Branches Reaching Home - SCP Foundation

CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of death, loss of a loved one, and PTSD

Inside the halls of Site 403, stood Dr Sycamore and Dr Levi - one short, one tall, both rather morose and worn about the face. Conditions of employment, it seemed. Sycamore ran a hand through her greying hair, pushing pink-rimmed glasses up her nose. “I’m sure you’ve been given a rundown of what I’ll say-”

“Obviously.”

“-Because despite my requests, there’s no clearance violation for gossip-”

“Naturally.”

“-And people here think I’m-”

“A cranky old biddy?”

“Some kind of- will you stop interrupting me?”

“Sorry,” Levi shrugged, cracking a slight smirk. Sycamore looked them up and down with a hmph, judging them too young to afford their attitude, and a tad cartoonish - a stockier, round build and choppy blonde hair, with a plump apple-cheeked freckled face. Large bright eyes with heavy bags let her know they hadn’t worked here long - at least not long enough to have the life beaten out of them.

Then again, Sycamore had beaten the life out of herself before she’d even stumbled into her Foundation role, so perhaps she didn’t know much about anything at all.

“So. You’re working with SCP-163, who is sentient. The file paints it in quite a warm light. But that is not an excuse for anthropomorphism. It is not your pet. It is not your pal. It is an anomaly.”

“Kay’,” Levi nodded, shifting from foot to foot. “Can I call him Martin?”

Sycamore narrowed her eyes. “No.”

“I’m gonna call him Martin.” Levi said decidedly, nodding to themself.

Sycamore eyed the containment door with trepidation. On one hand - enforcing authority would be the correct decision here. On the other - she felt a deep revulsion to the thought of being an old biddy.

“Fine.” She figured that with all the old guard - or what was left of them - dropping off like flies, earning the respect of the newcomers was probably more important at this point. Besides, she got enough flack from her son’s recriminations.

Levi pumped a fist in the air, and Sycamore swiped her card through the holder; green light blinked; and they were standing within the receiving room. Levi removed Manual M-163-2 from their pocket, cockiness suddenly shoved to the side as anxiousness set in.

“SCP-163?” Sycamore called sharply.

A slow whirring- and 163 poked its head out. As it saw Dr Levi, a procession of wrinkles curved into the patch above its compound eye, and it released a low stuttering hum. Dr Levi waved shyly.

“No need to worry, 163. This is my colleague, Dr Sam Leviticus. They’re one of the official staff assigned to your containment and continued welfare.”

There was a pause as the SCP’s two upper mandibles clapped together in what seemed to be almost an excited motion. “That’s an affirmative,” Sycamore supplied. Dr Levi’s face broke out into an almost hopeful grin. “Oh, wow.”

Sycamore’s heart buzzed slightly, and she remembered, for a second, the procession of names- Dr Sycamore, or just Ms Sycamore, after Mama, then Alexandria-

“Hey lil guy’,” Dr Levi said cautiously, extending a hand out as if to greet a dog (it is not your pet, Alexandria, said Dr Lopez). Sycamore cleared her throat. “163, you may take a seat.”

The creature hummed again, then loped forwards, four arms held cautiously aloft and eye flickering.

“Would you like to be in charge of the overview?” Sycamore offered, handing out the clipboard in an offering of - peace?

Levi accepted - peace established.

(Like a parent handing off to a child; god I’m sorry Wyatt)

“Alright,” Levi read aloud. “Subject’s mood - how we feeling, Martin?”

163’s head wrinkled in confusion.

“Sorry- Okay. One at a time- how are you feeling?”

Another affirmative clapping - yay I’m good.

“Can I call ya Martin?”

Clap Clap Clap Yes you may.

Levi beamed, and shot a triumphant look at Sycamore. “Thank you Martin.” A sharp sniff. A pledge of indifference (it is not your pal, Alexandria).

Subject mood: Positive.

Next, a quick inspection of the subject - hygiene: standard; injuries: none.

“Are we communicating with you effectively?”

Martin indicated another affirmative, then paused, before quickly lumbering out of the room. Levi squinted questioningly, then made a small “oh!” as the alien came back with 3 easels, and its box of paints.

“Oh yeah! It paints!” Levi smacked their forehead.

Sycamore felt a sudden rush of self-consciousness, taking the board in her hands. Martin tilted its head, skin rippling in concern. “No, no,” she said. “It’s alright. Dr Leviticus and I would be happy to assist,” she looked up. “Levi? Will you paint?”

“Me?” Levi echoed, surprised.

“It makes him- it more comfortable.”

Levi grinned. “Never thought I’d find myself using my art skills at the foundation. Whaddaya know.” They cracked their knuckles, sitting cross-legged beside where Martin was sloppily setting up the supplies. Sycamore sighed, picking up a brush, and letting her mind wander.

It’s a sunny bright day and Alex isn’t sure where to start. Wyatt’s occupied with a plush blue dog, sewn to emulate some cartoon he likes. She hums, eyes trailing over the boxes again - and still frozen. Fingers trembling. She smoothes her dress. It used to follow her to church. But the Foundation doesn’t believe in a God that cares.

Another shuddering breath. She dives for a box marked living room because that’s where they’re sat, so she might as well get it over with-

And there’s a photo of her and Roger, standing shoulder to shoulder, smiling with Wyatt in her arms. Alex swears, then curses again for swearing in front of Wyatt, then feels a bubble of helplessness catch in her throat as she wonders what in God’s name she’s going to do now. Wyatt keeps playing, oblivious through his swath of dark curls and chubby cheeks. She steps outside the room, hands shaking, not sure whether she’s worse for leaving her three-year-old unattended, or for not being able to handle what every Foundation member sees twenty times over - death, or what becomes of it in your mind.

Maybe death is not understood anymore, so much as life is felt in layers. The paper-thin lives of D-Class, the cardboard cutouts of your coworkers. Roger had been her brick wall to lean on, her ship anchor. And yet he crumbled so easily, folding at the waist in pain, white Doctor's coat stained with blood. Alex’s light, dying in the dark, dying in uniform as Dr Lopez, instead of in her arms as Roger.

Anger and frustration and grief were bubbles popping beneath her skin.

Sunlight filtered in through the windows, settling upon a vase of poppies she’d set out, from Dr Linda Muller, a housewarming gift.

Poppies were all over the floor, and there was never enough blood to wash off her hands.

Levi looked over, surprise flooding their features. “Damn. That’s good.”

The poppies stood out from the canvas, in a blue vase laced with thin cracks. The sun hit them from the side, the shadow of the windowsill deepening the corners, cracks and shadows for secrets to slip into and fester. Sycamore flushed. “Thank you.”

Levi had painted the picture of a beautiful ginger woman, rendered to a liquidy, wavery life in soft pastels. “My wife,” they informed, nodding. “Sophia. Our one-year anniversary is coming up.”

Dr Sycamore’s heart ached slightly. “Is she… does she know?”

“About the Foundation? Yes.”

“Oh.” Resentment bubbled up in Sycamore’s throat, reflecting off of Levi and coming to settle inside her stomach, living inside her.

“Level 0 Clearance. So I don’t have to lie to her. But she doesn’t work here.”

The anger ebbed away. “That’s…” Sycamore considered. “Good.”

Martin hummed, turning their attention to what he’d been creating.

“Wow!” Levi gasped. A night sky, dotted with constellations filled the canvas. A few planets scattered the edges, and a black swath sat in the centre, like a cloud of dead air and dreams filtered through static channels. Martin stared at it. And then made a humming noise, its forehead wrinkling in anguish.

“Aw,” Levi frowned. “Is this your home, honey?”

An affirmative gesture.

“This,” Levi tapped their painting, careful not to smudge the drying paints. “Is my home as well.”

Sycamore looked at her canvas.

Home.

Was this how far she was from her home?

Eleven years?

She frowned.

“You’re so far away, Martin. And you’ll never be back. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Martin made another long, vibrating hum. Sycamore counted his forehead’s wrinkles. Six for Sadness. And then-

Three, something strange and light.

Sycamore sucked in a breath. And smiled.

“Alright. Now, Levi, would you like to try your hand in a game of chess? Martin’s quite skilled, I believe.”

Martin clapped in delight, crawling back over towards his room to retrieve the board game. Levi beamed.

“Sure thing, Doc.”