First Foot Forward - SCP Foundation

One foot in front of the other…

That was the only thought that kept Malcolm moving.

In older days, his duty had kept him moving. His duty to the Coalition, his duty to keeping the world safe from what it did not understand. And then, from an enemy they thought they understood.

"Circumstances outside of our control…"

He and his colleagues had spent the first few months of the assault pondering those words, discussing them at the canteen tables; trying to make sense of it. Now, at the end of the road, nobody had the energy to give them another thought. There were seemingly no more circumstances within anyone's control.

After Ganzir fell, it was Malcolm’s will that kept him moving. The will to keep the fight going, the spark of hope that they could turn the tide. Malcolm looked up, to his three comrades in their grey and blue uniforms. Once a proud symbol of survival against destruction and death. They were now covered in tears, burns, and the stains of blood, sweat, and fluids nobody could identify. For all Malcolm knew, they were the last of the Global Occult Coalition. The last to be slaughtered, no doubt…

What kept him moving now? He looked up to the sky, hidden behind layers of smoke and ash. Around to the dying forests and rusting cars stretching over the horizon. After a month of wandering the deserted streets, taking on kaijus, ghost chickens, and more blinkers than they could count, he couldn't bring himself to answer.

One foot in front of the other, Malcolm’s battered head told him. Those words rang through his mind whenever he bothered to question why he was still alive.

Where are we going?

One foot in front of the other…

What are we doing?

One foot in front of the other…

Why are we still alive?

One foot in front of the other…

Why?

BOOM!

An explosion shattered the road in front of them, sending bits of asphalt and rocks flying like shrapnel.

“Damn it!” Wallace, the squad leader, cried out. “Defensive positions!”

It’s not like he needed to say it. They’d been through this enough times already. Regardless, Victoria readied her rifle and went right, while Billie bounded left. As he’d done before, Malcolm fell back to provide cover.

The four Coalition soldiers took to their spots. Malcolm kneeled down on the asphalt. Even as he readied his rifle, he knew deep down that his road ended here, both metaphorically and literally. From the unit of over a hundred that existed before, there were only four of them now. This would be their last fight. I’m not afraid to die, Malcolm thought. It’s time.

Not yet! His mind spoke back.

Before he could react, the rocks and debris settled. Then they came, a group of dark figures emerging from the dust. All dressed head to toe in weathered gear, their faces hidden behind black helmets speckled with the grime and blood of their no doubt countless victims.

Malcolm had studied their badges during the first few months of the war, back when there was hope to beat them. From his distance, he could just recognize a white circle on their shoulders, marked with a black dragon. Task Force Xi-13 (“Sequere Nos”).

“Open fire!” Wallace shouted.

Not that it would do much good. The Foundation soldiers sped into the gunfire the same way one would rush to check on their oven roast: as if it was a quick chore. Malcolm watched as the bullets hit a man in black armor. The man kept moving forward, as if he was being pelted with snowballs, until Wallace got a lucky shot between the eyes.

The old commander looked back to Malcolm, meeting his eyes for just a moment. They both understood. Take as many as we can down with us.

No sooner did he turn back than a bullet turned his head to red mist. Malcom watched chunks of his commander's skull and brain matter scatter across the road. That would’ve traumatized him once, before everything went to hell.

Victoria didn’t have better luck. She took down one, then two, three, and four. But there were too many. The woman Malcolm had chatted at the campfire and shared rations with, and now he watched her fall to the ground like a ragdoll.

Billie threw down his rifle as a black-plated soldier approached, pistol in hand.

“Please!” He cried, putting his hands up. “You got us! We surren-“

BOOM!

The soldier blasted Billie’s brain out with a bullet. If there was anything Malcolm had learned within the last year, it was that you could judge people best by how they decided to spend their final moments. Malcolm decided not to follow Billie’s example.

Malcolm tossed his rifle away, kneeling down on the pavement. He closed his eyes and waited for his road to end.

Not yet! His mind said again.

A surge of adrenaline slapped his brain back into motion, as if he was teetering off the edge of a skyscraper. Malcolm felt something he thought he’d never feel again. Pure, primal, fear.

The Mobile Task Force approached, their guns aimed at Malcom's head.

It is not time to die! The voice in his mind said. It sounded like him, the same voice that had expressed Malcolm’s thoughts all his life. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Say exactly what I say!

Malcolm kept still, only to feel another rush of adrenaline. He was now looking down the edge of the skyscraper, to a pit of burning razor blades. Death didn’t seem so noble anymore.

What the hell is this? He tried to think the words, but only a shapeless thought came out.

Do exactly as I say! the voice said. Or else.

The Foundation Task Force had him surrounded, guns raised, ready to snuff out his existence without a second thought. Malcolm cried out the words as It spoke them in his mind.

“You!” He nodded to the soldier with the insignia of a commander. “Joshua Robinson! Born November fifth, nineteen-eighty-one!”

“Alright? So?” The Commander spoke in the cold tone that Malcom had become all too familiar with. Empty words, without a hint of feeling.

“Your earliest memory is at the playground!” Malcolm relayed the words being fed through his head. “Your dad, Pasha Robinson, pushing you on the swings! Your mother, Stacy Robinson, taking a picture in a green and blue polka-dot dress!”

The Commander, the one apparently named Robinson, said nothing at first. He motioned his soldiers to keep hold as he stepped forward. He removed his helmet, revealing his grimy face, likely not washed since the assault began ten months ago. He looked at Malcolm with his cold, sparkless eyes.

“Continue,” Commander Robinson said.

“You went through a secret anime phase in college,” It said through Malcolm’s mouth. “I know this because I was the voice in your head.”

Commander Robinson looked down at him inquisitively. He tilted his head back and laughed. “We’ve been wondering when you’d show up!”

“I’m here to discuss terms,” It said. “Take me to your nearest Overseer.”

Malcolm thought he’d gotten over fear. Ever since February, he’d watched the world burn, faced off against monsters and horrors most thought only fiction. Now, sitting in this damp and dirty holding room, he was more terrified than he’d ever been.

He didn’t dare speak, he didn’t dare move, despite the fact that they didn’t bother putting handcuffs on him. He felt as if he was leaning over the edge of the skyscraper, looking down at the pit of horrors below. Whatever was speaking in his head had its hand gripping the back of his collar. Any time it wanted, it could pull him back… or let go.

Say exactly what I tell you. Do exactly what I tell you. Once everything is finished, it will be like this never happened.

That didn’t do much to comfort Malcolm.

He jumped as the metal door to the holding room swung open with a screech. Malcolm never thought he’d meet a Foundation Overseer; he never had any expectations of what they looked like. Still, Overseers never look the way you’d expect.

“Pleased to meet you,” the Overseer said with a hint of sarcasm. He walked to the other end of the table and took a seat. “I’m O5-11.”

He looked back at Malcolm with the same cold eyes as the others, inhuman and empty, matching the cold tone in which he spoke. There was nothing behind his words, and he didn’t bother to hide it.

“Of course, O5-11,” It said through Malcolm’s mouth. “But I’m sure you would also prefer the name Christian Marcos. That was your name before, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” O5-11 responded, without a hint of surprise. “That was my name before I ascended to this position."

“Your predecessor was an important man,” It said. “Among the first to… escape. Fortunately, your peers locked that secret down tight. All I had to do was plant that small idea of an infohazard, and you did the rest.”

What were they talking about? Malcolm could tell that it wasn't meant for him to hear, he was just the mouthpiece after all. He briefly considered opening his mouth, asking his own questions, but that grip at the back of his collar loosened just a little. That pit below the skyscraper seemed closer.

“And yet,” O5-11 said. “We discovered the truth all the same.”

“You discovered much of it,” It replied. “I’m sure that hateful comrade of mine was there to fill in what details you could not. Shame, I thought I could drown out his noise.”

“Ah, yes,” O5-11 smirked, gesturing broadly around himself. “The dead have been much louder lately. Makes sense that was your work as well,” he chuckled. “I'm sure most of them thought they had hit the limit of their suffering, after eons spent stretched across the planet. Now, you're trying to squeeze them dry. A last desperate, play to keep going a little longer?”

It shrugged Malcolm's shoulders. “Something along those lines. Would you like a demonstration?”

O5-11 raised his eyebrows, looking around the room with mild amusement. A wave of nausea swept Malcolm’s body.

He could swear he heard something- no, felt something. Some mix of pain, despair, anger, and pleading. Though it felt more like a faint echo, Malcolm knew its true form was far stronger than anything he could contemplate.

The voice in Malcolm’s head boomed louder. That’s you someday. Not that you’ll remember.

“They’re certainly screaming now,” O5-11 said. “As if they weren’t before," he chuckled again. "I wish I knew about that part before I had my mother cremated…" he smiled. "Oh well, they won't be screaming for much longer.”

“An odd attitude to have towards the suffering of your blood,” It said. “And yet, you seek to save them.”

“Oh, no…” O5-11 said. “Well, yes, I suppose. But empathy was one of your creations, I should remind you.”

Malcolm barely had time to think between the words entering his head. Empathy? Screaming? Saving somebody? What was this?

“Well then,” It smiled. “I must ask. Why?”

O5-11 shrugged. “For one thing? It's grown annoying. Their suffering, I mean. Like hearing a fire alarm going off constantly…”

It laughed at that.

“But for the most part,” O5-11 continued. “We all have a reason to hate you. I spent most of my life in pain, as you might recall. Every bullet I took in the army, every punch I received in a bar fight in college, every time I stubbed my toe or got a paper cut. Imagine our shock to discover the truth. It was just you all along."

Malcolm's heart raced. Hearing all these words, his head turned them into puzzle pieces, attempting to put a picture together. Whatever he thought he understood before, about the Foundation, about his cause, he could sense the truth was much deeper than he could have imagined.

"If you’re truly as intertwined with us as we both know you are," O5-11 said. "We’d rather forgo existence all together…”

He leaned forward.

“That brings us here,” he said. “You wanted to talk to me? Here I am. Commander Robinson said you were here to discuss terms.”

“Christian,” It replied. “Currently, my main form is drifting through the hills as your people bombard me-which you should know is a brilliant waste of firepower-while the rest of me is split between the minds that are left, including this poor whelp in front of you.”

“Your point?”

“Even now, after everything you have done,” It said. “You are but a speck. A grain of sand compared to my planetary form. Would you negotiate with an ant? With a bacterium? Your pain is a minor factor. Your suffering is acceptable collateral. Though that doesn't mean it's not… what do you call it? Music?”

It raised Malcolm's arm, as if it were holding a stick, waving it up and down. The feeling in Malcolm's gut went up and down with it. The faint feeling of pain followed all around him, rising and falling with his hand. An orchestra.

"Creatures of Prometheus?" O5-11 asked. "I didn't even think you were sentient at first. Now you're a conductor with a sense of humor?"

"It's been so long since I've witnessed you in your natural state," It said. "I must know, what do you make of this?"

O5-11 looked around the room. "I wonder if Beethoven is among them. If he can still even recognize his own work."

They both laughed.

“Truly,” It said. “I think we could have gotten along once, under different circumstances.”

"We're not entirely alike," O5-11 said. "What's our saying? Cold, not cruel."

"Most of those you've recently put under my spell would disagree."

"What can I say," O5-11 replied. "You've raised the bar quite a bit. Compared to you, we're the greatest of saints. Sure, we've sent almost everybody into your customized hell, but they won't be making more pain-babies anytime soon. How long will it be before you starve?"

Malcolm felt like emptying his stomach. The puzzle in his head wasn't complete, but enough pieces were in place. This is what I fought for? He peered down into the pit below the skyscraper, a hole of burning razor blades in a pool of acid. THIS IS WHAT I FOUGHT FOR!?

"You believe you've defeated me?" It laughed, "I’m in every mind, every thought, and every place! You’ve simply gotten lucky, starved me of my sustenance for a short time, but our fun is about to come to an end."

O5-11 raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Before you began,” It said. “You neutralized your Exclusionary Sites, correct?”

“Yes,” O5-11 tilted his head. “Why do you care?”

“Christian,” It said. “What do you know about Anti-Memetics?”

There was a flash in his eyes. Anger, maybe?

“You're asking a member of the Overseer Council what he knows about Anti-Memes?”

“Yes,” It replied. “I was lucky to come across somebody with the right equipment, the right questions. It took very little convincing to get him to do his duty. He’ll be finished soon.”

O5-11 raised his hand to the side of his head. Malcolm just now noticed the earpiece. The Overseer looked back at him, listening to whatever was coming in the other end.

“Site-62C,” he said. “Our units are reporting a breach. Your man, I assume?”

"As we speak," It said. “He’s sprinting to the finish line. Can you hear the cheering?”

Even as O5-11 contemplated the news, his face kept still.

“What exactly is he supposed to do with five-seven-nine?” he asked. “Be eaten?”

“Zero-five-five,” It said.

"We don't have a Zero-five-five."

It began chuckling through Malcolm’s mouth.

"What?" O5-11 looked back at him with fiery eyes. "Hey! I'm talking to you!"

It laughed more. “Let me ask you, Christian, what happens when a round peg meets a square hole?”

O5-11 slammed his fist down on the table, standing up.

“Why did you really come here?” he barked.

“You don’t know?” It said through laughter. “I wanted to tell you myself. To see your face when you realize how fruitless your efforts have been."

O5-11 slumped back in his seat, his eyes full of anger. After a moment, it seemed to melt away. He breathed a heavy sigh, not one of fear, or stress. Only bitterness and disappointment. He looked back at Malcom with the same cold, empty eyes.

"Will it effect you too?" O5-11 asked, his tone returned to the emotionless husk as before.

"I don't know," It replied. "I hope not. Regardless, I'll be back to my business in the next few minutes. And besides, this moment was worthwhile."

It chuckled.

“My man stands at the edge of the pit now,” It said. “Your soldiers won’t get to him in time. Still, he’s giving a speech about… detectives? Odd topic, meaningless, like him. Like you.”

O5-11 lifted his head, looking back at Malcolm’s face, at It. Leaning forward, he lifted his hand out.

“A good play, 5000…" he spoke in an odd tone. Disappointed, but not defeated. "Or whatever you’re really called…"

It raised Malcolm's hand to grip O5-11's. The screaming grew louder around them. Hundreds of helpless voices echoing into their isolated shells. Yet even here, a civilized handshake was apparently deemed appropriate.

“But I want you to know," O5-11 continued. "Whatever happens… Whatever you undo… I promise you, on behalf of the SCP Foundation, and on behalf of the human race, we will find you again. All you’ve done is delayed us…”

The puzzle in Malcolm's head was complete. A picture worse than any horror he'd witnessed on the road leading here. O5-11 stood, pulling Malcolm's hand towards himself. He leaned forward, putting his face in front of his.

“…We will find you, and with everything at our disposal, we will bring you down. Over, and over, and over until we finally snuff out your pathetic existence, even if we have to snuff out our own.”

Malcolm’s heart was running a marathon. He knew that this was the end, one way or another. The last year of his life, the horrors he’d witnessed, the masses he’d seen slaughtered. All about to be undone. Tears filled his eyes, though he wasn't sure if it was relief or despair.

Malcolm could feel himself being pulled back from the edge, to the safety of the ground. Against all the objections in his gut, he turned away from the edge to look at the hands that had held him there.

A towering figure smiled back at him. It smiled back. Its body stretched out across the skyline, behind it swirled the faces of the dead. Among them, Malcom saw Wallace, Victoria, Billie, his mother and father, even the face of a child he recognized from his first botched raid, seven years ago. They and a million others looked back, their faces contorted in silent agony, as if every fiber of their existence was being stabbed, skinned, burned, and crushed all at once. This is what you've been fighting for.

It spoke its final three words in his mind.

“First foot forward.”

The road ended in a flash of light.

Oh … so that's how it is.

Well then… how do we proceed?

I don't know, Eleven. I just watched us orchestrate the end of the world.

We need a minute.

We don't have a minute, Five!

Seven's right. If we're correct, that suit and the data are all that's left of what happened. We have to figure this out, now. We have to figure out why.

You saw the timeline he retrieved. "Project Pneuma", what happened?

Project Pneuma was officially cancelled in the planning stages thirteen months ago. Though I can't quite recall why…

I propose an immediate reinstatement!

Seconded.

Hold on-

Enough!

Let us not forget what we saw… what we did. We will take this slowly… methodically. We will find out why. We will examine every bit of data from this harness, and find what lies at the center of it all.

What if… what if we find something we don't like? We work to protect humanity, right? What if… what if everything we just saw truly is the only answer?

An infected crop must be purged. If the whole field is sick, then it's good as useless, it can only be burned. Should we have to set fire to the world… Then we won't make any mistakes this time.

You always do.