During the pandemic, I find that I wake up later in the morning. After all, when the world's going to shit, who wouldn't just want to lie down and sleep till it is all over? I still put on my mask and walk around the parks in my community, but overall, I find that I don't have the motivation to do any of the activities I promised myself I would do during my deployment.
Lately, I've been cataloguing the various dreams I've been having in a dream journal. I find that some of them are pretty interesting and I want to see whether by taking down dream notes, I can eventually learn how to lucid dream. I mean, I've heard that this technique can help you, I don't actually know whether this works or not. My therapist gave me this journal, and I might as well use it for its purpose.
Some of my dreams are pretty standard, like falling off a building or drowning in the ocean. Others are deeply personal, involving people I have already tried to forget. Most of them involve various internet media and games I've been playing in my offtime. However, they were pretty unmemorable for me, as they didn't really stick to me after I went to the bathroom and ate some breakfast. One of the dreams I've been having isn't like the others, though.
I don't remember the dream much. All dreams disappear once I drink a cup of coffee and I have to go to work. I only remember bits and pieces, something about having a good time in my dreams. Sounds cliché, but I took the offer. After all, it's just a dream. Dreams are temporary.
I go to sleep. I am a soldier in some kind of war, surrounded by books and shelves. Holding a gun, I slowly crouch down an aisle, when a large lantern-holding… thing blocks my way. I shoot at it to no avail. I get captured by the lantern being, and before I can know what happens to me, I wake up. Sweat runs down my cold body, and I drink another cup of coffee to remove the memory.
While riding the train, I accidentally fell asleep. I wake up to the scent of the sea. I am some sort of soldier, ready to engage in another operation. I look up, and the sun is blocked by a giant tower of flesh that roars. My heart goes out of my mouth as I get ready to shoot at the beast, but before I do, I get woken up by the train attendant, telling me I've reached the end of the station. The sky is dark. I quickly ran to the nearest coffee shop.
After the funeral, I collapse on the bed, and I see him beside me, holding my hand as the sun sets over the bay. Someone calls me over for some ice cream, and I walk over to him, prosthetic arm on my right, as his smile is the last thing I see before waking up to a wet spot on my pillow. I bring out our whiskey to forget his face.
I find myself being more tired than usual. Sometimes I drink a lot of coffee to stave off the exhaustion, but that never works out. Oftentimes I find myself sleeping more often, and every single time I always see his face in my dreams. Every time I try to reach out, I wake up, and every time I wake up I take that bottle of whiskey and start remembering our time together.
Sometimes I see him by my side as we break into a broken house, as space warps and bends around us while I hold his hand, and as we walk through it my heart flutters as his face melts around me and merges with the floors and walls.
Other times I see his face at the end of my gun as I shoot him per orders of some people over the comms. His face reforms and contorts with relief or pain as I am told to shoot over and over again. I follow the orders.
One time I found myself dressed in front of a priest and a bloody altar with his body exposed for me to know as I consummate his body and tears run down my eyes while blood runs down my chin and his body inside my mouth, his smile the only one that remains in my mind as I wake up. I haven't touched the bottle for a few weeks, but I feel like this is an exception, like yesterday, and the day before that, and three days ago.
Multiple talks to the shrink about my dreams later and after showing her my dream journals, I am recommended medicine and told to keep the alcohol out of my life. As I walk through the subway back to my home, I see his face in the crowd. I try to chase after him, but he is nowhere to be found. I board the train as his face keeps popping up in my mind.
I walk towards dreamland as I am besieged with sandstorms and gunshots while I hold his bleeding body and a symbol I barely recognize touches him and brings him back to life and I keep filling his holes with bullets but he just won't die, crying and laughing and screaming in pain as the bullets keep shooting yet his screams keep echoing and eventually he stops, but his promise to me that we would be together after this mission still whispers in my mind and I reach over to his flask taking a swig of his favorite drink with his blood covering my face and my tears making the drink salty while screaming for all of this to stop and I wake up covered in sweat, covered in tears, and covered in regret.
I started taking sleep meds since I can't sleep that well. I also fixed up my resumé and started finding a job after I was laid off. Sometimes I see his face in my dreams, sometimes I don't. Other times I find myself taking a lot more sleep meds than I need just to have a chance to see his face. And, when I go home and see our last picture together, I wonder — am I still dreaming?


Calibold

Diary Of An Existential Kid

Calibold's Mega Cool Author Page

Wednesday, October 27th, 2021
Well, Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Big Shot is finally out. 16 books in the series, not to mention all the other titles too.
I wish I was more excited, but lately I just feel… empty. Like I'm missing the joy I used to get from writing these. I dunno, I used to feel so much more connected to my old friend Greg. But it's almost like he's grown beyond me.
I haven't really written anything serious like this here in a while. Hell, I haven't written in here in a while, period. It's basically only when I make something new.
I've got a signing to go to. Just felt like I needed to write something down, get my thoughts out.
Friday, November 11th, 2022
I think my new goal is just to write at least one journal entry for every new book. I've started falling out of practice, but it's still a good kind of habit.
Not much to say about this one though, I've already started on the next. Can't even remember the title. It'll come to me.
I've been thinking of writing something new, not Wimpy Kid related. It's been so long though, I'm not even sure I can write anything else! But seriously though, I'll try and get to it if when I have time. Everyone wants to read about Greg Heffley though, and I need to eat.
I'm thinking maybe some sci-fi or something. I dunno.
Saturday, November 4th, 2023
18 books now.
Something a fan pointed out to me a while ago is that Greg Heffley remains forever in grade school, and that chronologically, time is passing in the Wimpy Kid universe. Even though the years aren't specified, he's keeping numerous journal entries, and even if the events of all these books coincided and were different arcs taking place around the same time, it wouldn't make sense for Greg to write about them at different times and not allude to those events taking place in any way. Perhaps, the fan reasoned, Greg was being held back. But he shows no signs of aging, and neither do Rowley, Manny, or any of the other characters. Would Greg ever make new friends? Learn a new skill? Have sex? Graduate? Do anything that would change him?

The fan asked me if this was meant to be reflective of my own life, that I had become trapped in an eternal present, where past and future were one and the same, and that I felt passively constrained by habit and tradition within my life, to the point where I had lost touch with time itself.
I told him to shut the hell up and read my damn book.
I still think about that kid.
October 30th, 2025
Forgot to write something for last book. Doesn't really matter anyway. Don't have anything much to say. I don't think there's anything I need to say. I can just write in here when I need to. Right now, everyone wants me to write.
March 12th, 2027
Tried writing the sci-fi story I had a little while back, here it goes:
On board the Starlight Beyond, George Huffings awoke from his slumber, the humming of the starship permeating through his bed and into his body. It threatened to lull him back to sleep, but he snapped his eyes open and stood before he could be taken. As much as he wanted to stay in bed, he knew what would happen if he would. His mother was merciless, especially when it came to his schooling. He groggily got himself showered and dressed, and I went downstairs to get breakfast. My brothers had gotten there before me and taken all the good food, which sucked because Mom hadn't gone out shopping yet. I started yelling at Rodney about how he should have saved some food for me, but then Mom decided right then to come in. I started telling her what had happened, but Mom just thought I was being annoying for no reason and told me not to have any breakfast if I was gonna be picky.
At least when I got to the bus stop, Rowley was there already. I started talking about how dumb it was that Rodrick took all the good food, but Rowley heard about food and immediately went on about how great his mom's pancakes were, but that she wouldn't let him have them for every breakfast. I kind of just tuned him out until the bus came.
When the bus got there, I
I decided to stop there. I don't think it'll go anywhere helpful, I might as well just go back to normal by that point.
January 18th, 2031
Tried to not write something for a little while, figured I could use a break. I did a bit of hiking and sketching, which was fun boring.
I don't even know what else to do anymore. This is all I know, I think. And when I try to stop, everyone asks me if I'm okay if I need help. All I can do is what I know.
Nobody's asked me if I'm okay before.
I'm okay.
June 2043
Greg should be an adult by now. He should have bills to pay and children to take care of and a job to go to. That's what my kids have done, I think.
August 2055
Fifty.
That's how many books I've written for the series. And I'm depressed happy, I guess. Big deal for me, fifty books down. Maybe I'll celebrate, buy a cake or something. I think I've earned it.
I'm not sure how long I can continue this though. I don't know what my end goal is with this series. Nothing actually progresses, it's always the same. Which I guess makes sense, it's what everyone wants to read. But I feel like I'm holding Greg back. What will happen when I run out of stories to tell about him?
Maybe I already have.
2068
I don't know where my wife is. Just writing this here in case I need to remember.
(Write the date in here when you find it)
Greg got suspended, very disappointed.
Now
I hope everyone who reads my books knows how terrible they are for doing this to me.
.
They came for me. I don't want to be a God of anything anymore.
.
Reminder to get some air.

…

…

It's just me and Greg now.
At some point everything else went away. The readers, the editors, the friends. It became kind of a dream, one that I'm still dreaming. But it's almost like the opposite, because in a dream, you can live a day in just a few hours. But for every hundred years that passes, a piece of a coherent thought manifests. Or maybe it's all happening at once. Maybe nothing's changed.
This is how it's always been, after all. I just keep writing. That's all I know. Greg and I.
The readers, they made me into this. They're horrible, leaving me behind.
There's nothing left to write on. Nothing left to say or hear my words. It's just me, and the universe. Or maybe not. Maybe I'm all that's left.
Maybe there is no universe.
I thought I saw a light, but it was nothing.
Greg's gone too, I realize. He doesn't have a world to exist on, except what I dream of.
A year has passed. Or maybe a hundred. Or a thousand, or a million billion I don't know how long it's been. I'm the only thing left. Just me and the vast infinite void. Or it could be finite. I could be in a small, tight room, and I wouldn't know or care. I'd just keep writing in my head, with no one else to read it. I don't even know how I'm here. I don't think it matters. I lived for a world that wanted me to entertain them, and even though they're gone, I still
I still
I still
I still
I don't know how to do anything else. This is all the people wanted me to do. Wallowing in their indulgences, chaining me down until there was nothing else. There hadn't been anything else.
I hate them.
I hated them.
Another eternity passed.
At some point, a world came into existence again. I think it's been here for a long time, and I just had to wait. I fell to it, and waited some more. And then I woke up, and walked forward. A new world, that I could start over, until I don't, because I looked in a window, and saw a book I already wrote, and I knew I was already here, and that I'd be suffering again, and that they don't care, and I rushed in, and I killed them, they didn't recognize me, I've changed, and then I was taken, and thrust into a cage, and they hated me too, they
They asked me why.
They asked me why I did what I did, why I'm filled with hate.
It's the first time anyone has ever asked me. Not even Greg, not even
Not even
They don't care. I'm not giving and I must be beaten.
I hate them, because that's who they are.
So I told them why I hated them.
"They were... disgusting."

+ More by Calibold +

- More by Calibold -

Calibold's Mega Cool Author Page
— SCP Articles —

SCP-7178 — A Thief In The Night
SCP-7179 — E is for Eternity
SCP-6469-D — A BABY?????
SCP-2082 — Elephas cryophilus
SCP-6156 — Oh, Doug!
SCP-6579-D — The Detective Killer
SCP-6900-D — The House of Stars
SCP-5277 — What Can Go Wrong
SCP-5363-D — Controlled Containment
SCP-3482 — fine mayor posters campaign by dado
SCP-5156 — monke
Director Bold's Proposal-J — "Guys, please don't read our SCPs 🥺"
SCP-2693 — Fell Into The Well, Fell Into The Well, Fell Into The Deep Dark Well
SCP-5559-D — The Great Ambrose Bake-Off!
SCP-3448-J — Should Have Taken Him Sleeping
SCP-4456-D — No One Expects The Spanish Decommission!
SCP-4745 — Spooky Scary Snowman
SCP-4645 — Blackmailing Computer

— Tales —

OpusConfidant Wiki - SCP-4645 - Threatini
Diary Of An Existential Kid
Responsible Promotion
Friends Of Us Never Die
Truth Lies
A Team You Can (Maybe) Trust
Happy Father's Day
Mission: Decommission
A Bold Choice
I Am Become Death
Ulysses B. Donkman and the Heinous Hitman
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Eldritch (Sung to the tune of "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas")
Chapter One - The End

— GoI Formats —

Manifest 476: Vanishing Galleon
The Book Of Mathisi, Chapter 1: The Parable Of The Three Princes
LTE-8686-Yellow-Kewpie
UIU File: 2001-023

— Other —

Mega Cool Customizable ACS Add-On Ver. 1.8.0 Guide
Decommissioning Department Hub
Fortune Favors
Decommissioning Dept. Theme
Mega Cool Customizable ACS Add-On Ver. 1.8.0
Mega Cool Author Page Tool Ver. 1.4.0
Calibold's Mega Cool Alternate SCP Logos Page
Calibold's Mega Cool Art Page (It's Mostly Just Icons, But Whatever, It's Still Mega Cool)

— Co-Authored —

Abraka David's Proposal — A Peak Behind the Curtain (feat. Ralliston, Placeholder McD, Guaire, Guezma, Jack Ike, Sherf, Yossipossi, Dr Balthazaar, Grigori Karpin, LORDXVNV, Lt Flops, Uncle Nicolini, Metaphysician)
SCP-7400 — Your Honor, League of Legends (feat. Sherf)
I, Hub (feat. many other authors)
Resurrection: New Faces (feat. Grigori Karpin, Nagiros, and redredred)
SCP-5545 — 𝙰 𝙱 𝙽 𝙾 𝚁 𝙼 𝙰 𝙻 𝙸 𝚃 𝚈 (feat. Yossipossi)
SCP-194 — Thank You For Your Cooperation (feat. CityToast)

— Foreign —
Director Bold's Proposal — Language
SCP-LA-II — Fruit


LORDXVNV

WE LIVE IN A SOCIETY by LORDXVNV

LORDXVNV's Author Page

Record of 4/20/69 Informational Breach

On 4/20/1969 (this date is believed to be erroneous; all attempts at rectification have been unsuccessful), SCP-2562-A and SCP-2562-B were given unauthorized access to documentation about SCP-1379, SCP-993, and SCP-1799. Dr. Steele recovered the following modifications of the images included within documentation for those three SCPs after the incident.
While the modifications to these images appear to be beyond the usual scope of SCP-2562's abilities, neither SCP-2562-A (up to 30% extension of text) or SCP-2562-B (up to 13% reduction of text) has manifested similar abilities since. When questioned, SCP-2562-A stated that a picture was worth a thousand words. SCP-2562-B said "Bottom text."
Attempts to restore standard Foundation accessibility themes to this page have not been successful.

Exhibit 1: SCP-1379

Top text:
1: A clown is a bringer of joy, a liberator of happiness. Those who appreciate clowns are forever young. Those who disparage clowns disparage joy itself. What, then, is left? Love? Hope? Truth? Nothing. Nothing at all. For society kills our souls, conditions us to hate what should be loved, love what should be hated. There is nothing more worthy of love than the clown.
Bottom text:
Those tasked with interpreting the bottom text indicated that they felt a great sense of pity that the artistic merit of SCP-1379 could not be appreciated by most participants in society, but refused to elaborate further, citing a feeling that it was not wise.

Exhibit 2: SCP-993

Top text:
2: Hey kids. You know what Bobble is? Bobble is the truth about childhood. You know it. You feel it deep within you. That primal rage to rip, tear, win. Oh, society doesn't like Bobble. Society wants to wear you down, sand off your rough edges, make you soft, so that by the time you can act upon your true natures, they'll be weighed down by so, so much. Well, Bobble's got a shortcut for you, kids. Bobble's got secrets and soon you'll be free…
Bottom text:
Personnel tasked with interpreting this 'Bottom Text' later created this video of their impressions.

Exhibit 3: SCP-1799

Top text:
3: LOL! Pagliacci is hilarious! The clown is sad, but people find him hilarious! This really says a lot about our society!
Bottom text:
These words did not convey the effect of SCP-2562. Personnel tasked with interpretation reported that they literally meant 'bottom text'.

More by LORDXVNV

Hide

Other works by LORDXVNV!

SCPs

SCP-6987

SCP-7069

SCP-7997

SCP-6572

SCP-6433

SCP-1337-EX

SCP-7715

SCP-7335

SCP-6248

SCP-7576

SCP-7634

SCP-1392

SCP-7272

SCP-6510

Tales

These 5 Colleges are the Best for Learning Dark Powers! Number 1 Will SHOCK You!

Requiem For Ice Spider

CCK-Class--Sorry, Original Character Interaction Story

Mountainous Essophysics

Ecce Insurgo

Insurance

Taking The Reinz

alex thorley dreams of sushi.

Garfield Timeline

A Faerie Tale Of Twin Queens

Muddy Skies

Life Can Be A Surprise

Miau Miau, Asheworth-kun

Man on a Mission

Teamwork

CAPSLOCK COLLUSION

Lampeter Registrar Entry: The Smog-Wastes of NeoAmerica

The Phlegmfont

Cheese Is Risen

WE LIVE IN A SOCIETY

But Never Trees.

The Arcana Institute Of Xerophylla

The Road To Arcana

Three Lessons for Endless Night

Ghost Signal

Names Stricken

THEREVEN: GERMINATION

Deus Volt!

GOI Formats

SPC-6500: INFINITESIMAL

SPC-1981: RONALD REAGAN SHARKED UP WHILE TALKING

SPC-179: GLORIOUS BEACON

SPC-105: WORLD IRIS

SPC-1258: CERULEAN GLOVE

Project Proposal 2007-012: "A Life Well Lived"

HIST.327: Comparative Mythology of Mekhanism and Nälkä

KTE-6990-Mendel-Nimuebusterchild — "Werebeast Curse"

The Milkssiah

A Wandsman in a Vegas Cathouse

1 Staar Cuttt 2 5

A Wandsman In The Greaze Lands Of Kansas

SPC-1548

SPC-CN-985: FIST CONTACT

Hubs

Goldbaker-Reinz Hub

April Fools Hub

NIGHTFALL: Qui Lactis

Collaborations!

SCPs

Page
Title
Co-Author

SCP-6301
Funky Finn's Children Happy Hour
Grigori Karpin, GremlinGroup

SCP-6447
Sinners' Symphony
Many.

SCP-6483
The Polar Express
Ralliston

SCP-6542
Virgin Dairy 2: SECOND CHURNING
JakdragonX

SCP-6596
8 Mile: The Beast of Lust and Hatred Born
PlaguePJP

SCP-6760
Better Luck Next Time
Liryn

Tales

Page
Co-Author

A Nightmare Dreary
DodoDevil, DrGooday, LAN 2D, Impperatrix

The Bathrooms Wiki
THE YURT

Hubs

Page
Co-Author

SPC Hub
MrWrong, Lt Flops, PeppersGhost

Holiday Hub
Deadly Bread, PeppersGhost, TheBoxOfFun

Hide

footnote:
BOTTOM TEXT


slurppp

Read my other works here!

“Ten minutes, D-1246,” the man sitting in front of him said, “and then you're done.”
“That's it?” he asked, staring in mild disbelief. The man, a researcher that he wasn't allowed to know the name of, was rather unpleasant to look at, with darting, bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair. His lab coat, while clean and free of wrinkles, felt bizarrely out of place with its dreadful grey color. A layer of dead skin, brittle after being robbed of its connection to life, yet remaining unshed among the muteness of white that was so commonplace.
“Yes.” The man shifted around in his seat uncomfortably before tapping on the watch on his desk. And what an ugly watch it was! Large and clunky with a skinny wrist strap that looked as if it would snap at any pressure of weight. Its screen, nothing more than a block of black plastic with red digits beneath it. “Well, nine minutes and fifty-two seconds now.”
“Why?” D-1246 asked. “That's not a lot of time. Not a lot of time at all.”
“Oh, it's not too bad. I've seen a couple poor saps end up with as few as two minutes before. Really, it's to the whims of the higher ups, know what I mean?” the researcher smiled, unconvincingly. He picked up the watch and held it out for him. “Here. Your clock, just to remind you of the time. You're lucky, you know. If they let you have too much time, then you wouldn't even be getting the clock at all.”
D-1246 glanced at the watch in the man's hands. On its flimsy looking screen, the numbers "09:33" stared up at him. He looked up at the researcher, who kept his gaze down on his desk. A large bead of sweat had formed on his forehead. He could only look as it began rolling down his face, leaving behind a trail of wet residue.
Finally, he grabbed it from his hands, stuffing it into the pocket of his jumpsuit without a second thought. The researcher exhaled and quickly stood up from his desk.
“Now then, shall I escort you to the containment chamber?”
“Do I have a choice?”
The researcher looked at him incredulously. “Why, of course! You always have a choice. Did anyone tell you otherwise? I mean, do you not want to go to the containment chamber? If not, you may return to your quarters.”
“No, I want to go there,” D-1246 said. “Please take me there. Quickly.”
The researcher nodded and walked past him, exiting the office without looking back. D-1246 grimaced and quickly rose from his chair, following him. He stared at the back of the man's head as he shoved a hand into his pocket, scalp prickling as he felt the rigid stares of the security officers digging into him with deeply regarded suspicion. Figures. They probably weren't even allowed to know where he was going. Not here.
The watch… The device called out to him. It told him that he should look. Just a peek, just a glance. Don't you want to know how much time is left?
No. I don't, D-1246 thought firmly. He willed his hand to leave his pocket, resisting the urge to just crush it in his hands. With how cheaply made it was, he was sure that it would crumple under any form of pressure. But he knew that if it were to be destroyed, then he would just receive a new one.
Yes, and if he were to destroy that one, he would get yet another one. He was sure of the fact that they had trillions of these things in reserve. Why wouldn't they? People probably took out their anger on the watches all the time. D-Class were a violent lot, sad silhouettes of men left to rot in their indentured servitude to the Foundation until either they died, or were transferred.
Oh, who was he kidding? No one survives.
The researcher suddenly stopped and turned to look at him, a trembling smile dancing on his lips. A pitch-black door with no windows and a silver doorknob stood behind him. He took out a card, laminated but with absolutely no distinguishing features, a blank piece of hard paper. He tapped it against the door and nothing happened. “Here we are, D-1246. The containment chamber. Its been… outfitted to suit the needs of this experiment. You're in good hands.”
D-1246 wordlessly stepped forward and gripped the doorknob. It was cold, almost painfully so. Experimentally, he turned the knob a few times without opening the door. It turned smoothly, of course. Finally, he opened the door and stepped inside, making a point to stare at the floor as he did.
“Farewell, and good luck,” the researcher said. Before he could elicit a response, the door shut behind him.
Finally, he looked up.
The walls were coated in a disgusting amalgamation of dark, neon colors that physically hurt to look at. They seemed to shift and fold onto themselves, moving to create new messes of melded mass at every second. Bright, blaring lights shone from the ceiling, applying a white, almost waxy coating on every inch of the room. Assortments of boxes and bins sat at the back of the room along with one other person, who stared at him in near awe.
Tentatively, D-1246 approached him. The stranger stared directly at him, visibly trembling and with several pencils clutched in one fist. In his other hand, he held a crumpled ball of parchment that complemented the over-sized brown jumper he wore, which clung loosely to his skinny frame.
“Hey there.” The person broke into a wide smile, revealing perfectly white teeth. “D-8538, six minutes and fifty seconds. But you can just call me John. Nice to meet you.”
“Um, same,” D-1246 responded awkwardly. “You have a name?”
John tilted his head. “What's your time?”
He shoved his hand into the pocket and felt that the watch was still there. A shame; he was hoping that it would have vanished on its own accord. “I don't know. I don't want to check. Is that your real name?”
“Oh, really? Alright then.” John looked down at his wrist, which had a large, clunky device that was identical to his own in every way. Red digits counted down on its screen at a rate that was faster than he was comfortable with. “Ah, down to six minutes and thirty-five seconds now. I've been counting down in my head, but it's reassuring to see it happen with my own eyes, you know?”
“No. I don't know,” D-1246 said. “Why is your name John?”
“It's anxious knowing that I have so little time left,” John continued, staring down at his wrist with glazed eyes. “Anxious in a good way. I'm also lucky. Luckier than most. I was given fifty-nine minutes and twenty-two seconds at first. Did you know that they only let people who have under an hour in here? I just barely made it. I'm so lucky. You're lucky too. We both are.”
“I don't feel lucky,” D-1246 muttered, feeling the watch in his pocket. He turned it around and around, rubbing his fingers on the screen. It felt incredibly smooth, free from any sort of blemish. He wondered if it was sanitized before they gave it to him. Would they go that far for such a cheaply made device?
“Oh, but you are!” John dropped his pencils and parchment to grab him by the shoulders. “Look around you! We're the only ones here. In fact, we'll probably be left alone until our clocks run down. Of course by then, we'll just be escorted out by those awful guards, but still! Even a second in this marvelous room… Such an experience is incredible.”
For the second time since entering the room, he looked around. Blistering spots of various colors glared at him from the walls, practically boiling from their cast. It was a great room, there was no doubt about that. He just wished that it didn't hurt so much to be in it. He was afraid that at any moment, his mind would simply fail and his body would crumple from the overwhelming pressure exerted by the chamber.
“Ah, sorry about that.” John released his grip on him and picked up his materials from the floor. He then gestured to the various cardboard boxes and tin trash bins around him. “Why don't you enjoy yourself? Look in the boxes, the bins. You won't be disappointed.”
Mutely following his advice, D-1246 timidly moved to open a small box near him. Inside of it, a large stack of blank parchment sat. Next to it, what must have been hundreds of various pencils were piled together. They were each wrapped in plastics of varying colors in a way that resembled the walls. Without really thinking, he picked a pencil up from the box. It was decorated in bright vivid colors akin to plasma. It glowed and grinned at him. Invited him. Spoke to him.
“Use me,” they said. “Why not? It'll be fun. You don't have much time left. You're lucky. You're so lucky. Use me.”
D-1246 grimaced and dropped the pencil back into the box, ignoring the quiet voice of complaint that spoke in his head. With a stomach full of dull dread, he peered into a trash bin.
Inside of it were several pieces of crumpled parchment. Succumbing to curiosity, he dug one out and read its contents, which were written in a faded scrawl that was barely legible.

I wish someone would let me out. I tried yelling at them but they just ignored me. I don't have much time left. It's evil. Everyone praises them for this, says they're doing what's best for humanity, but it's evil. I just wish I weren't alone, stuck writing here. I hate this. I hate everyone here.
It's so boring here.
Is this even an SCP? There's nothing to do. Is this how I spend the rest of my time? My head hurts. The walls are killing me.
00:31 00:27 00:21 00:15 00:10 9 8 7 6 5 4321

Repressing the urge to vomit, he dropped the parchment. His feet, moving of their own accord, began pacing around his room. His body was no longer his own, rather a shifting array of nerves and wires being jostled around and tangled in a constant state of pandemonium. His chest heaved and caved onto itself, writhing in fear as all of the sudden, everything became too large for its liking.
“Is that how I'll end up?” he asked, seeking an answer from no one in particular. He stopped pacing and sat simply on the floor. “I need to get out of here. I need to escape.”
“Hey, calm down,” a voice said from behind him. A heavy hand brought itself down on his shoulder. “Everything's alright. Don't worry one bit.”
He couldn't calm down. It was impossible. No matter what he did, the walls would appear. They would remind him that no, no he couldn't escape, connecting to form one singular cube that was hollowed out to keep him. To contain him. To tie a leash to him and warn him that if he were to ever pull too hard, the walls would close. The maddening neon cesspools of color would become a void to swallow him whole.
Well, how long had he been here anyway? An age old question, one without an answer as clearly evident by the lack of a watch on his wrist. Again, he brought his hand to his pocket and allowed himself to feel the temptation of looking. Slowly, he turned around, eyes trailing upwards to see John, sporting eyes that were red and swollen. Or were they? It was hard to tell when they were both bathed in the excessively bright lights that filled the room.
He felt something cold fall over his hand in his pocket.
“What are you-”
John lunged backwards, letting loose a laugh as he did so. D-1246 turned around and saw that he held a second watch in his hands, one that was identical to the one on his wrist. It took a second longer for him to realize that his pockets were now empty.
“Give that back,” D-1246 said shakily. “That's mine.”
“O-Out of time. I'm running out of time. I need more time!” John spat. With trembling hands, he quickly replaced the watch on his wrist. “You don't mind, do you? I-It's only fair. Ah, let me out. Let me out. Let me out. I don't want to be here. Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Let me out. Can you hear me? Let me out. I'll do whatever you want. Let me out! COME FOR ME!”
Pupils dilating, John D-8538 groaned and began scratching at his scalp. D-1246 could only stare at him wordlessly as his body violently shook.
“No! I can't keep counting, stop! This isn't mine!” D-8538 screamed, throwing his wristwatch at D-1246. “I have time. Just look! Plenty! More time than anyone! It's not true!”
He picked up D-8538's watch from the floor. “00:04”, it read.
D-8538 started rambling incoherently. “00:03”
D-8538 started crying. “00:02”
██████ fell silent. “00:01”
“00:00”
D-1246 didn't want to look.
He looked.
██████ was gone. In his place, sat his own wristwatch along with several pencils and a piece of crumpled parchment. As he approached it, he realized that he no longer held the stranger's watch.
What was his name?
“What was who's name?” D-1246 asked, out loud. “He wanted this anyway. Was enjoying it, the masochist.”
No one answered.
He picked up his watch from the ground and, without really meaning to, glanced at the display.
“02:28”
Grimacing, he attached it to his wrist before kicking away the various pencils scattered around it. He then picked up the piece of parchment left behind by someone.

Spinning, turning, bleeding.
Down the wall, a clock is ticking, a steady spin, turn, bleed.
Dash the clock, the keys, spinning, turning, bleeding.

The keys, twisting, locking, never stops the crushing.
Locks on locks, walls upon walls, the steady dripping.
Loud lights, bright screams, the many outweigh us.

Scorn the ones who hate, water holds shape, only those you need.
Counting, clicking, never stopping, pouring down a wall.
The clock boils, gleaming golden keys within the throats of dogs.

“Disgusting. What garbage is this?” he said to himself. Unable to resist the urge, he tore the parchment up, letting the pieces scatter beneath him. It felt wrong. All of it felt so, so wrong. Two minutes and twenty-eight seconds. Much less, by now. Should he write something? Do something? Try to leave? He wanted to leave a message. To tell the people exactly what he thought of them. To leave something behind.
But what? But what?
He could feel it. The walls breathing down his necks, molding into a dome to crush and suffocate him. Laughter, dancing, invitations. They wanted him. They wanted him so badly. He tried to reject it, but their insistence continued. He could feel his mind fill with static, his body yearning to merge with them.
“No. Come on. Just let me have this one,” D-1246 whispered, afraid that the walls would respond. He picked up a pencil from the ground, wincing as it squirmed and burned in his grip. His body trembled from an imaginary earthquake, turning his vision into a shaky mess of colors and lights. Despite this, the parasite clinging to his arm told him a clear message.
“01:57”
Red lights, evil lights, bleeding splatters on a screen. Dark, dark screen, all-encompassing forever here. Which is it? Assimilation or oblivion? The color beckoned. They swirled, these plastics and colors and paints and walls and floor and pencils, they yearned for him, called to him.
And oblivion, and void, it stared up at him, a part of him sleeping. An iron mantle, with he, the willing chained, counting down the minutes (01:21) until he crosses the finish line. No need to do anything, D-1246. Just sit back and relax. The clock, the time, it will do the rest.
"The walls! The color! It wants me, it calls me!” he moaned. Tall, skinny shadows with dangling limbs danced around him. The shadows, along with the lights of the room kept growing until they both enveloped the entire chamber. The colors thrashed and screamed savagely from within its confines, begging to be let free, begging for him to join them. Voices shattered his eardrums. He felt darkness envelop him as its shadow draped (00:48) over his body. The walls bent backwards, burning in a radiant dark glow. His body basked in it, trembling and shaking in the cold.
But the plasma! But the searing, sunny plasma! It flowed, counting, clicking, never stopping down the walls of his throat, coating him in it, searing his flesh and searing his lungs and pulling at his soul and breathe D-1246, just breathe. Your mission is simple. Confront the anomalous object as if it were sentient and then ask it the questions we've written down for you. No, it won't answer. Yes, you should write that down.
Void eternal, a soulless plague, it sapped the blood in him. Redness, dooming digits, looming over him, (00:26) terrible, even if it's just plastic, because it is just plastic, it's just cheap copper wires, cheap plastic, cheap production, they don't care. Can't you see? Just write it down.
He lifted his (arms? appendages? limbs?) and wrote. But the pencils were no more, the room was no more. Nothing (00:19) made sense, suspended in twilight and bleeding soul.
“████!” he screamed at the researcher, “His name was ████! He wanted time! He wanted (00:14) time!”
“D-8538? I'm afraid I don't recognize the designation,” the researcher replied. Only, he was never a researcher, was he? Probably had nothing to do with their kind. He offered a horrible, fake grin and tapped on his rotting-grey lab coat. “Please, do try to calm down. Don't you want your (00:08) time? I'm afraid I cannot give it to you in your current state, D-1246.”
He blinked and at once, the not-researcher was crushed under billions of particles of oblivion. Color (00:07) spread, trying ever so desperately to reach, to grow, to hold ██████. It was ██████ within a pool of black, within empty space, within (00:05) smoke. Bad idea. Did it have a (00:04) choice?
No.
Because he never had a choice. Oh, John. Ten minutes? That was (00:03) plenty.
Can't leave anything. Can't leave imprints. He was stuck now, stuck within a vortex, along (00:02) with John and all of his past mistakes. Who would remember you? Who would talk about you? Take the gift D-1246, take it and decide. Smother the color, smother the melting pot of memories, of words, (00:01) of life. Smother it and never look back.
Smother it and forget (00:00).


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The following article is a part of the And Every Time We Meet Again storyline. Whilst you can read it on its own, it's highly recommended you read the previous installments to get this article in its fullest.

10th of September, 1985
Overwatch Command, 75 kilometers north of Kraków, Poland

WARNING! FATAL OVERWATCH COMMAND SECURITY BREACH IMMINENT!

WARNING! FATAL OVERWATCH COMMAND SECURITY BREACH IMMINENT!

Shut up, shut up, shut up!
There was nothing in the world O5-9 wanted more at this instant than to be clear of any thought her human host was unfortunate to have. The panic, the thought she had too little time before they would enter her lair, the frantic nonsensical drive to her thought process — if she could, she would cut it. All of it. But she was only human.
Trying her best not to snap with pure fury at the frustration of being so close to completion of all her plans yet so close to being confronted by her enemies, she looked at the monitor situated next to her, praying silently for it to tell her the protocol is done.

PROTOCOL THOUSANDTH DAWN IS 95% FINISHED.

She was frustrated beyond words, angry at the world and herself for the simple fact the computer setting everything in place wasn't quick enough. The spell required to break the Fifth Seal was ready, but she couldn't execute it without the things that machine was preparing, and she couldn't stand that thought, Even if she hated that thought like nothing she ever had, Nine had to come to terms with the fact she simply needed more time.
Even if she knew the pages of the Kodex Tenebra were too old and fragile to survive panicked browsing well, she had no other option. Frantically, she searched for something, nay, anything, that would buy her more time. She couldn't allow herself to lose, not now, not after all the sacrifices and pain she's been through — even if the price of using the Kodex again was almost too high, she'd rather die due to it than to see everything she'd worked for in this dimension crumble seconds before completion.
Coughing blood, she examined page after page of the thousands present in the gigantic tome with the precision of a surgeon and the quickness of a marathon runner. And when she was just about to give up, she noticed something. Something she knew would come in handy. She smiled.
With a quick look on the ritual page, a few coughs spitting blood on said page, and a few moves of her tired hands, she opened the portal according to the words of old on the page. She didn't think she had enough power and energy left in her to be able to pull the ritual of if she was honest, but she welcomed the surprise warmly. Barely crawling back towards the half-transparent way she just opened, she gazed into its inside, accompanied by the sound of millions upon millions of chitinous wings rubbing against each other.
What she saw was hunger. Unquenchable hunger.
With the final ounces of magic within her, she reached into the portal. Praying the Red within her would repel the devourers of the other reality, she grabbed one of them, bringing it into her own reality seconds before the gateway connecting the two closed.
For a split second, the locust was confused, trying to understand where it was, trying to comprehend why it was pulled away from its feast, trying to get why someone would once again awaken its hunger within itself. And in that split second, Nine reached towards its soul, the very essence of its mind and being, and, pointing towards the outside of Overwatch Command, told that hunger one thing.
She told it where the food was.

* * *

The sun was beautiful that afternoon.
Like a kid trying their best to not fall asleep past bedtime hours, the star clung to the final moments of the day on the distant horizon, filling it with shades of red and orange. Contrasting to the grays of the antimemetically-hidden bastion of Overwatch Command, it illuminated everything in the reach of the gigantic clearing the building and Daniel Asheworth, alongside everyone he gathered, stood in.
Looking around himself, once again gazing upon the prison-like building the main gathering place of Overseers was, he found himself… almost sad. Not because he knew the goal of his entire life up to this point was about to finally conclude, for the better or for worse, no, quite the opposite — he was happy he would finally put end to everything keeping him from burying his past. He just… he worried that now that the main driving force in his life would be solved, that he would become… obsolete? No, that wasn't a good word, but it was the closest he could express that feeling in a word.
"Daniel!"
Looking towards the source of the voice, the thaumaturge turned towards an incoming red-haired woman with big, purple eyes. Jessie Rivera wasn't a woman who could be easily intimidated, but in those purple eyes, Asheworth could sense uncertainty.
"Everyone's ready."
She pointed towards his little legion they all gathered — Fae, humans, Children of the Night, all gathered together. The Triumviraté, Foundation personnel, mages, followers of Nowak prior to his death, and just… normal people, all standing about a kilometer away from the building of Site-01. All of them, ready to storm said building to take down the person that made their lives a living hell for the last decade or so — O5-9. Daniel subconsciously smiled, allowing himself to feel a slight rejoice at everything he'd done. If someone told him ages ago he'd lead an angry mob to kill a tyrannical Overseer, he'd never believed them. But, here they were.
"They're waiting for your command."
He snapped out of his trance, looking again at the three people standing below the hill he was standing on — Jessie Rivera, Jeremy Cornwell, and Ailbié Tier'ney. They, aside from Rivera, were all shouting commands towards the preparing army, forming them in formations and ordering them to prepare their equipment. None of them had any idea what Nine could have at her own disposal, but they hoped the hundreds of people wielding spells, weapons, and technology would be enough. They had no other choice.
He turned towards all of his men, and, for a brief second, looked into his inner Blue. Feeling the recently unlocked power of Father within himself, he allowed it to take control over him for a split second, his eyes and mark on the forehead filling with a blueish light. He cut it off almost immediately, letting both the entity and himself be satisfied. He cleared his throat, multiplying the volume of his voice by the power of the combined magic of himself and Father. Once he could feel all the eyes in the area were focused on him, he finally spoke.
"I… look, I won't pretend I'm someone who knows his things," he started, scratching his head. "I'm no hero, I'm no protagonist, but most importantly — I'm no leader. I came here from my own little hole, like all of you, moved forward by one single goal — of wanting to finally be free of everything holding me back from finally living a life devoid of fear. It simply so happened I was lucky enough to bring all of you here, bound by a single goal," he pointed towards the factory-like Site-01. "Bringing that bitch down."
He paused for a second, taking a deep breath.
"Many might have told you we're coming to a certain death here. Even more might have told you our fight here will be forgotten. And, to those, I have one question: even if that will be our inevitable fate, does it mean we shouldn't fight?"
The silence that followed was an answer good enough.
"We might die, that's true. We might even end up worse than death, there's no imagining what that bastard will do once she ascends to her godhood. But, if there's a slim chance we'll stop the end of the world as we know it from happening by coming here, I say — we take that fucking chance! We take it, and make it our own chance to shine!"
As chatter amongst his followers followed, he continued.
"Even if it will cost my life, and the life of everyone here, stopping the disgusting devourer the Beast is from overtaking our reality will be a sacrifice worth having. I—"
The very moment he was about to deliver the final word of his speech, he noticed something in the back of the entire crowd, close to the gates of the bastion of Overwatch Command. It felt… it felt like a portal, even if he couldn't see it; a vaguely greenish one, but visibly corrupted by Nine's Red magic. He felt it, deep inside of him, like a guard dog smelling an incoming intruder. Before he could react, however, the portal closed like it had never been there in the first place.
And from within the portal, a single small locust stepped out.

* * *

Even if O5-9 — or, rather, her true form, the Beast — was ancient beyond time, there was something captivating in the expression of fear visiting the faces of people that thought they were in a won situation. That… that total loss of everything they thought they had, crumbling down to their lowest lows; she could never get enough of it. Observing suffering remove those goddamned snarky smiles from the faces of humans, it was almost exciting to her — not in the sexual sense, but something deep within Nine smiled when she could experience that brief second of total panic and fear within someone's eyes.
Today, she was lucky enough to again see that wonderful sight. Many, many times.
With a wide smile, she continued to look at the cameras showing the outside of the gigantic bastion of Overwatch Command, now filled with dead corpses consumed by the ever-increasing swarm of the locust she summoned, and an equal amount of panicked Fae, Children of the Night, and humans, running away from everything in their best attempts to not join said corpses. And, in the middle of it, she could see that damned thaumaturge, that disgusting little shit, trying his best to stop his people from dying. Even with the power of Father equal to that of her power of the Beast, he couldn't hold them off well enough. His little blue bubble of protection around himself and his friends was strong, yes, but it couldn't hold for much longer. She—
Ding!
Her observations were suddenly cut off by a notification ping, coming from her left. She looked at the monitor of the machine, trying to see what the issue was.

PROTOCOL THOUSANDTH DAWN HAS NOW PROPLERLY LOADED.

She thought she could hold it back, but the Red inside her couldn't possibly not rejoice after seeing what she had just seen. Despite all the courses from that damned book and the tiredness felt by all the days she didn't sleep to study it, she could once again feel the power inside her, festering in her body like the otherwordly parasite it was. Feeling the Beast overtake her as pure Red filled her eyes, her soul, her very being, she reached for the console next to the monitor, stretching her fingers to make the best use of them in her life.

deactivate: overwatch-command cover-protocol
deactivate: overwatch-command security-systems
open: overwatch-command doors-all
display-message: "Come in, let's get it done with. No need to make this longer than it needs to be."
> ARE YOU SURE? YOU CANNOT UNDO THESE COMMANDS ONCE EXECUTED.
…
…
…

She again looked at the Kodex in front of her, the monitor with the message, and then at her own hands. Something deep within her, a faint voice of someone she used to be ages ago, told her to say no. The voice was smart, yes, but not smart enough to feel Nine had already made up her mind. With a smile of Red once again visiting her face, she answered the question.

yes

* * *

"WHAT THE FUCK DO WE DO?!"
Death. That was the only thing Tier'ney could focus on as ve screamed those words towards Asheworth. Despite him, ver, Rivera, Cornwell, and a couple of others being temporarily saved from the ongoing slaughter by a protection bubble formed by Asheworth's magic and Rivera's reality-bending, ve could feel they were growing weak. The ever-increasing movements of millions of wings rubbing against the shell of the shield was too much to handle, no matter the power the two held.
"I… I…" Asheworth tried to say in a panicked manner, frantically looking around himself, as if he was trying to find something, no, anything to anchor to. He knew Nine would strike with something ruthless and unexpected, but nothing he would've ever thought of would even come close to this. "I don't know, okay?!" He snapped, screaming in frustration.
He looked at Rivera again. She wasn't any better; sweating, she was visibly at the threshold of losing it. Her hands started to shake, and before she could react, with a sucking sound, the bubble around the seven people inside of it suddenly got smaller. Much, much smaller. Tier'ney could practically feel the walls of their prison now with ver face.
"We… uh, we need to," ve looked around verself, meeting the panicked faces of the two Fae and one Nightwalker, then turning them towards the outside world. Even if the locust swarmed their bubble like there was nothing in the world aside from it, ve could still make out some parts of what was outside. And oh how ve wished ve wasn't.
Death. That was the only thing Tier'ney could see outside their heaven. Everpresent death, wherever ve looked. Corpses upon corpses, swarmed upon and consumed by the duplicating bugs, and in the middle of all of it, a mosaic of magical explosions from people trying to run away from their inevitable fate. Tier'ney was an atheist, but if there was a hell somewhere out there, this is what it looked like.
Ve squinted, trying to make out anything out there that wasn't death. And that was when ve noticed it.
"Overwatch is opened!" Ve shouted, turning ver head towards Asheworth.
"W-What?"
"The doors to the building are open. All of them."
Not believing ver words, Asheworth came closer to the edge of the bubble, trying to focus on both maintaining its integrity and understanding what Tier'ney meant. With visible frustration and hardship, he looked out into the world outside the protective aura.
"It's… it's a trap. She wouldn't just open up her bastion for no reason—"
"I know it's a trap. But even that is better than… all of this!" Ve said, looking around the two of them. Slightly quieter than before, ve continued. "I… I know it's a lot to ask for, but if you'd be able to push the bubble towards the building, then there's a chance we could… hide away in it."
"The… the locust would… get in there anyways."
"It would buy us enough time to possibly think of something to get rid of them."
He looked at his hands, then at the people around him. He nodded slowly, realizing what must be done.
"I'll… I'll try."
Moving his hands in a serpentine manner, he screamed in frustration as the bubble moved slightly forward. Rivera looked at him, and, without words, realized what was going on. She too joined the ritual, and the structure moved one more step forward.
The process wasn't quick — hell, describing it as slow was doing a disservice to just how unhurried it was — but it was happening. Step by step, one scream of frustration and desperation after the other, they made their way to the building of Site-01. Or, rather, as close to it as they could get without entering its opened gates.
"We can't go in," Asheworth suddenly said, panting.
"Wh-What? Why?" Ve asked, turning towards him.
"We can't leave them behind." He looked at the carnage outside.
"They're… dead, Daniel. They're dead. All of them, for fuck's sake, there's no one there!"
"No… I can… feel them. A couple of them, still fighting for their lives. I didn't bring everyone here to die," he paused. "They deserve this much from me."
Ve wished ve could argue with him, but ve could see he already made up his mind.
He closed his eyes, and, for a brief second, the entire world turned Blue.
Their bubble shattered as Asheworth started to levitate, with his mark on the forehead and eyes burning with a color ve couldn't really see due to its brightness, but could feel was blue. He moved his hands, and the world trembled as a scream of a million locust filled the air. With a single word of his, they all exploded into a mixture of chitin, blood, and flesh, letting free of those they tried to consume. He fell on the ground, tired beyond belief, and all was over.
Tier'ney immediately ran towards him, trying to understand what the hell just happened. He was moving, but just barely, standing on all fours, trembling. There was blood coming from practically every orifice of his body, including his coughing mouth.
"Are you… fine…?" Ve asked in an unconvinced manner, looking at his face. He was panting, with tears coming down his eyes.
"No." He tried to stand up, only to fall on his knees again.
"You need to rest, you're visibly—"
"NO." He repeated, this time standing up for good. He looked into the sky, and, for a brief moment, a spark of Blue left his eyes into the almost-night sky.
"Daniel, what happened?" Ve came closer to him, grabbing him by his shoulders. "Daniel?!"
"I… I lost."
"Wh… what?"
"I lost all of Father's power that was within me." He looked around the battlefield, only to meet hundreds of corpses laying around it, with one on maybe twenty moving. "That was what saved them. All the power I had left."
"You're… you're joking, right? You have to be." Ve looked in his eyes. "Right?!"
"No."
If you could describe silence as deafening, then what followed was in fact a deafening silence.
"But… how will you face her now? You can't—"
He looked at his hand, and summoned a small flame into it. "Guess my own magic will have to be enough." Asheworth looked at the shocked Cornwell and Rivera standing next to them, and nodded towards them and Overwatch Command. "We need to go."
He one final time looked at the setting sun in the distance, and all three took a step into the building.
And then, all Overwatch Command suddenly disappeared.

* * *

Jeremy Cornwell didn't exactly remember what just happened, but he did know one thing: his head was hurting like hell.
Quickly standing up from the cold floors of Overwatch Command, he realized he was just as he had been when he entered the building — mostly fine, though tired beyond belief. He checked if he still had his gun, and, upon realizing he does, he realized something: Site-01 didn't exist.
Not in the literal sense of course, he was still standing inside the entrance to the building; it's that it didn't exist in the previous reality they just entered through. Instead of the near-nighttime sky previously visible outside through the entry gates, all he could see was Red — a red and black void where existence should be, with the only thing actually existing in it being the entire building of Overwatch, floating inside nonexistence, with him, his two friends, and Nine inside.
Looking in front of him, he noticed Asheworth and Rivera were there too, similarly standing up like he had done seconds ago. As disoriented as him, they looked around themselves, trying to make sense of what just happened.
"What the—" he tried to ask the others, only to be cut off by the building starting to violently shake, as if an earthquake hit it. He fell down on the ground, and, to his panic, realized there was a gigantic crack forming on the part of the floor between himself and the rest, growing larger and larger by each second. "What the fuck's that?!" He shouted to Asheworth.
"I… I don't—" the other was cut off by another shake, making him fall to the ground again. The building suddenly snapped in half, sending one half, with Cornwell in it, away from the other one, with Asheworth and Rivera in it. Slowly but surely, the two halves grew more and more separated. "It looks like… reality's… falling apart…? I think…?!" Asheworth shouted to him across the new reality they found themselves in, filling the forming void with sound.
"What the hell do I do?!" Cornwell answered, equally shouting.
"Try to find anything helpful on your side — we'll find Nine on ours." A little quieter, he added: "I can feel she's somewhere here."
Realizing that even if he wanted to talk to the others longer, he wouldn't be able due to the distance forming between their two parts, he turned around, took a deep breath, and started walking forward.
Think, Jeremy, he thought to himself. What would be useful in a situation like this?
Even if his home, Site-120, wasn't a small Site, the sheer size and number of Overwatch Command amazed him — it was a labirynth of rooms, corridors, storage rooms, labs, and meeting halls. He'd never seen anything this spacious before.
Human resources.
No, that definitely wasn't it.
O5-2 Maintianance Apparatus.
Not that, for sure.
Main laboratories.
Not that either.
Caffetteria.
And not that.
SCP-001-B.
Even if it was what he was looking for, Cornwell didn't think getting in trouble with whatever the hell oh-oh-one was was worth it.
Site map.
Nope.
O5 Meeting Hall.
Bingo.
With a pounding heart and a slightly terrified expression, he opened the door, and walked in.
If he was honest, he expected the main room in which Overseers met to be something bigger. Much bigger. Instead what he got was a mediumly sized office, with one gigantic table in the middle, accompanied by thirteen chairs, upon which twelve people — or, rather, Councilmen — were sitting.
Initially reacting with panic, he soon realized they were all frozen, as if something stopped them halfway through action. Poking gently the closest member of Overwatch, seconds later he was sure — it was the same phenomenon that happened back at Site-120. And Nine was the one behind this, whatever her goal was.
When a few minutes later, his pounding heart was once again beating normally, he realized O5-1 — or, rather, the old man he presumed to be O5-1 — had an opened SCiPNET terminal in front of him. An SCiPNET terminal with full O5 Clearance. He scrolled through the countless tabs opened, commands run, and files accessed, trying to find anything that would help him out here. Though it took longer than he would have thought it would, after a while, he hit his mark.
SCP Foundation Sites direct messaging.
Realizing he could use this to contact everyone out there about what's happening and who O5-9 really was, he clicked on the program and opened it, beginning to type out his message. The moment he was about to hit enter though, the entire screen was swarmed by a group of Fae, smiling ironically. He sighed, realizing his plan was over.
Unless.
5795-2 live in nested narratives, don't they?
Cornwell was never one to mess with any 'pataphysics; if he learned one thing in his years of service in the Foundation, it was to never look where you're not meant to look. Not because his clearance physically forbode him from doing so, but to avoid any situations that would scar him for life. Snooping around Site-120's cafeteria, however, taught him one more thing: narratives can be altered, narratives can be destroyed — but most importantly, narratives can be written. And if a group of narrative-dwelling entities wants to live in the story of the files in this computer…
He looked to his Foundation phone, and the number of files present in it. He realized it was almost entirely devoid of actual SCP articles, aside from one very specific topic: the entirety of the Damien Nowak case. He grinned slightly, knowing what he can do. He stretched his fingers, opened a file editor on the terminal, took a deep breath, and looked at his phone, wanting to get everything right. Writing prose was never his good side, but looking at the number of incident files when compared to SCP ones, he would need to only write six of them, and seven SCP articles.
Thirteen reports should mean thirteen stories. Thirteen plus this one, equal to fourteen. Let's pray that'll be enough.
And so, he started writing.

* * *

Asheworth gazed into the horizon of nonexistence as the second part of Overwatch Command with Cornwell in it drifted away into the void surrounding them.
"So… what do we do now?" Rivera asked, looking directly into his eyes.
"We find Nine, and we end it. She's here, I can… I can feel it."
"What? How? Didn't you… lose the parts of Father within you out there?" She asked with an uncertain tone. "Whatever you meant by that, I mean."
"I only lost the power it gave me. I drained it, that would be a better word," he turned around, starting to walk forward in the corridor they were standing in. "But that Blue bastard is still there. I can feel him."
Walking silently across the endless halls of the building, Rivera followed the thaumaturge — she wasn't sure he actually knew where he was going, but he didn't want to snap him out of his trance. It was like he subcutaneously felt the path they had to take to get to the Overseer, and she didn't question that.
After what felt like hours, he finally stopped, standing in front of a slightly run-down elevator. Opening its doors, walking in, and choosing the lowest possible floor, the room moved downwards, slowly but surely making its way to the lair of the woman standing at the bottom of all of this. Even if the lift wasn't fast, it was gradually declining. The hearts of the duo were pounding as they have never had, pumping blood to the terrified but ready to strike brains.
"Daniel?"
"Yes?"
"I… what if we lose?"
"It doesn't matter. We do our best to stop her, and whatever will happen will happen," he answered in a weak tone.
"But what if our best isn't good enough?"
He didn't answer.
The doors suddenly opened to a quiet "blimp" noise, revealing a large room dimly lit by red lights. Even if it was filled with items, furniture, or any other decorations, it didn't matter — all the two of them could focus on was the short woman standing in front of the Kodex Tenebra, entangled in what looked like a mostly finished ritual. She looked at the two, grinning widely, like a predatory animal noticing its prey fell for its trap.
"This ends here," Asheworth said, starting to stand in an offensive stance. "I don't care who you are and what you truly want, your destruction—"
And then he noticed her face.
"I… no. No no no no, I… No!" He screamed through tears, running down his sobbing face. "You're dead, I… I saw you die I… I can't, I…"
And, before he could react, O5-9, the current Administrator of the SCP Foundation, the vessel for the Beast, and the woman that had once been Natalie Asheworth, answered in an ironic tone.
"Hello, Daniel. Glad to see you could finally make it here."

SCP-6936

And Every Time We Meet Again

The Beast that Shouted "I" at the End of the World

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Ralliston's Works

SCPs

SCP-0000-EX (+242) •

SCP-6172 (+77) •

SCP-7600 (+180) •

SCP-PL-399 (+38) •

SCP-6292 (+131) •

SCP-7292 (+58) •

SCP-6672 (+71) •

SCP-6483 (+132) •

SCP-5659 (+249) •

SCP-6936 (+69) •

EE-7372 (+46) •

SCP-5484 (+117) •

SCP-5572 (+137) •

SCP-5672 (+34) •

SCP-7672 (+80) •

Tales/GoI Formats

Expiration Date (+80) •

unVeiled: David Hunt on Galileo, the First Civilian Off-World Settlement (+35) •

The Beast that Shouted "I" at the End of the World (+48) •

Deconstruction Of A God (+28) •

unVeiled: A Parapolitical Compass for These Difficult Times (+117) •

Nobody's Home (+24) •

Excerpts of Particular Interest From the Galileo Deep-Space Observatory Archives (+35) •

A Baptism of Fire (+23) •

the most important thing in the world (+39) •

Project Proposal 2018-112: "Any Time, Any Place, You And Me" (+45) •

Critter Profile: Sparky! (+195) •

The Ninth Archangel (+32) •

The Mind Electric (+31) •

Casefile #03/12/2021-A ("The Liberal Vampire") (+37) •

I Was the Queen (Before It Was Cool) (+30) •

Other

Ralliston's Authorpage (+191) •

Public Release of OPERATION: WITNESS Materials (+140) •

Artwork: Witches on the Moon (+37) •