𝙵 𝚁 𝙰 𝙲 𝚃 𝚄 𝚁 𝙴 𝙳 - SCP Foundation

LOCATION: UNKNOWN

TIME: 24:01

Darkness. You were reborn in darkness.

Voices cried out in the hollow halls as fractions of yourself paint themselves across the walls. They danced with the fireplace. Screamed with the crackles. They, along with you, were parts of shattered glass from across all of time. They were broken. Stripped piece from piece. Much like how you will be soon.

Admittedly, to some extent they deserved this fate.

It was many, many years ago. Memories of it all greyed out, despite the seemingly crystal-clear idea of it. Thoughts swirled like sandstorms in your head, throwing themselves into one another jumbling up words of reality and fiction. You knew the basics. Her name, her role, your role, and the Foundation’s hand in this cycle.

Her name was Emily.

She was bound to a hellish fate.

A fate where patterns of darkness and shadow paint themselves the same every day. The carpets. The tiling. Every small crack. They were the same. It was all static throughout the facility, even the presence of yourself was hardly a change.

Change. They never changed. This never changed.

Scratches from the ever-moving carts of equipment never appeared.

Stains from shoes covered in mud, snow, and dirt never touched the ground.

Blood from the ritual sacrifices of yourself, of them, never appeared. Some parts of you doubt if the blood ever existed in the first place.

Fingers attempt movement though to no avail. Even your heart doesn’t seem to beat. Slowly the point of view changed with gentle touches and words. Until you were staring down the fireplace.

It did the same cycles in both sound and looks. Embers raised up and fell to the ground dead. From your field of view, you see the threads attaching to the vessel. To the body you once knew. Around both arms and legs. Around both hand and mind. At that still-frame moment before the cycle of the fire began again, she wrapped them tighter and tighter, but you couldn’t feel.

Thousands of identities that were supposed to form flash before her.

They were the people you were meant to be.

The people you once were going to be until she found their soul forming with thick cracks opportune for her game. Implanting pieces of you in those gaps until you overtook the body and the mind.

From parasite, you grew into a host.

From host, you grew into prey.

Her hands ran through your head, into your brain, unwinding it wherever her touch went.

You let her.

You always did.

You let her and the Foundation put in their blockers and false memories.

You listened to her whispers of who you were going to be. She filled fill your head with your fate and with the name you will next be and the last names that you were.

You always picked Munroe as that faux name. It was the one thing that they allowed all doctors and researchers to do, their little sliver of freedom of their now confined life. It was the only choice you were given when you began work, and now as she tugs on your mind, you realize that freedom was never a state you have seen.

Laughter cuts through the darkness as the remainders of your mind fall to the wayside.

It’s manic.

Freeing.

No choices were ever made. No fuckups were ever had. You were stuck in this hellish fate. You screamed into the void letting her fully rip through whatever parts of you remained.

You can’t feel her anymore but her hands are still there, stroking your cerebellum, sticking her fingers through your motor cortex, making the body jump in a thousand ways. When the touches stop the vessel’s eyes open to see the mirror she’s placed before it.

That body was there before. It was a funhouse it visited at some point in its life. Separate from you? Together? You don’t know those memories are all pouring out from that shell’s brain and into the ever-forming ocean that covers the floor.

Before it is a mirror. One that she forces the shadows to stare deeper and deeper into. It twists and contorts all of your faces, much like how the ones at the fun house did.

Once hollow, raw, cheeks were reflected back full and round. Eyes once decrepit and lacking in life, refilled with wonder and light. A cracked frown filled out into a curious round-lipped smile. That nose once bent 40 separate ways from punches, thrown books, and slammed walls repairs itself into something round and small. Hair crooked, burnt, whited out sheds itself in favor for small thin strands. The mind, rewoven, sits above your head. Her fingers are coursing through both it and now your small threads of hair, laughing at something indiscreet.

Water once pitch black now crashes into it clear and red. Skin that was cracked and torn and wrinkled stretched thickly over excess fat. Fingers shaped from years of fighting and hate grow shorter and shorter and fatter in shape. The water around all of you taints darker and darker as hideous memories pool at the ground, drowning both shadows and vessel alike, leaving all of you alone.

Alone save for a new mother’s heartbeat.

LOCATION: ROACHDALE, INDIANA: PROVISIONAL SITE-133

TIME: 03:21

A green light flashed in the darkroom. A tired man with a half-smoked dart reached for his phone, pausing for a moment, debating his morals. It wasn’t his first time calling in such death sentences, or rather in this case, calling in such people’s hells, but it didn’t make it any easier for him to do. It only made it easier to forget. He took in another drag. Shifting aside the piles of paper across his desk. It was an internal debate every time. He reached for his coffee, some splashing over the soon-to-be destroyed photos, numbers, and names. It was hell he was damning this man to, undeniably so. He reached towards the phone, thumbing in the number absentmindedly. Damocles was over his head. It wasn’t a debate of moral, rather it was a one-sided prisoners dilemma, or perhaps a trolley problem. No matter what it was, it was either his life or some sucker’s.

The ringing filled the stale room, then the sounds of drinking coffee. At last, someone picked up though no voice spoke. The mug was set down rattling the table with it. He looked up one last time, green coordinates shown on the screen and a pin point dot gleamed off some hospital in North Eastern Europe. His cheek stung gently as he chewed into the flesh.

“It’s P-Site 133.”

He waited a moment debating again. No voice stopped his thoughts.

“A new vessel has been spotted.”

Again static.

He took in a deep breath, and read off the coordinates expecting the act to send him to hell, though in all reality it sent another in his place.