THEREISNOHOPE - SCP Foundation

Everything is red.

September 8th, 2035. 3:30 AM.

Timeline 5956-X

Everything is red.

It has been this way for exactly thirteen years. Times are when Naomi had tried to differentiate it. Scarlet ceiling lamps, crimson concrete walls, cherry plastic cutlery lying on a light coral plate. The dark carmine of her bedsheets and the deep garnet of the wooden desk. Years ago, when she was still at the bargaining stage of grief, pretending that all these shades of red were something more.

They are not. Her reality is red, bleeding from a wound which refuses to heal. And humanity is drowning in its blood.

“Trouble sleeping?” Sasha mutters under the blanket, eyes still closed. Their hair is frazzled, like a clump of broken straws. She feels guilty for waking them prematurely — a glance at the alarm clock tells her there’s a good half-hour before they’d have to put in the eyedrops. She sits at the edge of the bed, feet dangling above the carpeted floor.

“I’m fine, just stressed. Heart keeps beating way too fast, keep thinking about all the wrong things.”

“What sort of things?” They roll over next to her, but don’t sit up.

“Big things. Existential thoughts. I’m in a brooding mood, sorry.” She leans back, resting her head on their chest.

“Three AM is the best time for brooding, I think. Peels back the layers.”

“What?” she almost laughs.

“Less filters, as you can see. You make less sense, and that makes it more meaningful.” They run their fingers through her hair. She shifts to lie on the bed before climbing over them to sit on the other side. Staring at the ceiling, back pressed against the wall, she can almost make out the cobwebs in the corner. How much more simple it must be, to be a spider in that web. How much more safe. And there are flies aplenty.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Well, I don’t want— you’ve got your own shit to deal with. You don’t need to take up my burdens.”

“And if I want to? If I want to help you?” She can hear the pain in their voice, try as they might to hide it. “A burden shared is a burden halved, is what Ngo would say.” She doesn’t need to look at them to know their expression. Kind, pleading. Like a painkiller begging to be swallowed.

“And she’s gone. It’s been years. G-d, it’s been years. I’m fine, trust me.”

“None of us are fine.”

“You know what I mean.”

Silence reclaims the room eagerly, at home in the darkness. Red-rimmed silhouettes are all that she can see. The minutes tick by. At precisely four in the morning, the two help each other administer the eye drops without a word, and Naomi tries her best to sleep. Trains of thought run spirals in her head, round and round and round, derailing and derailing, until finally drifting off into peaceful oblivion.

At exactly eight in the morning Researcher Naomi Markovich stands in the bathroom, head craned upwards, and squeezes out two drops in each eye. There is no mirror, naturally, but she knows she is a mess, a rat’s nest of dark red curls creeping down her neck. She forces it into a rough ponytail, split hairs sticking out like dead grass, then splashes some water on her face. The cold numbs her senses, giving momentary relief to her dry lips. There are circles under her eyes, and too many wrinkles for a woman in her thirties. She shaves the stubble to a shadow she can tolerate, nicking the underside of her chin. Blood drips down the sink, and she washes it and the cut with cold water. The softness of the towel against her face soothes the pain, and she savors it.

Not winning yet.

Opening a cabinet, she swallows a 2mg estradiol pill before checking her stock — barely enough to get it through the month. She’ll have to pay H&P another visit, though she doubts she’ll have any better luck this time. The other room is empty, Sasha having left early for their shift. She gets dressed, grabs her lab coat off the floor — didn't she hang it on her chair? — and steps out of her sanctuary into the cracked halls of Site-43. The lights flicker overhead, like candles before a storm.

In just over ten hours, the Breach will be upon them again. There will be no Cannon, despite their best efforts and most desperate of hopes. Eight human beings will have to reenact armageddon, while others will risk their lives against the resurging demons above. And what will she be doing? Nothing. Hiding under the covers, hands over her ears while thunder roars and the klaxons claw at the walls, threatening to rip her world apart. Her heart will squeeze in her chest, blood rushing in her head, painful in her fingertips. And she will cry, and Sasha will try to tell her that it will be fine, and they will fail, because nothing is fine, nothing ever will be fine ever again, and she will shut her eyes against everyone and everything — and still all she will see is red.

The hydroponics in R&E are a welcome distraction, with most of her morning spent tending to the farms. She cuts away root rot, pollinates flowers, unclogs a pipe and ensures the anti-reflectant is routinely pumped into the water supply. Her coworkers appear to be in a similar mood as her, saying little save a ‘hello’ or ‘good morning’. Still, it feels good to be lost in the maze. Hidden amongst the leaves, the air as fresh as it gets, she can almost imagine she's above ground again.

Cherry picker.

“You alright?” Mihaly Ládas, the Senior Researcher in charge of the farms, finds her picking tomatoes in one of the smaller rooms. “You look off.”

“‘Tis the season to be jolly.”

The other woman sighs. “Touché. But I saw you avoiding the others.”

“Have I now?”

“We’re all in this together, you know that. You can talk to us if you–”

“I know.” Naomi snaps. “I don’t want to talk. I’m fine, really, I just– call it seasonal depression or something, I don’t care. Maybe I just want to be alone with my plants? Why does everyone suddenly want to be my therapist?!”

Ládas raises her hands in surrender. “Woah, sorry, didn’t mean to push a button.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Well, other than worrying about you, I was wondering if you wanted to check on the mold? I know it’s technically my jurisdiction, but it’s still your project.” Said mold was something she’d discovered a few weeks ago, growing in strange geometric patterns on the leaves of a cucumber bush. Definitely anomalous, probably linked to the Breach – like every anomaly, these days. "Oh, and are you the one who swept the strawberries in row G? They were scheduled for next week and I haven't seen anyone—"

"Wasn't me." She shrugs and puts the half-filled basket aside. “But sure, I'll take a look at the mold, as long as you leave me alone.”

“You know I can't do that. Protocol–”

Naomi chuckles dryly. “Right, right. Let's just go then.”

The lab-turned-containment chamber is small, most of the equipment removed or lying unused in the corner. Ládas hangs near the doorway as Naomi approaches the small hydroponics complex at the center. There are, of course, no microscopes, not even a simple magnifying glass to help her see. It is barely a project, more a hobby or a distraction, but she does it anyway, kneeling down to inspect the dark red leaves. The mold is black, a spiderweb of needle thin growths, circles within triangles within hexagons within pentagons.

She turns over the leaf to look at the underside. The mold here is more standard, a fuzzy sheet that dominates the plant. It is pockmarked with holes, little islands of light red in an ocean of black. It's secreting something between the gaps, she notices. She brings the leaf closer to her eyes, squinting – some sort of liquid, clear and–

The realization hits like a gunshot blasting through her skull and she hurls herself backwards, just as a tiny, colorless claw erupts from the reflective liquid, growing instantly to full size as it shoots out to grab her. Time seems to slow as she crashes to the ground, heart beating madly, staring as the corpse of Phillip Deering crawls out from under the leaf. Its bleeding eye sockets meet her gaze. She curses and kicks back frantically as it lunges at her, her brain screaming that any injury from this thing would mean her death. Her foot connects with a gray claw and she twists, trying to roll away only to feel its crushing grip squeeze her forearm. It's going to pull her in, oh G-d it's going to–

“No-no-no-no PLEASE NO–”

A loud metallic clang rings through the air, followed by the sound of splashing water. She feels the grip release and immediately rolls over, pressing herself into the corner. Only then does she grasp that Ládas had hurled the plant into the other side of the room, that the thing they put in the water must have disrupted the reflection when it spilled out and–

Naomi coughs, wheezing, shutting her eyes. The tears are quick to come, pouring through the cracks. Every nerve feels like it's on fire, waves of electricity rippling along her skin. Out out out she needs out she needs it to stop–

“I was going to die. I was going to die. I was dead. Fuck, fuck, I'm going to– I'm–” her teeth are chattering. Ládas runs over to her.

“We have to get out of here. Come on.”

“He LEFT us! That motherfucking, bullshit sciencing son of a bitch–”

“Naomi! We need to go!”

“HE LEFT US TO DIE! None of this fucking matters, it's never gonna end, it's never GOING TO END!”

Ládas grabs her, shakes her, drags her towards the door. She collides with something she can't see, the pain barely registering. There are spots at the corners of her vision, black holes in a red reality. Her ears are ringing, she can barely hear the door slam shut behind them.

“We can’t even… can't– the others– stuck, trapped, dead dead dead dead…”

At exactly 12 AM Naomi lies in a bed at Health and Pathology. She isn’t sure when she blacked out, but it’s clearly been long enough to bring her heart rate back to normal. The nurse helps her administer the eyedrops. A moment later, Sasha enters the room, and the nurse leaves the two alone, off to put his own drops in.

“Hey, I’m–” She’s cut off as they hug her tightly, and she lets her muscles relax, if only for a moment. They smell like sweat, machine oil and dust.

“What’d they say?” They pull back, and take a seat next to her bed. Their technician jumpsuit is almost the same shade of red as their hair, dirty and torn around their midsection. Crow’s feet around their eyes, a hint of dried blood on cracked lips – the sterile fluorescent lighting makes them look like a red-wrapped corpse in a morgue.

“Minor scratches, I’m lucky the nails didn’t dig in too deep.” She raises her injured arm, the wound already festering. “They’ll have to carve out the flesh around the wound so it can heal properly, you know the drill.”

“Today?”

“Yeah, they want to get it over before the Breach. I do too. Should be back to work tomorrow.”

“Are you sure you don’t want more–”

“I’m sure. I’m fine. I just need all this– this stupid fucking day to be over already.”

Sasha looks at her sadly. Is that pity? She wonders if Ládas told them anything of what she’d said before the anxiety meds kicked in. “Look, it’s the Breach, okay? It’s making me feel like absolute garbage. But I’m having it much better than the Omegas, the agents, and everyone else that might be dead in a few hours.”

“You could’ve been dead now, if Ládas hadn’t been there with you. You’re not a–”

“No! Don’t tell me I’m not a burden because I am a fucking burden!” She doesn’t care that she can be heard through the walls. The tears wallow up again. “We don’t have therapists anymore, Sasha, we either throw our shit at each other or we bottle it up and hope we survive until tomorrow. And if the thing’s gonna go away on the ninth anyway, better yet! Just like we dump a dash B into Deering every time he kills himself.” She stops. “I guess we won’t be able to do that anymore, without the Cannon. Fuck.”

There is a pause, the air growing suddenly still. “You haven’t seen him at all this past year, have you?” Sasha’s voice is distant. She gives them a nod, but their eyes shift to look at the bed, then at the wall. “He doesn’t get out much. I fixed the lights in his lab once, he looked… horrible doesn’t even begin to describe it. Hollow. Broken. Like there was nothing left.”

“Can’t say I feel sorry for him.”

“I’m not asking you to. You don’t have to talk to me. If that’s what you want, then go ahead. You know what I think.” They take her hand, finally meeting her eyes again. “But you have to be better than him, okay? Promise me you’ll make it through tomorrow. Promise me you won’t go empty.”

Her voice is as cracked as the walls when she answers. “I’ll try.”

It is four o’clock sharp and Naomi Markovich is in the H&P restrooms. Her arm is bandaged after the operation, still numb from the painkillers. A few minutes ago, she had asked the doctors if she could restock on her hormones. Predictably, they said the synthesizers were already at full capacity with more critical drugs, like the morphine she’d just been given. So she stares at the empty space where a mirror should be, puts her eyedrops in, and cries.

She hears the door close, and realizes that she didn’t hear it open. She spins, backing up, but she’s alone in the room. There’s a crackle, almost like radio static, and she sees an outline of something humanoid. The blur grows more distinct, like pixels multiplying to higher resolutions, as a person steps out from the background directly towards her. They’re old, much older than anyone alive in Site-43, and a gray fedora hides the top of their face. They wear a gray suit with a striped red necktie, and there’s a cane in their right hand.

“Hello, Naomi.”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t scream for security or kick your teeth in myself. Alternatively, if you’re another Breach-thing, k– wait, are you one of the Bs? ‘Conceptually vague’ or something?” Obviously not, because they weren’t able to communicate at all, and this thing just said hello. Regardless, it’s not like she can do anything to stop it, with her reflexes numb and her mental faculties a hair’s breadth from collapsing again.

“I don’t believe I am, though we are rather similar in many ways. Sorry for startling you, I’m Nobody,” they reach out a hand, “if you know what that means.”

“Let’s say I don’t. Are you human? Are you alive?” She raises her eyebrows, trying to project confidence.

They pull back. “Yes and yes, though not for much longer I fear. Before ‘22, the Foundation considered us a Group of Interest. We’re unnoticeable, unmemorable to an anomalous degree. Looks like that extends to the Paradox too, if your organization’s hypothesis is correct.”

“So you’re… just a bunch of invisible people? The hell are you doing here?”

“After enough time, we don’t remember who we are, either. I am here for you, Naomi. I’m sorry if this seems abrupt or – more likely – creepy, but I’ve been meandering around your Site for the past few months. Followed you specifically for a week. I have an offer to make to you.”

She stands there for a moment, dumbfounded. “What… What sort of offer?”

“I am, as you can see, at the end of my life. From what I gather, once I die, my mantle is given to another at random. It is both a blessing and a curse to be Nobody, but mostly the latter. I am offering to pass it on to you, right now.”

Naomi blinks once, twice. She says the only thing that comes to mind. “What?”

“You will be forgotten by everyone and everything – except us, your fellow Nobodies, though there are precious few remaining. Nothing will hunt you anymore, the Breach will not be able to touch you. You can leave this all behind, forget it all, and live the rest of your life in peace.” They take off the fedora and hold it out, hers for the taking. She finds her eyes drifting, unable to focus on their face or make out any features. “What do you say?”

“I– what– you want me to make that decision now, on the spot? You’re asking me to sacrifice everything I have.”

“And what is that ‘everything’, exactly? A prison that grows smaller every year, slowly choking you to death? A dwindling population of increasingly irritable cellmates? I am offering you paradise at no cost.”

“I don’t know–”

“You won’t have to hear the sirens anymore.”

That strikes a chord, and she puts her head in her hands, looking away.

“I have watched you, Naomi. You despise this place and the scars it has carved into you, but above all you hate your own insignificance. And you are right – your work is meaningless. The ship is sinking and all you have is a bucket. Won’t you prefer to swim? To fly?”

“Shut up!” She backs away, her good arm reaching for one of the stalls. “Stop. Just stop–”

“You will never know fear again. You won’t live your life in four-hour intervals – your mirror monster cannot pierce our veil.”

She shuts her eyes and enters the stall, slamming the door behind her. Not bothering to lock it, she slides down into a sitting position against the door. “Please.” She tries to choke back tears, tightening her jaw and forcing her body to be still.

“This decision is trivial. But if you insist, I shall leave the option open to you.” She hears soft sounds of shuffling beyond. Her mind races with the possibilities. It’s too fast, everything is happening too fast. She needs time, but she doesn’t have time – she’s got less than an hour before the Breach lockdown will come into effect, and Sasha will worry themself to death and–

Stop. Think. She hears the crackling sounds of radio static. They’re gone. Good. Breathe. In, out, in out…

She stands up, almost drunkenly, and opens the door. The gray fedora rests near one of the sinks. Waiting. She picks it up, looking it over. It is plain and soft to the touch. Of all things, it reminds her of her towel.

Something is off. The terms of the deal? No, there wasn’t a hint of deception in Nobody’s voice. They were insistent she accept, but at no point did they lie. Is something off? Or is she simply in denial? They did avoid mentioning what would happen to them, should she wear the hat. But that doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is what will happen to her. Her heart quickens its pace, chills skittering along her skin. Her hands are trembling as they grip the fabric. She can’t think straight. It’s so quiet, she has all the time in the world but she still can’t think. More information, that’s what she needs. The Foundation database could help her. Denial. This is her decision, outdated observations won’t make any difference. She flips the faucet open and lets the water run through her fingers. It doesn’t help.

Then the realization hits her, painfully obvious. She stuffs the fedora into her lab coat and leaves the room.

She can’t bring herself to talk to them. At least not before the Breach.

She is in her room when the klaxons roar again, trembling in bed while Sasha holds her tight. The explosions bellow, one colossal boom after another. She can feel the entire Site quaking, her body shuddering with every panicked heartbeat. She imagines the fighting, the screaming, the dying, all with perfect clarity. Pulsating constructs of paper and flesh oozing through the archives, their every victim stripped for meat and fabric. The bodies of her colleagues resurrected, killed, and resurrected again as nothing but violent, ghostly echoes before being snuffed out for good. The same lines said through gritted teeth, painfully precise, all while the pipes shift and blur and the floor becomes the walls and the doors become mouths and the lamps become pipes and roots and veins that grow claws and leaves and flowers that cry rivers of hydrochloric acid that burns like magnesium and old photographs from happier times.

It is impossible to think of anything else. Not when the memory is carved so deeply into your brain, not when the survivor’s guilt threatens to drown you and crush your bones under the pressure. So she lets it run its course, like a paralytic poison pumped into her veins.

Six minutes pass like six years. Slowly, it subsides, like water receding after a great flood, laying its devastation bare for all to see. The toxins are flushed, her body yields control back to her. At exactly eight PM the two help each other put in the drops, and Naomi finally manages to break the long silence.

“So, uhm, can I talk to you about something?” she says as she leaves the shower. Sasha is already in bed, reading Anna Karenina for what has to be the fifth time. Naomi's labcoat is hanging on the chair, the folded hat still in its pocket.

“Of course. That’s what friends are for, no?” They look up at her. Their face is warm and tired.

"Yeah– well, that’s what it’s about, sort of. Something– someone, visited me while I was in recovery. Some memory-ghost thing, said we have them on file somewhere. They offered me something.”

“That’s interesting. We don’t get many offers these days.”

“They weren’t part of the Breach – almost the opposite, it somehow couldn’t see them at all. They offered to give me that same invisibility, if I… gave everything up. Became like them.” She gets dressed in her nightclothes, little more than an old red t-shirt and shorts.

Sasha smiles. “I’m glad you didn’t take it, then.”

“What– how did–”

“Well you’re here now, aren’t you?”

“I thought, after the mirror–”

“Naomi, I trust you, and I know you well enough to know you’re not gonna pull a McDoctorate. Is that why you were so worried? Did you think I was going to assume you’re saying goodbye?” They look her in the eyes, and she struggles not to look away.

“Well- I don’t know! I haven’t exactly been a good friend these past couple of weeks. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s the end of the world, I think you’re allowed to be a little antisocial occasionally. I am glad you’re in a talking mood again, though, because now you can answer my question.”

Naomi climbs into bed next to them. “Which one?”

“What existential thoughts?”

It takes her a moment to remember. “Do you think we’ll ever have a happy ending?” She lets the question hang in the air. It feels right. “Do you think we’ll ever really figure it out? Is there hope, real hope, or are we just… gaslighting ourselves into believing it’ll work out? Keeping our heads above the water without ever reaching the shore?”

“I don’t know,” they say finally. “I really don’t know, and that terrifies me to no end. But there’s not much else for us to do, is there? We keep doing what we can – keep the water running and the lights on, make sure we have enough food and basic meds. I’m no temporal physicist and neither are you. We do our bests, trust our friends to do the same and…”

“And we make it through tomorrow.”

“And we make it through tomorrow.”

...

At exactly 00:00 AM, on the first second of the ninth of September, a gray fedora disintegrates from Naomi’s lab coat pocket with a quiet buzz. She does not notice.