OFFICIAL ETHICS COMMITTEE MEMORANDUM

From:
Dr. Adileh Khayyam, Site-43 Psychologist and Humanoid Anomaly Specialist

To:
Dr. Jeremiah Cimmerian, Ethics Committee Liaison

Re:
Harrassment of Dr. Scott Fletcher

Attachments:
18 files

Dear Dr. Cimmerian,

As an Ethics Comittee Liaison, you of all people should be aware of the stresses that Foundation personnel face when it comes to working with the anomalous and the conditions that they face on a day-to-day basis. That being said, despite the Ethics Committee's continual work to maintain a healthy organisational culture, the repeated claims of endemic bullying and harrassment continue, with one of the most striking examples of such a case being that of Dr. Scott Fletcher.

Attached is a log of a number of communications which I feel are demonstrative of the toxic culture currently being perpetuated with regards to the organisation of the Foundation as a whole. Dr. Fletcher is only one case, but his is one of the most significant cases I have had during the past six months of my tenure at Site-43. While I have seen many cases of psychological trauma across my work at the Foundation, Dr. Fletcher's remains a significant case because of how emblematic he is of the problems Foundation staff face with regards to mental health and wellbeing.

Suffice it to say in my personal opinion that if this pattern of harrassment and mistreatment continues without serious intervention on the part of the Ethics Committee, Dr. Fletcher's case is only going to be one of many the Department of Psychology will have to deal with.

Kind regards,

Dr. Adileh Khayyam

Emails Recovered From Dr. Fletcher's Inbox

To:
Dr. Scott Fletcher

From:
Researcher Isaac McCormack

Re:
Just saying hey.

Dated:
12th March 2015

Message

Hey Scott. Look, I know that you haven't been feeling all that well lately, but I just wanted to send this to you to let you know that we're all really hoping you'll get better soon and that the whole team misses you here. I'm so sorry about what happened that day, and if you don't respond, that's fine. Just give me a call or something when you get back to work, and I'll buy you a drink, alright? Thanks.

To:
Dr. Scott Fletcher

From:
Senior Researcher Samuel Morgan

Re:
Incident ███-███

Attached:
1 file (postincidentaffidavit.pdf)

Dated:
12th March 2015

Message

Dear Dr. Fletcher,

Attached are the Incident Reports from 25/02/2015 regarding SCP-███ testing, including several sections of testimony you provided with regards to the breach that occurred. Site Director Daniels has requested your affirmation of the testimony you provided. Please fill out these forms and submit them by 26/03/2015.

Kind regards,
S. R. Samuel Morgan

To:
Dr. Scott Fletcher

From:
Site Director Janet Daniels

Re:
Application of Leave (12/03/15)

Dated:
14th March 2015

Message

Dear Dr. Fletcher,

Your request for leave has officially been approved, effective from 15/03/2015 to 05/04/2015.

To:
Dr. Scott Fletcher

From:
Dr. Adileh Khayyam

Re:
Counselling

Dated:
16th March 2015

Message

Scott,

I know you probably won't read this until you come back to your office in a few weeks, but when you do get around to reading this, I want to talk to you. If you don't want to talk to me, that's fine, but I saw you in the hall a couple of days ago. To put it kindly, you really look like you need to talk to somebody. Whether or not that person's me, I don't care, but please.

Get better soon.

Adileh

To:
Dr. Adileh Khayyam

Cc:
Dr. Scott Fletcher

From:
Automated Mailbox Response System

Re:
Re: Counselling

Dated:
16th March 2015

Message

Dr. Scott Fletcher is currently away on leave. He will return on the 5th of May, 2015.

Excerpt of Post-Incident ███-███ Analysis Report

…In this case, evidence would seem to suggest that D-11938 and Agent Ari Bayer were cooperatively responsible for the neutralisation of the anomaly formerly designated as SCP-███. D-11938 and Agent Bayer's remains have been reinterred outside Site-43 following incineration to prevent possible contamination of the surrounding site. Given the negligence involved in the testing of SCP-███ with a lagomorph, Site-43 personnel have been issued a reminder as to the danger of careless testing with regards to biological anomalies. Senior Researcher Jill Richards has been disciplined for her involvement in the test and placed on a probationary period given her history with unnecessary testing…
…D-11938 is survived by her daughter, Eileen Cross, while Agent Bayer is survived by his husband, Dr. Scott Fletcher. A private ceremony for both individuals will be held on the 28th of August, with selected members of staff invited to attend alongside Dr. Fletcher and Ms. Cross.

Transcript of a Phone Conversation (27/03/2015)

Dr. Adileh Khayyam: Hello?
Researcher Alex Marshall: Hey, Doc.
Dr. Khayyam: Hi, Alex. Is this to arrange an appointment?
Researcher Marshall: Nah. I just wanted to check in with Scott.
Dr. Khayyam: What do you want to know?
Researcher Marshall: I wanted to know how he's been, you know?
Dr. Khayyam: He doesn't look well.
Researcher Marshall: Really?
Dr. Khayyam: Mister Marshall, to put this bluntly, I met him the other day at a restaurant when I was out on my lunch break. He bought a salad, didn't eat for the entire time I was talking to him and he left to go to the bathroom for about a quarter of an hour before he paid the bill. I would not consider that "healthy" behaviour.
Researcher Marshall: Um. Wow, that's a lot worse than I thought. It's just… the guys back at the lab are struggling to keep up with the work, you know?
Dr. Khayyam: I'm well aware.
Researcher Marshall: Alright then. Yeah. Just, uh, call me when he's gonna come back to work.
Dr. Khayyam: I'll let you know.

Emails Recovered from Dr. Khayyam's Inbox

To:
Dr. Adileh Khayyam

From:
Andrew Gerson

Re:
Checking in with you about a few prescriptions (HIGH PRIORITY)

Attachment:
3 files (OCER_19_03_15_A.pdf, OCER_19_03_15_B.pdf, OCER_19_03_15_C.pdf)

Dated:
24th of March, 2015

Message

Hey Adileh,

Found a couple of worrying things from a few patients of yours. Notably, this guy doesn't seem to understand the correct dosage of diazepam. He's come in a few days too early, says he's run out – did you change the dosage? Could you get back to me with regards to whatever's going on here?

Thanks,

Andrew

To:
Dr. Adileh Khayyam

From:
Senior Researcher Samuel Morgan

Re:
Absence

Dated:
25th of March, 2015

Message

Dear Dr. Khayyam:

Could I ask you when we'll be expecting Scott back? I understand he needs time to grieve, but we're currently behind on about six weeks of anomalous item processing and several critical pieces of work with some memetic anomalies we need to close before they can continue to balloon further out of control. He's one of our primary specialists here at Memetics and his absence is felt heavily every day.

Please let me know ASAP when Scott will be available for work again.

Regards,

Sam

To:
Andrew Gerson

From:
Dr. Adileh Khayyam

Re:
Re: Checking in with you about a few prescriptions

Dated:
26th of March, 2015

Message

Hey Michael,

No, I don't think I've told him to change the dose. Thanks for letting me know: this could get really worrying really fast. I'm going to ask the Medical staff to have him transferred to the Medical ward full time, just in case.

Thanks,

Adileh

To:
Dr. Adileh Khayyam

From:
Disposable Account 20371

Re:
[D-33810] PASS THIS ON

Dated:
26th of March, 2015

Message

Hey,

You told me to get in touch when I could and you were right – I told Jake that you'd asked for me to get the laptop and he practically jumped out of his damn seat to get me one. Thanks for that.

First things first: I'm gonna really miss Gracie. She was one of the few vets they had in the barracks here and she was a goddamn great girl, all things considered. Had crazy shop talk, kept on smiling even when we were all about to piss ourselves. A few of the other people here asked me to tell you that they wanted to say thanks for letting them go to the funeral.

Second: tell the doctor I'm sorry. I didn't know Ari, never met the guy myself, but I saw him crying that day.

I don't think anyone would cry that way over someone they didn't miss that much.

I think that's all I've got to say at the moment. I'll talk to you again next week when the guards let me on the laptop again.

To:
Dr. Adileh Khayyam

From:
Andrew Gerson

Re:
Re: Leave

Dated:
26th of March, 2015

Message

Sorry to bother you again, Adileh, but this Sam guy keeps picking on me whenever I tell him that "no, Scott's not coming back this week." Could you get someone upstairs to tell him to bugger off if he keeps asking? Thanks.

> From: Samuel Morgan
> To: Andrew Gerson
>
> Dear Mr. Gerson,
>
> A few of my colleagues have reported seeing Dr. Fletcher outside of work. They mainly report that he looks like he's well-recovered from last week's shock, and I have no reason to argue against them. Could you please provide me with some more concrete evidence of his continued need to be on leave?
>
> Thanks,
> Samuel

Thanks for following this up, Adileh.

To:
Disposable Account 20371

From:
Dr. Adileh Khayyam

Re:
Re: [D-33810] PASS THIS ON

Dated:
27th of March, 2015

Message

I'll try to get in touch with him the next time I get the chance. If I can arrange a meeting between the two of you, would that help?

To:
Andrew Gerson

From:
Dr. Adileh Khayyam

Re:
Kicking This Upstairs

Dated:
27th of March, 2015

Message

At this point, I'm seriously considering filing this as a proper complaint to the Ethics Committee. I'm seeing "no reason to argue against it".

Technical Report (30th of March, 2015)

Ticket #:
1182931230

Severity:
High

Issuer:
Security Officer Malcolm Wethers

Complaint

Site-43's temporary email account appears to have been disabled by Level 4 Command, despite no known order to disable the account being issued.

Response

Hi Malcolm,

Seems like the account got forcibly closed just yesterday under suspicion of memetic contamination, which is probably why you didn't get told about it. Have you checked the LASHLEY infohazard scans to see if there's any leftover memetic bugs in the email's inbox? There's a one in a million chance that it won't send an alert to the tech staff, though we're working on eradicating that bug once and for all. If it does turn out you fell victim to that particular glitch, I'd say you'd be best off going through the logs yourself.

Alternately, you could file a Mishandled Shutdown Form (available here) to try and reactivate the account. Failing that, you're just going to have to wait for another few weeks while we get the email all cleaned out.

Private Message Recovered From Dr. Khayyam's Inbox (31st of March, 2015)

From:
Andrew Gerson

To:
Dr. Adileh Khayyam

Re:
Oh my god

Attachments:
feed18_1130_1200.mp4

Message

Adileh, something's seriously wrong with Sam.

The man's been asking to prescribe pretty goddamn strong amnestics to Scott under suspicion of a "memetic infection", and the only way I could get him off my goddamn back was by telling him he could come to the group therapy session next week if he didn't believe me.

Could you send the attached security video to the Ethics Committee? Let's just say I have a strong feeling that if they get wind of this development they're not going to like Sam very much.

Andy

Disciplinary Report for D-33810 (1st of May, 2015)

Report #:
12382-10223

Disciplinary Action Taken:
Warning

Notes:
D-33810 was reprimanded for causing a disturbance after being notified of several technical issues which had occurred earlier in the week. These technical issues led to the temporary suspension of her communication privileges, believed to be the reason for her erratic behaviour. As per standard disciplinary escalation, further disruptive behaviour should result in a revocation of such privileges.

Excerpted Security Feed Transcript (2nd of May, 2015)

[CAM FEED 8]
28:25: Alert sounds. Officer Wethers immediately moves to assist medical team. Member of medical team (Dr. Brooke Winters) warns Officer Wethers away.
28:28: Medical team enters Room 16 of the Medical Bay, hosting Dr. Scott Fletcher.
28:51: Dr. Winters exits Room 16 of the Medical Bay. Winters and Wethers converse for some time.
[CAM FEED 3]
28:53: Wethers attempts to converse with D-33810.
28:55: D-33810 appears to dismiss Wethers.
28:56: Wethers exits Room 3.
[CAM FEED 8]
29:01: Alarm ceases sounding.
29:02: Medical team exits Room 16.
<END TRANSCRIPT>


Mr. Parker.
Don't look so surprised, you have to have known this day was going to come eventually. One of your fellow boarders was kind enough to let me in. They won't be disturbing us, so please, sit down.
Let me make sure I have the right Jackson Parker.
55 years old. Born in inner-city Detroit. Multiple tours in Vietnam. Sentenced to death row for killing a police officer. Date of execution May 19, 1979. Now a professional waiter at one of New York City's finest bistros. And…anyone ever tell you you look like Ernie Hudson? You know, the black Ghostbuster. Maybe I'm just thinking of him because the sequel's coming out in a couple of weeks. Whatever, forget it.
One thing they don't have in your file is your unshakable faith. You believe, in a way that so few others do, that everything happens for a reason.
I might feel the same way if I was one of the rare D-classes who have escaped termination. I have to say, you certainly earned this little life you've made for yourself here.
I saw the footage and the pictures from after the…event. I don't know if you ever had it fully explained to you what happened there. We learned that the creature you decommissioned was responsive to the beliefs of its viewers. One of our guys must have got it into his head that the thing was going to kill everybody. And because he thought that, it did.
Until it got to you, of course.
I know your exit survey was a little while ago, so to refresh your memory, the way you phrased it had to do with "falling back on your faith." You showed, in the face of this blood-drenched monstrosity, unwavering belief that you would make it out of there alive. And because you believed, it was true.
Listen…I'm sorry about what happened to you.
We used to be so callous. Hell, it was to the point of being stupid.
There may — or may not — be a thing that'll kill you if you blink in the same room as it. So far as we can tell, this thing also shits all over the place. Almost every time we sent some guys in to clean up its mess — snap! Their life's over, just like that. Only just built a robot that can do the cleaning a couple of years ago. It sickens me to think about all the men who never came out of that room, all because we didn't think of them as human. Just a letter and numbers.
But what we need you for, it can't be done by a machine. Look, I've been thinking about this a lot lately…there's something remarkable about the human heart. Don't you agree? No matter how much we want to give up or say "no" to life, the heart still beats. That's all it knows how to do. It keeps on beating: "yes-yes, yes-yes." It's admirable, something so resolute in its work.
And I know how you work, Mr. Parker. You know I'm here for a reason. And I think you know you're meant to do something that will save a lot of lives. If you do this for us — if you do this for me — we'll do everything in our power to make sure you get whatever you want for the rest of your days.
I think I can tell what that expression means.
Let me know when you're ready to go, D-14134.


In my opinion, the whirlwind of rumours and false reports surrounding the role of D-Class in this institution has created an increasingly poisonous, and frankly unprofessional, atmosphere over the past few years. For any staff members who may not be aware: D-Class are not to be requisitioned for the exploration, testing, or feeding of dangerous anomalies. Barring exceptional circumstances, in the course of their regular duties D-Class should not be permitted to come in contact with anomalies of any kind. They are not soldiers, and they certainly are not human pawns. Interruption of the D-Class's duties interferes with vital Foundation contingency efforts and will not be tolerated.
Any researcher requiring an expendable research unit for testing of anomalies should request the use of a Simurgh-class autonomous mobile drone from their local Requisitions Department. Anyone who attempts to use D-Class in testing at my site will be subject to immediate disciplinary action.
Site Director Marie, open letter to all employees concerning D-Class

John James opened his eyes and got out of bed and put on his orange uniform with the white letters on it.
The white letters were on the back and the top of the right-hand sleeve and on the left breast, right where a shirt pocket would go, and they all said D-23984. That was what the guards called him, and what the speaker said when it told him which room to go to, but inside the testing room the doctors all called him John James.
Up above him on the second bed, a big bald man with a little bit of beard climbed down the ladder to the floor and put his own uniform on. That was Stephen Reyes, his bunkmate. The white letters on his uniform said D-23886 instead of D-23984, so John James guessed that Stephen had been here longer than he had. He'd asked him about it once, and thought it was kind of funny that Stephen didn't know.
“I had a dream about my family,” said Stephen, his eyes glistening a little in his big bald face. “Their names are Betty, Mary, Annie, and Sam. They all smelled like strawberry jam.”
John James nodded. “My family lives in a house just outside of Simbsury,” he said. “The house has a real white picket fence.”
“I hope I'll see them again soon,” Stephen said, and for a moment John James felt a twinge of annoyance, because he'd just been about to tell Stephen all about his own family and the house they lived in and how the white picket fence had actually been built by his great-grandfather, who also lived in the same house, but just then the speaker asked for D-23886 to please report to room 21 and Stephen got up and went out of the room.
So John James took a pencil and a sheet of paper from the dresser against the wall and drew a floor plan of his house just outside of Simsbury, with the round window in the right top corner and the little three-sided porch. It was a very detailed floor plan, and almost all of the lines were straight. John James was very proud of it, and he left it on top of the dresser at a favourable angle so that Stephen would see it when he walked in the door.
anicca
“A round window, you say?” asked Dr. Carter, smiling. The speaker had called his number and told him to go down to room 18 where Dr. Carter was, and she had seemed very happy when he'd told her all about the drawing of his house. “But John, your house doesn't have any round windows. Try and remember that.”
John frowned, and in his mind's eye the round window in the right top corner shimmered and changed into a regular square one. Maybe he had been thinking of his neighbour's house. “But it does still have a real white picket fence,” he said, with a sinking feeling in his gut. “Right?”
“Of course you have a white picket fence,” said Dr. Carter, and she picked up a stack of papers. “Now, John, let's talk about your grandparents. On your mother's side – what were their names?”
John James frowned and tried to concentrate. Their faces were a hazy blur, their names right on the tip of his tongue. “E…El…Eleanor,” he finally said. Yes, that sounded right. “And Jacob.”
Dr. Carter wrote something down. “And how long did they live?” she asked.
John James was silent for a long while. “I knew my grandma – Eleanor,” he said at last, and as the words left his mouth he knew that they were true. In fact he could remember her now, a little shrivelled figure in a big brown bed. He must have been very young at the time, or else he wouldn't have forgotten it so easily. “My grandpa died before I was born,” he said, and this he also knew to be true. “Grandma never talked very much about him.”
“And on your father's side?”
“My grandparents?”
“Yes, John.”
John James frowned again. “My grandpa's name was Bill, and my grandma's name was Mary, like Stephen's daughter,” he announced. “They lived in Simsbury, and we visited them every Wednesday.”
Dr. Carter smiled and wrote some more. “Very good, John. That's all the questions I have for you. Do you know what day it is?”
John James did not have a watch, though he thought he'd probably owned one at some point. “No,” he said.
“Today's the thirtieth, John. Your month is up. Tomorrow you'll go home.”
John James smiled. Then he frowned and smiled again and blinked and rubbed his eyes. “For real?” he asked. “For true?”
“For true,” said Dr. Carter.
“My family,” said John James. “Have they… missed me?”
“Very much,” said Dr. Carter.
John James was so preoccupied that he hardly noticed when they sent him back to his room, or how he got there. Late at night, as he stared at the scratchy metal belly of the cot above him, he realized that Stephen had never come back. Eventually he decided that the doctors had sent Stephen back home to his family too, and was a little upset that he had never gotten to show Stephen his drawing of his house.
He dreamed that he had done something very bad and was looking for somewhere to hide. The police were closing in, but just before they got to him some men in black suits drove up in a car and took him away. The man he had been in the dream had looked like him, but his name wasn't John James and anyways he was much younger than John James was.
dukkha
On the first of the month, the speaker came on and told John James to walk to the very end of the hallway and go into a room that he had never seen before. The room was full of other people in orange uniforms with white letters, and some people in bulky black uniforms with scowls on their faces. There were letters on the wall that read “RECONDITIONING,” and every few minutes the speaker would call out a number and a scowling man in black would walk one of the men in orange away down a hallway. John James tried to look for Stephen in the crowd, but before he could find him the speaker said for D-23984 to report to reconditioning room 3, and one of the men in black marched him off to a new room and shut the door behind him.
Dr. Carter was in the room with some men in glasses and button-down shirts, and behind them was a big metal chair with complicated-looking machinery coming down out of the ceiling above it and lots of computer screens on a little stand.
“This is your last test, John,” Dr. Carter said with her usual smile. “Then you'll get to go home. Sit in the chair, okay?”
“Okay,” said John James, a little uncertainly. There were straps on the chair for your legs and your arms, and when he sat down in it the scowling man in the bulky black uniform snapped them shut so he couldn't get up again. One of the men in glasses came over and fastened the machines coming out of the ceiling to different parts of his head, and when Dr. Carter began to press buttons on the computer screens John could feel them buzz a little.
“I want you to concentrate on your family now, John,” he heard Dr. Carter say. “Your family, and your house with the white picket fence. Can you do that, John?”
“Okay,” he said.
“Mental snapshot in three, two, one,” Dr. Carter said to the men in glasses, and then the machines did something funny that John James could taste in his mouth. Lots of little pictures and lights started blinking up on the computer screen.
“Perfect transfer. Everything's here,” said Dr. Carter, with a hurried thumbs-up to John James who was giving her a questioning look.
“Good, wipe him clean,” said one of the men in glasses, and before he lost consciousness John James could only visualize a flash of white light and the memory of himself screaming.
anatta
Martin Kendall opened his eyes and got out of bed and put on his orange uniform with the white letters on it.
The white letters said D-23985, but his bunkmate's said D-23887. His bunkmate's name was Billy Smith, and he was a big bald man with a little bit of beard on the bottom of his face. Martin thought that maybe he'd met him somewhere before.
Martin had had a meeting with Dr. Carter the day before, and he was telling Billy about how he used to have a family, but they had died in a tragic car accident and now he lived on his own in a little three-room flat.
“I miss the place,” he said. “I hope I'll see it again soon.”
Billy Smith didn't say anything to that, so Martin asked him whether he had a family too and if they had died in a tragic car accident.
Billy thought about that for a long while. “Maybe,” he said at last. “I don't know.”

The man without a name had been grown in a tank, and had never seen the outside world.
Even now, the task force that was transporting him kept him in a long metal tank, asleep in the dark. His tank and many others were loaded together on the back of a big truck, and the only way to tell them apart were the numbers printed on their sides. The numbers on the tank of the man without a name were D-23984.
Off in the distance the members of the task force could see the enormous corpse of whatever it was that had destroyed America, the sun rising through the spines on its back.
“Jee-sus,” said one of the men in black.
“They're bombing it soon,” said another. “Just watch.” He was staring at his wristwatch, a fancy metal plate with an extra panel that showed the day and the month and the year, all back-to-back. Right now the panel read 21/0/0.
The two men stopped the truck and waited until they saw a mushroom cloud rising off the thing's back through the dirty window, and the sun gleaming through a new hole in its ribs.
The man in black started the truck, and they drove off with the man without a name and the others like him. Over the next few weeks, the bombs steadily turned the thing into little piles of meat that turned into dirt soon after. Crews with construction cranes set up and dropped the thing's bones into trucks filled with vats of chemicals that melted them right away. The men in the truck drove around the countryside, taking the nameless men out of their tank and propping them up here and there, and through their little dashboard radio staticky voices squawked from around the world that men with trucks and cranes there were doing just what the men in America were doing. They estimated that cleanup efforts would be over by the first of the month, and they were right.
nirvana
On the first of the month, John James woke up in his car.
He yawned and stretched himself. He was in his driveway, and up on the little three-sided porch of the house with the little square window in the right top corner his family was sitting, waiting for him to step outside. They looked a little different than how he had remembered them, but John James thought that was only because he had been gone for such a very long time.
He got out of the car and walked past the real white picket fence that his great-grandfather had built, smiling all the way. It was good to be home.


The Site-7 surgical auditorium, for all of its wood paneling lining the walls and the rows of well-worn theater style seats, might have been any one of a hundred medical facilities of the rational world, Geissler thought to himself as he soldered wiring into place. The only discordant detail happened to be the bars over the windows of the viewing gallery.
His thoughts were broken by the lancing pain of the soldering iron as it slipped again, burning his hand. He sharply inhaled, but stopped himself from exclaiming anything. The rat-faced guard looked as though he may enjoy such an outburst, and anyway, he didn't need help brought in to make this part of the work go quicker. This part of the project was for one man. He grasped the iron once more, and bent over the ponderous bundle of cables and wires snaking its way through the metal conduit. So many little details, so many circuits that needed to be arranged just so. Even one out of place, and this procedure would become very unpredictable indeed.
The main doors of the auditorium creaked open, making way for the march of three sets of high-ranking boots, come to check on his progress. His eyes stayed on his work. He knew who it was.
"We've only been here for two hours. I thought you were joking when you said tonight."
"He works fast, doesn't he. I think he wants to see the results as much as we do."
Geissler recognized the unperturbed voice of Chernikov among the officers. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of anger at Chernikov's habit of speaking about him as though he weren't in the room. He had practically invented this new branch of science that these thugs were so keen to exploit. His grip tightened on the soldering iron.
A new voice spoke. A wheezing, hoarse whisper. A woman, he thought. "The Colonel has assembled the 19th Congress Planning Committee in our agreed-upon location. They meet in three days. Do you think we'll be ready by then?"
Chernikov addressed him now. "Dr. Geissler. What do you say? Will we be meeting our deadline for the project we discussed?"
Geissler turned, iron still in his hand. He saw Chernikov, flanked by a young attaché and a woman in a commissar's uniform. She was far younger than the voice he had heard moments ago. The doctor saw the apparatus he was constructing reflected back at him in her eyeglasses.
"Assuming you have the subject in hand, we will be finished by this evening. I need those cages. And people to assemble them. Unless you want me hobbling about and putting those together too."
Chernikov smiled. He pulled out a small pad, scribbled a note, tore it off, and handed it to the young man at his elbow. With a salute, the attaché ran back down the entryway, out of the operating theater. "The things we can achieve when we work together. Commissar Rosenstein, I think you're going to be pleased with our work tonight."
Major Chernikov clapped a hand on the commissar's shoulder, and turned to walk out. The commissar stood in place, looking at Geissler, her face impassive, eyes obscured by the reflected mass of metal and wires in her large, black rimmed glasses. Geissler's hatred seemed to have left the room with Chernikov, replaced by deep unease at the woman before him. He suddenly felt dizzy, and he reached out to brace himself against the upright metal post serving as the apparatus' core, struggling to keep his balance. The soldering iron clattered to the floor.
Commissar Rosenstein made no reaction. She continued to watch him, silently. He steadied himself, head swimming. He returned her gaze. Or he thought he did.
With a neat about-face, the commissar turned around and began walking back out. His balance suddenly came back to him. He kept his hand on the post, just to be certain. She walked through the doors. They closed behind her.
He looked to his rat-faced minder. His eyes were still on the room's exit, fear plainly visible on his dull features.
The doctor picked up his iron again, as well as a stray metal hose, connecting it to a nearby electrical port on the apparatus. No time to waste.

SCP-1041 started awake; she must have fallen asleep in her chair. She jerked her head up from the armrest, the back of her head and the space behind her eyes throbbing sharply with pain. She groaned, her vision still blurry from waking. Swallowing, she felt a pain in her throat, like a muscle strain. She held her hand under her chin, gently massaging the tender area. The room was too bright. She rubbed her eyes, and sat up straight.
In front of her sat a middle-aged man in a soldier's uniform, blonde and smiling. His hat was perched tidily on his folded coat on a table beside him hair, slightly mussed. Behind him stood a woman in a different uniform. Dark hair, glasses. She held a clipboard.
"Ah, you're awake. Wonderful." He reached out a gloved hand and gently took hers as she instinctively flinched from the presence of the strangers. "Shhh, shhh. It's okay, it's okay, I'm a friend. You're fine, though you may not remember how you got here. Do you remember?"
She thought, searching her memories. The headache and the bright lights were making her feel disoriented. How did she get here? What was the last thing she recalled? A…cell of some sort? Possibly. How did she get there in the first place? The details were unclear.
"Let's start with your name. Do you remember your name? Who are you?"
She thought. An instant passed. Why wasn't this obvious? Then something surfaced in her mind.
"My…my name is Eileen Warner. Eileen Warner, from South Kensington."
The man in front of her smiled, nodding at the answer. "Eileen Warner," he repeated to the woman next to him. She lifted a few pages on her clipboard, before writing a series of notes.
"Eileen Warner. Number seventy-three in the sequence. As expected." The woman's voice was hoarse. Ugly, breathless, and grating.
The man turned back to her. "Any more details you can give us? Nothing too personal, mind you. Occupation, parents' names? Then we'll be done and you may take your leave."
Her heart continued to race, faster, despite the apparent end of the questioning. "What is this? Am I under arrest? What's going on?" She was starting to remember. She had been in a cell before. But the people were different. And they hadn't been military before.
"Just a few more details, Mrs. Warner. And then we can explain."
She paused. Resisting didn't seem wise. "I…I-I'm a bank manager…my m-my parents were Todd and Mary Trost, I swear I haven't done anything, I-"
"Shhh, shhh. Commissar Rosenstein?"
The woman consulted her clipboard once more. "Checks out."
"Fantastic. You are dismissed, Mrs. Warner."
For a moment, nobody moved. Then the man leaned forward and wrapped his hands around her throat.
She fought as adrenaline dumped into her bloodstream, swinging her hands at his face, but he was far too strong. He squeezed right on the place at her throat that had been sore, and she felt lightheaded, suddenly weakening. Her vision darkened as he held his hands around her neck, feebly kicking a few more times at him from her seated position as her limbs grew heavy. A few seconds longer, and she blacked out.

The darkness around her shimmers, scenes of memory and fantasy and the lives of other people fading in and out, blending into each other. Dozens of lives unfold, things done and things to come, scenes in which every viewpoint is hers. She recognizes her own face on all of the others. She knows she is dreaming, and she is carried along in the current as she always is.
Something is happening across each scene as she floats by in the nothingness that runs between all of the disparate visions. A man, smiling and terrible, his hands reaching to strangle the life from her, again and again, each one of her lives coming to the same place. But it isn't death that he is after. Each time, he does not finish her. His progress across each of her facets is inexorable. What will he do when he reaches the end? Will he cycle around again, as she does? The thought is horrifying.
She had only just returned from the world. Ekaterina must have gotten out. Thank God for that much. But I am still here, she thinks. Something must be wrong. She is in the hands of GRU-P. If they knew about her work with Geissler, how much she had assisted, then they might be looking for her. Her, specifically. The thought occurs to her that she needs to run.
She tries to go the other direction, against the slow current that carries her back into her body, the physical form that she shares in turn with all of the other versions of herself, fighting against her own dreams. She passes a scene. Geissler has arranged a web of electrical sensors all around her head, while she explains her latest thoughts on how brain regions might relate to each specific personality. It fades, lost to the current, headed to the smiling man with his hands at her throat. Another now, her memories of the work flowing freely, bursting from the barriers in her mind as she struggles to dam the flood. Geissler is struggling to explain in his notes the physical co-location of what he still doesn't want to call a soul. His frustration (and hers) washes away, replaced ever more quickly with flashing scenes. She tells him why she cannot walk every 213 days. He tells her how the Foundation falsely informed his family of his supposed death in an Allied prison camp. She sketches more lines on a diagram on the wall with dozens of her own names. He asks her if he can trust the information supplied by Ekaterina (they can). She tells him that what he is proposing is not a cure. He shouts triumphantly at the reading he had been hoping to see on the brain wave monitor. Fragments wash by. The Foundation cannot be compromised. All of it will have been for nothing.
She fights the current, but the river merely flows around any resistance. And its flow is quickened by the smiling man. There is no choice but to wait her turn, and hope that it is some other her that awakes to see his face.
A sharp odor, suddenly. She feels eyes opening, the flow is interrupted, is it her turn to-

SCP-1041 started awake. She coughed as a sharp, stinging vapor cleared out from her nose and sinuses. Her throat was on fire. She saw a man in front of her, putting a stopper in a small vial and placing it in his pocket. His cheeks were slightly red.
"Where am I? Who the hell are you?" She snarled, the unfamiliar surroundings putting her reflexes immediately on alert. "You had better start talking. Now."
The man, a soldier as she could tell from his uniform, leaned back in his chair, his eyes wide as he chuckled, apparently amused by her. She instinctively reached to her side; nothing there. She was dressed in some sort of prison outfit. Different than the one she had in Vladimirsky. The memories further inflamed her growing anger. She looked to the woman standing behind the man before her. She was holding a clipboard. Blank, impassive.
"Bitch. You. Tell me what's going on."
Chernikov beamed at her; he seemed relieved. "Charming. Let me guess, Svetlana Savchuk?"
She leaned forward, closer to him. "That's right. You all know who I am."
He looked over to Commissar Rosenstein; she acknowledged him with a curt nod. He turned back to her. "And what was the last thing you remember doing before waking up here, Svetlana?"
In a flash, she stood up, snatching the folding chair from underneath her. She flattened it, taking it up in both hands, and swung as hard she could at Chernikov's head.
Chernikov ducked, just slightly, the chair catching a few stray strands of hair standing on the top of his head. Without any seeming effort, he took a single step forward, his body shifting like a dancer, and drove his fist into her stomach. The chair clattered obscenely to the cement floor as she went down in a heap. The entire exchange took two seconds.
The sound of his boots reverberated off of the reinforced walls. He stood over her, stepping on her outstretched hand with just enough force to keep it in place, painfully. She looked up at him. In her eyes, he saw no trace of wildness, no trace of fury. No outward expression of pain, despite being doubled up on the floor. She seethed without anger, a gaze holding the promise of rectifying the temporary slight visited upon her. A look for which Chernikov had developed a taste over the years.
He picked up his hat. "That's right, just as it's written in the report, Svetlana. Except, unlike the guard in Block 4, I am alive. Commissar Rosenstein, we have our woman."
He squatted down, coming face to face with SCP-1041, temporary host to Svetlana Savchuk, known Marchenko Family soldier and thrice-convicted murderer. "Go fetch Geissler. Tell him we have our subject. We're ready to begin."

« | Part Five | Matryoshka | Part Seven | »


From: Foundation Global Administration, Requisitions Division
To: Researcher Byzant
Subject: Approval of D-Class request for SCP-4932

Researcher Byzant,
Your request for 1,250 D-Class personnel for use in testing with SCP-4932 has been approved. The aforementioned quantity of D-Class personnel will be imported from Site 18 to Bio-Site 84 immediately. You will be notified when the requested quantity has arrived at Alice Springs, Australia.
F.G.A Requisitions Division

Howard Byzant leaned back in his chair once he had finished reading the e-mail.
“What?” he muttered to himself. He had needed the D-Classes and the approval would make it considerably easier to learn how the anomaly in question functioned – break some eggs to make an omelette and all that. What stunned Howard was that the number of D-Classes he had asked for had been approved, were being flown or shipped over from some foreign country like morbid livestock, and that he had sent the request for them just the previous day.
Howard remained motionless in his seat as the superficial absurdity of this response sunk in. He would soon have a small army of expendable prisoners at his beck and call, all to be sent to what would almost definitely be their death for no higher purpose than to record how they died, and how long it took. One and a quarter thousand souls – more people than there were in Australia with a sentence of life imprisonment – who would have their idea of normalcy shattered briefly before their bones followed suit.
It was then that Researcher Byzant leaned forward again and began typing up a group e-mail to his colleagues assigned to SCP-4932. They had to prepare for the arrival of the D-Classes, finalise their brief accommodation and obtain other research materials that they needed to get before testing begun. Though he felt a brief empathy for them, Researcher Byzant first and foremost had an allegiance to the Foundation and by extension would be expected to do whatever was needed to gain the information they sought.
Besides, they were D-Classes. D-Classes were only taken from death row, so they were screwed anyway. The only exception was when Protocol 12 was enacted, and the Foundation hadn't been that desperate for expendables since the early eighteen-hundreds; every single one of the 1,250 humans Researcher Byzant was about to receive had obviously done some horrendous things during their lifetime to end up where they were. They would deserve whatever fate they got.

“Good morning, D-53682. My name is Dr. Amanda Clarke, and I will be conducting your psychological evaluation today.” Her voice was warm and welcoming, but conveyed a false sense of empathy. She'd spoken to hundreds of thousands of D-Classes, all with relatively similar stories of breaking the law repeatedly or severely and ending up here, and with each subsequent interview she became more and more jaded to them. Dr. Clarke didn't really care about any of the men and women she spoke to anymore. She'd already predicted the response of the downbeat looking man before her, before he had even entered the room.
“My name is Jesse Ball.” He was unhappy with the soulless number that had become his new identity. Amanda briefly looked down at the sheet on the clipboard she held, and ticked the box confirming he was still attached to his former name. It was always the first to be ticked.
“Very well then Jesse. How has your day been?” She ignored the majority of his response, paying heed to only the small packets of information that she needed and drowning out the rest with how she felt about her own day. She had already spoken to over a dozen D-Classes today, all with the same story of innocence and pleas for help. D-53682 was no different. Dr. Clarke ticked the box designating that he was uncomfortable with his new life. She ticked the box designating him as insistent upon their innocence. She ticked the box denoting he – rightfully – had no control of his life anymore.
The assessment only went for an hour, but for Dr. Clarke it took an eternity. Several years had surely passed as this man cried and sobbed and begged to be let free, or be sent back to Site 18 in the states. Australia was so far from his home, too far he claimed.
“Can I at least send a letter to my mother? She lives back at the farm, she would be worried about where I'd gone…” he begged.
“Of course. We'll do our best to make sure that she gets your letter, Jesse.” Accepting the handwritten note from the man, she stood and escorted him to the door of the room and into the care of a guard waiting outside. Returning to her seat, Dr. Clarke dropped the note into the nearby garbage chute as she pulled the filled form from the clipboard, filing it into a tray marked ‘completed'. The letter would never reach anyone – none of them ever did. Anyone who cared about these criminals had already been told what they needed to think, that they had been killed in a prison fight and disfigured beyond recognition. In desperation and grief, families and friends wouldn't even notice that the few stray limbs they were burying in a coffin weren't human, just animal meat and bones moulded into vaguely humanoid shapes.
Taking a brief drink from her glass of water, Dr. Clarke pressed the button on her desk that signalled for the next to enter as she attached a blank form to her clipboard. The next to walk in was a woman with a downbeat vibe about them. Dr. Clarke didn't bother trying to identify their race or ancestry; she hardly even registered the woman had dark skin. As thoughtlessly as before, she spoke.
“Good morning, D-53683,” she spoke as she filled the designation into the form. “My name is Dr. Amanda Clarke, and I will be conducting your psychological evaluation today.” Again, the empathy and warmth in her voice was fake, perfected over the countless evaluations she had conducted. As before, she had already predicted the response, and only paid heed to their first name.
“My name is Jesse Ball,” she responded, pathetically trying to resist the impeding numerical designation being forced upon her. Dr. Clarke knew that just like all those before her, and all those to follow, D-53683 would fail.
“Very well then Jesse. How has your day been?” A vague sense of déjà vu washed over Amanda, but was quickly overlooked as little more than the consequence of this line of work as she ticked the first box. Amanda's mind wandered elsewhere as her interviewee spoke, planning the small remainder of her day outside of her job. What'll I have for dinner? she wondered as the woman before her babbled on.
Just like all the other D-Classes, D-53683 was just another expendable, death-row criminal. People didn't end up on death row for minor crimes, so if she was here, she deserved whatever she got. Any attention paid to her was attention wasted.
And just like the previous interview, D-53683's handwritten letter to their worrying, farm-life mother was discarded thoughtlessly into the trash as Dr. Clarke filed the form away and fetched another.

With a muffled thud and a pair of clicks, the next D-Class was buckled and chained to their seat. With no further action being needed to restrain them, Agent Don Blake marched back up the carpeted aisle past the forty-odd others similarly restrained to their seat, and fetched the next one. Unfortunately today was one of the hotter days that the region experienced, and even though the trip over the tarmac back to the plane was short, the scorching heat from below was unbearable.
Unlike the last one, this chained prisoner was fully compliant to the leading arm of Agent Blake. The mildly beefy man had visibly been broken in spirit long before he had arrived at this airstrip in Wyoming, the only sound confirming his existence being the clinking of chains and the thuds of his footsteps. Up the stairs they went, past the other restrained prisoners, all the way to a vacant seat. The man, already knowing what was wanted of him, preemptively moved forward and positioned himself into the seat to ease the act of padlocking the chains to the seat, and similarly locking the seat buckle around their waist. Agent Burke turned and once again exited the plane, returning to the group of waiting deportees outside.
Don didn't know much about the flight itself, just what he needed to know. The hundred-strong D-Classes had arrived at Jackson, Wyoming from some vague site north of the town, and were bound for Alice Springs, Australia to disappear off to another vague site. Don chuckled. From nothing, to nothing, he thought to himself as he grabbed the scrawny arm of the next to be seated. For this part of their journey, the passengers were as close to nought as a human could reasonably get within this digital age - nobody knew where they came from, nobody knew where they were going, nobody knew who they were. Here and now, they didn't even have their D-Class designations. Here, they were little more than 'male' and 'female'.
Well, except this one. Agent Burke tightened his grip on the prisoner he was escorting, feeling the tug of their repeated attempts to walk off in another direction. This one in particular seemed insistent on being an annoyance to staff, but not quite annoying enough to need disciplining. Feeling the tug of the man's divergent path again, Agent Burke yanked him roughly back into the right direction. There was always the odd one out, the one who persisted in rebelling any way they could. They probably kept going even when they arrived at their destination - Don couldn't help but wonder how many got themselves killed ignoring orders. He wondered how long this one would last.
There was a brief, strong pull in the direction of the prisoner, followed by nothing. Burke must've softened his grip as he idled in his thought, and the escapee had taken the opportunity to break free and make a run for it. He was running down the airstrip as fast as his feet could carry him, away from the plane and the guards. Agent Burke barked a command to stop before he gave chase, but tired quickly - the heat belted him from above, from below, and the thick security gear he wore made it even less bearable.
"Fuck it," he mumbled to himself, pulling his handgun out of its holster and steadying his aim. The sound of three small explosions pierced the silence, followed by the fleeing prisoner stumbling and hitting the ground. Satisfied, Agent Burke turned away from the plane and back to the group of shocked prisoners as he holstered his gun.
"Any more of you expendable fucks want to die here?" he barked, angered by the brief event that had just transpired. He wasn't angry that he'd been forced to shoot the man, no - that would imply Agent Burke felt empathy for the death-row convicts. No, he was angry because now they were one passenger short. He'd have to get ahold of a replacement at some point, which would mean finding out where these lot came from, which means lots of red tape…
Don rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. Fucking inmates. Why can't they just listen… He thought, grabbing the arm of the next in line, and escorting them to the plane.

The sound of whirring machinery and liquids flowing through pipes finally died down, the sources of such sounds finally turning off after being left running for several days. Readings on gauges subsided to normal levels, lights turned on or off on consoles, and to signal that everything had successfully switched back to standby mode a collection of synchronized alarm bells briefly sounded.
Sitting in one of several control rooms scattered throughout the complex, a particularly stout man relaxed in his seat. Taking a drag from his lit cigarette, the man looked up at the multiple screens positioned around his seat, glancing at them for a few moments each before moving to the next. He watched as thousands of naked, dazed adults stumbled out of pods in countless rooms spread throughout the facility, being collected up by a small legion of men and herded into waiting vehicles.
“Poor sods,” he mumbled to himself, “no idea what's goin' on, no control about what'll happen.” He was referring to the fact that every single one of these humans were mentally idle, their lack of free thought making them easy to handle. Some of them collapsed where they stood, unable to survive with the malformed organs they had. They were simply thrown onto a separate vehicle and counted; twenty-seven had died. In front of the man, a screen lit up with the portrait of a human silhouette.
"Report." O5-11 spoke with an ambiguous, synthesised voice. The seated man was obliged to respond.
"Monthly production has concluded. One hundred thousand produced today, with a loss of twenty-seven immediately post-production. Remaining ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and seventy-three are sufficient to fulfil monthly requirement, and are being transported to the surface for dissemination." His voice was rough and wheezy, years of constant smoking having damaged his throat and lungs beyond repair. Whether he would suffocate or die from cancer he didn't know, but neither did he care.
"Were the fixes implemented?" asked O5-11, overlooking the abhorrently bad health of the project manager.
"Yes. Personality components should be more randomised now, and the Haemophilia glitch should be fixed now." Feeling an imminent coughing fit, the seated man whipped out a handkerchief and held it to his face as the fit struck. After a minute it subsided and, ignoring the new splotch of blood and phlegm, the handkerchief was returned to its pocket.
"Sorry. There were no losses in staff this month, so no replacements were required. We've noticed some of the machines are in need of replacement, which we'll be doing before production resumes next month."
"You should stop smoking," said O5-11, apparently ignoring the report in favour of the stout man's health. The latter in turn took another drag from his cigarette before continuing.
"What's the worst it could do, kill me?" His laughter was quickly interrupted by a coughing fit, his body struggling to process enough air. Once it subsided, he answered less humorously. "The carcinogens will make the products more authentic. In this day and age, it's pretty tough to grow up without being exposed to something lethal. It'll be distributed when I die." A brief silence ensued before O5-11 responded.
"Very well. Continue." And with that, the screen went blank once more. The seated man returned his attention to the screens in time to see the first group of products depart on a freight elevator bound for the surface.
He was glad he was who he was. Others might find it miserable, stuck watching everything that occurred in a five hundred thousand tonne machine hidden beneath Yellowstone, spending only an hour or two at the surface each week. But from the day he had been birthed by the machine, he had no choice in the matter - it was either this, or be given a false history and be conditioned into a convict, like those on the screen. He was much happier repairing and maintaining the most important machine ever forged by mankind, the same machine which birthed him, than being doomed to die within a month and get blended back into the biological soup he had been made from.
He had necessarily been conditioned to an extent, though. The Overseers had to be sure that he wouldn't defect to an enemy or go on some mad rampage, and so they had conditioned him with a strong sense of duty to protect his iron mother, as well as an undying loyalty to the Foundation. But some aspects of his personality had developed on their own, filling the vacuum around the conditioning; the most notable of this was his choice of name, Tukay Dee. Not particularly original considering he was a fourth-model worker, but it was enough to set him apart from the disposables he exported.
The toxic yet soothing smoke of the cigarette once again entered his lungs. The name signified his higher purpose, to protect and help rather than simply die. It showed he had earned any empathy he received - not for what he was, but who he was. He expected no different from his creations, and so they were given their phantom lives of villainy and crime. To avoid the misguided empathy of a researcher falling upon them simply for where they came from, causing hesitation at whether they truly deserved the imminent death before them. The chains of ethics would hold the Foundation back, constricting and killing it.
So a necessary evil was added, justified by placing it in the control of Tukay Dee. Rather than use the finite quantity of death row inmates to try fill the infinite requirement the Foundation had only to fail within a month, an endless supply of recycled convicts were made, bound to the caste of persecution and death they bore in their previous life, unable to ever escape from the cycle to nirvana.
Well, no cycle was ever perfect and the reuse of the Foundation's D-classes was no different. Tukay Dee turned his attention to a monitor showing one of the lifts, from which a dump truck piled high with purportedly uncontaminated human corpses was emerging. The Foundation had dangerous, anomalous biohazards within its care, some of which needed sacrifices to understand. In a warped way the ones killed by these diseases were the lucky ones, the ones whose bodies broke free from the cycle and could truly be at rest. Decontaminating a decaying corpse was expensive and difficult, so they were incinerated rather than sent back to the phantom "Site 18."
The machine had a critical purpose which it had to be prepared to fulfil at any time. It had to be able to resurrect the human race from extinction, reset the clock in the wake of the rapture. Regardless of what contaminant was floating within the biological soup, the machine could fulfil its purpose - but the entirety of humanity would be infected as a consequence, and a lot of the biohazards the Foundation studied would severely stint, if not exterminate the human race, if such were to happen. Tukay Dee hadn't been made paranoid, but he had developed it as a trait. Even though it wasn't supposed to be his job, he made sure to check every single corpse that came in. Just to be sure.
Leaning back in his seat, Tukay Dee watched the workers go to work as he smoked his cigarette.
At the same time, Tukay Dee hefted a rotting corpse from the mountainous pile, glad he had developed the bulging muscles that came with his arduous, physical work. He briefly paused as he watched himself escorting a batch of fresh humans onto an empty freight elevator.
Elsewhere in the factory, Tukay Dee retrieved a wrench from his toolbox as he set about unfastening the bolts connecting a faulty Bokanovsky divider to the rest of his mother.


“A month. Tops.”
“I won't get… What, any details?”
”I'm not personally privy to the details, I'm afraid, even if I were allowed to disclose them.”
“H-how do I know what I did wrong?”
"I'm not sure what you mean by that. Your errors were explained to you thoroughly."
"…Okay."

The effort I used to give, if in vain

⊥μԍ ԍɻɻoɩϝ I nƨԍq ϝo მᴉʌԍˋ ᴉɻ ᴉu ʌɑᴉu

"Well, that was fast."
"Oh. What?"
"Just saying that you read it quickly, that's all. Are you comfortable signing?"
"Oh, oh! Yeah, of course. I've gotten this far, right?"
"That's a good mentality to have. Go ahead."
"Thank you."
"No, thank you."

I have no need for a memory of my life before this. The prospect of it seems painful. Whatever my meaning was previous to this has been outweighed by usefulness, potential or otherwise, and that's fine. I had nothing to spend my paycheck on when I lived in the real world, so what was the point of receiving it? It's fine. It's reasonable enough, and it's fine.
I have spent anywhere from two to six years here, give or take a few years that might have gotten fucked around in my memory or wiped out of it entirely. It was clear to me when I was hired that this organization's purpose wasn't as scientifically oriented as I'd originally thought, and that was fine too. It was important work, work I didn't mind dedicating myself toward despite a few ethical doubts I had towards the beginning. I was here because I wanted to be here. That was my intention, and it was a comfortable and confident one.

was outvalued and then outweighed by pain

ʍɑƨ onϝʌɑɼnԍq ɑuq ϝμԍu onϝʍԍᴉმμԍq pλ bɑᴉu

"Where are you?
"Just my office. Why, what do you nee-"
”We need you. Your father and I are getting tired.”
”Tired of… what?”
”Of this! Of you! Well, not of- you, just of… this situation. You've been gone for months. We haven't seen you in months. Don't you realize how heartbreaking that is? What are you doing that is so damn important, huh?”
“Dad, I-”
”I know you're not a kid anymore, alright, so don't pull the age thing-”
“That's not what I was going to say. I was going to say that I'm doing work more important than you two probably expect-”
”Oh, this is about what we expect, now? When did that become the subject of this conversation?”
“It didn't, it didn't!”
”Then what the hell are you up to, Teresa? Where are you? Why won't you visit us?”
“Don't- don't yell, please, everything will be fine, I'll keep sending you and dad money-”
”We don't want your fucking money! We want you back in our life, not those shady-ass monthly transfers from your shady-ass bank showing up in our transaction history, dammit! What the hell is your bank anyway? I've never even heard of it! When I Google it I get nothing! Do you work for the government or something?”
“Please stop yelling-”
”I'll stop yelling when you tell me where the fuck you are, honey! We don't know where our daughter is!”
“Indiana, okay, the closest town is Bloomington, just- wait, fuck-”
”'Wait fuck' what?”
“I have to go; someone's here-”
“Please call me back, Teresa, we miss you so much-”

”Who was that?”
“Oh, hi Doctor Werner-”
”I said who was that?”
“Who was- my- father? My father, he called me, you know how family gets-”
”You revealed our location to your father?”
“Y- yeah-”
”This isn't a Foundation cell phone. You know the rules, Lockwood, keep this in your belongings locker unless you're going off-site for one of your yearly vacation periods.”
“I… know, sir.”
”Yeah. You do.”

I never had an issue with what we did, either; however, I often had the unfortunate pleasure of working with sapient anomalies, so I suppose I need to factor that into my view of the Foundation before I say anything too self-absorbed. I worked in the Field Research department of Site-81, and my days were spent burning up my biology degree in the humidity of the midwest, tracking people and animals through the filthy alleyways of Indianapolis and the deep woods of Bloomington alike. Anomalous creatures don't grow on trees, after all, and each project took up months of my time. My days were long and my pay was low, but it's what I had wanted to do and it's what I'd been doing.

and by lack of action, or thoughts ingrained

ɑuq pλ ɼɑcĸ oɻ ɑcϝᴉouˋ oɩ ϝμonმμϝƨ ᴉuმɩɑᴉuԍq

"Lockwood? What are you writing?"
"Oh, uh my notes. For the-"
"It's past time for lunch. You should go."
"Oh. Yeah, you're right."
"I'll have someone escort you."
"Um… why is that necessary?"

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize how purposeless I would feel if I hadn't been hired by the Foundation or a similar organization. I could spend my days slaving away at a nine-to-five job, like I spent my teens and early twenties, but what would I be doing? Helping some no-name company make its money? No, I'd rather do something important, even if that meant doing things the outside world frowns upon.
After the legal shitshow sparked by the events in Korea cracked the Foundation's backbone, containment of human anomalies was the new animal testing in the public's eye, and no amount of logical reasoning would sway their vitriolic and destructive activism. For a while, I started to wish that I was from a different education background - anything other than biology - just so that I could turn a blind eye to the Foundation's 'questionable morals' and file paperwork in some dusty office wing. Anything other than what was popular controversy. Anything that didn't involve sentient subjects.

my sense of self was exhausted and drained

wλ ƨԍuƨԍ oɻ ƨԍɼɻ ʍɑƨ ԍxμɑnƨϝԍq ɑuq qɩɑᴉuԍq

That being said, I was torn. The human anomalies I worked with - and there were only three of them in my entire career - didn't behave like people. A person doesn't scream and kick when approached in calm conversation, a person doesn't attempt to murder the doctor attending to them, a person doesn't spend hours at night wailing at the ceiling and only stop when forcibly sedated; an animal does those things. I was working with animals, whether I wanted to admit it at the time or not. Right?

and I do recall the day my heart died

ɑuq I qo ɩԍcɑɼɼ ϝμԍ qɑλ wλ μԍɑɩϝ qᴉԍq

“I can't talk to you.”
"But I'm the same pe-"
”No, I- it's not that I don't, I- can't.”
"Not allowed. Right."
“It's wrong. I'd be wrong.”
"Didn't you get my note? Please tell me you got my note."
"Please be quiet. Look, we really can't be seen talking to each other."
"Am I not the same person? The same person you've always known?"
"…I'm sorry, okay?"

The more I considered the concepts involved, the more I came to the realization that it would be downright unintelligent to ignore how environment has the capacity to enforce and cause behavior. Of course a person acts like an animal when you put them in a cage, I explained to my supervisor a few years back; living things conform to the context of their environment, I know that much, and when a living thing's environment is designed to enforce a mindset, how can you in good faith lay the blame of the results on the victim?
He didn't like that. It was a telltale sign of concerning sympathy, he said, and he'd be moving me to a "less stress-inducing work environment" ("for my own safety," of course). I'll get my head in the right place, he told me. Amnesticization is always an option.
As of now, I am not certain where I stand.

and I do recall that one time they tried

ɑuq I qo ɩԍcɑɼɼ ϝμɑϝ ouԍ ϝᴉwԍ ϝμԍλ ϝɩᴉԍq

"Did you hear?"
"What? Hear what?"
"The news. They know. The public knows."
"Keep your voice down-"
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Terra, no one's listening."
"You never know, okay? And besides, isn't this old news anyway?"
"No."

I never had to deal with humanoids after that. I researched Safe-classes in a quiet lab. Nothing sentient or sapient. My pay decreased, but I didn't care. I ignored my feelings, I ignored the news and the rumors and I ignored everything but my work. After a while, my head felt lighter. Weeks blurred together faster than they ever had before, and I found that I rarely left the Site anymore. My life was a cycle of lab to quarters to cafeteria over and over and over again, and it was acceptable. Even comfortable. I was useful - I felt useful - and I saw it in my daily patterns as much as I saw it in my work.

to reinvigorate and humanize

ϝo ɩԍᴉuʌᴉმoɩɑϝԍ ɑuq μnwɑuᴉzԍ

I have found that there is no difference between usefulness in the lab and usefulness in the field. This organization cannot function with the personal cushioning that is individuality; to have it present is to clog the gears and stop the clock, and in this day and age more so than ever, we are a clock that cannot afford to be stopped. The clock must continue to function as a whole, and it does not matter which of the cogs I control; all that matters is that I continue to function.

and despite their efforts to compromise,

ɑuq qԍƨbᴉϝԍ ϝμԍᴉɩ ԍɻɻoɩϝƨ ϝo cowbɩowᴉƨԍˋ

The issue is not that the Foundation does not see me as human, despite what the newspapers will have you believe. Whether they ever did is of course always in question, but by this point, outside factors and the draining, inescapable influence that is publicity have caused them to at least try. No, the issue isn't that the Foundation does not see me as human. The issue is that I no longer see myself as human, and my own conviction is the most valuable tool at their hands.
But it's fine, really;

I am just a cog in the machine.

I ɑw ℩nƨϝ ɑ coმ ᴉu ϝμԍ wɑcμᴉuԍ·

“A month. Tops.”
“I won't get… What, any details?”
”I'm not personally privy to the details, I'm afraid, even if I were allowed to disclose them.”
“H-how do I know what I did wrong?”
"I'm not sure what you mean by that. Your errors were explained to you thoroughly."
"…Okay."

continue ▶


Alan stumbled through the doorway, tripped, and fell into the foyer on his side.
"Shit! My fucking back!"
The door slammed behind him and whatever dim light peeking through was quickly snuffed. Alan's ragged breath was stunted by his lungs breathing the choking particulate within the house. Everything was covered in a half inch layer of the fluffy grey dust. Not as coarse as ash and not as fine as flour, somewhere in between. The air stunk like an old Tupperware container to boot.
"The hell is this place?" Alan gripped a coat rack to steady himself up onto his feet while rubbing his sore left flank. First thing he tried was the light switch on the wall, which of course was dead. Not surprising at all to Alan.
«D-3454, do you copy?»
Alan jumped at the noise before realizing it was the radio on his hip. He didn't remember being given that, but that was the least of his concern right now. He responded to the scratchy voice.
"Yeah?"
«Proceed into the building and report your observation. Instructions will follow.»
"Okay, but it's fucking dark in here. Can't see shit." Alan looked down at his arm to notice he was wearing a very plain looking Casio-ish watch with no buttons. It wasn't keeping time, but was in stopwatch mode. Only 22 seconds were recorded so far.
«You've been given a small flashlight as well. Should be attached to the radio.»
Alan fumbled with the small keychain sized flashlight affixed to the side of the radio. With a click the bright LED lit up the foyer and the short empty hallway ahead. A small end table could be seen with a handgun sitting idly on top of the dust layer, as if it was just placed there.
«D-3454, can you proceed?»
"Y-yeah. I can."
«Good. Continue through the building and report.»
Alan walked over to the gun.
Take the gun. (1.1)
Leave the gun. (1.2)

► Open 1.1

▼ Close 1.1

Alan picked up the gun. It was heavy. It was familiar. It was loaded. He sighed as he tucked it away and continued on.
Inside it was more of the same. But at least he could figure out that it was some kind of living room. After a few steps in, an open room began to take shape. Couches. Tables. A CRT TV with the VCR built in. Nothing looked particularly ancient except the dust layer. On the couch cushions, there was clearly an area that had been brushed off. As if someone wanted a clean place to lie down.
«D-3454, report?»
"I- I think someone has been here."
«You have visual confirmation of the entity?»
"Entity?"
«Do you see anyone?»
"N-no."
A hand gripped Alan's shoulder.
"FUCK!"
As he spun around he fumbled for the gun. It took a full second to get it out in front of him, but he managed. With a finger on the trigger he pointed it at the figure.
Shoot. (1.3)
Don't Shoot. (1.4)

► Open 1.2

▼ Close 1.2

Alan looked at it. Then shook his head. It was obvious that it was placed there, purposely and recently. Alan was not a very trusting individual.
"Don't think so."
Inside it was more of the same. But at least he could figure out that it was some kind of living room. After a few steps in, an open room began to take shape. Couches. Tables. A CRT TV with the VCR built in. Nothing looked particularly ancient except the dust layer. On the couch cushions, there was clearly an area that had been brushed off. As if someone wanted a clean place to lie down.
«D-3454, report?»
"I- I think someone has been here."
«You have visual confirmation of the entity?»
"Entity?"
«Do you see anyone?»
"N-no."
A hand gripped Alan's shoulder.
"FUCK!"
As he spun around he dove behind the large couch in an attempt to create some distance. Alan was pretty sure he could make it back to the entrance. He just wasn't sure if he should. Quickly he nabbed a metal lamp and poised to swing at whatever it was.
"Keep away!"
Run. (1.5)
Fight back. (1.6)
Stand ground. (1.7)

► Open 1.3

▼ Close 1.3

POP
The shadowy figure advanced still. "Don't waste your time, Alan." Its voice was human for sure.
Alan let two more shots ring out. "STAY BACK!" With his free hand, Alan grasped his small flashlight to see. It was a man. Lanky, bearded… in a D-class jumpsuit as well. Alan briefly thought about his shots, if it was possible to miss all three of them at this range. Suddenly and very swiftly, the man nabbed Alan's gun right out of his hand.
"Alan, just calm the fuck down!"
"WHO—"
"Just another like you, Alan. I heard you enter. Didn't mean to startle you. Just tell me what you remember before entering."
"What?!? N-no. Who are you?"
«D-3454. We heard gunshots. Can you confirm?»
Alan, still not trusting the figure, gripped his radio to respond.
"There… there's something here and—"
"No! Don't talk to him. You have to trust me, Alan."
«Say again, D-3454?»
Answer radio. (2.1)
Don't answer radio. (2.2)

► Open 1.4

▼ Close 1.4

"What are you!" Alan emphasized each syllable.
The figure stepped closer with its hands open. It was a man. Lanky, bearded… in a D-class jumpsuit as well.
"Alan, calm down."
"WHO—"
The man snatched his gun right out of his hand before Alan could snap out of his shocked state. "Just another like you, Alan. Not here to harm you. I heard you enter. Just tell me what you remember before entering."
"What?!? N-no. Who are you?"
The man casually approached. "Not entirely sure. But the name on my jumpsuit is the same as yours. So's the number. Look."
Alan looked and sure enough, it was.
Continue (2.2)

► Open 1.5

▼ Close 1.5

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck!" Alan vaulted over the couch and coffee table to reach the door. The figure sighed in disappointment as it watched Alan scramble back to the entrance like a child.
"Here we go again." It moaned.
Alan in his panic, opened the door where he just came from and lost his balance, tripping through it.
Click to start over. (Ø)

► Open 1.6

▼ Close 1.6

"AAAAAAH!"
Alan was not going to give it a chance, he swung at the figure hard… real fucking hard.
WUMP
There was a wet thud as the metal lamp made contact with a softer head. Then a second thud as the limp body collapsed onto the floor. Dust started to settle in the silence as Alan stood over the body. After a good ten seconds, he was sure that whatever it was was not getting up again. With his light, he illuminated the body.
He gasped.
It was a man. Beard, lanky, and in a similar… no… exactly the same orange jumpsuit.
"Alan. D-3454." He said in a shaky voice as he read the words on the clothes. That was his name. That was his number.
«D-3454, we heard screaming. Can you confirm?»
"I— That was me. What the shit is this? I just killed something wearing my clothes."
«You killed it? You sure?»
Alan nudged the head with his foot. The blood pouring out of the nose was probably enough of an indicator.
«D-3454?»
Continue (2.3)

► Open 1.7

▼ Close 1.7

"What are you!" Alan swung the lamp through the empty air, leaving a comet trail of dust in the dark.
The figure stepped closer with its hands open. It was a man. Lanky, bearded… in a D-class jumpsuit as well.
"Alan, calm down."
"WHO—"
"Just another like you, Alan. I heard you enter. Didn't mean to startle you at all. Just tell me what you remember before entering."
"What?!? N-no. Who are you?"
The man put his hands down. "I don't know. But the name on my jumpsuit is the same as yours. So's the number. Put the lamp down."
Alan slowly lowered the lamp, then tossed it at his feet in the dust covered carpet and took a step toward him.
Continue (2.2)

► Open 2.1

▼ Close 2.1

Alan held the radio up to his face and pressed the button to talk. The other man just shook his head.
"Look, I'm getting fucking freaked out here. There's a guy here. Just tell me what the fuck is going on."
«D-3454, you are very likely hallucinating. I need you to focus here.»
Alan turned his back to regain his bearings. "What are you saying? This is all in my head?"
«Can you still see the man?»
Alan blinked a few times and looked. It was gone. "Shit! Where did he go!?"
«D-3454, if you want to get through this you need to be level-headed.»
Alan felt nauseous. He never experienced anything like this. But as long as the radio batteries held out, he felt like he could keep it together.
"Alright. I'm listening. Just… just tell me what's next."
«Standby.»
Continue (2.4)

► Open 2.2

▼ Close 2.2

The man handed Alan the gun. "Look, you need more convincing? Watch this."
Alan confusingly took the gun and tucked it away. The man then unclipped a radio from his own hip. "Give me your battery real quick."
Alan complied silently. They were the same model radios, which meant they took the same kind of battery pack. The man plugged it in and then pressed the button to talk.
"This is D-3454. Can you still hear me?"
«Loud and clear, D-3454. I need an update.»
"See?" The man handed the battery pack back. "We're on the same team here. You good?"
Alan nodded. "Are… are you me?"
"No. Well. Let's just keep that at no for now. I think the real answer is too complicated. But answer my previous question, what do you remember before coming here."
Alan opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything. "I… I can't."
"Yeah. Thought so." The man reached over the couch to grab the TV remote. He popped open the back and took the AAA batteries. Then shoved them into a small flashlight, not all that dissimilar to Alan's flashlight. He clicked it on and smiled that the LED still worked. "This place is… funny."
"Yeah. I get that." Alan ran his fingers through his hair. "How long you been here?"
"I don't think about that. I just keep moving." The man hustled toward the entrance and opened the door, swinging it towards him. Lifting up a sleeve, he revealed several Casio-ish stop watches along his forearm. All of which with different times and varying signs of damage. He inspected each digital number methodically. "You ready to go? We're close."
Ready. (2.6)
Refuse. (2.7)

► Open 2.3

▼ Close 2.3

Alan held the radio up to his face and pressed the button to talk.
"Look, I'm getting fucking freaked out here. It's dead, alright? Just tell me what the fuck is going on."
«D-3454, you are very likely hallucinating. I need you to focus here.»
Alan turned his back to regain his bearings. "What are you saying? This is all in my head?"
«Can you still see the body?»
Alan blinked a few times and looked. There was nothing. "Shit! Where did he go!?"
«D-3454, it was never there. If you want to get through this you need to be level-headed.»
Alan felt nauseous. He never experienced anything like this. But as long as the radio batteries held out, he felt like he could maintain.
"Alright. I'm listening. Just… just tell me what's next."
«Standby.»
"Damn it!" The man stumbled through the door and slammed it behind him. He was dead just ten seconds ago. "I'll tell ya, you've shot me I don't know how many times, but it's the first time I think you've pegged me with that lamp. Fuck me that hurt." He didn't have a scratch on him.
Alan shrank back against the wall. "You aren't real. You're just in my head. Get out of my head!"
"That's what the radio said? Figures."
"What do you want?!" Alan shrilled. Not intentionally, but that's the way it came out.
"I think it'd be easier if we just tried this again." The man pointed a gun at Alan, and shot him in the head.
POP
Click to start over. (Ø)

► Open 2.4

▼ Close 2.4

«You still there?»
Alan nodded and leaned against the dusty couch in the stale living room. "Yes."
«Listen carefully, you need to reach our extraction point. But to do so, you need to understand that this space is anomalous.»
"Really?" Alan said sarcastically. "So how do I get to you? Can't I just walk out?"
«No. Not unless you open the door towards you. This is important. If you open the door away from you and step through, it resets the loop and you. You'll forget everything.»
"Wait, what loop?" Alan stood up straight to mull over those words. He had to spend a few seconds to process exactly what that meant.
«This is a temporal time loop. An unstable one at that. I can't tell you anymore information. Do as I say, but you will need to enter the door exactly when I say.»
Alan pinched the bridge of his nose. This was giving him a headache and his nerves were not helping. "Fine. You want me to wait by the door now?"
«That's fine. Wait there and standby.»
"Alan." The man poked out from around the corner. "Don't be hasty."
"Fuck off, man!" Alan stomped towards the door. "You're not real and I'm leaving." The man grabbed Alan by the collar and grabbed the gun from him, then pressed it right under his jaw. "Stop. Think. This is a fucking game and you're being played. You can either wait to figure that out when it's too late." The man let Alan go and gave the gun back. "Or you can follow me out of here."
«D-3454, five seconds. Be ready.»
"Your choice."
Alan placed a hand on the door knob. He gripped it tight as his mind ran with a thousand different thoughts.
«Ok, enter… now!»
Stay. (2.5)
Enter. (2.8)

► Open 2.5

▼ Close 2.5

«D-3454? D-3454, did you go through? D—»
Alan turned the volume down on the radio.
"Finally. Okay, step out of the way. We'll go when I say." The man lifted up a sleeve to reveal several Casio-ish stop watches along his forearm. All of which with different times and varying signs of damage. "We're close. Just get ready."
"How do you know all this stuff?" The man looked at Alan and rolled his eyes. "I know because I have to."
Alan rubbed his temples. "You're probably annoyed with questions by now."
"I am. Okay here we go. Stay right on my tail. Now!"
Continue. (2.6)

► Open 2.6

▼ Close 2.6

Alan and the man enter the door as quick as they can. It was the same. Exactly the same as where they just were. There was less dust, more footprints, and the coffee table was full of bottled water. "Where did you get the bottled water?"
"Fridge. Well. Fridges. Help yourself."
Alan grabbed on and downed it. He looked around, the man was collecting. He was collecting to survive. Flashlights, batteries, bullets. "Where did you get it all?"
The man plopped onto the couch and opened a water for himself. "Instead of answering that question lets focus on getting you out. Yeah?"
"Sure." Alan put his empty bottle back on the table.
"You gotta." The man makes a gun with his fingers. "Off yerself."
Alan blinked a few times. "What? Why?"
The man took another swig. "You're stuck in a timeloop. And to answer a previous question, yes, I think I am you. And I think you are me. Come to think of it, it might have been another you that asked me that. I can't keep track."
"But won't I… ya know… die?"
"Nah. You'll just reset back into your own timeline. We aren't in any timeline. We're somewhere in between… stuck… I think. The Foundation pricks don't really know how it works. I don't know how it works. It just is. And I stay behind to help all the other me get back so we can have a future."
"What happens when you die?"
"Hopefully I convince me to stay behind and continue doing this… like when I convinced myself before. Now here we are talking to you. Or… something like that. You get it, man."
He sipped the last bit of water out of the bottle. "Only two ways outta here. Die by your own hand, or slowly by time. Every other way is just another fucking loop."
Alan gripped the hand gun and turns the safety off. "You're sure?"
«static»
"Yeah. Trust me. I don't have any reason to lie to myself. Just make it count on the outside."
Alan nodded and looked back at the gun. Then looked up at the man.
Kill yourself. (3.1)
Kill the man. (3.2)

► Open 2.7

▼ Close 2.7

"No. I'm don't think I should be going anywhere."
The man looked at his watches again. "Look. I don't got time. It's now or—"
"I said no. I gotta figure this out first."
Pounding the door frame in frustration now, the man's temper began to boil. "Five seconds. Want me to pull you through the fucking door? I have before." The man rushed up to Alan and grabbed him by the collar. "We're leaving! We have to. Whether you like it or not."
Kill the man. (3.2)
Call for help. (3.3)
Run into another room. (3.4)

► Open 2.8

▼ Close 2.8

Alan jumped through the door. It was the same. Exactly the same as where he just was. Even the dust was the same. Then he heard a voice. "Alan! You made it." Alan walked into the living room to find himself sitting on the couch.
"Alan?"
"Alan."
"Be glad I got you away form that other guy. He's the whole reason why everything is fucked the way it is."
Alan sat down in front of himself. He looked at the other radio on the coffee table. "That one still have juice?" The other Alan smiled and keyed up the radio. «D-3454, you copy?»
Alan's radio repeated the message. Even though the voice was staticy, it was clear that he himself was the voice. "What? It was you this whole time? When did you get here?"
"Yesterday I think? The other guy found me. Figured out what he was doing and why he was doing it."
"What's he doing?"
The other Alan brushed off the dust on his shoulder. "You don't want to know right now. But since you're here, you can start to take over."
Alan shook his head. "Take over? Take over what?"
Other Alan chuckled a little bit. "It's funny to hear my words again— No. You take over my spot and I head out. Even you being here means that lines are starting to close all over. That's good for us but bad for him. That's how it works I think."
Alan took a breath. "Take over? Lines closing? Stop sending me in circles. I'm in a fucking nightmare here! JUST TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!"
Other Alan just nodded his head. "You may think this is the right time to know all that, but it's not. And in about-" He looked down at his watches. "-half a minute, the other guy is gonna burst in here. You wanna be here when that happens?"
"No."
"Then let's get going then. We got a lead."
Other Alan grabbed a gun and clip and headed for a door. The back door. "This might get a little weird." He opened it and stepped through. Alan followed behind him.
Continue. (3.5)

► Open 3.1

▼ Close 3.1

Alan pressed the gun to his temple.
"Here I go."
He clenched his teeth and counted to three.
"One…. Two… Three." That three seemed to hang in the air forever until finally his finger squeezed hard enough on the trigger.
POP

"He's not coming back is he?" The researcher turned the recording equipment off. "That's an asset loss then."
The director looked down at his clipboard with cold eyes as he scanned the incident report. "I think we're done here at least. We're not getting anywhere." He put the clipboard back into his briefcase and packed up. "We'll seal off this quadrant to personnel for now. Keep the camera rolling just in case. We'll monitor it from the security station."
The senior researcher nodded and packed up as well. In a small notepad he marked down some notes for later use.

D-3454: remove asset from spreadsheet
order more handheld radios
seal off Cell-67, video feed to be patched to security station
put out recovery order for missing object
milk
sliced ham
eggs
coffee
cheddar cheese
tomatoes
ice cream
b-day present, daughter

END?

► Open 3.2

▼ Close 3.2

Suddenly they both locked together into struggle, but that was quickly interrupted with a single gun shot.
POP
For a split second, Alan was unsure who was shot. After what seemed like unnecessary waiting, was ended when the man slumped down to his knees clutching his side. The gun in Alan's hand went off two more times, ending the man.
Alan dropped the gun. He looked at the door. Briefly he thought about going through, but what good would any of that do now. Looking back at the floor, Alan stepped back in shock. The body disappeared.
"Whoa! The fu—"
Another body was flung from the door to Alan's feet. It groaned and spoke. "Motherfucker. Can you stop killing me? Doesn't get any easier you know." It was the man he just killed. As he stood, Alan didn't even have to think about it. He wound up for a punch.
Continue. (3.4)

► Open 3.3

▼ Close 3.3

Alan didn't wait to reason with him. He punched the man right in the solar plexus.
"OH! (wheeze) …shit…" The man dropped to his knees to catch his breath. Alan ran around the couch and keyed up the radio. "Hey! Is anyone still there?"
«(static) I'm here. What's happening?»
"I hit him. The other guy. I— I don't know what to do."
«There's a back door. You need to go through it. Can you see it?»
The other guys braced himself up onto an end table. "DON'T! YOU CAN'T LEAVE THIS PLACE!"
Alan looked behind him. Sure enough the faint outline of a door was present in the far darkness. "I see it."
«He's not able to move through it. Make your way over there. I'll meet you.»
Alan started to run for it. "Who are you?" No answer. As he pulled it open and stepped through, the other man was stumbling towards him up until the door shut behind Alan.
Continue. (3.5)

► Open 3.4

▼ Close 3.4

Alan didn't wait to reason with him. He punched the man right in the solar plexus.
"OH! (wheeze) …shit…" The man dropped to his knees to catch his breath. Alan ran around the corner, in what looked like a bedroom. Maybe there was a window. Maybe there was a vent. Maybe there was a golf club in the closet. In his panic, he grabbed the first thing that looked like a weapon. It might have been a baseball bat, it was too dark for Alan to tell. He fumbled for a light to see better.
click
Splayed all over the room were skeleton corpses. The bed stained a dark red with old blood. Orange sets of clothes folded neatly in the corner. Drying meat hanging from the ceiling fan. An arrangement of kitchen knives placed neatly on the pillow. This wasn't a murder scene but more of a serial killer workshop. It was so methodical and horrific that Ed Gein could have been in the corner taking notes. "Ah! AAHHH! FUCK!"
"GET OUT OF THERE!"
"What the fuck! The fuck you do to these people!?!"
Alan reared back out of the room ready to swing… which was now revealed to be a femur. He dropped it in disgust.
"People?" The man rose back up and pointed a gun straight at Alan. "A man's gotta eat. Don't count if it's your own flesh. Same as biting your fingernails."
"You're such a motherfucker."
The man shrugged. "Takes one to know one. So again… this isn't working. I ate recently, so I can wait. Third time's a charm? Or is this the fifth?" He then shot Alan in the head.
POP
Click to start over. (Ø)

► Open 3.5

▼ Close 3.5

Alan entered in through the door, or rather fell into the empty space. "Ah— AAAAHHH!" He tumbled ass over head in zero gravity. "Fuck! FUUUUCK!" He tried to look back at the door he just left as it started to drift away.
«Alan? Hey, just relax.»
Alan nearly lost the grip on his radio as he tried to press it against his face. Slowly but surely he seemed to stop spinning "Where the hell am I? Where the fuck are you?"
«We're kinda in the same place now. We're in the same body but in different timelines. Finally parallel, right? I am you and you are me now.»
Alan jerked his head in defeat. He'll never understand this situation he thought. Maybe he should just stop trying in general.
"Keep explaining."
«The other guy is us. He wants to keep making more timelines so he can eat to survive.»
"Eat?"
«Other Alans.»
"That's… fucked up. And what about that house?"
«You never recognize it. It's the trailer where Diane died. Remember?»
Alan never put more than two seconds of thought into it, but it did seem eerily familiar. His memories of that blurry night came rushing fast and hard as he tried to focus. His girlfriend. That's the last person he wanted to see in a place like this. The way things are going, he couldn't really rule that out.
«Don't ask me why it looks this way. It just does.»
"So where are we really?"
«If I didn't explain already. We're not anywhere. We're stuck in some kind of loop. But we can tweak things to get back on track.»
"So what now?"
«Well… right now we're coming up onto some lights here, right?»
Alan looked in all directions until he spotted two orbs of sparking electrical light closing in. "Yeah?"
«I'm going in that one, on your— well our left. You go in the other one and help the next Alan.»
"What happens if I don't go in either?"
«Likely… you'd float on until you die I guess. I don't know.»
Alan had to decide.
Left. (3.6)
Right. (3.7)
Neither. (3.8)

► Open 3.6

▼ Close 3.6

"I'm… " Alan cut off his own words as he made his choice. He was going to be the one to get out first. Fuck that other guy.
«Alan?»
Alan ignored his radio as he paddled toward the light.
«Alan? Hey. Wait. You can't do it that way. You'll fuck the timeline again.»
He didn't care. He figured this was not his first rodeo. Who knows how many times he's been here. If he's stuck in a loop. If he's lying to himself. Either way, he wasn't going to be a sucker. He touched the light with his finger tips.

"Wait! There." The researcher adjusted the recording equipment. "Another one."
The director looked down at her clipboard with cold eyes as she scanned the security breach report. "Extract him and put it into another holding cell until we can figure this out. Can we debrief this one you think?"
The researcher shook his head. "Don't know what good that would do if he's like all the others. Can't remember a damn thing and all claim to be the same."
"Damn. We're not getting anywhere this way." She put the clipboard back into her briefcase and packed up. "We'll keep this quadrant off limits for now. Keep security teams on standby if anymore come through and keep the camera rolling. I have to report on the status of our little… incident."
The director swiped her badge across the electronic door lock and left the young researcher to mop up. In the elevator, the director flipped through the security footage from yesterday on her phone. Obviously there's a lack of security detail and post-screening during testing with Safe-class artifacts. "What were you planning, Alan?" She asked herself.

END?

► Open 3.7

▼ Close 3.7

"Fine. I'll make it for the right then." Alan paddled off to the right. "What happens to you?"
«Me? I was told that when it's my turn that I'll be free. You remember why we're doing this right?»
Alan searched his memory a little. Too much has happened in the loop, but he did remember an objective.
«That's right. You barely remember anything and I'm supposed to tell you. Yeah. This is a jail break of sorts.»
Alan nodded as his memory was jostled. "Yeah. I remember stealing that thing from the test chamber. So we figured out how it worked, huh?"
«Kinda.» The light was within reaching distance. «See you on the other side.» Alan was about to touch the light as well when something in the darkness grabbed him. "Gah!"
A mummified arm drifted into Alan as it wrapped around his body. The sunken eyes, over shadowed with the large exit wound along the side of the head was a sure indicator that it was in fact dead. The panic was enough to put him into a tumble again, over and under until Alan could regain a little control. The corpse now barely hanging on by Alan's shoe, which was about to come loose. He was starting drift out.
Push. (3.8)
Reach. (3.9)

► Open 3.8

▼ Close 3.8

Alan pushed away. It was enough to make him drift in the wrong direction. Out of reach from anything now. As he watched the lights fly away in the distance he wondered about what would happen next. The blackness seemed infinite. All around he thought he could hear echoes. What they were saying was another matter. It all seemed muffled. Alan continued to hang in that blackness.
5 days later.
Alan's parched lips and sore joints kept him in a rigor mortis state. His skin wrinkled like a plastic bag as it cried for hydration. The last two days, he didn't even open his eyes. He was going to die like this. He knew it. It was a slow death.
As Alan drifted out of his dream state and into full unconsciousness, he wondered about the other Alan's before him. Was there an Alan with nobody to talk to over the radio? Were the guards even still looking for him? This was probably a bad plan, he thought. Then he exhaled his last dry breath.
Click to return. (O)

► Open 3.9

▼ Close 3.9

Alan reached. He freed his hand and reached until his elbow popped from the strain. As his fingertips grazed the light, he was washed in a brightness as the world around him melted away. This was it. The brightness faded as he rushed straight ahead it felt like. Something in his brain however faulted. He blinked hard.
When he opened his eyes, he was sitting on the couch. Back in the room.
«The hell is this place?» Chirped the radio on the table. Alan took a breath and he started the motions.
"D-3454, do you copy?" Alan waited for his other self's response.

END?


There once was a D-Class from Matlock,
Whose dick was too big for his sock,
So he rolled up his sheet,
All nice and neat,
And proceeded to play with his cock.

I love you Susan.
I love you Susan.
I love you Susan.
I love you Susan.

FUCK THE FOUNDATION!

Bunkhouse Rules:
1 – Don't hurt each other.
2 – Don't steal from each other.
3 – Have each other's backs.

Dear Graham,
You are a perfect cornflower in a rocky desert.
Please be mine. – K.

Safe Skip List:
SCP-832
SCP-1930
SCP-1187 (Cool!)
SCP-2533
SCP-1379
SCP-1123 (NOT cool)

Happy 1st Birthday Connor!
2nd
3rd

To whom it may concern:
Please stop masturbating in this corner.
My bunk is just over there →
and I am tired of cleaning up your mess.
Use the fucking bathroom like a civilised human being.

PRICE LIST:
Mixed Fruit “Wine” – 1 candy bar
I-Can't-Believe-It's-Not-Brandy – 3 candy bars 2 candy bars
Actual Factual Beer – 2 candy bars

Fuggz woz ere

Party 2-nite!!
02/04/16 09/05/16 21/07/16 12/08/16
Free beer!
MUSIC!!

Don't forget me.

D35725 raped one of our bunkmates.
He is no longer one of us.

Kevin,
You made this place bearable.
I will miss you always. – G.

Like the autumn leaves
every one must fall in time
but not all today

- Graffiti written on the wall of D-Class Barracks No. 13 (Male), Site-19. Painted over in preparation for new D-Class intake, 10th September 2016.