Fish^12

This is my second SCP. A format screw? Yuck! And this is my Author Page!

Site-12, the Site of dreams!

Welcome to DAP, I'm sure you're so excited! I know I am!

I'm Dhalia.aic, the one and only! I'll be your supervisor, confidant, and friend during your transition! You ever need help, you call me.

So, I'm sure HR didn't even tell you what you were being transferred to, that's to be expected. Confidentiality, it's silly. It's not like half the world isn't already aware of the Foundation, but hey! It lets me put my own spin on things!

Official logo!

Beautiful.

Yes, we're the Department of Atypical Persuasion. Legalese for torture. Ah! Don't worry! It's not the same thing!

Here at DAP, we uphold the highest level of ethics in the Foundation, according to the EC 2018 report. After all, it's so easy to get ticketed by EC if we go wrong. Such is the nature of Atypical Persuasion.

We keep all our personnel at the highest standards, and the same goes for our… participants! There is no medieval techniques, no irreversible bodily disfiguration, only the truest sense of Atypical Persuasion! And with a sizable paybump!

Get yourself ready, we have work to do.

I let out a deep breath. Spy work is never easy, nor do my superiors make it easy. The way Dhalia acts implies she doesn't enter my room, for privacy reasons. But you can never be too sure with these Foundation types.

Check under the bed. In the cabinets. Tap on the walls.

It's mostly amateur work. If the Foundation really wanted to keep tabs on their employees, they wouldn't care if they implanted chips while they slept. Unscrupulous, the whole lot of them. Nonetheless, it doesn't hurt to check.

The room is otherwise, normal. The Foundation is generous this time around.

Oh, you're back! Well, first thing's first, you have to attend a couple recorded seminars and read some required… readings. Here's a list for easy tracking.

Orientation for DAPper Skills - Dr. Transparent - 1:43:11

Atypical Persuasion as a Form of Communication - Dr. Transparent - 1:30:54

Get Psychological! Part One - Dr. Filia - 2:03:05

Not Physical! Part Two - Dr. Filia - 0:22:22

Anomalies and You in DAP - Dr. Getermount - 4:59:11

Mental Health and Other Resources - Dr. Pops - 0:45:96

… and (11) more!

Mistakes Children Make in Torturing Parents - Graham Bellsworth - 210 pages

How to Use the Pen as a Sword - Jeremy Filia - 11 pages

The Invisible Stick and the Invisible Carrot - Fiona G. Locker - 154 pages

Self Help Guide to Surviving You - A. A. Gunn - 515 pages

Setting a Pace - A. A. Gunn - 420 pages

Keeping Relationships Interesting - Cameron Jammer - 75 pages

… and (2) more!

And don't worry about finishing them all in one go, that would be inhumane. Just know that certain projects won't be available to you until you finish the prep work.

For now, you'll be seeing how it's done.

The man behind the glass is wearing a labcoat, although he never touches any of the surgical tools next to him. He's almost showman-like, parading around this device with a flourish seen only in circuses. If he had worn a ringmaster's costume, he wouldn't be out of place.

Whoever was strapped to the chair wasn't much of a fan. Greying and balding, he was nearly nude, save for the thin, medical dress. The leather straps, although not quite tight, still pinched his freckled and saggy skin.

The doctor clicks a few buttons on the device, which begins to hum. A ding of a microwave echoes in the interrogation room, and he pops it open to reveal a pacemaker. The old man seems to recognize it, and begins to look around, nervous.

He begins to monologue, describing the pacemaker, model, and year it was used, carefully stroking it like a cat. He then pulls out a vat of dark liquid, slamming it down onto the table. He picks up the pacemaker with a long set of tongs and dips it into the liquid. The old man begins to gasp, heaving as though he had been hit in the chest. He shudders, attempting to break free of the straps with his weak limbs. He begins to cry out, and cry.

And then the doctor pulls the pacemaker out, the metal corroded and rusty. He places the pacemaker back into the device, and as though he had snapped his fingers, the old man immediately calmed down, the very atmosphere seems to relax from a strain. Surrounded by clapping, he bows, deeply, and leaves the room, his assistants stabbing an IV into the old man.

Fascinating, wasn't it? You know, we chose you because your psych profile said you were less affected by the macabre. Looks like it was dead on the money.

You may also notice that there wasn't a single bit of harm in the entire thing. It is simply a coliseum of the mind, a fight, but one that's graduated from the cages of Rome. We have evolved past such. Here, you will never shed a single drop of blood. Here, you are safe.

If you wish, there's another demonstration coming up, although it's run by Dr. Corps. He's not much for flash, but he makes up for it in technical precision and efficiency. It is an honor to watch him work.

The Foundation has gifted me with a lot of inside information. I'm sure this will be useful in training agents to resist Foundation torture, should the time ever come. Although, I find it hard to believe all their torture is psychological in nature. Why restrict themselves?

It also runs into the problem of participants figuring out the general conceit and simply refusing to give in. Without the threat of pain or mortality, what do they have to fear?

What anomalies are the Foundation using?

Particularly difficult individuals may experience preferential treatment. For example, we once had a pianist, part of an AWCY? subsect. Had terrible secrets, and even more terrible lockjaw. So we took a dive into his history, saw his aptitude for music and persecution complex, and the rest is… history. Now, we discovered it's quite good at getting people of all sorts to talk. Puppetry, orchestral, stand up, the whole shebang. They all break under this one.

The McDuhall Hall. An architectural masterpiece.

It's a uniquely tailored experience. We would let them sit in the crowd, watch the hired entertainment, let the thought of performing on stage seep into their minds. Let them recall, favorably, the childhood memories of standing ovations and golden trophies. We converse with them, appeal to Freudian psychology. That's another thing. Let them do the talking.

Let them fail themselves.

I sat on the upper row, as it was darkened and I wouldn't have to coordinate with DAP.

A man walks up on stage, dressed to the teeth with the fanciest tux he's probably ever worn. His hair was unkempt, a dirty brown that could be seen even in the glaring limelight. I couldn't tell what faction he came from, but his forte was apparently stand up comedy.

The hall was dead silent, save for a solitary snicker from the audience as he walks up. The man laughs to himself, nervously. Greets the audience, heralding from whatever state. First time doing a Foundation show.

He immediately pushes through, launching into his career with gusto and irreverence. It's immediately apparent that he's practiced long hours for his art. His delivery is rushed, but steady, and he manages to elicit a laugh from me a handful of times, although I was forced to stifle them with a cloth.

But the professionality of the audience held cruel. Every single one of them abruptly shifted gears, looking to the comedian's left, staring directly into his lame leg. And they hardly blinked. He's suddenly met without eye contact, and subconsciously scratches at his leg. Confused, he continues, artificially isolated from the world.

He's sweating hard now, and the coordinator appears to his right, tapping the watch on his wrist. He motions him to get off the stage, and he complies, sheepishly looking to and from the exit and the audience. As if a switch turned on, the audience began to murmur to each other.

He half runs, half stumbles, off the stage, his egress followed by thunderous applause as the next comedian walks on stage.

Sorry, I'm getting distracted.

Do you find it fascinating? Our work here is so professionally coordinated, so full of intent and purpose. I find it rewarding. There's something beautiful seeing dozens of people striving to accomplish a singular goal, even if it takes a long, long time.

Tell me, what brought you here? Besides being transferred, of course, that's completely out of your control. What're your thoughts? Clearly, you haven't requested a transfer, so you must like it here to some degree.

If you're uncomfortable with telling me because societal conventions, feel free not to. We all have troubles adjusting, especially with our work. We've been trained to suppress those feelings, after all. All I can say is, it's liberating, for the select few who fit in.

I'd just like to formally welcome you to DAP again. Here's to a long friendship.

Pointless lip service.

I can see how the Foundation tricks people into working for them. Dazzle them with fancy words, and keep them working forever. And for what? Locking things in tiny boxes and lie to people for a living.

It disgusts me so viscerally. Although, it's sort of hypocritical for me to say that. GOC is no better. They blast anything with a snowball's chance in hell of having the fingers and the balls to fire a gun.

Nonetheless, my secondary mission is complete. Where is my primary mission?

So I've been keeping a watch on your lists, and you have been doing so well! In fact, you're done! No more content for you to learn, you're a full fledged DAPper!

Now, we can get right into the business. How do you feel about a GOC agent? Low risk, low priority investigation. We keep them around just in case they have any usable information.

Oh, right, the GOC won't chase this man down. After all, they have some SCPeeps too. We would negotiate an exchange, but we aren't even allowed to know what those agents were doing in Slovakia, so it's unlikely.

A bit cramped, but it's certainly more comfortable than the alternative.

Stay right there, we'll bring you the agent. His name is Guy Anderson. Enjoys painting and sleeping, although his proficiency in exercise and reflex turned him into an agent for the 86th group in the GOC. He was caught on Site-89 during an information exchange. We didn't report him, because what's the good in that?

Try targeting his family. He has two kids, 16 and 18, daughters, and a wife that died in 2001. Anna and Elma, respectively. The older one graduated early and is getting a degree in Engineering, the younger one plays in a volleyball team.

He's currently dating a nice lady, Ms. Genevieve, interior designer and florist. Likes milk and cookies. We haven't used this information on him yet, so it should be effective, since psyche tells me he's a family man. Remembers to go to every recital and game. It's a miracle, since he travels all the time for his job.

Good luck. And, don't worry about messing up. Atypical persuasion is a process, not a method.

He is wheeled into the room, cloth bag over his head. Although, it isn't very effective, GOC agents are trained in spatial awareness. Nonetheless, the disparity between blindness and sight is jarring enough to be mandatory in DAP procedures.

As his eyes adjust to the light, his eyes widen in recognition of the man before him, before returning to neutral. Good man.

Pacing back and forth, I subject him to a long winded speech about his family. Where they live. Their birthdays. Their likes and dislikes, favorite colors, stuffed animals, the grave of his wife, and three Foundation sponsored unmarked graves.

It was not effective. Unsurprisingly, he spat in my face, to keep up the act. This was also a handy signal, which meant that his goal was also complete. I'll have to extract him as soon as I can.

Shame. Looks like we'll have to do something desperate. Why didn't it work, you think? Maybe he thinks the Foundation wouldn't do it? Well, we normally wouldn't, but a good claim to EC would change that.

But you. You, by golly, you did wonderfully! Every single line, pace, and even the rate of breathing, it was a work of art, it's like you were the God of Interrogation in a past life! And in this line of work, that's completely, totally plausible!

This calls for a celebration! I've already sent a bottle to your room. The Foundation doesn't sanction the gift of alcohol offically, but I'm an .aic and I run DAP. I'm basically the Site Director. Actually, I'm pretty sure they listed me as Site Director. Anyways, I don't mean to detract from your celebration. Get outta here, have some fun!

A computer flashing a single, looping image.

Pounding headache, the sound of rusted wheels grinding against linoleum.

Six bright lights, burned into my retinas.

Wakey wakey! It's time you face the truth.

I find myself in a metal table shaped like a cross. Spread eagle, like a Vitruvian Man.

The light prevents me from seeing anything else clearly. Dhalia's voice is coming from a speaker in a robot.

Sorry, I really liked you. If you were born just a little bit later, you would've been recruited into the Foundation instead, and I wouldn't have to do this to you. Still, would've had to do it to someone else. but not you!

You don't know what this is. You weren't trained for it. Our information networks are far more robust than you could ever know, and it's unfortunate. The GOC may be well funded, but you have the interests of nations to worry about. The Foundation is free, all things considered.

What is this?

Here, look at this. We need you to tell me what this is. It's a matter of importance. And we'll let you go, along with your GOC friend.

Also, as a side note, I really like the spitting thing you agents do. You still think it's so clever and the Foundation hasn't discovered the meaning, but it's just… pfft. It's too funny! You crack me up.

A finger snapping can be heard, and I found two tubes inserted into my throat. One of the tubes lead to a large, rubber bag, inhaling and exhaling, kept constant by a complicated machine. I recognized this technique, and realize I'm no longer breathing manually.

The second tube lead to a grinder, pumping out a pink, chunky soup. I'm no longer eating manually, nor can I taste the food they're shoving into my stomach. The urge to vomit has been suppressed by whatever chemicals they've injected into the slop.

I couldn't look down, partially because I didn't have the strength to move my eyes, partially in fear of learning the rest of my bodily processes were no longer manual.

Dhalia.aic is humming to herself, watching the tubes slowly deliver their swill. A timer on the wall indicates the operation was well into its thirteenth hour.

Oh, I'm sorry.

I think I forgot to put you to sleep.

Wait, no, I did. Hm. Maybe not enough drugs to keep you asleep until the next day. Or maybe you've been chemically trained to resist them. Either way, I suppose we'll have to start a little earlier than usual. Be happy that it's me, and not some doctor that can get sleep deprived.

You need a steady hand to make sure this next part doesn't hurt that bad.

The sound of crushed plastic fills the room as my face is replaced with artificial organs. My eyes went first, plucked like a flower, followed by my nose, teeth, tongue, and ears. They cut my vocal cords, after I screamed them hoarse.

Bandaged, I'm wheeled out of the room, catching hints of casual conversation, before the momentary weightlessness of an elevator eased my pain. Ding, followed by opening elevator doors, and the barking of dogs.

I lied about us being completely nonphysical. We will allow for exceptions when dealing with very important information. Information we can't afford to give up on. Whether that means too many lives are at stake, or it threatens the Foundation at large. No matter. It's not my job to figure out what to do with that information, I just need to force it out of you.

Okay, first and foremost, I'm feeding your body parts to the dogs. There's no way to reattach them, not without the use of anomalies, and I really don't wanna send your parts to the morgue, that's just a lot of paperwork. You're gonna have to live with being a ghoul for the rest of your life.

Oh. I removed your teeth and tongue. That makes it harder to talk, huh? Whoops! That was on me, my bad. Well, that just means I'm gonna have to take a really big needle and put it right… here! That way, we can make a transcript of your thoughts and you can still talk with your mind. Generous, huh? Top of the line tech being used here. I knew you'd understand.

The dog barks slowly fade away as I'm wheeled away. I can't tell if we're still on Site-12.

I'll let you in on a secret. It's… not really a secret. It's something everyone eventually figures out, given enough time. But I'll tell you anyways, just so you don't feel bad.

Nobody is coming for you. You need to save yourself.

I don't like doing this, and I figure you don't like it either! Just spill the beans and you get off, no strings attached. We're contractually obliged to let you go. C'mon, doesn't get any better than that. I'd like to see you go to Alcatraz and snitch. They still won't let you go.

We go up a gentle incline. The depressurization of a vault echoes around me.

You know, I pulled out all the stops on this one. Participants that take their role seriously are very rare. Most of them give up just knowing they're facing the Foundation. But you, you're one in a million.

So I think it's only fair I spill some of my beans. We detained that guy because we knew he was important. He's no random Joe, he's a general. But he ended up being a figurehead, knows absolutely nothing worth talking about. So, might as well keep him around, since nobody went after him. Turns out, they sent you.

You've been on our radar for a long, long time. Anytime they needed something recklessly stupid done, they sent you.

The table is stood upright, and esoteric stimuli begins to engulf me. Something that sounds like the squealing of pigs. A rusted gear creaks behind me. The silent warmth of a computer.

Even as an .aic, I'm getting tired of this. I can free you, right here, right now, if you just tell me what I need to know. Right now, you're in the Reservatory. No one except me has the clearance to know what it does. And you don't want to know what it does. Trust me.

Literal dead silence.

Tell me something. Someone. Even the location. Or a name of a person.

I can't remember.

…I can't leave you today. Either you die here, or you tell me what I need to know.

I don't…

…Shame.

Rixo. Ri… Rixo Quarry, in Sweden. Purple, red, blue.

Wonderful! You're free to go.

I'm suddenly standing. I was never restrained, never mutilated. A mirror in easy reach showed my face from a decade ago, never aged a day.

I'm in my room, from when I was brought into DAP.

There's a framed picture and a document in plain view across the bed. It showed me my nightmare.

Remember, you're always welcome back here.

Item #: SCP-6970

Object Class: Thaumiel

Special Containment Procedures: [REMOVED AS PER CONTAINMENT PROCEDURES]

Description: SCP-6970 is a nonentity. Due to the lack of identity, it takes on the characteristics of individuals introduced to them, although it is influenced by spoken language. For example, messages spoken over the intercom are understood as if they were an internal monologue. If exposed to Foundation personnel, it will begin to possess knowledge of anomalous objects, workplace social hierarchy, and physical features. The same can be applied to other Groups of Interests.

Dhalia.aic has been assigned to SCP-6970, as SCP-6970 cannot take on the properties of nonphysical entities.

After collecting a sufficient amount of characteristics, SCP-6970 will act as if it possesses a physical body, and thus be subject to physical changes and amnestics.

You feel a prick in the back of your neck. You can hear the telltale bubbling of amnestic fluid, its volatility snaking its way into your soul. Your memories begin to fade, draining into the uncaring void. As the chemicals begin to infiltrate the blood vessels, you go drowsy, and fall asleep. You will wake up as a new person. You are very important.