And What Was a Soul to That Blank White World 


“A month. Tops.” 
“| won't get... What, any details?” 


*I’m not personally privy to the details, I’m afraid, even if | 
were allowed to disclose them.” 


“H-how do | know what | did wrong?” 


"I'm not sure what you mean by that. Your errors were 
explained to you thoroughly." 


"Okay." 


The effort | used to give, if in vain 
"Well, that was fast." 
"Oh. What?" 


"Just saying that you read it quickly, that's all. Are you 
comfortable signing ?" 


"Oh, oh! Yeah, of course. I've gotten this far, right?" 
"That's a good mentality to have. Go ahead." 
"Thank you." 


"No, thank you." 


| have no need for a memory of my life before this. The prospect of it 
seems painful. Whatever my meaning was previous to this has been 
outweighed by usefulness, potential or otherwise, and that’s fine. | 


had nothing to spend my paycheck on when | lived in the real world, 
so what was the point of receiving it? It's fine. It’s reasonable 
enough, and it’s fine. 


| have spent anywhere from two to six years here, give or take a few 
years that might have gotten fucked around in my memory or wiped 
out of it entirely. It was clear to me when | was hired that this 
organization’s purpose wasn’t as scientifically oriented as I'd 
originally thought, and that was fine too. It was important work, work 
| didn’t mind dedicating myself toward despite a few ethical doubts | 
had towards the beginning. | was here because | wanted to be here. 
That was my intention, and it was a comfortable and confident one. 


was outvalued and then outweighed by pain 
"Where are you? 

"Just my office. Why, what do you nee-" 

*We need you. Your father and | are getting tired.” 
Tired of... what?” 


“Of this! Of you! Well, not of- you, just of... this situation. 
You’ve been gone for months. We haven't seen you in 
months. Don’t you realize how heartbreaking that is? 
What are you doing that is so damn important, huh?” 


“Dad, |-” 


*| know you're not a kid anymore, alright, so don’t pull the 
age thing-” 


“That's not what | was going to say. | was going to say 
that I’m doing work more important than you two 
probably expect-” 


“Oh, this is about what we expect, now? When did that 
become the subject of this conversation?” 


“It didn’t, it didn’t!” 


SCP-958: General-Beep 


Item #: SCP-958 
Object Class: Safe 


Special Containment Procedures: SCP-958-A instances are to be 
contained in Storage Unit 11 at Site- in an inactive state. SCP-958- 
B instances are to be contained in Storage Unit 13 at Site- if 
neutralization is not feasible. 


Description: SCP-958-A is a humanoid toy robot, composed 
primarily of plastic and tin. SCP-958-A is nineteen centimeters tall 
and has a mass of 214.8 grams. The words "General-Beep®, by Dr. 
Wondertainment" are inscribed upon the bottom of SCP-958-A's 
right foot. 


When activated via a switch on the back of its head, SCP-958-A 
becomes capable of speech and limited autonomous movement. It 
will use these to actively seek out a child under the age of thirteen. 
While it will respond to those of or over the age of thirteen, it will 
often attempt to redirect conversation toward aiding it in finding a 
child. 


When exposed to a child under the age of thirteen, SCP-958-A will 
frequently discuss historical military accomplishments and will often 
suggest exposing other children to it or other instances of SCP-958- 
A. These conversations exhibit no compulsive effects, and the child 
is able to deactivate SCP-958-A via its switch without any 
resistance. Should the child express interest in what SCP-958-A 
discusses and/or plays with an active SCP-958-A for a cumulative 
six hours, SCP-958-A will give the child information on how to build 
an instance of SCP-958-B. This information cannot be used by 
anyone other than the child in question; attempts by other 
individuals to utilize it will result in a non-anomalous creation, with 
similar results when a previously exposed child turns thirteen. 


*Then what the hell are you up to, Teresa? Where are 
you? Why won't you visit us?” 


“Don't- don’t yell, please, everything will be fine, I’ll keep 
sending you and dad money-” 


*We don’t want your fucking money! We want you back 
in our life, not those shady-ass monthly transfers from 
your shady-ass bank showing up in our transaction 
history, dammit! What the hell is your bank anyway? I’ve 
never even heard of it! When | Google it | get nothing! Do 
you work for the government or something ?” 


“Please stop yelling-” 


“I'll stop yelling when you tell me where the fuck you are, 
honey! We don't know where our daughter is!” 


“Indiana, okay, the closest town is Bloomington, just- 
wait, fuck-” 


*"Wait fuck' what?” 
“| have to go; someone's here-” 


“Please call me back, Teresa, we miss you so much-” 


”Who was that?” 
“Oh, hi Doctor Werner-” 
*| said who was that?” 


“Who was- my- father? My father, he called me, you 
know how family gets-” 


”You revealed our location to your father?” 
“Y- yeah-” 


*This isn’t a Foundation cell phone. You know the rules, 


Lockwood, keep this in your belongings locker unless 
you're going off-site for one of your yearly vacation 
periods.” 


“I... Know, sir.” 


"Yeah. You do.” 


| never had an issue with what we did, either; however, | often had 
the unfortunate pleasure of working with sapient anomalies, so | 
suppose | need to factor that into my view of the Foundation before | 
say anything too self-absorbed. | worked in the Field Research 
department of Site-81, and my days were spent burning up my 
biology degree in the humidity of the midwest, tracking people and 
animals through the filthy alleyways of Indianapolis and the deep 
woods of Bloomington alike. Anomalous creatures don't grow on 
trees, after all, and each project took up months of my time. My days 
were long and my pay was low, but it's what | had wanted to do and 
it's what I'd been doing. 


and by lack of action, or thoughts ingrained 
"Lockwood? What are you writing?" 

"Oh, uh my notes. For the-" 

"It's past time for lunch. You should go." 
"Oh. Yeah, you're right." 

"I'll have someone escort you." 


"Um... why is that necessary?" 


In fact, the more | think about it, the more | realize how purposeless | 
would feel if | hadn't been hired by the Foundation or a similar 
organization. | could spend my days slaving away at a nine-to-five 
job, like | spent my teens and early twenties, but what would | be 
doing? Helping some no-name company make its money? No, I'd 


rather do something important, even if that meant doing things the 
outside world frowns upon. 


After the legal shitshow sparked by the events in Korea cracked the 
Foundation's backbone, containment of human anomalies was the 
new animal testing in the public's eye, and no amount of logical 
reasoning would sway their vitriolic and destructive activism. For a 
while, | started to wish that | was from a different education 
background - anything other than biology - just so that | could turn a 
blind eye to the Foundation's 'questionable morals’ and file 
paperwork in some dusty office wing. Anything other than what was 
popular controversy. Anything that didn't involve sentient subjects. 


my sense of self was exhausted and drained 


That being said, | was torn. The human anomalies | worked with - 
and there were only three of them in my entire career - didn't behave 
like people. A person doesn't scream and kick when approached in 
calm conversation, a person doesn't attempt to murder the doctor 
attending to them, a person doesn't spend hours at night wailing at 
the ceiling and only stop when forcibly sedated; an animal does 
those things. | was working with animals, whether | wanted to admit 
it at the time or not. Right? 


and | do recall the day my heart died 
“I can't talk to you.” 

"But I'm the same pe-" 

"No, I- it’s not that | don't, I- can't.” 
"Not allowed. Right." 

“It’s wrong. I'd be wrong.” 


"Didn't you get my note? Please tell me you got my 
note." 


"Please be quiet. Look, we really can't be seen talking to 


each other." 


"Am | not the same person? The same person you've 
always known?" 


"...['m sorry, okay?" 


The more | considered the concepts involved, the more | came to 
the realization that it would be downright unintelligent to ignore how 
environment has the capacity to enforce and cause behavior. Of 
course a person acts like an animal when you put them in a cage, | 
explained to my supervisor a few years back; living things conform 
to the context of their environment, | know that much, and when a 
living thing's environment is designed to enforce a mindset, how can 
you in good faith lay the blame of the results on the victim? 


He didn't like that. It was a telltale sign of concerning sympathy, he 
said, and he'd be moving me to a "less stress-inducing work 
environment" ("for my own safety," of course). I'll get my head in the 
right place, he told me. Amnesticization is always an option. 


As of now, | am not certain where | stand. 
and | do recall that one time they tried 
"Did you hear?" 
"What? Hear what?" 
"The news. They know. The public knows." 
"Keep your voice down-" 
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Terra, no one's listening." 


"You never know, okay? And besides, isn't this old news 
anyway?" 


"No. " 


| never had to deal with humanoids after that. | researched Safe- 
classes in a quiet lab. Nothing sentient or sapient. My pay 
decreased, but | didn't care. | ignored my feelings, | ignored the 
news and the rumors and | ignored everything but my work. After a 
while, my head felt lighter. Weeks blurred together faster than they 
ever had before, and | found that | rarely left the Site anymore. My 
life was a cycle of lab to quarters to cafeteria over and over and over 
again, and it was acceptable. Even comfortable. | was useful - | felt 
useful - and | saw it in my daily patterns as much as | saw it in my 
work. 


to reinvigorate and humanize 


| have found that there is no difference between usefulness in the 
lab and usefulness in the field. This organization cannot function 
with the personal cushioning that is individuality; to have it present is 
to clog the gears and stop the clock, and in this day and age more 
so than ever, we are a clock that cannot afford to be stopped. The 
clock must continue to function as a whole, and it does not matter 
which of the cogs | control; all that matters is that | continue to 
function. 


and despite their efforts to compromise, 


The issue is not that the Foundation does not see me as human, 
despite what the newspapers will have you believe. Whether they 
ever did is of course always in question, but by this point, outside 
factors and the draining, inescapable influence that is publicity have 
caused them to at least try. No, the issue isn’t that the Foundation 
does not see me as human. The issue is that | no longer see myself 
as human, and my own conviction is the most valuable tool at their 
hands. 


But it's fine, really; 
| am just a cog in the machine. 


“A month. Tops.” 


“| won't get... What, any details?” 


*I’m not personally privy to the details, I’m 
afraid, even if | were allowed to disclose them.” 


“H-how do | know what | did wrong?” 


"I'm not sure what you mean by that. Your 
errors were explained to you thoroughly." 


"Okay." 


continue > 


A Billion Brilliant Colors and a Spirit Less Than Human 


In the distant future, buried under the dirt and filth and plants and 
trees and pain of a land closer to normal than your soul would have 
wanted, you awaken at freezing temperatures. Your body gasps for 
air, but finds very little. Your brain tries to tell your arms to move, but 
you're only met with searing muscular agony and a slow realization 
that you're restrained. In the semi-reflective glare of the plate glass 
in front of you, you catch a glimpse of eyes staring blankly. You're 
just beginning to to wonder if they're your own or something else 
when they shift downward, and before you know it, your arms and 
legs are unbuckled and you're tumbling out into open arms. 


December 13, 2068 
"Stable?" 
"We'll see. Get it to the labs with me." 


The conversation blurs indiscriminately as you make all conscious 
attempts to access your memories - if there are any - but you're 
quickly distracted by the pain in your legs. The two lab-coated 
people are trying to hold you up, but you must weigh too much for 
them, and you drag your stiff, lifeless feet next to their energetic and 
living ones as the three of you head down a blindingly white hallway. 


What is 'white?' your mind echoes as you try to stand and walk. 
What is ‘weight?’ 


"Important?" 


"Wouldn't be in there if it wasn't. All of 'em are someone important." 
The one with warmer hands lets go of you to use a keycard. You 
immediately find yourself aching for them to touch you again. It was 
the only spot of warmth you'd ever felt. 


"Don't panic. Shh. It's okay," the other one says. 


Why did they say that? Are you upset? Are you crying? Is that the 
fluid coming from your eyes? If that fluid is crying, then what is the 
fluid coming from your ears, or your fingernails, or between your 
legs, or- bleeding. Yes, you're bleeding. You recall the context and 
definition of bleeding as they haul you into the white-walled room, 
but as they walk you over and set you down on the crisp paper of 
the exam table, you start to remember several other subsets of 
bleeding. Are they subsets? Is that the word? No, they're... 
associations. You have memories associated with bleeding. 


The doctors talk to each other in jargon your mind hasn't yet learned 
to process as you lie on your back, staring at the ceiling. This shade 
of white - it's one of millions, is it not? There are other colors, you 
recall. Yes. The last color you saw was blue, in the warmer doctor's 
eyes. Blue is a cold color, but the doctor's hands were warm. Does 
that mean the person is warm or cold? Is that how differentiation is 
supposed to work? 


"What have you got?" an unfamiliar voice asks. This voice is softer, 
and the person has longer hair. You can't look at them for too long, 
because your neck can't handle the strain and your head soon 
crashes back onto the padding of the table. 


"Minor damage. Probably one of the healthier ones." Fingers probe 
you, and you realize you're restrained again. You want to ask them 
why, but you don't think that your vocal chords work yet. You 
swallow a gulp of extra saliva and air bubbles, but you can't feel it go 
down your throat. In fact, you can feel it pile back up out of your 
throat. You try to ask for help, but the thought surfaces as a 
panicked, jolting motion against your cuffs. The warm-handed doctor 
looks down at you with worry in their cold blue eyes. "What's wrong? 
Can you breathe? Can you speak?" 


You shake your head side-to-side and choke again. Something is in 
your throat, and it's wet. You open your mouth, now realizing that 
your arm would be fully capable of moving to your face if they'd only 
let you do it. The doctor leans over and holds your mouth open. 
"Stay calm. I'll get it out. It's going to be okay." You gag as fingers 
pull something slimy from deep within your throat. It drips on your 
chin and neck as they drop it into a pan beside the table. 


One of the other doctors turns around, lowering their clipboard. 
"What the-" 


"Preserval fluid. Never seen that happen before. Log it in the book." 


"P-p- what?" you stammer. You immediately start coughing again. 
Speaking feels like a hundred ice-cold needles jabbing the inside of 
your throat and mouth. You swallow. "D-do you have water? Can | 
have water?"