Doctor Henry Ozid: Alright, Michael, here's that video we made for the public… public image restoration campaign. Now, I'm gonna have to warn you, this video isn't going to be… well… easily understandable.
Michael Handler: Wait, what does that mean? It's gotta be good enough for the public, Henry, so it should be fairly easy to comprehend.
Dr. Ozid: Well, we wanted to make it more oriented towards a… younger audience, so we tried to make it a little… cooler. Like, with "memes" and "slang" and stuff.
Mr. Handler: Oh god, I'll see, but you know I of all people can't understand this generation any more than anyone else.
Dr. Ozid: Look, you have my office number, just give me a ring if anything stands out, alright?
Mr. Handler: Fine, fine. See you later.
Mr. Handler walks back into the PR office and takes a seat at his desk. He carefully inserts the flashdrive Doctor Ozid gave to him into his computer, and installs its contents. A single file, called KICWYHDATSCPF.mp4 appears on his desktop. Sighing, he clicks on it, and the video starts.

An instrumental version of "Never Gonna Give You Up" by Rick Astley begins playing, as an animated SCP logo spirals into the center of the screen. The text "Keeping it Chill With Your Homies Down at the SCP Foundation," sparkles into view, around the logo. The screen fades into an outdoor setting, with a heavily graffiti-ed brick wall in the background. Two men enter from either edge of the screen, wearing baggy lab coats over colorful tee-shirts, alongside athletic shorts, Nike socks and sneakers, and most notably, generic blue baseball caps, worn with their rims facing backwards.
Doctor Chandler Wentworth: Wuzzup, party people? I'm Foundation Researcher, Chaz Wentworth!
Site Director Douglas Robertson: And I'm his friend, Bobby-Doug! And together we are…
Director Robertson and Dr. Wentworth each cross their arms, and lean against each other, facing out towards the camera, and either side of the screen.
Both in Unison: The "Supah Cool Peeps"!!!
A cartoon "Boing" sound effect is audible.
Dr. Wentworth: Today, Bobby-Doug and I want to talk to you dope fricken memelords about a lit organization made to keep all of you safe and able to go about your normal lives!
Director Robertson: That's right, Chaz! A lot of people have been saying some mean things about SCP that makes us very sad, but we want to tell you that it's all a bunch of yucky baloney! In fact, let me tell you guys a secret. The SCP foundation has stopped the world from ending over 9000 times!
Dr. Wentworth: How crazy cool is that? It makes me want to…
Both in Unison: Hit that da-da-da-daaaabbbbb!!!!
Director Robertson and Dr. Wentworth each make their own shabby attempt at executing a popular dance move known as the "dab," wherein the performer points their flattened palms face down, and out to one direction, allowing their outermost armpit to come in contact with their lowered face.
Director Robertson: Yeet!
Dr. Wentworth: Yeet!

Mr. Handler pauses the video. Turning his swivel chair towards the phone, he dials Dr. Ozid's office number. The phone rings three times before Dr. Ozid picks up.
Dr. Ozid: Hello, this is Doctor Henry Ozid, Site-96 General Research and Containment.
Mr. Handler: Hi Henry, it's Michael.
Dr. Ozid: Oh, hey Michael. Did you take a look at that video yet?
Mr. Handler: That's what I'm doing right now. And uhhh… what the hell, is this some kind of joke? They just did like… a dab or something, and now they're both going "Yeet" or whatever the hell. Isn't that a cuss word?
Dr. Ozid: I don't… think so? Let me look it up.
Doctor Ozid can be heard typing something into his keyboard.
Dr. Ozid: Okay, I looked it up, it says yeet means "To discard an item at high velocity."
Mr. Handler: What? But Chandler and Douglass both just like… said it randomly, without any context. This has to be coherent if we want to release it to the public!
Dr. Ozid: Look, you know our intern, Barry? He's 19, he knows what he's doing, he said kids these days just say "Yeet" all the time, by itself. So… whatever, you know?
Mr. Handler: Alright… I trust you, Henry. Talk to you soon.
Dr. Ozid: Bye, Michael.
Mr. Handler hangs up, and unpauses the video.

Director Robertson: But seriously, squad. The SCP Foundation tries finna hard to make everyone on earth safer, by containing dangerous or weird stuff.
Dr. Wentworth: Of course, that doesn't mean weird is a bad thing, but we wouldn't want something anomalous walking around, would we?
Director Robertson: Whoa there Chaz, epic use of the word "Anomalous". Do you kids know what "Anomalous" means? I could tell you myself, but I think I have a very good friend who would love to tell you instead! Come on in, 999!
Dr. Ozid, wearing a large foam costume reminiscent of SCP-999, shambles on screen.
Dr. Ozid: Hiya kids, I'm SCP-999, and I love helping people! I want to help you by teaching you a big word. "Anomalous". That's A-N-O-M-A-L-O-U-S! Something is anomalous when it does not follow the general rules of normal society! Now, would a criminal be considered anomalous, since they do not follow the rules? Certainly! However, we're using it to mean something a little different. Here, the word anomalous means something that doesn't make any sense. Like myself! I am anomalous, because I am a living blob of slime!
Dr. Wentworth: Wow, that's a thicc description, 999! Thanks so much for coming!
Dr. Ozid: Oh, my pleasure Chand… I mean uhh, Chaz!
Doctor Ozid turns, and begins to walk off screen. In the process, a large chunk of foam breaks off of the costume, and lands on the floor. A cartoon "Bonk" sound effect plays. He quickly bends down to remove it, and falls forward. The same "Bonk" sound is audible. Director Robertson helps him up, and ushers him out of the viewing area.

Mr. Handler pauses the video. He places his forehead into his palm and takes a series of deep breaths. After about a minute, he sits back up and unpauses the video.

Director Robertson: Now that you know what anomalous means, let's talk a little about some of the anomalous things we have at the foundation, and why our work is so savage! I mean, we could contain slender man, we could contain Dame Tu Cosita, we could even contain big chungus! Chaz, what's your dopest favorite scp?
Dr. Wentworth: Bobby, I know just the thing. Last thursday, I was in charge of a monthly event with SCP-4252, one of the resident anomalies here at Site-96. SCP-4252 is this wacky room full of—you won't believe this—baked beans! The room fills up with baked beans every month, and then we summon a magical bean leprechaun with a spell! And, wanna know the craziest part? He eats all the beans right there and then! If that isn't an "are slash dankmeme", than I don't know what is!
Director Robertson: Ahh, that's hot, Chaz. Totally fire. But, sadly, fam, a lot of the anomalies we keep are actually hecka mean, and that makes us feel "no me gusta". Our biggest job is to keep you all safe from them, but for some reason, haters keep trololololling us by saying we are bad and we should destroy our company, and it just makes us want to do surgery on a grape.
Dr. Wentworth: But here's the thing, home-slices. We actually do a ton of great things for humanity as a whole. We eradicated dysentery, kept a fungal disaster from spreading, and we've trapped countless monsters who, without our help, would probably be going sicko mode on our tushies!
Director Robertson: Now, I think it's about time we talk about the thing you all want to know about. And no, it's not fortnite. It's our very own D-Class Boyeeees. Here at the SCP Foundation, we get help from our epic D-Classes to test out the anomalous effects of various creatures and places that we want to know more about. In fact, we have someone you might want to meet. Come on out!
A man in an orange jumpsuit walks slowly onto screen and stands in between Director Robertson and Dr. Wentworth. He is visibly uncomfortable.
D-411: Uhhh… hi. I'm D-411, but you can call me Glenn. I uhh… I used to be a bad guy, I stole a bunch of stuff and injured some people trying to escape, but I got caught. I was in jail for 4 years before the SCP Foundation offered me a job. I've been here for like 2 weeks, and uhh… it's better than jail. Other than taking a science test and talking to some old dude in a bathroom, I've just been chilling.
Dr. Wentworth: D-411, is your life sweet now that you've become a D-Class Personnel?
D-411: I mean, I guess. You know, I'm still not free, but at least I feel like I have a purpose. You know?
Director Robertson: Terrific. Well, thanks for Netflix and Chilling with us, D-411, that was really swag of you!
D-411: Yeah okay whatever.
D-411 exits. Simultaneously, a slide whistle is heard moving up, and then back down.

Mr. Handler pauses the video. He opens Internet Explorer and types the phrase "Netflix and Chill" into the search bar. After loading for 20 seconds, a definition appears at the top of the browser.

"Netflix and chill" is an Internet slang term used either as an invitation to watch Netflix together or as a euphemism for sexual activity, either as part of a romantic partnership or as casual sex or as a groupie invitation.

Mr. Handler shakes his head in disapproval. He scribbles something down on a sticky note before unpausing the video.

Director Robertson: How "Le Epic" is that? D-Class Personnel are actually treated great at the SCP Foundation! We take them out of prisons where they don't want to be, and let them stay with us, as long as they help with a few science experiments.
Dr. Wentworth: And yes, sometimes the experiments are dangerous, but we do them because we want you dope peeps to be chillin on Earth for a long long time, and if we didn't have our D-Friends to test stuff for us, we might not have enough information to keep everyone safe!
A 1940's cartoon era "Aooga" sound effect is audible.
Director Robertson: Well, fam, that's our cue to leave you guys alone. But I hope you dudes and dudettes keep everything we said in mind. And remember, as long as you focus hard and get a lot done, you, too, can save the world!
Dr. Wentworth and Director Robertson wave at the screen, as it fades to black.

Mr. Handler takes a moment to unpack what he just watched. He reaches for the phone, but stops himself. Turning back to his computer, he opens his email and checks the project deadline.

Sunday, April 22, by 4:00 pm.

Mr. Handler looks at the bottom right corner of his screen.

3:42 PM
4/22

Mr. Handler sighs. He reaches under his desk and pulls out a half empty bottle of scotch and a glass. He pours himself a shot, drinks it, and presses "Send".


by DarkStuff

close

Info

X

More by DarkStuff~!

Independent SCPs

SCP
Title

SCP-445-EX
The Word of the Day is Hope

SCP-2728
On the Barcelona Skyline

SCP-2729
What is it Good For?

SCP-3018
France & the Tale of the Well-Intentioned Understudies

SCP-3465
Better Safe Than Sorry

SCP-3466
Only Birdbrains Live the American Dream

SCP-4006
#MassaTruthetts

SCP-4455
In Short…

SCP-4465
No Man is an Island

SCP-4466
Why the Long Face?

SCP-4467
Oh, I Get It Now

Co-Authored SCPs

SCP
Title
Co-Author

SCP-1549
In Absence of a Perfect Medium
Billith

SCP-2983
Choco-Wonder Explosion Marshmallow Bites!™ by Dr. Wondertainment
Uncle Nicolini

SCP-3379
D-11424 & the Arctic Meat Hole of Infinite Wonders
Weryllium

SCP-3482
Nature Versus Naturalization
Roget

SCP-3633
I'm Right Behind Me
Captain Kirby

SCP-3713
All the World's a Stage
Varaxous

SCP-4029
Too Many Legs to be Going Nowhere
MaliceAforethought

Vend-a-Friend

Chapter
Title

Act I

Chapter 1
We Just Make Toys

Chapter 2
To Think I've Spent My Whole Life Waiting

Chapter 3
I Don't Get It, I Functioned Before

Chapter 4
You Can't Win Them All

Chapter 5
Be Strange or Be Forgotten

Act II

Chapter 6
Sometimes the Best Intentions are in Need of Redemption

Chapter 7
Life's a Show

Chapter 8
...And I'm the Star!

Chapter 9
Back in Habit

Chapter 10
Pepper's Lament

Chapter 11
Souls & Somas

Chapter 12
Deceptive Cadence

Act III

Chapter 13
And I Think To Myself...

Chapter 14
Everything Will Be Okay

Chapter 15
Holding an Umbrella but the Sun's Still Shining

Ascension

Chapter
Title

Chapter 1
Sometimes I Wish This Moment Could Last Forever

Chapter 2
Waiting on the Good Times

Chapter 3
Forever Young

Chapter 4
We Didn't Do This For Nothing

Chapter 5
URA-1902 aka The Missing Link

Chapter 6
The Consequences of a Deep, Dark Disassociation

Chapter 7
The Call to Action (for a Modern Audience)

Chapter 8
The Elusive Mx. LaFerrier

Chapter 9
It Feels Like I Only Go Backwards

Chapter 10
Along for the Ride

Chapter 11
A Hole in the Tapestry

Chapter 12
XXXXX

Chapter 13
Industrial

Chapter 14
Dancing with Rachael

Chapter 15
Ascension

Epilogue
A World Unto Yourself

Collaboration Contest Entries w/ Ellie

Make America Normaler

Off the Hook

Misc. Tales

Cornelius the Collector

Curtain Call

The Really Really Real Adventures in Capitalism

I've Been Through the Desert on a Horse with No Name

On the Radar for the miniseries The Ursus Maritimus Incident

Group of Interest / Canon Hubs

Hub
Notes

Dr. Wondertainment Hub
Made w/ taylor_itkin does not match any existing user name

What a Wonderful World Hub
Made w/ help from Uncle Nicolini, a canon sprouted from Vend-a-Friend!

Wilson's Wildlife Solutions Hub
My pride and joy, my very own Group of Interest

Rachael stood up, and turned on her flashlight. She found her self in a small, square room with no ceiling, holding a desk and multiple piles of blank paper. A cubicle, she thought. Wiping her eyes, she tried to remain still, and just listen.
The keyboard clacking was coming from her left. She used one leg on the desk to push herself high enough to see over the cubicle's walls. The flashlight revealed a sea of offices, extending as far as the light reached. Pointing the flashlight upwards revealed only black, an endless void of black.
Only one of the cubicles was noteworthy. About twenty entryways down, Rachael could make out a glow, like from a computer. That must have been where the clacking was coming from. Rachael slowly walked out into a walkway between them, from which she could make out the entrance to the clacking, clicking, typing glow. Feeling unsteady on her feet, she leaned onto the walls while making her way slowly, and she hoped relatively silently, towards the cubicle.
"Don't worry, I'm not mean." A measured, polite voice caught her off guard.
"How can I know that for sure?"
"You're a funny one, Dr. Davidson. You're just going to have to take my word for it."
She rounded the corner and saw the back of a malnourished man's head. The computer's screen was blank blue, and his hand's on the keyboards were absolutely skeletal. The hair on his head was missing in several places, but still retained a nice deep black color.
"Who are you? How do you know my name?"
"Shhhh," he said, dropping to a whisper. "Don't be so loud. You'll wake up the baby, and he's a fussy one." His right hand fell from the keyboard and made a rocking motion on something under the desk, too covered in darkness to see. "I am a certain LaFerrier. I believe we've met before."
"Agent LaFerrier?"
"No, no. Just LaFerrier. Vernon Auburn LaFerrier. But you can call me Vernon."
"What are you doing here?"
"I work here, you see? Day in and day out. I sit at this computer, and I work."
Rachael stayed in the doorway of the cubicle, afraid of whatever was under the desk.
"What is your work?"
"A nosy one, aren't you? But, ah, I'll tell you. It's not very often I get company." His right hand went back under the desk to rock something. "I'm the censor, you see. I'm the one that makes sure no one ever knows too much about the company. I'm everywhere, all at once, but I don't usually know it. All I know is that the screen tells me when I need to censor something. Then, I go in and do it, whether it be from speech, on paper. Anything like that. I'm in charge of the company's name, really. That, and making sure people don't notice me. I'm self sufficient, you see? Eheheh. Heh. Now you're about to ask why, aren't you?"
Rachael held her tongue.
"I can tell that you like knowing things. I'd say it would get you in trouble one day, but that day won't ever come." He turned his head to her, just slightly. "That's not a threat, by the way." He turned back to the computer. "Well, let me tell you a story. You'd pull it out of me eventually, if I just allowed you to ask questions. So instead, I'll help you. I'll cut to the chase." Vernon cleared his throat.
"Every good story starts with 'once upon a time', so I'll start this the same way. Once upon a time, a man named Victor Adams LaFerrier — or does it matter? His initials were V-A-L — died. He was an old man, and he passed away, peacefully, in his sleep. Before he knew he was dead, he saw the arms. Long, gorgeous arms. The arms of angels come to take him to heaven, he thought. He saw the waves of the ocean stuck in place, showers of seafoam stuck in the air. People frolicking about, but not moving, each with a hand on their bright, lightbulb heads. Without realizing it, he had woken up, and was screaming and crying. Crying from the beauty of the image he had seen. But the doctors didn't know that. They just thought he was any other baby."
Vernon's left hand reached for a mug that was hidden in the darkness, but peering into it, he found it empty. He placed it back.
"But, now a Vernon Auburn LaFerrier, he remembered everything from his past life. Every last detail. He believed himself to be reincarnated, for a purpose perhaps. But once he asked, no one he met ever seemed to know about the arms and frozen world. There weren't even myths about it. No religion described such an image." Vernon sighed. "He had a wife, Tamara. Vernon did. She was the only person who fully understood him. He knew what he wanted to do. He always had dreams of being a business owner.
"Tamara helped him draft plans. Plans to make a business. They knew, vaguely, the power of names. Mr. LaFerrier had the same initials through both incarnations. Don't you think that's strange, Robert Maximus Dorer?" The air was still. "Oh, right. I get you two confused, sometimes. They decided to make a company. It was their baby. They named it after its future CEO. They didn't know exactly what they were doing, but that's how all sciences start, don't they? On hunches."
Vernon took a deep breath.
"Well. Flash forward some years, and we have Howard. He was the one. The stars had aligned. We knew this was a window. It was when great coincidences happened that Vernon felt the closest to the arms. Name coincidences. That in all likelihood were never coincidences at all. We started experiments. We wanted to make a woman pregnant, and name the baby something… strategic. We needed Howard to die at the same moment the child was born. Tamara volunteered. We had no clue if it would work."
Vernon turned around in his swivel chair, and Rachael could now see that he was dead. His eye sockets had nothing in them, his lips were missing, his gums had receded, and his nose was just two nostrils. "It did. But we still don't know if that was because we did everything right, or if we truly, truly believed it would work. Maybe we were just the right amount of crazy. It gets hard to tell, when you reach my age." Vernon began a dry, spiritless laugh, and turned back towards his computer.
"We learned the truth. The earth is a dream, and the better a dreamer you are, the better you can traverse it. The next step was to remove all evidence that we had ever existed. But…" Vernon stopped typing. "Well… there's a reason I had to stay behind. I felt like it was my responsibility. To become the censor."
"Why couldn't you remove the company, if you are so powerful?"
"What did I tell you? Don't speak so harshly. You might wake the baby…"
Rachael stepped into the cubicle. "What… what is it, what is the baby?"
"Is it not obvious? It's Scott."
A long, hairy, muscular arm reached out from under the desk.
"It's Howard Scott. CEO of Scott Industrial."
Suddenly, everything fell away, and Rachael was falling through a yawning, wheezing abyss, weightless and scared. Her flashlight had been jolted out of her hand, and she saw its small pinprick of light veer off into the distance. In every direction she looked, all she saw was the darkness. As black as the ink that had covered Scott's name in her mind. She struggled to assume an upright position, but she had no idea which direction was up.
In a fit of weakness, Rachael heard herself yell.
"Help!" She was yelling. She had never needed anyone's help before.
But then she remembered Dorer's corpse, laying on the stairs, spine shattered and bleeding out.
She had needed someone's help.
She had needed his help.
But she killed him.
The wind got knocked out of her once she collided with a plain white floor. In the moments it took to regain her breath, she could only look into one corner of a room — but that was just it. She was in a room. She propped herself up on her arms, and looked around. She found no doors, but she did find a table with two chairs. One was already occupied.
"Hello, ma'am," said Howard. "Welcome to my office."

« A Hole in the Tapestry | XXXXX | Industrial »


by DarkStuff

close

Info

X

More by DarkStuff~!

Independent SCPs

SCP
Title

SCP-445-EX
The Word of the Day is Hope

SCP-2728
On the Barcelona Skyline

SCP-2729
What is it Good For?

SCP-3018
France & the Tale of the Well-Intentioned Understudies

SCP-3465
Better Safe Than Sorry

SCP-3466
Only Birdbrains Live the American Dream

SCP-4006
#MassaTruthetts

SCP-4455
In Short…

SCP-4465
No Man is an Island

SCP-4466
Why the Long Face?

SCP-4467
Oh, I Get It Now

Co-Authored SCPs

SCP
Title
Co-Author

SCP-1549
In Absence of a Perfect Medium
Billith

SCP-2983
Choco-Wonder Explosion Marshmallow Bites!™ by Dr. Wondertainment
Uncle Nicolini

SCP-3379
D-11424 & the Arctic Meat Hole of Infinite Wonders
Weryllium

SCP-3482
Nature Versus Naturalization
Roget

SCP-3633
I'm Right Behind Me
Captain Kirby

SCP-3713
All the World's a Stage
Varaxous

SCP-4029
Too Many Legs to be Going Nowhere
MaliceAforethought

Vend-a-Friend

Chapter
Title

Act I

Chapter 1
We Just Make Toys

Chapter 2
To Think I've Spent My Whole Life Waiting

Chapter 3
I Don't Get It, I Functioned Before

Chapter 4
You Can't Win Them All

Chapter 5
Be Strange or Be Forgotten

Act II

Chapter 6
Sometimes the Best Intentions are in Need of Redemption

Chapter 7
Life's a Show

Chapter 8
...And I'm the Star!

Chapter 9
Back in Habit

Chapter 10
Pepper's Lament

Chapter 11
Souls & Somas

Chapter 12
Deceptive Cadence

Act III

Chapter 13
And I Think To Myself...

Chapter 14
Everything Will Be Okay

Chapter 15
Holding an Umbrella but the Sun's Still Shining

Ascension

Chapter
Title

Chapter 1
Sometimes I Wish This Moment Could Last Forever

Chapter 2
Waiting on the Good Times

Chapter 3
Forever Young

Chapter 4
We Didn't Do This For Nothing

Chapter 5
URA-1902 aka The Missing Link

Chapter 6
The Consequences of a Deep, Dark Disassociation

Chapter 7
The Call to Action (for a Modern Audience)

Chapter 8
The Elusive Mx. LaFerrier

Chapter 9
It Feels Like I Only Go Backwards

Chapter 10
Along for the Ride

Chapter 11
A Hole in the Tapestry

Chapter 12
XXXXX

Chapter 13
Industrial

Chapter 14
Dancing with Rachael

Chapter 15
Ascension

Epilogue
A World Unto Yourself

Collaboration Contest Entries w/ Ellie

Make America Normaler

Off the Hook

Misc. Tales

Cornelius the Collector

Curtain Call

The Really Really Real Adventures in Capitalism

I've Been Through the Desert on a Horse with No Name

On the Radar for the miniseries The Ursus Maritimus Incident

Group of Interest / Canon Hubs

Hub
Notes

Dr. Wondertainment Hub
Made w/ taylor_itkin does not match any existing user name

What a Wonderful World Hub
Made w/ help from Uncle Nicolini, a canon sprouted from Vend-a-Friend!

Wilson's Wildlife Solutions Hub
My pride and joy, my very own Group of Interest

Rachael and Dorer stared into an alleyway on Wall Street, New York City, New York. People passed them on the street, but no one seemed to notice them just standing there.
"This is the one," said Rachael, almost reverently.
"How? It looks like all the other alleyways we've seen."
Rachael shook her head. "Look. Do you see where those overflowing trash bags suddenly stop in the middle? Or how the pavement's color changes from the left to the right? Or how about that wet spot that seems to cease at the center?"
Dorer wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed those glaring details. As soon as he was made aware, they stuck out like a giant spider on a white wall. Even more was missing — the alleyway seemed bisected. No elements from the right side ever passed onto the left side. "A spacial anomaly?"
"No, I don't think so. Notice how far you can look into the alleyways."
He glanced from side to side, and noticed that he was barely getting any information. After a few feet in, everything became a blur — no, no, it wasn't a blur. His vision just didn't reach that far. His head started to hurt, but not in a memetic way.
"Wait, alleyways? Plural?"
Rachael breathed deeply. "Yes. Look straight ahead."
"Straight ahead?" Dorer suddenly realized that his eyes had been to either side the whole time. For the first time, he looked straight ahead. Directly in front of him was the entrance to a tall, imposing office building. Despite the daylight, details were difficult to make out due to stark shadows. Only a few lights from inside the building illuminated aspects of the outside. Otherwise, the building was more of a silhouette than anything. Another detail that Dorer hadn't noticed before was the streetlight behind him, that was on in the middle of the day, so as to reveal the front revolving doors.
Dorer jumped back a bit, and as he thought back, he saw it in the corner of his memory's vision. The building had always been there, blotted out by unwilling ignorance. How had he not seen it?
"How come we — the Foundation never found this before?"
"Simple," Rachael spat. "No one's been looking for it. And you're going in first."
"What?"
"What else did you think I needed you for? Here," she reached into her bag and grabbed a flashlight, "take this."
"What? You can't — I'm not —"
The cellphone on his back became hot. He yipped (he hated when he made that noise), and then it cooled back down. Eye contact with Rachael became heated, before his powerlessness came through and his glare deteriorated into the stare of a begging dog. Rachael responded only be stepping up to him, asserting physical dominance through height, and Dorer got the message. He slowly stepped towards the revolving doors, and felt the scenery become dim. Looking pensively behind him, he noticed that less people seemed to be walking on the street.
Like a cartoonish stereotype, he gulped, and let out a chilled "haa" of air. Turning on his flashlight, he pushed through the door, and entered the midnight foyer.
The first thing he noticed was that the light of the flashlight had very clear boundaries — anything outside the direct beam of the flashlight was completely black, and shining a light out the windows did nothing to reveal the outside.
"Rachael?" Dorer called.
"Yes?" A muffled, echoing voice called back.
Passing his flashlight over the room, it was uncharacteristically barren. Not even abandoned buildings had this much nothing in them. The only feature were three chairs, piled in a corner, and the front desk, behind which sat a single computer, which was emitting a faint glow.
"Just checking if you can hear me."
"I can hear you. What do you see?"
"Three chairs. A reception desk. A single computer. Otherwise, tiled floor, white walls, nondescript ceiling."
"Anomalously?"
"No, just bland."
"Do you feel any memetic influence?"
"No — wait…" He did feel a tingle in the back of his head, which he hadn't noticed before. "Yes, I do. But just like the building, you had to point it out first. That seems to be a theme here, heheh… heh…"
"Alright. I'm coming in."
Rachael pushed open the revolving doors, and flicked on a flashlight. "Is there a light switch in here?"
"Not that I can — oh, maybe."
Dorer's flashlight passed over a switch on the wall near the door, and made his way over to it. Flicking it on, a previously unnoticed chandelier lit up. "Huh," Dorer said. "I'm not convinced this isn't a spacial anomaly."
"Me neither. I've found a hallway. You're going down it."
Dorer drew two deep breaths. "So I'm the guinea pig."
"No. You're not as cute as a guinea pig. Now, go."
Dorer pushed forward. The velvety blackness unfurled wherever he pointed his flashlight, and yet he uncovered nothing. The hallway seemed to extend forever, with no doors, no dents, simply no variation at all. "Wh-what are we looking for, Rachael? Where are we going? What is this all for?"
Rachael looked peeved at his cessation of forward motion. "Elevators, Robert. We're looking for elevators. Move."
He started walking forward again. "A place like this, I don't know if I'd want to get in an elevator…"
Soon afterwards, they were met with an open elevator shaft. Peering in, Dorer (because Rachael made sure to make him do everything) saw that it went up and down for… well, until his flashlight stopped revealing anything. "Looks infinite," he said. "I wouldn't be surprised if it was. No elevator in sight, either."
"Hmm," Rachael contemplated. "Maybe we can take the stairs."
"Where?"
Rachael panned her flashlight across the wall. "There." She settled on a previously unseen door with a dark, unpowered exit sign above it. "Those must be stairs. Go."
Dorer slowly opened the door, which held an impenetrable black behind it. Even his flashlight seemed to dim upon entering. "It's dark in here."
"No shit." Rachael followed behind him. "Oh, I see. It is."
"Told you."
"Well, rummage around. See if you feel anything. Wait. Found something."
Suddenly the stairwell was filled with old white light from fixtures at every landing. Leaning over the railing, Dorer could see that it followed the same pattern as the elevator shaft. "Down and up forever, Rachael. Doesn't look like anything."
"We're going up."
"What? Why? What's there to find?"
"Go, Dorer."

Dorer had been going for the better part of two hours. The white knurled metal stairs' clangs echoed throughout the chamber with each step. There were no doors on the landings, which Rachael used as an excuse to keep going up. Dorer was not a fit man. He may have been young for his field, but a chubby man in the upper end of his twenties still had not a lot of staying power when it came to stairs. After the first hour, he had begun to fatigue.
Cold sweat (everything became cold in this place) had begun to cover his brow and soak through his palms. By the hour and a half mark, his hand would slip off the rails sometimes, throwing his weight off balance and causing a stumble. Looking behind him revealed nothing of the same nature happening to Rachael.
In fact, he knew that she could be walking faster than him. She had chosen to wait behind him, and watch him become more and more tired as he climbed the stairs. She had chosen to torture him. Why? Dorer couldn't fathom why.
A fear was building in him. A fear that grew stronger with each and every step, and multiplied tenfold whenever he looked back at Rachael's cold, uncaring face. A fear that solidified when he thought he caught her staring down at her feet.
Defeat.
Dorer wheezed, rotated, and sat down on the stairs.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Resting," he said, panting. "I'm resting."
"Not for long. We have a long ways still to go."
"No we don't." He looked up at Rachael. Had he finally mustered up the courage to speak against her? Or had he lost all the courage necessary to continue ever upward? He could not know. He coughed. "There's no plan here. You don't know what you're looking for. And this staircase goes on forever."
"Don't pretend that you understand what's going on here."
"You can drop the act, Rachael. I can see it. You're scared like I am. You don't know where we are. You don't know what we're doing here. You don't know what to do. Give it up, please. Why don't we walk back down and try to find the door. We can —"
"And do what, Dorer? What could we do when we left? Go back to our normal lives? Pretend this never happened? Pretend I never tried to kill you? Never know?"
…
"Know what?"
"What happened here, Dorer! What went wrong! What made this company!"
"Well, you know what, Dr. Davidson?" Dorer shook upon standing to his feet. "You can continue forwards. But I'm going back down the stairs." Dorer stared Rachael down, trying to move her to one side of the stairs through sheer willpower and intimidation. It wasn't working.
"Rachael, this is insane. You can keep going, and you have my word that I won't stop you. That I can't stop you. But even now, we might have passed a line we can't return from. What if that door isn't there? What if this staircase never ends? We could already be screwed. But on the off-chance we aren't, the sooner we turn back the more likely it is that we make it out of here. Or, if you won't come with me, the more likely I am to make it out of here. So I can't go. I can't keep going. I'm turning back."
"No. No you aren't."
Why did he think she could be reasoned with? "Why?"
"Must I tell you the obvious? You aren't leaving unless you're dead, Dorer. You're my hostage, and you are submissive to me. You know too much. You leaving could be the end of me."
"Us moving on could be the end of us! Don't you see that?"
"Nothing has come to attack us. We're safe."
"I fear the mind that can look at this staircase and feel 'safe'." Dorer squeaked a bit when he breathed. "Rachael, I don't want to fight you. I just need you to turn around. We can explore ground floor more, maybe. But we can't keep going up these stairs."
Rachael's brow began to twitch, and she closed her eyes. "Robert." She took a long, deep breath. "You're…" She looked at him. Almost softly, almost kindly. Not a trace of anger on her face.
But that changed very quickly.
"You're going up these stairs or your spine isn't staying with your body. One more moment of uncooperative behavior and I'll make your stay here permanent. Am I clear, Robert?"
The cellphone taped to his back began to heat up. Dorer's bravery was waning, his character failing. He tried not to think of the sweat pouring out of his glands, or the water welling up in his eyes. He convinced himself that dying of exhaustion in these stairs would be worse than a death from explosive cell phone, and those were his two options.
With faulty spirits, he continued. "Rachael, you need me. You and I both know you won't blow me up. You brought me here to use me for something."
Rachael stepped up the stairs towards him, and the cellphone grew hotter.
"Let's face it! You brought me here for some reason other than a guinea pig! Y-you're curious about me! It's true!"
"Curious?"
"Yes! I have the same powers as you —" or so she thinks "— and you don't know why! You're curious about me, and you couldn't let that go. You've never found someone like you before, and you wanted to see where this went. Am I wrong?" The cellphone burnt flesh. "Well am I?"
He hoped to unknown powers that he was right.
"I-I…" The cellphone cooled. "I'm…"
Oh thank fucking god.
But then Dorer screamed.
Shreds of his coat went everywhere, and he fell to his ass on the stairs. Blood trickled down, staining the pure white stairs with dark brownish red. He couldn't move anything below waist, and he could feel, for a second before it all overwhelmed his senses, that pieces of the cellphone had jammed their way through his intestines.
"Do you think you get me, Robert? Is that what that play was?"
In a fit of hysteria, Dorer began to laugh, and his idiot grin had returned to his face — albeit with wide, terrified eyes.
"Well, fine, Dorer. Now that there's no point in keeping things from you, here's why we're here. When I was very little — when I was 13, in fact, I discovered that I had powers over electricity. Like an idiot, I thought that I could tamper with people's brains without any training. And I saw things, Dorer. I saw things. A frozen gaslit world, with reaching arms and hands and a glowing faceless mass beyond the horizon! And that's it, Robert. Because he said he saw the same thing. He said that all of his company saw the same thing. I've gone my whole life wanting this, Dorer. I thought you might help me. But that was a fucking lie. I should have gone solo, like I always do. I trusted you, Dorer. I trusted you."
"Heheh, eheheheheh, holding me at gunpoint is an odd form of trust, eeheheheheh —"
Rachael pushed a foot into his jaw before storming past him. Her heart pounded, her head hurt, and her eyes stung. She thought, she thought, that Dorer might have been special. He resisted her, of course. But that clearly hadn't translated into loyalty.
She wanted to find dogs but all she found were cats.
Dorer's howling laughter, mixed with coughs and moans of pain, collided with the walls of the stairwell and became more and more metallic the further that Rachael ran away from him. The further up she went. The further in she ventured.
After an indeterminate amount of time, she collapsed on a landing. She had barely noticed how much she had shrieked; her throat felt like it had received a thousand lacerations. Her cheeks were wet, too. She wondered why that was.
She laid there.
She was tired.
And thirsty.
The last echo she heard from Dorer, before he went silent entirely, was: "You cry in your sleep, Rachael!"
She decided not to pay it too much mind. After all, she already knew that. Her pillows were always wet when she woke up, wet around eye level. She must suffer night terrors, she thought. Not so strange.
Flashes of arms and raindrops frozen in midair tore through her synapses like bullet trains. Dorer's screams had transformed into her own, the ones she was told she had made for a whole four hours. She couldn't remember any of it, of course. They took her to the ER. Her hair started falling out.
They asked her what had happened, and she couldn't tell them. Her parents took her out of school for months. Something had changed, they thought. Something was wrong.
She stopped doing things.
She stopped talking, for one.
This was, of course, right around the same time that they had all that electrical frying in their walls.
Until one day, she came out of her room, and she was fine. She wasn't smiling, but she was fine. She told her parents she was ready to go back to school, that she was ready to be around people again. They tried to coax it out of her, they tried to send her to a therapist, but no one had made any progress. They didn't know what to do.
But she was fine, by the looks of it.
A rough patch. That's all it was. What they didn't know was that she had come out of that room with a purpose.
The mission statement read: "Know."
"Know what that was. Find out what you saw. Learn the truth."
She had never been able to replicate the effect. Never again had rummaging through someone's brain yielded similar results. So she did her research. She found people online who understood her. Well, understood that things like her happen. She never told them about what she saw, but she did tell them that she could turn off and on the lights. They told her of an organization that hunted freaks like her. They told her that she needed to hide, to cover up. To lay low. They were all terrified of this organization.
Rachael was downright fascinated.
An organization that knew all of the things behind the curtain? Who took the unnatural outside of the public eye? She knew her course of action. She knew that she needed to get into that organization, and learn its secrets. To climb the ranks, and attain access to everything. There, she might find it. What that was. What she saw. The truth.
Never had she expected the lead to come from the mouth of a field agent during an interview.
Agent LaFerrier.
The man, the myth, the legend.
Perhaps the only person alive who had ever seen what she saw. The only person who could possibly understand it. She had seen him struggle to remember. She had seen the pain.
Her own pain. Reflected in his face. It was all she could have done to put him out of his misery.
But at that moment, something inside her yearned for a familiar face. Lying face down in the stairwell, an infinite amount of space above and below, she could only hope. Hope that there was something to find. Or maybe hope that something found her.
She hoped for the face that knew her pain.
She wanted Agent LaFerrier.
And at that moment, the stairwell went black, and she heard the clacking of fingers on a keyboard behind her.

« Along for the Ride | A Hole in the Tapestry | XXXXX »


Miss Hyde had made herself comfortable in her colourful patchy beanbag. Her eyes were covered by virtual reality glasses, as per usual. One from the generation after the next. It was actually a prototype still being tested on in the lab — she just happened to own one.

Her avatar floated in a cyberroom that was thematically designed as an aquatic world. Minus the fish. Just a navy blue room with a sand-colored floor.
Her virtual left hand was raised. She typed in her password on the transparent keyboard illuminated by the twilight.
<Access authenticated.>
<Welcome home.>
The apartment-sized spherical room that was Miss Hyde's secret haven had been processed by the server. Her avatar swam towards it, hardly moving and passive, a kind of drifting. She pulled herself into the door frame as the gravitational engine reacted. She landed on her feet, standing upright.
In front of her was a meadow of flowers and a bright sky blue firmament where sporadically generated clouds lay. It was embarrassingly cheesy for Hyde's taste, but for her it worked surprisingly well as a place of might. Just sitting in the grass looking at the sky, it was so easy. It was then that she was with herself. Not thinking about the everyday life. Not thinking about her everyday life…

„Hey, Hyde! Wake up.“
She rubbed her eyes to find herself back in the 'real world'. Her voice was stagnant and quiet.
„What… is it… Bao?“
The face of the half-chinese Bao radiated a friendly impatience.
„Our meeting's coming up. And I want to show you something else.“

Like every second monday, the six employees of the studio Pocket Panzer had gathered to discuss the status of their video game projects. Understandably, they couldn't work on more than three games at a time — they got support from another four part-time programmers — but the group had only recently been formed. Now and then Bookworm, I&I, and R&R Studios assisted with premade textures and code, although 'assisted' is sort of sugarcoated.
The six core members sat around the octagonal table. Such sessions were usually very relaxed. This one was as well. In the middle stood a plain chocolate cake with icing sugar and a thin layer of whipped cream with brown meringue pieces, surrounded by colourful plates. What caught Hyde's attention more, however, was a toy vehicle that circled the pastries. A young man with blonde hair of just under 25 looked up from a wrapper.
„Salut, Hyde.“
„Salut, Schakal.“
Schakal used his usernames from the world of video games — like pretty much everyone else in the studio. A running gag where nobody really knew why they started it in the first place. Honouring his namesake, he was thin, almost lean, in contrast to the slightly chubby Bao and the average Hyde.
„Look what Bao found.“
„Look at what cool things it can do.“
Bao clapped her hands three times. The mini tank chugged around, stopped in front of the piece closest to Hyde and spat out a red chocolate lens from the barrel. With a quiet 'splash' it landed on the icing of the cake. Hyde could've sworn a beeping voice yelled "hit". The vehicle tried, inspired by its success, to shoot at the other pieces, but Schakal grabbed it. In spite of the desperate wobble of the barrel, Schakal picked it up and provided it in the packaging with the inscription "My Little Panzer". Desiringly, as desiringly as a toy without a clear face can get, the tank looked from the packaging window to the cake.
„That was just the beginning. Try the cake now.“
Hyde didn't like this kind of sweetened pastry so much, but the others looked at them anticipating. Hyde skewered some of the cake on her fork. She almost choked on it.
„That's… yeah… where'd you get this from?" she coughed out.
„Yeah, we thought so, too. Bao got it from a pastry shop that just opened a block away. Witch's Kitchen, something like that. That's where we got this toy tank from.“
Hyde ate the rest enthusiastically.
„Hey, aren't you waiting for me? I also want cake, and some tea as well!“
Conan, whose nickname came from his english descent, poured the mentioned tea into his giant cup with the inscription "Fairies DO exist!"
When their boss, Holly, joined them as the last member, everyone sat down. The ethiopian twins, Queen Sphinx and Pharaoh Leo, were happy to finally try their slices, even though they had secretly already eaten.
Bao kissed Schakal on the cheek. Hyde's heart clenched. She liked Schakal, but she still couldn't cope with Bao being with him. Conan noticed that Hyde stiffened for a moment, but said nothing and took a sip. He had his own problems.
Holly wiped the crumbs off of her face.
"So let's get started. We can't call our thriller visual novel 'Distrust ', Sphinx and Leo. The name has already been used by another, bigger company."
Sphinx and Leo moaned as tortured as they could.
„Hyde, how's 'God Complex' coming along?“
Hyde got shocked. She concentrated on formulating an answer.
„Well… actually, very well… I'm decorating the interior now.“
"Great, say when help is needed." Before an answer could form itself, the conversation was already over.

Hyde loved to work alone in her artificially generated world. Though of course, she wasn't a person who didn't enjoy social interaction.
Even as a child, she had been a daydreamer, when she was still building sandcastles with Bao and playing video games.
Wiping, pinching and spreading her fingers, she felt the still empty and virtual space with digital objects and textures. It had something meditative, repetitive, and Hyde was quickly lost in thought.
The shopping street of the game had been a lot of fun to design with all the small details, which she had all set by hand, step by step. She compared it to the work of a painter. Layer by layer, like paint, she shaped the world of the future RPG.
The tailor's shop and the entrance to the temple were already finished; the weapons shop was still a headache for her, so she distracted herself with the potion brewery. She used the sheading tool to find out whether purple or blue was better for the flowers at the entrance. Hyde flicked in the air, and the computer loaded the standard NPC figure for testing purposes at the door. It walked in automatically, as its protocol dictated. Hyde bit her lower lip and scored on it. No, she couldn't do it like that. The grey figure without facial features would not help here.
„Use player avatar.“
<Input confirmed>
Bao's petite elven barbarian BarbaRosa took the place of the NPC and performed the player avatar animation. Exaggeratedly broad-legged and elbow-extending, she waved to Hyde before returning to a neutral posture. The avatar's behavior was normal to indicate that a player had spored. The developers of Pocket Panzer had fun giving their own greetings to all their characters.
Hyde had to grin. She should reconfigure the computer so that it no longer preferred Bao's avatars. She snapped again and the computer executed the animation, which was later intended for entering. When the characters stopped in front of the developer, Hyde looked at the face that, understandably, resembled its creator. Everything was tightening again inside her. The urge to touch the charitable image overwhelmed her. She stroked tenderly with her fake left hand over her artifical cheeks. The sensors did not recognize the movement, therefore the sense of touch was not stimulated accordingly. Hyde didn't care.

Miss Hyde was lying on her beanbag again. She had adjusted her virtual reality glasses. A small trickle of tears swept under the rim.


Previous: Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These
.
The King of Nightmare sat on his throne, absentmindedly twisting one of the nails that held his crown to his head. For the umpteenth time, he held a small scrap of paper in a wizened claw close to the dark pits in his face. To anyone else who read it, it was just a list of names, each with a tragedy beside them. They would read the list, think "Oh, how awful," maybe wonder why such a list was made, and then go on with their business.
To the King, it was a menu.
A delectable buffet of vulnerable minds, just waiting for him. And with such a feast, would come power. Power to regain his strength, to restore his kingdom, to rise from the ashes of his former glory. His parched skin crackled as he rose, joints protesting loudly, insisting on just another five minutes of rest. Never mind the fact that he had only moved from the throne once in the past year and a half, it wasn't as if he had had anything else to do. Age is just a state of mind in the dreamworld, but nevertheless it was one he had been stuck in ever since his downfall.
The King shook his head and thumped the nail back into place with the heel of his hand, dislodging several cobwebs.
You're no proper monarch without a kingdom, without the armies that once razed the land at your call. You had searing blades that sought out enemies, and subjects that worshipped the footprints you left in the blood you spilled. But you lost it. Unforgivable.
He walked to one of the many doors lining the great hall, and pushed against it. It didn't budge. The King sighed, before ramming his shoulder up against it, surely causing a fracture in either the frame or his body as the heavy wooden door swung inward, dislodging dust in a huge plume. Frustration gave way to mad determination.
Definitely unforgivable. An act of highest treason. Against me, the Tyrant of Dreamland, the Noble Bogeyman, his majesty Fear. Even the idea of such a slight is unacceptable. To cause my kingdom to falter, my loyal subjects to suffer.
Find the one who did it. And make an example of them that would cause the devil himself to drown in fear.
To do so, preparations needed to be made.
…
The King thought little of modern fears ever since civilization progressed beyond the feudal system. Complicated machines, and even more complicated politics. The system he had worked well enough. No matter how far they advanced, humans would always carry the same primal fears, which could be plucked at with ease. But he saw where that had gotten him. Seeing "Children lost in car crash" at the top of the list was enough to send him into a sulk, annoyed at having to delve back into the same world that dared to wound him.
A horse was far more terrifying, with violent snorting breath and thundering hooves, not to mention whatever menace was riding upon it, he thought.
Surely seeing children crushed underneath that would be more traumatic than an automobile, built to be comfortable and obnoxiously safe.
However, he would trust his niece. Nevermind what happened the last time he trusted family. He would be vigilant against betrayal, and it's not as if he had more promising options at the moment. The only problem was materials. There were many half-finished or abandoned dreams lying in rooms around the castle, all of which could be scrapped for the necessary materials to build a new nightmare. It would be quite costly building a modern dream, and likely not worth the payoff.
But it was all he could do.
And he'd be damned if he couldn't craft terror better than anyone else in the land of dreams. He was king, after all. He stopped his hand from again wandering to the nail jutting from his forehead, a habit that he had never really been able to kick, and if the situation was right a secret weapon. It was time to live up to his title.
…
Sandra lay on her side, scrolling through her phone one last time before going to sleep. She was calmer now than she had been in a long time, the online therapy group had done wonders. Ever since the accident, she hadn't been able to open up. But when she finally did so, things started to get better. Sure, she was still a nervous wreck, but for the first time it looked like she wouldn't always need to be that way.
Life goes on, even after death and disaster. There were certainly people out there who had been through worse, as tragic as her circumstances were. And if they held out, so could she, especially with the boons of professional therapy and modern medicine. She closed her eyes, ready to drift off to sleep.
When she opened them again, hell was there waiting for her.
It was that day all over again, everything dragged right back in front of her. The burning car, smoke swirling overhead and choking out everything. She could feel the agonizing pain where her leg used to be, the wound reopened and her prosthetic gone. A wall of smog dotted with dancing, cackling flames surrounded the entire scene, erasing hopes of escape or rescue in one fell swoop. The wreck of the car heaved and lurched, looking for all the world like a dying animal as the screech of tearing metal invaded her ears.
Barely distinguishable from the droning metallic wail rose two other screams, rising and falling discordantly as each desperately tried to be heard over the other. The acrid smell of burning smoke and melting tires parted for a second, as the distance between Sandra and the car seemed to lengthen, yet she could see every detail all too clearly as two burning shapes began to crawl out from under the car. Tiny hands dragged the immolated bodies forwards even as the fat burned away, leaving a sickening trail of melted flesh.
"Help us"
"It hurts"
"Mommy, help us"
It didn't matter if they were speaking out loud or directly into her head, she couldn't have heard their cries any louder as the two agonized zombies reached upwards as they approached her remaining leg, their grotesque visages twisting vividly as reality broke down in the face of terror and grief. Sobbing deliriously, Sandra reached out towards the effigies of her children, desperate to fix them, to let them know that she would save them, that she loved them. As soon as her fingers brushed their bubbling skin however, the twins erupted into gouts of flame, their final screams carried away on the flames. Their diminutive blackened skeletons kept moving, sinking their sharp baby teeth into her flesh, dragging her back into the fire with them.
The last thing Sandra saw before her eyes boiled out of their sockets was the withered man standing atop the wreckage, head thrown back in a roar of gleeful laughter as a viscous black substance poured out of the air and swirled around him, seeping into his flaming body.
…
If anyone had been able to look in on the massive palace residing in a particularly unpleasant corner of the vast plane of dreams, they would have been greeted to an unusual sight. A walking corpse in red robes and a crown, dancing around and leaping off of furniture while laughing like the apparent madman he was.
Gods, I missed this, the King thought to himself.
He had no idea this new age wrought such potent fear! It was downright intoxicating, well worth the cost of harvesting it several times over. If only he had tapped it sooner! As liquid fear saturated his body, the King could feel his muscles grow and sizzle with the energy of his youth and his beard fray out in all directions as it became about three times less sparse, now a brilliant white shock barely concealing the rictus grin he displayed.
It did make sense though. While it was true that the wonders of the modern world made it far safer than the times when death and hardship lurked around every corner, that was precisely what made it so fearsome. In a world of pain, you expect pain and grow accustomed to it. In a world of safety, terror stands out all the more. And so many new ways to suffer, so many new threats to sow the seeds of nightmares! The King couldn't contain himself any longer. He threw his arms up over his head, and morphed into a giant gaunt shadow plastered against the wall, before swooping down into a skulking shape under the bed that reached up and grabbed your toes. He stretched and warped a few more times, before settling down again, panting with exhilaration.
More.
He was refreshed now, but his kingdom was still barren, barely fitting for someone of his stature. There were certainly still some storehouses of materials left somewhere, and likely a few shadowy serfs as well. But that would take time, and he had put off reclaiming his birthright long enough. With more of these wonderful dreams, he would soon be able to jump-start the process, maybe even bend a few knights to his will. If he regained enough strength, he could even take a visit to that old dungeon…
But first, he had a score to settle.
…
The King grunted with a mixture of effort and displeasure as he pulled his other leg out of the corpse's skull, stepping onto solid ground. It was fortunate that those meddlers had tried more experiments with the dreamers he had harvested in the past; it left him a few more footholds into the waking world. While he was here, he should probably make a more permanent entrance. However, that could wait. Picking bits of grey matter off of his sleeves to nibble on, the regal horror turned his attention to the lights of the small town in the distance. He knew the way, it wasn't the first time he had been here. He still felt the last time.
Eventually he reached the house he was looking for, feeling a slight twinge of the unease that he had sown in so many others.
Facing your fears is the best way to overcome them, he told himself. It's almost effective against even me.
Taking a deep breath that lasted long enough to make a low howling whistle in the wind, he began to tap rhythmically on the glass pane of a window. The pattern was just distinct enough to stand out from the branches rattling against the house in the wind, while still being masked by them. It was a skill he had both invented and perfected, designed to slowly rouse prey into a sense of paranoia and uncertainty. The tactic also had the added benefit of causing them to imagine things that might be there, to distract from the thing that very definitely was.
This is risky, I could be set back to square one for a second time, and such a crime cannot be allowed to happen twice. There's still time to turn back, he thought as the staccato rhythm of his fingers grew louder.
But the King did not turn back.
Eventually, the man sleeping inside grew restless due to the tapping-and the less physical effects of the King's approach-and began to sit up. He turned to the window, and the King saw his eyes widen as he recognized the grim specter in the window.
Now or never.
Flat as a shadow, gaunt fingers slipped under the windowframe and pushed it open as the attached body flowed into the room. The King kept his head eerily still even as the rest of his mass silently shifted forwards, locked in eye contact with the man as he fumbled for the rifle by his nightstand.
Stay calm, this time you have a plan. You have strength. You won't feel that pain again.
Despite his self-reassurances, memories of the gunshots ringing out and bullets tearing into him bubbled to the surface of his mind. And hopefully to the mind of his foe as well. The King took his gamble, hoping that he could call forth the specific fear he needed. The man before him had shot him to death before, yet here he was standing before him again. Any reasonable person would come to the same conclusion.
"Bullets don't work, knave," the King croaked aloud.
He felt the tiny drip of uncertainty and fear enter the man's mind, and he poured everything he had into it as the gun fired. He felt the fear wrap around himself like a comforting cloak. He felt the bullet puncture skin and tear through muscle. He felt the burn of pain as it passed through crude mockups of organs and bathed itself in filthy black blood, finally lodging itself in the roiling mass of darkness deep within him. He felt the same wound that killed him before appear on his body.
And he felt it to be insignificant.
The King lunged forwards, hands wrapping around the perfect picture of terror on the man's face, any of the confidence and faith he had in his weapon torn away by the nightmare's ploy. An inhuman howl of victory echoed throughout the sleeping psyches of the town as he pulled his head back, preparing to strike. Action, movement and sound blended together as violence began in earnest.
Head hits head.
Back hits ground.
Fist hammers down.
Keep going.
Punch. Punch. Punch. Punch.
Yes.
Punch. Punch. Punch. Crush.
Grab.
YES.
Rip.
Splat.
…
The King stood over his fallen quarry, panting from both exertion and excitement.
His plan had worked, but only just in time. If he hadn't planted the seed of doubt before the human fired his weapon, it would have turned out exactly the same as last time. Even now, he could feel the barrier of fear fading. This same trick wouldn't work again, it was far too costly to sacrifice himself to set it up. To think that a monarch such as himself should have to be wounded for victory was unacceptable.
He didn't have much time now, soon the gunshot wound would be more than just a mild annoyance. Gritting his teeth, the King reached to his brow and with a painful slurp wrenched one of the nails free from his crown. Ignoring his dizziness as an unidentifiable black substance floated and squirmed out into the air from the wound, he knelt down and rammed the old nail into the floor. As the nightmarish relic sank down, piercing far more than just wood, sparks of dream and fire hissed off the rusted surface. An anchor between the waking and dreaming, pinning them together like bedsheets.
And with that, the tyrant of dreamland slipped back into his kingdom, leaving the growing pain of bullets behind. As he walked past the windows of his hall, bathed in the orange glow, he took out the list again. So many new possibilities. "Ex-soldier", "abused by parents", "disfigured by botched operation"… He didn't know where to start.
It was a renaissance of fear.


by DarkStuff

close

Info

X

More by DarkStuff~!

Independent SCPs

SCP
Title

SCP-445-EX
The Word of the Day is Hope

SCP-2728
On the Barcelona Skyline

SCP-2729
What is it Good For?

SCP-3018
France & the Tale of the Well-Intentioned Understudies

SCP-3465
Better Safe Than Sorry

SCP-3466
Only Birdbrains Live the American Dream

SCP-4006
#MassaTruthetts

SCP-4455
In Short…

SCP-4465
No Man is an Island

SCP-4466
Why the Long Face?

SCP-4467
Oh, I Get It Now

Co-Authored SCPs

SCP
Title
Co-Author

SCP-1549
In Absence of a Perfect Medium
Billith

SCP-2983
Choco-Wonder Explosion Marshmallow Bites!™ by Dr. Wondertainment
Uncle Nicolini

SCP-3379
D-11424 & the Arctic Meat Hole of Infinite Wonders
Weryllium

SCP-3482
Nature Versus Naturalization
Roget

SCP-3633
I'm Right Behind Me
Captain Kirby

SCP-3713
All the World's a Stage
Varaxous

SCP-4029
Too Many Legs to be Going Nowhere
MaliceAforethought

Vend-a-Friend

Chapter
Title

Act I

Chapter 1
We Just Make Toys

Chapter 2
To Think I've Spent My Whole Life Waiting

Chapter 3
I Don't Get It, I Functioned Before

Chapter 4
You Can't Win Them All

Chapter 5
Be Strange or Be Forgotten

Act II

Chapter 6
Sometimes the Best Intentions are in Need of Redemption

Chapter 7
Life's a Show

Chapter 8
...And I'm the Star!

Chapter 9
Back in Habit

Chapter 10
Pepper's Lament

Chapter 11
Souls & Somas

Chapter 12
Deceptive Cadence

Act III

Chapter 13
And I Think To Myself...

Chapter 14
Everything Will Be Okay

Chapter 15
Holding an Umbrella but the Sun's Still Shining

Ascension

Chapter
Title

Chapter 1
Sometimes I Wish This Moment Could Last Forever

Chapter 2
Waiting on the Good Times

Chapter 3
Forever Young

Chapter 4
We Didn't Do This For Nothing

Chapter 5
URA-1902 aka The Missing Link

Chapter 6
The Consequences of a Deep, Dark Disassociation

Chapter 7
The Call to Action (for a Modern Audience)

Chapter 8
The Elusive Mx. LaFerrier

Chapter 9
It Feels Like I Only Go Backwards

Chapter 10
Along for the Ride

Chapter 11
A Hole in the Tapestry

Chapter 12
XXXXX

Chapter 13
Industrial

Chapter 14
Dancing with Rachael

Chapter 15
Ascension

Epilogue
A World Unto Yourself

Collaboration Contest Entries w/ Ellie

Make America Normaler

Off the Hook

Misc. Tales

Cornelius the Collector

Curtain Call

The Really Really Real Adventures in Capitalism

I've Been Through the Desert on a Horse with No Name

On the Radar for the miniseries The Ursus Maritimus Incident

Group of Interest / Canon Hubs

Hub
Notes

Dr. Wondertainment Hub
Made w/ taylor_itkin does not match any existing user name

What a Wonderful World Hub
Made w/ help from Uncle Nicolini, a canon sprouted from Vend-a-Friend!

Wilson's Wildlife Solutions Hub
My pride and joy, my very own Group of Interest

b-mp

rrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Dorer woke up to a horrible headache and the start of a car engine. Multiple blinks of the eye revealed a windshield in front of him, a car door to his right, and a glove compartment just above hand level. Speaking of his hands, he found them tied. His seat-belt was already clicked in. A ride it was.
Well, the last thing he remembered was his head getting acquainted with a sink, so this was an improvement from what was expected.
A glance to his left showed him the driver.
Perhaps "improvement" was too strong a word.
"Rachael," he tried to say, only to find that his mouth was duct taped.
"You're going to realize a few things, Robert. And this is the order you're going to realize them in. First, you're going to notice that your power isn't working. I'm not in pain like I was before. You see that, don't you?" She looked absolutely calm as she started working her way through the parking lot and towards the gate. "That's because I wrapped electric tape around your head, and covered it with a beanie. The brain is the source of the power, and the power is electricity based. As long as you're insulated, you're useless. You get that?"
Not like he could have done anything, Dorer thought. He still wasn't sure he had "powers" at all. But he nodded nonetheless, and appreciated the warmth of the beanie.
"The second thing will come up just ahead." Rachael reached the gate, where she slowed down to talk to the guard in the booth. A slightly overweight woman with long red hair came to the window, pulled it open, and leaned out to assess the crew.
Dorer and her made eye contact.
But nothing happened.
Dorer yelled muffled pleas for help, but she showed absolutely no reaction.
"The second thing you will notice, Dorer, is that absolutely everyone is under my control. Except you, for some unknown reason. It follows that no one will notice you, nor that you are clearly my hostage."
The guard leaned back, and pushed the button that raised the gate. Rachael drove the car out into the street.
"The third thing you might notice is an uncomfortable piece of metal touching the middle of your back. Feel it?" Dorer became suddenly aware of exactly what she had described. "That's a cell phone. You understand?" He didn't. Rachael frowned. "If you do anything except exactly what I tell you, that thing explodes, and takes your spine out with it. Get it now?" He got it enough. "Good. Your first task is to sit there and do absolutely nothing for this entire car ride. I'm going to remove the duct tape on your mouth, and you're not going to say a single thing. Do you understand?"
He nodded.
"Good."
She reached over and pulled the duct tape off of his mouth, and a horribly silent two hour car drive ensued.
Judging by the slowly rising light, it was very early morning. By the time they had turned towards the airport, Dorer judged that it was 5:00. He was too out of it to remember to check the car clock for confirmation. The airport's large white walls began to come into view, and Rachael followed a sign in French that pointed them towards a long-stay parking lot. Dorer had questions, but hadn't yet become brave enough to speak. He knew, on a logical level, that if she really needed him for something that a sentence or two wouldn't be enough to kill him, but he didn't have the willpower to overcome his fear.
As she was searching for a spot to park: "Okay, Robert. I'm going to free your hands, and you're going to grab a suitcase. You're going to walk in front of me the entire time we are in the airport, and you're going to go where I tell you to. And we're going to go through the whole process, of everything. For the sake of this going smooth, any questions?"
Rachael pulled into a parking space. He wondered, briefly, if he shouldn't find possible holes in the plan, because screw-ups might buy his freedom. Quickly, though, he decided that screw-ups would only lead to possible bloodshed and chaos, not anything productive. Best to play along. "Uhh… what happens with the cell phone through the metal detector?"
"I'll take care of it."
"What's in the luggage?"
"Only enough to make us look like travelers."
"Where are we going?"
"If you have no more relevant questions, then it's time we leave."
She turned off the car, opened her door, stepped out, walked across the front of the car and around to Dorer's side, opened his door, unbuckled him, and asked him to turn to face her. He complied. She pulled scissors out of her bag, cut the twine off his hands, and then pulled him to his feet. "Now is when you start walking in front of me. Go to the trunk and open it."
He complied. "Y'know, outside of the context of the Site, your bag kinda looks like a purse, heheh."
"Funny," she replied. "Grab the rolling suitcase. I'll take the carry-on. Now stand over there."
Keeping him carefully in her sight, she grabbed the other bag, and motioned him towards the shuttle stop. During the shuttle ride, Dorer couldn't help but wonder what would happen if he reached for the cellphone, and threw it away. What would happen if he yelled out at the other people, saying he was held captive? Would they ignore him like the guard? Would Rachael kill him? Could he possibly get the explosive off of him before it blew him up? Was dying here better than wherever Rachael was taking him? He couldn't be sure.
Survival instincts made the decision for him.
They arrived at the airport, and Rachael handed him his passport. "I grabbed some of your things before we left. This will be important." Dorer wondered why he hadn't thought of that. "You're also going to need this ticket." He saw that it went to Dublin, Ireland. Strange. He decided not to question it just yet. Rachael made eye contact with him for an odd amount of time as they stood just before the lines to baggage check. "You can talk, now. Whenever you like. Just don't say anything revealing, and don't ask too many questions."
He smiled. She needed them to look normal, so she didn't control everybody. Dorer thought this useful. "So I get to be chummy?"
"Don't push it. But don't be so deathly silent, either."
Rachael motioned Dorer to the baggage check line, and Dorer obliged. His mind raced, trying to find the best use of this newfound power. After much consideration (maybe a minute at most), he decided that the best thing to do would be to annoy her.
"Hey Raech," he tried out a new nickname, "you know about haggis?"
Rachael raised her eyebrows. The expression on her face said that she was already regretting giving him permission, and he was eating it up. The next half hour was spent telling her all about the types of events that his supposed uncle would get called up to make haggis for, seeing as said uncle was the only person in his town who made haggis.
Once Dorer and Rachael made it to the front of the line, she nudged him, pointed to which booth to go to, and said "use the keyword". This was a Foundation sanctioned flight? News to Dorer. He went up, whispered "lay low, Romeo", to which they replied "I'm sorry?", to which he replied "there's no need to be". They smiled, and sent the bag on its way. As soon as Rachael had done the same, Dorer wondered why he hadn't taken the opportunity to whisper something else to the baggage check lady. Then he remembered the guard in the parking lot, and he knew exactly why.
After Rachael had caught back up to him, he continued his talk about haggis. It was pleasant, in a way, to pretend that they were just friends at this moment. That Rachael was someone to whom he could talk about haggis. He had a lot to say about haggis. Or, as Rachael probably thought, he had a lot of nothing to say. Still, it was fun to talk, and it took his mind off of the explosive on his back.
But the security checkpoint brought it back to mind.
He made eye contact with Rachael before going through the metal detector, and she motioned him forward. Afterwards, once the TSA had motioned him through without incident, he wondered why he had worried in the first place. After they had both gone through and made their way to their gate, they simply waited. Sitting at the gate encouraged anxiety.
A heavy ball appeared in the pit of Dorer's stomach. The gate represented the step, beyond which there was no return. Here, he was still in driving distance of Site-31. Of his, well, "home", as much as it could be called one. Close to familiarity. But Dorer had never been to Ireland… and he would be there entirely on Rachael's schedule.
He didn't feel like talking about haggis anymore.
After an hour of waiting, they began boarding. Their boarding group was called, they stood up and got in line, they got to the front, they showed their tickets, they went into the hallway that led to the plane — but before Dorer could enter, Rachael pulled him aside.
"Wait," she said.
And so Dorer waited. Though he wasn't sure what he was waiting for. Eventually, everyone was inside the airplane, and you could hear the engines turn on.
"Shouldn't we be on the plane?" Dorer couldn't keep himself from asking.
Rachael shook her head. Eventually, a female airport worker (Dorer didn't know enough about airports to name her job) walked out of the plane, took no notice of Dorer and Rachael, and began to go back to the gate. Rachael motioned to follow the lady, and Dorer did. Once they were outside, Rachael pulled him aside to hug the wall. She grabbed his hand, and then dragged him through strange zigzags in the airport gate. They got to the main thoroughfare of the gates, and she pushed him in front of her as per usual.
"Walk as straight as you can down the walkway, don't stop until Gate D14."
He did as he was told, and once they did reach the gate, she pulled him into a seat by a screen that told him that the D14 airplane was leaving for New York.
"I should have expected that," Dorer mumbled.
"Yes," Rachael chided, "you should have."
"So how are we getting on the airplane?"
Rachael decided not to answer. Dorer decided not to prod. Dorer further decided that was yet another very stupid question.
"So, let me get this straight. Tell me if I'm right. You booked us a sanctioned flight to Dublin under the guise of another LaFerrier interview, you even sent a suitcase there, and it… will show on camera, on the security cameras, that we went into the plane. I bet somehow someone's going to say that we were on the plane, too. And that makes our sneaky getaway to New York far less detectable. Somehow, they're not gonna see us coming out of there on the cameras, are they? And they're going to let us onto the plane for New York, yet they're not gonna remember us being there. That's my guess, anyways."
Rachael seemed to think for a second. "You've pretty much got it. Feel proud of yourself."
Dorer attempted a smile, but it was probably more of a wince. "But why are we going to New York?"
The plane started boarding. "I'll tell you when we get on."

Rachael had taken the window seat once more.
"You talked to me, on the plane once, about how you get a tingle right on the brain-stem when you're exposed to a meme. You don't remember it, though."
He didn't, and the thought of having been unknowingly under Rachael's control before sent a needle through his heart.
"Well, the closer you get to a meme, the more it tingles. The stronger a meme is acting on your brain, the more you can feel it. You can use that to your advantage."
She stopped talking, and stared out the window, as if she had already explained everything.
"I'm still lost."
The plane began to take off.
"Memetic proximity. The closer you get to a memetic or antimemetic concept, the more it tries to exert influence on you. You can feel how much influence it's trying to exert on you, and use that to get closer and closer to the source of the meme. In this case, the company. Victor doesn't need to be able to communicate hard facts about the group of interest, he's perfectly functional as a dousing rod. Because he subconsciously knows about the company, even when he doesn't seem able to access that knowledge, the things he says about it inherently carry the meme or memes of the company. For example, my saying 1929 doesn't affect you. But his saying 1929 gives you a tingle at the base of your skull. I realized this discrepancy by comparing the feeling I got from him saying his year of birth and the year the company went bankrupt. After that, it was easy guess and check to figure out the location of the company. I had guessed New York based on the memetics I could feel in the words 'stock market'. It appears I was right."
Dorer thought he followed, but… "Why are we going to their headquarters?"
Rachael held eye contact for a second or two, but then turned to look out the window. Dorer looked over her shoulder.
Soon to be miles below them, France's houses, countrysides, roads and streets all scaled down until they were nothing more than lines and splotches of color. Site-31 was getting further and further away, as Dorer was dragged through Rachael's world. Out of his world, and into hers. He had been distracted, but the feeling of being a hostage renewed itself within him. Now, he was in a giant metal cage, flying through the air, from which there was no escape, going somewhere with no plan of his own — not even knowing the plan — and just submitting to being a passenger. He didn't know where they were going. He didn't know why they were going there. He didn't know what they were going to do when they got there.
There seemed to be two malicious energies that had suddenly taken total control of his life.
The first was █████ Industrial. █████ Industrial was what pushed him and Rachael together, it seemed to be whatever broke LaFerrier. And, through LaFerrier, it had been a shadowy influence on his career. How did he never notice how many Agent LaFerriers he had worked with? Talked with? And now, he was careening, against his will, towards their headquarters. He had barely any information on the GoI, and he was not enjoying what his brain came up with. He was never a field agent. He was never meant to be a field agent. And yet here he was.
The second, and perhaps the more direct, was Rachael. How long had she changed his brain? How many times had he forgotten something, or passed out, and never realized it was Rachael's doing? What if he evolved a resistance to her over time and time again of being affected? What if it was his proximity to her that made her use her… anomaly on him a disproportionate amount of times, and he developed a firewall just in time for her to be unable to kill him in her room? How much of his life was her doing since he met her? He couldn't seem to think straight about it.
Turning to his left, he stared at the back of her head, pressed against the seat. Here laid the woman who had smashed his head into a sink and thought nothing of it. And he still talked to her like a companion. What was wrong with him? He should know this, he thought. He was a psychologist. He had been too passive, that's what it was. Dorer was a passive force in his own life. He only got into psychology because his family had a history. Was it really his choice?
No, Dorer. Now was not the time to be doubting your whole life.
Rachael was an uncontained anomaly. She would be found, he thought. They would get her eventually. And he would be there. And they would save him from her, and it would all work out. Nevermind that she remained undetected inside the Foundation for years. He tried not to think about that. Disappearing in the middle of a plane ride would be enough to set the Foundation off. They would find her. They would.
But would they be fast enough?
Dorer noticed, slowly, how odd it was that Rachael was laying down. It occurred to him that he had never actually seen her sleep. Despite the long plane rides, and sometimes the deliriously long layovers, and of course sometimes sharing guest rooms in Sites, Dorer had always fallen asleep first, and Rachael had always been awake before he was. Now, for the first time, she was laying completely still, her head pressed into the seat, and breathing deeply.
For a moment, in the stale blueish light of the airplane, Dorer thought she looked beautiful.
But she started to shake. Not because of turbulence, either. She began to shudder, and shiver, and shake. Her breaths quickened, and her leg started twitching. Was she dreaming? A nightmare?
"Rachael…?" He hadn't spoken loud enough to wake her. He leaned over her, his natural want to help overriding his fear of everything she was, and noticed tears going down her cheeks. "Are you alright?"
She just continued to cry in her sleep.
He sat back down in his chair, blissfully distracted from his previous problems, and thought. He didn't want to wake her, as he had already guessed that she suffered from insomnia. But what was going on? It was so fast, from her falling asleep to crying and shaking.
His mom-mode engaged. There was a problem with a friend of his (he didn't stop to notice the ridiculous wording of that thought), and he was an emotional problem solver. Psychologist Dr. Dorer tried to put pieces together.
Rachael Maria Davidson.
Young for her field, got into her job through being a genius who tracked an anomaly on her own before even knowing of the SCP Foundation (though upon reconsideration, that story felt faulty). She was extremely driven, cold, hard to talk to. She barely slept. Now that she was sleeping, she immediately went into a nightmare.
And during that LaFerrier interview, Victor had said… something about hands? And it tipped her off. She became hyperengaged, and she suddenly went on a ravenous quest to find the headquarters of █████ Industrial and… explore it… possibly.
Wait a second.
Inability to connect with people, trouble falling asleep, nightmares when she does. Emotional numbness (as he perceived), aggressive behavior. Paranoia? A negative outlook on the world and others. Avoiding talking about it (although that could be an abduction tactic). And, finally, a trigger.
He looked over at her again. "Fuck," he said under his breath. "Fuck."

« I Only Go Backwards | Along for the Ride | A Hole in the Tapestry »


Another tale that started on my youtube channel and is now here on the wiki. Art is, again, by Rura. Cropped down a bit to avoid a spoiler for the 2nd part of this journey.

▸ More by this Author ◂

{$comments2}

F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

Jeffrey Winters looked down at his orange jumpsuit, shook his head, and took a step forward. The intercom buzzed again. "At least one individual should keep visual contact on the object at all times."
SCP-173's containment chamber was well lit and reminded Winters of a hospital morgue. The smell of blood and feces was almost overwhelming. Winters put the mop to work on the mess. His back was not what it used to be, but this was pretty light work. And the faster he got it done the faster they could get out of this cell.
Two other D-Class were present. The first was a barrel chested man with the beginnings of gray hair around his temples. Winters didn't know him very well, but the accent made him think the man was from the upper Midwest. The other was younger than both of them, a beanpole of a kid that he'd worked with several times before. The kid was more clever than smart, but he thought he was both. That made working with him very exciting. And dangerous.
"Blinking," the older D-class said. "Done."
After a few seconds, the younger one responded.
They traded off for several more minutes as Winters kept mopping. The three of them knew this was not the place for idle conversation. They'd all seen what distractions could cause in the past.
All three of them knew how important it was to remain focused once the rumbling shook the entire room.
"Please remain in place." The airlock behind them shut completely before they could move away from SCP-173.
The whole room shook again. None of the lights went out completely, but they began to flicker with the rumbling. All three of them held their breath. Winters was fumbling on his belt for the flashlight when the lights went out completely.
He could hear a choked scream as he clicked the light on. The statue was standing over the older D-class with its arms outstretched. The younger D-class was screaming. "Let us the fuck out of here!"
At that moment the doors behind them opened. Both of them stepped backwards into the airlock. They then realized that both doors were open at the same time. That wasn't a good sign. A garbled computer voice spoke through the intercom system. The ground rumbled again and they stepped out of the airlock. The doors didn't close, and the only other voices they could hear were distant and shrill.
In a crisis, shouting is a sign that someone is taking charge and things are getting done. These were not shouts.
Winters got a chill up his spine. "Blinking. Done," was the only thing he said out loud.

The younger D-Class came up with a plan for both of them to get out of this. He'd been working on another project recently. Some sort of machine that could destroy things. Winters had actually helped with testing it before as well. SCP-914, they'd called it. The two of them started leading SCP-173 around corners and down hallways.
They'd hoped to run into others, and they had. But none of them were alive. At any point, they might back into a monster. By chance and a little bit of knowledge, they found their way to SCP-914's chamber without harm. The chamber had a non-mechanical door. If they could lure the object in there, then they could trap it.
They'd debated for several minutes trapping themselves inside and hoping for the best. The bodies they'd almost tripped over on the way here made that seem like the worst possible option. They'd either need to escape themselves, or they were going to die in here.
In the darkness they spotted the machine.
"Ok. We need to figure out how to lure him into the machine," The kid said with an unearned certainty. Winters cocked his eyebrow but didn't stop looking at the statue. "What? No. We should close the door."
"I've seen this thing do all sorts of cool shit. We could use it to help ourselves get out of here."
"No. That's stupid. Let's go."
The kid put his hand on the door and stopped Winters from shutting it. "I'm making a decision here. We're getting rid of this thing."
Winters left eye twitched, and then he nodded. "Ok. But you lure it into the booth."
The kid smirked. "No problem."
They'd already gotten a good estimation on how far the thing could move in the space of a blink. It wasn't as instantaneous as they'd first thought, but it was still fast. It took several passes to get it far enough away to lure it into the booth without being sure it'd kill the kid.
"Blinking. Done." Winters said, and noticed with a certain level of satisfaction that the thing was in the booth with the kid.
The kid wasn't talking though. Wasn't responding at all. Winters was sort of worried for a moment until he could hear him kicking in there. They'd underestimated by a foot or two, and the thing had him by the neck. He could see the kid turning red. The statue had lifted him off the ground and was in the act of pressing on the kid's windpipe.
Winters took a gamble. He changed the setting from coarse to 1:1 and hit the activation button. Then he ran out while it was processing and shut the chamber door. With any luck the alternate version of 173 it created wouldn't kill the kid. That was no longer his problem though. Jeffrey Winters looked down the long dark hallway and started to run.

« The Blink Of An Eye | Vs. Hub | Dead Men Rise»