And What Was a Soul to That Blank White World - SCP Foundation

“A month. Tops.”

“I won’t get… What, any details?”

”I’m not personally privy to the details, I’m afraid, even if I were allowed to disclose them.”

“H-how do I know what I did wrong?”

"I'm not sure what you mean by that. Your errors were explained to you thoroughly."

"…Okay."

The effort I used to give, if in vain

⊥μԍ ԍɻɻoɩϝ I nƨԍq ϝo მᴉʌԍˋ ᴉɻ ᴉu ʌɑᴉu

"Well, that was fast."

"Oh. What?"

"Just saying that you read it quickly, that's all. Are you comfortable signing?"

"Oh, oh! Yeah, of course. I've gotten this far, right?"

"That's a good mentality to have. Go ahead."

"Thank you."

"No, thank you."

I have no need for a memory of my life before this. The prospect of it seems painful. Whatever my meaning was previous to this has been outweighed by usefulness, potential or otherwise, and that’s fine. I had nothing to spend my paycheck on when I lived in the real world, so what was the point of receiving it? It's fine. It’s reasonable enough, and it’s fine.

I have spent anywhere from two to six years here, give or take a few years that might have gotten fucked around in my memory or wiped out of it entirely. It was clear to me when I was hired that this organization’s purpose wasn’t as scientifically oriented as I’d originally thought, and that was fine too. It was important work, work I didn’t mind dedicating myself toward despite a few ethical doubts I had towards the beginning. I was here because I wanted to be here. That was my intention, and it was a comfortable and confident one.

was outvalued and then outweighed by pain

ʍɑƨ onϝʌɑɼnԍq ɑuq ϝμԍu onϝʍԍᴉმμԍq pλ bɑᴉu

"Where are you?

"Just my office. Why, what do you nee-"

”We need you. Your father and I are getting tired.”

”Tired of… what?”

”Of this! Of you! Well, not of- you, just of… this situation. You’ve been gone for months. We haven’t seen you in months. Don’t you realize how heartbreaking that is? What are you doing that is so damn important, huh?”

“Dad, I-”

”I know you’re not a kid anymore, alright, so don’t pull the age thing-”

“That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say that I’m doing work more important than you two probably expect-”

”Oh, this is about what we expect, now? When did that become the subject of this conversation?”

“It didn’t, it didn’t!”

”Then what the hell are you up to, Teresa? Where are you? Why won’t you visit us?”

“Don’t- don’t yell, please, everything will be fine, I’ll keep sending you and dad money-”

”We don’t want your fucking money! We want you back in our life, not those shady-ass monthly transfers from your shady-ass bank showing up in our transaction history, dammit! What the hell is your bank anyway? I’ve never even heard of it! When I Google it I get nothing! Do you work for the government or something?”

“Please stop yelling-”

”I’ll stop yelling when you tell me where the fuck you are, honey! We don’t know where our daughter is!”

“Indiana, okay, the closest town is Bloomington, just- wait, fuck-”

”'Wait fuck' what?”

“I have to go; someone’s here-”

“Please call me back, Teresa, we miss you so much-”

”Who was that?”

“Oh, hi Doctor Werner-”

”I said who was that?”

“Who was- my- father? My father, he called me, you know how family gets-”

”You revealed our location to your father?”

“Y- yeah-”

”This isn’t a Foundation cell phone. You know the rules, Lockwood, keep this in your belongings locker unless you’re going off-site for one of your yearly vacation periods.”

“I… know, sir.”

”Yeah. You do.”

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

and by lack of action, or thoughts ingrained

ɑuq pλ ɼɑcĸ oɻ ɑcϝᴉouˋ oɩ ϝμonმμϝƨ ᴉuმɩɑᴉuԍq

"Lockwood? What are you writing?"

"Oh, uh my notes. For the-"

"It's past time for lunch. You should go."

"Oh. Yeah, you're right."

"I'll have someone escort you."

"Um… why is that necessary?"

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize how purposeless I would feel if I hadn't been hired by the Foundation or a similar organization. I could spend my days slaving away at a nine-to-five job, like I spent my teens and early twenties, but what would I be doing? Helping some no-name company make its money? No, I'd rather do something important, even if that meant doing things the outside world frowns upon.

After the legal shitshow sparked by the events in Korea cracked the Foundation's backbone, containment of human anomalies was the new animal testing in the public's eye, and no amount of logical reasoning would sway their vitriolic and destructive activism. For a while, I started to wish that I was from a different education background - anything other than biology - just so that I could turn a blind eye to the Foundation's 'questionable morals' and file paperwork in some dusty office wing. Anything other than what was popular controversy. Anything that didn't involve sentient subjects.

my sense of self was exhausted and drained

wλ ƨԍuƨԍ oɻ ƨԍɼɻ ʍɑƨ ԍxμɑnƨϝԍq ɑuq qɩɑᴉuԍq

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

and I do recall the day my heart died

ɑuq I qo ɩԍcɑɼɼ ϝμԍ qɑλ wλ μԍɑɩϝ qᴉԍq

“I can’t talk to you.”

"But I'm the same pe-"

”No, I- it’s not that I don’t, I- can’t.”

"Not allowed. Right."

“It’s wrong. I’d be wrong.”

"Didn't you get my note? Please tell me you got my note."

"Please be quiet. Look, we really can't be seen talking to each other."

"Am I not the same person? The same person you’ve always known?"

"…I’m sorry, okay?"

The more I considered the concepts involved, the more I came to the realization that it would be downright unintelligent to ignore how environment has the capacity to enforce and cause behavior. Of course a person acts like an animal when you put them in a cage, I explained to my supervisor a few years back; living things conform to the context of their environment, I know that much, and when a living thing's environment is designed to enforce a mindset, how can you in good faith lay the blame of the results on the victim?

He didn't like that. It was a telltale sign of concerning sympathy, he said, and he'd be moving me to a "less stress-inducing work environment" ("for my own safety," of course). I'll get my head in the right place, he told me. Amnesticization is always an option.

As of now, I am not certain where I stand.

and I do recall that one time they tried

ɑuq I qo ɩԍcɑɼɼ ϝμɑϝ ouԍ ϝᴉwԍ ϝμԍλ ϝɩᴉԍq

"Did you hear?"

"What? Hear what?"

"The news. They know. The public knows."

"Keep your voice down-"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Terra, no one's listening."

"You never know, okay? And besides, isn't this old news anyway?"

"No."

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

to reinvigorate and humanize

ϝo ɩԍᴉuʌᴉმoɩɑϝԍ ɑuq μnwɑuᴉzԍ

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

and despite their efforts to compromise,

ɑuq qԍƨbᴉϝԍ ϝμԍᴉɩ ԍɻɻoɩϝƨ ϝo cowbɩowᴉƨԍˋ

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

But it's fine, really;

I am just a cog in the machine.

I ɑw ℩nƨϝ ɑ coმ ᴉu ϝμԍ wɑcμᴉuԍ·

“A month. Tops.”

“I won’t get… What, any details?”

”I’m not personally privy to the details, I’m afraid, even if I were allowed to disclose them.”

“H-how do I know what I did wrong?”

"I'm not sure what you mean by that. Your errors were explained to you thoroughly."

"…Okay."

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