Every Breathing Minute of Every Waking Hour - SCP Foundation

Today is April 5th, 2017.

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The hour is 0100.

A man sits alone on his bed.

It is Agent Terrance Shaw's thirty-first birthday, and marks five years of employment with MTF Lambda-12. His life was as much of a joke as his task force was, but in the swirling mix of light and booze and sweat and lust, he finds he does not care. As his body falls apart after weeks of interacting with his lover, he feels a flicker of panic. His heart palpitates and his brow furrows. His hands shake and his hair stands on end. Getting to this point was a mistake. A flaw in containment procedures, nothing more. He could still be saved. The site medical personnel would find a way. They always could. They always could.

Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17

Affected: Agent Terrance Shaw, MTF Lambda-12

Most Recently Assigned: SCP-071 (2 years)

Cause of Death: Long-term adverse health effects following accidental exposure to both SCP-071 and SCP-2708, respectively.

Notes: Body used for on-site cadaver training and research, as per the affected's wishes noted in hiring paperwork.

The hour is 0300.

Once again a reach is made into the deep.

Kilometers upon kilometers away from all that is known, a human being is tasked with interfering with that which should not be intruded upon. They do not wish to do this, but choice means nothing when research must be conducted. Their fear builds into anger, and their anger builds into acceptance. As they watch an unknown shadow emerge from the corner of the airtight space, cut off from everything they'd ever known, they realize that there is nothing more invigorating than perceiving the last moment of one's life in one final burst of emotion. They resist, but they soon realize it is nothing more than the last of their mind fading out to let their soul take its place; when they are finished speaking, they find solace in the crisp embrace of pain, and their soul passes.

Loss of Personnel Report: ██/██/20██

Affected: D-82111

Most Recently Assigned: SCP-2222

Cause of Death: Total epidermal eversion, with second-degree burns present on all dermal layers. Euthanized immediately after retrieval.

Notes: Body incinerated.

The hour is 0400.

One more time, for justice and for glory.

The moon is bright over the Arizona desert, but it does not bring the heat and light so desperately and dearly needed to the land on which it radiates. Two offsite response agents of Site-19 are crossing the expanses of sand and red dirt and poison as lights flash blindingly behind them. One looks to the other with fear in his eyes. 85. 83. 81. 79. They won't make it. Their radar detector screeches out a deafening whine before humming and shutting off completely. When their car stops, they stumble out and are shot to the ground. It was merciful this time, comparatively; two clean shots through the chest of each, and the still-twitching bodies dissolved on the roadside in acidic leakage from the hands and fluids of the protector itself. When daybreak comes, the sun rises onto swirling dust and bubbling blood.

Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17

Affected: Agents ████ and ███████ of Site-19 Offsite Response Vehicle K4

Most Recently Assigned: SCP-████/Site-19 (2 years)

Cause of Death: Speeding in the vicinity of SCP-973's area of effect during unprotected hours. Two gunshot wounds to the chest each, as well as unknown biological failures inflicted by SCP-973-2.

Notes: N/A

The hour is 0700.

Life is full of the unexpected.

"So, do you hate it as much as you think?"

"No." Mr. Roland Smithson doesn't have a title other than the standard prefix. He has no doctorate or Foundation-issued field agent certification or any of that. He has a placard on his desk with his name and his position: Roland Smithson, Coroners' Records Management.

"Just let me know if you need a coffee or anything in here."

"I'll be fine. There are fewer records than one may think."

In Mr. Smithson's seventy years of life, he began to notice as he aged that death is often too common in society to be looked upon as anything more than a short grievance and a large inconvenience. In his forty years of employment with the Foundation, he in turn realized that the rampancy of death in the outside world is challenged only by its gravity in the Foundation's world.

"Mr. Smithson?"

"Yes?"

"Site-81's records just loaded. Did it go to your inbox?"

"I didn't see it. Ask them to send it again."

The secretary nods and walks out. Mr. Smithson opens his file folders for the day. There are only ten new submissions thus far. Field agents, as usual. One D-class. It must be a fluke; he had told management long ago to stop sending him those, on account of the fact that doing so would quadruple his daily workload with nonsensical and unimportant information. No, his job is for the deaths that matter. Not them. And there were fewer than one would think.

The hour is 1000.

And what a shining world this is.

The planet below its surface is a treacherous place. Agent ███ has to watch where her feet fall. She is looking at her watch every several seconds. Its LED backlighting brings her back to her senses when her feet fail her. Her headlamp is dying; her radio is dead. With every glance at the time, the minutes fall backward. 10:15. She could be out in the sunlight if things were different. 10:13. Had she crossed this path before? 10:12. The air is wet and heavy. She is losing oxygen. She has lost her equipment. 10:10. She can't breathe. Her own voice guides her deeper into the depths. 10:09. She is happy here. 10:08. 10:07. 10:06. There is no greater pain than that of the suffocating warmth. There is no greater embrace than that of the fire.

Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17

Affected: Agent ███ of Site-81 Light Reconnaissance Team C3

Most Recently Assigned: SCP-2951/Site-81 (1 year)

Cause of Death: Unknown psychological influence leading to multiple coronary failures. Possible suffocation.

Notes: Body not recovered from location of death.

The hour is 1200.

Cold walls await a warmer heart.

"Nope, still no coffee. Remind me in thirty minutes and we'll get lunch."

"Sure thing, Mr. Smithson."

In the Foundation, death is and always will be just a number, and a grievance only in logistics. Deaths signify the loss of resources, and there is no greater resource than a thinking, feeling human being dedicated to a cause. A death is a problem. It's a loss of necessary benefits. Mr. Smithson isn't spending the last living days of his existence as a records manager; he's a loss prevention officer, clearly. If only he could do something about the 'preventing' aspects, he thinks, and stands up from his desk.

"Yes, I think I am ready for lunch," he says after several heartfelt moments of staring into blank space. He clears his throat and picks up his cane from its resting place by the door. As he walks out, he hears the notification sound for three new records received. They ring in his ears. His stomach aches. He'll get to them later.

The hour is 1400.

In the melding of flesh, solace is found.

███ and ██████ are out on a field excursion together. Their names do not matter. They never do. They only need to go 300 meters in this time. It's only a routine patrol, done every year. This will be no different. Thirty minutes, tops. The walls are grimy and absorb sound. Speaking yields nothing but soft silence in return. When the two agents notice movement, they find themselves genuinely surprised; ███ widens her eyes and ██████ readies his gun. Each shot hammers into their eardrums before the sticky walls suck in all the waves of sound until there are none left. When the creatures shriek and scamper, the walls take that in, too. ███'s hand meets flesh as she stops one of the beings from rushing her, but it claws at her chest and face and in a split second her vision is of blood and tears and meat. As she lays herself down on the wet floor, chest and gut wide open, a tendril slaps her face and wriggles its way down her throat. Her last thought is of another mind overlapping and replacing hers as her pulse fades. When ██████ screams in disgust, the walls decline to absorb the unholy sound, and instead send it screeching down endless tunnels, toward the end.

Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17

Affected: Field Operatives ███ and ██████

Most Recently Assigned: SCP-610/Site-A (<1 year)

Cause of Death: Routine maintenance of Site-A Tunnels led to an unforeseen attack by infected persons. Presumed blunt force trauma and excessive blood loss from lacerations.

Notes: Bodies not recovered from location of death.

The hour is 1700.

They didn't need to know.

In a sunlit room in an inexplicably cold office building, a man is filing paperwork. He reads words most minds cannot comprehend. Each word penetrates his psyche with more and more force as he processes each paragraph, until he is shaken. He looks at his clock. He watches the hands move with nervous breaths. Thirty seconds. He dreads the clock striking the next minute. It's a building fear that latches onto every fiber of his lungs and heartstrings until his eyes glaze over and he finds that he is barely conscious. When the seconds hand passes twelve, he is collapsed on his desk, surrounded by blackboxes and redactions and test results he wishes he could forget. It is another two hours before the medical personnel arrive. When they do, his body is as cold as his heart was and as blue as the halls outside always will be. He is not missed, but he is not forgotten.

Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17

Affected: Dr. Gene West, Level 4 Researcher

Most Recently Assigned: SCP-231/Site-██ (7 years)

Cause of Death: Stroke

Notes: Body sent to family members Max West and their two children as per request filed by Gene West upon hiring date.

The hour is 2100.

The lights are low. The monitor is too bright. This room is tired and worn.

"Do you know why I do it?"

"…You're good at it, sir?"

Mr. Smithson scoffs and smirks, but smiling hurts his tender skin. "I'm not looking for compliments." He stands up out of his chair and walks over to the window. "I do it because it's simple. I could be out there dying like all those agents and researchers and test subjects, but instead I'm in here. Where it's safe."

His secretary shifts her feet. "I'm not sure what you want me to say, sir-"

"You don't have to say anything. I'm just talking. Do you think you'll want my job after I'm gone?"

"I really couldn't say, I'm afraid. Site management told me this is a temporary position-"

"All positions are temporary. Life is temporary."

"Well, you'd know better than I on that topic, sir." She laughs slightly, but rescinds it with a downward glance.

"What's your clearance level? Zero?"

"It's one."

"Right, so you… have access to what they call 'sensitive information', but you can't do anything about it."

"Sensitive information like death records, I assume."

"Depends. There are a lot of options for secretaries here. Tell me, what do you envision when you think of the word 'secretary'?" He coughs into his hand and feels phlegm come up. He gulps and swallows, looking out the window over the Site's barren yard and heat-distorted perimeter fence. A team of onsite response personnel are driving around beside it, waving at each other. He wonders what their names are, and how long it'll be before he's writing their death reports for some accident or other.

"I guess I think of… sitting at a desk?" She laughs nervously again and shrugs. "I don't know. To be truthful, I don't quite remember how I got here, other than receiving some mysterious letter in college-"

"Right, so at a desk?" Smithson turns from the window and sits at his. A new report just came in from Site-42. This one is a genuine accident, which he hasn't seen in far too long. He reads it while he talks, pulling his thoughts from its subject matter. "What if, on the computer monitor of that desk, you were watching a video log of a violent interrogation? Interrogations are necessary things, you know, no matter how unpleasant. Sometimes, they're our last defense against lies constructed to hurt people — you, me, the people on the street miles down the road — so tell me, would you transcribe the audio? Would you be willing, or would it be uncomfortable?"

Her gaze shifts downward again. "I'm not sure why you're asking. That doesn't sound like my departm-"

"Oh, but it is. The agents doing it don't want to sit down afterward with a Word doc open and type out all the nasty shit they were saying. That's emotionally taxing. But you can; you're a secretary. Your job is the grunt work of low-clearance information."

"Sir, I'm sorry if I'm being rude, but I don't want to talk about this and I have no idea why you're dumping it on me." Her knuckles are white against the door frame.

Smithson sighs and glances back at the email in front of him. He doesn't want to type this one up. "Sorry." He's quiet. "You can go now. My old ass ought to leave that sort of thing to your hiring supervisors. I'm out of line." His attempt at humor is as lost on him as it is on her.

She licks her lips concernedly and scurries out of the office. He puts his head in his hands and starts reading the Site-42 Intelligence Department's email.

The hour is 2300.

Whatever is necessary, by all means possible.

Officer Roberts is pacing a white-walled room. His phone is buzzing. He's not allowed to look at it, so he lets it vibrate in his pocket until his leg is numb. It rings for too long. It must be an internal call. He wants to go home and go to sleep, but there's a drugged and uncooperative Chaos Insurgency operative groaning and twisting in his restraints on the table, and Roberts knows that neither of them is sleeping until that man talks.

I don't really like pain, he had told him when he began the first round of intravenous morphine and amnestics administration, now two days ago. It's not effective. A reaction to pain causes the body and mind to build up its barriers, when what we're trying to do is get them down. So, how long will it take to get yours down? How long would you like it to take? I have all week. On the wall by the examination table is a printed placard in black text: RECITATION OF AC-3423 MISSION PLANS IS NECESSARY FOR RELEASE. It is the only text in the room, the only thing for the subject to look at. Roberts doesn't think it's working, but he wishes it would. Roberts isn't even sure what sort of event or events the placard is referring to in the first place, he realizes.

"I'm coming back in an hour. We hope you'll be ready to talk by then." He walks out and slams the door with a sigh, waving to the security guard with a vacant expression. As he walks toward the stairway, he checks his phone. It's his coworker. Tried calling you. You need to give up on whatever bullshit they have you on down in Intelligence. The Ethics Committee doesn't let you get shit done like they used to. There's no point anymore, you'll never get anything out of people with Valium and orgasms or whatever the fuck they mean by "ethical coercion" these days. Come down to the block before you clock out, I need your help with something. Roberts rolls his eyes and adjusts his glasses before starting down the stairs. He's still looking at his phone, and he misses the first step. Then he misses the next one, and the one after that. Panic doesn't register in his mind until his head collides with the railing. As his keys clatter to the ground and searing agony erupts in his skull and his limbs, he chooses not to open his eyes.

Loss of Personnel Report: 04.05.17

Affected: Rance Roberts, Intelligence Collections Officer and D-Class Cell Block Guard

Most Recently Assigned: N/A

Cause of Death: Spinal fracture and subsequent brain stem hemorrhaging, caused by blunt force trauma to the head, lower back, chest, and pelvic regions sustained during a fall down several metal stairs.

Notes: I have recommended in the past and I will continue to recommend in the future that interrogations be transcribed by someone other than those personnel conducting them. Statistics have shown that not doing so is putting too much on the shoulders of the personnel directly conducting investigations, which leads to psychological stress and — yes — accidents.

-Roland Smithson, Coroners' Records Management

The hour is 0000.

And all will cycle over in the end.

"Sir? You've been up since-"

"I know, I know. I just finished today's batch. The last one took forever."

"I saw." The woman hesitates. "Well, I'm going to go ahead and clock out for the night. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Come in as late as you need tomorrow."

"Oh, uh, sure. T-thank you."

"Yeah."

Only when her heels no longer clack on the wood floor and the door is closed does Smithson exhale the breath he'd been holding. For several minutes, he stares into his computer screen, eyes blurring from age or stress or both as he absentmindedly straightens his stacks of paperwork.

When he finishes, he stands, coughs a few times, and walks out of his office, making sure to leave his jacket hanging by the door for the following morning.