Huxley was already awake when the sun came. He was pacing around his room aimlessly. It helped him to think, even though he had nothing to think about in that moment. Ideas would form in his mind only to be eradicated before they could reach a conclusion. Nothing finished; nothing connected.
Heels clicked against the ground. Huxley's mind swarmed to the sound like flies to a herd of dead cattle. They were Honey's footsteps. Every morning for a week now, she would walk down the long hallway to his cell, unlock the door, and beckon him into another group session with a big smile on her face. He would always accept.
But this morning, there was something more.
He leaned close to the door and picked up on another set of footsteps walking alongside Honey. They were softer, more anxious. A normal pair of ears would have ignored those differences, but Huxley's were different. They amplified them to the point where each step sounded like a gunshot going off next to him. He pressed his hands to his ears to keep his head from erupting.
Honey was speaking with someone. The thick vault door couldn't block out all the sound, allowing Huxley to stitch together the pieces.
"Is this him?" The voice was not Honey's.
"Mhm." There was silence. "If I may ask, are you nervous at all, ma'am?"
"What? No, of course not."
"I can moderate if you don't feel safe."
"I know him. I won't need it."
Honey chuckled. "You're a little uptight today, aren't you?"
"Can you please open the door? I don't have time to talk."
There were a few clicks then a loud bang. Huxley was already back in his bed, blanket covering all but his head. He knew it would be strange if they found him standing in the middle of the room for no reason. His legs flared with pain.
Honey said in her over-enthusiastic tone, "Huxley? Are you awake? You have a visitor today!"
She stepped out into the light. Oak brown hair, dark eyes, pale white skin, messy uniform. He didn't even need to hear her speak to find her name.
"Hey."
"Hello. Are you Emma?"
Yes, that's who she was. She was a woman named Emma Sandaran. She was the daughter of the Hero of the SCP Foundation, the Mother of modern mankind. She was the woman that Huxley had spent day and night with as they tried to convince a community of Sarkic inhumans to voluntarily commit genocide.
She grinned and her teeth were stained with anxiety. "What, do you not recognize me?"
"I wanted to be polite."
"Okay…"
She surveyed the room as Honey closed the door. Memories of her voice filled Huxley's head. Her authoritative glare, her mean laugh, her winding words — it all came back to him in at once in a single cacophonous mess.
"Alright you two," Honey said, "I'll be waiting outside if you need me, but I promise to keep this confidential. If you need me, all you have to do is yell!"
The sweetness in Honey's voice ran out. Her words sounded grating to the ears, as if tailored to inflict as much pain as possible. Both Emma and Huxley needed her to leave. They needed to be alone. Huxley's foot raised up and down with excitement until the door finally shut. Now, finally being alone with Emma, a torrent of fear washed over him. They were trapped in this concrete box together.
Emma couldn't stand still. She paced around, refusing eye contact, refusing to start the conversation. Their ceasefire lasted for a few more unbearable seconds until Huxley lost his nerve.
"Emma, why are you here?" he said in a low voice. "You were supposed to be leaving. You should have been in New York."
"I'm leaving today." His words bounced off her without leaving a scratch.
"Oh."
Emma waited for another attack from Huxley, but he just lowered his head. She couldn't tell whether he had ran out of ammunition or didn't have the strength to fire what he had. It was another unanswerable question, and she was absolutely sick of those. She wanted to be sure about anything, but that seemed to be an unreasonable request recently.
"I'm sorry."
Huxley perked up. Emma held her face up because she was afraid that it was going to fall onto the floor. She said, "I'm sorry for… telling them. I made you go through all of this. I've been an angry bitch to you this entire time." There were no tears, no inflection in her voice.
"Emma, you weren't being a bitch. You were in a tough situation—"
"Don't try to apologize for me. At least don't do it while you're still here. Not while you have to live like this. I don't have to hide who I truly am just so I can survive. I don't have to distance myself from others just to feel safe. Okay? Fuck, everybody already knows who I am. Everybody knows what my mother did."
"Don't disrespect your mother, Emma. She did a lot of good."
"What?" Emma's face tightened. "Don't talk like that. I thought you hated my mother. That's what you said. She was the reason you're here. She was the reason for everything. What are you doing?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Are you okay, Huxley?"
She grabbed his shoulder.
Huxley looked away to the wall. The blanket slid away, exposing his flesh to cold air. "Do you know where David is?"
"David? No, I haven't seen him. I don't think he works here anymore. He got transferred to a different Site."
"Oh."
"You didn't want him to go, didn't you? He was your friend."
"We're not friends. We talk. Sometimes we eat lunch together. It was stupid of me to assume anything more. I shouldn't be surprised he left."
"Oh, come on Huxley. Don't…"
Emma's voice gave up. She wouldn't fight this point anymore. If he wanted to wallow in his own pity, then that would be something he would do alone. The two stared at different spots for a long time. Emma tasted something toxic in the back of her throat. It was a question; it was a terrible, paranoid idea.
"Huxley," she began, "if you hate me, just say it. You don't need to act like what's happening to you is right. You're not a… you're not a bad person." She took a step forward into uncomfortable territory. "I couldn't think about it for a while. I wouldn't let the thought enter my head. I would beat myself up about it at night so much that I had to start taking sleeping pills just to get a good night's rest. I know I shouldn't feel guilty because of what you're going through, but it's still… so hard. I can't stop thinking that I'm just like her. Sometimes I imagine her standing over me, this big smile on her face, whispering what I should do like I'm a robot that needs to be commanded."
Another nudge forward. Huxley sat up and pressed his back into the cold wall, but Emma didn't care. She leaned in. "All the time, every day, those thoughts popped up in my head. I couldn't work some days. I would read about a subtherium and freeze up. So this is me… taking responsibility for what I've done. Huxley, I did something really reckless and weak. I fucked up. And I'm sorry."
Huxley grinned, then frowned, then grinned again. He couldn't fit Emma's words in his mind correctly. "Emma…" he said, but couldn't continue. He didn't know how. Something had to slip out of his lips for the conversation to continue, but nothing was coming to mind. After a very awkward minute, he scrapped together a sentence that made any kind of sense.
"You r-really don't need to apologize. You were… you were just… um…" He tried to stand, but his legs refused and he let out a grunt of pain.
"Have you been walking?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Why?"
"Why were you walking?"
"Um…"
Something inside Huxley changed. He felt like he could control himself again. He considered something for a few seconds, then he shrugged and said, "Emma, I don't forgive you. You're a murderer, and that's all you'll ever be."
Emma was pale.
Then the tears began to flow. Her hand tried to defend her face from his gaze, but it was pointless. Huxley could already see the embarrassment and the fear enveloping her. He didn't know what the fuck was inside of him to make him say that, but he felt no regret over it. Even when Emma became crippled with guilt, he couldn't take it back.
Finally, some malfunctioning piece of muscle in his brain started to do its job. He reached out to her with guilt, saying, "Hey, hey. Don't cry. Shh, it's alright Emma. Don't cry."
Emma wanted to destroy him. She wanted to stab him in the chest and scream at him for hours until she was so choked of breath that she'd collapse on top of his lifeless body. But when the thought came to her head, it made her feel so sick and evil that she cried even more. It was disturbing. It was disgusting to be thinking those things. The lapels of her coat were gray now.
She opened her mouth to apologize, but didn't. If she apologized, he would forgive her. The last thing Emma wanted was to be forgiven. She wouldn't be selfish enough to get any kind of reassurance. That was the only way things made sense. She was the bad guy. Was she, really? Or was she just a cog in an evil machine, innocently slaughtering millions while remaining none the wiser? There was an answer to that question, but she couldn't find it.
It was too painful. It was too difficult. It was a question that would take a philosopher a lifetime to answer — and all of the philosophers were either dead or working so they could get enough money to fly away to space. She couldn't be like them. She cared for Huxley. She wanted to help him. Still, whenever she saw his face, she couldn't suppress that voice in her gut that told her to destroy it. It was lesser. It was lesser. He was lesser than her. He was a disgusting spot to her cool, modernized Irma Grese-style eyes.
Maybe this wasn't worth the trouble. Huxley wasn't worth the trouble.
"F…"
"F-F-Fuck you."
The daughter of Rachael Sandaran turned and left.

“What did she say to you?” Honey insistently tapped her foot on the ground like she was scolding a child.
“She said a lot. I can't remember." There was a sting of guilt in Huxley's side, the same one that came from when he lied, but he knew he wasn't lying.
“Well, just tell me what you can remember. It sounded like things got… heated in there, to say the least. Do you want to tell me what happened?”
Huxley kept her face out of view. “I don't remember much.”
“Hey,” Honey grabbed his chin and brought his eyeline up to hers. He instinctively slapped her hand away. She yelped and pulled it away.
“Don't grab my face.” Huxley's hands were shaking. "Go away… please. I need to process things right now. Y-You said I shouldn't run from my problems, right?"
"Um. Yes, Huxley, but—"
"This is me doing that." Even without looking, Huxley knew she was staring. "This is me… facing everything."
Honey took in a deep breath. “You should discuss this with the group. I think it would be better if you had somebody else to talk to that maybe wasn't me. You need understanding, and the other patients can give you that!”
That wasn't what he needed. Huxley wasn't sure if he knew himself enough to know what he needed. No matter how hard he tried, he could not unravel that final knot in his head, the one that kept him away from his real self. Maybe all he wanted was for Emma to come back. Maybe he just wanted Honey to leave. That was ridiculous. Wanting Honey to leave would be pushing help away. That couldn't be what he desired. Could it?
“Okay,” he said. Honey nodded and grabbed his wheelchair. “Wait! Could I, uh, walk to the meeting room?”
“You want to walk?” Honey waited for him to take it back only to be disappointed. “Huxley, you can't walk five feet. And how far is the gymnasium, 50 or 60 meters? You'll hurt yourself."
"You can support me. I can walk and you can support me. And if I can't walk anymore, then I can push myself in my wheelchair the rest of the way."
"That's not a good idea."
"Please, Honey." Huxley's gaze turned blue. There was a small glimmer of empathy in Honey's eyes, but she turned away.
"No. I'm sorry, but I can't do that. I can't allow you to just go hurt yourself like that." She placed his wheelchair in front of him.
Huxley stared at the polished steel thing. It didn't look like something that belonged to him. He would never own something that blank. His old wheelchair was weak and had been falling apart for years, but it was certainly and undeniably his wheelchair. This new one was better in almost every way: it turned easier, it glided across the floor, not making so much as a squeak as it did. But it wasn't his. It would never be his. The SCP Foundation's logo was predominantly visible on the side, having been burned on by a machine in a supply line.
It didn't matter. It was metal or destruction. He gave a weak sigh, “Okay.”

Minutes later, Huxley was crawling through the tunnels again, his eyes following the river-like cracks in the ceiling. Any amount of clarity he found in this place had eroded away. The air amputated, the walls mutated and mutilated. Site-49 was dead. It was just another nearly abandoned building in the south of a country that could not fund it anymore. It was an item of the past.
Honey heaved. "Every time I do this — huff — it gets harder."
Another corner, another ramp, another long hallway. Then in the distance, Huxley spotted that familiar pair of wooden doors. The lights dimmed as they approached, each bulb getting slightly less power than the one before it. Eventually, they were walking in darkness. The bright lights of the gymnasium shocked his eyes so bad that Huxley started to see static. Sounds filtered in, malformed and incomplete.
Those three subtheriums were seated in exactly the same places they were the last however many fucking times Huxley had seen them.
"How long have they been waiting for us?" Huxley whispered to Honey.
"Oh, I don't know. Hopefully they weren't bored while we were gone. I'm sure Richard kept them entertained."
She wheeled him towards the circle. Greetings were shared, but Huxley couldn't hear it. There were colossal walls of black, oily noise all around him, separating him from the world. The others didn't seem to notice. They were all focused on Honey, their minds trying to find any kind of escape plan. What were they doing here if they were not trying to escape? Did they enjoy this kind of existence? Or were they so empty that they didn't mind it at all? Huxley wondered the same things of himself. Would that be such a bad fate?
"Huxley?"
The group had their eyes on him.
"Huxley, do you have a question?"
"What? No. No, I don't."
"You weren't listening, were you?" There was silence. Honey play-groaned, then made her way behind him, squeezing his shoulder as she spoke. "We're trying a new activity today. It's based on the COTA Method. We want you to visualize a person in your mind — not yourself, but someone you maybe want to be. Now, develop them. Give them a name, facial features, a history, a journey, hopes and dreams, career opportunities, anything and everything."
"You want me to… use a new name?" Huxley retracted his arms. Honey squeezed tighter.
"No, Huxley! I told you, don't visualize yourself. The point is to help you identify the flaws that you see in yourself through a character of sorts. Think of it like a stage name or a username. Something that you can use as a mask of sorts so you don't feel so embarrassed about sharing things."
Huxley swallowed. His foot rattled against the footrest. Honey's words didn't fit correctly in his mind. It was like he was acting in a play but didn't know any of the lines. "Can the, um," he stuttered, "can the others share first?"
Honey nodded and pointed to somebody Huxley couldn't recognize. "I decided to choose the…" Words patched themselves together and split themselves apart. "…representative of how I am…" the sentences spilled into one another. "…like how I sound, not so much how I look…" The world became an oily photograph, brown from age.
Honey shook her head. "Just call me Honey." She cackled.
He suddenly recognized that she had no power in this organization. She was just another head-on-a-stick that was being puppeted around by whoever had control over the SCP Foundation. Huxley never understood why they cared about facades anymore. Who is going to stop them if they chose to slaughter tens of thousands of innocent souls? The people? The people are the ones supporting and worshipping them. It wasn't like the SCP Foundation was trying to hide the things it did, they documented it themselves in their own history books. It just so happened that nobody cared to read them.
But how could that be true? Honey was trying to help him. Emma was trying to help him. Where were all of the terrible people plotting behind his back? Where were the monsters lurking between the walls and inside of the security cameras? Where was… where was he?
Of course, Huxley knew what happened to him. Everybody did. It had sent ripples throughout the entire organization. Emma knew about it. Honey knew about it. So why didn't anybody talk about it? Why was it only reserved for shadowy arguments and the nightmares of bureaucrats? Why was he allowed to create his own legacy for himself while hundreds of thousands of better people were tossed into the trenches? Huxley knew there had to be an answer there somewhere, but it eluded him for years. He spent days combing through old records and emails and therapy sessions trying to find a motive behind it all, but there was nothing. He had gradually come to believe that there wasn't an answer.
That was until it slapped him in the face. It grabbed him by the neck and pinned him against the wall and dug its claws into his stomach and ripped out his heart. It screamed at him for hours, about how stupid and blind and hateful he was. Huxley should have figured it out a long time ago. People didn't ignore the history books because there were afraid of what they would find. They didn't ignore them because they hated him.
They ignored them because they simply did not care.
"So what name did you pick, Huxley?"
He turned to her.
"I want treatment."
Then, everything turned white. Huxley felt nothing but calmness as he was obliterated.

I chose the name Alto. It's Latin; it means 'high or elevated one'. You can figure out the real reason why I chose it, though. It's not a very popular name anymore, not since the leaks came out. Once everybody realized the kind of man he was, they stopped building new statues. Heh, it's funny. I thought that more would happen, honestly. I thought the people would tear down all his statues, but they're still standing there. We still celebrate his holiday, you still teach your children about him. I don't know why the protests stopped. I don't think anyone does.
I found out something about Alto. Did you know there aren't any pictures of him? None at all. I've found dozens of photographs of all the other researchers that were canonized: Talloran, Gears, Kondraki. But there isn't a single photograph of Alto. Instead, there are… stories. I found thousands of them on the database, some in the containment procedures of abandoned files, others in the personal drives of researchers who died on facility grounds. Each one described an encounter with Alto of some kind. It was all so unreal. This many people couldn't have interacted with Alto in this short amount of time and have no evidence of it. It was as if they had made it all up as a joke.
Sometimes, though, when I'm trying to sleep, I think of those stories. I imagine myself as him, running away from the world, fighting things that others cannot comprehend, burning every bridge I come across. Nobody knows my face. Nobody knows my name. I am an enigma to them, a phantom that is not beholden to any law known to man. No historian, no protestor, no madman would be able to stop me. I was destined for something greater than them. I would forever be known as one of the great men of the SCP Foundation.
Then I looked up his personnel file. Clef was relieved of all duties in 1999 after being found guilty of unbecoming behavior by the Ethics Committee. His secretary lost her job, and he drank himself to death a year later. Somebody spray-painted the words 'SLEEP COLD DEAD BASTARD' on his gravestone.
I know what I am. I'm never going to be a perfect being like Talloran or Kondraki, but maybe I can get somewhere close. If I am lucky, if I push my mind and my body to their limits, if I abandon all relationships and future prospects, I might have a shot at being just forgotten by the end of this. If I fight for the rest of my life, I might be able to escape the vultures long enough to fling myself into the ocean. I… I made plans, but there was always something coming up. A pointless interview or another mission. I never found the time to do it.
Don't look so worried, I'm not in that place anymore. I'm somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away.
Maybe I can help you. You want to be in the light, don't you? That's how the saying goes. You live in the light so I may sleep in the dark. You can be the next great hero of the SCP Foundation. You can have your own day. All that you need is my blood, and I don't want it anymore. All I want is sleep. I'm so tired. I've been tired for years.

Post-Foundation
<< Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 >>


October 31st, 2020
Koala's Pit, Wisconsin

Halloween used to be a time of year that, for the citizens of Sloth's Pit, provided some measure of catharsis. The ability to pretend to be someone else, or the ability to stop pretending. A time to feel drunk on both the power of anonymity, and on apple cider. A time to feel the realm of the dead tip-toeing close to reality and pay respects.
For four years now, that had been taken from them. But tonight, it was being given back with interest.
From Site-87, acting director Tristan Bailey had decided that, since they weren't technically in Sloth's Pit, he could bend the rules to a degree— and those rules included open interaction with anomalous groups. In the aboveground director's office, he stood before Dr. King and Laura Ashbrooke in his office, raising a brow at the latter. "You can really do that?"
"I think so? This is a… temp job for the Union. They don't exactly need a Costumer year-round, and because I'm not expending power year-round, I have more of it I can use in a short burst."
He chewed his lip. "And there won't be any… like side-effects or anything? No new werewolves, people turning into vampires, nothing?"
"You mean like that one episode of Buffy?" Laura shook her head. "Nah, I'm just gonna give them all a quick patch-job, is all." She looked at the mask in her hand, fashioned from the skull of some great beast, and placed it over her eyes. "Probably a good cleaning, too. When everyone in the city is wearing a costume, it kinda starts to smell."
"Mmm." Tristan winced as he felt something crawling over his exposed skin. He looked down to see the holes in his Spider-Man costume putting themselves back together. He'd seen flesh regenerate numerous times, but cloth regrowing was completely new to him. "…gotta admit, that's kinda cool."
Dr. King sighed and looked out at the town below. He pulled a pear from his pocket and bit into it as he watched a wave of light flow over the city. "You've known what this was for a while, didn't you, Bailey?"
"Figured it was 2006. Wanted to get a confirmation before I acted fully." He frowned. "Guess this means Owings is dead, then. So's everyone at Site-118."
"And who knows how many others it killed on its way up here." King chomped onto the fruit. "Can we really call this a win? Tomorrow we're going to have to return them to a town that's probably wrecked where they have to follow COVID restrictions again, not to mention the election's in… what, three days?" He rubbed his face. "This year has been a dumpster fire."
Tristan looked at King. "Do you think you're going to have the apple seed thing under control after this?"
"Maybe?" King picked at his pear. "Hasn't been a problem lately, to be honest. Maybe they're finally out of my system." He raised a brow at Tristan. "Why?"
"It's just that… the current head of our physics and mathematics division is going to be retiring soon." He looked King over. "What would you say to being the director of a whole department?"
"As opposed to being a punchline?" King chomped on the pear. "I'll do it. Gives me more time to spend with the family when I don't have my butt parked in a cell."

In the town proper, people had to remind themselves that this was not, in fact, Sloth's Pit, but Koala's Pit. Claude Mattings's mind boggled at the idea that someone in this universe had 'Koala' as a surname, but he didn't let that distract him for the time being. He and his wife sat across the table from each other as they ate Uncle Mack's (this universe's equivalent to Uncle Mike's) Halloween Pizza: a pie with mac 'n' cheese as the base, bacon bits scattered about to form a jack-o-lantern, with chunks of a jalapeno pepper hidden beneath one slice. Claude made sure to take a bite of each slice before handing it off to Cassandra.
"Have you thought of what we're going to name them?" Cassie asked, feeling over her stomach. "If it's a girl, then—"
"I'm awful with decisions," Claude laughed. "Only reason I can get anything done when I'm playing Pathfinder is because the players push me to do it."
Cassie chewed her lip. "If it's a boy… Collin. For your father."
Claude nodded, biting into a slice. Once he was sure it was safe, he handed it to Cassandra. "And if it's a girl?"
"Rose." Cassie chewed her lip. "Long story with that. A friend I fell out of contact with."
"Why?" Claude's eyebrow raised as he got himself a slice.
"She was doing some work in California. Shit hit the fan, and… stuff hasn't been right since." She shook her head. "S-sorry. I just miss her."
"Maybe we could take a road trip to see her when everything opens back—" Claude bit into his personal slice of pizza and began cursing as the jalapeno burned his tongue. Swears such as 'fucknugget' and 'bastardsonofafuck' were thrown in as his wife laughed.

…[W]hile evacuated to an alternate reality during the crisis of October 2020, both the author, a class-4 Thaumaturge, and two other Class-1 thaumaturges (Dr. Pike and Consultant Reynolds) observed elevated levels of EVE, colloquially known as Mana, in comparison to the baseline. In particular, this allowed for ease of highly complex rites of conjuration, including the generation of solid, organic matter. Tests with other forms of thaumaturgy, particularly evocation and illusion, provided similar results.
Observations of other adjacent realities, made using Site-87's Multi-Universal Transit Array, provided similar results: even in Near-Identical Universes with differences as negligible as the existence of a single atom of carbon, EVE levels were exponentially higher.
The decline of EVE In the baseline universe is cause for concern. The author and their colleagues believe that this marks the beginning of an event known as Cipactli's Feast, or simply, The Impasse.

Excerpt from Observations of EVE Levels from Alternate Realties in Comparison to the Baseline by Dr. Katherine Sinclair, 2021

November 3rd
Assembly Hall 3, Site-87

Nina Weiss looked like she had aged twenty years overnight. Given that she was once again in her mid-sixties, this was even less flattering. She looked like her original batteries had been replaced with a cheap rechargeable brand that didn't come with actual juice in them. She stood before an equally drained-looking room of Site-87 personnel. Many of whom were still jittery and looking over their shoulders, despite the end of the crisis.
She gripped the podium as she spoke. "Another October gone, another crisis resolved. But… this month has been far more difficult than those past. This whole year has been." She sighed. "The actions undertaken by personnel and… other entities to save this city, this Site, and all therein, have been nothing short of remarkable." She shook her head. "Given my role in these events, combined with my… susceptibility to this anomaly, and potentially others, I am announcing my retirement as Director of Site-87, effective Januar—"
What started out as a series of gasps turned into unsure whispers, which grew into the occasional plea for her to stay. Eventually, they quieted, and Weiss held up her hand.
"Thirty years is a good run for a director— most don't even see fifteen." She gave a joking smirk. "As the kids say: I'm too old for this shit. Plus, I have a house in Boca Raton that I've let my sister use for a bit too long, about time I moved in."
The joke brought some relief. Not much, but some.

November 19th
Antigonish, Nova Scotia

The newest Nobody, the Narrator, looked over her assignment. "You're joking, right?"
"Five-hundred and twenty-nine around the globe, and counting." The woman in the cloche hat handed her a small book— a pocket atlas. "And… given your nature, you don't have much choice."
"…what do you mean?" The Narrator frowned, adjusting her fedora.
Sunshine, the Sister, shook her head. "You were born from a Nexus where the laws of physics are more like suggestions, and belief, stories, all of that can influence reality. And you decided to give a grand speech when you destroyed SCP-2006. You do the math."
The Narrator looked at her clothing— the fedora, the boots, the jacket. "I just realized who I look like."
"Pardon?"
"The universe decided to be funny and make me look like Sir Terry Pratchett forever." She paused for a beat. "Honestly, I'm okay with that. But you're saying that…"
"You're a Nobody, but you're also a Narrative Entity, like the Goatman. You will be influenced by what people believe you to be. You can leave Sloth's Pit, but… anywhere outside of a Nexus will be a liminal space for you. You'll exist less than you already do."
"…oh." The Narrator frowned. "So… what's my first order of business?"
"You're being sent to Puerto Extrano in Argentina. Their xenobiological biosphere, including their hivemind has begun to collapse for… some reason. This has happened to a few Nexuses in the last few months, and we want you to investigate why."
The Narrator nodded, and tipped her hat as she looked into the pocket atlas. Then, with a few quick steps, she was up and away.

December 31st
Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin

"2020's finally fucking over!" Seren Pryce yelled a declaration of pure joy into the air of the empty, snow-covered park. "Fuck this cursed year, fuck it to death!"
"You do realize that time is arbitrary and the things that happened in this year won't go away just because it's over, right?"
She frowned at her partner as she steadied herself against a wooden bench. "Ray, you've gotten a bit more nihilistic since getting out of bed, if you don't mind me saying."
"Well, being out of action for almost a quarter of a year on account of getting your face stomped in will do that." He lit a cigarette, before going back to leaning on his cane.. "Think 2021 will be any better?"
"I dunno." Pryce frowned. "I hear we're getting some cretin from Site-43 flying in first thing tomorrow, so that should be entertaining. But… I'm kind of worried about Tofflemire."
"What do you mean?"
"He… well, around Halloween, he took about a month off, yeah? Marked it as bereavement leave. But as far as I can tell, nobody he knew died." She looked at the miniature bottle of whiskey in her hand. "But… fuck, I don't know. He's getting back to normal, but… the way he looks, it's like he's expecting to quip into empty air sometimes. When's the last time you heard a joke out of him?"
"He has been getting more po-faced," February admitted. "He and I should start a club. 'Nihilist's Anonymous'."
Her frown deepened. "Hey, Ray?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you remember how we beat the Pit Sloth?"
"…no."

January 17th
Sarasota, Florida

Montgomery Reynolds had been planning this moment for years. He had chosen somewhere relatively private, nothing like a busy restaurant where the pressure from a dozen staring eyes would be on their necks, or anywhere within Site-87. They had traveled to Florida, a city called Sarasota; while this was technically a breach of quarantine, they had been in the area to assist in the containment of an anomaly. The place he had chosen was about half a mile from the beach; you could smell the ocean when the door was open.
He and Katherine Sinclair walked into the used bookstore. Sinclair's spine straightened and her pupil dilated as she felt her lungs fill with the scent of old paper and authentic leather. "When you said 'dinner and a show'… I wondered what you had in mind."
"Owner's an old friend from my days in the Coalition." He turned towards the counter; behind it, a bald man of Pakistani extraction stood. Reynolds and he exchanged a grin. "Fazil! You have it?"
"Depends," Fazil gave a knowing smirk. "Do you have the payment?"
Reynolds slipped him a stack of bills with something solid hidden among the folds. Fazil headed into the back, winking at Reynolds. "He and I were talking, and it turns out he has a volume you might be interested in."
"A spellbook?" Sinclair raised an eyebrow.
"Even better." He ushered Sinclair into a somewhat secluded section of the store. "I'm getting this at a fairly steep discount. Fazil's a softie at heart, and… well, when I told him what your favorite book was, he just so happened to have a copy."
Sinclair's nose wrinkled before she squinted at him. "Don't tell me—"
Fazil entered the section of the bookstore, handing Sinclair the book, before departing. It was a first edition copy of Good Omens. She opened it up to the title page, and her eyebrows met her hairline as she saw the signatures— ones by both Gaiman and Pratchett. "God alive, Monty. Hell of a show."
"There's more."
Sinclair frowned. The book had an odd weight to it; she saw why. There was a bookmark, oddly ornate for a book that dated from 1990. It was folded within the Saturday section, towards the end of the book, on the page describing Prophecy 3819. Sinclair failed to notice the significance of the passage until she pulled at the bookmark. Her breath caught as she saw what was at the end— a ring of ornate silver, with a series of sapphires set as the gemstones.
Montgomery Reynolds looked down at her. "…I had some great speech planned for this," he laughed. "But… I forgot it all. It doesn't matter, because it essentially boiled down to… 'will you marry me?'."
Sinclair looked between the book, the ring, and the man she loved. She shook her head and turned away. "Idiot."
Reynolds felt his heart crack. "What?"
Sinclair reached into her pocket, turning around as she pulled out a ring box. It opened to reveal a golden band inside. "I'm an idiot for not asking you back at the restaurant."
Fazil checked in on them several minutes later and had to clear his throat three times before they stopped kissing.

NOTICE OF PROMOTION
EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY

The following document serves to certify that Dr. Tristan Shelly Bailey has, per a vote of 11 in favor and 1 against, with 1 abstention among the Overseer Council, been promoted to Director of Research Site-87 located in Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin, effective as of February 19th, 2021.
Henceforth, Dr. Bailey shall, until resignation, retirement, or enactment of emergency replacement protocols, take upon all duties of Site Director and uphold the Foundation's mission to Secure, Contain, and Protect the anomalous at all costs.

Secure. Contain. Protect.

March

Tater tots? That's what they give us for lunch? Tater tots? Robert Tofflemire looked down at the brownish nuggets on his plate, alongside the chicken patty sandwich with its flimsy pickles and watery ketchup, next to the rubbery macaroni and cheese. The pudding, however, was unblemished by the evils of cafeteria cost-cutting. For now at least.
Since when is the Foundation an elementary school?
Taking his tray with him, the newly-promoted Colonel Tofflemire set off aimlessly into the sea of cafeteria tables and hungry personnel.
He sat at his usual table, one seat always left vacant. Squad-29 was there— the Wiliamses, Pryce, and February. They all stopped in their conversation as they turned to look at him. He looked back. "Who died?"
"That's what we're all wondering." Ruby Williams frowned. "A lot of stuff doesn't make sense about last year. We're not idiots, Bob."
Robert's heart twinged. "2020 sucked, guys. Halloween especially. I… I think we should move past that."
February shook his head. "About Halloween. Did you know that there's a locker in the barracks that's been unoccupied for the last seven years, and nobody knows why?"
"And," Pryce continued, "There's a bunk about three down from mine that nobody has ever slept in. Kinda weird."
Blake nodded. "Like… someone was cut out of our life. Erased. We've noticed, Bob— when we're on ops, you turn like you're going to look at someone, slouch a little, and then go back to work."
"And— you've never had a partner. Buddy system when we're out in the woods, and you never had one— nobody was with you when you found SCP-4040." February folded his hands. "Talk to us, Bob. Did you know them?"
Robert looked down at his tater tots. He tried to block out their questions. "You won't remember her anyway." His voice was hoarse. "She made me happy I was alive. Saved my skin more than I could ever have saved her's. She… she's Nobody, now. But her name was…" He said it, and it slid off of the ears of his friends. "She saved all of us, and we can't even remember her."
This gave everyone at the table pause. There was a soft gasp of sadness from Agent February, before he asked, "Can you tell us about her?"
Robert rubbed his face, and began to weave a story about his best friend. It began when the two of them discovered the Bottomless Pit and ended with three words. He had his head in his hands at the end of it. "You're all going to forget it, in a bit." He sniffed. "Tried to… talk it out in therapy. Dr. Palmer just forgets it by the next session."
"Maybe we will, but the town won't." Pryce chewed her lip. "Even if… even if anomalies are dying, there's still a bit of the Narrative remaining. Keep telling stories about her, and… maybe we can remember her."
"Wishful thinking." Robert shook his head. "…the fact that you noticed… it's scary."
"Why?" Ruby leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands.
"Because nobody has seen the Goatman since Halloween. Or any of the other Legends. If what they're saying is true… magic is dying…" He tried saying her name again. "She could be dead. Or worse."
There was no way to respond to that. Tofflemire stood and rose to take his tray to a table that was unoccupied.

May

In the aftermath of the Coalition's attempt to raze Sloth's Pit, the entire world was surrounded by an aurora. Dr. Sinclair stood on the roof of Site-87, using the Oriykalkos Codex to weave a rite that made Magic reappear throughout the known universe. She couldn't undo what had been done already, but she could prevent it from getting worse.
She resisted the urge to put a bit of flair in the rite— while levitating over the roof of Site-87 would have looked cool, she was already pushing it with the light show. Publicly, it would be reported as a global solar storm. But everyone who knew would see the aurora and feel magic returning to the world around them.
Far away from the Site, Robert Tofflemire walked through the woods. The setting sun made the aurora all the more visible. The trees seemed just a little greener, and the world just a shade brighter. Leaves covered the ground, leftovers from autumns past, and wild storms that had swept through the land.
As he looped around a tree, his heart skipped a beat. A staircase was standing there, in the middle of the woods, looking like it had been ripped out of an ancient Victorian manor. He looked around, somewhat confused. "…so, I see that reality has decided to rip off a Creepypasta today. What gives?"
There was a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a woman in a black fedora, wearing a leather jacket and black slacks. "A pop-culture reference was the best way to get your attention, I figured." She shook her head. "You damn nerd."
Robert wrapped her in a hug before she even finished the second sentence. There was a startled pause before the woman once known as Alison Carol hugged back. "You're alive." Robert barely stopped his voice from shaking.
"I am. A lot of others weren't as lucky." Nobody shook her head. "Sunshine's still AWOL, but a couple of others have made their presence known. I…" She pulled away. "I have something to tell you."
Robert stood with his hands at his side. "Can it be told over dinner? Berry's is finally under new management, and they have edible food."
"What an innovation." Alison shook her head. "But what I've learned will make you lose your appetite, I'm afraid."
"…what do you mean?" Robert frowned.
Alison explained her duties as a sort of watchwoman for Nexuses around the globe, before she pulled out a manilla folder. "There's this Nexus in Australia, Rhodehampton. It's built on top of a Prometheus Labs… dumpsite, I guess you could call it. A lot of paratech is there, just building up and decaying."
Robert opened the folder, looking at the schematics. He recognized the general shape of the device, a black box with a microphone on top. "This is a Penzance Device. Never got a new one installed here after ours… blipped out."
"And that's for the best." Alison motioned for him to flip over the page. "Read how the mechanism works."
Robert flipped it over.

…the use of a shard of █████ █████████'s so-called Reality-Transgressing Construct (ReTCon) allows for the formation of a sort of quantum vacuum, which unmakes matter at the Planck level. The ReTCon's nature as a Noospheric Submersible allows its destruction to power a chain reaction when combined with an archetypal item linked to the area in question, allowing for the destruction of concepts, identities, and ideas, as well as matter.
However, three factors limit the effectiveness of the ReTCON as a munition in the long term. Firstly, it is a finite resource, with approximately two tonnes remaining of the original structure.
Secondly, ReTCON usage has diminishing returns. Within a concentrated and contained area (such as a house or a small skyscraper), less than five kilograms are needed to completely unmake an area. However, outdoor areas present difficulty to ReTCON munitions, due to the sheer amount of both matter and concepts present; as such, over twenty tonnes would be required to destroy even a small municipality.
Thirdly, there is the deleterious effect conferred upon individuals who attempt to comprehend matter and concepts that have been affected by ReTCON munitions. Colloquially known as "mazing"…

"They seriously called the munition 'Retcon'? Bit on the nose."
"It predates the term in pop culture. Read this part again."
Robert had to read it two more times before he got it. He read through the rest of the papers, eyes going wider. "…that doesn't make any sense," Robert frowned. "If I'm reading this right, then… there's no way that thing could have unmade the whole town."
Nobody nodded. "Somebody in the organization did the math. It would actually be harder for that thing to unmake a Nexus than an ordinary town."
"That… that makes no sense." Robert looked from her to the file. "That would mean that this is… what, some kind of alternative to the nukes we have in armed containment sites?"
"Not quite." She chewed her lip. "Are you sure that this Site-87 is the first and only one, Robert?"
Bob looked at the folder, and then up at Nobody. After repeating this a few times, she was gone, and the folder along with it.
Robert began a long, cold walk back to town. Despite it being the middle of spring, he felt the cold of autumn run up his back.

«...But Fear Itself | Hub |


Koala's Pit, Wisconsin
Site-87's Rooftop

"Robert, stay with me." Alison Carol snapped her fingers in front of her best friend's face. "Robert. Robert!"
Liao had managed to staunch the bleeding, but it was a temporary measure. Tofflemire had been shot in the gut, at point-blank range, by a .457 revolver. It was a miracle that his intestines hadn't been relocated outside of his body.
"Th… there's not much more I can do." Liao wiped her brow with the back of her wrist. "I… I'm sorry, Agent Carol. I'm going to try to… make him more comfortable."
Alison put her hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes. Robert's breathing was shallow and starting to fade. She looked around the rooftop; people were curled up crying. Some were rocking back and forth. There were screams of pain, both physical and emotional, anguish so deep that Alison hoped she would never experience it for herself. Fear and misery reigned over the rooftop, over the town.
Alison felt the same childish fear she had felt two years ago when Robert Tofflemire had died the first time. She remembered how insufferable he was when they first met, but now, all she wanted to do was hear another corny joke from him, or punch him in the arm after he made another lame reference. But his breathing was growing slower and shallower. She didn't care if she was lost in all this, but losing Robert was her worst—
She paused at that thought. Her worst fear. Fear begat anger, and that anger drove Alison to her feet as she strode towards Dr. King. Her trenchcoat was stained with blood that looked more like ink with each step she took. "King!" She snarled as she came upon him. Before he could respond, Alison had one hand on his lapel, the other on his chest. "What the hell did you do?"
"I-I-I didn't mean to! I-I was…" King swallowed, an undignified string of snot hanging from his nose. "I was scared!"
"And I'm going to make sure you grow a damn spine." Alison dug her hands into his cotton overalls, feeling them crack at her touch. A keyboard formed under her fingers, and reality turned into a dark void filled with white text as she began to read. And from there, she typed.

Laura peeked through, eyes wide. She looked around the coatroom. "Doorman!" She called. "Tell the Janitor we need to do this now!"
But it was silent. The Doorman had vanished. "Hello?" She called. "Shit, what do we do? We're supposed to—"
"Not waiting." King looked at the shrub, reaching out his hand. Under his power, it grew by about two feet, and a single golden apple appeared from its branches. "This is our town, and it's suffocating."
"The Doorman said we need to wait, dammit! If we do this wrong, then…"
King glowered at Laura. "I'm not going to lose my family. We're doing this."
Laura suddenly felt a surge of insight into King's plight. "You're scared."
"What of it?" King snapped.
"You're scared. And this town is being attacked by some creepy son of a bitch that lives to cause fear." Laura chewed her lip. "They aren't going to die as long as their deaths have the potential to frighten you. To frighten any of us."
"So I'm just expected to sit here and— and take it? Be afraid?"
Laura nodded. "I'm scared shitless too, King. But if you give in to the fear, who knows what'll happen?"

Reality wobbled around Alison. She was standing by the punch bowl again, with Nina Weiss bearing down upon her with a revolver. "I'm going to save the Site, you freaks!"
The roots hadn't started crawling up Alison's body yet. The Goatman and Sinning Jessie struggled with the gun— one that was about to go off and kill her friend. She searched the pockets of her impractical-looking Doctor Who costume until she found it— a strangely-shaped silver implement with amber-colored lights throughout it and a yellow crystal at the end.
"If it's Union work, then maybe…" Alison vaguely remembered a plot point in Tennant's run where the Sontarans had disabled ballistic weaponry by causing the copper in the bullets to grow too big for the barrels. She aimed the sonic screwdriver at Weiss's revolver, pressing on the button as hard as she could.
Sparks literally flew as the revolver was blasted out of the Director's hand by the recoil of the apparent misfire— along with the Director's right index finger. Alison winced at that as Weiss looked at her hand in shock.
Liao rushed over and began trying to tend to Weiss's wounds. Nobody else noticed; they were all too busy coughing.
Robert looked at Alison, his eyes somewhat crossed. They widened considerably as something in his pocket beeped; he withdrew a Narrative Fluctuation Detector from it, and waved it over Alison. "What the hell did you just do?"
"Saved you. Saved all of us." Alison looked down at her coat. Bloodstains from Weiss's destroyed finger spattered on it, looking like ink.

The Union House

The Doorman ran out of the elevator, yelling at King and Laura. "He's given the signal! Do it!"
"…how?" King swallowed. "Sorry, we went over this, but… I'm scared of mucking it up."
The Doorman chewed his lip, looking him and Laura over. "Ever see Donnie Darko?"
"Don't start with the Fear-Love Dichotimy crap," Laura warned.
"It applies here. You are both scared to death for the state of this town. Everyone in this town is scared. Why?"
"Because we're going through one of the worst years in modern history?"
The Doorman shook his head. "Why?"
Laura continued, "Because our leaders are maliciously incompetent fascists who have irreversibly bungled one of the worst health crises in a century and are trying to snuff out a whole generation before we can even get our fires started?"
"But why are you scared of that?"
This gave them pause.
After a moment, Laura had another burst of insight. "Because we don't want it to be that way. We want it to change, and we're scared at the fact that it's not getting better. The world sucks, and the only way it's going to stop sucking is if we take our fear and do something with it that isn't blind navel-gazing, counting down the minutes on the Doomsday Clock—"
"In simpler terms?" King saw where she was going with this.
"Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate. But it can be another way." She brought the mask to her face. "Fear can lead to rage, sheer passionate burning rage against everything in the world that's wrong, and rage can lead to change."
King grinned, and felt the rage against the unjust fill him, and chomped down onto the apple.

"Alison." Robert swallowed. "You said that… if you ever did another edit like that… you'd vanish. Become a Nobody."
"Maybe I was wrong?" Alison looked down at her hands. "I don't feel like a Nobody. I feel real. I—" She looked down at her feet as a root coiled up around her legs. "I think that's our ride."
She was fully cognizant of this trip through, with no scream of panic overtaking her. As she was pulled through the roots of the multiverse, she felt… angry. Not spiteful, not the kind of anger a teacher feels when they have a bad day and want to take it out on the class with a particularly cruel pop quiz. She felt the rage a student might feel upon being given such a quiz, wanting to shove it into the teacher's face, drop out of school, and become a carpenter. The anger that led to change.
She emerged on the other side, hearing King give the exact same spiel he had before. This time, he was accompanied by Laura Ashbrooke, who looked like the cat that ate the canary. When King was greeted by manic stares as far as he could see, a pit formed in his stomach. "…oh. Fuck. What did I…"
There was a laugh as Katherine Sinclair, her left eyesocket a bleeding wound, came up and clapped King on the back. "You son of a bitch! We thought it ate you when you vanished from containment!"
"No, no." King shook his head. "I've been working with the— wait, you remember that? And It?"
"It's starting to come back." Cassandra Pike, clad in a Bonnie Parker costume to match her husband's Clyde Barrow, helped Agent February into a more comfortable position as feeling returned in his broken legs. "Just… I feel like I'm coming out of another brain fog. I can't remember all of it, but…" She looked down at her stomach. "I have an idea of what's going on. But I'm not sure any of us have the complete picture."
"But we're going to try to stop it anyway." Christopher Hastings grinned, helping Ruby Williams to her feet. They had gone as Gomez and Morticia Addams; both of them looked like they had been run over by a train, but their costumes looked all the better for it. "So… how can we help?"
Alison raised her hand as the crowd of Foundation personnel grew increasingly, if helpfully, belligerent. "As much as I hate to say it… this is a job for myself and Tofflemire. I think that you'd all be best suited to helping the townsfolk, have them enjoy a normal Halloween for once. Give out masks, make sure people observe social distancing, all that… but just let them have fun."
"We're the Foundation. That's impossible." Tristan Bailey stood where the DJ Booth was in the baseline, having taken off the mask for his Spider-Man costume. "Having fun, I mean."
This drew an unamused look from the entirety of the staff present before they began snickering.
"Right." Tristan clapped his hands. "I'm… acting director, as far as I can remember. Everyone get out there and help keep the town secure and protected, while we contain this." He looked at Alison. "While you contain it, that is."
Alison turned to Dr. King. "I need you to take me and Robert back to the Baseline. Deeper into the Site, if you can."
King shook his head, digging through his pockets. "I can get you into the lobby. Where do you need to go?"
"Maintenance sector. Long story." Robert rolled his neck. "But Weiss is going to do something… really stupid, and we need to stop her."
Alison nodded, looking down at her jacket; the beige upon it was starting to fade to black. She swallowed, looking at King. "How are we going to get back, exactly?"
King dug into his pockets and handed each of them a golden apple. Each of them had a word in Greek etched into their skin—'οίκος', or 'home'. "Bite into those. It's going to feel weird, but you're going to be okay."
Alison and Robert each took an apple and chomped into it. Instead of cleanly separating, the flesh of the apple stretched and warped, first around their mouths, then their heads, the rest of their bodies, covering them in roots that dragged them under.
Laura Ashbrooke stepped outside of the door to the Union House, and looked over the personnel of S & C Plastics. She'd lived in Sloth's Pit her whole life, but had never really gotten a good look at them. In their current states, with their disheveled costumes and somewhat stunned expressions, they didn't look like a shadowy organization that kept the town under their heel. They looked… oddly human.
But still, she couldn't have them going out to try to cheer up the town looking like their costumes had been set on fire. So, she set to work.

Site-87
Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin

Nina Weiss had to stop to catch her breath in the lobby of Site-87. Tears were streaming down her face, and despite her efforts to wrap it, the blood loss from the wound where her right pointer finger was making her dizzy. She sat in front of the vacant receptionist's desk, rubbing her face and crying; as she descended, she knocked a bowl of Halloween candy on the desk over onto the floor.
She was an idiot. Everyone member of personnel was required to register their biometrics in order to access the lower levels of Site-87. Her biometrics required her right handprint, and she was missing an entire finger. She would have to… fake it, somehow, in order to access the maintenance level. Activate the last-ditch measure to protect the rest of the world from what this town had become.
There was a whisper of wind as something floated down from the desk— Weiss recognized it as her bank card. A fingerprint was on it, glowing bright white in the darkness. In her panic, Nina thought it was the town throwing her a lifeline.
She ran to the elevators, pressing her bank card onto the biometric scanner in place of her missing, mangled finger. The elevators opened, and she walked into them, pressing the button for the Maintenance Level, a panic attack building in her chest as she saw Alison Carol and Robert Tofflemire emerge from the floor of the lobby and try to reach for the elevator.

Alison Carol and Robert Tofflemire had little choice but to take the stairs. They had discarded their respective coats for the sheer impracticality, but Alison still felt a weight on her back as she ran into the depths of Site-87.
"We're not going to make it," Alison hissed. "The elevators here can go faster than anyone can walk." She paused at the landing on the fifth sublevel. "Unless…"
"What?" Robert's eyes widened. "Don't tell me you're going to do the teleporting stairs thing."
"Only way to travel right now." Alison put her hand on the railing; her other one was caught by Robert. "What?"
"Look at what you're holding."
Alison looked at the bundle of leather that had appeared in the hand on the railing. She unfolded it, and revealed a Louisiana fedora that looked like it could hold the sky. She looked down; she wore midnight upon herself, a black leather jacket, black shoes, black shirt, and black slacks.
"Not what I would have picked," she sighed. "But fair enough." She tried to put her hand on the railing again, only to have Tofflemire jerk her away. "Bob, what are you—"
"I'm not letting you do this!" He pleaded, tugging her closer. "If you put that hat on, t-then we forget about you. Is that it? Everyone?" He shook his head. "No. I won't. I'm not going to let you do it. I'm not going to forget you."
Alison didn't resist, letting her partner pull her close. "This… this is the only way, Bob." She let her hand slip from his grasp. "This has been a while coming. It's either this, or the town gets destroyed." She looked him in the eyes. "You get destroyed. I'm not having that."
Her partner laughed. "And that's going to make me forget you? Why?"
"…it's a mercy, it really is." Alison shook her head. "Nobody will be able to remember anything about me. Not my name, my face, the sound of my voice. If everyone forgets, then… there's not going to be any mourning. No tearful counseling sessions, no feeling of loss. Not even a hole where someone used to be. Just…" She snapped her fingers. "Like that. You won't even feel sad, in a few minutes."
"Fuck that!" He snapped. "Alice… I don't want to lose you, but if I do… I want to remember you for who you are. You're…" his voice caught. "You're someone who would charge in to fight fear itself and punch it in the face. You'd give up everything to save one person. You're the first person since I lost Kurt to the Old Man to make me feel like I'm not a complete fuck-up." He blinked away tears. "Y-you're my best friend, Alison. And I want to remember that."
Alison turned to face him. "I don't want to lose you either. I… " Her mascara was in streaks, her hair flowing red with ribbons of black ink through it. She gave him a hug, one of the few they had ever shared.
Robert hugged back, shaking. "I'm scared of being alone."
"You won't be. I'll make sure of it." She kissed his forehead, and pulled away, facing him. Then, they locked eyes. "Get out of here."
Robert's eyes stayed focused on her. "Not. Forgetting. You."
Allison smiled and put on her hat. Alison Carol vanished from reality and was replaced by the Narrator. "Go, dude."
Robert ran back up the stairs, reciting her name under his breath. The Narrator vanished down them, to the maintenance level.

Nina Weiss's eyes were filled with tears of pure, unbridled panic. She felt something lurking on her back as she entered the maintenance level, and made her way to the cage that held the Penzance Device. All it needed was a vocal confirmation from her, a drop of her blood. And it would be over, this whole nightmare would end.
Weiss unwrapped her wounded finger and jammed it in the air; a cloud of sensors detected that it was her fresh, still-flowing blood, and let her in. The cage holding the Penzance Device opened, and a microphone snaked its way out of the black box that held it.
«Confirm Password.»
Nina's voice stuttered as she tried to speak it. There was an error sound.
«Confirm Password.»
"I… I…"
A voice that sounded very much like her's came from over her shoulder as something pushed her out of the way. "With cat-like tread, upon our prey we steal, in silence dread, our cautious way we feel."
Weiss blanched at the sight of some… thing that looked like her saying the password to the Penzance Device. The countdown began. It spoke in another voice, after that, which belonged to the Goatman. "I believe it is time I make myself scarce."
"All this time." Nina laughed. "I'm an idiot. It was you, this whole time?"
"If it's any comfort, the actual Goatman never did you any harm. But I must say… your fear was delicious." It picked her up by the throat and pressed her against the walls of the cage. "What you're afraid of most… it isn't aging, it isn't losing your position. It's losing your wisdom, your ability to govern these people. And… you have."
Weiss swallowed, looking down at the thing wearing a face too young to be hers. "I should depart. The countdown for this gives me just enough time to get to the First Footpath. I think Milwaukee sounds like a good place to start…"
"Why would anyone want to go to Milwaukee?"
A new voice, this one unknown to Weiss, but somehow familiar. A woman in a black leather jacket stepped from the stairway, a Louisana fedora pulled over her eyes. "Honestly, what is there to do in that town? It doesn't even have a decent zoo."
The false Weiss tilted its head. "Do I… know you?"
"…was wondering how fast that spread. Hmm." The Narrator rolled her neck. "Right, I'm going to give you one chance to get into a cell and stay there, before I write you out of existence."
It snorted. "You're wasting time. This whole town is going to be—"
The Narrator reached out her hand to the Penzance Device; a glowing blue keyboard appeared on its surface as its countdown concluded. Unknown to any of them, the munition within the Penzance Device, if it could have been called that, was installed incorrectly; the polarity had been reversed, and instead of wiping out the entire Site, it simply turned inwards and unmade its most crucial components. The thing sparked, fizzled, and died.
"NO!" It snarled, breaking through the cage and lunging at the Narrator. "You cheated!" A dozen types of horrible fangs and tearing claws came down on her form.
"Is it really cheating if I rewrite the rules?" The Narrator stuck her hand into its mass and brought up the truth of what this thing really was.

Item #: SCP-2006
Object Class: Uncontained

"No more of this."

Object Class: Uncontained

"No more bullshit around Halloween. This town is protected. Neither you nor anything else is going to harm my friends, my family, ever again."

Object Class:

"I might be Nobody now, but I was, and still am, someone who will make sure that this town, these people, never fade."

Object Class: Neu

Mid-keystroke, she paused. "On second thought? That is far too kind."

Object Class:Decommissioned

SCP-2006 turned into a black sludge in her hands, melting away without so much as a whimper. She flicked her hands in contempt as it began to steam, before she turned away.
"W-wait!" Weiss called. "I… I'm sorry… I need help…"
The Narrator turned back and strode into the cage, putting her hand on Weiss's mangled one. "I can't regrow it. Plot's not right for it."
"Are… you with the town? One of those Local Legends?"
The Narrator felt something take root in her stomach. "If you want me to be." She ran her fingers over the air. "Good news is that you're going to be selected for some testing with a next-generation prosthesis before the year is out. Won't be full functionality, but… you'll be able to count to ten."
Weiss looked at her in disbelief. "Who are you?"
"I'm Nobody, really." The Narrator helped her to her feet. "I'm taking you to the infirmary. This is… going to be disorienting."
Weiss looked very tired the whole walk upstairs, as short as it was. The Narrator laid her on a bed, staunched the bleeding, and gave her a sedative. She needed to let somebody know that the people of Sloth's Pit were free to return.
But first, she needed to say goodbye.

Robert Tofflemire stumbled from the stairwell, into the empty site. He was on the first sublevel, where the barracks were. Directly across from the elevators was a memorial wall that bore the names of every agent KIA. As if it was planned, there was an empty space, big enough for a name and an epitaph.
He dug in his pockets, finding an X-Acto knife within. He crossed to the wall, and began the arduous task of carving into solid wood.

Ali

What was the next letter?

Alison

Her surname— down a rabbit hole.

Alison Carol

And now… what was she?

Gone but

Gone but what, but what?

Gone but not

"I won't." Robert sobbed, his hands shaking. "I won't, Alice. Never."

Allison Carol
Gone but not Forgotten

He sobbed, with relief. Her face had begun to fade, but he saw it in his mind as if she was in front of him. All the foul looks she'd given him for his jokes, all of the genuine smiles of relief, all of the concealed grins when she genuinely enjoyed his company.
And he was the only one who would ever remember it.
He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder, and heard a voice speak. "Hey, partner."
He looked up and saw the face of his best friend— somehow sad, somehow triumphant. He stood, and pulled her into a hug, sobbing for several minutes. She hugged back, staying silent the whole time.
He gave Nobody a soft kiss on the forehead when she pulled away. Three of the most powerful words in existence were spoken between them, in a sense that few could understand, and then she vanished up the staircase, and into infinity.

«The Long Fall, Part 2 | Hub | Epilogue »


It is another mundane Monday morning for Anton. He is locked away in a pristine office cubicle. Papers litter his desk, scattered as such to mimic his disheveled mind. The industrial white ceiling and lights glow above him, while the ducts overhead hum softly.
On this morning, Anton has a splitting headache. His body lags and his stomach resembles more of a churning cauldron. He quickly attributes this to a hangover. But even if he feels like death, the office is at least quiet. This realization is enough to alleviate Anton's suffering. At least enough for a break.
The breakroom greets Anton with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. A box of sickly sweet donuts lay to the side. He treats himself to a cup and a donut and rests on the couch. There is no one in the room, which allows Anton to take it all in. It isn't long, however that he recognizes a small red stain on the coffee maker. He quickly snags a napkin and wipes off the unsightly stain. Ahh. Now that is better. Peace is now restored for Anton.
Anton approaches his cubicle with a lessened headache and a new vigor. Within his space, the stack of paperwork stares menacingly at him. The quiet hum of air conditioning seems to grow louder. The sterile white glow above him appears to be brighter. He then realizes.
No, no no. It can't be. The office is desolate. There is a distinct lack of keyboard clattering, aggressive phone-ins and idle water cooler chatter. Immediately Anton checks his calendar. Is today a holiday? No. It's clearly Monday.
Maybe a prank is being pulled on Anton. Are his coworkers hiding underneath their desks? Maybe they're residing within the ceiling, waiting to pop out. They're not in the any of the cubicles. And no one is in the breakroom, either.
Anton decides to check in the boss's office. His steps echo through the halls. As he walks over to the office, he glances at the other rooms. Reception. IT. Management. They're all empty. There must be a mistake.
The boss's office door is left ajar. The lights are off and a cold breeze leaks out through the opening. Anton slowly opens the door with one hand while his other is sloppily caressing the wall for the light switch. As he nears it, his headache decides to pay another visit. The twisting stomach also joins.
Flick. Still air resides in the place where the boss would sit. A velvet carpet lays beneath Anton's feet, with cabinets and book shelves lining either side. The only clue of the boss's presence is the name plate placed squarely on the desk:

Grimm, CEO

Anton sits on the chair. He slowly spins on it while contemplating his mundane, now turned mysterious Monday morning. Where is everyone? This is more than a prank. He spins for a moment too long before his stomach decides to spew up his throat.
Anton investigates the rest the floor. He discovers something else: the distinct lack of clocks. Or windows. Or dates. But wait. I saw the calendar back in my cubicle. It clearly said Monday. I could've sworn it was. Ugh. Maybe I'm better off walking outside for a smoke break. I'm going mad.
Anton scrambles to find the elevator. Except there isn't one. So he tries to find a stairwell. That isn't there. Damn. This can't be! Okay, calm down. Think. Your co-workers are real. Your boss is real. You are real. Simple.
As Anton tries to remember the names of his coworkers, he realizes that he can't. He knows his name. He knows when he was born. October 29, 1997. He remembers his family. Family? Family?!
Anton decides to check the room where he punched in this morning. There lay one card with his name on it, dated June 21, 1966. How long have I been here?! I clearly came in this morning.
At least Anton thought so. Yesterday he … well, what did Anton do yesterday? Not even Anton knows. And this morning? He punched in. But now that I think of it, I don't remember punching in. Or even anything before that. I'm here. And I can't recall anything else.
As Anton's denial fades, he stumbles back towards his office. The stack of papers have now increased. On the right side of his cubicle wall are blood stains. A putrid odor fills the space. At this point, Anton cannot react.
On one of the stacks is a note. Anton sets the note aside to look at his pending paperwork. On the papers lay details of persons' deaths. The time of death, the cause of death, and a series of unfilled spaces that request a place for the persons to reside after death. At the bottom of each sheet is another line that asks for a signature.
A bewildered Anton then checks the note he casted aside:

Hey Anton,
An intruder tried to break into the building earlier. She claimed to be working for some government organization or some crap like that, said what we were doing here is illegal, etc. She broke into your office too, so I had to make quick work of her. Sorry about the mess. I'll have someone come by to clean it later.
Anyways you might be questioning yourself. That intruder placed a memetic agent to doubt yourself. But don't worry. I put amnestics in your coffee, so you'll be fine within the hour.
Also great job on that presentation. Drop by my office later and we'll discuss that extended vacation plan.
Don't forget you're here forever.
Grimm


“Think of it like a group therapy session.”
Despite appearing young enough — her face was round and healthy, and her voice was clear — the woman sported a mane of elder gray hair. It was the only thing Huxley could focus on as she spoke.
“Why would I need therapy? I thought the treatment fixed everything,” he countered. She smiled. The edges of her lips quivered slightly.
“Don't think about the treatment too much. It doesn't do as much as you think. You'll still retain your core memories, so don't worry about having to relearn how to drive!" She giggled. "The treatment only removes memories that relate to you being a subtherium. If you're really lucky, you might only lose a few years. Most employees still keep their positions afterwards!"
"What do I have except those memories?" Huxley studied the color of her eyes: sapphire blue, milk white. "Every time I looked in the mirror, every time I carried myself up a flight of stairs, every time I remembered my childhood. All of that will be gone?"
"Memories can be changed? You'll still have looked into the mirror, you'll just remember seeing something else." Her voice seemed to get higher with each syllable, like it was trying to fly away.
"…Okay." He looked down at the two folders the woman had given him. She said they would help him adjust to his new life. It took a considerable amount of strength just to open one of them. There was something about them that convinced Huxley's mind that they shouldn't be opened.
On the inside was a massive, black-and-white image of a group of hideous monsters smiling cheerfully at one another and waving at the camera. Their bodies looked like melted sacks of flesh, blood, saliva, and black, oily bones. They were only human in that they had eyes, a mouth, and a rough approximation of a face. There was one researcher, a man holding a clipboard, facing away from the camera. At the bottom were the words 'PHOTO TAKEN DURING ACTUAL MEETING' written in translucent gray font.
Huxley imagined that there must have been hundreds of other photos taken, yet this was the one they chose. These were the subtheriums that the Foundation wanted to show to the world. These were the ones that they knew people would be able to accept. That meant that there were hundreds, thousands of others that were too grotesque, too inhuman, too incomprehensible, too wrong to be shown. Huxley felt something vile in his throat.
The woman continued, “You get to talk to real subtheriums. People that are going through the same decision as you are. There's one meeting every day, 0900 hours. It lasts for one hour or so?”
“You don't have to call me that.”
"Call you what?"
"A person. I'm a subtherium."
The woman laughed. “I don't believe in all that classification bullcrap. You look like a person. You sound like a person. What's the point in saying otherwise?”
“It's right. It's correct.” He would have felt angry, but for some reason, her voice put a slight grin on his face. "People say it. The dictionary says it."
“The dictionary isn't real? They're just words, Huxley. What's gonna happen if I say the wrong thing, are the word police gonna arrest me?"
“I don't know. Maybe.”
She laughed again. It rumbled in her throat and mouth. It was so powerful it brought her hands to her knees. There was something so inviting about it, as if it were beckoning Huxley to join. Before he realized it, he found himself chuckling a bit. He bit his tongue, his face glowing a dull red with embarrassment. If she could draw out a laugh this easily, it wouldn't be difficult for her to get him to say anything.
The woman wiped the happy tears from her eyes. "So, do you want to do it?" Her voice emanated warmth, but Huxley soon grew cold.
Who was this woman? What did she do? Why was she laughing in that syrupy, almost manic way? Huxley recognized those thoughts. They weren't screaming at him to run away, but they were just as concerned with his survival. They could see the walls closing in. He needed to escape.
"You say that like it's a choice. It doesn't matter if I say no."
The woman frowned. "Yes, that's partly true. If you don't seek treatment for your condition, then it will have to be um, forcibly purged."
Huxley was quiet. He lost all motivation to continue reading the folder. It was all pointless.
"But you're missing something! Look at the back, at the very back of the last page."
She reached over and flipped to the last page. It was filled from top to bottom, from left to right with tiny black letters. Even when squinting, it was impossible to make out a word. It was like the page didn't want to be read at all. At the bottom, there were two dotted lines.
"That's a very, very important part. I fought to have that page put in there, actually! It basically says that if you finish the program — that means you'd have to get my signature — it would exempt you from the humanization process! You would get to leave as you are, and nobody could make you do it again. Unless you like, commit a crime. That'll definitely get you sent back."
Fear and excitement rushed through Huxley's heart.
"W-Wait," he said, "Then why aren't there any subtheriums working for the SCP Foundation? I've never had one as a coworker. Wouldn't everyone take this option?"
"Not a lot of people… like it. You should have seen this place when it was first implemented. Strikes, walkouts, a few attempted insurrections even. People hated it. They said it went against the mission of the Foundation."
She went to grab Huxley's hand, but he pulled it away. She nodded and said, "Around… around half of those that finish the program end up taking their own lives — most within a few years. The ones that survive don't do well. If you look human enough, you might be able to pass as a cripple. People won't hunt you down then."
Huxley kept his gaze low. He wondered how long his stubborn will would continue to survive and suffer. Was it just waiting for the right moment to turn on him? He didn't know. It took him minutes to think of a response.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know if I want to go out there again. At least if I get wiped away here, I would be doing my duty to the SCP Foundation, right?"
"Some would say that."
There was a pit in Huxley's throat. His mind kept flipping between 'yes' and 'no'. It didn't want to choose, but it couldn't dissociate no matter how hard it tried. It was face-to-face with reality. Huxley had to choose.
It wouldn't matter in the end, he thought. His life was never going to be full of happiness. It was unfortunate, but it was true. He might as well just accept it. This would not be difficult.
No. Hell no. This would absolutely be difficult. It should be difficult. Huxley was being forced to choose between decades of abuse from the hands of his neighbors and suicide. He could not make that decision. He had to stop being so melodramatic. This wasn't suicide. He would still be alive. Everyone would still call him Huxley Williams and he would still be a senior interviewer working at the SCP Foundation researching methods to eliminate the remaining subtheriums. His body would still be here.
But still, something would be gone. Something that he could not wager. Something that he had fought for years to keep, to survive, to grow. If he chose death, it would be an admittance that the world was right. His kind never had a right to be here and never had a right to live.
He closed his eyes. He would count to three, and once he got there, whatever word came into his mind would be his decision.
1…
2…
3

The Site gymnasium had been abandoned for years. Huxley only had faint memories of it from early in his career. That was the nature of Site-49. Everything was either abandoned or occupied by researcher who never stayed around for longer than a month. The tunnels in-between apartments felt more alive than ever. Huxley fought that feeling in the back of his head that they were trying to trap him inside and leave him to starve to death.
There were no staircases today. That struck Huxley as strange, because he almost always encountered one no matter where he went in the facility. Instead, the floor began to slope down as he and the woman continued. It didn't inspire much trust in him, but he was not willing to show that to her. It was so ridiculous how terrified he was. He couldn't even ask her for her name. It was so ridiculous Huxley laughed.
"What's so funny?" she asked.
Another oddity occurred. Huxley's face didn't immediately revert to a stoic frown. It remained in that off-color expression. "You never told me your name."
"Oh. You uh, you never asked. My name is Honey, like the company."
Huxley burst out laughing again, his face blushing now in confusion. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I did that. I'm in a… strange part of my life right now."
He could not, in five-hundred years, have possibly imagined that he would be murdered by somebody named Honey.
"Um… Honey, how long have you worked here?"
"I just got here last week," she said. "It's definitely weird! Heh. But I've seen weirder."
"I've been here for years. There's a staircase by my office on the left side. It only goes down a dozen steps or so, but it's the only way up. There's no ramps or elevators. Every day, I have to walk up and down that staircase to do my job."
"That's like, really weird, Huxley. Why wouldn't there be ramps here?"
Huxley smiled further. Her confusion, so pure and genuine, fueled his mind. "Something with the building code. Did Director Flynn ever tell you I can recite the building codes for the nearest twelve Sites word-for-word? I know all of them front-to-back. That's how I do my job. And every day, when I wake up, I have to walk up these steps. All twelve of them are hell."
The two rounded a corner. Honey's breaths became fatigued. She was getting tired of this, but Huxley was only getting more excited. He felt like an actual interviewer again.
"Why not just — huff — get some help? You said it was — huff — short, right? Get like a guard."
"No! If everybody else can do it, I have to do it. I was doing it for almost a decade. My legs would burn and I would fall, but I would do it, because I know that at the end of the day, the pain doesn't matter. For me, the SCP Foundation always comes—"
Huxley slammed into a pair of wooden doors. The slope barely had enough room to level out before ending. His mind took it as a sign from the walls to be quiet. He looked behind to see Honey struggling, one hand on the wall, to reach him. Once she did, they stared at each other in silence for a minute. There were no signs on the doors, but both of them knew what was on the other side.
Huxley gulped down his fear and allowed Honey to push him through. They entered into a basketball court, and the first thing Huxley noticed was the scale of the place. The room felt one hundred kilometers tall and a few thousand wide. There were five mustard chairs in the center circle, three filled with things that Huxley couldn't bear to look at.
Honey squeezed his shoulder and began to wheel him forward. Huxley didn't resist. For a woman that lost her breath just from a small slope, she had no trouble pushing him around. There was a confidence to her as if now she had full control over him. Huxley didn't have time to process the situation before being thrust into an empty spot, surrounded on both sides by subtheriums.
"Hello, everybody! Sorry to keep you all waiting. I was busy getting our newest member. He'll be joining us from now on. Can you say your name for the group, please?" The woman patted him on the back.
Huxley looked up. On his left was a man in an intricate gray suit. Wiry white hair burst out of its scalp and face to the point where it was impossible to discern where its beard ended and its hair began. An oxygen mask was loosely strapped to its face. The man stared at Huxley with a beady, twinkly, suspicious pair of eyes.
“I'm… Williams.”
“Hey, Williams,” said the thing to his right.
It was some androgynous being, nude but with no genitalia or facial features. It held an air of arrogance, like it was from a place that was above reality, like it wasn't supposed to be on Earth at all. Each word was uttered like it had been molded and shaped for years to resonate perfectly with Huxley's ears. Its skin was a dirty gold, and it looked monstrously beautiful.
Honey said, “We use first names here.”
“Okay. Then my name is Huxley. I thought we were doing it the, um, traditional way.”
The being laughed, then there was a long stretch of silence. Huxley noticed that the black basketball lines were starting to peel off.
Honey clapped. "Okay! So I bet we're all wonder about our new member here, aren't we?" She waited for a response. "Alright. Well, either way, it would be good for us to learn a little bit before we begin. So, Huxley, why don't you introduce yourself?"
Her voice was eerily similar to Emma's. It was an overly sweet mixture of fear and plastic. That was the different between her and Emma. Emma could hide her fear. She could talk for hours and hours and maintain that sweet tone, the one that kept an iron grip on everybody around her. With Honey, however, the fear was the only thing Huxley could hear.
"There's nothing much to me," Huxley said. "I worked at the SCP Foundation for a while. I thought I trusted someone. We had an argument and now I'm here."
"Oh, don't be so pessimistic!" Honey replied. "You'll lose yourself if you focus on the past too much. We have to focus on the now, the present, the things that we can improve about ourselves."
"You told me to talk about my past."
Honey laughed playfully. "No, I didn't actually! I asked you to introduce yourself, and you started off by talking about your past."
Huxley tried to think of a counter, but couldn't. He gritted his teeth and looked down.
The being next to him piped up, "Hey, don't play around with him. He's new."
Honey threw her hands up, surrendering to its point.
The being turned to Huxley and said, "She doesn't mean to insult you, man. Honey's just like that sometimes. She's got a good heart though."
"I'll find out what she's got for myself." Huxley sneered. The being sighed.
Honey waved his attention back to her. "Hey! Let's not talk over each other, okay? Now, one at a time, let's introduce ourselves to our new participant. We don't want him to feel overwhelmed."
"I'm not overwhelmed."
"That's great, Huxley!"
Honey waited for one of the other members to bite. The man in the gray suit began tapping on his leg. Her eyes darted towards him and, silently, she ordered him to begin speaking. Huxley could hear oxygen spewing out of the gaps in the seal of his mask as he spoke.
"Hello, Mr. Williams. My name is… Robert, I think. Heh, it's hard to remember that name after all this time. Don't feel guilty if you forget it. If you were to call me by it, I would assume you were talking to somebody else." The man crossed its legs and leaned forward, forcing its gaze onto Huxley. "People call me SCP-014. Or, these years it would be more accurate to say that they call me subtherium oh-fourteen."
"We don't use those designations here, though," the being said.
Honey jumped. "Oh! Isaac, how about you go next? Then we'll move onto the big guy."
The being, Isaac, frowned. It had no eyes to greet Huxley's. "I'm Isaac. I ain't got a last name. I'm… god-touched, to use an old term. My appearance is entirely aesthetic though, so don't worry about me. I can't do miracles or anything like that."
Honey nodded, then focused on the final chair, the one opposite of Huxley. "Okay, so Huxley," she said, "You're probably wondering who this guy is."
It was a pillar of flesh and bones stacked on top of each other and molded into something stable. It was the worst subtherium Huxley had ever laid eyes upon. It was an abomination. Its flesh was devoid of skin, only bloody muscle that stretched and squeezed past other chunks of meat and fat as it swayed back and forth. Its 'legs' consisted of two meaty trunks that oozed red puss onto the floor. They were connected to its torso: a fat barrel of wet bone that extended up nearly to the ceiling. In the darkness of its rafters was its head; its two dim orange eyes shined down on Huxley. If Huxley squinted, he could make out the deflated features of its fetus-like face.
"This is Geoff! They found him floating off the coast of Florida, near the marshes by Daytona Bay. Lots of mangroves over there. He even blended in with them for a short while, heh! He can speak, but since his mouth is so far away, we can't hear him that well. So we…" Honey retrieved a laminated piece of paper and a small black marker from her coat. "Do this!"
She inserted the marker and the paper into the abomination's flesh. Both got caught between the gaps in the thing's muscles. Tiny brown tentacles sprouted out from its bones and pulled the objects inside. Huxley watched them travel up the thing's body to its head. A few seconds later, it flew back down, in spotless condition.
Huxley grabbed the paper and showed it to Huxley.

HEY

"Well that's… something."
"Mhm. That's how he responds to questions. He's surprisingly talkative once you get to know him!"
"I… I bet he does."
"And… yep! That should be everything. Now, we start every meeting by talking about what our favorite part of the day was and what our least favorite part was. Let's start with you, Richard?"
Huxley settled into his chair. Air filtered in and out of his lungs. Huxley felt time slow down as he retreated into his mind. Even if he didn't want to be here, he couldn't get out of this. He had to interact with Honey. He built a wall in his mind of things he would not speak about and began tossing bad memories, strange interactions, and other unnecessary thoughts in. He was only going to be here for a few meetings. There's no point in giving them his entire life story.
As he tossed more and more of himself behind the wall, he found only a small handful of topics that he allowed himself to discuss: his status as a subtherium, his duty to the SCP Foundation, the procedure itself, how he was feeling on that certain day, etc. It was eerily efficient how well Huxley was able to forget entire swaths of his life at a second's notice. It didn't matter, though. Nothing did at this point.
That dark, familiar factory inside of his subconscious began to stir.

“Who was that person you were talking about?”
The meeting had ended. Huxley and Honey fell back to their usual positions on the way back to his containment cell. His arms were growing tired as they got closer. There was a feeling in his gut like the world was trying to warn him to run away as fast as he could. The hallways were quiet, the air was clearer, and for the first time this week, he didn't feel anything holding him back.
"What?" Huxley said.
"You said that you thought you trusted someone early on in the meeting. Who was that?"
Huxley's breathing grew labored. "That's not… relevant. It's in the past. It doesn't matter. Didn't you tell me not to worry about the past?"
"There's a difference between dwelling on something and visiting it in a healthy way, Huxley. You shouldn't just abandon your traumatic memories, because they will never abandon you. They lie in wait until you're at your most vulnerable."
They were only a floor, a corner, and a hallway away from the containment wing. But Huxley could tell that she was going to make that short journey feel like a marathon. Huxley wondered if all therapists spoke like her? Did they all espouse shallow messages that did nothing to solve the real issues that were affecting him? Something inside him felt guilty over the thought. Was she not doing everything in her ability to try and help him? Maybe, but he couldn't deny the fact that Honey had absolutely no clue how to relate to the creatures she was trying to help.
Soon, Huxley came face-to-face with a reinforced steel door. It was at the end of a long, unswept hallway that was missing two floor tiles. The walls had corroded from a pristine white to a disgusting brown with hints of yellow stains in the cracks. There was more rust than concrete in some spots. The keypad next to the door was dusty as if it hadn't been used since the day it was installed.
Whatever was on the other side of this door would be Huxley's home for the foreseeable future.
There was a plaque on the wall, but the numbers on it were scratched out. The SCP Foundation stopped using plaques after the Pulse. It wasn't necessary. Over the years, the database had been whittled down to a few dozen files, each one separated by miles and miles of dead horrors and solved mysteries.
Honey swiped her identification card and the door screeched open. Inside was an unlit room with barren concrete walls, the only amenity being a wall-mounted bed that was barely large enough to hold Huxley, let alone a normal-sized human being. Light flooded the room. At the top of the far wall, he spotted a tiny, dirt-covered window the size of his hand. It was raining outside.
He wheeled himself inside. The floor was surprisingly clean, like this space had actually been cared for and lived in. Three pulsating lights were buried in the ceiling, covered in a plastic covering so Huxley couldn't smash one of the bulbs and slit his throat. With how loud they were buzzing, he could imagine how somebody would be driven to do something like that. On the bed was a light-blue anti-suicide blanket.
"Sorry for the conditions." Honey's voice fell into her stomach. "I heard the blanket's really soft, though. And I can get you a mattress if you really want."
"I've slept through worse."
"Really?"
Huxley waited a beat, wiped away a tear, and turned. "No, I haven't. I lied. I'm sorry."
"Oh."
Huxley examined the blanket. It was as flat as a board and impossible to roll into a more comfortable shape. "I'm supposed to get a cellmate, aren't I? You can't keep patients on suicide watch in a room alone."
"Um… No. I'm sorry. There was a new policy implemented recently. Subtheriums aren't allowed to spend considerable amounts of time in the same room as one another. Studies have shown that they either become more depressed about their situation or… aggressive. We don't have the means to prevent a containment breach anymore."
Huxley grunted. That must have been why they were only allowed one hour for meetings. He rubbed the blanket in his fingers. The old and torn fabric cut into his fingers.
"I really think you should get a mattress."
"That's not the policy."
"Oh, screw the policy. Look at this room, Huxley! The walls are barely standing. The lock doesn't even work. Would you want to live like this?"
"It's not about what I want. It's about what I deserve."
"Well I think that you deserve… something different, at least."
Huxley looked at her through slanted eyes. "Honey, you don't have to worry about me. I can make do with what I have. You don't have to treat me like the rest of them because I am not like the rest of them. Okay?" He didn't look at her. He didn't want to see the look of disappointment on her face. He didn't want to think about the pointlessness of his anger.
"…Okay." Honey tapped on one of the walls. A ringing sounded, loud enough to rattle the walls. "There's a button on this wall here that you can press. If you need me for anything, just push it and I'll be there in a few minutes. I'll be bringing you meals and water whenever you ask. Don't feel like you have to be modest. We have enough food lying around here to feed a nation for years, probably."
Huxley nodded. Honey nodded in return, stepped back, and shut the door. A few seconds later, Huxley heard the familiar sound of a containment lock. He never realized how much it echoed for the subtherium on the inside.
He felt the air grip his throat and lungs. He was finally on the other side, where he was meant to be. The feeling was terrible. There were eyes burning into the back of his neck, hands wrapped around his body like ropes, knives slowly burrowing into his back. He looked the walls up and down and saw it. Tucked away in a corner high above him was a security camera. A small blinking red dot was the only indication that it was alive.
Honey would be watching him through this: monitoring his actions, checking if he was sleeping at night, making sure he wasn't trying to off himself by slamming his head into the walls. Every mistake would be captured and archived.
He expected to be shocked, maybe even devastated. He waited for his anxious mind to stab him, for the fiery rage that had been boiling in his soul to spew over onto the floor, but it didn't. Nothing happened. When he touched his face, he noticed that it hadn't changed. It was still a nothing expression.
Huxley stared at the wall. He could hear the rain. Tears streamed down his face as he watched the droplets slide down the window. He closed his eyes and imagined what it would feel like on his arms: wet and cold and slippery. It would smell like the ocean and it would taste like the earth. It would stain his clothes for hours, refusing to leave until he felt as sad and lonely as it did. He used to understand the rain.
But rain was too slow to escape concrete.

Post-Foundation
<< Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 >>


Fish^12

First tale! This is my Author Page!

…

What a nightmare! It looks like it lasted thirty years.
I think I've had my fill of sleeping. Do I even need to sleep?

Although…
Perhaps another one will do.

Maybe the next one will be a dream.