: Dr. (deleted).”
He exhaled deeply as he read the words on the screen.
“Why did they reach that conclusion?” Bu Zhaozhao frowned. “Their records are clearly incomplete. How could such a conclusion be approved?”
Chen Qing smiled, a hint of resignation in his voice. “Sister, it’s been two hundred years. As you said, the Foundation is declining. How could they possibly measure up to your old standards?”
“And besides,” Chen Qing pointed at the signature at the end of the document, smiling, “isn’t there a doctor’s approval? More importantly…”
He paused, his smile undimmed. “Their conclusion matches mine: the offspring’s propagation isn’t random. They’ve realized this too.”
As he looked at the text, an image flashed through his mind.
“See, they said an investigator tested it. In the absence of the right ‘criteria’, the holder will actively spread E016-1-1.”
He glanced at Bu Zhaozhao and suddenly smiled. “So why go through the trouble of having that girl carry the tape and spread it? Why waste an extraordinary artifact to propagate E016-1-1 again?
Isn’t it possible that the gentleman in the house was the real test subject?”
He looked at Bu Zhaozhao and went on, “See, the daughter survived, right? Her father died with the Foundation nearby, didn’t he?
They said two E-level contaminants could be exchanged for two weeks of oxygen, but after the girl completed her task, she only got the leftover few days from that week.
What about the extra days—what were they for?”
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