Reviver - SCP Foundation

Just another day's work, reviving the dead.

It was a rather nippy night when I arrived on the scene; past the peak of winter, but a bit of a ways away from the warmth of spring. A few clouds blemished the bluish-black sky, obscuring the dim glow of the crescent moon. All around me, the street was lined with brick-and-mortar apartment buildings, the subdued colors of the masonry contrasted by the bright red and blue flashes of light that strobe them.

An assortment of police cars adorned the narrow street, giving off an air of claustrophobia as I calmly walked over to the makeshift barricade. I turned to my side and slowly squeezed through the gap between a pair of vehicles, and that is when I came face-to-face with one of the officers. He was a rather gangly fellow, clad in a navy-blue uniform that seemed to be a size too large on him and a long, pale face that was partially shadowed by the brim of his hat. He looked at me with green eyes, decorated underneath by lines of jaded weariness that only those who experienced homicides for a living seemed to have.

“So, you’re the necromancer that they’ve called in to assist us,” the man stated with an unconcealed tone of contempt. I gave a sigh of mild annoyance.

“Reviver,” I corrected tepidly, having done this many times before in my career. I quickly glanced down at the man’s uniform, noting the name that was stitched onto one of his chest pockets: Rubin. He scowled at me for a moment, the movement of his muscles accentuating the crows’ feet that nestled on his face. “Yeah, well whatever you call yourselves, you’re all a bunch of fuckin’ freaks as far as I’m concerned,” Rubin replied icily.

I couldn’t really blame him for feeling disdain towards my profession. Most people tended to do so. When they hear of Revivers, they envision menacing robe-wearing figures performing arcane, dark-magicked rituals on corpses, raising them as undead forces to terrorize the public.

The truth, at least nowadays, is much more mundane.

“Officer Rubin,” I said finally, giving him a pointed look. “Nothing is going to get accomplished in this case by us being hostile towards each other. So, whatever your thoughts are about me or my job, I suggest that you stow them for the time being.” The silent glare that he gave me in response could’ve cracked bulletproof glass, but I stood my ground. “Now, where’s the body?”

“It’s over there,” he said after a few moments of fuming silence, pointing in the direction of a small crowd of cops gathered near a manhole. Between them, I caught a glimpse of a white tarp, no doubt covering the victim. “They’ve just finished photographing the crime scene.”

I gave a small nod, and with that I walked towards the gathering of officers. Behind my back, I could hear Rubin a few choice profanities at my expense. Ignoring him, I focused my attention at what I presumed to be the most senior of the lot. She was a broad woman, forgoing a hat that exposed more of her brunette hair, streaked with the smallest lines of grey hairs. In contrast to that showing of age, her face was comparatively youthful, angular and devoid of wrinkles. The only sign of stress she wore were pale violet bags that lined the bottom of her eyes, giving her the look of someone who hadn’t slept in a week.

“Good evening, officer,” I introduced myself, offering my hand to her as a formality. “I’m Gregory Mortest. I’m the Reviver that your precinct requested.”

The woman gave a small smile, taking my hand and giving it one quick but firm shake, before releasing it. “Lorie Chaucer,” she replied, the look of optimism on her face fading as she turned to look at the crime scene behind her. “What can you tell me about the victim?” I asked, wasting no time to focus on the matter at hand. She quietly pulled out a notepad from her pocket and flipped through it.

“Casualty’s name is Brett Wising, age 41,” she began reading off dutifully. “Cause of death: bled out from two gunshot wounds. Nothing of value was found to have been missing from his person, save for his cell phone lacking its SIM card.” As the officer spoke, I listened quietly, processing the information for a few moments before moving onto a more pertinent question. “Were any vital organs damaged from the gunshots?”

“One of them punctured his hip, though we will have to get an autopsy done before we can determine if anything internal has been fractured,” Chaucer said with a shake of the head. “The other one got lodged in his left thigh, where most of the blood leaked out.”

I gave a mental sigh of relief. This’ll make it much easier, I thought as I looked around. “Has the surrounding area been cleared of all civilians?” She nodded. “We’ve secured a 2-mile perimeter, blocked the roadways, and have informed all residents to stay indoors.” She was quiet temporarily, idly fiddling with the corner of her notepad page. “Need any more information, or…?”

“No, I’ve got enough information to work with,” I affirmed, nodding before flicking my eyes back towards the rest of the patrolmen. “Tell your men to move back,” I continued. “There’s no telling what kind of reaction the victim might have once I begin.” Officer Chaucer gave a nod of understanding, and quickly walked back to the other members and relayed the circumstances to the others. There was a smattering of indignant grumbling, but they nevertheless complied, clearing the space around the covered cadaver and drifting towards their patrol cars. Paying them no mind, I slowly lifted the white tarp covering the body.

The late Wising was laying on his side, his pudgy, balding face twisted not in mortal anguish or tranquil peace, but one of neutrality. His mouth and eyes mirrored one another, each of them pressed into a thin, taut line. He was clad in a blue and red checkered shirt, the top two buttons undone and showing the subtle signs of chest hair, the lower right side of it tainted with a pooling of partially-dried blood. His legs were covered by dark-blue dress pants, similarly contrasted by the bodily fluid, tapered off by sockless, dress-shoed feet. Sliding black gloves onto my hands, I gingerly turned the corpse so that its back was on the ground, his still blank face now pointing upward.

I took a moment to confirm that nothing important had been damaged by the bullets. One of the first things that you learn as a Reviver is that most organs can be considered expendable in your line of work. You can still work with a victim that has a punctured lung, and though a bullet to the temple can impair speech and motor functions, it can still be considered workable (albeit with great difficulty). However, those who have things such as bullets to the heart or damaged brain stems are considered beyond help. Fortunately, however, the assumption of the officer had been correct, and with a satisfied nod, I fished through my pocket to pull out what is a Reviver’s most essential tool.

My fingers finally grasped onto it, and out I pulled the palm-sized, iron ankh. I placed my finger on the bottom and slowly traced the tip across the smooth metal, muttering under my breath before finally pulling it away. I looked at my dexterity, which was now faintly vibrating with a sensation not unlike that of built-up static electricity. I took a deep breath, and then tapped the space on his chest where his heart was.

I only had enough time to register Wising’s eyes shooting open, the irises as grey as storm clouds, before the screaming started. I winced involuntarily, and even a few of the distant officers let out a few startled proclamations of “Jesus H. Christ.” No matter how many cases I took, no matter the age or gender of the victim, I never fully gotten used to the screams in my line of work. Nevertheless, I kept a mask of calmness worn, not moving from the spot despite every fiber of my being telling me to run, run and forget about the case, just run!

“Mr. Wising, I’m going to need you to calm down,” I said over the din, to no avail. I repeated the statement a few more times, my voice raising increasingly in volume, before finally the noise ceased, the ringing in my ears subsiding a few moments later.

“Wha? Who are you? What’s going on?” The words came out of Wising’s mouth rapidly, as if each syllable was trapped in his dead form and scrambling to get out. Several more questions came from him, and he started to shift, his legs bending as if to get up. However, I placed a gloved hand on his chest. “I would advise you not to move, Mr. Wising,” I stated levelly, looking at the blanched man, as I began the spiel that I had done in many cases previous. “My name is Gregory Mortest. I’m a Reviver. I’ve brought you back to life, if only for a little while, to see if you can remember anything prior to your death.”

The Revived man looked at me blankly, his face scrunched up in perplexity. It is common knowledge in our field that, even with an intact brain, a dead person who has been brought back to life has spotty memory, as a result of a lack of electrical signals going through the mind; the longer a person has been dead, the less of their life they remembered. “I know that this is a lot for you to take in, Mr. Wising,” I continued evenly, not removing my hand from him. “And that it will be hard for you to remember, but any information you can give us can make finding your killer that much easier.”

He was silent for half of a minute, staring up at the sky, his chest rising and falling against my palm, before he opened his mouth. “I…I was walking back home. I don’t remember exactly where; I think it might have been from work, or from my evening jog. I heard a car pull up beside me, and a voice call out my name.” He paused, closing his eyes tightly as if trying to collect his thoughts. “It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it to a person. As I turned to look, I heard a few pops and felt wracking pain in my hip and leg. I…fuck, everything else from there until now is too blurry.”

I gave a small nod, unable to hide the look of disappointment on my face. There was very little information to go on, but then again, I wasn’t expecting him to remember everything with clarity. I opened my mouth to say something, before the man jolted slightly. “Wait! No, I recall looking at the back of the car as it drove away. I couldn’t see the license plate, but I saw a name right above it. I don’t know if it was for a company or a person or whatever, but….” He shook his head, before continuing. “It said…said…'Valraven’, I think?”

“I see,” I murmured, finally removing my hand from the man’s chest. “I appreciate what you’ve told me, Mr. Wising. And I want to assure you that, no matter how long it takes, we will find whoever did this to you.” I traced my finger against the underside of my ankh, and was about to tap his heart once more before I felt a cold clamminess against my arm.

“Wait!” he said, his eyes frantic. “Please…please tell my wife…” he trailed off, his eyes murky. I looked at him quietly, before I gave him a reassuring nod, getting the gist of what he wanted. That seemed to satisfy him, and I felt his grip on my arm slacken, allowing me to resume. And with a poke, he was still once more, his face now carrying a smile.

I gave my findings to Chaucer, who quickly jotted down the information in her notepad with breakneck speed. “So, what do you think, Mr. Mortest?” she queried, watching as paramedics removed the body from the premises and loaded it into the ambulance.

“Please, call me Greg,” I said with a small shake of my head, before lapsing into silence for a couple of seconds. “And I think, judging by what Mr. Wising confided with me, that this wasn’t a simple drive-by shooting. I think it goes much bigger than that.”

I had a feeling that this case was going to get a lot more complicated for all of us.