A room of metal is in Torroh-Mior. In it lies the factories of Belamir. A busy and empty sphere held within the thousand mile room, the warmth of a set of pulsing energies of the destruction of atoms unnamed to man and the sounds and feelings of the bastardization of all known laws of physics fills every step, every box, every product. Within the lower levels of Torroh-Mior's multiverse-famous factory is the waiting room. Creatures who themselves would be unable to touch, to see each other, to be in such vicinity are within the same room due to SCP-33453, "The Spacesuit". A man in a high class business suit held his Spacesuit tightly. They are given out for free as testing on Earth and several other planets have proven "The Spacesuit" works perfectly, and has been of major use to PR as of late. "Mr. McFarlane, Earth-552. Report to room three."

Mr. McFarlane clenched his "Spacesuit" tightly. He has seen the effects the exotic atoms within the factory can have on human bodies. A microphone lowered itself from the hatch within the ceiling of the waiting room. "Room three please." A brief flash and he fell to the floor. His seat had not followed him with the teleportation. McFarlane picked himself up and patted himself down. He got used to it being a customer, having no chair is better than one fused to your rear end. "Mr. McFarlane, you made an order of one hundred of these, did you not?" Asked a man behind a desk in front of him. He may not be much, but this universe is his home and this factory his workplace. He could turn off Mr. McFarlane's "Spacesuit" or open a hole into god knows where or much, much worse if he wanted. Mr. Macfarlane spots a crate of grenades on the desk. "Yes." A small shimmer of a badge on the salesman behind the desk proves his situation to be much more troubling. "He" could be a she, or an it, or whatever. It's easier to talk to something that doesn't drive you insane which is why many staff have them. you might rarely get a real human. McFarlane usually buys products from a woman called Brenda.

"We here at Belamir develop the latest technology by warping the very laws of the multiverse to our whim. We keep extensive records on all possible customer species." he said with a robotic pride. He trained for this. "I understand how dangerous earth is at the current climate with the Pizzacato procedure and all that, but what do these," he throws down an inert grenade. "have to do with anything?"
"They should help with a seige on GOC Headquarters. Our men at the Library have a mass amnesiac at the ready, but GOC and UIU forces are closing in. These tactical grenades should work."
"They were specified by you for, and I quote," The saleman coughed while holding up a sheet of paper, ""The ability to erase all atoms within a 40m3 diameter." How would that help eliminate the GOC, Agent Carter?" Carter gulped. His identity modifying card failed him. "You were a great customer, Agent." The salesman said, tossing a grenade over the desk. A force of a vacuum pulled on the salesman's hair briefly. He tapped the Intercom. "Send Product 2367554 to Earth-552, 2007 for testing. Pick an armoury or something, will you Brenda?" The grenades vanished within a flash of smoke.

"Sad to see such a good customer go." The salesman sighed. "We get bigger profits from the GOC's Earth-552 treaty anyway."