The Many Portraits Of Jack Bright - SCP Foundation

by Captain Kirby

Carl Glasko did not expect to find himself at the doorstep of Director Bright's home. When he made that quip in the bathroom about Jack liking mirrors, he thought he was just being friendly. But that quip led to the topic of self portraits, which led to an invitation. And when the Director of Site-19 asks if you want to see his self-portrait collection, it's difficult to say no.

"Ah, Carl! You showed up," Jack said as he opened the door.

"Well, you did invite me after all. Who am I to say no to dinner?"

Jack laughed a little, "You'd be surprised how many people turn me down. One of the curses of being Foundation-famous is that everyone is 'afraid of intruding'."

Jack led Carl into the house. It was a two-story building, nothing too fancy, yet something about it felt empty. The footsteps seemed to echo a little too much. The walls were a little too bare.

But Carl didn't really pay it all much attention. He and Jack ate at a dinner table for six people. They both sat on one end, and left the other half completely empty. Conversation danced from topic to topic, eventually landing on the heavier, philosophical areas that work their way into any good discussion. They talked about the pleasures and pains of company. They talked about identity. They talked about faces.

"I've got an 18-year-old Redbreast I need an excuse to open," Jack eventually said, as he got up from the table. Carl nodded. He could go for a good whiskey.

After a few drinks, Jack felt relaxed enough to show Carl to the basement. It was behind a small door that Carl assumed was a closet, or just extra storage space. The stairwell was dimly lit. A few faint lightbulbs here and there. Jack blamed it on something like "atmosphere", but in reality he just hadn't changed them in decades.

After he lead Carl to the bottom floor, Jack flipped a switch. A few light bulbs flickered to life, illuminating a wall covered in self-portraits. Except, they were all self-portraits of different faces.

"I guess your face changes more often than the rest of ours," Carl said. Jack laughed a little, and then walked to a table in the center of the room. On that table was a mirror, a sketchpad, and a vast array of pencils. On the sketchpad was an in-progress portrait that resembled the Jack that Carl just dined with. Jack took a seat, and looked wistfully at the pictures around him. After a few moments, Carl broke the silence.

"Do they ever talk to you?"

Jack turned to Carl, that same smile plastered on his face, with something heavy behind his gaze.

"You want to hear a few stories?"

Carl nodded, and took a seat across from him at the table.

Portrait #1

Graphite on Paper

"You bastard!"

"I'm sorry!"

"Why me? Why the fuck was it me?"

"It's not like it was my choice."

"Fuck you."

D1-113 had been shouting at Jack ever since he got home. Jack had opened the door to his flat, and was met with this bombardment. It was the worst thing that could've happened to Jack after all of the shit he had been through that day. Dying, coming back to life, begging your way to freedom. He was almost contained on the spot after the amulet incident. But now he was home. He wanted to be done. He wanted to sleep. But the man next to his bed just kept shouting.

"Give me my goddamn body back."

"Do you think I know how?"

"You're all supposed to be geniuses, right? You figure it out."

"And then do you just expect me to die?"

D1-113 lowered his voice, and looked Jack right in the eyes, "Yes. Today was your day. Not mine."

Jack just laid down, and covered his head with his covers.

"You just ignoring me?" D1-113 asked.

Jack stayed silent.

D1-113 glared at Jack for a moment, and then let out a breath. There was something else he also let out in that breath. It might've been hope. Or maybe it was fear. Either way, he took a seat on the floor opposite Jack's bed.

"You bastard, you're as bad as they all say. Just looking out for yourselves. You've taken my body and I bet you don't even know my name."

It was the last thing D1-113 said that night, but it rung around in Jack's head. It bounced up against thoughts of "I shouldn't be here" and "I'm a freak" and "this doesn't feel like me". He didn't know why, but he couldn't bring himself to ask for the man's name.

Portrait #12

Pastel on Watercolor Paper

This was the third time that Jack's host was a woman. It never felt natural. Jack had given up on feeling comfortable in his own skin. His colleagues and friends would make some remarks about it, but at the end of the day, it was just another body until he needs another one.

The thought "this must be what nomads feel like" often crossed Jack's mind. Living on a stretch of land until it no longer offered the same quality of life it once did, and then moving to the next one. It's part of why Jack decided to stop moving after he bought his last house. If he couldn't feel at home in his body, then he would at least feel at home somewhere.

Jack normally took a week off between transitions to get used to the new body. But, ever since he got promoted, that week had become near impossible to schedule. This time, containment inspection got started ahead of schedule, so Jack had to practically live at Site-19 to make sure all the logistics worked out. It was about 10:00 at night, and Jack was still stranded at his desk, reviewing schedules and signing paperwork.

"So, this is what a Site Director's office looks like," Alice said. She strolled toward Jack's desk, her eyes looking everywhere except at Jack.

"I'm not doing this right now. I am extremely busy, so if you could wait until I'm not drowning in work, I'd appreciate it."

"Ah, yes. I forgot about how hard it must be to deal with," Alice motioned to the stack of forms on Jack's desk, "all this."

"Okay, you want to do this now? Fine. I'll give you the abridged version. Life is unfair. I don't want this to happen any more than you do. There's nothing you can do about it now. I suggest you spend your time left making peace with yourself before you fade away."

Alice dropped her coy smile, and took a seat across from Jack.

"Fade away?"

"Thirty days. Takes thirty days for me to get you out of my system. So, unless you want to expend all of my goodwill points now, I suggest you fuck off. Or else when you really want to talk, I won't give you the silent treatment. Trust me, the only thing worse than knowing how long you have left, is being ignored for half that time," Jack replied. He didn't look up from his desk as he said it. It was hard to tell what was on auto-pilot: the signing or the monologue. Jack had done both so much that he could probably keep it up while juggling with his free hand.

"I— I'm sorry," Alice replied after a moment. She sat in silence, staring at her lap while she waited for Jack to finish.

Portrait #34

Charcoal on Canvas

"Do you ever hear them?"

Dr. Jack Bright turned to the kid sitting next on the bench to him. He must've been in his mid-twenties. He reeked of bright futures and deodorant.

"It's polite to ask a stranger for permission before you join him on a bench," Bright replied, turning back to the small crowd of birds that had amassed around his feet. He tossed a few bread crumbs.

"You seemed lonely, and I learned from the best that it's better to ask forgiveness rather than permission."

"Where'd you learn that?"

"Working here," the kid motioned to building across the pond. Should have figured he was Site-19 personnel.

The kid felt familiar. Bright was certain he'd met him somewhere before. Definitely a researcher. Definitely Foundation. Maybe he was in some meeting or rather. Bright deals with far too many people to remember each junior researcher and security guard who waved to him in a hallway. One of the downsides of everyone knowing your name is that they never bother to mention theirs.

"Anyways, as I was originally asking, do you hear them?" the kid asked again.

"Don't you see I'm trying to dodge the question?" Bright replied.

"I'm letting my curiosity get the better of me."

"What's your name again? I don't think I quite caught it."

The kid smiled and shook his head. "Arnold Thayer. Been here for fifteen years. Would've hoped you at least heard my name by now."

"Fifteen years? You don't look like a vet of the system."

"Young face."

Bright nodded. He tore a piece of bread off for Arnold, but the kid declined.

"You still haven't answered my question," Arnold said.

"It's a pretty personal question. Don't really feel like answering. Besides, I'm pretty sure you know the answer anyways."

"I guess I'm asking if I'm the first."

"Nah, you're not," Bright tossed the rest of his bread on the ground and got up from the bench, "They usually stick around for about a week before they're gone."

Bright started back down the path toward Site-19. He had a meeting in five minutes, and he didn't want to be more than five minutes late, since that's what's fashionable.

Arnold walked with him. "Are they normally mad?"

"Sometimes," Bright replied, "Sometimes they're just sort of resigned. One time, I got this one girl who wouldn't stop talking about how I was a terrible landlord for 'evicting' her. I think she was a D-class who saw a few too many things."

"Do you ever miss your original body?"

Bright stopped and looked at Arnold. He's gotten a lot of questions over the years from these people, but they normally don't ask about that. It's usually more screaming. Or sighing. One of the two until they go quiet. It was only then that Bright could settle in to the new host.

"Well—"

"Dr. Thayer?"

Bright turned to see Teresa Rivera, Junior Researcher at 19.

Bright held his amulet up. "Close, but not quite."

"Oh, sorry Dr. Bright. Still getting used to the transition. Anyways, the meeting with Gerald and William was supposed to start two minutes ago."

"Was it? I'm sorry, I must've put it in my calendar wrong. I better get going then," Bright replied. He continued his stroll into the building.

"Umm…"

Bright stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"Who were you talking to?" Teresa asked.

Bright smiled. "Myself. Don't worry about it."

Jack finished his stories, and then both entered a heavy silence. Jack took a sip from his whiskey, since he brought it down with him. Carl finished his drink about an hour ago, so instead he looked at the man getting lost in the portraits hanging from the walls.

"Do you still miss your old body?" Carl asked. It's a silly question. Carl knew the answer. He just wanted to hear Jack say it.

"Yeah, I do."

"Do you remember what it looks like?"

Jack laughed a little at the remark, before responding, "It's funny, really. Most of the hosts are so distraught by seeing someone else in their bodies, they never realize how strange they must look in mine."