Star of Life - SCP Foundation

The car was quiet save for the sound of the tires on the road. It was dark outside, and the headlights didn’t do much to cut through the planet’s ever-present fog. Fortunately, we had invented adaptations for such obstacles, and the windshield of the vehicle projected the road’s boundaries where it disappeared beyond the haze.

I reached up to adjust the rearview mirror, angling it towards one of the passengers in the backseat. He was fast asleep, slumped in his seat’s harness with his face resting on the window.

The night outside was cold, and the glass was no doubt leeching heat from his body. I glanced back at the other passenger, and once confirming that it wasn’t paying attention, I pressed a button on the dash to elevate the cabin’s temperature. It would only change by a few degrees, but I hoped it would be enough to keep the sleeping soldier from going cold.

Checking the reflection again, my eyes came into contact with 7cb7’s. I immediately looked back to the road and gripped the steering handles something fierce. Apparently it had been paying more attention than I’d thought.

“You know, you could just ask,” it offered.

“What?”

“Like, if you want to change the enviro controls, you can just ask if it’s okay. I’ll probably say yes. You don’t need to try to be sneaky about it.”

“I’m not being sneaky.”

“Sure…”

We hit a small bump, and I looked back at 5a82. Still asleep; he must have been worn out. He hadn’t seemed to have slept well the night before, and the challenging day we’d had definitely hadn’t helped. It was a lot even for 7cb7 and I, so when it came to his genetic abnormality, I couldn’t imagine how he endured it all.

“You worried about him?” the One in the backseat asked.

“I’m a medic, and he’s fragile and sick, isn’t that my job?” I responded, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel in a display of cool collectedness.

It chuckled. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“It doesn’t mean he’s any worse,” I argued, “but the government needs to give him a serious break. They can’t truly expect him to do what we do, because at the end of the day, it’s their own fault that he is the way he is. What they should do is give him amnesty from this stupid fucking military.”

“They probably bugged this car, 4b80. I won’t tell on you for jack, but I can’t say the same for whoever reviews the logs.”

“Then let them hear it!” I sighed. “Why did they think making a Two out of the DNA of a Two was a good idea?”

It reminded me of the human practice of keeping a bloodline ‘pure’ through incest. Was that what we were? As foolish as humans, who were so intelligent that they had nearly suffocated in a cloud of their own greenhouse gases?

“No respectable person would do it, that’s for sure. But it’s clear that his handler isn’t a respectable person.”

“Oh, I know.” Despite not having a stomach, there was a churning feeling deep in my gut. It was impossible for me to forget the sound of that bastard striking its poor ward.

“Is that why you jumped to get 5a82 on our squad?” 7cb7 asked, willing as ever to casually ask the most blatant and personal questions.

I recalled my discussion with the Handler. I’d pushed the conversation as much as I could, because my fear of its anger being turned towards me was very insignificant in comparison to my fear of what could happen to the small Two.

“What else was I supposed to do? Who knows what else they would have put him through?”

“It’s not a criticism. I really like having him here.” I watched in the rearview mirror as it turned towards the sleeping passenger, then took off its jacket and folded it into a pillow-like shape and gently raised his head, placing it between that and the car’s hard surface. It took out its feed interface and briefly rolled up 5a82’s sleeve, taking a photo of a large bruise around his wrist that looked like it had come from a hand.

“And I know you do, too,” it continued after replacing his sleeve to its original position. “He’s kinda like a little sibling to you, isn’t he?”

“Twos don’t have siblings,” I reminded it.

“Sisters?”

“I mean, technically if there was an error in the duplication sequence, if the stem cells doubled and divided in halves? They’d be identical twins, so technically daughters of each other, which you could refer to as sisters… but they wouldn’t be siblings in any way that Ones can be siblings, or even family.”

“What’s up with the whole deal of Twos’ families?”

“We don’t have them,” I stated flatly.

“But 5a82–”

“His handler is not his parent! I don’t care what psychological disease it has, no amount of delusion will ever mean that they’re family. Families don’t abuse each other, do they?” I demanded.

7cb7 was silent for a moment.

“My parent wasn’t always single, you know.”

“I know. I’m very angry right now, I’m sorry,” I sighed.

I knew why it had joined the military, and I genuinely sympathised, but at the same time, I couldn’t help the low-level jealousy I felt. Because, even if it was a selfish thought, 7cb7 had had the choice to join the military, and had done so because its family was subpar.

But me? I’d been thrown into it just about, my three meager years in the Academy spent on mental conditioning more than preparing me for any kind of life. I didn’t have a family to choose to leave.

At least the tiniest dregs of power I held were enough to get into the medical department. At least then I had emergency medical training, and could– in theory– help my comrades instead of being solely forced into murder.

My eyes drifted back to the reflection of 5a82. Twos might not have been taught any form of compassion, but I sure felt sympathy for the sleeping unit.

“Yes, he would be kind of like a little sibling, if we were Ones,” I finally answered.

“Does that ever feel weird?” 7cb7 asked. “Like a kind of relationship you’re always going to miss out on?”

“Twos are lucky if they’re even allowed friends, tisen.”

“Pretty cultish behaviour, no?” It didn’t comment on my use of the word, so I hoped it knew I didn’t mean it in the way that Ones meant it– I wasn’t calling it a traitor like they used it to mean. Joining the military wasn’t a traitorous act, at least to us Twos, because that’s just how life was.

Our existence wasn’t traitorous. We did exactly what we were meant to, which was quite literally the opposite of betrayal. There were, on occasion, Twos that deserted or otherwise disappeared into the hands of the rebellion, but that was rare enough that it may as well have been a myth.

“It’s just how life is. We were created for a purpose, and we carry it out. That purpose just happens to not involve making friends.”

“I’ve been reading about human cults, and a big part is usually cutting victims off from their friends and family, isolating them. It’s almost like the government builds this into your–”

“Now I’m reminding you that this car is probably bugged, 7cb7,” I interrupted.

“Fair enough,” it sighed, looking out the window to its side. “But it’s not right.”

“Right or not, I can’t change it.”

The cabin lapsed into silence again. These were the kinds of things we weren’t allowed to talk about, even as jokes– nobody changed it, nobody disturbed the status quo. That was the kind of thing that got you killed.

I exhaled and adjusted my grip on the steering handles, eyes locked on the bleak outline of the road ahead of me. In my mind, I pledged my allegiance to my superiors. They would tell me what was right.

I sat on my bed in the barracks, head in hands. I didn’t cry, I didn’t fucking cry, but I didn’t entirely not cry, either. I only wished the leave they’d put 5a82 and I on had included leaving all my feelings behind just as I’d left… the One.

Everything was fine, I told myself, everything was okay. I had done as I’d been ordered, which was exactly what I was supposed to do, what I should have done.

I drove my fist into the top of the bed beside me.

It was exactly what I was supposed to do. I was following orders, following orders, I was following orders, and orders are right, orders are what you’re supposed to do, orders are what you’re supposed to follow and I followed them. It was fine. Everything was fine.

A quiet knock at my door startled me out of my spiralling thoughts, and I got up to answer the door. I pulled it open, and it was 5a82, almost swallowed up by an oversized sweatshirt.

“5a82! What’s going on? Is everything alright?” I asked, eyes searching his downturned face. He looked very unwell, as if he hadn’t slept properly in days, with blue-and-purple splotches around his eyes in a bruise-like pattern. The sweatshirt might as well have been on a clothing hanger for all the volume his body had.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. That was not a good sign.

“Do you want a hug?” I asked, reaching out my arms towards him.

He swayed slightly– from fatigue or a subconscious need to accept it, I didn’t know– but then stepped back, shaking his head. “All of this is my fault. I’m going to make it right.”

5a82 turned away and began to walk down the hallway, headed to who knew where. I caught a brief glimpse of something white under the hem of his sleeve– both sleeves. Stained blue. They were bandages, something I’d seen on him many times before. Well-hidden, though not always. Just another symptom of his abuse, that which had hurt him so badly that he perpetuated it onto his own body to cope.

“Wait!” I called after him. He didn’t turn around, he didn’t even stop. “Wait,” I whispered, a welling feeling working its way into my chest, up into my eyes.

I knew somewhere deep inside that he wouldn’t be coming back. He’d been forced into compliance with horrible, horrible acts, he’d been abused and degraded, he’d been treated even worse than most Twos would ever be.

And 7cb7 had been different. It had shown him care and even love. And because of me– even if I couldn’t help it, even if I had no choice, even if there was no other option– it was likely dead. I’d done everything I could to become a combat medic, to help my squadmates, but now one of them had been exploded on my watch, and I was powerless to stop the other one from dying as well.

I could have run after him, could have begged him not to kill himself. I could have physically held him down until they forcefully admitted him to the hospital, maybe indefinitely. But was that fair? Was it fair to make him suffer for the rest of his life under psychiatric hold because of what I had done? He deserved mercy for once in his life.

I shut the door and sank to my knees on the other side of it. I sobbed.

Kepler kept turning on its axis, kept revolving around our Sun; sols kept passing and I kept breathing and my hearts kept beating.

I was assigned to a new patrol squad, with Twos who looked just like me, acted just like me, and didn’t make idle conversation. It was for the best, as that was all I could take at that point, the perpetual silence and isolation.

It was all I deserved, really. The mind-numbing loneliness hung heavy in the hollow of my chest, somewhere my lungs should have been; that’s all that could be there, for how little I could breathe.

My eyes flitted absently over the feed interface I held, scanning the headlines for anything that could be interesting. Anything to distract me, even for a second.

‘GOVERNMENT IN A FRENZY AFTER UNAUTHORISED CREW-GRADE ROCKET LAUNCH.’

It was from a reputable source, known for being factual and neutral instead of one of those highly opinionated tabloids. I opened it and scrolled down the article, skimming it until something caught my eye.

‘–suspected to be rebel sympathisers, fleeing after kicking off the distribution of an antidote to the current epidemic–’

Why would they be rebel sympathisers if they’re working to cure the virus? I thought, but kept reading.

‘–live tissue was allegedly used, though it’s unclear who the donor was. The crew-grade rocket included a compartment for a live animal, but it isn’t big enough to house a full-sized kepler–’

I closed the article. I didn’t want to think about undersized keplers at that moment, or really ever. Reminders brought memories, and memories brought depression, and if I was depressed I wouldn’t be able to do my job– and that was all us Twos were good for, our stupid fucking jobs given to us by the stupid fucking government.

It was honestly a good thing that nobody looked like him, because I wouldn’t be able to bear interacting with someone who did.

It was a relatively normal day on patrol when I first heard the sirens. Distant at first, then progressively louder, until a med unit suddenly shot down the road next to me; the deafening pitch-sliding as it passed1 It hit me almost as hard as the alert that popped up on my visor, warning all nearby patrols that a building had partially collapsed in the area. Injuries and casualties were unable to be reported on, but it was a large housing complex for individuals and families who otherwise wouldn’t have homes.

I thought of 7cb7, and I thought of its family, and I started running. The other units in my squad called after me, but I ignored them, professing silent gratitude to evolution for digitigrade legs as I sprinted after the vehicle.

The housing complex was only a few blocks away, and I arrived to swaths of first responders carrying out wounded civilians and tending to their injuries. Someone waved me over and pointed to my chest, my vest bearing the outline of double-crossed syringes that signified me as a combat medic.

“Can you help?” it asked as it frantically rifled through a bag of medical supplies.

“I can lift 120 and do CPR,” I responded.

“Go with recovery, there.” It pointed to a larger vehicle with a congregation of people being partnered up by rescue coordinators, then running off into the building together.

I ran over and was paired with someone I barely looked at before we were sent off with a stretcher between us. My visor overflowed with warnings about going into a half-crumbled building, but I didn’t give a shit, cancelling all of them and setting it to only display trackers if it identified someone. There must have been dozens of other people doing the exact same, so I couldn’t throw a tantrum over some crumbling walls.

We darted through corridors and searched rooms, until finally happening upon a couple of individuals in one of them. One of them lay on the ground, and the other sat by it. Both shrank back as they saw me enter the room.

“We’re here to help,” my companion announced as we walked over.

The sitting One brushed its fingers against its cheek, up to its ear twice– deaf.

“Uh– fuck, what?” it responded.

I set my end of the stretcher down and walked over, grimacing on the inside of my visor as the Ones appeared visibly uncomfortable by my presence. I knelt in front of them and showed that my hands were empty before signing slowly, carefully; you– come with– us– safe.

It held up its index and middle finger. Two.

Safe, I repeated.

It pointed at the person laying down beside it. Walk– no.

I pointed at the stretcher. I didn’t know how to sign that, since the lessons I’d gotten ended at simple commands, but it seemed to understand, moving into a crouching position as it placed its arms under the prone One.

I also moved into a crouch and held out my arms; after a moment of hesitation, it let me take it, and I walked over to the stretcher and placed it on top.

You– walk– I shrugged very exaggeratedly to try and append a ? onto the question, my face covering making it impossible to do so with an expression.

Walk– yes. It stood up and took up a place by the person on the stretcher, and followed with a hand holding onto it as we made our way out of the building.

We delivered them to the emergency medical workers, who wrapped them in blankets and dismissed us with a new stretcher. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the person sign something; I hadn’t been taught that one, but I imagined it meant Thank you.

The next person we found was young, definitely under the age of adolescence. It cowered on the corner of its bed, knees hugged to its chest as it rocked back and forth.

I cringed, knowing how horrible I was with children, especially ones in such obvious distress. I was about to turn around to ask my companion to communicate for me, until the child raised its head and I caught full sight of its face.

It looked very shockingly like 7cb7. Not an exact match, but similar, certainly enough that it caught me way off guard. The ochre skin, light hair, and starkly turquoise eyes– looking at its friendly, downturned eyes, saddened with tears, I wondered if that was what 7cb7 would have looked like if it had cried. Not that I’d ever seen it do so; not that anyone ever had.

We set down the stretcher and I slowly approached the child, palms open.

“Um– hello there,” I greeted quietly, attempting to soften my voice from its rather coarse default. “We’re going to take you out of the building. It’s dangerous in here.”

It sniffled and stopped rocking.

I pointed at my ears. “Can you hear me?”

It nodded.

“Can you walk with us?”

It nodded again. “I can run really fast. The fastest at my school,” it said hoarsely.

“I bet you can,” I agreed, trying to be supportive. “It’s better if we move slowly, though. This building is unstable and running around fast could make it break more.”

Its face lit up at that, apparently revelling in the ability to break apart the building with its powerful strides. It made sense; if I was a small child who’d ended up living in worn-out government housing, I imagined I would also want to be a little destructive to my surroundings.

“Okay, I’ll walk,” it agreed, wiping its face on its sleeve and getting up off the bed.

For some reason, I held out my hand to the child, and for some reason, it took it. The person with me carried the stretcher vertically as we made our way back out the building, treading carefully as this was one of its more damaged sections.

As we rounded the corner, a ceiling panel crashed down right next to us; the child yelled and jumped backwards, then burst into tears.

“I’m– I’m sorry,” it apologised as it hyperventilated. “Crying is– is for babies.”

I knelt down beside it, taking a hand towel out of my pocket to offer it. It wiped its face off and breathed while holding the cloth over its nose and mouth, likely in an attempt to regulate its breathing.

“Sometimes you need to cry,” I said softly. “It hurts worse to bottle it all up.”

It wiped its eyes and looked down at its feet, breath still shaky but much calmer.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“9fa2,” it answered, barely looking up.

“You know, 9fa2, you’re very brave to come with us in the first place. I know you’re probably afraid of looking weak in front of us, so you don’t want to cry, but I think it shows how strong you are. This is so scary to you, but you’re doing it anyways. That’s what’s most important.”

It nodded and swallowed. After a moment of hesitation, it leaned forwards and put its arms around my shoulders, giving me a loose hug.

I tensed up in surprise, but didn’t move. Unlike 5a82, I hadn’t been hit or hurt by another person, but it wasn’t like I’d ever been given affection, either. That wasn’t something Twos received, not from other Twos, not from Ones.

“You’re my hero,” it mumbled, punctuated by a sniffle and a hiccup.

My eyes widened and I clenched my jaw hard, the world in front of me glazing over just slightly. Nobody had ever said that to me before, and why would they? The only outstanding thing about me was that I had failed everyone who depended on me. I was just a Two, another cog in the murder machine, nobody of importance, nobody worth caring about.

And I knew it was just the mutterings of a child, something 9fa2 had said because it was scared and alone and I was trying to comfort it. But it felt like having my chest torn open, my ribcage removed so that my hearts were free to swell out of the space they’d been squeezed into my whole life. That I’d squeezed them into, carefully instructed by my teachers, my handlers, peers, everything I’d ever fucking known.

After a few moments, it let go of me and stepped back. I stood up, hoping my slight wobble was less noticeable than it felt as I led it out of that hallway and through the rest of the building.

As soon as we left through the front exit, it ran over to someone who whipped around and exclaimed its name, gathering it into their arms.

“Thank you so much!” the One called to me. “I was worried sick! Couldn’t find my kid anywhere!”

I nodded and waved to 9fa2 as it turned around in its parent’s arms, before hurrying off into the place marked as a rest area for those aiding the recovery efforts. I slumped against the shaded side of a car and slid open my visor, taking out a smaller, shittier towel to wipe off my watery eyes.

Footsteps came up beside me, and I slammed it closed again. My head snapped to the source of the noise and I saw the person I’d been paired with, who slid its hand down the side of the vehicle as it sat down.

“You okay?” it asked.

“Hey, you’re a proper EMT, right?” I asked back.

“Yeah, been in the field for a few years. Why?”

“How do I do that?”

“Huh? How do you mean?” It frowned slightly, but didn’t appear upset, just as if it were trying to wrap its head around the concept.

“I want to work in emergency medical services,” I clarified, trying to keep a tone of desperation out of my voice.

It blew out a breath. “I don’t know if they let Twos do that, beyond being combat medics.”

“I’ll do anything.”

It was silent for a moment. “Okay, you know what? After this, just stick with me and I’ll bring you to the station I work at. I’ll… tell everyone how helpful you were. They trust me, and it’s also not a lie.”

“You would do that for me?” I tried not to let hope leak into my voice.

“Sure thing.”

“Why?”

It paused again before responding. “You seem like someone who’s got it real fuckin’ rough, who never asks for help. It’s how Twos are, you know…” It chuckled sadly. “So I don’t want to ignore you finally doing so.”

I looked past it, to the ambulances loading up the injured and driving them off to the hospital. To all the people reuniting with their families or friends that they had been so anxious about. To concerned civilians offering blankets and water bottles and words of reassurance.

And I decided I wanted to be like them.

Footnotes

1. The Doppler effect.