Diary of Paul Martin, recovered among other personal belongings

August 22nd, ████
Greg can be a jerk sometimes. It's nice having a roommate who is gone three quarters of the time, but he has a bad habit of just walking out with stuff. He never steals, but sometimes he's tossing stuff in a bag so he can fly out and to a shoot in some desert, and he just doesn't pay attention to what he's grabbing. So I get up, find a note saying he got a call to fly out at 6:30 a.m. and take pictures of some town that got bombed. Wonderful. So I go along, getting ready for work, and my damn shoes are gone. How the hell can you accidentally take a man's shoes, I ask you? They'll never fit him, so I hope he's got a spare set.
Left a voice mail for him, told him to send them back if he's going to be a long time. I wouldn't mind normally, just those were brand new! Last time he took something of mine, I got back pants just coated in dirt and blood from some jungle in the middle of nowhere. I had to throw them out, they stank so bad.
Work was ok, slow as hell. Didn't see Jim in the office today, apparently he's been out sick. I'm so used to seeing him across the hall, the whole day felt off. His desk seemed really empty too…god I hope we're not downsizing.

August 23rd, ████
Came home today to a message from Greg. Says he doesn't have my shoes, but he's still unpacking. I have to wear my old pair that's falling apart, so I was a little pissed. Left a message for him to just keep the damn things. I think I'm still worked up from work today, I shouldn't take it out on him.
I came in to work, all worried that someone would notice my feet, and I find the whole office buzzing. Apparently Jim's house blew up. I mean it freaking EXPLODED, just a crater left. It was all over the news, happened some time last night I guess. Nobody knows what happened to Jim, he might have been inside. The cops are apparently pretty tight-lipped over it, but the word is Jim had a meth lab in his basement, and something went wrong.
What the hell? Jim? a METH LAB?? He could barely make coffee right! Still…it's not like I knew him all that well, just “that guy” at work…he has been acting really weird lately. God…you just never can tell, can you? They're still looking into it, but most people think Jim was in the house.
They already cleared off his desk, can you believe it? Can't even let the dust settle, and the corporate gears just keep turning. I'm going to bed, my feet hurt and I'm still just shocked

August 24th, ████
I found my damn shoes today. they were right in front of the door…I mean right where I always leave them. How the hell did I miss them for two days? What the hell? I called Greg and apologized for snapping on him. Haven't heard from him yet. I just don't get how I didn't see them right freaking there!
They found Jim, or at least they think they did. He was apparently in the house when it blew. The funeral is tomorrow, I don't know if I'll go. I didn't really know him that well…still; I did work with him for years. I don't know, I guess I'm still getting my head around all this. Everyone at work is really quiet, it feels strange.
I spend all that time looking for my shoes, and now I'm having problems with them. They feel funny, too hard and they pinch a little. I bet it's because I've been wearing my old blown-out pair, gotta get used to them again. I tore holes in my new socks, and my toes are kind of red…that's all I need, some damn fungus.

August 25th, ████
This whole day has been weird. First, I couldn't find a bunch of my shirts. I swear I hung up a bunch of them yesterday, but they're all gone. I had to dig one out of the dirty clothes, and even that was weird. The first three I grabbed had holes all over them. If I have freaking moths or some kind of bug, I'm going to kill Greg. He's done this before, brought home some kind of virus or critter by accident, and then we have to spend weeks getting rid of it. I can't think of what I did with my shirts though, how the hell could they all just be gone?
Ok, so then I manage to get out the door, and I realize its trash day. So I go out back, and the freaking trash can is crawling with these bugs! I mean just covered with them, tiny little things, kinda brown and really fast. I walked up to try and see them closer, and they all just ran off the trash and off into the grass. Looked kinda like mites or something…probably just some kind of ant or something I've never seen. Anyway, I go to take the trash down, and these little bugs have freaking eaten out the bottom of the trash can! Tore open all the bags too, so it just dumped everywhere. Had to shovel it all into a spare can. If I see those things again, I'm going to stomp them.
Then, to top it off, I had a freaking bee sting me. At least I think it was a bee…I was at lunch, and suddenly I had this sharp pain on my ankle. I jumped up and started shouting, and it just kept hurting worse and worse. I ripped off my shoe because I thought it was trapped or something. My skin was so raw, even bleeding a little bit, and my sock had a big hole around the heel…and suddenly I realize everyone in the freaking restaurant is staring at me. I paid quick and got the hell out…I feel like such an idiot. Hopefully tomorrow will be better…I think I need to get out more, go relax.
I didn't go to Jim's funeral. It was closed casket…apparently he was in bad shape. I think I need to request a leave…I just feel worn out. This whole day has been screwed up.

August 26th, ████
To hell with this, I am cracking the hell up, and I am going on vacation. The damn stools are missing from the kitchen, all my shirts are gone, and my shoes were in the sink this morning. Either I am sleep-redecorating, going insane, or someone is messing with me. Whichever it is, I am not dealing with this anymore. I called in, and I am leaving today. Going to a hotel by the lake, and just relax a few days. Greg is back tomorrow, and I'm letting him deal with this crap.
I bought new shirts, pants, shoes, everything. Screw this place; see you when you're sane.

[NOTE: Text in the following section is nearly illegible. Interpretation and editing done by Central Records. Original text can be viewed on request.]
September 1st, ████
WHAT THE HELL??! I think Greg is dead, oh god ooh go[illegible]r them, I can still HEAR THEM!!! I came home today, and it was late[illegible]dark out, and I came in. Every light was off, and I saw Greg on the couch over on the other side. He looked like he was sleeping, [illegible]p. So I turned on the light, and the couch and Greg melted. I mean they just melted, like a pile of snow on the sun, and it was all these little bug things, and they just SURGED at me, like a wave, and stone silent the w[illegible]n and I hid, I hid in my room and I can't get the hell out of here, and I hear them picking at the door, but they can't get in. I have every light in here on, and it seems to keep them back. One slipped under the door and stared at me, and I screamed at it and it ran back. I can hear them in the walls, chewing and crawling everywhere. When [illegible]

September 3rd, ████
My name is Paul Martin, and I live at ████████████. I have been trapped in my bedroom for almost two days. Small…things have taken over everything else. They have been trying to get to me for this entire time. Light appears to scare them, and I've kept all the lights on. They have started to attack the wiring in the walls, and I think I the lights will go out very soon. I think they got Jim first, then came home with me from work. they seem to copy things, and then take over. They killed Greg, I'm sure of it. Nobody has been around…can't even get people to look up from the street. I'm going the throw this out the window, and then I am making a run for it. I am not going to die here.

Notes: Diary recovered from rubble of the █████ Building. SCP-236 contained and transported by Agents operating under FBI cover. “Meth Lab” story presented in explanation of the explosion. No human remains recovered from blast area.


Personal Log of: Agent A█████ A██████, Mobile Task Force Omega-7, "Pandora's Box."

Date: October 10, ████
I shoulda taken the blue pill.
When Dr. ██████████ told me that he had an opening for a doctoral research assistant with a high-level government agency, I thought he meant the CIA or NSA or something. I never expected… well, this.
This job is a nightmare. I haven't seen my family in months. I sleep down the hall from a field agent who has a giant gear sticking out of his neck after a bad run-in with some nano-agent. Thirty minutes ago, a guy ran in and told me to grab a mop: someone decided to feed the seven-legged dog a bit of cheese, and the stink is horrific. Sometimes I wonder whether I'm dead and in hell.
No, hell would be too sane compared to this madness.
At least I don't have to deal directly with any of the SCPs: my job is monitoring staff on site for signs of fatigue and PTSD, and I'm telling you, that's a full-time job. When your nine-to-five is trying to keep Things That Should Not Be from getting out and killing everyone with some mind-bending bizarro power, you tend to get a bit edgy. Had a patient the other day tried to put a knife through the back of his own hand: he'd been working around some thing that apparently gets into your bloodstream and eats you from the inside. He'd been getting less than four hours of sleep a night, and apparently got so messed up he got hallucinations, started thinking he'd been infected even though he checked out clean. Had to knock him out and keep him strapped to a bed overnight while he finally got some rest. Then he jumped back in and went back to his job like nothing happened. Insane.
It's better than what ████████████████████ has to do, though. He's trying to build a psychological profile of some freak bastard who apparently can't die and can make swords out of thin air. Yeah, just like that. Seriously, what is with this place? It's like some sort of insane story dreamed up by a fevered madman. My god.
Gonna try and get some sleep now. Hopefully I'll manage to do so without those freaky rolling eye things running in and staring at me all night.

Date: October 11, ████
So I walk in this morning, and Dr. Franks tells me that ████████████████████ is dead, and now I'm in charge of his project. Joy.
Spent the day going over the file on this SCP-076. My god, it's worse than I thought. This guy is not only a complete psychopath, he's got all the powers of some freakish adolescent fantasy. How the hell am I supposed to analyze someone who doesn't like to be analyzed and can kill an elephant with his bare hands?
This is gonna take a little finessing. I've got an idea, though.
I met Josie the Half-Cat today. I petted her and she rubbed up against my leg. Weirdest feeling having a cat rub hindquarters that aren't there against your shin.

Date: October 12, ████
My idea worked. TOO well.
I thought I'd gain some rapport with 076 by chatting with him over a game or something, something to break the ice. As a warrior type, I thought he might enjoy a board game, something that needs strategy. I chose Stratego, since I've never been a fan of chess, and I've never really enjoyed Go or checkers. He seemed amiable enough, although he kept staring at me hard the whole time I was explaining the rules.
Tried to break the ice and get him to talk more about himself between turns. Didn't work. He was totally engrossed in the game, trying to break apart my strategy. After a while, he got me doing it too. I'd intended to let him win, but about nine turns in, I realized that he was using a really simple tactic: he'd taken his Marshal and was using it to beat down everything by itself, carving a giant swath of destruction in my ranks. I managed to lure him into attacking my Bomb, blew up his Marshal. He then sent his Miners in to take out my Flag, but it wasn't there: I'd used the Bombs as a lure to draw him away from my left, where my Scouts and Miners were. His Flag wasn't too hard to find, and then my Scout ran in and captured it for the win, behind a screen of Miners who disabled his Bombs.
He got really quiet, and I thought he was going to get mad, but then he smiled. "Congratulations," he said, shaking my hand (my fingers still hurt even two hours later). "You are in."
"In what?"
"Task Force Omega-7. You defeated me in a battle of wits and honor, and now you are one of my chosen elite."
That wasn't what I'd planned at all. "I hadn't intended to join your group. I'm a scholar, not a warrior."
"Now you are both." He clapped my shoulder so hard it bruised and walked away.
I tried to get out of it with the section chief. He refused to allow it. "You've got a perfect chance to do a psych profile on Seventy Six," he said. "You'll be around him day and night. A perfect chance for long-term observation."
So ummmm… yeah. Tomorrow I'm checking in for basic training with a bunch of freaks and maniacs who hang around with a completely indestructable killing machine and go straight into the most dangerous situations the Foundation encounters with the intent of kicking its ass. Me, a desk jockey geek with a Masters in Psychology. I guess I could transfer out, but given SCP-076's history of behavior around people he considers weak, that might be career suicide. Or even actual suicide.
I'm so gonna die.

Date: October 27, ████
I'm not dead yet.
My first day of training, however, I wished I was. I shoulda known something was wrong when I showed up and saw about ██ guys (and a few girls) standing around wearing tiny shorts and tank tops: none of them seemed to have an ounce of fat on their bodies, and a couple looked like they could beat the fuck out of Arnold Schwartze… shwan… the Governator… in a no-holds barred brawl. And that's when I show up with my slight beer belly and wire-frame glasses and milquetoast smile, and everyone turns and looks at me like I'm something rather nasty that the dog just did on the carpet.
Seventy Six started them off with a five mile run, ran along next to the group… I should say jogged along… hitting the slowest guy with a rattan stick the whole time to encourage him to run faster. I've still got the welts. By the time it was over, I was nearly passed out on my feet, and then Seventy Six started having us do pushups and pullups and other exercises that I'm convinced were originally developed by the Spanish Inquisition to deal with particularly stubborn heretics.
So I went to bed hurting in places I didn't know I hurt, but if I thought that was pain, I was in for a treat. The next day, Seventy Six started me on some Israeli martial art called "Krav Maga," which I'm convinced is Hebrew for "Kill the Fucking Goyim," no matter what Wikipedia tells me. The highlight of that day's training was running the fuck away after B████ decided to pick up a fucking ROCK and chase me with it. I think I actually pissed myself.
The next day was actually worse.
This is the first chance I've had to write in my diary for a long time: I've just been too exhausted to do more than pass out every chance I get. But Seventy Six told me to take the weekend off. I slept the first thirty hours of it, and god, was it worth it.
He tells me that tomorrow is my final exam. I don't know what that's gonna be like. I'm not looking forward to it at all.

Date: October 28, ████
I wash and I wash, but I can't seem to get it out.
Seventy Six met me alone outside the testing chamber. I was a bit surprised to find any of the members of Omega Seven weren't there. "The last test you take alone," Seventy Six said.
He walked me into the room, and there was a guy tied to a chair: Class D Personnel from the looks of his jumpsuit. The entire room was very clean. Tiled floor, tiled walls, sprinklers in the ceiling, a big drain in the center. There was a tray of surgical instruments next to him.
"Pick up one of the blades, any one," Seventy Six told me, "and start cutting."
I started cutting the ropes. Seventy Six hit me in the face. "No. Start CUTTING."
I dropped the scalpel. "I can't."
He reached into his shadows and pulled out… it was long, and it had a lot of hooks and saw edges and ripping blades to it, whatever it was. "You will. Or I will tire of this entertainment and find some elsewhere. Probably by killing as many of your people as possible, saving you for last, so that you will see them all die."
I didn't answer. He looked at me for a long long while. Then he went to the door.
I think I screamed when I grabbed the knife and stabbed it into the guy. I'm pretty sure I did, because I tasted pennies, which means I'm pretty sure that some of the poor bastard's blood got in my mouth… Seventy Six smiled at that and turned around. "Good," he said. "Now use the hook to pull out his eyes."
… I don't think I can say any more, but… he screamed the whole time, and by the time it was done, I was gone. Stupid of me, I should have seen it coming. Break down my defenses, make me pliable to commands, classic example of mental reprogramming. I learned this in freshman year at █████ for crying out loud, but I fell for it.
He didn't seem pleased. He told me that I needed to get used to killing. He told me to go down to the labs every day, choose a cat or a monkey or a dog - no rats or mice - and kill one every day. Vivisect it alive. Really let myself feel the blood spurt. Said I needed to put aside my weaknesses. Learn to become harder. Stronger.
A monster, that's what he wants me to become. A sociopath. Just like him. No empathy, no guilt, no feelings other than fear and anger. A monster.
I won't let him beat me.

Date: October 31, ████
Happy Halloween.
I was in the lab doing a live dissection of a rhesus monkey when B███████ knocked on the door. "Meet up in the deployment bay in fifteen," she said. "We've got a mission."
I gave the screaming monkey a lethal injection of adrenaline into its heart: it wasn't hard, given the fact that I'd already cracked the ribcage and laid the organ open. B████████ seemed a bit sympathetic as she waited for me to wash the blood off my apron. "We've got an active SCP somewhere in the ██████ area," she said. "Seems dormant, but Command believes it could go active at any moment. Keter-class."
"What's our cover story?" I asked.
"We don't need one," she said, tossing me a towel. "It's Halloween."
The others were suited up by the time I reached the staging area, and we really did look like freaks. The Hostile Environment Protective Isolation Suits (HEPIS) are designed to give you complete protection from all threats biological, chemical, and to also do a decent job against telepathic and mundane threats as well. In addition to the standard kevlar weave and biohazard suits, they contain a Telekill Alloy lined helmet and [DATA EXPUNGED]. End result is it makes you look like a super-soldier out of some videogame, all bulked up and scary-looking with a giant gun that M█████ F████ wouldn't mind using against some L██████. Seventy Six just wore his usual outfit, of course, which was scary enough.
That was the first time I met Iris, too: She was the only other one who wasn't wearing a uniform, was in fact dressed up like a video game character (whom I later found out was J███ from "██████ ████ ███ ████") She had this big camera around her neck and she was wearing a very sensible leather jacket and pants. When I saw her, she was arranging some polaroid pictures in various pockets around her vest and pants. "In case I need them" she said.
We piled into two vans and drove down to ██████ ████████. Fun times. A lot of young people standing around wearing fancy costumes and generally having a great time in a giant three-block outdoor party. We got a lot of attention, and even posed for a few pictures [REVIEWER'S NOTE: Upon Covert insertion and review of photographs, it has been determined that no essential data has leaked. Termination order for civilian bystanders cancelled]. We moved fast, though: our guy on-site was waiting for us, and Seventy Six looked like he was going to snap and kill some poor drunk valley-girl dressed up like L███ C████ who wouldn't stop trying to hit on the tall, brooding, strong goth guy with the realistic-looking prop sword.
The target was in the sewers underneath the party: SCP operatives had managed to trap it in a section of the tunnels, but eventually it was going to make a break for it. We met up with our guy on-site, who was guarding the only exit door. Two operatives set up claymore mines while Iris snapped a picture of the trigger mechanisms. "If it tries to open the door without me reaching through the photo and flipping the switches, it'll blow itself up," she said, sliding the photo into a waterproof bag and slipping it safely into a breast pocket.
Seventy-Six led one team, the other two were led by W███████ and K████. Iris and I were with Seventy Six in the "Special Elements" squad. I stuck close to Seventy-Six before Iris waved me back. "Don't get too close," she said, making a gesture like swinging a sword. "Sometimes, he swings without checking his blood circle first." I took a couple of steps back after that.
Seventy Six seemed to change the moment we went into the danger area: he leaned forward, like a panther, sniffing the air and smiling as he ran a finger along the slick, moldy brick wall. I wasn't so happy. I was in a big, bulky suit that cut down my vision to the sides and back, hearing the sound of my own breathing and the pounding of my own heart. The flashlight didn't light up the darkness enough, and my night vision didn't help either: just made things even spookier with its grainy green appearance.
So when it grabbed me by the neck and dragged me down into the sewage, all I could really do was scream a lot. My helmet was sealed, and I had my own O2 supply that kicked in the moment I got dragged under, so I wasn't in danger of drowning. Choking, yes, the thing's tentacles were grabbing me around the neck and squeezing the life out of me. I had barely enough time to pull the trigger of my gun, feel nothing go off, and realize that I'd forgotten to take it off safety before I blacked out.
I came to in the van, surrounded by a bunch of guys who were looking really tired and beat-up. There was something huge covered in a tarp and strapped down by bungie cords in the middle of the vehicle, something that looked like a cross between a squid, a bicycle, and an MC Escher painting. Seventy Six was nowhere to be found. "What happened?" I managed to croak out.
"You got grabbed," W███████ said. "Able killed it. He's still down there supervising the burning of the eggs and looking for more of them."
"I guess I screwed up, huh?"
"Nah, you did fine." He put a cigarette between my lips and lit it with his zippo. "You lived. That's all we can really ask out of a first-timer."
Cleaning my suit afterwards was a pain: they look kinda like space suits, but they don't put elimination tubes in them, and my bowels did what bowels will do when you get the shit scared out of you (Note to self: consider wearing Depends the next time I go into the field). Seventy Six didn't say a word to me afterwards. No one did. But everyone's thinking it: what the hell am I doing in this group? I'm not a soldier. I can't shoot, I can't fight, all I can do is write stupid papers trying to psychoanalyze that which can't be analyzed by mere psychology.
So what the hell am I doing here?

Date: November 19, ████
Killed three cats today in the lab. The process seems to be getting easier, which kinda scares me: the screaming and mewling doesn't bother me as much as it used to. Maybe I should try burning them alive, next time. Trying to make myself feel something. Revulsion. Fear. Anger. Self-Loathing. Anything's better than just… emptiness.
We did a mission in a quiet little town today. Mining town outside ██████████. By the time we got there, though, about half the town was infected: they all had these things growing out of their eye sockets that made them look like they were weeping blood. We tried shooting them, but they just regenerated the damaged parts. We tried using fire, but it just seemed to make the stuff grow faster, made the infected people explode with the force of a hand grenade, scattering spores all over the place: that's how we lost Y█████. Tried a few other things: [DATA EXPUNGED] We eventually switched tactics after L████ rolled a VX grenade into an infected house: she'd confused it for an incendiary, as it turned out, but it worked. The nerve gas seemed to react to the infection somehow, kill it cleanly, but it also killed the host as well, made them violently reject the infected body parts: heart, eyes, lungs, liver.
Able ordered a resupply and regroup. We traded our incendiaries for nerve gas bombs, kind of like roach foggers. The procedure was to cover the buildings with plastic isolation sheets to seal them up, toss in a half-dozen bombs, wait about an hour for the stuff to really permeate, then move in and mop up the leftovers as needed. At least half the casualties were clearly uninfected: civilians who'd holed up in their rooms and apartments waiting to be rescued.
The elementary school was the worst. There was this one teacher who'd barricaded the doors against the infected, had kept her kindergarten class blissfully ignorant and safe, playing games and listening to music while the monsters roamed around outside. I saw her through the second-story window as I started setting up the covers: she met my eyes, and the look on her face told me she knew what was gonna happen next. I saw her tell her class something, I couldn't tell what, then she walked away from the window.
I was the first one through that door. There were a dozen five-year olds laying on their little beds, blissfully sleeping: the nerve gas had killed them cleanly and instantly while they napped. The teacher was seated at her desk, sitting upright with her head bowed as if she were just taking a rest. She had a mug in her hand, said something like "World's Greatest Teacher," had a crayon-style drawing of a little girl hugging an older lady in a blue dress. There were tears in her eyes. Could have been condensation from the nerve gas.
There was an infected on the roof: the gas must not have permeated high enough to completely kill him. He was hacking up his lungs and twitching a bit, but he wasn't dead, could still walk, and he lunged towards me as I moved towards him. I think he might have been a janitor, he was wearing a blue jumpsuit, and his left wrist had a compound fracture with the bone sticking out. I shot him in the head. Then I kicked the hell out of him with my steel-toed boot. His eye fell out after the fifth kick, so I stomped on it. It popped like a grape.
We were all really quiet coming back, except Able. Seventy Six was his usual cheerful self (sarcasm sarcasm). The rest of us… well, we're just soldiers, not monsters. Wiping out the town had to be done, and an airstrike would have had too much risk of letting the gas fly downwind, hit ███████ and kill another ten thousand poor souls. Explosives could have set off a giant chain reaction, spread spores all across half the continent. We did what needed to be done, but we're not required to feel good about it.
B███████ came into the lab a few minutes ago just as I'd started cremating the remains. She looked tired. Asked me if I couldn't sleep either. I realized it was almost 2am. She offered to stay up with me in my room. As soon as I wash the blood off my hands, I might take her up on that.

Date: November 24, ████
Happy Thanksgiving! Back when I lived in the Real World, the most annoying thing about Turkey Day was hearing my dad demand that we all say at least one thing we were thankful for this year. Well. I've got a few things to be thankful for. I'm thankful that I'm not dead. I'm thankful that the world didn't end. I'm thankful that Able didn't decide to kill us all and use our skins to make drum heads. I'm thankful that no one decided to expose the Slime from Hell to any dead bodies. And mostly, I'm thankful for B██████, the most wonderful girl in the world, who can not only [DATA EXPUNGED], but can also cook a damn fine turkey.
Bit of a small Thanksgiving, though. Able and Squad One had to deploy at the last minute and were out in the field chasing some giant rust monster that apparently was rampaging around this sugar factory, so it was mostly just me, B███████, Iris, and whoever else wanted to drop by for a real Thanksgiving dinner instead of the mass-produced stuff the cafeteria prepared. I went around the facility asking if anyone else wanted to drop by and get some turkey. Gathered up a few folks along the way, then headed over to Dr. Franks' office to see if my old boss wanted some food too.
He was chatting with a rather nice looking guy: possibly Indian or Arabic, was going over the newest field reports from our Mobile Task forces. The guy was just listening and nodding the whole time, stroking the tattoo on his forehead. I asked him if he wanted to come too. "That's fine," he said, smiling. "We'll be busy for a while. If you would like, however, please bring me a turkey leg later."
"That's a good idea," Dr. Franks said. "And save me a plate. I'll drop by to pick it up once we're finished."
Figured the guy was busy, so after dinner, I made two plates with all the fixings, headed over to Dr. Franks' office. As I got closer, though, I started noticing something funny: the cornbread stuffing was starting to smell bad. By the time I got outside the door, it had rotted through so badly that the mold was starting to spread to the meat as well. I dropped the plates and yelled in surprise, and almost hit the "Containment Breach" alarm, before the door opened and the stranger walked out.
"Oh, hell," he sighed. "Not again."
So that's how I first met Cain. Decent guy, even if he isn't much of a gardener. Turns out he was just in town for the day to help Dr. Franks back up some files. "It's best if I'm not around here when Able comes back," he said, before he headed back into the helicopter a few hours later. Then he gave me a funny look. "When the time comes," he said, "Don't hesitate. Do what you must. I'll be fine." I'm really not sure what that's supposed to mean.
Note to self: Whatever ██████ brand cranberry sauce is, it's apparently not made of cranberries: the stuff didn't break down one bit around Cain. Remind me to choose a different brand next year.

Date: November 19, ████
No, the date is not a typo. Yes, it is four days before my last entry. Damn temporal SCPs.
I'm spending the next four days in confinement with the rest of my team to make sure that we don't accidentally pollute the timeline. I'm arguing with the security staff that it would be okay to let us out because, you know, time being an infinite loop and all, if I was going to meet with my past self, I would have done it anyway, and the fact that I didn't means that I'm not gonna. They tell me that the fact that I don't remember ever meeting my future self means that I'm gonna stay in confinement, so there's no point arguing about it. Is it too much to ask for just to get a moment's walk out in the sunlight? The damn padded walls are starting to move in on me.
I don't like this one bit.
The mission was a success, relatively speaking, I guess. We went into the facility with isolation suits on, to retrieve the artifact. Joint mission with MTF ██████ ██, "███ ████ ████." They took the lead, given that they've had more experience underground than we have. We were just there to lay down the pressure once they met up with the artifact.
We lost Squad three two minutes later: the members of that squad just suddenly up and died of old age within three minutes of coming into contact with the artifact's holder. Squad two managed to get out a distress signal before dying. Able closed in on the target shortly afterwards: weirdest thing, watching other people growing old and dying around him while he just kept aging away, hair growing longer, fingernails growing longer, but his body just not aging at all…
<DATA EXPUNGED> had him pinned down under an I-beam, but couldn't reach the artifact because his arm was cut off, and he needed the other one to pin down the monster. I was the closest. Popped open my emergency dose of double-oh six and downed it in one go before running in.
My hand instantly withered the moment I touched the item. I screamed a bit as the insulation suit rotted around me, but managed to yank it away from Abel and the Morphophage and toss it into the Box. B███████ slammed the lid shut and hit the locks, and the entire thing <DATA EXPUNGED>
So yeah, that's how we wound up here four days before we left. I managed to convince them to let me keep my journal, since it's not really gonna have too many temporal effects once I leave. Also convinced them to issue my past self an emergency ration of double-oh six before he goes. I'm sure he'll be confused about why he needs it. I sure was.
Iris seems… I dunno. She's not doing well recently. I'm thinking the stress of the job might be getting to her. Being one of the youngest members of the team can't be easy.

Date: ██████████ ██,████
B███████ came into the room today and told me that she's been given TDY away from Omega-7. "Something bad happened to █████," she said. "I've been asked to talk to her."
█████. That would be SCP-███. [DATA EXPUNGED]
Anyway, B███████ was a ███████ before she transferred to Omega-7, so I guess they figured she was a good person to talk to ████ ██████. She didn't think so. "I've never been raped before, A█████," she pointed out. "How am I supposed to talk to someone who has?"
"Just… listen. Don't let her blame herself. Let her know no one blames her. And don't let her depersonalize. She might be suffering from some post-traumatic stress. I can find a pamphlet for you on that."
"How the hell do you know all this stuff?"
"I was a psych before I was a soldier, remember? This used to be my job."
"Oh yeah," she said, smiling. "I forget that sometimes."
"I do too," I said.

Date: ██████████ ██,████
Retrieval Mission. Dr. Dantensen let Iris out for some reason. They've got the good doctor in solitary. How could he be so stupid…

Date: ██████████ ██,████
Retrieval Mission a success. I'm listing it as, "Recovered under pain of death from SCP-173." That'll sound good on the report.
We caught up to Iris at the ██████ airport, waiting for a flight home. She burst into tears the moment she saw B███████ and I approaching. "Can't you guys just leave me alone?"
<DATA EXPUNGED> put the gun to my head and handed her the polaroid of the internal workings. "You can stop me from killing myself," I said. "All you have to do is reach into the photo and pull out the firing pin."
"You wouldn't dare," she whispered.
"I managed to bring a loaded handgun through airport security, I can and will. And if you can still do what you can do, you won't let me die, because you're too good of a person to let that happen."
I pulled the trigger, and there was a click. She was standing there with the polaroid in one hand and the firing pin in the other. Then she fell down and started crying.
I let B███████ take care of the rest. My job was do

DATE: ██████████ ██, ████
They're all dead.
V█████. N█████. L████ J██████. All of them, they're dead.
Hang on, getting a call from command.

Transcript of Communications between Field Command Mobile Task Force Omega 7 and Foundation Transport Learjet 223

Agent AA: "Field."
Command: "Command here. Let me patch you in to Able."
Agent AA: "My god…"Agent AA: "The… the colony is in flight over ██████. It's going after ███████… oh god, if it gets ahold of that much silicon, then…"Agent AA: "… what?"Agent AA: "I don't… I don't understand. There have to be better agents…"Agent AA: "Think… wait. I have an idea. It's a marshal, but it doesn't have any other troops. I just need to lead it into a bomb…"
<TRANSMISSION ENDS>

Official Citation
Let it be known on this date, Agent A█████ A██████ (Mobile Task Force Omega-7, "Pandora's Box"), while in extreme personal danger to life and limb, did personally engage a Keter-level SCP for the purposes of completing a retrieval operation. Although grievously injured during the attack, which resulted in the death of Agent Beatrice Maddox, Agent A██████' actions allowed SCP-073 to come into attack range of SCP-███, which was at the time rampaging through Foundation Facilities. Upon engaging the enemy, ███████ did <DATA EXPUNGED>

DATE: ██████████ ██, ████
able came by today. he heard abouyt b. it was hard goingn to the funeral. buyt we've all lost friends.
it's hard typing with no hands and no fingers. n i'm still getting used to the mouth wand. sime tomes i mmiss keys. it's my jourmnal. so i don'rt really give a ashiut.
i took a shard to my head too. one piece went into my skull. they say that it hirt part of my brain. mnty sense of empathy might be gone. whatever thar means./
i watched the footaghe of the team dying.; nirt was weird. ni thought i'd feel it more but it was like watching cats being dissected. jusat more guts and blood.
i hear they have a machine that makes you mbetter., i think i'll give it a trey.

Permission for Agent A█████ A██████ to undergo enhancement by SCP-212 - GRANTED
- O5-██

Log Ends: For further information, please see SCP-784-ARC


The Foundation uses the presence of other businesses and organizations as frontages to mask the existence of the SCP Foundation. These may be anything from local flower shops to international conglomerates. Websites to a few of these facades are as follows:

So Clean, You'd Think You Were In Heaven!
Your premiere source for human remains based soap and lye products! Experience a cleanliness like no other and indulge in the renewing lather that will have you believing in the resurrection of your aging, lifeless cells.

We are a society of skeptics who seek to disprove the foolish beliefs of conspiracy theorists and paranormal enthusiasts.

A gated community for the discerning family.
South Cheyenne Point is a privately-owned civic development aiming at creating an utopic living environment for our denizens. Admissions are only accepted on the basis of availability, and a strict set of requirements must be adhered to before the process may go forward. Currently there are no openings in our development.


The wind was harsh and cold, swirling gouts of the snow rippling around the man's thin frame, staining his black cloak like stars in the night sky. It tugged at his ragged clothing, sucking what little warmth left in him through his armour. His breath crystallized in front of his face like smoke from the maw of a dragon. His hair whipped around his face like a thing alive, beating senselessly against his cold cheeks and lips incessantly.
Yet despite all this, he stood stock still, staring over his high perch on the snowy mountain, staring at the large flat plains in front of him, his eyes two shards of aged, dirty gray ice, far colder than anything that frigid peak could conjure up.
Stray flakes stuck to his eyelashes, and he blinked them away, rolling down his face, tears that were not real. He tightened his grip on the leather wrapped hilt of his sword, the material groaning in protest, the flecks of dried blood cracking and falling away from his wiry fingers.
He could not say how long he stood there, staring. The moments rolled into days, and the hours to seconds. He could have stood there for a thousand eternities, or for the scantest of instants.
All he knew was that eventually, he would return once more.
And he would fight.
Able's eyes flickered open slowly, glancing towards the clock nailed unceremoniously to the wall with a butcher knife. He had slept for only a few hours.
He did not truly need to sleep, and had not needed to for a very long time. But that was not to say that he did not enjoy the action from time to time. Still, it had been centuries since he had last dreamt, an action he thoroughly relished on the rare occasions that it transpired.
He rose from the simple metal cot, his muscles and joints pliable and supple as if he had not spent several hours inert and motionless. He stalked over to the heavy blast door, a slab of gargantuan metal two feet thick and weighing three tons. He wrenched it aside with ease and a metallic screech of protest from its wheels, the weight of the barrier a more effective deterrent to invaders than any lock. No one but him could open it, as he had ripped the hydraulics out of the sides of it, the little people's fleeting strength no match for the sheer burden of his bedroom door.
Still, they insisted on their inane rules and regulations, two heavily armed guards standing watch over the entrance. They did not move as he left, the tinted shields of their riot gear helms hiding their emotions from Able, had he cared to look.
As he strode through the corridors, a young, almost mousy woman struggled to reach him, the clicking of her high heel shoes resounding from behind him.
"Seventy Six!" she called out plaintively.
"Seventy Six! Please, wait for a moment. I have to talk to you,"she gasped as she ran, nearly out of breath, her cheeks red from exertion.
Able stopped, turning around to face her slowly.
She caught up quickly, bending over double for a moment to catch her breath.
Able studied her fastidiously as she did so.
She was a young woman, in her mid twenties, her eyes almost hidden behind square, thin rimmed glasses, thick, curly, shoulder length, light brown hair framing her small features. She was thin, but not overly so, yet everything about her spoke of a certain petiteness, as if she really was a smaller than she appeared. Her clothes were formal, white blouse, black skirt and tights, and she clutched a old brown clipboard, a pen in her other hand.
"Yes?" asked Able, drawing out the word as languorously as possible. It almost sounded like an insult to the woman, one that spoke of apathy and indifference.
"I have to talk to you," she responded plainly.
"About?" Again, a range of insults in a single word.
"It's a psychological evaluation." she answered, now beginning to sound just a little haughty at his tone.
He simply turned and began to walk away, but she quickly followed suit.
"The higher ups want another psych evaluation because of what you did to Professor Liham," she continued on, hurriedly trying to keep up with his merciless, distance eating strides.
"How is Liham?" chuckled Able, flashing the woman a horrific smile. She nearly visibly recoiled in disgust upon seeing his teeth. They were thin and angular, the majority of the ones in the front filed to grim points, and they crowded his mouth, jostling for space, near bursting out of his mouth.
Still, she carried on, determined not to appear weak to this monstrosity that wore human form.
"He's still in the hospital. His doctors are amazed he's showing brain activity,"
Able muttered something unintelligible, and from the ugly expression he made, she could tell it was not pleasant.
"I'm Doctor Angela Langley, and I'll be evaluating you through your actions today. Would it be possible for me to ask you some questions?"
He looked at her coldly and began to talk animatedly in a tongue that certainly did not sound English. In fact, she had never heard anything like it before. While he spoke, he moved his clawlike hands in odd stratagems, speaking in a bizarre physical manner.
He continued like this for several minutes, the gestures he made getting more and more strange, until at last, he stopped, a quick silence descending before he spoke again, this time in English.
"And that would be my entire history, from the point of when I was born, to right now. Granted I removed some of the unimportant things, but the majority of it was there," he told her calmly.
"But… But I couldn't understand it," she replied worriedly.
"No… You can't," he answered back, increasing his pace exponentially, and leaving her far behind.
He continued that pace until he was at the stadium where he trained with Pandora's Box. They were all already there, waiting for him. While Able set them a strict time to arrive there by, he often arrived there himself at arbitrary times, either several hours too early or late, expecting them to do the same, and woe betide those who were not, becoming his personal "whipping boy" for the rest of the session.
They began with simple exercises, an hour of hard physical labor and several sparring matches. He fought in none of them, instead opting to watch. Fighting such inferior opponents, especially when they were unarmed would only serve to raise his ire, and put him into a foul mood.
Time passed, and soon he decreed they had strained their tiny bodies to their limits, dismissing them with an apathetic wave of his hand.
He trudged slowly through the facility, wallowing in his boredom. There was nothing to do.
There was never anything to do. The people here had proven that they were a mediocre challenge at best, and there was rarely anything that pressed him to his limits anymore. Not like when the world was young…. Back then there was-
"Seventy Six!" came a plaintive call from behind him, causing Able to roll his eyes in annoyance.
"Seventy Six! Please! I still need to talk to you," she yelled, trying to run back up to him.
"What!?" he growled, clearly losing his patience.
"U-uh, Well-" she stuttered, afraid now that he showed his irritation clearly.
Angela took a deep breath, calming her nerves before continuing.
"High Command has said that you must perform a-" she cut off with a grunt as she was lifted off her feet, raised into the air by a hideous mockery of a human hand, gripping her tightly around her throat.
"Listen to me you slug of flesh," hissed Able coldly.
"I have been patient with you because you were not worth my time, but should you continue, I will pull you apart, simply to cease your incessant nattering. Tell your superiors this," he told her with a scowl.
"The only reason I agreed to this imprisonment is because I, for some fleeting moments, believed that you may lead me to something worthwhile with which to amuse myself. And if you all continue to irritate me with worthless, trivial tests, I will find every member of this organization, and everyone ever associated with this organization, locate each and every single one of them, and rip them limb from limb."
"Am I clear… Angela?" he whispered, his face pressed against her cheek.
"Y-y-yes," she stammered out hoarsely, her eyes wide with fear.
"Good," he spat cruelly, dropping her callously onto the floor, leaving her in a sprawled tangle of limbs on the ground.
He could hear her gasping for breath as he stalked away, a sound he had heard countless times, from countless others, often before their death.
Gasping for breath as their lungs filled with blood, their bodies torn and destroyed, numbed hands grasping their weapon with ever unresponsive fingers.
And still, they rose up once more…
Rose up once more…
As he had…
As he rose up once more…
He could remember the sound that raven made…
scratch
The sounds it made as it scraped the ground above him…
scratch scratch
How he wished it would stop…
scratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratchscratch
How he wished the sounds would stop…
So he rose up…
He rose up once more…
He rose up as he would do so many times again…
He rose up as he had done so many times before…
He rose up, cold and gasping for breath, his hands still stained with dirt and filth and blood his blood, and he felt…
He felt…
Rage
Angela started as Able suddenly started ripping segments of steel from the wall as he passed them by, shredding the hardened steel with his fingers as a child would a spiderweb, and casting them aside with errant, uncaring tosses.
She could see the muscles on his shoulders stretch and strain against his neck, tensing so tightly as if to rip themselves free of his body.
And then he stopped. He turned his head, slowly, enough to look at Angela with one crazed, baleful, bloodshot eye and he spoke in the most chilling tone she had ever heard.
"What?"
She turned and fled.
He turned back, looking at his torn and shaking hands, gobbets of their flesh now decorating the metal he had so casually tossed aside. His blood spattered onto the ground with thick wet splashes, a morbid trail for others to follow.
He let them fall to his side, and continued walking, his brows furrowed in disgust and irritation at a world that bored him to his very core.
He hated being bored.
So he intended to do something about it.
Pulling a sword out of the nothing, he observed its notched and serrated edges almost lovingly as they curled across its surface slowly, before giving the weapon a few experimental swings and burying it into the now exposed concrete of the wall.
Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he slid his hands beneath the choker on his neck, partially crushing his throat in his determination not to damage the fragile band of metal.
Confident that he had enough shielding, he snapped it off as quickly as possible.
It exploded violently, a volatile sunburst that decimated his already bleeding hands, shards of shrapnel slicing into his face, neck and torso.
He shrugged off the damage, stretching out his arms as he attempted to fix the somewhat pulped bone and muscles in his hands. There were a small series of clicks, and he regained some of the mobility in the massacred digits, but not much.
No matter, he thought, retrieving a thin barbed chain out of the darkness, spending several minutes wrapping it around his hand, clenched around the hilt of the buried sword.
A few practice tugs to ensure that it was holding, unmindful of the way the chain tore into his already desecrated flesh, the lean man yanked the sword out of the wall, and set about making his own entertainment.
Within twenty minutes, he had cleaved his way though an entire legion of panicked guards, arriving in one of the major containment areas.
Within thirty minutes, there were hordes of skittering crab like creatures swarming across the area, shredding the flesh from anything in their path, leaving naught but gnawed piles of bone behind. One of the corridors had converted itself into the maw of some tremendous beast, luring the unwary in and crushing them with its enormous mandibles, spitting out the remnants with a belch. Occasionally, a strange skeletal human hand would snake out from beneath a some fallen debris, out of an air vent, or even out of the cracks the floor, and snatch a someone up, mulching them into bloody paste as it tried to force them into its hiding spot.
Personnel ran about in terror, guards trying to contain one threat, but falling to another. Some went mad, firing on everything, friend and foe alike. Others lost their minds to far more sinister forces, going berserk, twisting inside, or simply dying on the spot.
And at the center of this chaos, was Able, laughing and screaming like a madman, fighting anything and everything in his way. All around him, blood fell like plentiful rain, the flash of gunfire as lightning, and the hail of weapons fire, screams and roars were thunder in the storm of madness he had created.
The monster laughed manically as he danced across a moving carpet of the scuttling arachnid creatures, bursting them under his weight with errant footfalls, his weapons cutting wide swathes out of their ranks and spattering them onto the walls.
The few people that fell into his way soon fell out again, often in pieces if they came too close, but he did not actively pursue them. Even the guards were largely ignored, unless they attempted to fire at him, in which case retribution was swift, brutal, and deadly.
Soon, the corridor was clean of all movement, with the exception of the odd shuddering corpse.
Able snorted in derision, disgusted at the weakness of his opponents, and how short lived his "entertainment" was.
Preparing to leave, he paused as he heard the crunch of debris being crushed underfoot, and the click of a hammer being cocked back.
Turning to see what fool had come to try and stop him, he rolled his eyes in frustration upon seeing exactly who and what had arrived.
A bloody, trembling Miss Langley, eyes wide with terror, thin hands clutching a pistol far too large for her digits to properly grip, slack kneed and trying to probe her way through the desolation, involuntarily heaving at the sights left behind.
She turned up, starting as she saw Able glaring at her from the end of the corridor, his expression as unamused as hers was fearful.
Her entire body tensed up, her lip trembling, a mild tic beneath one eye. Slowly, she raised the gun, it shaking spastically as she attempted to aim it at the man before her.
"S… S-stop…," she half cried, half mumbled, tears of fear beginning to run down her cheeks, clearing paths through the filth and dust.
The man glared at her, fury growing at this effrontery. Those who had come before had been weaklings, but they had at least been warriors of a sort.
But this… this was disgusting. They might as well be sending maggots to fend him off.
He started towards her, sword raised in one hand to finish the terrible deed.
"Patheti-"
His insult was cut short by the tumultuous crack of a gunshot, the upper portion of his skull blown into generous chunks of meat and bone. On the remainder of his face, there was the beginnings of an expression of surprise.
Langley dropped the smoking gun in shock, staring in surprise and disbelief before retching out of human reflex as the man's thin body staggered a few awkward steps forward before collapsing. It twitched a few times, its scrawny limbs sprawled and entangled as it slumped into a graceless pile on on the floor.


Item #: SCP-███
Object Class: Safe
Special Containment Procedure: SCP-███ requires no special handling or storage beyond that of typical electronic devices - keep it at a reasonable temperature, dry, away from electromagnetic interference. It is not believed to pose any risk to anyone, therefore can be kept in a secure locker rather than requiring its own chamber.
Description: SCP-███ is a small rectangular device, approximately 4 x 2 x 0.5 cm. It appears to be a storage device of some kind, similar to a modern-day memory card, but much more advanced - our engineers have estimated its storage capacity to be approximately 200 terabytes. Based on the available data, we believe the device to have been constructed in or around the year 2074.
It took several years to construct an interface to allow us to connect it to current computers, and several more to write the software necessary to read what is on it.
The entire content of the device is a single file, a multimedia recording. Our software engineers have managed to recover and convert the file into a format usable on our current computers, but the video appears in monochrome, a single 'layer' of the recording. They say that there are at least 18 such layers, each from either a slightly different angle, or displaying a different colour, leading us to believe that the recording was intended to be viewed on some type of three-dimensional display that has yet to be invented.
Device contents: The recording on the device appears to be a police interview, two detectives interviewing a murder suspect. Due to the missing segments, we don't currently know the names of either of the detectives, or the suspect, who is referred to only as 'Doctor'. We hope that eventually we will be able to recover the missing pieces of the recording and identify the men, the location, and the exact date the recording was made, so we can track the people involved in the years leading up to the events in the recording.
Below is a complete transcript of the section we were able to recover. It begins mid-sentence with the detective nearest the camera, whom we have dubbed 'Detective 1'.
<Begin transcript>

Detective 1: …your confession, we have multiple witnesses, and we have this…
The detective presses a button on the table in front of him, and the wall in the rear of the picture blurs, then fades into what looks like a high-tech laboratory. The wall is a screen of some kind. On the screen, a man is standing in front of what can best be described as a blur, stretching from floor to ceiling. He seems to be shouting something at another, older man, who is aiming a shotgun at him. The man with the weapon, who is the man being interviewed, shouts something back. The younger man turns towards the blur and takes a step forward, at which point the older man fires the shotgun. The left-hand side of the younger man's head explodes, he spins round and falls backwards into the blur, and his entire body disappears.
Doctor: I HAD TO DO IT!
Detective 1: Why?
Doctor: Because of what he was about to do!
Detective 2: Which was what?
Doctor: I don't know. Possibly destroy the universe.
Both detectives chuckle
Detective 1: Destroy the universe. Well, you stopped him, good job, Doctor.
Doctor: I'm serious! And I don't know if I stopped him, you saw yourself, his body fell through. The damage may already be done, it may be too late.
Detective 1: What damage?
Doctor: That'll take some explaining.
Detective 1: You're in some serious trouble, and we've got all the time in the world. Talk.
Doctor: OK, OK. I've been completely co-operative, I'll tell you everything. How much do you know about wormholes?
Detective 1 shrugs.
Detective 2: Only what I've seen in the movies. Bending space, that kind of thing.
Doctor: Yes, exactly. I won't go too much into the science of it, but my team and I were working on developing stable wormholes. A way to instantly travel from one point to another. About 6 months ago, we had a breakthrough. We actually did it.
Detective 1: You made a wormhole?
Doctor: Yes. We managed to open one in the laboratory. We punched a hole in spacetime! An actual wormhole, right there in front of our eyes.
Detective 2: Okaaaaaay… and where did it go to?
Doctor: Philadelphia.
Detective 1: Oh, spectacular. That would've been… May. Nice time of year for Philly, huh?
Detective 2: I dunno, I would've preferred Hawaii.
Doctor: Please, let me continue.
Detective 1: Alright, go ahead.
Doctor: Thank you. When we first opened it, we had no idea where it led to. We ran all the tests we could think of on it, but eventually, we knew we'd have to send something through it. So, we got a video camera and attached a locator device to it, and sent it through.
We left the complex, and activated the locator. It showed that the camera was 150 km away. We got there in 2 hours, and eventually found it halfway up a tree.
Detective 2: Is this going anywhere?
Detective 1: Apart from Philadelphia?
Doctor: Yes, yes, I'm getting there. It's crucial you know the full history before I explain why I had to kill him. May I continue?
Detective 1: Please do.
Doctor: We retrieved the camera, only to find that the battery was dead. We thought that maybe the trip through the wormhole had somehow fried the electronics, drained the battery. We got it back to the lab, and connected it to a charger, hoping maybe it had recorded some footage before whatever it was had killed its battery.
Detective 2: And had it?
Doctor: Yes! But this was the part that shocked us. The first message that appeared on its display was "Chip full". And simultaneously, one of the technicians yelled over that there was nothing wrong with the battery - it had simply been used up, drained.
Detective 1: Meaning?
Doctor: A standard holochip will store 36 hours of recording. The battery for that camera model lasts for 48 hours. We retrieved the camera in 2 hours, detective, yet the battery was depleted and the storage device was full! We checked the contents of the chip. It had a full 36 hours of footage on it.
Detective 1: So, the camera was damaged and wrote garbage to the chip?
Doctor: NO! It worked perfectly! The footage we pulled from it began in the lab showing me smiling into the lens, then going through the wormhole, then into a blinding light - sunshine! Then green, then blue sky. As near as we could tell, it exited the wormhole 35 metres in the air, had fallen, and landed in the tree. Luckily, it had ended up pointing up in the sky. We were able to determine, from weather conditions and the phases of the moon captured by the camera, that it had not only travelled 150 km through space, but it had also travelled 9 days back in time!
Detective 1: Back in time.
Detective 2: Time travel.
Doctor: Yes.
Detective 1: If you're gonna start jerking us around…
Doctor: I'm not, I swear it. The wormhole had not only bent space, but time too.
Detective 1: So you built a time machine.
Doctor: Unintentionally, but, yes, we had. We kept experimenting with it, over the following weeks and months, sending more and more objects through, as well as sterile biological samples, until we were able to accurately calibrate the exit point both spatially and temporally to a high degree of accuracy.
Detective 1: What does that mean?
Doctor: We were able to create wormholes to within 1.5 metres of our intended destination location, and to within 12 minutes of our intended destination time.
Detective 2 sighs.
Detective 2: What has this got to do with you killing Doctor Snow?
Doctor: Everything.
Detective 1: Well how about you use that time machine of yours and skip forward to tonight. Say, when you arrived at the lab.
Doctor: OK. It was important you understood what the device was before I explained.
Detective 2: You've explained. Now, talk.
Doctor: Alright. This evening, I was at home, reading, when the lab's security system telephoned me. It told me that there had been an intrusion into the Restricted Materials compound. That's where we keep all the dangerous chemicals, biological agents, weapons tech, that kind of thing. It said that Doctor Snow had broken in, and removed 8 litres of Rx52.
Detective 1: Rx52?
Doctor: It's an engineered virus, a bio-weapon. It causes a severe rash within 10 minutes of exposure, followed by pustules erupting on the skin. It's non-lethal, and runs its course in about 4 hours, with no lasting effects.
Detective 1: OK. Go on.
Doctor: While Rx52 is non-lethal, it is still very dangerous. Its intended use is to create mass chaos, panic, but not fatalities. That much of it is enough to infect tens of thousands of people. I jumped into to my car and drove to the lab. When I got there and entered the building, the lab's computer greeted me and announced that I had a new message from Doctor Snow. I got it to play the message for me, and that's when I realised what I had to do.
Detective 2: Which was…
Doctor: I had to stop him, whatever the cost.
Detective 1: What was the message from Doctor Snow?
Doctor: It was a last will and testament, of sorts. He explained his plan, every detail of what he was going to do. In his own words, he was going to become a hero, legendary. He'd been planning it for some time, apparently. He was going to use the device to send himself back in time, along with a shotgun, 200 rounds of ammunition, and 8 litres of Rx5. He'd set the spatial co-ordinates to Manhattan, New York, and the temporal co-ordinates to 4 am on the 11th of September, 2001.
Detective 1: WHAT?
Doctor: Yes. He was going to send himself back in time 73 years, to the morning of the attacks. Are you familiar with what happened on September 11th 2001, detective?
Detective 1: Of course, I learned about it in history class, we all did. What was he planning to do?
Doctor: 2,973 people died in those attacks, most of them in the old World Trade Center towers. He was going to stop them.
Detective 2: WHAT? There was no way he could stop them, those planes came from completely different parts of the country.
Doctor: He wasn't going to physically stop the planes. He was going to have the two buildings evacuated. He was going to connect the canisters of Rx52, 4 litres in each tower, to the ventilation systems. He would then contact the authorities and announce that he was a terrorist who was about to release a large quantity of the smallpox virus into both buildings.
Detective 2: Smallpox?
Doctor: It was a deadly virus which was eliminated in the 20th century, but was believed, for a time, to have been held in stockpiles for biological warfare. His plan was two-fold - if the authorities acted as he'd hoped, they would have evacuated both buildings. If they didn't, he would have released the Rx52 by remote into the buildings' ventilation systems. The physical symptoms which Rx52 presents would make people believe that it truly was smallpox, and they would panic, fleeing the building, or at least try to leave, going down to the lower levels if the authorities enacted quarantine procedures.
Detective 1: My god.
Doctor: Yes. Ingenious. The people behind the attacks would have had no way of knowing, but if his plan had succeeded, those planes would have collided with two empty buildings.
Detective 2: What was the weapon for?
Doctor: That was in case he was discovered. He'd thought of everything. In case he was found planting the Rx52, his intention was to get into a gunfight, which would have caused the authorities to turn up and cordon off whichever tower he was found in. He would have told them, between shots, that they were 'too late, I've already done the other tower'. Again, this would have caused both buildings to be evacuated.
Detective 2: OK, let me get this straight. Doctor Snow was going to use your device, a time machine, to stop one of the worst atrocities this country has ever experienced?
Doctor: Yes.
Detective 2: And you stopped him?
Doctor: Yes, he had to be stopped! I couldn't let him interfere!
Detective 2: Why not? He could have saved thousands of lives!
Doctor: No, no, my god, no. He would have changed history! History is fragile, don't you get it? Had he succeeded, history as we know it would have been completely rewritten! He would have created a paradox! We have no idea what would have happened, it could have decimated the fabric of spacetime! Destroyed existence itself!
Both detectives are silent, staring at him
Doctor: DON'T YOU GET IT? HE COULD HAVE LITERALLY TORN THE UNIVERSE APART!
Detective 1: Sit down please. Sit. Down. We'll get into the physics of it later. Continue with your story. What did you do when you'd listened to the message?
Doctor: I ran as fast as I could to the wormhole chamber. When I got there, he'd already activated it. Beside the door were the canisters of Rx52, with the shotgun and ammunition on top. I screamed at him to stop. He turned to look at me, sneered, and told me I was too late. He was standing in front of the wormhole, there was no way I could have reached him in time to stop him going through. Even if he went through without his equipment, he could still create catastrophic damage to the timeline simply by his presence there. I had no choice, I could NOT let him step through. I grabbed the shotgun from where it was, and aimed it at him. I gave him one last

<end transcript>


ATTENTION: REPORT 076-2/682 IS FOR REVIEW BY CLASS-4 PERSONNEL ONLY
Incident: 076-2/682
SCP involved: SCP-682, SCP-076-2
Personnel involved: Dr. Gears, Prof. Kain Pathos Crow, Generals ████████████ and ████, Mobile Task Force Omega-7 (aka "Pandora's Box")
Date: ██████████
Location: ██████, Northern Canada
Description: Omega-7 dispatched after reports of SCP-682 being sighted in the area. Dr. Gears, Prof. Kain Pathos Crow, Generals ████████████ and ████ temporarily attached to supervise and observe, over objection by SCP-076-2. Contact made three hours after initial deployment.
After several hours of searching, SCP-682 is eventually found in ██████, near ████, having killed the civilian population there.
SCP-076-2 stopped Omega-7 from firing upon 682, then approached the subject. The pair are seen to converse for several minutes, with SCP-076-2 constantly looking back at the main group, and gradually becoming more and more agitated as the conversation goes on.
SCP-076-2 attacked SCP-682 with a bladed weapon. SCP-682 disarmed and attacked SCP-076-2 with its claws, suffering massive damage. SCP-076-2 re-engaged SCP-682 after recovering from the initial assault. Combat proceeded quickly, with both SCPs suffering and dealing enormous amounts of damage. SCP-682 suffered the most damage recorded to date, with damage or removal of over 93% of its body. SCP-076-2 produced more weapons in this single event than the total number recorded since containment.
SCP-682 was incapacitated, with SCP-076-2 preparing to “finish it off”, when the Anomaly occurred. Sensors and monitoring equipment measure a enormous burst of electromagnetic energy, radiation, and wildly varied temperature readings. Site Command received reports from Central Monitoring of a sudden alteration in space-time, localized around SCP-682. Analysis has shown this event to be consistent with both the sudden appearance and disappearance of a black hole, or the theoretical event of a sudden hole forming between our dimension and another.
Serious questions have been raised in light of the Anomaly, and the repulsed reaction SCP-682 has to most organic life. It is currently theorized that SCP-682 is not “alive” in our sense of the word, or possibly is extra-dimensional in origin.
SCP-682 and SCP-076-2 both incapacitated due to physical trauma. SCP-682 moved to temporary containment. Remains of SCP-076-2 and combat area firebombed from the air. Missile test misfire story issued.
Notes: I am telling you, it's not actually here! I think SCP-076 is the same way. It's like poking your finger into a balloon: you're inside it, but still outside of it. They are “projecting” into our reality, and causing all kinds of problems when our reality tries to comprehend them. It's like in programming, when you request a pixel that isn't there, it makes the whole system go haywire! -Dr. █████████


“Christ, 204 really did a number on this place.” Agent Williams frowned as he surveyed the damage the Keter level SCP caused to its containment cell.
“I concur. The monetary damages caused by this breach easily numbers in the millions,” Dr. Gears said in his usual blank, apathetic voice.
Williams sighed. He didn't exactly enjoy working with Gears but he was the doctor on duty and Williams honestly didn't feel like filling out all the paperwork necessary to get this mess sorted out. It was quite sad really. He'd rather oversee the operation of Containment Protocol 204 than fill out a few forms.
“How far did it get?” Williams asked.
“SCP-204-1 managed to break out of its containment cell, made its way through several labs, plowed straight through the onsite dormitories, and was making its way to the Euclid containment wing. Fortunately, it wandered into the hallway leading to SCP-615's enclosure and both SCP-204-1 and SCP-204-2 were incinerated by SCP-615's containment measures.”
“I suppose Containment Protocol 204 is now under effect.”
“Correct. The candidates are being gathered as we speak.”
“And what's our total body count?”
“The current tally is sixteen casualties. Nine dead and rest wounded.”
As they traced the line of destruction SCP-204 had wrought, Williams frowned. There shouldn't have been any reason the thing could get this far. The EMP generators alone should have been enough to keep the SCP contained.
“Oh, and the EMP generators were never online,” Gears said, as if reading Williams' mind. “They weren't powered on today and by the time they were spooled up, SCP-204 was already contained. The staff at fault will be properly reprimanded.”
Farther down the path of destruction, they finally made their way to the ruins of the on-site dormitories. Fortunately, they were mostly empty since the majority of the staff was on duty, but as Williams and Gears could see, rescue crews were still digging survivors, and bodies, out of the wreckage.
“I would advise you to be cautious,” Gears warned. “This area has not yet been completely secured, and there is still a danger of catastrophic structural failure.”
“I'll keep that in mind- oh damn.”
Gears and Williams found themselves in what was left of one of the dorms. In the corner, there was a woman huddled with her child. Williams was slightly disturbed, as the scene reminded him of those macabre remains of the people of Pompeii. The woman, apparently a junior or assistant researcher judging from her torn and shredded lab coat, was clutching a young girl who couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old. It wasn't completely uncommon for on-site personnel to have children here, but it was still a jarring sight.
“Correction, casualty count has now been increased to twenty three,” Gears said dryly. “The cause of her wounds was probably by falling debris.”
“No…” Williams inched closer to examine the bodies. “Her hands… the scabs on her knuckles suggest she was fighting something.”
“Are you implying that she engaged in physical combat with SCP-204-1?” Gears asked.
“The evidence doesn't lie.”
“I find that scenario highly unlikely.”
“Then you haven't seen what a mother defending her child is capable of.” Williams shook his head. “I've heard stories of women lifting cars and tearing doors off their hinges to save their kids. Maybe we can add punching out SCP-204-1 to the list?”
“Well, it's not like it made any difference. She and the child are still both deceased,” Gears droned on.
“Gears!” Williams cried.
“I am aware of your tendency to give respect to the dead, but-“
“No, it's not that!” Williams knelt down and checked the girl's pulse. “They're both still alive!”
“What?” Gears' eyes widened by several micrometers, and the muscles around his mouth tightened ever so slightly. This was possibly the closest he ever got to genuine, complete surprise.
“I think,” Williams leaned even closer, craning his ear against the mother's mouth, “I think she's singing a lullaby.”

“So how do you think they survived?” Williams mused as medical teams carted Assistant Researcher Ann Wells and her daughter Jill Wells away to the infirmary. “SCP-204-1 doesn't leave jobs half finished.”
“Most likely, SCP-204-1 initiated a cost-benefit analysis and came to the conclusion that terminating Dr. Wells and her daughter wasn't beneficial.”
“Huh, is that so?”
“Do you have an alternate theory?”
“Yeah, but you'll just think it's stupid.” Williams shrugged.
“How foolish you, making assumptions about me like that. I am above that sort of pettiness.”
“Well, I've got absolutely no evidence to back this up, but maybe, just maybe, SCP-204-1 realized that it and Dr. Wells weren't so different?”
“That's implying that SCP-204-1 possesses a level of intelligence that is completely unheard of based on our research of it.”
“I know I know, but it's just a gut feeling.”

“I find this turn of events highly unusual,” Gears said.
It had been four days since the SCP-204 containment breach. Containment Protocol 204 had been put into effect immediately after and it had finally paid off, but with results that nobody had quite anticipated.
“Of all the people, it had to choose Jill.” Williams shook his head.
“Need I remind you, that Jill is merely a name on a piece of paper that no longer exists. She's an SCP now.” Gears coldly reminded him.
“What's going to happen to the mother?” Williams asked.
“Dr. Wells will be given a rigorous amnestic treatment and then be transferred to another facility.”
“So, it'll be as if Jill never existed, then.”
“The Foundation has no place for sentimentality, Agent Williams. I'm not quite sure why you're expressing so much concern over two individuals you have never met.”
“I'm pretty sure explaining the reasons would make your head explode.” Williams shook his head and walked away.
Gears, however, opted to stay in the monitoring room and stared at the security screens for what seemed to be a very long time. If the man was thinking of anything, none of the personnel present could even begin to guess what it was. They merely tried to pretend he wasn't there and continued with their duties. There, sitting in the middle of the newly reconstructed containment cell sat Dr. Wells, or at least something that resembled her, watching over Jill as she slept.
Meanwhile, the sound recording equipment inside the cell began to pick up something odd and faint. The sound engineer on duty was about to disregard it as random interference, but thought sounded vaguely familiar, like a lullaby.


Dear Diary,
Hello! My name is Lucy Campbell and I am 8 years old. When I grow up I want to be an actress like Emma Watson because she is very pretty! My mummy is also very pretty and very clever and helps me with my homework (I am not very good at it). My daddy works at a big white house called a sykiatric psychiatric hospital where he makes sad people feel better. When he came home today he was very happy and said that he was getting a promotion which means he is working for the guvermint government. I think he is going to meet the prime minister!
Dear Diary,
School was really good today! Mummy made me a choclate chocolate sandwich for my lunch and miss Young gave me a smiley face on my maths homework! Daddy did not come back home today because mummy got an e mail from daddy that said that he would not come home for a while. But mummy said that it was all right and daddy would be home soon and then she bought me an ice cream! Mummy said that I couldn't have any sweets tomorrow because my teeth would fall out, but I think she just wants them for herself. Grrr!
Dear Diary,
Yay! Daddy sent me an e mail today! He told me that he was writing a lot of stories and he was going to send them to me so I do not get bored. Daddy's stories are the best! I asked daddy if he had met the prime minister but he said that no, he hadn't seen him. I think he did meet the prime minister but he was told that it was a top secret meeting and he couldn't tell anyone… or else!
School was OK, except Cindy kept throwing rubbers at me when miss Young wasn't looking. When I'm a witch the first thing I will do is turn her into a slug!
Dear Diary,
Miss Young teached taught us about pirates today! I like pirates, but I don't think they could beat a wizard in a fight because wizards have magic and pirates don't. At break, me and Justin had a swordfight with some long sticks and I won! But then he started crying and I had to give him some of my chocolate bar to get him to shut up (boys can be such big babies sometimes!).
Daddy sent me a story today! It was about a big man that had to stand still when you looked at him. I think he would be good to play tag with because you could look at him and then he could not move! I think mummy would like the story but daddy said that the stories were secret stories.
Dear Diary,
I hate Cindy! Today at lunch she called me a big ugly pig and she made oink noises, so I punched her in the arm. It wasn't very hard but she started crying and told miss Young and miss Young made me say sorry to her! I hope Cindy turns into a maggot and is eaten by birds!
Daddy sent me another story! It was about a big dragon that was really angry and really hard to beat. Maybe it would eat Cindy? I think daddy forgot about the knight in shining armour that slays the big dragon though!
Dear Diary,
Ha ha, Cindy got in trouble today! She made a face at me during art time, but miss Young saw her and told her off! Miss Young liked my painting too – it was a big mean dragon like the one in daddy's story, and there was a handsom handsome knight and some birds and a big shiny sun! I really like art.
Daddy sent me a funny story today! It was about a man that has a necklace that turns him into a monkey. I asked daddy if he could get me that necklace so I could be a monkey but he did not send me an e mail so I guess he can't. Oh well.

Site ██ Log ██/██/██
1417h - Level 1 Buzzphrase “██████ ██ ████████” detected in outgoing transmission; Code Alpha information breach confirmed.
1419h - Buzzphrase traced to Dr. ████████; Dr. ████████ terminated.
1420h – Request sent for deployment of MTF-██ to [DATA EXPUNGED]. Request approved; MTF-██ mobilised.
1428h – Total containment of information breach confirmed by MTF-██.


There is, in a small national park somewhere in the US, a bike path. This bike path is hardly unusual: it is roughly twelve miles long, and makes a circuit around a small lake. Most of the path is wooded, and it is regarded by the locals as a beautiful little place to take a breather and catch some peace and quiet.
Many who jog or bike along the path observe nothing out of the ordinary. But there are those lone bicyclists who happen across the Runner.

Mark coasted his bicycle to a stop on the side of the path. Standing astride it, he drank eagerly from his water bottle. Finally, he was able to enjoy a day off, instead of staying home and paying bills, or mowing the lawn, or fixing the roof. And he was at the park at the perfect time, too: he was practically the only one there, besides a few families in the picnic area and the old men who fished from the pier.
Wiping his mouth on his arm, Mark put the bottle back and was about to pedal off, when someone ran up behind him.
“Nice day, eh?” the young man said. He was tall and thin, and wore a hooded grey sweatshirt and black running pants. His face was concealed by a scarf and sunglasses. Since summer had yet to take the place of the mild spring, Mark saw nothing unusual about this.
“Yeah. It's perfect out.”
The young man nodded. He swayed when he stood still, as if he was anxious to keep moving.
“You up for a race?”
“A race? That'd be pretty unfair.”
“Maybe. But so is life, you know?"
Mark couldn't help but chuckle.
“Okay. You're on. Where to?”
The young man thought for a moment.
“Right past the tenth mile marker, by the old storm shelter.”
“Fine by me. That's a pretty good distance from here, though. You sure you can keep up?”
“I'll give you a ten-second head start, even. Just go whenever you're ready.”
While Mark did host some suspicions about the strange young man, he brushed them aside. Sure, he was a bit odd, but he seemed nice enough.
Mark put his foot to the pedal and rode off. His speed was almost casual, and with good reason: the ten second head start would let him build up enough speed to leave any jogger in the dust.
“You know, you're going to have to do much better than that.”
Mark looked to the left to see the young man there, keeping an equal pace with the bicycle without moving at much more than a light jog. The ten seconds had achieved nothing.
How did he do that?
Mark immediately shifted gears and began to put some force behind his pedaling. The bicycle shot off down the path. Mark kept his head low, cutting through the air with aerodynamic precision. The wind whipped around him, filling his lungs with cool air. The trees went by in a blur of green and brown. He kept pushing himself further, faster, faster, faster. There was no way the jogger was anywhere close to him.
Turning his head to the side, Mark saw to his dismay that the young man was still there, matching his speed perfectly. But now he wasn't even running on the path anymore: he ran straight through the woods, dodging obstacles with the grace of a deer. Actually, it would be inaccurate to say that he even ran. He flew. His feet barely touched the ground before he took another leaping stride forward. His scarf waved behind him like a tail. The way he ran, Mark could imagine him laughing.
Mark's amazement at this was numbed by the overwhelming sensory maelstrom his speed had achieved. There was no noise but the wind in his ears, no taste or smell but the chill air in his mouth and nose, no sight other than a stripe of grey in a sea of green, nothing to touch but the handlebars.
Then, the shelter appeared up ahead on the side of the path. The finish line. Mark looked off into the woods. There was no sign of the young man. He must have left him behind. Redirecting his gaze towards the shelter, he gasped and hit the brakes, hard. He screeched to a halt in front of the old wooden storm shelter, twin streaks of rubber burned into the path behind him, and the young man standing in front of him.
“Nice effort there,” he said, not the least bit winded. Mark on the other hand, could not reply due to his shortness of breath. “I almost thought you were a lost cause at the beginning, but you pulled through for the finish. Best race I've had in a long while.”
“H-how…how did you…do that?” Mark panted.
“I really don't know what you're talking about. But anyway, here's your prize.”
“What prize?”
“Your consolation prize, of course!” The young man almost sounded insulted. “I can't let effort like that go unrewarded. So much better than the others.”
Mark's vision began to warp. The forest seemed to grow darker, unreal. The young man seemed to loom larger, and more mysterious. Shadows and shapes that should not have been there appeared in the forest. Bodies. Dozens of them. Bodies impaled on saplings, bodies with heads smashed in by rocks, bodies torn open by some ungodly force, bodies hanging by their own entrails from the branches of trees. A row of bloody bicycle helmets were perched on a fence of sharpened sticks. They were there, and they were not, shifting between the real, the imagined, and the forgotten.
“Here's your prize, a word from the wise,” the young man said, in a voice textured the way no man's was. “The one who does not give his all receives nothing but his grave.”
The Runner walked into the shelter and was gone.


*shatter*
FLASH
I'm lying on the floor, in more pain than I've ever felt before. I guess this is what it feels like to have a bullet in your gut. The pain is a constant but everything else is fading: I must be losing blood fast.
Wait - how did I get here? The last thing I remember was the break-in, that little guy turning around as they ran, the gunshot… and Angie gasping, clutching her stomach, and collapsing in a pool of her own blood.
ANGIE! Where is my wife?! There, standing where I was when she got shot, she looks as shocked as I am. She rushes over to me, not even paying attention to the furniture in her way. The old oil lamp falls off the end table, hits the floor…
*shatter*
FLASH
The pain is gone, and I'm back on my feet. But I was just… oh God, Angie's on the floor bleeding, like she was before. I've got to help her, I try to get over to her, to help her, stop the bleeding, something, ANYTHING. My elbow brushes the old oil lamp, it falls…
*shatter*
FLASH
FUCKING OW! I'm back on the floor, but at least Angie's okay. What the Hell is going on here? First she's dying, then I'm the one dying, then her, then me again - and nothing else is changing at all! Angie runs over to me, bumps the table, knocks over that old lamp…
*shatter*
FLASH
Switched again? How? It doesn't matter - I have to help Angie. I rush over, knocking over a table on the way…
*shatter*
FLASH
I'm the one dying again, but Angie doesn't look like she's any happier. She looks so confused, so scared. She looks at me, at her stomach, at the lamp. Wait a minute - why is that lamp in one piece? I remember now, when that little slimebag shot Angie in the first place, I ran over to help her, but I knocked that lamp over on the way. I didn't see what happened to it, but I heard it break.
She picks the lamp up off the table, barely able to hold it her hands are shaking so badly. She lifts it up above her head, throws it down…
*shatter*
FLASH
Standing and healthy again. I look out the door, see the two thugs running, not ten feet from where they were when they shot Angie. The lamp's back, too - does it rewind time or something? What the Hell is going on? How does some random oil lamp I bought in a store as a decoration somehow rewind time, and how do Angie and I keep getting switched?
No time to think about stuff like that. I know how little time Angie has: I could feel it when I was the one on the floor. There's no way an ambulance could get here in time, even if somebody else called them the instant they heard the shot. The only way to save her now is for me to be the one that dies. I grab the lamp and hurl it to the floor…
*shatter*
FLASH
It worked - I'm back on the floor. I see Angie reaching for the lamp, try to tell her that it's all right, tell her to let me go, but it's too late. The lamp falls…
*shatter*
FLASH
I grab the lamp, look down at my poor Angie, and tell her I'll save her…
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH

*shatter*
FLASH
We've been married almost twenty years - known each other twice that. Childhood friends, highschool sweethearts, always together. Everybody pretty much knew we'd end up married. I've sworn to myself ever since I was a kid: I'd always protect her, no matter what, even if it cost me my life…
*shatter*
FLASH
So why won't she let me?
*shatter*
FLASH

*shatter*
FLASH
I wonder if this thing ever runs out of juice? If it does, I hope it's while I'm the one down…
*shatter*
FLASH

*shatter*
FLASH
At this point, I'm pretty sure that if whoever's down dies before the lamp breaks, it won't switch us again. I just need to keep it in one piece long enough that I die before Angie can take my place…
*shatter*
FLASH
I grab the chimney, and wait. Watching her suffer like this, watching the life drain out of her without doing anything to stop it, it feels like my heart and soul are being ripped apart, but I have to wait as long as I can. If I delay the switch, it should put me closer to dying when we switch, and maybe Angie won't have time to switch back…
*shatter*
FLASH
DAMN. All the way back to when the lamp broke the first time. Delaying isn't going to work…
*shatter*
FLASH
I apologise to Angie for letting her suffer so long last time, and beg her to just let me die, let me save her…
*shatter*
FLASH
Angie begs me to let her die, let her save me…
*shatter*
FLASH

*shatter*
FLASH
I think I may actually be starting to get used to the pain - the physical part, at least. They say a person can get used to anything, but nothing dulls the horror of helplessly watching the woman I love dying slowly on the floor. I HAVE to save her…
*shatter*
FLASH

*shatter*
FLASH
By the rest of the world's reckoning, it was only a few minutes ago that we were cleaning up after dinner. Then those two thugs, bold as brass, just kicked in the front door. The big guy started grabbing whatever he could, while the little one ran room to room. He was probably looking for us, since he stopped when he found us hiding in the kitchen, pointed that gun at us, and ordered us into the living room…
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
We watched as they tore apart our home, grabbing whatever caught their fancy, and smashing a lot of what didn't. While the big guy was all business, the short one kept coming back to threaten us. The little rat giggled every time he made us flinch by jabbing us with his gun. That sick fuck must get off on hurting people - I saw the look on his face when he turned, gun in hand…
*shatter*
FLASH

*shatter*
FLASH
Maybe if I could kill myself somehow before Angie could smash the chimney again, I could break the cycle on the right side. The problem is I only get a couple of seconds…
*shatter*
FLASH

*shatter*
FLASH
Nope, that didn't work, either. Can't convince Angie to just let me die - she's obviously as set on saving me as I am on saving her. I'll find some way to kill myself in time…
*shatter*
FLASH

*shatter*
FLASH
How many times have we gone back and forth? I haven't exactly been counting, but it must be hundreds. Or thousands…
*shatter*
FLASH

*shatter*
FLASH
I don't remember my name. I don't remember who I am, where I grew up, or much of anything else that happened more than a minute ago by the rest of the world's time. We've been going back and forth for pretty much as far back as I can recall - years, at least. All I really remember clearly is that I can't let her die…
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH
*shatter*
FLASH