Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
I take a ragged breath through burning lungs, and I think about how much time I've got left.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding.
I hope this works.
Ding.
Ding.
I hope we didn't all die in vain.
Ding.
Not long now.
Ding.
It all started with that sound. Ding. Some years ago, my phone "dinged" at me and told me I had an e-mail titled "Engaging Job Opportunity! Open Now!"
You know the type: post your resume online, and you'll get one of these eventually. They all sound the same: some company you've never heard of has gotten a copy of your resume from some place you don't remember posting it, and they're offering you an absurd amount of money for practically no work, if you'll only respond back to them. They're all scams, despicable ploys designed to separate people from their money at a time when they're at their most vulnerable.
You get enough people saying "We'll call you if you're selected" to your face while never looking you in the eye or bothering to pretend like they see you as an actual person with genuine emotions, and pretty soon you'll jump at any opportunity that says they're interested in you. You get enough e-mails that begin with "We regret to inform you..." and out of sheer plain desperation you'll follow through on one that says, "We'll hire you if you just submit to this background check that costs $275 for some weird reason or whatever, who cares, don't think about it, just give us the money and the job's yours."
And then they have you. You, and the money you can't afford to lose if you want to keep the lights on and have a roof over your head.
But not me. Me? I was working on completing my doctorate when I heard that fateful little ding. I had heard of scams like this before, which was the first red flag. The second red flag is that I had never posted a resume anywhere because I had never had a job before. I went straight from high school into college, and straight from undergrad to graduate and finally doctorate. Whoever sent that message was barking up the wrong tree.
So I shrugged my shoulders, rolled my eyes, swiped left to delete, and didn't think twice about it. I kept working on my research and would have spent the entire night doing so... but then, five seconds later, I hear it again.
Ding.
Confused, I picked up my phone again. And there it was:
"We've heard good things about you! We pay weekly! Great benefits! OPEN NOW!"
And just as quickly as before: eyeroll, sigh of annoyance, swipe left, phone down, head back in textbook.
Ding.
"Jesus," I remember saying to myself. I picked up my phone, completely done with this entire situation and ready to turn it on Silent, when I read the message on my screen:
"Open the Damn E-mail, Jonathan."
And my exasperated annoyance turned into intrigued confusion. What kind of employer sends a message like that? Against my better judgement, I opened the e-mail.
And my screen went black. And a logo I had never seen before flashed in front of my eyes. And then I saw... something. Years later I would recognize it as a weaponized memetic anomaly that, when viewed, induces sudden and severe cataplexy, the total loss of voluntary muscle control. The anomaly then affects the subject's body by inducing compression of the jugular vein, significantly hindering blood return from the head and brain to the heart. This leads to unconsciousness and, depending on how long pressure is maintained on the jugular, total brain death.
I lost all ability to control my body, passed out, and easily could have died. Because I looked at a picture. Welcome to The SCP Foundation.
Ding.
Every second I hear that sound as the clock steadily ticks down.
Ding.
I think about everything I've done and seen since the containment breach.
Ding.
But I try not to think about her.
Ding.
I never found her.
Ding.
Did I spend enough time looking?
Ding.
What scares me more?
Ding.
The thought that if I had looked harder for her, I would've eventually found her?
Ding.
Her, and some nightmare creatures playing soccer with her decapitated head?
Ding.
Or the thought that I couldn't find her because she abandoned me?
Ding
That she left me behind because she knew I was too weak to make it out of here alive?
Ding.
Based on the amount of blood I've lost I'd have to say she's right.
Ding.
"Your world is about to change."
I'm sitting in a meeting room inside our site. An SCP Foundation site. One of many. Although technically it wasn't "our site" just yet. This was our orientation day.
"Everything you thought you knew about the laws of physics, space, and time. Every preconceived notion you've ever had. Every line in every textbook. At best it's a half-truth. At worst it's a lie. A lie we planted. And you should thank us for it."
I'm meeting the man who would one day be my mentor for the first time. He is missing an arm and speaking through an electrolarynx. An anomaly, commonly referred to as an SCP, tore his arm off and ate it before tearing his throat out and eating that too. And they saved him. "They". "Them". The O5 Council. The ruling body of shadowy figures overseeing it all. They could've done more, could've given him a whole new body if he had just asked, but he chose to be left like this. He wanted to remind himself what it costs when you think you know all that there is to know in the world. And he wanted everyone else to be reminded of that every time they looked at him.
I'm remembering my first meeting with him and trying to forget my last.
"Nuke the bastards, Jon."
He's telling me this as I'm holding onto what's left of him and trying to find what words, any words, any single word, that I could possibly say at a time like this. Nathan's explosion has made one of my ears go temporarily deaf. My leg is throbbing, and I can't put any weight on it at all. And I'm the lucky one, compared to my mentor. He's lost his other arm. I don't know where the bottom half of his torso is. Without the electrolarynx every word must be a jagged agony. And yet he says it again.
"Nuke them. The code... Remember... remember the game. Time's not on your side."
And then he dies. I reach into his pocket and take out a small black keycard. An O5-Level keycard. The highest level of access. The skeleton key. And I know where I need to go. I get up and begin hobbling.
"The SCP Foundation exists to catalogue and contain supernatural, hypersupernatural, paranormal, preternormal, subnatural, and cosmic anomalies. These anomalies vary in size, scope, power, and abilities. We have a sculpture that can snap your neck in the time it takes to blink. We have a mask that wears you. We have a deer that may actually be an Ancient Roman god. We actually have several anomalies that one could consider deities, based on their ability to alter matter on a microscopic to a planetary scale. And since the Foundation's founding, we've managed to keep it all under wraps. Even though there were a few hiccups along the way."
He laughs. I had never heard someone laugh through an electrolarynx before. It's not something I would ever get used to.
"You are all the best and the brightest of the emerging talent in your fields and come recommended by agents we have installed into the highest levels of academia. I'm sure most of you have spent all your lives being the big fish in the small pond. But if you decide to join The Foundation, that is all over. You'll be one of many. We only accept the best, and the best we have are all better than you. Because they've learned things that only we could have taught them. And that's what I'm offering you."
He scans the room and I meet his gaze. It's been months since my first encounter with The Foundation. I've passed all their tests. I've submitted all their paperwork. I'm here. I'm ready. I'm drinking the Kool-Aid.
And he knows it.
And he laughs.
"I know what you've been offered: more money than you could ever hope to spend, legally-binding contracts that will set your families up for life if you die in service to The Foundation, I've seen and heard and enjoyed my fair share of all the bells and whistles. But that's only the beginning. I'm offering you knowledge. If any of you care about it, I'm offering you the chance to save the world. We did not create these anomalies. They existed long before we were born and most of them will probably continue to exist right up until the total heat death of the universe. But for a moment in time, brief as it may be, we can say that we secured them, contained them, and protected the world from them. And we learned. And that's enough for me. Is it enough for you? Show of hands."
We all look at each other. Measuring each other. Daring each other.
I want to say I was the first person to raise their hand.
I really want to say that.
But it was her.
Always her.
Then the rest of us. Including me.
And he looks out at all of us and laughs again.
"Then get to work."
Ding.
It was a brave new world. For all of us.
Ding.
We were given assignments based on our skills, divided into teams based on our personality profiles.
Ding.
I was put in charge of a research team that investigated anomalous texts.
Ding.
Texts related to the nullification of the law of conservation of mass.
Ding.
Creating something out of nothing.
Ding.
Nathan called it magic.
Ding.
I look at Nate. I look down at his proposal that I'm holding in my hands. I look back at Nate. Then I let him know how I feel.
"You're joking. I'm not signing off on this. We've been using D-Class as test subjects. We will continue to use D-Class. I'm not going to approve this. Not now and not ever."
He wasn't fazed by that in the slightest. Little did I know, he'd already won. We were just good enough friends that he chose to break it to me gently.
"D-Class aren't test subjects. They're cannon fodder. It'll never work. They'll never allow D-Class access to the materials we have. The secret ingredient is belief. That's what I understand now. We've spent months pouring through the books and reading the scrolls. Every square inch of them. But it's not enough to just know it all. You have to believe. And we do. So it has to be us."
I shake my head in bewilderment and look at him like he's an alien creature and not the closest thing I have to a brother. "I'm not going to give one of us a grand mal seizure because you've convinced yourself that it'll let us throw fireballs."
"Not just anyone. Me."
"Don't make me pull rank on this, Nate."
"Already done."
He slides me another piece of paper. In my hand I'm holding Nathan's proposal: the theory that a mystical ritual followed by a sudden and chaotic burst of electrical activity inside a subject's brain can be used to waken latent preternatural abilities. I put it to the side and pick up what Nathan has passed me. Immediately I see a memetic anomaly that can cause a person's eyes to boil and burst from their sockets. If you live long enough and distinguish yourself, you'll get to a high enough access level that The Foundation will inoculate you with the meme's vaccine. My vaccine. I know this one. I gave them this one.
I'm looking at a message from The Council.
"Jonathan, we thank you for your years of dedicated service. Researcher Nathan believes this experiment has a high chance of success, but only so long as you are the one supervising the ritual and administering the treatment. This could be a groundbreaking development in our constant struggle to contain anomalies. Your assistance is non-negotiable."
I pass the paper back to him and I look at him, seeing him for all he is. He's a brilliant scientist. He's an occasional drug addict. He's obsessed with discovering the mysteries of the cosmos. He's my best friend. And he's going to make me kill him.
And then he gets a weird look in his eyes, stares off into space, and tells me, "I can hear it sometimes, you know."
"Hear what?"
"The song of the universe. Bits and parts of it. Little symphonies. This is going to work."
My best friend has lost his mind and is going to make me kill him because he wants to play Gandalf. I sigh deeply and rub my temples. I feel a migraine coming on. It's going to be a long night. I surrender to The Council and the whims of fate, and I tell Nathan, "It's going to happen, at least. I have no idea if it's going to work."
Ding.
"JON! GET DOWN!"
It's been ten minutes since the containment breach. I was sheltering in place in the cafeteria with about two dozen other people. Then the beasts broke in. The facility guards let loose with heavy weapons fire. But for every one that fell to the ground, two emerged from the mass of meat and bone and blood that was left behind. The guards were swarmed and consumed. Then the beasts turned their attentions to the rest of us and we prepared to face SCPs with kitchen knives and sporks. And then my best friend shows up by blowing a hole through the left wall the size of a barn door, tells me to duck, and begins raining down holy hellfire upon the monsters.
"GRAB WHOEVER'S LEFT AND GET OUT OF HERE!"
I get off my ass and start moving. Moving and shouting. I'm grabbing people, pushing them, shoving them through the brand-new exit that Nate just made for us. More than once I need to slap someone across the face to get them to focus and get them to start getting the hell out of here. And for a brief moment it looks like we'll be able to turn all this around. Smoke and the smell of burning meat fills the room. And I hear the screams of the beasts as they are incinerated. But I'm not the only one.
Momma hears someone hurting her babies.
Nathan tries to stop her. And she just keeps walking towards him. He pours on the power. His flame burns so bright I have to look away before I go blind. And then I hear him scream.
I look back, my eyes watering from all the smoke in the air, and I see that Nate's been lifted into the air by Mother Dearest, four three-foot claws sticking out of the back of his chest. He spits blood in her face and calls her something in a language I didn't know he knew. A language I didn't know existed. Then his eyes go white, and his entire body begins glowing. And I know what he's going to do.
And I run.
The shock wave hits me in the small of the back and throws me forward. I tumble end-over-end and feel something in my leg bend a way that it's not supposed to bend. I feel a bone crack. I'm not sure which one. I'm a scientist, not a doctor. All I know is that I can't put any weight on my left leg without wanting to scream and pass out. Somehow, I make my way to my feet, and use the wall next to me to support my weight. I hobble down the hallway, and all I hear are screams and all I see are corpses.
Eventually, I run into all that's left of my mentor, and after telling me what to do, I take his Admin-level access card. I hobble towards the nuke room, but only make it a few steps before I have to sit down. I need to catch my breath. I need a moment to rest my leg. Just a passing moment.
Ding.
Back then, right at the start, I honestly thought I had at least some chance of getting out of this place alive.
Ding.
Now I know better.
Ding.
I look through the telescopic sight of an Iota-12 Standard Issue Rifle named Betsy Ross.
Ding.
And the only thing I focus on is making sure my aim is steady.
Ding.
And I remember the man this gun belonged to.
Ding.
And I remember the hero that died for me.
Ding.
And I think about the first time he saved my life.
Ding.
The first of many times he was willing to die if that's what it took to save the world.
Ding.
And now it's my turn.
Ding.
I hear the crackle of an open comms line on my headset and Ironsight says to me, "Nice vacation spot you've picked out here, scientist."
I'm standing in a cave two kilometers below the ground and looking at a heathen hof that is most likely one million years old. With me is Nathan, from a time before his pyrokinesis awakened, and several more of my fellow esteemed researchers.
And her. Always her.
And our guards.
Mobile Task Force Iota-12, "Babysitters", was a fourteen-person elite MTF squad dispatched to supervise research teams that venture into the unknown, the forgotten, and the forsaken in order to search for, document, and if necessary, contain anomalies. This was just another job for them. We were just another team of nerds with clipboards opening doors that should've been left closed. During these missions, the survival of the research team was considered a top priority, almost as important as the successful capture and containment of any discovered anomalies. And every member of Babysitters knew it. They were trained and they were paid and they were ready to die for us if that's what it took. But it wasn't a requirement that they had to like it.
The leader of MTF I-12, Ironsight, is a mystery to me. At least, he was back then. He didn't speak much, and usually only opened his mouth when he wanted me to know how much he disliked me. I listen as our headset comms light up with the chuckles of his subordinate Babysitters. He continues.
"Why is it that you Poindexters always have to choose the deepest, darkest holes to put us into? Why isn't there some reality-bending cheesecake factory somewhere where the anomaly is that you can eat as much as you want and not get fat? What about a bar with limitless beer on tap, and our job is to test it out and see how limitless it really is? Why's it always got to be some ancient relic from some forgotten civilization that'll usher in the apocalypse if we go poking at it and accidentally zig when we really should've zagged?"
I hear more chuckling. He loves giving it to me. So I give some of it back.
"Because life's not fun without a little danger, Ironsight."
"You scientists never have any clue how dangerous these missions really are. I think-"
He has a good point. I have a better one. So I cut him off, and I tell him, "You're not paid to think. That's my job. You're paid to protect us. So protect us. You're the leader, so lead. The sooner we're done, the sooner we can all go home. You don't have to like it, but we don't have to care. And trust me, we don't."
And all the laughter stops. And Ironsight looks at me with hatred. Or at least what I think is hatred. It's hard to say, at least while he's wearing his helmet. That and all the other armor he's wearing on every inch of his body. He stares at me, and keeps staring, and for a few uncomfortable seconds I get the dreaded feeling that he's going to coldcock me. And then he says, "Mobile Task Force, move out."
And we follow right behind.
Two hours later, I'm standing in front of... something. My best guess? It's some sort of computer interface. It's ten feet tall. It only accepts input that's drawn in blood. And the drawings look like runes. Ancient Nordic runes.
That guy with the hair was right. It really was aliens. He just got the civilization wrong.
We're all that's left. Me. Nathan. Her. The last survivors of Iota-12, which is Ironsight and two others. And our anomaly. Outside the room we're in are fifty thousand new friends that want to eat us, trying to force their way in. And time's running out. I move my hand over the leaking hole in my shoulder and feel light headed. I shut my eyes, hard, and attempt to clear the cobwebs. I have to be accurate. I have to be precise. I don't want to think about what might happen if this thing misinterprets me.
I draw out the runic symbols for "DESTROY."
The blood seeps into the thing, and moments later, new runes appear. I'm being asked a question by a megaannum-old computer that was left here by a god.
"DESTROY BASE OR DESTROY WORLD?"
And I almost laugh. But I know Ironsight would have never forgiven me if I did. Not after he had to watch what happened to the men and women under his command. And despite what you may think, I actually liked Ironsight. Even all the way back then. He was good enough at his job to be a smartass about it. I could relate. I still can, I guess. So I stay silent, grab another handful of blood, and reply.
"DESTROY BASE."
It asks me another question. The sounds outside grow louder. We're running out of time.
"CONFIRM AUTHORITY?"
It's now or never. I draw out the symbol for Alföðr. The Allfather.
The computer doesn't respond. It simply goes dark. And then the earth begins to tremble. I look at Ironsight and nod.
"Get us out of here."
Ironsight takes out a small black card, holds down a button on it, and starts talking to it.
"Priority authorization Sierra November Alpha Foxtrot Uniform. Iota-12 reporting mass casualty incident imminent. Location has been compromised; self-destruction sequence has been activated. Site Charlie Romeo Tango One One Three Two is coming down on top of us. Requesting immediate emergency extraction."
And his card speaks back to him.
"Confirmed, Iota-12. Stand by for emergency extraction. Please report any feelings of nausea, weightlessness, cosmic awareness, or murderous rage to your supervisor."
After a few seconds I can taste the electricity in the air. Crystalline light engulfs us. And for the first time in my life I know what it feels like to be teleported. And suddenly we're back at home base. I look at Ironsight. And then I throw up all over him. My supervisor and mentor is already waiting for me.
"This better be worth it. You don't want to know how much it costs to teleport even a single person. Show it to me," he says.
"Her," she says. She was never afraid to stand up to him. Never afraid to correct him. I envied her. I loved her. She unwraps the small bundle she's holding and says, "Her, not 'it'. She's a girl."
And we look at her. All of us. We look at the one thing we were able to save from Site CRT-1132: a little baby girl. A baby girl that's naked except for the cloth she's wrapped in and the helmet she's wearing. A tiny little helmet with feathered wings on the sides of it.
My mentor looks down at her, then looks down at me. He doesn't waste a second. He merely points to me and says, "Clean yourself up. Debriefing's in ten."
I wipe bile off of my lips. Medics start tending to our injuries. I turn and see Ironsight already leaving through the front door.
"Wait," I say.
He turns around and takes his helmet off and I see his face for the first time. He's younger than I thought he was. Except for his eyes. I look into his eyes, and I see someone very old indeed.
"What is it, Jon?"
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
No funny nicknames, no snide remarks. Just that.
"I'm sorry, Ironsight."
He looks down at his boots that are covered in my vomit and somehow musters up the will to make light of the situation.
"Don't be. These aren't even my favorite boots."
I tell him, "That's not what I meant."
He shakes his head and looks down, pinching the bridge of his nose. For a moment I see a crack in the wall of stone. But only for a moment. A moment later, he just looks at me and says "Yeah. Yeah, Jon. I know. I'm sorry too. But that's not going to bring any of them back."
And he walks out of the room. And later, years later, long after the dissolution of Iota-12 led to Ironsight's reassignment to Chief of Security for our site, we'd share beers over this story. We'd cry over this story. We'd make toasts to the ones we lost. And I'd tell him that he's a good man, and the best soldier I've ever met, and that he tried his best. And he'd say that I wasn't too terrible myself, at least not for a pencil-pushing Poindexter.
And then... the containment breach.
Ding.
"JON! Jon, I'm here!"
I don't remember passing out. I remember sitting against the wall to rest, to calm the fire burning in my leg, and the next thing I know I'm opening my eyes and Ironsight is looking down at me, shaking me awake.
"Jon, we need to get you out of here. We're done. It's over."
I grunt in pain as he helps me to stand. My thoughts clear just enough for me to ask him a question that's been burning inside my brain since the start of the containment breach.
"Where... where the hell is Epsilon 11?"
Epsilon 11 is the best of the best of the best. They're the Mobile Task Force that is deployed any time a containment breach has caused a total loss of facility control and the release of multiple SCPs into the wild is imminent. They should have been here by now. Well before now.
He throws my left arm over his shoulder, and we begin walking. He looks at me and says "Gone. All gone. It's the Chaos Insurgency. They're here. Dozens of them. They're killing everyone. They're finally making their move. It's all out in the open now. It's war. We've got to get you out."
I begin hyperventilating because of how much pain I'm in. I shakily pull out my mentor's black card and nearly drop it. I look at Ironsight, holding out the card, and I say "Can't... Can't do that. Have to... have to finish this."
Ironsight keeps dragging me further down the hallway. Further away from where I need to go. He tells me, "Jon, it's too late. You'll never make it. There's too many of them. And you don't even know the launch code. We have to get out."
I shove him away, lose my balance, and fall hard. Mercifully, I land on my right side and not on my left. So I only scream in pain. I don't pass out. I manage to stay conscious. Lucky me. Ironsight grabs me by the collar and forces me into a sit-up position.
"Damn it, Jon, what the hell do you think you're doing?"
I grit my teeth and take several sharp breaths. I look him in the eyes, and I say "I know... I know the code. Have to... have to stop them. Stop evil. That's what... what we do. Can't... Can't let it end like this. Won't."
Ironsight looks down at me and grimaces. I know I've won. My lucky streak continues.
He puts me back down softly, holds out his hand, and says "Give me the keycard Jon. You've got a bad leg and you're not a trained soldier. I'll do it. Tell me the launch code."
He's not going to like this next part. There's a game we all used to play, back in the days when we first started out. My mentor was the one that suggested playing it and would always play it with us. We would always think we were doing good, competing against each other, until it'd finally be his turn and he'd knock all our asses into the dirt and remind us that time wasn't on our side. I always thought the game was just my mentor showing off and trying to pass it off as a teachable moment. But I think he was preparing us all. For this. Even back then.
"It's... it's pi. Pi to one hundred and thirty decimal points, recited in under sixty seconds. 3.141... 5926... 5358... 9793.... 2384...."
Ironsight cuts me off and says "Damn it. Figures it would be something like that. Scientists. We're doing this the hard way then."
Ironsight reaches into his pocket and pulls out a syringe that has some sort of thick, clear fluid in it. I watch as he attaches a needle to the syringe, and my eyes go wide when I see him jam it into my bad leg and squeeze the plunger. I scream in pain, but only for a second. Then I take a deep breath. Then I get up. On my own two feet. Without help.
My thoughts begin racing. My entire body feels hot and electric. I begin sweating buckets. And the pain goes away. In the time it takes for me to realize what's happening, a cracked bone knits itself back together. I have to take several deep breaths because it feels like my heart is going to start pounding out of my chest. Ironsight moves his rifle to the side so he can pull out his pistol, a COM-15 Self Defense Sidearm that he hands to me.
He puts his hand on my shoulder and says "You've got about ten minutes of this before you crash. And you're going to crash hard. You'll want to sleep for a week straight. Which is why we're going to use the time we have to get what we need. It's the only thing that'll give us a chance in hell of reaching the nuke room with this place crawling with Chaos and escaped anomalies. This is it, Jon. There'll be no going back after this. If we stay here, if we don't get out right this very second, we're going to die. One way or another."
I take a deep breath and make sure the pistol's clip is full. And I make my decision.
"Take me where I need to go."
Ding.
That's what made our site special.
Ding.
We were a team. A united front.
Ding.
A family.
Ding.
We worked together on amazing projects, and we accomplished amazing things.
Ding.
I keep thinking about all the different times Ironsight protected me from somebody or something incredibly dangerous.
Ding.
And I keep thinking about one time in particular.
Ding.
I had been researching a cult known as The Followers of the Eternal Truth for several months. I had learned enough about them to know they were serious. They had the makings of real heavy hitters: an enigmatic and charismatic leader, an ever-expanding roster of recruits solely dedicated to carrying out their master's vision, and a growing list of high-level members exhibiting anomalous powers Some of the things they were able to do, I was never able to figure out how they did them.
We learned as much as we could, but we ran out of time. I received word from an undercover agent that they were planning something big: they would use their anomalous powers to unleash a coordinated series of terrorist attacks on government buildings throughout the United States. The damage would have been catastrophic: hundreds of people dead, property damage in the tens of millions, and the whole world would awaken to the fact that monsters lived amongst them. Monsters, and things stranger still.
So I told my mentor and supervisor. And he gave his recommendation to The Council: immediate, swift, and total termination. And The Council organized a raid.
Somehow, they knew we were coming, and they also knew they weren't big enough or strong enough to stop us. Not all of us. It would have been a bloodbath, of course, but The Foundation is no stranger to violence. We would have won, in the end, and they knew it. So they did the only thing they thought they could do, the thing their leader talked them all into: they coordinated a mass suicide.
Only one person survived. The leader. The most powerful member of the group. Everyone at the raid knew the stakes and knew about the cult's leader. Every single one of those brave, courageous souls were prepared to die in order to contain a man that could make people's heads explode by arching his eyebrows. But he surrendered without a fight. The strike team arrived, saw the dozens of bodies of all shapes and sizes all neatly lined up in rows, and saw the leader looking out over them, looking at what he had done, with a smile on his face. And he just put his hands up and let us take him in.
Ironsight, by then our Chief of Security, was chosen to lead the interrogation. He chose the best men and women of our site security to walk into the interview room with him. Since I knew the most about the group, I was also given the option to walk into the interview room. And I just... I just felt that I had to. I had to look this man in the face, the man that had killed so many people. And I had to know. Even knowing what he could do... I just had to know. And I trusted my friend.
I knew Ironsight had my back, and Ironsight knew The Council had his. A few nights after the interview Ironsight would reveal to me that The Council secretly approved a few MTF special agents to shadow the security team, and I mean "shadow" in a very literal sense. I never saw them. Ironsight assured me that was the point: he knew they were there; he was assured they were there, but he was also assured that no normal human being had any way of being able to see them.
And I still felt like I was in life-or-death danger every second I was in that room.
Ironsight starts out the interview simple and to the point. " I'm going to begin this interview by asking that you identify yourself."
The leader of The Followers of the Eternal Truth looks to be in his early 30's. He's tall, almost six and a half feet, and lanky. He wears mirrored aviator sunglasses. His strawberry blonde hair is dirty and unkempt, ending just past his shoulders. He hasn't been allowed to shower. Nobody even let him change his clothes. He smells. Terribly. And he's still smiling. With a small chuckle and a slight tilt of his head, he starts talking.
"I have a lot of names. Who do you think I am?"
He tilts his head to the other side and laughs again. If this is the game he wants to play, Ironsight is prepared to play it. At least we've got him talking.
"Based on the beliefs of the cult you founded and led into a mass suicide, my best guess would be some version of Satan."
He slams the table in front of him, leaving a large handprint-style dent in it, and all of a sudden his entire face is lit up with little red dots. He doesn't pay attention to any of that. He just keeps laughing.
"Really? That's the best you've got? Man, your little foundation really doesn't live up to the hype at all. I'm going to enjoy seeing this place go up in smoke."
This isn't the first time an anomaly has threatened us, and none of us gets intimidated easily. Not me, not my fellow scientists, and certainly not anyone in our security department. We've seen too much. And we’re the ones that won. That's what matters. He's the one that is being securely contained. If I can keep that at the forefront of my thoughts, I'll be able to get through this.
Ironsight shakes his head and leans across the table, locking eyes with the cult leader.
"The only thing you'll get when you threaten us is a darker cell in a deeper hole. If you're the expert, then educate me. Who are you? What are you? Where do you come from?"
"And I should tell you anything because...?"
"Because we define the rules here. We can make your imprisonment here tolerable, or if you prove yourself to be a valuable enough resource, even enjoyable. Or we can make your life a living hell. Or we could recommend that you're too dangerous to be left alive and we can arrange to have you disposed of. Even someone with your abilities and resiliency. We'll find a way. Trust us. We're very good at what we do."
"I do trust you, especially that part about being very good at killing. You don't hold a candle to the one in the lab coat, however."
And then he turns his gaze towards me and says, "You're even worse than they are, you know."
He waves lazily towards the guards and continues speaking.
"You're the beginning. You're the catalyst, Jon. You're-"
I gather my courage and speak up.
"How did you know my name?"
"You're joking, right? I know all about you. You, your team, their research, this facility. You stopped visiting Joshua's grave, Jon. And how's Brynhildr? The Foundation seems to be doing quite a good job of babysitting a reincarnated Valkyrie going through the terrible twos."
Joshua was the first scientist that volunteered after Nathan's successful awakening. And the last. The process made him a powerful telekinetic. For some reason I still don't understand, it also drove him completely insane. The amount of damage Joshua caused led to the program being completely shut down. One staggering success and one crushing failure is all we ever got. And Brynhildr... no one outside of this site is supposed to know about Brynhildr. Not even other SCP Foundation sites.
Ironsight snaps his fingers to draw the cult leader's attention. The leader sighs, almost bored, and Ironsight says, "So you can read minds. Tell me what I'm thinking right now."
He starts laughing again. He even slaps his thigh.
"Really? That's all you take me for? A telepath? I read a lot more than just minds. I read people."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I know everything about everyone, and I use that to get what I want. I can tell you which one of the guards in here is secretly sleeping with the wife of another guard that is also in here. I can tell you why Joshua went crazy and started ripping people apart like they were made out of wet tissue paper. I can tell you why it'll never work out between you and him. Mainly it's the fact that he's in love with someone else, but it could also have something to do with the fact that he's not gay. If you really wanted to try a workplace romance, I'd recommend-"
Ironsight slams his fist down on the table, a surprising amount of anger showing in his voice. Normally he never lets the anomalies know when they're getting to him. But now I can hear the hatred and loathing when he talks.
"That's enough. I get the point. Why are you doing this? And what do you want?"
"It's actually really simple. I want to not be bored. I have to find ways of keeping myself entertained. I'm immortal. I'm all-seeing and all-knowing. I'm just not all-powerful. Only mostly powerful."
He chuckles at this and says, "To be honest, I guess I'm not really all-knowing either. I don't know who created me or for what purpose. I don't know why I was given these abilities, or how. I don't know my beginning, and I doubt I'll have an end. I simply... am. I am, I was, I will be. And it had been a few hundred years since I last led a cult. I wanted to see what, if anything, had changed. Sadly, not much. So you and your foundation honestly did me a favor. I probably would have killed them all soon anyway."
"Let's say you're telling the truth. If you really do have the abilities that you say you do, you have to know that we're never going to let you leave here. Why did you surrender?"
"Oh wow, you really don't get it, do you? I came here because I know how this is going to end, and I wanted to watch the fireworks. And that's all you're getting for now. Get those guards of yours to take me back to my cell so that they can spend a few days trying to torture more information out of me."
"We don't do that here."
"It's like talking to a brick wall. Jesus. Someone like you would never understand the eternal truth."
The leader shakes his head, laughs, and then turns and faces me again. I feel like he's staring into my very soul as he says to me, "You might, though. And I know you're just dying to ask. So go ahead Jon. Ask."
I've seen that phrase dozens of times, in dozens of writings. Whenever a follower was initiated into the cult, they learned "the eternal truth". The supposed answer to the great question. And I have to know. So I do what he tells me to do. I ask.
"What is the eternal truth?"
"The eternal truth is that whatever god or gods created this place gave up on it a long time ago. We can only blame ourselves for the way this world turned out. We are the masters of our own destinies. And speaking of which..."
I spent a long time trying to figure out why he did what he did next.
He turns around in his chair to face the one-way mirror that's in the room, stares at his own reflection like he's possessed, and says, "They already have a file on you. They already know. There's no coming back from this. You always thought the grass was greener. If you want to live, now's the time to hop on over to the other side. I'll be seeing you real soon."
It's at this point in the interview that the cult leader stops answering questions. He just looks at all of us and laughs. Eventually Ironsight grows tired of the cult leader's grating, shrill cackle and gives the order to take the prisoner back to his room.
Ding.
I'd rewatch that interview a dozen times before I finally admitted to myself that I had no idea what the leader was talking about towards the end.
Ding.
So I asked for some help, for some advice and insight.
Ding.
My fellow scientists jumped at the opportunity, especially since they had heard so many rumors about the interview.
Ding.
So I arranged a viewing party.
Ding.
I should have known.
Ding.
So long as the proper forms got signed and the proper authority figures gave their go-ahead, the SCP research teams at our facility were allowed to collaborate frequently. Sometimes all it takes is a fresh pair of eyes to solve a problem. My team researched theoretical and reality-warping physics, but more than once we'd be stuck in a rut and losing all sorts of sleep on an issue only for a botanist or archaeologist to suggest something we'd never considered. A lot of the time it wasn't the right answer, or even anywhere close to it, but it got us looking in the right direction. And that made all the difference.
Plus, scientists tend to gossip worse than teenagers in high school during prom season. If anything crazy happened with one team, the other teams all wanted to know the full details, and if any video of it existed, we wanted to arrange a viewing party. And this was the SCP Foundation. Crazy was a daily routine.
Immediately after our interview with the cult leader, the rumor mill started churning. Everybody wanted to know what was going on. Why he did it. How he did it. Who he was. Everything. Eventually I agreed to a viewing party. I did it for two reasons: I was getting nowhere with my own examination of the interview, and I knew something like this would never get dropped until they saw it for themselves.
So one day we all made our lunch breaks align and we sat down in a conference room to watch the tape. I caught some of the idle chit-chat as I was setting up the large projector to play the video. They were asking a lot of the same questions I was still trying to find out: how he did it, how much of his story was true, and if there was anything we could do to stop him. A few were trying to appear tough and wanted to know why The Foundation had taken such an interest in an anomaly that had only killed a few dozen people. Those were rookie numbers, in their opinions.
I spotted more than a few of them that were there simply because they needed an excuse to sit in a darkened room for an hour. One of them didn't even wait for me to turn the lights off, he just sat all the way in the back in a corner, put on some sunglasses, and went right to sleep. Like I couldn't see him. Some of the more callous bastards, the truly grizzled veterans, even brought snacks and popcorn.
But not her. Never her. She knew I needed help. And she knew I needed her. So there she was, front and center, with a pen and a notepad. I look at her and smile. She looks at me and smiles. We hold each other's gaze for a little while. But then a research scientist named Michael walks in front of her and sits down on her left side. Michael is her assistant, her second-in-command, and a brilliant scientist specializing in the research, development, and deployment of weaponized memetic anomalies.
I press the big button on my remote that says "Play" and the video begins rolling. I dim the lights and walk towards her, sitting down on her right side. We begin talking as the interview starts.
She asks me, "Has he said anything else since this interview?"
I respond back with, "Not really. He keeps asking to speak to me privately. Ironsight's not allowing it."
"If he did allow it, would you?"
I have to take a moment to think that through.
"Not without protection. And I'm not sure what that would mean."
"Maybe we could help. We're developing a meme that grants a temporary immunity to telepathic attacks."
"How far along in development?"
It's at this point that Michael chimes in with, "Fifteen D-Class have been killed so far. The meme definitely prevents telepathic attacks. Because it's lobotomizing them. There's no brain left to attack. But I honestly think you're being too cautious, Jon. This guy must weigh a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet with cement in his boots. I've read over your notes. I don't know why everyone seems so scared of him."
Michael always seems to act a certain way in front of her. He likes to brag about how good he is at his job, and he always talks about how much of a good team they make. He knows why he does it. So do I. And so does she. But nobody says anything. That's how these things work.
So I just turn to Michael and say, "Notes on paper and interacting with him in person are two very different things. He doesn't look at you. He looks through you. Somehow, he seems to know everything about everyone. It doesn't matter that he's not eight feet tall or that he doesn't have claws that could crush steel. He knows things. And we of all people know how dangerous knowledge can be. Don't take him lightly, Michael."
I can see him bristle at this comment and adjust his position in his chair so he can more fully look at me. Michael says, "You don't have to tell me how to do my job, Jon. I've been at this job longer than you. I know the risks. This guy's a pushover."
I shift my positioning in my seat and turn more fully towards him as well. I'm about to respond when she reaches over, gently places her hand on Michael's wrist, and says, "Please, Michael, I'm trying to watch. I want to make my own opinion. Thank you."
Michael looks down at his wrist and makes a sound of annoyance mixed with acquiescence. He turns back in his chair, fully looking away from me, and says, "Fine. We can talk about it later. At our office."
When she leaned over to placate Michael, a little bit of her blouse opened up, right around her collarbone. Seated so close to her, I could see the outline of her bra. She catches me staring. I see her smile. She looks around and makes sure Michael's eyes are focused on the screen and that no one else is watching either. Then she unbuttons the top button of her blouse and gently pushes it open a little bit with her pen. She wants me to have a better view. She also crosses her legs and gently starts tapping her left foot against her right ankle, which causes her skirt to rise up just a little bit, just every once in a while.
She knows exactly what she's doing. She enjoys teasing me. I enjoy being teased. I sit back and enjoy the show, and I find myself not paying much attention to both the interview and the random assorted comments I hear as the video continues playing.
"Y'know, he kinda looks like that one guy from-"
"I read he once made a guy's heart stop by snapping his fingers. You think that really happened?"
"Anyone feel like asking him what the winning lotto numbers are?"
"I wonder what he meant by watching the fireworks?"
"Holy crap, did that guy just say Ironsight is-"
The video goes on. As does the background commentary. Once it stops rolling, I turn the lights back on and see who's left. A few of them are asleep in their chairs. More than a few of them have left. It always happens like this. Curiosity will draw in a crowd, but the only thing that makes them stay are the big E's: explosions, escapes, and End-of-World scenarios. We deal with monsters and nightmare creatures every single day. It takes a lot to keep our attention.
It's not until after I turn the lights back on that I realize that Michael has left too, which is strange. Normally he stays near her like he's attached to her hip. He of course would say that he does that because he's her assistant, and that's what a good assistant does. We all know the real reason of course. We've all heard the rumors. So it was definitely unusual that he left, but I simply assumed Michael got bored. Or maybe it was because he didn't like the way I talked to him. Or perhaps he eventually noticed the little show she was putting on, and when he realized she was putting it on for my benefit and my benefit alone, he stormed off. I couldn't be sure.
I was pretty distracted at the time.
Ding.
This close to the end, I start thinking about all the things I could've done differently.
Ding.
About all the signs and clues I must have missed.
Ding.
I try not to blame myself.
Ding.
I try not to lose myself to self-doubt and self-pity.
Ding.
I won't let myself go down those roads.
Ding.
I'll play "shoulda coulda woulda" when I'm dead.
Ding.
Which should be real soon.
Ding.
I've only got a few minutes left before I crash when we finally reach our destination: a room that's barely bigger than a janitor's closet but functions as one of several different armories located throughout the facility. Chaos chased us the entire way, and the SCPs that we weren't equipped to deal with we had to avoid, so we had to take an inventive route to get here. But we're here. There's only one door, both entrance and exit, and we barely made it inside. We're safe, at least for now. Nobody's getting in that door without a keycard, but just on the other side, likely setting up a defensive barricade, are a dozen members of the Chaos Insurgency wielding Logicer-class Light Machine Guns.
Thanks to the liquid fire running through my veins I somehow managed to avoid getting shot as they chased us. Ironsight wasn't as lucky as I was. He's got a few new holes in his chest and stomach courtesy of the Chaos Insurgency. And he's not even flinching. But I've seen a lot in the years since I've been with The Foundation. And I know enough about my friend to know when he's hiding something.
He's fading. Fast.
And so am I. I feel the crash coming, and Ironsight's right. I want to sleep for a week. My legs feel like they weigh five hundred pounds each. I can't seem to hold a thought in my head. Any time Ironsight talks to me, he's sounding more and more like Darth Vader. But it's worth it because we're here. And so is SCP-207-R.
Ironsight opens a waterproof metal container and hands me a bottle of Coke. An anomalous bottle of Coke, one of 24, A through X. He's not supposed to have this. This is not supposed to be here.
I don't think there's anyone left to make an issue out of it.
I've heard stories about what these bottles of Coke do to the people that drink them, but I wasn't in charge of the team that led the research into this SCP. I look at Ironsight and say, "Is it really as strong as they say it is?"
Ironsight actually manages a smile and says "You won't be leaping over any tall buildings in a single bound or outracing a locomotive, but for 48 hours you'll be better, faster, stronger, smarter, and deadlier than any normal person has any right to be. But after 48 hours, your body won't be able to take the strain anymore and it'll begin breaking down. And then you die. Bottom's up, Jon."
Ironsight tosses me a multitool that has a bottle opener attachment. I take a deep breath, pop the cap, and listen to the carbon fizzle that lets me know my coke is nice and fresh. I take a nice, long drink.
And I finally see what all the fuss is about.
Everything in my body that was beginning to slow down starts speeding up, faster than ever. I don't need to worry about crashing anymore. Even with the increased intelligence that the Coke gives me, I find myself struggling to describe how it feels. Ironsight's description does a pretty good job of it.
I'm on another level now. I'm above.
I'm beyond.
I try not to let it get to my head. I still have a job to do.
And so does Ironsight, which is why he picks up a large, reinforced riot shield and hands me a smaller version.
We both know the plan. All that's left is to do it. Ironsight holds up three fingers. Then two. Then one. Then he opens the door.
Immediately the Chaos Insurgency lets loose. Ironsight is momentarily forced backward by all the bullets hitting his riot shield, but he plants his feet. He grits his teeth. He begins walking forward. His riot shield begins breaking and falling apart under the strain. But he keeps walking forward. For me. Giving me the room I need to run. And jump.
I run forward, building up momentum, and I leap over Ironsight, a vertical leap so high I can feel my hair brush against the hallway's ceiling. I compact my form behind my riot shield. Everything else looks like it's moving in slow motion, so I have all the time I need to angle myself. I come down on top of the Chaos Insurgency like a cannonball, my riot shield absorbing most of the impact. I lose my grip on it and it goes careening off to the side, but it's done its job and I don't need it anymore. I tuck and roll, getting back on my feet, and at the same time I'm drawing my weapon. Ironsight's weapon.
I'm not a sniper. I've never been what one could call a good shot. But they're all moving so slow. And the gun feels weightless in my hand. By the time the fastest Chaos agent starts getting up to his feet, I've already trained my sights on the center of his forehead. And then I squeeze the trigger. The recoil is supposed to kick like a mule, but to me it feels softer than a feather. So I keep squeezing.
I run out of bodies before I run out of bullets. I look around, confirming the kills. It takes me less than two seconds to verify all twelve are deader than dirt. And then I see Ironsight. He's lying on the ground in a small but expanding pool of his own blood. His cracked and splintered riot shield has more than a few holes in it. Some of those shots got through.
I kneel down in my friend's blood, and I look him over.
His eyes, already beginning to turn glassy, manage to focus their attention on me. Ironsight cracks a smile and I see there's blood in his mouth. He says to me, "How do I look?"
I look him up and down one more time and... I can't. I just can't.
"You're going to be fine. Everything is going to be ok. It's not that bad."
He smiles and tries to chuckle, but it comes out as a wheeze, and I can hear something rattling in his lungs. His speech becomes quieter and it's taking him longer to say what he wants to say.
"Yeah... Sounds good. I'll be... Just... Just gonna rest here a little bit. Go on. Just need a... need a minute. I'll be... be right behind you."
My vision starts to go blurry. I tell myself it's just a side effect of the anomalous superdrug masquerading as a common can of Coke that's running through my system. I raise my weapon, Ironsight's weapon, towards my friend's head and I say "Ironsight... Let me-"
"Justin... My name's Justin. Figured it was time... you knew."
My hands are shaking. I take a deep breath and steady my aim.
"Justin... Let me at least..."
He tries to raise his arm to flick the gun away, but he doesn't even have the strength to do that anymore. He gets his arm up only a couple of inches before it falls back down. Undeterred, he says, "No. Don't waste the bullet. Might need... need every single one, where you're going. Take... Take Betsy Ross too."
I stand up and look around. I see Ironsight's weapon, the rifle he's been using since his Iota-12 days. It must have fallen off of him somehow. But it still has its strap. And it's still working. All these years, and it's just as reliable and just as deadly as when it rolled off the factory floor. It even still has its original paintjob, featuring Old Glory in her original form. Ironsight's baby girl. Miss Betsy Ross. I pick it up and sling the strap over my shoulder. And I look down at Ironsight.
"See you on the other side, Justin."
"See you... soon... Poindexter."
It's not the first time I don't listen to his orders. But it is the last. I waste the bullet. My friend stops suffering. I say one last goodbye, and then I head to the nuclear warhead launch room.
Ding.
Ironsight once told me "You talk like a guy that's never been shot before."
Ding.
So much has changed since those days.
Ding.
With SCP-207-R flowing through my veins I thought I'd be ready for anything.
Ding.
I should have known.
Ding.
It takes me no time at all to reach the hallway that deadends with the elevator that leads to the nuke room. The Chaos Insurgency agents I encountered along the way weren't prepared for someone like me. I even managed to take out a few SCPs getting here. The ones that could be hurt by bullets, at least. The others I simply ran past. None of them, none of the heavy hitters, ever tried to chase me. Either I was moving too fast, or they were too busy destroying everybody and everything else.
So here I am. Standing in front of me, behind a defensive barricade of sand bags, are another dozen or so Chaos Insurgency. My brain is already firing off dozens of contingency plans before the first Chaos agent can take aim. Then I see it. Written on the doors of the elevator is a weaponized memetic anomaly. One I've never seen before. One I have no immunity to.
Immediately I feel my entire body spasm and lock up. I don't doubt that a normal person would have been paralyzed instantly. I fall to the floor, gritting my teeth. I feel the darkness closing in. But I can't give up. I start crawling forward. The leader of this group of Chaos emerges from his protective sandbag barricade and kicks me over. He takes Betsy Ross from me and tosses it to one of his friends. He takes my pistol and does the same. I'm staring up at the ceiling lights as he aims his weapon at my chest and says "Look here, we got another hero. He's still breathing too. I thought you said that thing could kill anybody."
Someone else is walking towards me. My supercharged body is trying to fight off the meme's effects but I'm not sure which one is winning. All I can do is stare up at the ceiling as this person walks towards me and my new friend. And then I see.
It's Michael.
I should have known.
A breach of this severity... the Chaos Inusrgency couldn't have done this without someone helping them from the inside. Michael looks down at me and says, "Wait... Wait! I know him. Let me talk to him."
The Chaos agent aims down his sights and says, "That wasn't the deal. Anyone that runs can run. Anyone that tries to play hero dies. That was the deal."
Michael shoves the agent's gun to the side and the agent curses loudly. Michael shouts back, "Just give us a moment, damn you! I can get through to him! He'll listen to reason, you'll see."
The agent curses one more time and says, "You've got five minutes, and not a second longer."
Michael kneels down in front of me, looks me over, and shakes his head. He starts talking as my muscles continue to spasm and SCP-207-R continues to battle with Michael's latest creation.
"You look terrible. I'm sorry. Look, Jon, I know we never really saw eye to eye on most things. And I think we both know why. But I hope you know I always had respect for you. Your talent is wasted here. You don't need to die right now. I can help you. I can get us out of here. I promise."
And Michael lays it all out on the table for me. Why he betrayed us, why he joined the Chaos Insurgency, how he helped them organize the containment breach. And why he wants me to join them. He has the audacity to give me a recruitment speech while he's admitting to being the driving force behind all this death and destruction. And all I can think about is how I should've seen this sooner. I should've noticed something. I remember the interview, I remember the cult leader, and it all falls into place.
"They already have a file on you. They already know. There's no coming back from this. You always thought the grass was greener. If you want to live, now's the time to hop on over to the other side."
The cult leader wasn't looking at the one-way mirror in the interrogation room when he said that. He was looking past it, past the mirror and several large sheets of one-way bulletproof glass, into the observation room. The observation room that was empty at the time... except for the camera. The camera that he knew was recording him. That's what he was looking at.
He wasn't talking to himself. He wasn't talking to anyone in the interrogation room. And he certainly wasn't talking to an empty observation room.
He was talking to his audience. His future audience. The audience that he knew was eventually going to watch a tape of this interview.
My mind flashes to the viewing party, and with the help of SCP-207-R, I finally realize what I missed. I was too distracted by her to notice what was going on, but my peripheral vision caught it all.
The leader says his line about the grass being greener. My peripheral vision catches Michael's jaw hitting the floor. I see Michael start to sweat and hyperventilate. And then I see him get up and leave the room as fast as he possibly could. And not because he was bored to tears. He leaves in a big hurry, and he leaves with his face as white as a ghost. And I missed all of that because I was too focused on the fact that I was probably going to get laid that night.
But now I see it. And now it all fits together. And now I know.
And Michael is still talking.
"We'll never be able to contain them all, Jon," Michael says to me as I'm beginning to feel my muscles untense.
"We were foolish to even try. We have to remember who we're fighting for. Us. Humanity. If these things, these anomalies, won't help us, then we need to destroy them. And if they will help us, we need to use them. We can't leave these things sitting in an underground vault somewhere when we could be using them to usher in a new era for all mankind. We're not the bad guys here, Jon. You have to believe me. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I'm sorry things got so out of hand. But you have to know that my intentions-"
I see the Chaos agent come back into my field of view. He says, "Don't bother. You're wasting your time. Just look at him. He's got 'loyalist' written all over him. And your five minutes are up. Stand aside, Poin-"
I'm not going to let a member of the Chaos Insurgency say that word. The second I realize I can start moving again, I grab the leader's left ankle and squeeze. My enhanced strength is the first thing that returns to me, and I feel my grip crush the Chaos leader's bones into a fine powder. He screams and falls, and I see a pistol in his side holster. I grab it and shoot this Chaos Insurgency squad leader right in his brain. The squad leader's last words end up being a little squeak of surprise. Michael's last words end up being an "Uwah" of surprise as I shoot him too. I was forced to listen to his speech while my body worked at getting itself unparalyzed. I'm done listening. I jump to my feet, my newly acquired pistol in my hand, and I stumble and almost fall down. I'm not fully out of the woods yet. I regain my balance and turn around just in time to hear the Chaos squad's second-in-command shout, "OPEN FIRE!"
There's an old saying that if something's not broke you shouldn't try fixing it. None of the Chaos I encountered on my way here expected this move because I didn't leave any of them alive to tell the rest. I scramble forward, trying my best to dodge bullets while SCP 207-R finishes working that paralyzing memetic anomaly out of me. I aim my gun. And I run up the wall.
It's already too late by the time everyone realizes they need to adjust their aim. I'm already aiming and firing. Squeeze, boom, pop. Squeeze, boom, pop. Again and again. Until it's over. And when it's over, I try to land back on my feet. I fail, and once again I take a tumble, and once again I hurt myself. I land hard on my right shoulder, and I feel it give. I scream, but no one is around to hear me. I take the briefest of moments to lay on the ground in agonizing misery feeling sorry for myself. Then I get back up and pop my shoulder back into its socket. I call the elevator and take inventory while I'm waiting for it to come down.
It could be worse, all things considered. I'm alive. I look around, move a few corpses, and I find Ironsight's weapons, both of them, and they've still got ammo in them. Everything hurts, everywhere, all of the time, but the only thing really bothering me is my stomach. Something smells bad. For a brief moment I wonder if I've crapped my pants. With everything I've been through I wouldn't blame myself if I did, and I'm sure no one else would blame me either. But it's when I look down that I get the bad news.
There's a hole in my shirt. And there's quite a lot of blood coming out of it.
I guess I finally know what it feels like to get shot.
It kinda sucks.
Ding.
Elevator's ready.
Ding.
By the time I step out of the elevator and into the nuke room I've got a makeshift bandage covering my gunshot wound. It hurts every time I take a step and every time I take a breath, but I make my way to the launch controls. Most jobs run their employees through emergency scenarios at least once a year. We all know the basics: you learn how to shelter in place, you learn what to do and where to go during a fire or hurricane, things like that.
At a high enough access level, the SCP Foundation will teach you how to launch the on-site nuclear warhead. Every SCP Foundation site has one: one final option when all efforts to stop a containment breach have failed and a mass release of SCP anomalies and/or a Mass Casualty Incident is imminent. I go through all the motions just like I've been taught. And eventually I get to the good part and hear a gruff, robotic male voice come over the room's intercom.
"FINAL AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED. PLEASE SPEAK AUDIO PASSWORD CLEARLY INTO THE MICROPHONE. YOU HAVE SIXTY SECONDS. YOU MAY BEGIN IN 3.... 2..... 1....."
One minute to recite Pi from memory to the one hundred and thirtieth decimal point.
I nail it in forty-five seconds. I wish my mentor was still alive so I could tell him that in the end, when it mattered most, I kicked his ass and broke his record. He'd say it was SCP-207-R more than it was any skills I had developed. I'd still call it a win.
The entire room goes dark for a brief second and then is lit up with red flashing emergency lights. And then I hear it. It sounds like music to my ears. The sweetest music. The finale. They're playing my song.
I hear the crackle of the intercom coming on and listen to the site-wide announcement: two short siren bursts, followed by the same robotic monotone voice that bellows, "ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL. ALPHA WARHEAD EMERGENCY DETONATION SEQUENCE ENGAGED. DETONATION IN T-MINUS NINETY SECONDS."
After that, the warning sirens play on repeat. I look off to the side and see the room's large countdown timer. 90 seconds until the end of the world. One second later, I hear a sound.
Ding.
Every second or so I hear that sound as the clock steadily ticks down.
Ding.
I set up a sniping position that gives me about two feet of elevation and some decent protection from anyone or anything coming out of the elevator. The SCP Foundation has a contingency plan for the contingency plan: only someone with the nuclear launch code can initiate the launch sequence, but anyone that can get to the room in time can disable it. That way, even if the code falls into the hands of an enemy there's still a small chance a crisis could be averted. The downside to that is that if anyone comes up that elevator and flips a switch, all of this would have been for nothing.
So I'm not leaving. I'm going to stay here, until the end, and make sure that the end arrives on time.
I take a deep breath and look down. I'm bleeding through my bandage. I don't have much longer even if I had wanted to try and make a run for it. I tell myself it's going to be ok. I tell myself I only need ninety seconds.
Ding.
Not long at all.
I take aim at the elevator and look through the telescopic sight of an Iota-12 Standard Issue Rifle. Her name is Betsy Ross. The SCP-207-R flowing through my veins keeps my senses sharp and my aim laser focused. But I can't help myself. I don't have anything else left to do but stare through my scope and wait. My mind starts drifting. Here, so close to the end, I finally start letting go.
I think about all that's happened to me, and all that I've been through to get here. And I finally think about her.
She was the daughter of immigrants, the first in her family born in the United States. Her childhood was not easy. Her parents wanted nothing but the best for her, and nothing but the best is all they would accept. She went to the best schools. She was given the best tutors. She was a top student, played in several sports, and learned multiple musical instruments all before her age had more than a single digit in it. And she never wanted that life. She never wanted any of it. She told me that, once. Afterwards. After the naughty times. When it was just her and me, holding each other, and talking.
She wanted to be an artist. She'd show me her drawings every once in a while. She was good at it.
She was good at everything.
But her parents never would have let her be an artist. They wanted her to be a doctor. She had to fight them for her entire adolescence, almost right up until the moment she graduated high school, before they finally allowed her to be a scientist. After only a few years into her studies, not even with a degree under her belt yet, she was given the star treatment by The SCP Foundation.
She was invited personally by the agent The Foundation had installed at her university. She was given a full tour of the facility and allowed to ask any and all questions she had about the anomalous subjects she'd be researching. They even answered most of those questions. I of course was given the standard treatment for an SCP Foundation interviewee: drugged, kidnapped, interviewed at a "black site", and given the option to either join The Foundation or be given enough amnestics to ensure that I had no idea I had ever even left my university in the first place.
It made me a little jealous. We're scientists. We all have our ego's.
I was scared of her for a long time. It didn't matter how young she was. It didn't matter how small and short she was. Her reputation was terrifying. She led the team that researched the weaponization of memes and also the development of anti-memes. We collaborated frequently, but she always seemed to help me more than I ever helped her or her team. Until one day by random chance our research overlapped, and I helped develop an anti-meme that had been troubling her team for weeks. So I was feeling pretty proud of myself when I heard that familiar sound.
Ding.
Someone was messaging me over the Foundation-approved and Foundation-secured instant messaging program. The program never identified us by our names. Only by our employee numbers. Nobody remembered each other's employee numbers. So a lot of the time we needed context clues to figure out who we were talking to. Let's just say I was more than a little confused when I read her message. All it said was, "Don't steal my ideas."
I replied back, "I don't know who this is but hello."
A few seconds later I received a response back: "I mean it. Next time this happens just message me directly so we can work together. I don't like getting shown up."
Even with her reputation looming over my thoughts, I couldn't help but smile as I replied, "I didn't mean to show you up. I just wanted to help. We're all one big happy family and we're all in this together."
It was a few minutes before I received a reply. Quite the reply, too: "Thank you. I owe you. I don't like owing anyone anything. I'm going to buy you dinner."
She didn't word it like an offer or a request. Because it wasn't. This was non-negotiable. She was buying me dinner. It was at that moment that I learned that it was somehow possible to be both deeply petrified and incredibly horny at the same time. She may have been the Ice Queen, but she was still brilliant. And beautiful. And... more. Much more. So I took a deep breath and replied back, "If that's what you feel is best, sure."
I would always bring this up if I ever felt like teasing her. She liked to remind me of how lucky I was to be with her. Scientists, remember? We all have our egos. And I would always tell her, "Wait just a minute there. Let's not forget who messaged who first."
And we'd laugh, and she'd agree, and she'd kiss me, and I'd wrap my arms around her, and then... Well, you can probably guess.
And that was that. And things were good. Things were good for a long time. Things were so good, in fact, that one day I woke up and saw her snoring softly besides me and I realized that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. So I made sure we had the time and the money to take a nice vacation together. We went somewhere tropical, where the waters were crystal blue and the sands pearly white. I got down on one knee, and with tears in my eyes, I told her everything. I told her how much she meant to me. I popped the question.
I will never forget the look I saw on her face. And I will never forget her response.
"Jon... You can't be serious."
With five words, all of my hopes and dreams came tumbling down around me. She saw the look in my eyes. So she kept talking.
"Jon, how am I supposed to respond to that? How would that even work? We live our lives one day at a time. We have to. We could die at any moment. The type of work we do, the type of things we see and interact with on a daily basis... Look, I... I love you, ok? I love you. But this isn't... people like us don't do these things. We don't get the happy endings, Jonathan. That's not us. It'll never be us. Not in our line of work. I made my peace with that a long time ago. I thought you did too. "
I must have had about a million replies swimming around in my head, and yet all I could manage to get out was "I just thought... I just wanted-"
It didn't really matter what I said, though. She wasn't paying attention to me. She never listened to anything I had to say when she got like this. She just kept talking.
"And what about our kids? What kind of life could we give our children, if we ever decided to have any? When would we tell the little ones that Mommy and Daddy fight monsters and try to invent new ways to secure, contain, or kill them?"
She's on a roll and she's not stopping. And all I can do is watch.
"And what about The Foundation's enemies? The list of factions and groups and splinter groups and shadow organizations that are against us grows longer every day. You've read the reports. You've watched the videos. You know what our enemies do to captured Foundation agents, any agents, even scientists like you and me. Imagine what they would do to you, in order to get me to turn. Imagine what they would do to me, in order to get to you. And just imagine what they would do to our children. Imagine that for one second. And then ask me again to marry you. Go on. Ask. I'm waiting."
It's at this point I notice that she's crying. A few seconds later I notice I'm crying too. I get up. I close the little box that I had opened. The one with the diamond ring inside it. And I look at her, reach out for her, and say "Wait, just wait. Can we just-"
And once again I'm cut off. She backs up, puts her arms up, and tells me, "Stop. Don't touch me. I don't want... Leave, Jon. Just leave. I need to be alone right now. Please leave."
I don't remember a lot of what happened after that. Even with the help of SCP-207-R, I try not to think about it. I went... somewhere. I don't remember where I went or how long I was there. I just remember eventually heading back to our bungalow and realizing all of her stuff was gone. And that's where we left things.
Word travels quickly in our profession, out of necessity. Two months went by. We weren't put on any assignments together during that time. We weren't asked to collaborate. In fact, nobody asked any questions at all. Not formally, of course. But they knew. Everyone knew.
The few times we were forced to interact with each other, it was as awkward and painful as you could imagine. Sometimes I tried using my research to drown my sorrows. Sometimes I used liquor. Nothing seemed to work. Nothing filled the hole. I didn't know what else to do.
Eventually I realized that just having her in my life in any way, shape, or form was better than not having her. We didn't have to be married. We didn't even have to be together. But I needed her in my life. I didn't want to do any of this without her, not anymore.
I was preparing myself mentally, summoning the strength to get up and go find her and tell her all this, while I was sitting alone in the cafeteria and eating a microwaved pizza for lunch. I wasn't sure where she was, but I knew she wouldn't be too difficult to find. Then I heard screaming, and shouting, and the sounds of alarms going off all across the site. And you know the rest.
If things had turned out differently, I think today was the day that I would have told her how I felt. Maybe tomorrow. A few more days at most. I just needed a little bit more time to gather up my thoughts and my courage. This close to the end, I'm choosing to believe that. I hope you do too.
I just needed a little more time.
Sure I did.
Ding-Dong.
My eyes bolt open in a flash. I must have blacked out. Stupid. Stupid to give in to temptation and think about her. She can't be my last thought. Not yet. Not while the countdown is still active.
"Ding-Dong" is the sound it makes when someone calls the elevator in any SCP facility. My worst fears were right. Someone knows. Someone or something is coming. And I'm the only one left to stop them.
Ding.
I take a deep breath and steady my aim. I don't think about how much time I've got left. I don't think about anything. I just focus on the door.
Ding-Dong.
I see the elevator door open, and I open fire. Fully automatic. I don't hear any screams. I don't hear any shouts of anger or anybody returning fire.
All I hear is DingDingDingDingDingDingDingDingDingDingDingDingDing.
That's what it sounds like when high-caliber rounds bounce off the bulletproof skin of an SCP anomaly. In case you were wondering.
DingDingDingDingDingDingDingDingDingDingDingDingDing.
I'm not hurting the creature. But I'm slowing the bastard down. I don't need to kill it; I just need to keep it occupied. Betsy Ross goes empty, and I load her up with another full clip. And another. And when that clip runs dry, I pull out my sidearm and fire that until it's empty too. When all of this began, I was prepared to fight these SCPs with a kitchen knife and a spork. Now I'm ready to use my bare hands.
I put up my fists as the creature approaches me. It swats me aside like the insignificant little fly I am, slamming me into the nearby wall and breaking more than a few of my ribs. I struggle to remain standing as I see the thing approach the emergency off switch.
I'm not sure why I chose to do what I did next. I wasn't really thinking. I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time. I jumped on the creature's back, wrapped my arms around its neck, leaned my head forward and to the side, and bit that thing right in its left eye socket. Even with my enhanced strength, it felt like biting into a concrete sidewalk.
Most of my teeth shatter on impact, but I hear the anomaly scream. And it tuns its attention away from the off switch. It grabs me by the back of my head and pulls, throwing me off of it and slamming me to the floor.
I feel the rest of my ribs break. My vision starts to fade. I see the creature kneel down on top of me. It is crushingly heavy. It raises one of its gargantuan fists, brings it down, and begins beating me to death.
But I finally hear that sound. And I know it's for the last time.
Ding.
"ALPHA WARHEAD EMERGENCY DETONATION SEQUENCE HAS BEEN COMPLETED."
Ding-Ding-Ding-Pop.
That's the sound of the silo opening its blast door. That's the last sound I ever hear. That, and the panicked screams of an SCP anomaly.
Ding-Ding-Ding-Pop.
I manage a smile as I let go. As I let it all go.
Ding-Ding-Ding-Pop.
Not bad for a pencil-pushing Poindexter.
Ding-Ding-Ding-Pop.
Game over, everyone. Scientists win.
Boom.