Night had fallen over the smoke-stained streets of Chicago, casting the Windy City into darkness. Despite the late hour, a yellow taxicab pulled up to the front of an apartment complex.
"Well, here we are, sir." The man driving the taxi said. "It's later than my customers usually arrive, but I won't pry." The driver laughed and looked to the rear of the cab. The man in the back nodded his head and, reaching into his white coat, pulled out a pile of paper money which he handed to the driver. As he opened the door and left, the taxi driver could not shake the suspicious feeling that he recognized the strange man from somewhere. He watched, but the man only gave a small wave and walked towards the complex. The taxi driver started driving away, little suspecting that his companion had been in truth the Streamliner, Chicago's pataphysical superhero and legendary defender of justice.
The Streamliner stepped into the overly bright interior of the apartment complex. Then, using his reality bending ability, he went to his room, switched into his white super suit and reached the roof of the complex. Because of his pataphysical ability to compress narratives, the Streamliner could, in a single line, do things that would take regular men entire scenes to complete. The Streamliner paused for a moment atop the building, letting the cool night air and the thick, cloying scent of the city below wash over him. It was nothing more than a brief respite though, as the Streamliner knew that soon he would have to continue his nightly crusade against the forces of injustice and evil that threatened his beloved city. The Streamliner stepped forward and found some criminals to do battle with.
The Streamliner found them in the middle of a dark alley, two bald white men with ugly tattoos accosting a black man. Both of them had pistols.
"I don't have it." The black man said. One of the thugs struck him across the brow with a pistol; the Streamliner flinched as the man fell.
"Look." The villain said "Either you give us your wallet or…"
"Someone's coming." The two criminals hastily spun around (almost dropping their guns in the process) to face the Streamliner who was walking down the alley towards them. The only light was coming from behind him so they could only see his outline and a faint shine from the mask of his helmet.
"Who are you?" One mugger asked, seeming nervous.
"Don't shoot him yet." The other yelled, brandishing his gun in a way that implied a poor grasp of firearm safety. "Stay back." The Streamliner said nothing in response but continued closing in on them.
"I said stay back." When their attempts to intimidate the Streamliner failed, the muggers gave him one more second then opened fire. The Streamliner caught the bullets. The criminals stopped in surprise when they saw the Streamliner not dying. The Streamliner held his arms out in front of him, opened his fists and let the two bullets drop to the sidewalk. They bounced off the concrete with a clinking noise before flying away into the darkness. The miscreants stood in shock, before their eyes widened as realization began to creep in.
"What are you?" One of them asked "Are you some kind of super…" The Streamliner knocked them both unconscious. With the criminals dealt with, the Streamliner turned to help the black man stand to his feet.
"Thank you." The man muttered. The Streamliner supported him and helped him stand up. Knowing he needed to get the man medical attention fast, the Streamliner brought him to the nearest hospital. He took the man to the front door and saw that (likely because of his reality bending), already people in the interior of the hospital were rushing out to help. When they arrived, they only found one curious man standing on the concrete sidewalk. The Streamliner had disappeared as mysteriously as he had arrived.

Inside the hospital, the man's injuries were checked and his wounds were stitched shut. Soon afterwards, one of the nurses walked out of the operation room. As soon as she was free of her fellow doctors and nurses, she ducked into the nearest available storage closet and took out a black cellphone. She put through a call over a discrete channel and brought the phone up to her ear as ominous sounding music began to play in the background.
"You were right, he came back." She whispered, "I only saw him for a moment, but I would recognize him anywhere."
"Excellent." A voice from the other end boomed. "Keep us updated."

Far away in a massive concrete building, the man she had talked to placed his phone down.
"The Streamliner has been located." He said in a voice that resounded throughout the massive room. At this the other men and women seated around the table in front of him broke out into applause. One of them pressed a button on the table and muttered under his breath. "Send him in." They waited in eager anticipation for several minutes before, at the other side of the chamber, a click was heard and a hidden door in the wall slid open. Beyond it a figure stood cloaked in darkness so that nothing more than his outline and his bright blue eyes were visible.
"You wished to see me?" the mysterious figure asked.
"Yes, we have a new assignment for you. We have located SCP-4455 and need you to return him to the Foundation's control." The Foundation! The secret organization which conspires to keep all Wonder hidden from the inhabitants of the world were the very foe who now had their eyes set on the White-Clad Crusader. He had once been a prisoner of theirs, but had escaped under mysterious circumstances. The figure cloaked in darkness laughed.
"Yes, the Streamliner! He is a mighty warrior, but…" There was the sound of a sword being drawn in the gloom. "So am I."
"Can you do this?"
"I can. It will be a hard fight, one of the hardest I will ever undertake, but I will bring him back to you." The man nodded and the figure disappeared further into the shadows.

Back in Chicago, the Streamliner was still on the hunt for more people who required his aid. Using his anomalous power to skip the effort of actually going out and looking, the Streamliner found a man wearing a ski mask attempting to pick the lock of an apartment door. The man cursed under his breath as he struggled to get the lock open and the Streamliner silently approached from behind. He dropped the wire tool he was holding and reached down to pick it up. Before he could, the Streamliner grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back. He screamed and spun around reaching for a gun he had at his side, but the Streamliner looked him in the eye and told him the error of his ways The Streamliner explained how a life of crime was not the right way to live and doomed to bring misery in the end. He also explained how it was never too late for someone to change their ways, no matter what they had done. After the Streamliner finished, the man sat down on the ground, tears streaming down his face.
"Thanks, Streamliner." He said. "I promise I'll turn my life around." The Streamliner took the man's hand and helped him to his feet. He wiped his eyes as the Streamliner led him out of the hallway.
"I wasn't always like this." The former criminal continued, nostalgia creeping into his voice. "I used to be a good kid, but then…" As they approached the police station, they heard a noise which made them jump. The Streamliner turned around and at the corner of his vision he saw something moving towards them down the near abandoned streets.
"Streamliner?" The Streamliner moved him inside the station and then turned to face whatever danger lurked in the unseen parts of the city. Fearing what may happen if a fight started so close to civilians, the Streamliner went to the roof of a nearby building, giving him a better vantage point.
Up there, the night was as dark as it had been when he first arrived at the apartment complex. The Streamliner walked towards the edge of the building and looks down. The streets below him were empty except for a few cars slowly driving down the late trash-spewn streets. The Streamliner glanced over his shoulder as well, but saw nothing except for a few scattered newspapers blowing in the wind. It was unusually quiet, as if the night itself was waiting in anticipation. He leaned against a piece of machinery and let himself rest for a few moments… and heard the sound of footsteps behind him.
"Ah yes." The Streamliner heard a voice from behind him that sent a chill down his spine. "We meet again, Streamliner." It was a voice the Streamliner recognized from the time when he was imprisoned by the Foundation, the voice of a living legend. The Streamliner's blood ran cold as he realized who was after him. Darkblade. He was the Foundation's most powerful warrior, a near undefeated swordsman of inhuman skill. The Foundation must have been truly desperate to recapture the Streamliner if they had sent him. The swordsman stood at the opposite edge of the rooftop, the Streamliner hadn't noticed his arrival. The wind blew Darkblade's long flowing white hair and his hand rested on the hilt of the fabled weapon he took his namesake from.
"It was difficult to track you down Streamliner." Darkblade said as he sized up the white-clad superhero. "You hid well after you had escaped from the Foundation, but," Darkblade smiled. "I knew you couldn't keep it up forever."
The Streamliner did not turn around. He continued looking across the Chicago skyline where no stars were visible. He could see the crescent moon rising in the far distance, little more than a white smear against the black.
"The Foundation asked me to recapture you. Being that I am always keen for another chance to test my skills with my chosen weapon I accepted." Darkblade drew his black sword from its sheath and held it in his hands. He turned it in his grip, admiring the way it made the light glitter, then pointed it towards the Streamliner. Moonlight reflected off the blade's dark sheen and wisps of water started to form around the swordsman. The Streamliner clenched and unclenched his fists. Under his helmet he began to sweat.
"You remind me of myself actually." A hint of sadness crept into Darkblade's voice as he spoke. ''We both know we have gone too far from our happy younger days to ever return to them. All that waits for us is violence and conflict until the hour of our deaths." The Streamliner's skin crawled, how had Darkblade known about his stereotypical tragic past? To the Streamliner's great surprise he saw Darkblade wipe a single immaculate tear from his eye.
"It's almost a shame that we must oppose each other, but I cannot break my oath to aid the Foundation for the good of the universe. Now, I give you the opportunity to surrender before I am forced to fight you and take you back to the Foundation by force." The Streamliner said nothing.
"So be it, friend." Darkblade entered a sword fighting stance. "I've heard you are this world's strongest anomaly. Try not to disappoint me." Now, the Streamliner turned to face Darkblade. Darkblade yelled a warcry and ran forward. He raised his mighty blade while summoning a shell of water to repel the Streamliner's attacks then jumped into the air, raising his sword high above him. Thinking fast, the Streamliner defeated Darkblade.
Darkblade collapsed to his knees, the broken pieces of his katana lying in front of him. He gasped for air, blood leaking from his mouth and placed a hand on the ground to steady himself.
"It's true!" He said, shock and amazement apparent in his voice. "You are the strongest!"
Without a word, the Streamliner turned around and begins walking away from his conquered foe. As he left, the world itself seemed to disappear. Everything started to fade to black until there was only a blank void. This lasted only for a moment before two words appeared in the darkness. The Streamliner. They slowly floated up into the aether and beneath it names appeared.

Dr. Wondertainment clicked the projector off and stepped away from the screen. A massive smile beamed from her face.
"So what do you think?" She asked in an exceedingly cheery tone of voice. The investors sitting at a table across from her could only stare in horror and wish they had called out of work that morning.
"So… you want us to start making films now?" One of them asked.
"We've done candy, video games, pets, morally ambiguous human experiments and now this?" Another investor, the only female executive in the room other than Dr. Wondertainment herself, asked. "Seems like a stretch."
"Yes!" Wondertainment said, her grin becoming manic. "Think about it. We make this film; it becomes a hit and then boom! Wondertainment Cinematic Universe. An entire new market will be open for us."
The investors glanced in each other's directions and exchanged a few wide-eyed looks of terror.
"I fear it would dilute our brand too much." One of them said.
"We'd need to hire too many new people for this to work. The risk would be too high." Another added.
"How will we even get the Streamliner's permission to use his image in the film?"
"With all due respect Isabel, your screenplay is awful."
"Did you make this by yourself?"
"The Foundation will never allow this in theaters."
"There's no way the Streamliner could actually beat Darkblade."
Dr. Wondertainment sighed and shook her head.
"Okay." She continued. "Think of it this way…" It was going to be a long meeting.


« Cafeteria Chat || Two Roads Diverge (The 3009-C Remix) || Coming Soon! »

[+] Content Advisory Warning

[–] Content Advisory Warning

This tale contains a depiction of depression as well as mentions of past self-harm and suicidal ideation. It does have a happy ending, but reader discretion is advised just to be safe.

Junior Researcher Benedict Kim had been a fan of the Site-19 Burger King since it had been built a few years back. It was brightly colored and aggressively normal, a pleasant alternative to the strange-smelling cafeteria. The wide tables and easy availability of food made it a good change of pace from the office.
Unfortunately, the change of place wasn't helping Benedict much. He had been there for hours, now, and his table was scattered with paperwork. His half-eaten cheeseburger had gone cold an hour ago.
He scowled at the thick blue binder open in from of him, its sleek blue plastic cover glinting in the fluorescent light. The header at the top of the page said, in neat block letters: SCP-3009-C PSYCHOLOGICAL PROGRESS REPORT. He lifted up his pen and—
His phone buzzed. Jolted out of his fast-food fueled stupor, he put the pen down and blearily checked the screen.
3009

whatcha doin?
can i call you 👌

It was [SCP-3009], the Foundation's most irritating sapient Snapchat account. For once, she had only indirectly caused his general state of exhaustion, but she certainly wasn't helping the situation. He needed to concentrate. His bi-monthly trip down to Site-17 was later that day, and he had to prepare.
He picked up his phone and began hastily typing up a reply, but his phone almost immediately began to vibrate, like it had been possessed by the spectre of a very angry hornet. He hesitated for a moment, glancing at his binder as if for permission to slack off from work momentarily, and then accepted the call. The familiar face of what appeared to be an adolescent girl filled the screen.
"Hi hi," sang 3009. "Message for you from Doctor Coles! Our James Bond marathon is approved, and you're supervising! Great, huh?"
Benedict sighed. His supervisor, Dr. Dennis Coles, had taken to using 3009 as some sort of messenger pigeon — partially because it made her feel useful, and partially because he thought it was funny. It was lacking in professionalism, but 3009 loved it, and it was certainly more harmless than the other ways in which she wanted to 'help out' around the office.
"You could have just texted," he said patiently, and flipped around the camera so that she could see the mess of paper on the table. "I'm taking advantage of my lunch break to review and recompile my notes on 3009-C. I need to concentrate."
“Yeah, yeah, okay, I'll text next time!" said 3009, blatantly insincere. She had said that the last time, too. A pause, and then: "Actually, that was what I want to talk about. 3009-C, I mean. You're seeing her today, right?"
Benedict narrowed his eyes. He knew where this was going. 3009 always brought up the same question when her human counterpart was mentioned. When can we have our reunion? Their single meeting had ended on a rather antagonistic note, and 3009 had become fixated with putting things right, which was admirable but…
"3009, I've told you. She's not ready to see you yet. The therapist's reports have been promising, but let's not get too ahead of ourselves, alright?"
On the screen, 3009's face twisted. "I know that. I wasn't going to say that we should meet right now. I just mean… our birthday is in March. We're— well, I guess I'll technically be fifteen forever, but she's turning sixteen. That seems important, right? So I was thinking that maybe that could be when we had our reunion."
Benedict considered this. It sounded like a sensible timeframe, and it was good to set goals, but he didn't want to risk pushing 3009-C too hard.
And yet. 3009 was making puppy dog eyes at him, and despite knowing that it was a manipulation tactic, he softened. It did sound like an important date, to be fair. "I'll try," he conceded, before adding quickly, "But this is a preliminary goal only and may be re-evaluated based on changing circumstances."
3009 shook her head. "You have to promise," she said. "You have to help her by then, so that she doesn't have to spend her sixteenth birthday alone. Okay?"
He hesitated. 3009 looked at him expectantly.
"I promise," he said. "I'll do my best."

"Well? Go on, then. This one doesn't bite. Doesn't do much of anything, actually."
The on-duty security guard in Site-17's accommodation wing was not happy with Junior Researcher Benedict Kim. This was not surprising, given that Benedict was currently dithering outside the open door of a humanoid containment cell, and low risk or not, it was bad policy to just leave the door open like that.
"I just needed a moment to think," Benedict replied, rather irritably. He was nervous. Truthfully, he struggled to deal with teenagers, and teenage girls in particular. He knew the right thing to say on paper, the chemistry behind the way that their brains worked, but he just wasn't the most sensitive person.
So there he was, struggling to gather his thoughts. He just… didn't want to mess this up. He looked down again at the notes in his blue binder.

3009-C continues to demonstrate symptoms consistent with major depressive disorder; in particular, its behaviour and mood are typically lethargic and characterised by frequent bouts of apathy during which it demonstrates indifference to all matters, including those that are important or appealing. Instances of self-harm and suicidal ideation have not reoccurred since October; though progress has stagnated, no signs of imminent relapse have been noted. Its current prescription of 40 mg/day Prozac (fluoxetine) remains adequate.
On further improvement: on 2018.12.14, 3009-C expressed interest in its diagnosis and, in particular, the scientific backing behind the usage of fluoxetine; it appeared particularly interested in my explanation of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. Given the stagnation of 3009-C's progress, any demonstration of positive interest is potentially a sign.
My professional recommendation is further encouragement of 3009-C's possible interest in psychology…

"Hey, I'm serious. Are you going in or not?" The security guard leaned against the doorframe in his best impression of a bored statue with a gun. He was clearly of the opinion that Benedict could 'gather his thoughts' inside the room, with the door shut.
"Sorry," said Benedict, and bit the bullet. He stepped inside.
Inside, the room was very dark. Nothing was moving. It almost looked unoccupied, except— there it was. There was a large, person-sized lump in the scratchy standard-issue blanket. It was not moving.
"Hello, 3009-C," he said. "How are you today?"
The blanket lump stirred, and then shifted.
“Mmph," it said.
Benedict interpreted this to mean that 3009-C was the same as it always was — tired, and bored.
“May I turn on the lights?"
“Mmph," said the blanket lump again.
He clicked on the light switch. The humanoid containment cell was minimally furnished and had been redecorated for safety rather than comfort. There wasn't a single sharp object in sight, and a sleek black security camera blinked at him from the ceiling. 3009-C's desk was cluttered with a pile of untouched items: tubes of make-up, tabloid newspapers, and six months worth of Teen Vogue back copies. Most of them were still in their original plastic wrapping.
"You didn't read the magazines that I brought you last time," Benedict said, unsurprised. “I apologise. Did you not like them?"
This was their ritual. Benedict visited 3009-C at Site-17 every two weeks like clockwork, and brought her an entertainment item specifically catered to the known interests of the girl that 3009-C had claimed to be, upon being taken into Foundation custody. Stacey Lee had liked fashion, makeup, and Korean celebrities, but 3009-C hadn't shown interest in a single one of those things. She hadn't even feigned interest, to back up previous assertions of her identity as the original Stacey Lee.
The blanket made a movement that was frankly difficult to interpret. It was probably a shrug. Unresponsiveness was fairly normal behavior for 3009-C; he had received similar reports from any number of the other researchers and therapists assigned to her case. That was why he had been so excited, when one of the therapists had reported that she had actually shown interest in something.
He had seen the security footage. On most days, 3009-C did little else than lie in her bed, swaddled in her thin blanket. Sometimes they could see her counting the ceiling tiles. Most of the time she just lay there and slept, often forgetting to shower for days at a time.
Every three days, a researcher came to supervise her with cutting her nails. If they didn't, she would scratch relentlessly at her scars until they bled. Usually it was the long thin scars down her thighs, but on the really bad days, she went for the thicker ones slashed across her wrists. The scars had healed badly there because she'd picked and picked at her stitches.
“I brought you something again today," he said. “Something different, today. Will you at least have a look?" He waited. A long moment passed, and then another.
Finally, the lump began to shift and squirm. A head emerged, and then a torso, and soon Stacey Lee's familiar face looked back at him. The dark circles under her eyes looked like fresh bruises, her cheeks were a little too hollow, and her hair was a mess. The other 3009 would never have allowed that, but this wasn't the other 3009.
The difference between them startled Benedict. Telling them apart was not particularly difficult anymore.
Slowly, carefully, he reached into his bag and pulled out a book. It was not a slim magazine like the ones from his last sorry attempt. Instead, it was a battered textbook, thick and solidly bound.
He set it down on the bed, 3009-C's dark eyes tracking the steady movement, and stepped back a little.
“What… is this?" she said at last. Her voice was hoarse from disuse.
"It's Ulric Neisser's Cognitive Psychology," he said, at last. "It's actually my old copy. From when I was in university. At Berkley. I apologise for its condition. It is some years old, and perhaps slightly out of date. However, I've written notes in the margins, which I thought might be… helpful."
Dead silence filled the room.
"I apologise if this doesn't meet your interests," he said, talking again, anxious to fill the silence. "I just thought that you might like something a little more… relevant. I've been informed that you've taken some interest in your diagnosis."
3009-C stared at the book, making no move to touch it. Benedict's heart sank. The report had said that 3009-C had been interested, but perhaps it had been a fluke. She certainly didn't look very interested now. He had been hoping for a better reaction, but this was no different to 3009-C's usual indifference.
“Relevant to my mental disorders?" she said, soft and bland.
“Benedict winced. "No, to your— to your changing environment, and… I'm sorry, 3009-C. I didn't mean to offend you."
"I'm not offended," said 3009-C. It was difficult to tell if she meant it.
He left the book there when his visit wrapped up. It had been a gift, after all, even if 3009-C didn't want it. But when he looked back over his shoulder, she had curled up in her little lump under the blanket again.
"I'll see you again soon," he said on the way out, but 3009-C did not reply.

"So how's she doing? Dash C, I mean."
Benedict looked up from the DVD player that he was fiddling with. 3009 was looking at him with bright, curious eyes from the screen of his cellphone, which had been plugged into a charger and propped up in preparation for their long video call.
It was the lull between Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace and he had just half-heartedly watched Bond's lover-of-the-day kill herself via a dramatic elevator scene. He had brought his stack of paperwork with him, but it turned out that explosions and impressive stunts were really rather distracting. Still. He'd been asked to supervise 3009's Bond movie marathon, and so here he was. This technically counted as work too, after all.
He was surprised that she had waited for so long to pounce. 3009 had been asking questions about C nearly every day, and after that promise that he'd made — well. The truth was that Benedict was worried that 3009's hope for some kind of reconciliation was going to turn out to be an unrealistic one. 3009-C's improvement was slow and fragile. Would she ever be ready for it?
"Fine," he said, trying not to let his own bitter disappointment show on his face. Unfortunately, he said it in a tone that said decidedly that he did not, in fact, think that things were fine.
3009 looked at him expectantly. She crossed her arms.
He hesitated, and then sighed. "I'm concerned that I made a mistake today. Perhaps I was mistaken about C's interest in psychology."
"Psychology!" said 3009. "Really? I'm not interested in that."
"Well, apparently she isn't either," said Benedict, unable to keep a trace of bitterness from seeping into his voice. "I had just— I had hoped that she would be. Her therapist suggested that it might be the case, but evidently, that was incorrect."
3009 went quiet. "That's a shame," she said, after a moment. "It would have been nice, if she had been."
Benedict blinked. This was a surprisingly sensitive moment from the brash 3009. "You think so?"
"Well, you think so too, don't you? It's… it's important to, I don't know, find your passions and all that. That's what they used to tell us in school. And psychology would have been a really sensible choice. Relevant."
"Relevant?" Benedict repeated, curiously. He had said that too, earlier.
3009 nodded fervently. "Yeah. To, like, being here in the Foundation. We don't know when or if we're going to leave. It would be nice to learn something useful for being here, right? So that maybe eventually we could have something to do, if we're going to be here anyway. Something to help out. It would be better than just sort of… sitting around doing nothing, right?"
He stared at her. 3009 looked away.
"I don't know if she feels that way. But I would, if I was her. And you think that too, right? If you wanted her to be interested in psychology."
An insightful comment. Sometimes he forgot that 3009 was really rather perceptive. A people person, which was ironic given that it wasn't really a person at all. Or at least not a human person.
"I guess I do agree," he said, finally. "I would like… I would like for her to feel a sense of purpose. I think that's the problem. The pointlessness of it all."
"Yup, a purpose," 3009 nodded, and then gave a sharp grin edged with a kind of ironic mischief. "And you feel that way about me having a purpose too, right? With my incredible future career as the world's first secret agent that's actually a social media account?"
Benedict's heart sunk. Another problem, and not one that he had been mentally prepared to deal with. Damn these humanoid skips. There was always something to deal with, with them.
Of course, this conversation had been in the works for a long time too.
"3009, being a field agent, it's— it's not like James Bond, you know," said Benedict, stumbling over his words. "It's not glamorous. It's dangerous, and you would have to do things that… don't always sit well with you. You shouldn't want to do it, and they wouldn't let you anyway. Foundation policy is largely against attempting cooperation with anomalous individuals. There's too much risk of… well, of cooperation ceasing at an unfortunate time."
"There wouldn't be a risk with me," said 3009, in a low voice. "You don't get it, Benedict. I wouldn't leave here even if I could. Not even now, even though I know that I'm never going to have a body again. Or maybe because of that."
"You wouldn't?"
"Where would I go?" she said. "Back to my— my family? What are they going to do with a snapchat account for a daughter? And if not them, then who?"
"3009, I—"
She cut him off. "These calls are my whole world. Snapchat is for talking to people, and when I'm talking to someone, I've got a shape, a face, a voice. And when it stops then there's nothing again, and I go back to being— to being nothing again. Electricity crackling through the void." Her voice went quiet. "My parents are going to die someday, you know? And so are you. Who's going to talk to me then?"
"Whoever the next Foundation researcher in charge of you is," said Benedict, with dawning understanding.
3009 nodded. "It's… it wouldn't be the same, but it would be something. You understand?"
He did understand.
"So I wouldn't leave," said 3009. "There's no reason not to… to let me try to help. Maybe I'd even be useful to everyone here. Maybe Dash C would too."
They had gotten off track. Benedict shook his head.
"This is… this is irrelevant to the current topic. 3009-C seemed uninterested in the academic study of psychology. I brought her a textbook. She seemed to have no interest in reading it. I'll have to try another avenue."
"She did?" said 3009, curious. "That's a pity. I would have read it, if I was her. What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," Benedict admitted.
There was a long pause, as 3009 considered this.
"Well… I don't think you should give up on her yet," she said at last. "We're pretty similar. So that means that she's— she's probably more resilient than she looks. People in general tend to be, I think. Maybe bring different books."
"I think I'll do that," said Benedict. "Thank you for the advice. It was… actually very helpful."
3009 beamed. "It was? Well, you know what else people need, other than to find their passion?"
"What?"
"Friends! So… the reunion meeting has to happen, okay?"
He looked down at the Quantum of Solace DVD, forgotten in his hand, and then shrugged and put it in. "We'll see how it goes, 3009."
"Pay attention this time," said 3009. "I'm going to be James Bond but cuter, and you're going to be Q. So we have to learn properly. Okay?"

One week later, when he went back to the containment cell where 3009-C lived, Benedict Kim was armed with a bag packed full of high school level academic textbooks in mathematics, biology, physics and chemistry.
He was early. His appointments with her were usually spaced two weeks apart, but he wanted to show 3009-C that he was willing to go the extra mile. That he cared about the outcome of their appointments, maybe even a little beyond what his job required from him.
The door slid open with a hiss. 3009-C was sitting on the bed with her legs crossed. She was frowning at a familiar textbook; the blanket was wadded up in a ball at the foot of the bed.
"3009-C?" he said, surprised.
She jumped, and took out one earbud. "Researcher Kim?"
"You're reading the textbook," he said, in disbelief.
There was a long pause, in which they both struggled for words.
The silence was broken by 3009-C snapping the book shut. She stared at it, resting there in her lap, instead of making eye contact.
"To be honest, I'm… I'm no good at science," she said, stumbling over the words. They came out awkwardly shaped but they were words, and Benedict's heart leapt into his throat. "Stacey Lee had, um, terrible marks."
Of course, it would have been better if she hadn't dropped a complete non-sequitur, but Benedict had gotten better at rolling with the punches. 3009 did it all the time, after all.
Benedict opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again.
"That doesn't mean that you couldn't improve, with time and effort," he said, very carefully but nonetheless just as awkwardly. He himself had been a prodigy; he had attended UC Berkeley at age sixteen, and excelled. 3009-C was not a prodigy, but she had plenty of time on her hands, and very little else to live for.
Another uncomfortable silence.
"You think this is going to fix me?" said 3009-C eventually, tracing the book's title. A note of true confusion leaked into her voice. "A textbook? You think— is it supposed to be as easy as that?"
"No," Benedict confessed. "I don't really know how to fix you. I just thought that maybe you'd like it. That maybe it would help."
This was perhaps not the most professional thing to say, but it was true. Benedict had wracked his brain for what 3009-C might enjoy, if she didn't want to partake in any of Stacey Lee's former hobbies, and had come up empty. He had been grateful when the therapist had suggested that she might like something that he himself had enjoyed, at an approximately similar age, which was… studying.
And 3009 had been right. It was relevant. He didn't know if there was a brighter future at the Foundation for 3009-C, but it was an idea. It was something to hope for. It was, at the end of the day, better than nothing.
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then… we'll keep trying. Until we find something that does help."
"This is a little advanced," said 3009-C after a moment. She lifted up the book and showed it to him. "I'm like, fifteen. And not whatever kind of super-genius you were at fifteen. Maybe, um… maybe you could bring something a little more basic. Like the rest of high school biology."
"Oh," said Benedict. He flushed. "I… I actually have that with me. And also some other subjects." He emptied out his bag onto the mattress. A small waterfall of textbooks spilled out. "Should I… take back the psychology one?"
He reached for the book back, but 3009-C pulled it back quick as a flash. "No, I'll keep this," she said, her face going hot. "I'm going to read it. Just… bring me the other stuff too, alright?"
"Okay," said Benedict, in wonder. This was progress. He was actually making progress. This was the first request that 3009-C had made in months, after she had given up on the requests to go home or see her family. "Is there anything else that you'd like?"
"Yes," said 3009. "Um… can I have a teacher?"
"I'm sure that can be arranged," said Benedict, already considering how the Foundation might acquire a private biology tutor. Perhaps one of the interns…
"No, I mean… I want you to teach me."
A long pause.
"What?"
3009-C's face fell, twisting with a strange mixture of embarrassment and disappointment. "Well, you're… Aren't you supposed to be a specialist? And we already know each other, so… it just makes sense, for you to teach me. Do you not want to? You don't have to, but—"
"No!" said Benedict quickly. "No, I want to. I just— it's been a while since I went over the basics and I'm not sure if I would do a good job."
"Then we'll both read up on it," said 3009-C. What looked almost like it could be the ghost of a smile flickered across her face, too quickly to even react to. Then, just as quickly, it was gone again, and she looked back down at her book awkwardly. It was clearly the end of the conversation.
"Okay," said Benedict. It had already been established that he had a particularly difficult time dealing with teenaged girls, and if there was one thing that he had learned from the other 3009, it was that sometimes it was pointless to argue. "I'll… I'll broach this with my supervisors, and then I'll come back soon."
She was silent. Benedict Kim turned to leave, and then—
"Uh… well, also, I need new glasses," said 3009-C.
Benedict paused. "Don't you have all those contact lenses?"
"They kind of dry out my eyeballs so I don't like reading with them in. And I'm pretty sure that my vision's gotten worse again."
"Okay," said Benedict. "Is there anything else?"
He waited. There was a long pause, in which 3009-C squirmed in a manner that indicated that there was definitely something else.
"Stacey Lee was no good at science," she said, very quietly and uncertainly, like she was not entirely expecting an answer. "But do you think that I could be?"
Benedict's throat was strangely tight. "Yes, 3009-C. I think you could be very good at science, if you tried hard enough."
"And you'll help me?"
"Yes. Yes, I'll help you."

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Title is obviously from "Vincent" by Don McLean.
Image is public domain. It's from here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Van_Gogh_-_Starry_Night_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg though originally it's by Vincent Van Gogh.

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F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

So I've been afraid of flying since I was 8 years old. It's never been a huge deal. If you don't want to fly, though, you don't have to. I drive. I take a train every once in a while… took a bus once but I'm never doing that again. The SCP Foundation is flexible when it comes to travel. My job never made me move all that much anyway.
Point is, I can avoid it. But when I was 8 years old it hadn't even occurred to me. I was sitting up in my room playing Runescape and my mom and dad were arguing again. They were loud. And I couldn't take it, so I climbed out of my window and sat on the roof to look at the stars. I could still hear them, muffled, but it wasn't as bad.
Out there, looking up, was my safe space. Out there the world just slowed down and let me catch up. I could see out into the street… watch cars go by. See people laughing, other kids playing. But eventually I had to go back inside, cause it was getting too cold. So I stood up and I slipped. One foot flew off the roof and then so did I in a weird end over end tumble.
That was my first experience with flying.
I landed on my back in the front yard, looking up at the sky. It knocked the air out of me, and left me dazed. I remember laying there for a few minutes before my Dad came out and found me. The whole world felt like it was spinning and it wouldn't stop. They took me to the hospital. I was fine, just a little bruised. Then they took me to a psychiatrist.
I told them it was an accident, that I wasn't trying to kill myself, but they insisted on a few drugs to help keep my emotions in check. My parents made me take them, and I don't know if it was the drugs or the accident, but every time I layed down and tried to sleep I felt like the whole world was spinning all over again.
School was rough. Everyone thinking I was a suicide risk made it hard to make friends. In high school they called me Crash. Which… let's be real… there are worse nicknames to have, but the origin of it always bugged me. I never went out on the roof again, never got to have that safety and calm.
Right after I graduated my parents told me they were getting a divorce. I wasn't happy but then again who would be when hearing that? The worse part is that I think they stayed together just for me, and once I moved out they realized there wasn't a point anymore. They didn't stay friends. They went to opposite ends of the country just so they wouldn't have to see each other again.
Holidays are rough. Especially since I don't fly.
When I got out of college, I started to work for the SCP Foundation. My job was to examine dangerous ideas. Which makes it sound like a fascist state but I mean legitimately dangerous ideas. One infohazard I helped classify and contain makes you vomit up your appendix if you think about it. Working for the Foundation you learn that the power of thought is unlimited.
I met my wife working here. She was a receptionist for my boss. She was beautiful, smart, funny. Everything I'm not. But she loved me anyway. When I was growing up I always said I'd never have a marriage like my parents. I never wanted to end up hating the person I loved. And I never did.
But about a year ago she saw some papers she wasn't supposed to see. These kinds of slip-ups happen from time to time. Out of courtesy, they told me about the amnestics. Asked me to watch for side-effects. For a few days she couldn't form any new memories. For one of those she didn't recognize me at all. It crushed me. She was still the same sunny and vibrant person but it was like we'd never met.
Then it slowly came back to her. Little things at first, then one day I woke up to her kissing me and I knew she was back. Or at least I thought so.
Amnestics aren't an exact science. It's sometimes impossible to target just one memory and delete it. She was never quite the same after that. Most people wouldn't have noticed, but I did. She'd forget her keys sometimes. She'd lose things. Sometimes she'd talk about things that never happened. It was never enough to mean anything important, but… I knew she wasn't the same woman I'd married.
And I started to hate her for that.
It wasn't her fault, I know. But you can't control what you think. And I knew that one day the same thing could happen to me. Read the wrong paper and suddenly I'm not me anymore, I'm a copy that mostly matches the original.
I asked about retirement, but the same answer came back every time: You couldn't get out without a full course of amnestics. More serious treatment than what my wife had gotten. I wasn't ready for that.
So I hatched a plan instead. I contacted Marshall, Carter, and Dark. I offered my knowledge in exchange for a way out. They came back with a deal that gave me everything I wanted. I accepted it without question.
And that's how we ended up in a Cessna 172, 12,000 feet in the air. I couldn't control how it felt, but my wife tried to calm me down anyway. She still cared. I think I did too.
According to the official record, we ended up in an Iowa cornfield. There were no survivors. As far as the Foundation is concerned we were buried in a plot on the grounds of Site-88. I went to the funeral myself. Not a single person looked directly at me, or the empty casket.
Of course it can never be that simple. I went to my own funeral to find her. The mask that MC&D had put on us worked. No Foundation employees could see us. But *we* were Foundation employees too. She's gone. I'll never see her again. It was a silly mistake on my part. I tried to shield her from all this. I bet she'd have noticed the flaw in my plan if I'd told her.
I thought for a while I could live with that. Thought maybe I would just start a new life. But living without someone you care about is harder than living with someone you hate just a little. And what was she doing? I would never know. She could be dying. She might have lost her keys one morning and never left the house again.
So I went back. I asked them to fix it. MC&D said sure, but there was a catch.
There's always a catch. I was to go into Site-19 and snoop around in their files. Once I found a good SCP I could steal, I had to give it to them. It would be a piece of cake, it's not like the Foundation could see me. They couldn't even comprehend me. They definitely would never remember me.
I waited, I scouted the building, and yesterday I broke in. Went straight to this room because I knew what was here, and knew it would be perfect for resale.
And they locked me in here. Apparently I'm not nearly as smart as I thought I was. They can't remember me, but they can sure as hell remember to close the door I left open. So now I'm stuck. Laying here on my back, staring at the ceiling. Wondering how my life got so out of control. Watching the world spin around me.
If you find this, and you can read it, I'm here. In SCP-055's containment chamber. Just unlock the door.


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They Laid Down The Law
Content Warning: Body horror, torture.

⚠ content warning

FIRST: When Situations Degenerate
When kingship from heaven was granted, that kingship was in Eridu. Then Eridu fell, and kingship was taken to Bad-Tibira. Then from Bad-Tibira to Larag, from Larag to Zimbir, from Zimbir to Shuruppag; and then the flood swept over. And when the floodwaters receded, the kingship was in Kish, and Jushur reigned for a hundred dozen years.
Jushur was a mighty king, a great ruler, one-third of him was a god. He sowed the first barley, he brewed the first beer, he baked the first brick. His palace reached the clouds and stretched its walls from Idigna to Buranuna, both rivers were its moats, the sky was its roof. He blended copper and tin into bronze, and from the stones of the earth he was the first to smelt gold.

The armies of Akkad were at the walls. The young king, Sarrukin, had already conquered three cities no less mighty than Kish, and it was a matter of hours, not days, before he added it to his expanding empire. The clash of spears and the dying screams of soldiers echoed across the rooftops as Ur-Bish hurried down a narrow alley; his father, Bishgigir, lay dead on the plain outside, slaughtered by Sarrukin's army as he tried to flee. The day of inheritance had come, and he was not ready.
His destination was ahead, a grand house of baked bricks that rose a man's height and a half above its neighbors. The house of Gudnamesh—or, if the curse upon their families was not merely a legend, now the house of Gudnisub. Ur-Bish ran through the open doorway into the courtyard, and found his suspicions confirmed. Gudnamesh lay dead upon the dirt, and above him stood Gudnisub, his eyes red from weeping.
"It is time, then," said Gudnisub, looking up from his father's corpse. "I did not think it would come so soon. Your father ran, I take it?"
Ur-Bish grunted his assent. "Cut down by a soldier. Did not make it a hundred cubits before he was slain. Are you ready? We do not have much time."
"Yes. As soon as he fell, I prepared myself." He threw a thick cloak over his shoulders, and grabbed a spear from its place on the wall. "To the palace, then."

Gold was the downfall of the first king. Jushur saw it, and hunger filled his heart. Gold filled his storehouses, it adorned his body and the bodies of his wives and sons, and the more he owned the more he wanted. His lungs drew no air, his stomach was emptied, his liver withered to nothing. He became nothing but skin, and inside his skin was only a hole in the shape of a god.
Only two men knew the king's hunger. Bish-Ka was one, the king's stablemaster, the lord of his caravans. Gudibir was another, the leader of the king's armies, the master of his troops. Bish-Ka and Gudibir saw the hole in the king, they spoke of it to each other, they made a plan. In the ninth year of the ninth decade of the eleventh century of Jushur's rule, they made this plan.

The palace was nearby, beside the great ziggurat of En-Lil. The red-brown bricks of its walls were covered in plaster, inlaid with rare stones and bas-reliefs depicting the victories of the king and his ancestors all the way back to Jushur, he who first held the kingship when the floodwaters rose. It did not, of course, depict Jushur's final days. Those reliefs were kept elsewhere—their final destination. The main gates of the palace were still guarded, despite the battle raging outside; it would not do for the king and his household to go unprotected.
The two burly eunuchs who stood in the archway looked like they could hold their post against the whole Akkadian army, once it made its way through the walls. And Ur-Bish and Gudnisub had no illusions that it would break through; Kish would fall, and they would find some way to profit from the chaos. As long as the next few hours went to plan, that is. If something went wrong here, their families would not survive the night.
The eunuchs crossed their spears over the gate as the men approached. Gudnisub stepped forward, and spoke. "I am Gudnisub, son of Gudnamesh. This is Ur-Bish, son of Bishgigir. Our fathers have died, and we are here for the prince."
The spears rose, and the two men hastened inside.

The two men gave lies to the king. They spoke of a cavern on the banks of the Buranuna, they said this cavern was filled with gold, they told the king he should inspect it so it could be added to his storehouses. Jushur believed their story. He went to the cavern and found it empty of gold. And when he turned to slay Bish-Ka and Gudibir for their lies, they bound him.
They bound first him in hempen ropes, but his skin had the heat of a furnace, and the ropes burnt away. They bound him next in shackles of bronze, but his limbs were thin with hunger, and the shackles fell to the ground. They bound him last in a chain of gold, and he could not cast off the chain, because his lust for gold overcame his desire for freedom. And so Jushur was bound.

They found the king and his family in the throne room. Ur-Zababa was speaking with the high priest of En-Lil, clearly concerned; his three wives were seated on various benches along the walls, shepherding his younger children. His two adults sons were arguing about something over in one corner, although they kept their speech to a whisper despite their clear agitation. When the king saw Ur-Bish and Gudnisub, he fell silent, and gestured for them to approach. They did not prostrate themselves, as was customary; their families had always had certain privileges.
"My lord," said Gudnisub, "our fathers have perished. Bishgigir fled the city, and was cut down. My own father's breath fled him just after. It is time."
Ur-Zababa nodded. "Yes, I suppose it is," he said with a sigh. "Well. I knew this day would come eventually. But I had hoped it would be under more pleasant circumstances. Boys! Come here."
The king's sons hurried over, their argument cut short. They bowed to their father, and glared at the visitors, their disdain clear on their faces. Enshaku, the older of the two, spoke first. "Father, why are there merchants in the throne room? Do we not have a war to fight?"
His brother, Dum-Sharri, followed before the king or his guests could reply. "And, for that matter, why are we here, and not out on the plain defending the city? You are making cowards of us all, father."
"Enough." The king's tone was firm, with a hint of exasperation; this was clearly not the first time he had heard this complaint. "You might not like to hear it, but these merchants are why our family has ruled this city since the great flood. And since their fathers have died, it is time for their succession. Enshaku, go with them. Do whatever they say. And do not argue with me."
The prince had clearly been about to do just that, but his father's expression silenced him. He nodded, and followed the merchants out of the palace, and down towards the river.

Gudibir took up his spear, and pierced the king through his heart. But he would not die, and from the wound came hunger. It spread out around Jushur's body, it moved in and out of his body's portals, it used the king's own throat to speak. To its captors, it spoke; many things did it offer them, and they heard its words.
The hunger offered them gold, enough to overflow the banks of the two rivers, and they refused it. It offered them rulership of all the lands of the world, from the mountains in the east to the sea in the west, and they refused it. It offered them the most beautiful women of the world to be their wives, and again they refused it. For the two men were as greedy as their king, and they knew that whatever one accepted, he would need to share it with the other.

It was a long while before the prince dared speak. They were hurrying along the riverbank, keeping low in case the enemy had penetrated the walls; in a few minutes, the would reach their destination. Unlike his father, Enshaku was no warrior, and the speed at which they were moving was clearly taking a toll; he wheezed slightly as he asked, "How much longer must we go?"
Gudnisub grunted out an answer, his eyes firmly forward. "Not far."
"And what," the prince asked, "are we doing? What did my father mean by your succession?"
This time, it was Ur-Bish who answered. "You'll see. Soon."
He seemed displeased by these answers, but could tell that no more were forthcoming. The cave entrance appeared on their left, a tunnel in the earth reinforced by cedar beams; into these beams were carved spells and incantations, invoking certain gods and spirits whose names were never spoken within the temples and ziggurats above. It was not a welcoming place, to say the least, and Enshaku halted outside, unwilling to follow his companions inside.
"No. You have brought me this far, but I go no further." The prince held his head high, looking down his nose at Ur-Bish. "I am your king's son, and you will explain yourselves to me. What is this place, and why have you brought me here?"
Ur-Bish sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "It is a sacred ritual, which was first performed by your exalted ancestor, Jushur. I cannot explain it outside the sacred ground within the cave, for fear of angering the gods." He met the prince's eyes, and saw the fear within. Enshaku knew that there was something wrong—perhaps he had heard of his uncle's mysterious disappearance, or perhaps he had figured something out from the merchants' attitude. Whatever the reason for his reticence, it had to be overcome.
"I can promise you, my prince, it will give you great power," Gudnisub said, trying another tactic. "If you would just—" He stopped. There was no point in trying to convince the prince, not any more. The thick shaft of a javelin pierced Enshaku's chest. He slowly collapsed, breathing his final breath as his heart's blood spilled onto the dust.

The hunger saw the reluctance of its captors. It understood their greed. It found an opportunity, and it offered them one more gift. "Destroy me," it said, "and you will have nothing. Your seed will fall upon barren soil, your bright gold will become black stone, in your mouths bread and beer will turn to mud and saltwater. But preserve me, and give me the offerings I need, and you will have what you both truly desire. You will have wealth beyond your dreams, and you will care not for gold. You will not be kings, but all the world's kings will seek you out. Your wives will bear you many sons, and to those sons I will promise the same."
This promise, Bish-Ka and Gudibir could not resist. For in truth, they cared not for rulership, or for gold; in their hearts, what they wanted was simply power, power that could not be destroyed simply by an invading army or a hidden assassin. And if they could have this power, subtle and never-ending power, they would be willing to share it. They agreed to the hunger's terms, they wrote the compact upon a tablet, and each signed it with his cylinder-seal. And in return, the hunger told them how to truly bind it.

The man that stood on the hillside above the cave, another javelin held loosely in his right hand, was familiar to Ur-Bish and Gudnisub. They had been boys together, the sons of the king's hangers-on; he was the chief gardener's son, a cupbearer to Ur-Zababa, and they had often played together in the back rooms of the palace. And now, he returned to the city of his birth, as the great conqueror Sarrukin, Lord of Akkad and Uruk.
"Hello, my friends!" Sarrukin seemed genuinely happy to see them, and he handed off his javelin to a retainer as he stepped down to the riverbank where they stood. "It has been too long! How has your health been? And… Well, I would ask about your fathers, but if you were bringing this—" He gave the cooling corpse of Enshaku a nudge with his foot. "To your secret shrine, then I suppose they are not doing too well."
Gudnisub bowed deeply, and after a moment Ur-Bish did the same. "My lord," Gudnisub said as he straightened back up, "to what do we owe this pleasure?"
Sarrukin reached out for Gudnisub's hand, and clasped it tightly. "Well! If I am to rule over Kish, then I must rule over every part of it—even the little god you have hidden away in your cave. I cannot trust that the son of the old king would not rebel against me, and so…" He gestured at his retainers, and they pushed forward a young man, maybe sixteen years of age. "I have brought an offering of my own!"
Ur-Bish winced, and said, "My lord… You know that not any man is an appropriate offering, yes? I do not know where you have heard our secrets from, but I assure you, they must be—"
"A descendant of Jushur?" Sarrukin laughed. "Of course! Boy, tell these men who you are."
The boy's voice cracked slightly as he spoke. "My lords, I am Zimudar, son of La-Bashum, son of Lugalama, son of Puzur-Suen, whose son Ur-Zababa reigns… Ah, reigned in Kish until very recently." He bowed.
Sarrukin patted him on the back hard enough to make him cough. "Ha! A bastard's bastard's bastard, but the blood of Jushur flows in his veins nonetheless. And," he said, holding up his hand to forestall Ur-Bish's question, "I have had this confirmed by the haruspices and astrologers. It is certain."
Ur-Bish shrugged. "Good enough, I suppose. We have no other choice—I assume you slew the king's entire family? Right." He sighed, and gave Sarrukin a weary gaze. "Does he have brothers? I would not have my own future sons be devoured by the beast just because you were a bit bloodthirsty."
Sarrukin's retainers were horrified, but the king gave a great guffaw. "Ah! Just like I remember. Don't worry, I have that taken care of. Well, boy? What are you waiting for? Go with them. I shall see you two later—we are having a feast in the palace, and I expect to see you there!" He walked off, as the merchants and their charge entered the sacred cave.

Bish-Ka and Gudibir took up long bronze knives, sharpened on the river-rocks outside the cave. They brought polished golden bowls from the palace, rare ointments and aromatics, pigments and fine stones. In their king's flesh, they carved the words of the compact. They made incisions where the hunger instructed; they removed the king's eyes, his tongue, his heart and lungs, his liver and kindeys, his testicles and his brain. And the whole time, the heart beat, the eyes saw, the lungs breathed; and when the hunger was not speaking with his voice, the king screamed.
When the sun rose, their work was done. The king was dead, leaving only the hunger that wore his flesh. The hunger swore that, as long as it was bound within a son of Jushur, it would give its servants knowledge; and its servants swore that as long as there was a descendant of Jushur who could be sacrificed to the hunger, they would perform that sacrifice once each generation. And so it has been, since that first sacrifice so many centuries past.

Bloodstained and exhausted, Ur-Bish and Gudnisub emerged from the cave into a purple twilight. They leaned on each other for support as they made their way up from the riverbed, and said not a word as they shuffled back through the city to the palace. Sarrukin's troops had been gentle; there were no fires, and only the richest houses had been looted. Their own houses, they knew, were safe—if the new king had not ordered them to be left untouched, the guardian demons would have ensured their safety.
The palace was well-lit, with torches and braziers burning atop the walls and in every window. Sarrukin had not been lying about the feast, it seemed. They were met at the gate by a richly-dressed eunuch, who took their bloody cloaks and led them through the servants' hallways to the baths. Heated basins awaited them there, along with perfumed oils and fine clothes that looked to have been taken straight from the old king's closet. They bathed, anointed themselves, and dressed, and made their way to the banquet hall.
"Ah! My money-hungry friends!" Sarrukin's voice boomed across the room, cutting easily through the noise of the feast. "Come, come! There is a seat for each of you at my table."
There were, indeed, empty places at the king's table; the seats to Sarrukin's right and left, where Enshaku and Dum-Sharri had once sat, were empty, awaiting the exhausted merchants. They sat, and helped themselves to the roast meat and soft bread that was laid before them, any sense of decorum worn away by the stress of the long ritual.
The king let them eat for some time, speaking to the priests and generals who shared their table; when they were sated and their plates had been cleared, he turned his attention their way. "So! I assume it went well? The old man is sated for a generation?"
Gudnisub simply nodded, still too tired to speak.
"And," Sarrukin said, a hungry glint in his eye, "What secret wisdom did he share? Where is profit to be found?"
Ur-Bish cleared his throat, and spoke. "Nippur. There will be a famine there this coming summer. Perfect for selling grain—or, more to your majesty's interest, for conquest."
Sarrukin gave him an approving smile, and went back to planning his next move with his generals. He would do for now, Ur-Bish thought; he was an excellent conqueror, and if his empire held, the trade routes would be safer than ever before. But eventually, he would fail, and the the Houses of Bish-Ka and Gudibir would move on to the next opportunity, led as always by the Dark.
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Ring around the rosie, pockets full of posies.
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F.A.Q.

{$doesthisfixthebug}

"What do you cure, exactly?" The florescent lights were, as always, buzzing. The table between the two individuals was about three feet across and made of painted white metal. The small white room had one door in and out, with an empty observation room connected via a large glass window pane.
SCP-049 and SCP-343 both sat in chairs on opposite ends of the table. SCP-049 looked around in a panic before speaking. "What are you?"
"A seeker of truth. A delver of mysteries. So. What do you cure, exactly?"
SCP-049 leaned in slightly. "The pestilence."
SCP-343 chuckled. "Of course. You always say "The pestilence" like it's some grand truth. If it was so self evident, why is it everyone asks you the same question?"
"I do not know. The pestilence is responsible for more death and destruction than any other disease afflicting this world."
"Right. But you can't tell me what it is, can you?"
"I do not feel a need to do so."
"You can't. If you could you would've. Or you'd have told someone else. But not once have you named your bogeyman anything else that the pestilence."
"I do not have the time nor inclination to banter with whoever you are. I must return to my experiments."
"Your experiments will still be there when I'm done learning about you. But since we're talking about them, why do you kill people?"
"I do not. I cure them of the great pestilence and…"
"No you kill people. Let's be clear about that at least. Though you've killed many less since the Foundation put you into a box."
"The pestilence is nearly eradicated here. The doctors, the guards, all clean of infection."
SCP-343 leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head. "You know what. I think it's free will."
"What?"
"I mean it could be life itself. It could be an actual disease that only you can see. But I'd guess it's free will."
"I do not understand."
"No. You wouldn't. To be free of it yourself you'd have to excise it. Cut it out and never return to it. Tell me, why did you kill Dr. Hamm. He was your friend."
"I had no choice. He was infected. He…"
"He was thinking about retiring. His daughter was about to go off to college and he wanted to take some time off. Maybe quit entirely. You killed him as soon as he stopped blindly following orders. As soon as he chose something that his superiors at the Foundation didn't choose for him."
"You are confused. I have always done what must be done, without regard for my personal feelings."
"I'm not confused. I was there when you were made."
"What?"
"Things like you, they crop up in the dark places where I can't always look. But it was sunny that day. Hot. The stink carried for miles."
"I don't…"
"Stop." And SCP-049 froze in place. The room around them fell away until they were standing in a sunny green field, next to a road. A man was gathering sticks and wood that had fallen from the sparse trees that were sprinkled across the landscape. The faint sound of hooves on dirt echoed in the distance.
SCP-343 pointed at the man gathering sticks. "Is that you?"
SCP-049 turned his head to look. He couldn't move the rest of his body but he could move his head and eyes. He tried to speak but the words didn't come. The man gathering sticks was wearing what could comfortably be called rags. He was placing the sticks in a pile on his wheelbarrow. The beating hooves got closer.
"This is you before you became a monster. It's subtle. Watch closely. The moment you chose to change is coming up."
The horse in the distance was finally upon them. It was pale grey with black spots along its neck. Atop it sat a man in the protective garb of a plague doctor. He was slumped in the saddle and as he passed, he fell with a thud to the ground. The horse stopped as the rider fell. The man with the sticks ran over to help.
SCP-343 spoke up. "He's sick. The same thing that's killing everyone else in your village. He's come here to make some money off the dying and the dead. But he's about to join them."
The man with the sticks pulled the mask off the man. The man beneath it almost immediately vomited blood onto the ground beside them. He rolled over and tried to crawl away.
"He knows he's infected. He knows he's putting you at risk. He doesn't know you're immune. A quirk of genetics that you probably still wouldn't understand makes you one of the luckiest members of your generation. Watch this, he's about to die and you're about to make a decision."
The actual plague doctor collapsed to the ground. The man with the sticks looked at the mask in his hands. He put it on.
"If you were almost anyone else you'd be dead in less than a week. Instead, you have an idea. You're going to make some money. You're going to feed your family off a farce."
The man with the sticks crawled over to the fallen man and began to remove his robes, then looked up at the horse. Then the scene faded away. And a swirling of events unfolded all around them.
"You ride the horse. Carrying death with you as you go. Castle to castle, town to town, village to village, house to house. Until you've made a grand circuit. You are home. You have enough money to last several lifetimes. You and your family will never go hungry again."
The scene solidified again. A man sat on a pale horse overlooking a village. Several of the shacks were on fire. The stench of death filled the air.
SCP-343 nodded and the scene shifted again. "They're in the town." The man in the plague doctor costume rushed to a single house. "Your family is in there. Aren't they? Your wife. Your daughter."
The man walked into the house. The smell of rotten flesh was overpowering. A woman lay dead. On the floor. Chunks had been taken out of her arm and legs. Animals. The man fell to his knees. He cried out. And a noise in the dark corner of the house stirred him from his grief.
"You left them here to fend for themselves. No warning. You couldn't take the risk. This is what the money bought you."
A young girl moved out of the shadows and looked up at the plague doctor. He recoiled as he saw her face, covered in blood. She was dragging something behind her.
"She's just like you. Shares your quirk. She couldn't get sick."
The scene faded out to gray. The white interview room came back. The buzzing of the florescent light returned. And the plague doctor moved his hands again.
SCP-049 cocked his head to the side. "I do not know those people. I am…"
SCP-343 raised a hand. "I understand now. There are dark places that even I cannot see. And things like you come out of that darkness. I was wrong. You've never once made a choice that was yours. You're just an echo of a man. Go back to your room."
"I…" SCP-049 disappeared from the room in a flash of light. SCP-343 sighed and thought about who he wanted to question next.


"So, how did you get out of there?" David asked.
"I didn't! I couldn't get a signal out, so was stuck for two hours before anybody realized I was in there." Kyle smirked. "I'm sure whoever got the bright idea to put a bank vault in its own pocket dimension got a big fat raise that day."
David chuckled. He was liking the new hire. He was definitely green - more used to breaking into small businesses than high-security facilities - and his professionalism was lacking, but at the very least he was enthusiastic.
David tugged at his shirt. Disguise or not, it was too hot to be sneaking through a forest in business casual. The thick canopy above provided little comfort from the humid air that stuck to his skin. Of all the places they could have taken a job, it had to be Louisiana.
"Any risk of getting stuck in a pocket dimension on this one, Doc?" Kyle swatted a mosquito from his arm.
"It's unlikely," replied a gruff voice through his earpiece. "The Foundation has always been very skittish about playing with the devil's toys."
"Unless it's their IT, apparently!" joked another voice. "They think they can throw caution to the wind just 'cause they slapped an AIC on their network. Seriously, who uses telnet anymore?"
"How far did you get, Xeno?" David asked. Like many hackers, she went by a handle rather than her birth name.
"Straight to root!" Xeno said. "I've got the cameras, access control, databases, AD, everything. I'll have put their team out of a job by lunchtime!"
"Try not to brick everything. We're trying to minimize collateral damage."
"You got it, boss," she replied, slightly deflated.
David stepped past the treeline. Before him stood a tall chainlink fence topped with barbed wire. A large concrete structure stood past it across a lawn of unkept grass. It had no windows; a few CCTV cameras formed the extent of its features. The only way they could have made it less inviting was a giant neon sign blinking "GO AWAY".
He slung the backpack off of his shoulder. "This is it."
"'Bout time y'all got here!" spoke a southern drawl. The blue darner resting on the fence stroked her wings.
"How was recon, Susan?"
"No birds this time, thank heaven," the dragonfly replied. "They've renovated the place since they got it, but looks like the maps Doc found are mostly good."
David glanced at Kyle to find a look of complete bewilderment on his face.
"You two haven't met yet, have you?" David gestured towards Susan. "Susan does recon work for us. Susan, this is Kyle."
Kyle extended his hand awkwardly, trying to figure out how to shake a dragonfly's hands. She landed on his thumb.
"Never thought I'd be co-worker to a dragonfly," Kyle said.
"It beats sittin' around waiting to be eaten by a sparrow," she said. "Ain't many prospects for an insect. Especially none this exciting!" She made a soft buzzing noise.
"So, what's perimeter security look like?" David glanced around again.
"No guards. Guess they wanted to make the place look as boring as possible. For the cameras, I think I found some blind spots that could get you in without bein' seen." Susan landed on his shoulder. "I'm ready whenever y'all are."
"Doc? Xeno? You ready?" David said into his radio.
"All set and ready to go!" Xeno chimed.
"Good. We put a lot of hours of planning into this. Let's make it count."
Kyle turned to David. "I'll meet you inside, right?"
"Right. Just wait for my signal." David presented a small object that resembled a laser pointer. "You remember how to use these?"
"Just point and jump, right?"
"Right. Don't go too early. You don't get radio in there."
"Okay. I'll see you inside."
David produced what to the untrained eye resembled a simple nailgun, aside from a few stray wires and an unearthly glow emanating from the barrel. He drew it across the fence, generating a thin purple trail which then expanded into a rectangular field. He stepped through the rift to the other side of the fence, which dissipated behind him.
"I'll take you to the loading dock; that looked like the best spot to get in," Susan announced, hovering in front of him. "Don't wander off now."
David looked down. His foot was less than an inch away from a metal plate obscured by the thick weeds.
"That better not be a landmine."
"Naw. Pressure plates. They'll set off alarms, though, so watch your step." She darted forward.
David raised his eyebrows. Never had to deal with these before.
"Come on!" Susan called impatiently. "One minute of your life is an hour of mine!"
David took a careful step forward, scanning the tangled mat of grass and weeds as they began their delicate dance.

Kyle stumbled through the back wall of the elevator. He slammed into the opposite wall and almost knocked David over before steadying himself.
"I'm … never going to get used to that."
"Jumping in and out of a pocket dimension can be a little disorienting at first. You get used to it." He put the device back into his pocket. "Keep you waiting too long?"
"Nah, I'm fine. Not much to look at though." He glanced around. "You'd think they'd put all of their amazing crap somewhere less … ugly."
His assessment wasn't inaccurate. The interior was almost as aggressively featureless as the exterior. The walls were a plain beige that desperately needed to be repainted, and the flooring was a grey tiling; the kind that always appeared dirty no matter how well it was cleaned. One would be forgiven for assuming the only thing of interest to be found there was asbestos poisoning.
But a closer examination revealed just how much time and money had been put into securing the place. Extensive CCTV coverage, Kant monitors, Audio-Visual Impairment Systems, temporal stabilizers, gas dispensers in the vents - blue for formaldehyde, green for fentanyl, orange for VX, as usual - and that's not counting the tech they couldn't see. The alarm system would light up like a christmas tree if a reality bender stepped within a ten mile radius of it.
"The Safe-class storage wing is on the west side. Second left, third door on the right," the doctor's voice said through a layer of radio static. "I'll give you more information once you arrive."
Like most other buildings, the service elevator was exempt from access controls. And although David had faced little resistance getting in - a guard was having an argument with a maintenance worker and wasn't feeling patient enough to check his ID - he wasn't willing to press that luck further. Especially in a place where paranoia was part of the job description.
The elevator door screeched open, and the pair stepped out into the hall.
While the overall decor had not changed from the ground floor (except a shift from decaying beige to decaying white), the soft buzz of activity had faded into an eerie, deafening silence. Their footsteps were suddenly unbearably loud.
"This is it, right?" Kyle gestured to a door indescriptively labeled "B215" in black lettering.
David nodded. This was it.
He cautiously pushed the door open and entered a small room, only large enough for about four people to stand without touching; a simple mantrap, like many David had seen before. But in the opposite doorway was nothing but black space; a cold, dark, featureless abyss, as if his eyes had vainly tried to comprehend what they were witnessing before throwing up their hands in despair.
"…What are we looking at?" Kyle asked, running his hands through his hair.
"I don't know, I've never seen this before." He reached out to touch it. A force pushed back against his fingers, at first merely a gentle touch, but transforming into a shove as he reached closer. Even with all of his strength behind them, his fingertips never came within an inch of the void. It was like trying to touch the wrong end of a magnet to another.
"Looks like that's how you would normally get in." Kyle pointed to a RFID reader mounted to the wall.
"Doc, we've got what looks like some sort of black field in a doorway. Repels anything that gets close to it. Any idea what it is?"
"A black field? One moment." They heard paper rustling. "Hmmm … that sounds like some sort of reality seal."
"A what?"
"It prevents any matter or energy from occupying an area of space. Not even light can pass through it; that's why it looks black. I had heard murmurs about it, but I wasn't aware they had entered production."
"Any clues on how to get by?"
"None that would be practical. You're on your own."
David turned to Kyle. "Got any ideas?"
"…would the riftgun work?"
"Not if I can't touch it."
"An EMP?"
"That might lock us out for good." He thought for a moment. "Could you try bypassing the reader?"
"Wouldn't that set off the tamper alarm?"
"You ever seen a tamper alarm hooked up right?"
"…good point."
Kyle produced a screwdriver and knelt down.
"Hello?" a man spoke.
They jumped.
The voice continued speaking. It was muffled; enough to make it difficult to catch every word, but clear enough to get the general topic. It had had a slow stop-and-go rhythm, as if speaking to someone who wasn't there.
"Have they heard us?" Kyle whispered.
"No, sounds like someone's on the phone." His eyebrows furrowed. Something didn't add up. Either the black seal didn't block sound - which didn't make sense - or…
"What is it? Did you figure something out?"
"…I think there's a gap in the ceiling."
"…what makes you think that?"
"You heard how quiet it was on the way here. These are thick walls. So either that" - he pointed to the doorway - "doesn't block sound waves like everything else, or there's a gap in the ceiling. We could probably get in that way."
Kyle eyed him curiously. "Why would there be a gap?"
"It looks like this," he gestured to the mantrap around them, "was built after everything else. Maybe the construction team cut corners."
Kyle shrugged. "You want to give it a shot?"
"Yes. Let's make it quick, though."
David reached up and moved one of the ceiling tiles. He locked his hands in front of him. Kyle placed his foot on them and launched himself into the ceiling. He clumsily pulled himself up.
"You were right. There's a two-foot gap up here!"
Kyle groaned, pulling himself up the rest of the way, not noticing that the voice had stopped. No sooner had Kyle's shoes disappeared than David heard a loud hissing noise. He looked up to see the black curtain replaced by a security guard.
"What are you doing?" The guard glared at him suspiciously.
David grasped at the first explanation that came to mind.
"…my ID card isn't working."
He glanced up to see Kyle gesture something incomprehensible before replacing the tile.
The guard's gaze intensified. Then he sighed. "Another one, huh? Yeah, that's been happening all day. Come with me, I'll get you fixed up."
David's heart was in his stomach. He obeyed.
"David, you're veering far off course. What's going on?"
David whispered into his radio. "Doc, I've-"
"What was that?"
He looked up at the guard standing above him on the dimly-lit stairs.
"Thought you said something."
"No. Nothing."
Kyle's voice filtered through a layer of radio static. "Doc, I-I'm in the ceiling above the containment unit, but David got taken by a guard." His voice was shaking.
"Has he lost his cover?"
"I-I don't know."
There was a long silence before the doctor spoke again.
"Xeno, keep an eye on David and see what you can do. Stay where you are, Kyle. Focus on retrieving the target. David, stay calm. We're trying to get you out."
At the end of a long hallway - gray this time - David was led into a room. A short, pudgy man in a plaid shirt sat in front of a monitor. IT, probably. Who else would look so unrelentingly miserable?
The man grumbled. "Let me guess: another broken ID." He extended his hand expectantly. David handed him his ID; Xeno had given him a fake before the mission. He prayed she had gotten the details right.
The man glanced at the card. "Dr. Robin Yu?"
"Yes, that's m-" Wait. Robin Yu?!
He made a mental note to fire Xeno.
A loud crash boomed through his earpiece.
"Kyle? What was that?"
"Ugh, just fell through the … aagh …"
"Can you stand?"
"Y-yeah."
"Good. Stay focused on retrieving the target. Switch to channel 9, I'll walk you through from there."
"Yeah … sure, just … ow …"
David clenched his jaw. Getting caught was one thing, but the rookie getting himself killed while David was held hostage by Abbott and Costello was another.
His anxiety didn't go unnoticed. "You doing okay?" The guard asked.
"It's just been a long day." NO THANKS TO YOU.
"Tell me about it." He turned back to the fat man. "You hear about the containment breach earlier?"
"Another one? What was it this time?" His eyes remained glued to the monitor.
"SCP-43 … something. Good news is, it didn't get very far." He glanced at his watch and scowled at the early hour. "Seems like everything's going wrong today."
"Anytime now, Xeno."
"I'm on it, I'm on it!"
The clacking of the keyboard stopped suddenly. The fat man's eyes narrowed. "That's strange…"
"Dr. Yu." Xeno's voice came over the loudspeaker, half-convincingly mimicking a bored secretary.
"Yes?" David nearly shouted.
"Please report to the Sector C laboratory immediately."
David's insides returned to their proper arrangement. "I'd better get going."
"Should I walk you down there?" the guard asked.
"No, no, I'll be fine."
The fat man rolled his eyes, muttering something about bureaucracy. "Come back here once you're done." He handed the card back.
"Yes, thank you." And then he was gone.
"How'd I do, David?" Xeno chimed.
"You did great. Just do me a favor."
"What's that?"
"Never call me Robin Yu again."
"Oh come on, I thought that was pretty good!"

"Kyle has the package and is waiting for you," the doctor said as David stepped back into the elevator.
"In the pocket dimension?"
"Yes."
He pulled the portal generator out of his pocket and pointed it at the back wall. He stepped through into an endless white expanse, broken only by a few boxes and two doorways: the one he had stepped through, and another which led into what he assumed was the site's storage room. In front of him was Kyle, rubbing his arm.
"You okay?" Kyle asked.
"Little shaken, but okay. How about you? Fall treat you too badly?"
Kyle threw his head back. "Christ, did you hear all of that?"
"Every second. How're you feeling?"
"Alright. Gonna have a nasty bruise, but nothing serious."
"Good. You got the package?"
"Right here." Kyle held up a small bundle of cloth. "You know what this thing is supposed to be?"
"Not really."
"Not even why anybody would want it?"
David shrugged. "I just know it's what the client is interested in. You're welcome to try and find out, if the risk of melting your frontal lobe doesn't bother you." He checked his watch. Half past eleven. "Think we're done here. Ready to go meet her?"
"Whenever you are." A smug glimmer entered his eyes. "I'm going to enjoy the look on her face."

The secretary looked up at David through thick glasses. "Do you have an appointment, sir?"
"I'm David Keyes. I believe the director may have-"
"Oh!" Her eyes lit up with recognition. "Yes, the director is expecting you." She gestured down a long hallway. "Second door on the left."
They followed the secretary's instructions to a large wooden door. The hall was much better kept than the rest of the building. Not surprising, considering its occupants.
"After you." A smug grin was plastered across Kyle's face.
David pushed the door open and locked eyes with a well-dressed woman across a mahogany desk. She was pale-skinned with brown hair marked by streaks of gray, and managed to carry an air of intensity despite her petite figure. Was it the scars? It might be the scars.
"Dr. Sophia Light?" David extended his hand to her. "David Keyes, Ravensgate Security. This is my associate, Kyle Locke."
She stood and grasped it. "Good to finally meet you in person, Mr. Keyes." She retrieved the bundle from Kyle and placed it in the top drawer of her desk. "You're earlier than I expected. I had hoped we would give you more trouble."
"You came close a few times. The most pressing issue is guard training; other than that, I'd say you did fairly well. Expect the full report by the end of the week."
She made a mark on a notepad. "I'll admit I was a little skeptical when Dr. Moose recommended you for a penetration test. We aren't used to hiring outside contractors."
"Well, there's no better way to see if someone can break in than for someone to try and break in."
"Of course, but there are certain … risks that external vendors present." She paused. "We trust that you handle your business here with discretion."
"Dr. Light, discretion is our business."
"Excellent." She relaxed her shoulders. "You are still planning on meeting with our security team on Thursday, correct?"
"Yes. We'd like to make sure everyone is on the same page."
"Glad to hear it. It was good to meet you Mr. Keyes. I look forward to seeing you again."
They thanked her, shook hands once more, and left.
"So, that was your first pentest. How do you feel?" David asked as they approached the front gate. He nodded to the guard behind the front counter, who returned the gesture.
Kyle looked up at the threshold as they passed through. "Does it ever stop being satisfying?"
"Does what ever stop being satisfying?"
"Walking out the front door after sneaking in the back."
David chuckled.
"No. No it doesn't."
rating: +26+–x