California Dreamin' - SCP Foundation

Jackson stopped. Surrounding the small set of stairs into the ground was several tall, dark brick buildings, like those of the boroughs of New York City. Not that he was certain that's exactly where he was. He took a peek at his watch.

11:31 PM, June 30th, 2029 it read aloud to him.

He knocked on the door.

"Password?" a burly voice called from inside.

"The crimson sun is yet to set," Jackson replied, not exactly sure where the words had come from.

The door jolted open to a small, dimly lit bar surrounded by grimy booths and tables, reminiscent of a speakeasy. Nobody could be seen or heard, but the scent of sweat, vomit, and alcohol hung in the air. A song slowly, eerily played in the background.

"All the leaves are brown…"

Walking behind the bar, Jackson blindly grabbed for several bottles of beer, setting them on the counter in front of him. He took notice of the room — tiny, almost invisible cameras sat in all corners. Several buttons were behind the counters, unlabeled but each a different color. A red phone laid beneath the counter, the words "EMERGENCY TASK FORCE LINE" inscribed into it.

"I've been for a walk, on a winter's day…"

He took a seat at the stool, cracking one of the bottles open on the bar, quickly downing it, and opening another one. As he opened the second bottle, he noticed something peculiar. Glued to the bar, beneath a layer of glass, sat dozens of pictures.

"California dreamin', on such a winter's day…"

He stared at them. Most were pictures of what seemed to be soldiers, equipped with large rifles and black combat gear. A strange insignia with three inward-facing arrows was plastered on all of them.

"I passed along the way…"

Jackson's eyes settled on a final group of pictures, gathered on the corner of the bar. Each had generally the same image — a group of the same young men, all in typical clothes and black combat vests, with several strange devices spread across their bodies. A peculiar wave of emotion passed over Jackson as he took notice of their faces, although he couldn't quite place why.

"You know the preacher like the cold…"

He suddenly pulled out a small knife and began lifting up the glass, carefully cutting at the glue to free one of the pictures. Why he had a knife, or how he knew to get it out was entirely beyond him.

"He knows I'm gonna stay…"

Freeing the picture, he took a long look at the faces. All familiar and emotional, but no mental images could form. He flipped over the back, reading the handwritten note.

MTF Alpha-9, Delta Team

Operation Memento Mori

To our continued success in keeping Hell in check.

-Jackson

He blinked. When his eyes opened, it felt as if he had lived an entire lifetime. The music had stopped, now replaced by a buzzing from somewhere behind the counter. Snippets of memories came flooding back to him, but he still couldn't place any of them. There was no connection or context, just scenes and faces now playing in his head. He quickly downed the rest of the second beer.

Jackson set the picture down, placing his head in his hands. Looking up at the wall, he noticed a large plaque. Engraved on it were a plethora of names, code phrases, designations. Near the bottom, was Jackson's own name. He read the words inscribed underneath: 'To Our Fallen Brethren'

He continued to sit there for a moment, basking in the buzzing noise. The noncontiguous thoughts overwhelmed him, scenes of violence and friendship and death and destruction and altruism filling his head, no outlet or common united factor. It was as if someone else's memories had been plucked and inserted into Jackson's head.

He began to cry. It was as if he didn't even know who he was.

Somewhere deep within the walls, music began to slowly rumble back to life.

"All the leaves are brown…"