Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The harsh fluorescent lights buzz overhead as I step into the briefing room. The air is sterile, recycled, like everything else in Site-19.

I glance down at my ID badge and adjust the collar of my lab coat professionally, efficient, no room for error.
Junior staff are already here, nervously shuffling papers and whispering questions they’re too afraid to ask out loud. One stands out immediately:

Dr. Marie Parker. She’s new, obvious in her nervous energy, eyes darting around like a hummingbird trapped in a cage.

“Dr. Parker,” I say, voice clipped but not unkind.

I nod at my outstretched hand, which she takes eagerly. Her grip is quick but sincere. Brown hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, strands escaping to frame a face that’s still soft with youthful nervousness. Her skin is warm, a gentle tan that contrasts with the stark white of the lab coat hanging a little too large on her slender frame.

“You must be the infamous Dr. [Last Name],” she says with a bright smile, eyes sparkling with a mixture of awe and excitement. “I’ve heard a lot. It’s... honestly a little intimidating to meet you in person.”

I manage a small, controlled smile. “I get that a lot. But it’s really just about the work. No one’s as impressive as the rumors make them out to be.”
She laughs softly, the sound like a brief light breaking through the sterile room. “That’s reassuring. I promise I’m eager to learn! Though I probably have more questions than answers right now.”

I tilt my head, studying her for a moment. “Questions are good. Just make sure they’re the right ones.”
Marie nods earnestly, biting her lip. “I’ve been reading everything I could find on SCP-049. There’s something... almost tragic about him, don’t you think? Like a haunted doctor chasing a cure no one else understands.”

Her words catch me off guard, not because they’re wrong, but because I usually don’t let myself consider the anomalies that way. Professional distance is easier. But maybe, just maybe, there’s room for more than just clinical containment.

I gesture for her to walk with me, and we step out into the corridor. Our footsteps echo down the long stretch of sterile flooring, the hum of the site’s ventilation systems a constant background noise.

“You’ll be observing the upcoming interview with SCP-049,” I say as we turn the corner. “It’s standard for junior researchers in your division - educational purposes. You won’t be interacting, only observing. No exceptions.”
Marie nods quickly, almost tripping over her own enthusiasm. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of interfering. Just being in the same room is… kind of incredible.”

I don’t respond immediately. Instead, I pull up her personnel file on the tablet in my hand. I’ve already skimmed it, but I give it a second pass as we walk – mostly to gauge how best to use her energy without letting it become a liability.

“Top of your class,” I note. “Strong background in behavioral psych, anomalous zoology… I see you wrote your thesis on loop cognition in marine fauna. Not the usual bait for recruitment, but I can see why they fast-tracked you.”
She glances sideways at me, blinking. “Oh. Thank you. I wasn’t sure anyone actually read that far down.”

“I do,” I say simply. “I read the full file on everyone I work with. Helps to know what I’m dealing with.”

Her nervous laugh bubbles out again, but I see it, just beneath the surface, the hunger to prove herself, to be taken seriously. That part I understand.
I swipe a bit further down her profile, then speak again – calm, direct. “You have potential, Dr. Parker. Real potential. Assuming you can balance your curiosity with your caution.”

She straightens at that, like I just handed her a badge of honor. “I won’t let you down.”

“We all say that,” I murmur, more to myself than to her, as we pass through the reinforced checkpoint toward the containment sector. The armed guard nods us through. Another clearance scan. Another steel door.
Marie says nothing for once, eyes wide with anticipation.
I glance at her one last time before stepping through the final threshold.

“Stay quiet, stay focused. If you want to go far here, learn to listen twice as much as you speak.”

She nods, posture alert, hands already tightening around her observation tablet like it’s a lifeline. Her motivation is refreshing.
Beyond the glass, SCP-049 sits patiently at his table, hands folded, head tilted in that strangely courtly way of his — as if this were a polite tea visit and not a conversation with a centuries-old entity obsessed with curing a plague no one else can see.

SCP FOUNDATION INTERVIEW LOG
Date: ██/██/20██
Location: Site-19, Interview Room 4C
Interviewer: Dr. [Name], Senior Containment Specialist
Observer: Dr. Marie Parker, Junior Researcher
Subject: SCP-049
Clearance Level: 4
Purpose: Routine psychological assessment and behavioral audit
________________________________________
[BEGIN LOG]
(SCP-049 is seated at the interview table. He greets Dr. [Last Name] with a shallow, theatrical bow of the head.)

SCP-049:
Ah. Doctor. It is a... relief to see you again. The halls of this place are dreadfully silent in your absence.

Dr. [Last Name]:
SCP-049. You seem well-adjusted today.

SCP-049:
Well-adjusted, indeed. My humors are balanced, and the air is free of immediate contamination – at least, to those untrained in detection. You, however… you carry yourself with clarity. I trust you’ve kept yourself safe from the Pestilence?

Dr. [Last Name]:
As safe as anyone can be here. I take it you're still unable to elaborate on the specific nature of this "Pestilence"?

SCP-049:
(sighs) You persist in this line of questioning. And yet, you know, Doctor. You sense it, I am certain. There are signs – the way the staff carry tension in their limbs, the decay of civility, the moral rot – subtle, but present.

Dr. [Last Name]:
You're referring to psychological degradation. Workplace fatigue. None of that qualifies as infectious pathology.

SCP-049:
(leans forward slightly) Not all infections leave lesions and fever. Some unravel the soul, fiber by fiber. I expected you, of all your kind, to appreciate such nuance.

Dr. [Last Name]:
I understand nuance. I just prefer evidence.

(049 chuckles softly — a dry, hollow sound.)

SCP-049:
Ever the rational one. That is what I admire, Doctor. Many of your colleagues are... frantic, desperate in their ignorance. You observe. You listen. You ask not for spectacle, but substance. A rare quality.

Dr. [Last Name]:
Flattery isn't necessary. You're not here to impress me.

SCP-049:
Of course not. But neither am I blind to the value of a worthy peer.

(Brief silence as YN makes a note on her tablet.)

Dr. [Last Name]:
Your behavior has remained stable for the last six observation cycles. No incidents, no outbursts. Why the change?

SCP-049:
I have learned patience. I’ve also learned that compliance earns me time – time to think, to refine. Perhaps even... to prepare.

Dr. [Last Name]:
Prepare for what?

(049 does not answer immediately. Instead, he turns his head slightly, gaze shifting to the observation glass behind which Marie sits.)

SCP-049:
A new apprentice watches, does she not? I wonder... will she understand what you do not?

Dr. [Last Name]:
She’s here to observe protocol, not to entertain your delusions.

SCP-049:
Mmm. We shall see. Minds like hers are like fertile soil… young, open, alive. Perhaps, given time, she will come to see the truth buried beneath your science.

Dr. [Last Name]:
This interview is over if you continue redirecting.

(Another long pause. 049 lowers his head slightly – contemplative.)

SCP-049:
You are right, of course. I digress. Still... it is always a pleasure, Doctor. Even if our language differs, I find your presence... clarifying.

Dr. [Last Name]:
Noted. We'll continue next week.

(049 nods slowly, folding his hands.)

SCP-049:
Until then, Doctor. Do take care. The Pestilence is ever watchful.

[END LOG]

The red light on the recording device clicks off with a faint tone.
I gather my tablet and step back from the table, already mentally sorting the transcription tags. 049 stays still, unusually quiet. He watches me with that ever-composed, unreadable stillness, like he knows something I don’t.
I turn toward the door.

“Doctor,” he says, voice lower now, almost conversational. “A moment, if I may.”
I glance back over my shoulder, expression softer. “The interview’s over.”

“Yes,” he says, “but the performance is not the person, is it?”
I pause. Not because I agree, necessarily, but because I recognize the shift in his tone. This isn’t the formal rhetoric he uses when the mics are live. This is something else. Familiar.

I exhale and lean slightly against the back of the chair. “You have a point to make?”
“I only wished to say,” he begins, folding his hands, “you have seemed... weary, of late. More than usual. The lines in your face speak of long hours. Sleepless nights.”

I study him, cautious. “You’re observant.”

“Not merely observant,” he replies. “Concerned. However misguided you may think me, I am not without empathy, Doctor. Even physicians must rest.”
I suppress a tired smile. “That’s rich coming from someone who dissects corpses in his free time.”

He chuckles. “Yes, well. We all have our coping mechanisms.”

There’s a pause. I let it stretch longer than necessary.
Finally, I say, “I’m fine, 049. Just a full schedule. Too many anomalies, not enough time.”

“Time,” he repeats softly. “The oldest sickness... almost as fatal as-”
“Pestilence?” I finish before he can. A small nod confirms his approval.

“You’re listening. Not many listen, Doctor.”

His voice is strange now. Not prophetic, not eerie. Just... quiet. Human.
I don’t thank him. That would feel wrong somehow, too sincere or too vulnerable. But I nod once, and in that nod, I let the truth pass between us without needing to say it.
I move to the door again, hand on the security panel.

“Rest well, Doctor,” he calls gently behind me. “The cure must also tend to herself, now and then.”
I don’t answer this time. I just step through the door and let it seal shut behind me.

The containment door seals behind me with a solid hiss. The hallway is quieter than the room I left, but not by much. Marie is waiting just outside the observation suite, eyes wide, tablet clutched tightly to her chest like it might explode if she lets go.

“You were gone for like… three minutes longer than expected,” she says before I can speak. “Is that normal? Did he- was that still part of the session?”
“No,” I reply, brushing a stray hair back from my temple. “He just talks. Likes the last word.”

She stares at me, then flips her tablet around and scrolls furiously. “I didn’t get the last part. It wasn’t recorded.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Marie opens her mouth, then closes it again. For a second, she fidgets, like a puppy who’s been told to sit still on a leash made of curiosity.
Finally, she blurts, “He likes you.”

I give her a neutral, unreadable look. “He likes talking to me. That’s not the same thing.”
“I mean… okay, yeah, but he respects you. I’ve read like thirty interview transcripts and he’s never called anyone a ‘worthy peer’ before. Usually it’s just ‘ignorant plaguebearer’ or whatever.”

I allow myself a smirk. “I’m flattered.”

Marie squints at me, searching my face for something. “Do you… actually care what he thinks of you?”
The question lands a little harder than I expect. I look at her and I see it: the beginnings of her understanding. That maybe this job isn’t just about knowledge and structure and cataloging the strange. That maybe it asks for more than anyone warns you about going in.

“I care,” I say, slowly, “about what he’s capable of. If he’s calm, others are safer. If he trusts me, he talks. If he talks, we understand more. That’s the goal.”
Marie looks down at her shoes. “Right. Of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to- ”

“It’s a good question,” I cut in, not wanting the girl to feel insecure. “You should keep asking those. Just know when to stop.”
She grins, clearly taking it as a compliment.

“So… how did I do? On the observation?”
“Better than most,” I say, giving her the deserved validation. “You kept quiet, didn’t interrupt, and didn’t try to impress him. That’s already ahead of half the Level 3s who’ve shadowed me.”

Marie lights up, practically glowing. “I told myself I wouldn’t say anything weird. I was this close to asking about his gloves- like, are they real leather? What century is that?”

I sigh, long and theatrical. “Do not ask about his gloves, Parker.”

“Got it,” she says quickly, mock-saluting. “No glove talk. Noted.” I don’t expect her to actually write it down on her tablet.

She hesitates before we turn the corner back toward the elevators. “Hey, um… thank you. For letting me watch. And for reading my file. Not a lot of people here actually take the time.”

I glance sideways at her, then nod once. “You're promising. The Foundation needs more than just brilliant minds. It needs people who notice things. You notice.”
Marie’s quiet for a beat. Then, “I won’t let you down.”
I don’t answer – just start walking again, clipboard under my arm, steps measured. Behind me, I hear the gentle tap of her footsteps as she follows.

---

The hallway outside the lower-level labs smells faintly of salt and antiseptic. The scent they use after aquatic entity sessions, thick and sterile, like it's trying to hide something deeper.

I round the corner and nearly walk straight into Karl.

He jolts at the sight of me, eyes wide. His lab coat’s half-buttoned, ID badge clipped on crooked. He’s holding a datasheet in one hand and what looks like an open blister pack of amnestics in the other.

“Dr. [Last Name],” he says quickly, like he’s startled to see me even though we work on the same floors. “Didn’t- uh, didn’t realize you’d be down here today.”

I study him. “Weren’t you on assignment with 3000 last week?”

“Yeah,” he replies, too fast. “Diving session. Routine. It’s all…” He trails off and never finishes his sentence. Karl tries to tuck the blister pack into his coat pocket discreetly. He fumbles it. Two pills drop to the floor with a faint clink.
I raise an eyebrow.

“You good?” I ask, keeping my tone light.
The young man exhales sharply and crouches to scoop the pills up. “Yeah, yeah. Just- these aren’t kicking in like they usually do. Head’s still kind of... loud.”

“Loud?”

He stands, blinking a little too long. “You know. Just residual noise. Echoes. 3000 gets in your head sometimes. Standard post-dive weirdness.”
I tilt my head. “You reported that to Psych, right?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Protocol and all that. They said give it three days and drink more water.”
“And you’re… taking their advice?”

“Definitely,” he lies.

I narrow my eyes slightly but let it go.
“Maybe cut the next dive,” I say, stepping to the side so he can pass. “Let your brain breathe.”
“I’d love to, trust me,” he mutters, then catches himself and throws me a weak smile. “Anyway. Gotta log samples before they turn into soup. Catch you in a few minutes on set, Doctor.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply – just walks off quickly, coat flapping behind him, like he’s running from something only he can hear. I watch him disappear around the corner, that tightness still lingering in the air like static.

Site-19 | Deep-Sea Observation Hub
Live Link: SCP-3000 / Bay of Bengal Feed
Status: Feeding
Time Since Last Dive: 7 days
On-Site Monitors: Dr. [Name], Karl Wilson
________________________________________
The main screen is split between live telemetry and low-light video from the Bay of Bengal. A black expanse that swallows everything, even light. Sedative dispersal patterns glow faintly in thermal overlays, drifting like blood in water.

I scan the dive metrics again: stable vitals, slow descent, tether tension nominal. No anomalies yet. Behind me, Karl types something into the input panel with the stiff precision of someone pretending not to be tired.

“How’s the head?” I ask without looking up.

He stiffens just slightly. “I told you. Better.”
“You also told me the same thing two days ago. Then you forgot half your clearance codes and stared at your badge like it was growing teeth.”
He exhales, but there’s a trace of a smile. “That’s exaggerated.”

“I have a timestamped recording.”

He goes quiet, eyes flicking toward the screen. “I feel fine now,” he says. “Seriously. No visions. No auditory loops. No afterglow. Just me, a bunch of readouts, and whatever passes for lunch at Site-19.”

I finally glance at him. He’s upright, composed – but there’s something a little too deliberate in the way he holds himself. Like someone remembering how to be normal.
“You remember none of it?” I ask. “The dive last week?”

He shakes his head. “Just the prep. Then… nothing. A gap. I came back up and they said I had a panic response. Physical stress from proximity. Overexposure. Standard reaction. I probably just made eye contact with 3000.”

“That’s not standard,” I murmur.

Karl shrugs. “It is now, apparently. Psych cleared me. I’ve read my own report three times. Still doesn’t feel like mine.”

The screen flickers. A soft alert pings:
Sedative cloud dispersed.
Thermal bait released.
Waiting for contact.

I sit forward. On the camera feed, the water is unnaturally still. Karl leans in too. Frowns.

“She’s late.”

“She’s never late.”

Seconds pass. Then minutes. No movement. No flickers. No impossible, coiling mass materializing from the abyss.
Just black water. Cold. Silent.

I tap into the sonar overlay. It reads nothing. No bio-signs. No anomaly vibrations. Not even residual heat from 3000’s proximity. Karl’s hand hovers over the interface.
“Did she... move?”

“Not likely.” My words are far from convincing.

Another long silence. He leans back in his chair. “Maybe she’s resting.”
“Maybe,” I say, even though it’s never happened before. SCP-3000 always reacts to feeding protocol. That’s the nature of its containment: hunger, appeased regularly, predictably. A machine of instinct.

Only now… nothing.

Still, I record the results, check the timestamps, and signal for a second dispersal cycle. Procedure is procedure. But even as I fill in the report, my stomach knots.
Karl, beside me, is silent. And on the screen, the deep stays empty. I press down on the comms switch. The line clicks, opening a narrow-band channel to the dive team.

“This is Dr. [Last Name] at Site-19,” I say. “Confirm current depth and visual status.”

There’s a brief hiss of static before the team lead’s voice comes through – filtered and metallic from underwater transmission.
“Depth confirmed at 3,420. Visibility low. No contact with target.”

I glance back at the screen. The sonar feed is clean. Too clean. There’s nothing large enough to cast a shadow, let alone something that spans kilometers.
“Proceed with thermal dispersal scan. Any changes in cognitive pressure?”

“Negative. No mental interference. No anomalous stress. We’re… clear.”

Clear.

That word should be comforting. But down there, in the Bay of Bengal, clarity usually means something terribly wrong. I tap into the biometric feed from the divers. No adrenaline spikes. No cortical disruptions. All signs normal.

“No vertigo?” I ask. “No auditory shifts? No… presence?”

A pause.

One of the other voices comes through – younger, quieter. “Ma’am, it’s like being inside a regular trench. Cold. Wet. That’s it.”
Another voice cuts in – rougher, more uncertain.

“She’s not here.”

I freeze. “Repeat that?”

The diver swallows, audibly.
“She’s gone.”

The words hang on the open line.
No alarms. No shrieks. Just a few beats of deep ocean silence.
Then someone on the dive team murmurs, “We’ve never had silence down here before.”

Chapter Text

The hallway hums with stale air and tension. While the rest of the foundation, SCPs and staff are oblivious to the great danger currently unfolding, we marsh down the corridor.

Karl walks beside me, one step off pace, his hand dragging briefly along the wall like he needs to touch something solid to believe we’re still here. Still real. Unlike SCP-3000, who is currently no where to be located. She could be anywhere and yet she isn’t.

“They didn’t feel her,” he mutters, voice hoarse. Like if he needs to voice it, sense the words to understand they are real. “No headache, no pressure. Just… nothing.”
I don’t answer. I’m too busy trying to process the word gone as if it could apply to something like Anantashesha. If anything, SCP-3000 is everywhere all at once. I would be less surprised if she grew another 1000 miles than her vanishing. But the word loops anyway, clinging to the inside of my skull like a stubborn neural echo.

She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

We pass two technicians by the monitoring station. One looks up, eyes darting between Karl and me like he wants to ask something – then thinks better of it. Their whispering starts before we’re fully around the corner.

I keep my stride even, jaw set.
At the security checkpoint, the lights flicker. For a second, the door doesn’t open. Karl shifts beside me, rubbing his temple.

“You okay?” I ask, low.

“Fine,” he lies, voice frayed at the edge. “Just… nauseous.” I nod in full agreement.

The checkpoint doors hiss open, finally. Inside, the walls are darker, reinforced. The air changes – heavier. Quieter. We’re entering containment’s circulatory system now.
A red directive strip on the floor reads:

CRITICAL RESPONSE MEETING — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

Karl hesitates. “We’re not Level-5.” But I don’t let him turn around and shove more pills up his ass to forget the horrors unfolding in front of our very eyes.
“They want witnesses,” I reply, scanning my badge. “Apparently, protocol comes second today.”

The door slides open with a final, mechanical thunk.

Inside, the room is dim, backlit by three projection walls. People are already seated – Foundation coats, senior faces. Silence clings to the corners like mold.
One man stands near the far end of the table, arms crossed, Hawaiian shirt under his lab coat. He turns his head slightly, eyes sharp behind round glasses.
The door seals shut behind us.

Before anyone can speak – Dr. Clef explodes.

“How does one lose track of a nine-fucking-hundred kilometers long eel?!”

His voice cracks off the steel walls. Half the table flinches. A technician startles so hard he knocks over a half-full mug of something that smells like instant coffee and dread.

Clef grips his hair with both hands, pacing a half-step backward like he’s trying to physically hold the chaos in his skull from leaking out. Do you know that scene in Jurassic Park where no one moves in hopes the big angry dinosaur doesn’t notice them.

That’s surprisingly close to what I am feeling right now.

No one answers. No one dares. He exhales, ragged.

Then, after a long pause and a defeated chuckle, “Okay. Okay. Let’s… back up. Someone. Anyone. Start talking.”
Clef scans the room like he's searching for a thread to pull, a wire to detonate – or maybe both.
His hand shoots out, finger stabbing toward Karl like a loaded dart.

"You. What was your name again?"

Karl stands up straighter, startled, eyes wide. “Uh- Karl. Karl Wilson, sir.”

Clef nods slowly, slumped over the table like the heaviness of the situation is pulling him down. The name doesn’t help him in the slightest.
“You were down there a week ago. In its territory.”
Karl swallows. I see his throat bob.

“Yes. For sample recovery.”

Clef tilts his head. “And now it’s gone. So tell me, Mr. Williams,”

“Wilson, Sir-“

“when did you decide to misplace an apocalyptic sea god?”

The room is so quiet, I can hear the low hum of the ventilation. Even the screens seem to hesitate before refreshing.
Karl doesn’t speak at first. I glance sideways… his fingers are twitching against the side of his coat, a rhythmic, anxious tic. But to his credit, when he does answer, his voice is steadier than I expected.

“I don’t know what happened down there last dive,” he says. “But I didn’t forget her. Not until you made me take more of those pills.”

That turns a few heads. We all take the amnestic medication after traumatic interactions. The average employee would lose their mind after just three weeks of working for the foundation. Karl for example must have had a severe panic attack that damaged his mental health enough to give him a higher dose than usual. This happens on a daily basis. If I could remember, which I obviously don’t, I’d know how many times I was restrained and fed multiple amnesia pills. I probably had more Y-909 than Sprite in my life.

And mind you I love Sprite.

Clef drops his hands to his sides. “Alright. We’ll come back to that.”
Then his gaze swings toward me.

“Dr. [Last Name]. You were on monitoring today.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

For a second, I don’t answer.
Not because I don’t know what to say – but because how do you describe the sensation of watching an impossible absence? Of witnessing nothing where something massive should be?

I clear my throat. “Standard feed initialized at 0800. Visual was low-visibility but clear enough. All ambient signals – motion, psi-activity, sonar bleed – were flat. Dead flat.”

Clef squints, unamused. “So... you saw nothing and concluded... nothing.”

“I’m telling you what was there,” I reply, sharper now. “Or what wasn’t.”

He waves his hand, dismissive, like my words are fruit flies around his skull. “Jesus Christ. You people think just because something’s invisible, it’s gone. Try harder.”
I feel the irritation spark at the base of my spine.

“Try harder?” I echo, voice cooling.

“I’ve had years of psychometric signal analysis. I ran triple-layer feedback through the Deep Feed structure. There was no disruption. No haze. Not even an echo of her.”
Around us, voices start to rise. The lab techs have gone full scramble-mode.

“Location in the Indian Ocean sector?”

“Negative.”

“Change in depth, maybe?”

“No, sir. Pressure remains stable.”

“What about a delayed psychic trace?”

“We checked. It’s blank.”

Clef’s hand slams the table, not violently, just hard enough to kill the momentum.
“That’s enough.”

He nods to someone at the end of the room. “Escort William and Dr. [Last Name] out. We’ll follow up after review.”
We both stand. Karl looks dazed. I don’t.

Because just as we’re turning, I hear it – a mutter from the tech console.
“We’re not just missing signal. There’s nothing from the tracker. Not even noise. It’s like she…”

I stop walking.
“Like she what?” I ask.
The technician freezes. He shrugs unsure of how to elaborate.

“Like she no longer exists.”

I turn back, step forward. Clef’s eyes track me. In fact, everyone around us grew quiet at some point. My mind is jumping back and forth trying to make sense of something that I can’t even grasp because it is simply not there.

“Then what if she no longer exists?”

The room goes quiet.
Someone exhales, low and shaken. Another voice breaks the silence.

“Ma’am please, that’s- ”

But Clef lifts a hand.
He’s watching me now. Fully. Focused.

“…Go on,” he says.

My pulse is a dull, steady drumbeat against my ribs.
I feel all their eyes on me, the researchers, the senior staff, even Clef now, his usual sarcasm suspended for a moment of rare, unnerving focus. The pressure of expectation is cold against the back of my neck, like I’m standing too close to an open freezer.

I force the words out, slow and deliberate.
“No signal. No feedback. Not from the tracking device. Not from the psionic sensors. Not from satellite spectrals, not even a vague dip in electromagnetic waveforms from anywhere in the Bay.”

I glance briefly at the screen nearest me – it’s still looping that same empty, murky feed from the dive site. Static waves, swaying particles, a blankness so still it feels surgical.

“There’s no sign of movement. No signature. No trace of deviation from her usual depth. And I checked,” I add, voice tightening, “with Site-47, Site-88, and 11-Gamma. None of them have had anomalous contact with her in the last seventy-two hours.”
The words hang there, too still.

Karl is breathing heavily beside me. I can feel it, like his body forgot how to regulate itself ever since this morning.
“She didn’t just swim away,” I continue, softer now. “This isn’t relocation. She’s not migratory, never has been. The Foundation’s known about her for centuries- since before we even had the acronym. She doesn’t move. She just waits.”

I pause, chest tight.
“She waits, she watches, and when we need her, she gives.”

There’s a silence. A kind of intellectual vertigo – when everyone in the room realizes that the thing they thought was an anchor might’ve never been stable to begin with.
“But now,” I say quietly, “it’s like we were tracking a myth. A story someone made up, and forgot to write the ending. There’s nothing left.”

I let that sit. A second. Two.

And then someone across the table – a thin man in a dark-blue badge, forgettable face – leans forward, voice sharp with exasperation.
“Then where the hell is our gigantic eel now, smartass?”

There it is – the pressure valve. The release of tension through hostility.
But I don’t flinch. Not anymore.

Because deep down, behind the logic and protocols and clean-cut sentences I’ve just recited… I’m wondering the same thing.
Not just where she is.

But why I can’t even feel that she was ever here at all.

Before I can form a response, before I can even roll my eyes at the comment, Karl speaks.
It’s not loud. Not commanding. But it slices through the room like a hairline fracture.

“Parallel universes.”

Everyone turns.
Karl’s voice is distant, like he’s still talking to himself. “She exists. Just... not here. Not in this version of here.”

There’s a pause, long enough for the meaning to settle in like cold water under the skin.
“It’s like someone moved her,” he continues, brow furrowed, hands twitching again, “into a different tank. But the tank is a universe. This one’s just... missing her.”
For a moment, no one speaks. You can hear the electricity in the cables, the sound of shifting chairs, someone’s knuckles cracking.

It shouldn’t make sense. But it does.
Not because it’s logical, but because it feels true. In the same way nightmares do.
And then the voice comes. Clipped. Sharp.

“Dr. Clef,” says one of the researchers from logistics. “What about the Y-909?”

That’s when the room stops breathing. The medication. The reason we are all still sane enough to keep this secret foundation upright. To keep SCPs under control. To prevent the world from finding out about us.
The… everything.

Even the techs seem to go still – hands frozen on keys, mid-sentence, mid-click.

Because that’s the question.

That’s the one that lives under the floorboards of every meeting, every mission, every day the Foundation has kept functioning since Anantashesha’s discovery.
Clef straightens like someone’s stuck a blade between his shoulder blades.

He stares at the researcher who spoke. Doesn’t blink.
“What about it?” he asks, slowly, voice low with restrained venom.
“If we can’t locate her,” the researcher says, “if she’s gone- truly gone… then there’s no more Y-909.”
The words linger like an airlock’s hiss, dragging all the oxygen out of the room.

No one has to say it.
No more Y-909.
No more amnestic reserves.

No more memory wipes. No more mental resets. No more containment continuity. No more safety net for the things we were never meant to know.
Clef’s jaw tightens. His hands tremble against the edge of the table.
And then, voice cracking into something between a laugh and a snarl, he mutters,

“Mother fuck-”

Chapter Text

The containment chamber looks cold and rusty from my position. I can only imagine the smell. Maybe it’s the lighting – flat, pale white, like a bad dream – or maybe it’s the way SCP-173 is just standing there.

Still.

Facing the wall.

The sounds echo in the silence: gloves on concrete, the wheeze of a pressure hose, the quiet scratching of bristles against steel drain grates.
I stand behind the reinforced glass, stylus hovering over the tablet in my hand. Marie is next to me, lips pressed in a tight line, the glow of her screen reflected in her glasses.

Inside the cell, three D-Class personnel move in formation. Two keep their eyes locked on the statue, always at least one set of eyes on it at all times. The third scrubs the floor with careful, almost ritualistic focus.

Standard protocol.
173 doesn’t move.

I mark the timestamp for the tenth time in five minutes:
[No movement observed. Surveillance integrity intact.]

Marie shifts slightly. She’s not nervous but I catch her glancing at the emergency blink-button panel with the same casual repetition I used to, years ago.
She’s focused on her protocol, taking notes, observing the entity behind the thick glass. I enjoy catching her spacing out from time to time because in all honesty, I do to. The silence stretches. Then she speaks.

“So...” she starts, keeping her voice low, “is it true?”

I glance sideways. “Is what true?”
“That... she's really gone.” A beat. “Anantashesha.”

Her eyes don’t leave the chamber. 173 stands in the middle, splattered with dried blood and flaking concrete. Its limbs are poised in that unnatural tension that always feels mid-action – though it never moves while watched.
“She’s really not anywhere?”

I look back at the tablet. “We’re still... verifying the data.”

Marie gives a faint, disbelieving huff. “That means yes.”

I don’t answer. She’s not wrong.

Instead, I make another note.
[D-173-3 hesitated near central bloodstain. Possible trauma response.]

Marie folds her arms. “You’d think something that big couldn’t just... vanish.”
“You’d think.”

She’s quiet for a moment, but I can feel her curiosity like static in the air. Then, almost hesitantly,

“Do you think it was Karl?”

Now that gets my full attention.
But I keep my eyes forward. Still watching. Still writing. Still listening.
Marie’s question hangs in the air like a glitch in the system.

Do I think it was Karl?

My stylus pauses, hovering a millimeter above the screen. One of the D-Class inside glances back too quickly, and I reflexively check the monitor – eyes still on 173. No movement. Good.

But her words settle wrong in my spine.
I inhale slowly, measured. “Dr. Parker,” I say, tone clipped, “this isn’t a gossip circuit. Speculation like that doesn’t belong in a Level 4 report environment.”
Her shoulders tense, lips parting like she’s going to defend herself – but then she catches herself.

“Right,” she says softly. “Sorry.”
I look at her then. Her eyes are still on the containment chamber, but there’s a flicker of guilt there. And something else. Worry.
I sigh, quieter this time. “He’s a colleague. And a good one.”

Marie nods. “I wasn’t trying to – I mean, I know he’s- I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know,” I say. Then I soften, just slightly. “But we don’t make claims unless we have something to support them. Especially not about people we work with. This place is bad enough without adding paranoia to the walls.” Truth is, we do make assumptions in private from time to time. But this is about Karl, its different to me. I don’t want rumors to spread and add to the pressure he is currently experiencing.

Marie presses her tablet to her chest, nodding. “You’re right.”
I go back to watching the D-Class. One of them stumbles slightly, gaze slipping. The others bark his name – eyes lock back onto 173. The statue hasn’t moved… again.

Two slip ups and no ones neck was snapped yet. Weird.

“But,” I say, quieter, “you’re not wrong to be asking questions.”
Marie’s eyes flick to me again, hopeful.
“It’s just… Karl was already in a compromised state. Y-909 withdrawal, hallucinations. He’s still under psych watch.”
She nods slowly. “But the timing. The proximity. He was the last one down there.”

“I know.” My voice is controlled. “And he’s also the one who reported the interference before the rest of us even knew something was wrong.”
Marie goes quiet again, absorbing it like she’s storing puzzle pieces she’s not allowed to place yet.

“You’re learning,” I add after a pause, trying to change the subject. “But knowing where to look is only half the job. You also need to know when to wait.”
She doesn’t smile, but the way her shoulders settle says enough. “I’ll remember that.”

The alarmed shout rings out like a gunshot.

“Shit! I looked away!”

Everything shifts at once – bodies scrambling, boots slamming on metal floor, the unmistakable sound of panic as all three D-Class sprint toward the sealed exit, clawing at the reinforced door.
Instinctively, I slap the observation console. “Hold positions!”

Too late. The designated watch broke. None of them are looking.

But 173 doesn’t move.

Not an inch.

We all stare. The room drops into eerie silence, broken only by ragged breathing.
“Marie,” I say, cautiously. “Were you- ”

“No, ma’am,” she cuts in, eyes wide. “I was... I was watching a stain. I didn’t blink. I just... wasn’t looking.”
173 stands there, unchanged. Unmoving. Still.

I hesitate, stylus hovering above the tablet like a compass needle searching for magnetic north. Do I even record this? It’s a deviation, a data point, or maybe a lie in the system. It is supposed to move when not observed. Except if…
“Alright,” I say finally. “Close your eyes. Five seconds. Everyone.”
Marie glances at me, uncertain, but nods.

We all do it. Count in our heads.
1...
2...
3...

My chest tightens. The air buzzes faintly, like it's holding its breath with us.
...4...
...5.
Eyes open.

SNAP.

A sickening crunch echoes over the speakers. One of the D-Class now lies crumpled on the floor, neck twisted backwards like a broken toy.
The others scream. One vomits.

SCP-173 is no longer where it stood. It’s several feet closer, red on its hands.
I sigh, already opening the security hatch and watching the being as the two shaken men crawl out into safety.

“Strange,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone. Then louder, “Escort the remaining two out. And give them one each.” Marie grabs the amnestics from the emergency drawer and hands them off, looking slightly green.

“I’ll log the deviation later,” I add, scratching something vague into the tablet. “For now, let’s call it a delay in response behavior.”
Marie watches the two D-Class stagger out with their pills in hand. “Do we file this under anomaly?”
“No,” I say. “We file it under almost anomaly. The worst kind.”

And just like that, it’s back to normal.
Whatever normal is now.

Marie rubs her arms as the reinforced door seals behind the remaining D-Class. “I... I know it’s probably nothing. But that felt wrong. Like a skipped heartbeat.”
I glance at her, then back at the still form of SCP-173 behind the observation glass.

“You’re learning quickly,” I repeat myself, and my voice is deliberately light. “Take an early lunch. That was a heavy session.”
Her eyes widen, a bit surprised by the sudden kindness. “Really?”
“Go. Before I change my mind and make you fill out the D-Class trauma forms.”

She smiles and gives a small, “Thank you, Dr. [Last Name],” before heading off down the corridor, her steps echoing.
I wait until I can’t hear them anymore.

Truth is, I just didn’t want her in the room any longer.

The behavior was wrong. I’ve logged hundreds of interactions with 173… its patterns are brutally consistent. If you blink, it moves. If you look away, it moves. There’s no gray area. Until now.
I turn back toward the glass.

And it’s looking at me.

Not just facing – looking.

Head tilted ever so slightly, like it’s listening.
I blink once.
Nothing changes.
But my chest goes tight. My body knows before my brain catches up.

I swear, just for a split-second it twitched. A movement within the movement. A shift that didn't belong.
While I was looking.

“No,” I murmur to myself. “That’s not how this works.”

I stare longer, jaw clenched, daring it to try again. But it stands frozen, crude paint and rebar limbs as still as always.
I record a note I don’t mean to take seriously: Possible perception glitch. May require cognitive recalibration. Subject 173 exhibited minor deviation during visual lock.
Or I’m just fucking insane.

--
The cafeteria at Site-19 smells like processed salt and artificial cheese. My tray clatters down onto the table, the beige mush of today’s “nutritional provision” staring back at me like an insult. I stare back. We’re both unimpressed.

I shove a handful of soggy fries next to the bland mystery protein. It’s not much of a reward, but I’ll take any dopamine I can find lately.
Across the room, groups of technicians and researchers crowd into their usual cliques – laughing over shared trauma or swapping the same three conspiracy theories. It’s a low murmur of exhausted camaraderie.

Marie is sitting alone.

Again.

Same corner as always, hunched over a sandwich that looks as sad as my entree. She’s scrolling through some ancient anomaly report on her tablet, eyes wide and trying not to look like she’s eavesdropping on the table beside her.
I sigh, pick up my tray, and walk over.

“You planning on eating that sandwich or interrogating it?”
She startles, then relaxes when she sees me.
“Oh- uh, it’s mostly bread. I think the meat evaporated,” she says, scooting over without needing to be asked.

I sit, flick a limp fry at her plate. “Supplemental rations.”
Marie grins. “This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me in this place.”

“You’ve been here two weeks.”

“Exactly.”

We eat in companionable silence for a minute. It’s oddly comforting, until I decide to actually poke at the mystery meat and instantly regret it.
“So,” I say, chewing slowly like I’m punishing myself, “how’d they find you, anyway? You’re not exactly ‘secret cult’ material.”

She perks up immediately, always eager when it’s about anything weird. “Oh! Uh, the Foundation scouted me during grad school. My first thesis, as you already know was on loop cognition in marine fauna. However the one I was working on mid-recruitment was on behavioral irregularities in deep-sea cephalopods.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You accidentally described a Keter-class squid in a footnote and flagged half a dozen alarms?”

Her ears turn pink. “Close. I... might have included a case study that was suspiciously similar to SCP-3391. I didn’t know what it was at the time, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“They sent someone to ‘interview’ me. I thought it was a job offer from NOAA. Turned out to be way less above-board.”
“That’s how you know it’s legit,” I mutter, dry. “Did you say yes right away?”

Marie nods. “Didn’t even hesitate. This stuff – anomalies, creatures, the unknown – it’s what I live for. Who wouldn’t want to know more?”

I glance at her.
Wide eyes. Earnest smile. Still not jaded.
“Most people,” I say quietly, “when they know more, they wish they hadn’t.”
She hesitates, the smile faltering just a second but it returns with a little more resilience.

“Well. I’m not most people.”
I smirk despite myself.

Marie’s gaze drifts across the cafeteria again. A table off to the left breaks into laughter – loud, easy, the kind that comes from inside jokes and years of shared experiences. Someone elbows their colleague, who nearly drops a carton of milk, and it sends them into another round of snickers.
Marie lowers her eyes to her tablet, then glances at me, hesitant.

“Ma’am?” she says softly.

“Still not getting used to that,” I mutter into my fries. I mean come on… Ma’am? Do I look that old at 25?

“What’s up?”

She fiddles with a fry of her own, pulling it apart like it might hold answers. “How does one... connect with people here? I mean... really connect?”

I pause, the question catching me off guard.
Marie shifts in her seat. “Everyone seems to have someone. Like you and Karl… you’re close. You’ve got each other. And I…” she shrugs one shoulder, eyes down. “I have no one. Yet.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then I nudge her arm with mine.
“Wow. Rude.” I feign offense. “And here I thought we were friends, Marie.”

She looks up quickly, blinking in surprise. Then she smiles, a little sheepish but glowing. “Thanks, Ma’am.”

“Just [Name].”

Another pause. Comfortable this time. She relaxes back into her chair.
Then, of course, she ruins it in the most Marie way possible.

“Can I call you [Nickname]?”

“Too far, Parker.”

“Right. Noted.”

She scribbles something in the corner of her tablet. I have no doubt it says "Nickname request: DENIED – pending review" or some other absurd bureaucratic nonsense she finds endearing.
I shake my head, fighting a smile. This place has a way of draining people from the inside out – but maybe, just maybe, she’ll hold on to herself longer than the rest of us did.

--
The lunch tray makes a dull clack as I slide it onto the collection belt, what's left of my food barely resembling anything edible. I give it a final glance – some greyish slab with a thin crust of... something – and push it out of sight, already regretting not eating more fries.
I turn to rejoin Marie, maybe even snag another coffee, but that’s when I spot the ginger hair.

Familiar. Unmissable.

“Karl,” I call, softer than usual. He’s standing by the far wall, half-shadowed near one of the old vending machines, eyes glazed like he forgot what he was doing in the first place.

A small smile finds its way to my face. Karl might not be the easiest person to know, but he’s one of the few I’d still call a friend.
He flinches when I say his name. Not violently, just... like the sound came from somewhere unexpected.

“[Name]…” he says. It sounds like he had to search for it.
“Why are you…”
His voice trails off. His eyes scan the cafeteria like he’s never seen it before. Like we’ve never been here before. Like none of the other people, eating and talking and laughing, are real to him.

“Lunch,” I say gently, trying for humor. “Like the other hundred people here.”

He doesn’t smile.
“Right,” he mutters. “Lunch. It’s lunchtime.”
His hand hovers near his chest, fingertips brushing the badge clipped to his coat like he’s checking it’s still there. Then down to his pocket. Then just… hanging there.
I take a step closer.

“You feeling okay?” I ask, voice low enough to keep the moment private.

Karl blinks a few times. The freckles on his face stand out more than usual — his skin pale, clammy. There’s a sheen of sweat on his temple, not enough to be alarming, but enough for me to notice.
He looks at me again, and something behind his eyes is… off. Like he’s still trying to catch up to where he is. Who I am.
“I had a… headache,” he says. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Since when?”
He takes too long to answer. “The dive. Since the dive.”

That was almost two weeks ago now.

My concern sharpens, but I school my face into something softer. “You should check in with Medbay. Tell them.”
“They’ll just give me Y-909,” he mutters. “Say it’s stress. Or trauma.”

His voice has that faraway tilt again. Detached. Like he’s reading someone else’s script.
“Still,” I say, careful not to push. “You’re not looking great, Karl.”

There’s a flicker of something – frustration, maybe. Or fear. “I just need to remember why I’m here.”
The words sit heavy between us.

Before I can ask what he means, he mutters, “I’m gonna go lie down.”
And just like that, he turns and walks off. Not fast, but with a sense of purpose that doesn’t quite reach his body. Like his mind is two steps ahead and his body’s trying to catch up.

I watch him go, unease curling in my stomach.

Something’s wrong.
Something’s been wrong.

And now I can’t pretend it isn’t anymore. But I hesitate.
Karl’s retreating form disappears around the corner, but Marie’s still at the table, poking her food like it personally offended her. I glance between both, heart tugged in two directions.

Shit.

I turn back.
"Marie," I call as casually as I can manage, grabbing my tablet from beside her tray. "I have to check on something. Protocols. Can you hold the fort?"
She blinks up at me, a little startled, then nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

“[Name],” I correct automatically, already halfway turned. “And don’t forget your fries. They're the only good thing in this place.”
She gives a small smile, but I don’t wait to see if it reaches her eyes. My pace quickens. I know where Karl’s quarters are. If I’m fast enough-

“Dr. [Last Name]!”

I stop in my tracks.
Of course. Of course it’s him.

Dr. Alto Clef strides toward me from the other end of the hallway like a man on a mission that doesn’t entirely exist. His coat’s askew, he has what looks like dried blood on one sleeve – no one asks questions about that anymore – and a too-bright grin plastered across his face.
“I was looking for you.”

That’s never a good sign.

“Sir,” I say cautiously, straightening. “I come bearing good news,” he declares, hands spreading theatrically. “One of my best level 3 staff members- ”

“Level 4,” I interject quickly.

He waves the correction off like I’ve just suggested the sky is blue and how dare I.
“ -is about to be rewarded with a shiny, terrifying new responsibility. Would you, my worthy peer, be interested in a promo- ”

The cafeteria doors just slid open, and silence drops like a blanket.
Someone had been mid-step, probably exiting with a coffee, but froze at the magic word.

Promotion.

It hangs in the air like a bomb that hasn't decided whether to go off or not.
I resist the urge to melt into the floor. Clef’s grin twitches.
“Dr. [Last Name],” he says suddenly, tone far too low, “walk with me.”

Before I can protest, his arm snakes around my shoulders and steers me down a side hall with the smug confidence of someone who has absolutely no plan beyond what happens in the next five seconds.

“You ever seen a room implode from sheer career jealousy?” he mutters.

“I was too busy trying to preserve my will to live.”

He snorts, pleased. “That’s the spirit.”

I shoot one last glance over my shoulder toward the hallway where Karl disappeared.
But now I’m being swept off to… whatever this is.

And I can’t help but feel the clock’s ticking louder in the background.
Clef keeps his arm casually slung across my shoulders as we round another corner, the smell of cafeteria grease fading behind us. I open my mouth to ask where exactly we’re going when he suddenly drops the kind of sentence that makes your body forget how walking works.

“Recently discovered SCP. Object Class: Keter.”

I falter mid-step. He doesn’t stop.
“A high-risk anomalous entity with time-altering capabilities; displays hostile tendencies toward containment and significant psychological instability.”
He says it like it’s a weather report, like this isn’t something that could very well rewrite the fabric of everything we know.

I blink, trying to catch up. “Time-altering?”
Clef hums. “Dilation, disruption, recursive feedback… the works. He’s contained now. Barely. Not happy about it.”

“He?” I echo.

Clef doesn’t answer, just keeps walking, leading us down a dim auxiliary corridor most people avoid – the kind of hallway you only find when you’re not trying to.
“He is to be housed in a high-security, chronologically stabilized containment cell,” Clef continues like I hadn’t spoken. “Any exposure to clocks, timers, or other timekeeping devices results in what we now classify as reality distortion fatigue. It is currently theorized that awareness of localized time enables the entity to generate temporal loops or recursive anomalies, significantly increasing containment risk. Our test subjects have shown memory loss, pattern repetition, speech anomalies.”

I’m fully focused now. “What kind of anomalies?”

He sighs and turns to face me for the first time since we left the cafeteria. His grin is gone. “Unintended memory feedback. Recursive behavioral loops. You think you’re having a conversation, but you’ve had it five times already. You start saying things you swore you just heard yesterday, but it’s today. Again. And again.”
I let that settle. I don’t like how quickly I’m starting to draw mental lines between that description and Karl lately.
“But,” Clef adds, shifting tone like we’re on a damn talk show, “do you know what that thing is also capable of?”

I wait.
He leans in.

“The spontaneous creation of short-range temporal loops. Space gets caught in a repeating few seconds. Very hard to break. You walk through a door, you’re still outside. You drop something, it’s back in your hand. You look away from an SCP- well, never mind, you’d know if you were in one.”
He huffs. “Or maybe you wouldn’t.”

My throat’s dry. “Sir… why are you telling me this?”
Clef raises an eyebrow like I just asked him if oxygen is real.

“Because if your little theory on SCP-3000’s disappearance is right…” He pauses. Something dark flickers behind his eyes.

“We- no. He can bring it back.”

I go still. The hallway feels too narrow now. My heart stumbles, like my brain just can’t handle the weight of what he’s implying.
I shake my head. “Sir, I’m not cleared for anything above- ”

He cuts me off. Again.
“Well, today is your lucky day, Doctor.” Clef claps a hand on my shoulder like he’s congratulating me for winning a raffle that might kill me. “Because I hereby promote you. Temporarily.”
He grins again, and this time it’s all teeth.

“To Level 5.”

Chapter Text

“Oh, you’re so fucked.”

I don’t even look up. Just tug my lab coat on and pull my [color] hair back, jaw clenching as my tablet finally finishes syncing. “Yeah. I know.”

The lighting in the prep wing still buzzes like it’s trying to compete with the collective caffeine withdrawal of everyone in here. It’s early – even for Foundation standards – and I’m surrounded by Level 3s gearing up for another day of barely-contained hell. Most of us have already been awake for hours.
Some chat over protein bars. Others review files like their lives depend on it, because they do.

I slide my fingers across the tablet screen, trying to shake off the sticky static feeling behind my eyes. I didn’t sleep well. Had bad dreams, I think.

“Heard about the promotion,” someone says near the counter, pretending not to listen but leaning just enough to hear my reaction. “Level 5, right? Fancy.”

“Temporarily,” I mutter. “Emergency-based. They’ll take it back the second I blink wrong.”

“Still,” another adds, sliding into his coat. “SCP-8707? That’s… bold.”
“I heard it messes with staff,” somebody chimes in while sipping an energy drink that smells like engine degreaser. “Like… cognitohazard lite. Harmless until it’s not.”

“Great,” I say it like a joke, but it lands flat in my mouth. The last thing I need is a reminder of what awaits me later.
I swipe to open today’s schedule. And then actually choke a little.

“Jesus.”

“What?” Elias leans over, all curiosity and nosiness wrapped in a too-familiar cardigan. “Lemme see.”
I tilt the tablet reluctantly. He squints before hissing.
“Damn. From 4 a.m. to 11 p.m.? They’re trying to kill you.”

“Pretty sure I signed up for psychological stress, not actual death,” I mutter.

“Yeah, well. The Russian Sleep Experiment is shaking in its tank right now.”

I laugh, just a little. It barely counts.
“You know,” he starts again, eyes still on my tablet, “you could just… offload something. One of your low-threats. Give it to someone else.”
“Huh?” I look up at him. “Offload?”

“Yeah. Like… you’re a supervisor, right? Delegate. Give one of your SCPs to someone else to manage. Like sending your kids to daycare. You get time to breathe. Not die. All that.”

My eyes shift to the weekly schedule, going through all my ‘kids’ – as Elias refers to the subjects – and wondering why the hell I never thought of that before. I don’t have to do all of it alone.
“That’s… actually not the worst idea.”

I scroll through the list. Some I can’t transfer; too unstable, too new, too weird. I don’t have many safe SCPs since I got my Level 4 status two years ago. But one stands out, harmless enough, and already deeply loved by at least one person I can think of.

She’s still new. Still a little wide-eyed. But she’s fast, eager, weirdly good at not getting rattled. And more importantly… she’s obsessed with SCP-049. I caught her quoting one of his written logs two days ago, like it was Shakespeare.

Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe it’s genius.

Either way, it gives me room to breathe.

...

I think I just crashed Marie’s brain.

She’s completely still.
Her tablet dangles from one hand, forgotten. The other hand is mid-air, like she was about to gesture something wildly important and then blue-screened. Pupils blown wide like she just looked into the void and the void looked back with a plague mask.

I glance at the few people around us. A couple of techs pass by, one researcher carrying a too-full cup of tea, who all slow down just enough to witness Marie Parker in full psychological shutdown. I give them a stiff smile, a little wave, and a “she’s-fine-I-swear” sort of grimace.

“Marie?” I lean forward. “It’s just temporary… I get it if it’s too much responsibility. You don’t have to- ”

“YES!”

It explodes out of her three minutes too late, as if her mouth just caught up to the question I asked what felt like a lifetime ago. She blinks, straightens her back, and suddenly snaps into motion like a cartoon character someone hit ‘play’ on.

I sigh half relieved-half amused and open the SCP-049 case file. With a simple swipe I transfer it to her tablet and prepare to read it from my own while it downloads.
A few seconds pass and her tablet pings with a new notification. She jumps slightly, then fumbles to open it, eyes lighting up as the document unfurls in front of her.
“SCP-049 is generally cooperative with most Foundation personnel,” I start instructing, reading aloud so she doesn’t miss protocol. “Outbursts or sudden changes in behavior are to be met with elevated force- ”

“-Under no circumstances should any personnel come into direct contact with SCP-049 during these outbursts,” Marie blurts, bouncing on her heels like she’s had six espressos. She doesn’t even need to read it from the document. “In the event SCP-049 becomes aggressive, the application of lavender has been shown to produce a calming effect on the entity. Once calmed, SCP-049 generally becomes compliant, and will return to containment with little resistance.”

I blink at her, not reading further until being sure that she wouldn’t continue talking. She’s vibrating.

Slowly, I go on “In order to facilitate the ongoing containment of SCP-049, the entity is to be provided with the corpse of- ”

“- a recently deceased animal, typically a bovine or other large mammal, once every two weeks for study!”

I lower my tablet and just stare at her for a second.
“Nevermind, she knows the file by heart...” I mutter to myself.

She looks so proud. Like a kid who finally gets to hold the leash on a dog that could bite your arm off. Marie glows.

I carefully pat her head – like one might pat a very excited puppy that doesn’t realize it’s chewing a live wire.
“Thank you, Marie.”

She makes a noise that’s somewhere between a “you’re welcome” and a fan at their first concert. I turn on my heel, slip around the corner, and brace for the next twelve-hour shift I’ll survive purely through caffeine and resentment.

I exhale and flag down the first guard I see.
He slows, wary and raises a brow.

“Can you get this girl some water, please?” I keep my voice low, conspiratorial.
His gaze follows as I subtly point over my shoulder.

“Her?” he asks, voice deep and neutral.

We both turn to look.
Marie is full-on jumping now. Little hops, arms locked tightly around her tablet like it's sacred scripture. She's squealing like a little kid who is waiting in line for bubblegum-flavored ice cream.

“...Yeah.”

He gives me a slow nod, the way someone nods before approaching a wild animal with sugar cubes. Patting his arm in silent thanks, I keep walking.
I don’t say it out loud, but I really hope Marie doesn’t explode from joy before the end of the week.
I’m starting to get attached.
--

Humming faintly to myself, gloves already powdered and snapped on, I retrieve a thin, sealed vial from the refrigeration unit.

Sample: SCP-610.

Tissue was scraped from the outer growth along the Site perimeter – dry, flaking, and still slightly pulsing when collected. Disgusting. Nothing I haven’t seen before.
With a practiced hand, I inject a portion of the suspended sample into the analyzer. It's an old model but reliable. Usually. It hums to life, internal optics scanning through red light filters, heat signatures, and basic compound analysis.

I’m halfway through updating the entry on my tablet when I glance at the monitor and then pause.

“…What.”

The progress bar hiccups. The data readout blinks once, then spills a chemical profile I haven’t seen before. Lipid-based. Water-soluble. Mutagenic. Stable. That last part shouldn’t be possible.
I blink and look again.

Stable.

The words glare back at me like a dare. A fusion of oil and water – normally fighting to separate – is listed as perfectly mixed, down to the molecular level. Even more bizarre, the signature appears self-correcting, as if the sample is aware it’s being observed and is cleaning up its act.
I pull the printout before running it again.

Different results. Same sample.

“…Okay. That’s not unnerving at all.”

RECALCULATING… REESTABLISHING CONSENSUS…

Consensus?

Machines don’t talk like that. Not Foundation-programmed ones. Not unless someone’s messing with core protocols… or something else is.
I step back from the terminal, heartbeat rising. Double-check the sample ID. Triple-check the code. No mix-ups. I didn’t load the wrong sample. The machine didn’t glitch.
Everything is correct.

And that’s what’s wrong.

The monitor flickers again. The anomaly disappears. Water and oil separated like normal, like nothing happened. But I saw it. It was stable. Mixed. Coherent. Alive, almost.
I hit Save.
Encrypt the file. Lock it behind three layers of clearance and forward it to internal review. Tag it vaguely: "Potential Equipment Malfunction – Needs Calibration."
Lying with intent.

I don’t want anyone else seeing this until I know what I’m looking at. And until I know what’s looking back.
But the hair on the back of my neck is already standing straight up.

First 173 doesn’t kill when it should.
Now 610 plays nice in lab conditions that should agitate it.
And Karl is acting out since the dive.

Something’s shifting underneath reality like tectonic plates. I just don’t know where the fault line is yet.
I rub at my eyes, pressing until colors bloom behind my eyelids like bruises.

God, I’m tired...

Not the kind of tired you fix with sleep. Not that I’ve been getting much of that, either.
It’s like my brain never shuts off anymore… always running diagnostics, analyzing patterns that don’t add up, cross-referencing inconsistencies that shouldn’t exist. When I lay down instead of dreaming, I’m rearranging files in my head. Rehearsing protocols. Replaying things that didn’t happen the way they were supposed to.

I feel like I’m… cracking at the edges. Fractured in ways I can’t explain out loud without sounding paranoid. Or worse – like one of the unstable ones.
Karl looked straight through me earlier like he didn’t recognize my face.
Machines talk in riddles now. SCPs behave like someone rewrote the script.
And I can’t breathe right anymore. Not deep. Not fully.

They promoted me.

They handed me clearance like a prize and locked a time bomb behind it.
I swipe through the data again, double-check the encryption, and lean against the counter.

No one’s going to fix this for me.

And I'm not ready.
...
"Dr. [Last Na—]"

"WHAT. Fucking what now?!"

I don’t even look up at first. Just raw, unfiltered nerves snapping loose like exposed wires. It echoes off the sterile lab walls like a gunshot.
When glancing up, it’s a poor, innocent assistant (probably not even Level 2) standing like a deer caught in headlights. He holds a sleek black folder in both hands, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

We stare at each other.

"I, uh…" He clears his throat and slowly extends the folder like he’s handing me a bomb. "I have the file for 8707."
I blink. My brain reboots.

"...Oh. Right. Yeah. Apologies." I take the folder gently, like it's holy… or cursed… or both. "Long day. Existential dread. Bad lunch."
He nods quickly, not trying to understand but to escape back to the safety of his supervisor. The guy backs out of the lab at half-speed.

I flip the folder open with a sigh, muttering to no one, "Hopefully this thing behaves as it should.”

The picture confuses me. It’s not an animal or an object. I fully expected a clock-like creature.
What I am currently staring at is a man, seemingly in his mid-twenties.

His hair is a pale, bone-colored ash, cut unevenly, shorter strands falling across his face while the longer back nearly brushes his shoulders. There's a strange, careless precision to it, as if grown out of indifference rather than style. His skin tone carries a muted, weathered hue, dull like driftwood left too long in saltwater. It stretches over sharp cheekbones and a slight Roman nose, giving his features an oddly elegant hollowness.
His ears taper to distinct, pointed tips, subtle enough to question, obvious enough to disturb. But the most arresting detail lies in his eyes: no whites, no irises… just black voids, broken only by thin, pale pupils that hover like distant stars.

He isn't built to intimidate. If anything, he seems underfed. His frame is thin, angular, almost brittle, like something preserved rather than nourished. There’s no traditional strength in his silhouette, but something about him still feels dangerous in a cold, quiet way.

But I shouldn’t get too caught up in this subjects appearance. More important is the information next to his image.

-
Null Point
Item #: SCP-8707
Object Class: Keter
Rationalized Class: High-risk anomalous entity with time-altering capabilities; displays hostile tendencies toward containment and psychological instability.

Special Containment Procedures:
SCP-8707 is to be contained within a high-security, chronologically stabilized containment cell located in Site-19. The chamber must be lined with chronometric dampening fields to reduce the chance of spontaneous time-loop generation or displacement anomalies. SCP-8707 is not permitted access to any form of timekeeping device, including analog or digital clocks, watches, or chronometric instruments. All personnel entering the containment chamber must leave such items outside. Any object that measures or displays time is to be considered a catalyst for anomalous behavior.

Reasoning:
When exposed to clocks or devices that track linear time, SCP-8707 enters an unstable cognitive state in which local time fields become distorted. Observed effects include:
- The spontaneous creation of short-range temporal loops
- Time dilation in a radius of up to 5 meters
- Unintended memory feedback or recursive behavioral patterns in nearby individuals
It is theorized that visual exposure to timekeeping mechanisms reinforces SCP-8707’s internal connection to the temporal structure of reality, amplifying its anomalous reach. Subject has described clocks as “ticking anchors” that “pull the wrong versions of him closer.”
Interaction with SCP-8707 is restricted to Level 5 clearance personnel only. Any direct communication must be logged, recorded, and reviewed. In the event of temporal displacement events (designated "Null Loops"), emergency countermeasures including temporal anchors and failsafe inhibitors must be deployed immediately.

Description:
SCP-8707, referred to by the assigned codename “Null Point” or informally as "Eloin," is a humanoid anomalous entity estimated to be in its mid- to late-20s in appearance. Eloin displays unnaturally light white hair and a skin tone that appears to shift between warm grey and deep taupe depending on lighting conditions. The entity's eyes are fully black voids, devoid of sclera or iris, punctuated only by thin, glowing white slit-shaped pupils that track its gaze.

SCP-8707 possesses the ability to manipulate localized time, including but not limited to:
- Short-term time reversal (2–15 seconds)
- Creation of temporal loops
- Unstable jumps across divergent timelines

The full extent of SCP-8707's temporal displacement remains undocumented. The entity's anomalous events are often subtle, with activation only visually indicated by a dark, ink-like fluid seeping from the tear ducts. These events are psychologically taxing on the subject and often cause temporary disorientation and signs of emotional suppression or detachment.

Psychological Profile:
SCP-8707 is intelligent, perceptive, and extremely guarded. It displays behavior similar to predatory instinct: cautious, reactive, and highly strategic. It lacks conventional empathy and exhibits a cold, sarcastic demeanor, showing disdain for Foundation staff and operations. Eloin views the SCP Foundation as a tool of systemic control, hiding behind science to maintain power over the unknown.
Addendum 8707-1 – Origin Summary:
SCP-8707 was discovered following an accident at a civilian-run temporal research facility, which resulted in the sudden appearance of multiple time anomalies across ██ city blocks. Foundation containment teams secured SCP-8707 in a severely weakened state, appearing disoriented and suffering from temporal desynchronization. Attempts to extract further information about its origin have yielded inconclusive results, though Eloin claims it has "never belonged to a single timeline" and considers itself “an error with memory.”

Notable Quote:
> “You think you're containing me. You’re just lucky I haven’t decided which version of me is most dangerous yet.” – SCP-8707 during Interview 03-A

---

Percentages:

Karl – 75%
You've been friends with him for years now. It's comforting... having someone who watches your back in a place as cruel and cryptic as the Foundation. Despite his guarded nature and fear of betrayal, he trusts you. Sure, you can be a smartass or bossy at times, but he likes that about you. It reminds him you're still human.

Marie: 60%
She looks up to you, maybe even idolizes you a little. The fact that you saw potential in her, and trusted her with an SCP (her favorite, no less), keeps her motivated. One day, she wants to reach Level 4… just like you.

SCP-049: 30%
He doesn't necessarily like you. But you’re tolerable company; organized, composed, and intellectually capable. Qualities he can respect. Also, you don’t appear to be infected by the Pestilence… which is always a plus.

Dr. Clef: 25%
He barely remembers your name. Don’t take it personally, he interacts with too many people each day to keep track. Still, if you prove yourself useful his opinion might shift. And if you really do help solve the SCP-3000 mess… well, that Level 5 clearance might become a little less “temporary.”

Deliverer of SCP-8707 file: -2%
You yelled at him. He told his supervisor you're scary.

Chapter Text

I stand in the liminal space between observation and interaction – the kind of airlock chamber that gives people time to second-guess their career choices.

I'm not second-guessing mine.

I’m just… calibrating my heartbeat.

Through the thick reinforced glass, I know they’re watching me. Clef. A whole handful of Level 5s I don’t recognize by face, only by reputation, all of them hiding behind tinted glass like gods behind clouds, observing whether I’m going to fuck this up.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. The door in front of me exhales steam.

And then it opens.

That same vacuum-sealed sigh. I square my shoulders, step inside, and pretend this isn't one of the most dangerous assignments of my life.
The room is… white. Flat white. Deliberately empty, like it’s been designed to discourage thoughts. The table in the center gleams like someone just wiped it down. Two chairs, one of them already taken.

I sit.
Not quickly, not slowly – just professionally.

My tablet clunks lightly on the table as I place it down. I don't look up right away. Instead, I take a breath. Fix my posture. Calm my expression.
You’re in control. You’re the one in control.
Only then do I lift my gaze.

He’s already staring.

“Hello, SCP-8707.”

My voice is calm. Confident. The kind of calm you practice in a mirror, not the kind that comes naturally.
And he smiles like I said something funny.

He looks exactly like his picture in the file.
Pale skin, almost gray under the harsh lights, like someone pressed pause halfway through dying. His eyes are dark, unreadable. The kind of gaze that doesn’t land on you so much as presses into you, like he’s trying to unspool you with just a look.

The hospital wear is stained down the front. Old blood. Dried into a patchy brown crust that no amount of sterile protocol has scrubbed out. I make a note to check the date of his last decontamination procedure.

He sits with one leg crossed over the other, posture loose in a way that screams too comfortable. Like he owns this room. Like we’re sitting in his office and I’m the one being evaluated.
And he is still smiling.

A slow, toothy grin, too wide for his face. It’s calculated. Like he’s waiting for me to flinch. I don’t. But it makes something crawl at the base of my spine anyway.
Then, just as I steel myself to speak again, he chuckles.

Low. Soft. That kind of laugh you hear in a horror film two seconds before the power cuts.
It echoes through the cell, crisp against the walls. My fingers twitch near the edge of the tablet.

Why the hell is this bitch laughing at me?

I clear my throat, make my voice steadier than I feel.
“Care to share your source of amusement?”

He lifts his hands in a slow, exaggerated gesture of surrender, head tilted slightly down like he’s offering himself up. But the grin never fully leaves his face. It’s just lurking behind his eyes now.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he drawls, and there’s an edge of irony to the word ma’am that makes my jaw tense. “It’s just… the way you addressed me.”

I chew the inside of my cheek, eyes flicking from him to the corner of the table. “What about it?”

He snorts, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his blood-stained uniform – a lazy movement, but it’s a cover. He steals a glance at the cameras embedded in the ceiling. He knows they’re watching. Of course he knows.

“You look tired,” he says instead, voice light, conversational. “Didn’t get a coffee at lunch?”

I narrow my eyes slightly. The small talk is a trap. Or a diversion. Either way, I know better than to ignore it. So I play along. Neutral tone. Just enough to keep him from pressing.

“Lunch is at 12:30 pm.”
He tilts his head at that, pupils twitching like static, tracking me in a way that makes my skin feel too tight. He’s scanning… waiting.

“So what? No coffee?”

I keep my posture firm. “We didn’t have lunch yet, given the fact it’s currently- ”

I cut myself off.
His foot is bouncing under the table. Excitedly. Eager.
He’s trying to trick me.

Oh, not with me, you little cockroach.

“Nice try, 8707,” I say sharply, trying to sound more amused than startled.

He clicks his tongue and shrugs, looking anything but remorseful.
“You have to pay more attention, Doctor,” he says smoothly, lacing the word Doctor with enough smugness to make me want to throw my tablet at his head.

I purse my lips, not rising to it. I shift my grip on the tablet and thumb to the first set of questions, finally trying to start the interview.
Behind the glass, I can’t see them, but I know Clef and the others are watching. Probably with coffee and smug little grins. I hope none of them caught that moment of hesitation. I hope.

But I know better.
And Eloin does too.

“This won’t be your usual interview,” I begin, adjusting the collar of my coat even though it’s not sitting wrong. “But you probably already figured that out yourself, given the fact I’m a new face for you.”

He groans dramatically and rolls his head back until it’s hanging off the top of the chair. Like he’s seconds from dying of boredom.
“One I can’t help but forget the second I close my eyes.”

Yeah okay. I hate this one.

I inhale through my nose, fix the hem of my coat again, and don’t rise to the bait. Not entirely.
“We faced a problem with one of our divers about two weeks ago.”

“Date?”

“Won’t fall for that again.”

He lifts his hands. “I’m not talking about concepts of time.”

I glare at him from across the table, and there it is again – that stupid grin. That too-big, too-white grin like he’s already won a game I didn’t know we were playing.
God, I want to call him names. I want to set his cell on fire. I want to have Site Security remove his bed for a week and enjoy the sounds of his bitching echoing through the halls.

But instead, I sit straighter. Grip the arms of my chair. Speak evenly.
“This is serious and will affect all of us.”

“In the Foundation?” he scoffs, waving a dismissive hand. “I don’t give a flying- ”

“In the world.”

That stops him. Not entirely. Not enough to wipe the amusement off his face. But it slows him down. He leans forward ever so slightly, and the grin falters just a crack.
“SCP-3000 is gone,” I say clearly. “We can’t track her.”

Now his face shifts, but not in any normal way. It’s like watching someone try to figure out if they just misheard something or if their entire understanding of reality needs adjusting.

Gone. Not neutralized. Not breached. Not relocated.

Gone.

He looks at the cameras again.
I brush it off… just him being his usual performative self. Like a bored actor stuck in a bad script. Nothing new.
But then I see it. His eyes don’t go soft again. They flick down. Not at me, but at the small microphone clipped to my coat. The one tucked neatly just below my collar, blinking red. Recording everything.

He’s not just annoyed. He’s deciding.
He looks like he wants to speak, lips parting slightly, but his gaze jumps between mine and that mic. Again.
I ignore it.

“We need your cooperation to bring her back,” I say, sticking to the script. “Because we think that she’s in some sort of parallel universe. Or in our universe, just… displaced. A loop. Maybe a splinter timeline, or an echo, or… ”
I trail off.

His eyes harden.
Not like before – not playful or smug or condescending. No, this is the kind of look someone gives when you’ve stepped too close to something sharp in the dark.
And then his foot bumps the table. Just barely. But it’s enough.
Not a twitch. Not a stretch. A deliberate movement. A message.
I glance down at the mic.

Oh.

He wants it off.

Now the silence stretches. It shouldn’t feel long. It shouldn’t feel like anything, it’s barely a few seconds. But it settles over us like someone just flipped gravity sideways.
My fingers twitch near the edge of my tablet. My pulse is pounding in my ears.
And even though I don’t say anything, he knows I’m considering it.
I glance at the time on my tablet.

A sharp jolt of guilt cuts through me. I wasn’t even supposed to have it on me. Devices with clocks, anything that could give him a foothold into time – it’s strictly forbidden around SCP-8707.

But they let me in with it. They trusted me.
I swallow.

Seven years. Seven years of protocol, of clawing my way up the ladder, proving myself. I have a level four clearance, a stable position, a spotless record.
And here I am. About to risk it all. For what?

Some cryptic, grinning anomaly in blood-stained scrubs?
Some bastard who might know where SCP-3000 went?
…
Yes.

I click the mic off.

The silence that follows is deafening. The cameras shift, reacting instantly, re-angling toward us with almost sentient precision.
Eloin leans forward. Too smoothly. His long fingers stretch toward the edge of my tablet.

“What time is it.”

My stomach drops. My hand jerks back instinctively, snatching the tablet out of his reach, covering the top-left corner with my palm.
It was a trap.

“I need you to cooperate,” I say, trying to stay calm, trying to salvage this.
But he’s not having it. He rises from his seat slowly, movements exaggerated, voice sharp like broken glass.

“I need you to listen. What. Time. Is. It.”

The door behind me opens with a hiss.
I don’t turn around, but I feel them – the sudden presence of armed guards in full tactical gear. Weapons raised. Safety off.
Eloin doesn’t flinch. He just lifts his hands, backing toward the rear of the room, lips curling in something that isn’t a smile.
A firm arm wraps around my shoulders. Not rough. Protective.

I don’t resist as I’m pulled away. Out of the containment chamber.
But I don’t look away from him.
Not until the heavy door seals between us.

Once it does, the sound feels final. Too final.
I stop a few paces into the hall, pulling away from the arm still loosely around my shoulders. I need space. Air.

He wasn’t hostile.
Not really.
He demanded information, yes – but not to lash out. Not to harm. He wanted something. Desperately. And for a moment, I almost believed it wasn’t malice driving him.
But why?

To trap us? To fracture reality like peeling paint off a wall? Or… to help?

"Ah, don’t take it to heart," Clef’s voice cuts into my thoughts, too light to be genuine, too casual to be comforting. "No one’s ever had a normal conversation with that guy."

He claps a hand on my back with a little too much force.
"Let’s try again tomorrow, huh? Go back to your little routine and... test samples or whatever."
I nod without really agreeing. Everyone else shrugs it off like a fire drill that didn’t turn into a fire.
But I don’t move.

I turn back toward the tinted glass and I watch him.
Eloin’s sitting on the floor now, back to the wall, legs stretched out limply. One arm draped over his knee, the other limp at his side. His head is tilted back, staring up at nothing.

I thought he looked bored at first.
But that’s not it.

It’s resignation.

The kind that sits heavy in the chest, folds over your shoulders like wet fabric. The quiet kind of despair that doesn’t scream – it sighs.
And I can’t shake the feeling that he expected this outcome all along.

Like he’s seen this loop before.
And it always ends the same.

--

The machines hum low, constant, like a mechanical purr. It fills the space alongside the occasional click of glass against metal – test tubes sliding into racks, pipettes being reset. Sterile white light pools over every surface, and for a moment I imagine we’re submerged in something cold and quiet. A thought I shake off as fast as it came.

Karl’s been silent the entire time. Just that one dry "Hey" when he walked in, and then nothing. No eye contact. No muttered jokes. No snide remarks about how I label my sample trays like a grandmother organizing her tea cabinet.

It’s not like him.

I clear my throat, scrolling through my tablet until I find a file just for the excuse to speak.

“Are your machines acting up too?” I ask casually, eyes still on the screen. “Yesterday I had a sample where oil and water mixed together. I almost called IT before remembering the Foundation has a casual relationship with the laws of physics.”
I let out a small laugh, the kind you try to coax into the space like a peace offering.

But it dies just as quickly.
Karl doesn’t even flinch.

“No,” he finally says, voice low and brittle. “Mine are fine.”

That’s all.

The quiet wraps around us again like the lead aprons in x-ray rooms, heavy and stifling.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye, brow creasing. “How’s your headache, Karl?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just sits there, hunched slightly over his workbench, not moving his hands. Then, slowly, he exhales through his nose and turns his head, not all the way, just enough to meet my gaze.

“It’s not an ache,” he murmurs. “It’s… static. Like TV static, inside your skull. But then… the static tells you words.”
My blood runs cold. I straighten up, my hands frozen mid-task.
“What words?” I ask carefully.

His jaw flexes. Swallows once. Doesn’t answer.
Then he hunches forward more, pressing his elbows into the edge of the table like something just slipped inside him and knocked the wind out.

“Karl?” I say, more sharply this time, stepping toward him.
No response.

Something about the air shifts, like a dropped pressure. My fingertips tingle as I instinctively glance around the lab for something, anything out of place.
But it’s just us.
Just us, and something he’s not saying.

It starts with a twitch, subtle, his hand jerking once on the table like he brushed against something hot. I pause, one gloved hand hovering over a tray of pipettes.

“Are you okay?” I whisper, stepping closer.

Another twitch. His shoulder this time.
Then, without warning, he slams his head forward.

CRACK.

The sound of his skull hitting the counter makes something inside me lurch.

“Karl!” I scream, my own voice shocking me back into motion.
I drop everything and rush to him, grabbing his shoulders before he can hit himself again. His breathing is erratic, broken into shuddering sobs. I barely catch his arms before they flail again, pulling his back against my chest, restraining him. He continues trashing like a mad man, making us both fall to the ground.

“Get it out of my head!”

he cries, voice high and trembling. “Please, please, I can’t think in sentences – it’s just words and words and they’re too loud- ”
His whole body shakes like a wire pulled tight. His face is wet – tears, sweat, maybe blood, I can’t tell anymore. I hold him tighter, my hands gripping the fabric of his lab coat like it’ll anchor him. Like I can fix it if I just hold on long enough.

“Karl, stop.. Please stop…” I whisper, helpless. My voice barely breaks over the panic rising in my throat.
I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know how to help him.

The door slams open behind us. Boots on tile. The cold, clinical calm of emergency staff moves toward us. Gloves. Masks. Restraints.
“Wait! Just be gentle, he’s…” I try to explain, but they’re already pulling him from my arms.
Karl thrashes, screaming now. One eye swollen, his lip split. Blood glistens against his teeth as he yells,

“THE SKY IS UPSIDE DOWN. IT'S EATING THE LIGHT. STOP PRETENDING IT'S NOT!!”

I feel cold. The kind of cold that starts at your spine and doesn’t go away.
They drag him out of the lab, two guards practically carrying him as he kicks and flails and sobs. His voice fades down the corridor, echoing off the walls,

“The universe is incomplete and now it’s free!”

Then silence.
I stare at the space he left behind – stool knocked over, a small smear of blood on the lab bench. My hands shake as I brace against the table, trying to find my breath.

Something is very, very wrong.

And I’m not sure we’re even close to understanding what.

--
Percentages:

Eloin: 10%
He doesn’t care who you are or what you want. You’re just like the other scientists demanding cooperation while keeping him caged. They expect humanity from him only because he appears human. But he isn’t.
Still, for just a second, you impressed him. When you turned off the mic, he felt something almost like hope. But you didn’t trust what he did next. And that says everything.

Dr. Clef: 23% (-2%)
He isn’t mad at you for failing to get on SCP-8707s good side. You will make it eventually, he believes in that.
But don’t think he didn’t pick up on your rebellious little act.

Karl: 70% (-5%)
Its not your fault. He just doesn’t know what is real anymore or who to trust. His head is buzzing and reality doesn’t line up with his memories. He wants to tell you everything.
But the fear of spreading it keeps his mouth shut.

Chapter Text

The water in the Bay of Bengal isn’t just cold, it’s unnatural. Not the kind of cold that shocks the skin, but something deeper, threaded into the water itself. It curls around me like smoke, not dragging me down or pushing me up.

Just holding me. I’m not swimming. I’m not sinking. I’m floating, suspended in a place that feels more like space than ocean.

Everything is quiet. No clicks of sonar, no bubbling breaths, no muffled roar of distant currents. Just a sound in my ears that doesn’t seem to come from outside. A low hum, not quite mechanical, not entirely organic. A sound that feels like it was designed to be heard when you're completely alone.

I look down at myself expecting the sleek black of Foundation diving gear, the usual thick gloves, the oxygen tank that’s always heavier than it looks. But none of that’s there. I’m in my regular pants, my boots, my shirt tucked wrong at the side.

It doesn’t make any sense. I’m not even wearing a rebreather.

And I’m not breathing.

I don’t need to. Somehow, that fact isn’t terrifying the way it should be. My chest doesn’t tighten, and my pulse doesn’t spike. It just is. I exist in this water like I belong here. Like I’ve always belonged here.

Still, the question starts to form – not spoken but thought. Half-remembered, like something someone else asked me a long time ago.

Why am I here?

I don’t know if I thought that or if the water whispered it into my skull.

Before I can find the thread again, something shifts beside me. I don’t hear it, but I feel its movement. Smooth and slow, cutting through the water with the fluidity of something designed for this place. Long. Deliberate. No warning signs, no tension creeping in. Just the presence of something aware.

I turn toward it, slowly.

Two eyes. Pale white. Giant. Easily as big as my head, maybe larger. They stare at me from a short distance I can’t measure, depth warped by the water. Too close. Unblinking. Motionless. Waiting.

I stare back, frozen not by fear but by the impossibility of it.

And then the calm starts to break.

My lungs twitch. Just once. Enough to remind me that I’m not supposed to be like this. The ache creeps in from the edges of my ribs, coiling upward. My brain feels heavy, swelling in my skull like it’s going to burst. My fingers are numb. My blood feels like it’s flowing the wrong way, like it's confused which direction life is supposed to move.

And all I can do is keep staring.

Those eyes don’t blink. They don’t move. But they know me. I can feel it in the way they watch. Like they’ve seen me before.

And I-

I don’t remember.

I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t remember how I got here. But something about this place, this creature, these eyes… I know them.

I’ve known them for a very long time.

…

I’m staring at a glass of water.

No sound, no breath, no eyes – just the faint ripples shifting across the surface like it’s been disturbed. I don’t know how long I’ve been looking at it. I don’t even remember picking it up. It just sits there in front of me on the cafeteria table, glinting under the lights, as if it’s still part of that place.

For a second, my stomach drops. Not from fear, not even from confusion, but from a kind of whiplash that doesn't show on the outside. One moment I was deep under something and now I’m here. My brain feels like it missed a step in the timeline, and I’m just catching up.

“…and then Dr. Greaves said I shouldn’t try to pat SCP-105’s shoulder during a conversation, but like, she was stressed and I was just being nice, you know?”

Marie’s voice bubbles up from across the table, grounding, familiar, human.

She’s talking fast, animated hands, her half-eaten sandwich forgotten on the tray beside her. Apparently, getting her own schedule has launched her into full-on storytelling mode.

I blink once. Then again. My hand’s still loosely wrapped around the water glass, fingers cold. I let go, quietly placing it back down like it’s something fragile or cursed. I can’t tell which.

Marie doesn’t notice my pause, and I don’t say anything to break her rhythm. Maybe I’m grateful for it.

I tune back in just as she’s reenacting someone’s terrified scream, clearly proud of herself for handling the situation calmly. I nod along, force a small smile. She’s glowing. And for her, this is a big deal.

But I keep my eyes off the glass.

Because I swear for a moment, the reflection looking back at me wasn’t mine.

The second Marie pauses to take a breath between stories about accidental breaches and cafeteria drama, I jump in.

“How did your first interaction with SCP-049 go?”

Her eyes widen before her whole face lights up, like I just reminded her it actually happened.

“Oh my God, [Name] it was amazing. Like, I still can’t believe he’s on my roster now. He remembered me!”

She leans forward, practically bouncing in her seat. “From that time I was watching behind the glass, remember? I didn’t even say anything and he still- I recall you. That’s what he said.” Her impression of him is awful, but her excitement is genuine.

I take a slow sip of the now suspiciously mundane water in front of me, raising a brow. “He remembered you?”

She nods enthusiastically. “And he talked about his gloves! Like, without even prompting. Well… technically, I did ask but only a little, and he didn’t seem to mind at all.”

I choke softly on my drink and set it down. “Marie.”

She blinks at me, mid-bite of her sandwich. “…What?”

“I told you not to ask about the gloves,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose with mock despair. “You were one ‘Why do you wear those?’ away from getting labeled as a threat to his dignity.”

She grins sheepishly, clearly not sorry. “He was fine. He said they’re made from tanned leather and that they keep the ‘putrefaction at bay.’ Which like… ew… but also? So cool. He really talks like that, you know?”

Yes, I know. I’ve read more transcripts than I care to count.

I shake my head slowly, sighing into a smile I’m not fully trying to hide. “You're lucky he likes you. Or at least doesn’t want to ‘cure’ you.”

Marie beams again like that’s the highest praise I could have given her.

“Honestly? I think he’s kind of sweet. In a ‘murderous plague doctor from the 15th century’ way.”

I give her a look. “Marie.”

“I know! I know, I know, I know,” she laughs, waving her hands. “Boundaries. Protocol. No flirting with entities, even if they have nice voices and excellent posture.”

I shake my head again and lean back, letting the conversation wash over me like white noise. Something about it – the warmth in her voice, the brightness in her eyes – softens that lingering tension still tucked behind my ribs.

She doesn’t know how good she is for morale. I won’t tell her. Not yet. But I hope the Foundation sees it before they ruin her, too.

Marie is quiet now, lost in her own little world, smiling at a vending machine like it had whispered a joke just for her. Maybe she’s still daydreaming about plague doctors and leather gloves. I don’t ask.

My eyes aren’t on her anymore. They’re on the table near the back corner of the cafeteria – the one tucked just far enough away to go unnoticed if you’re not looking for it. One chair is pushed in neatly, untouched since this morning. The other spot is empty.

Karl’s spot.

I stare at it longer than I mean to. Just the sight of that stupid stainless steel table makes my stomach curl. The way he broke down yesterday. How quickly it went from quiet to catastrophic…

I still couldn’t get it out of my head.

The sound of his skull hitting the counter played on repeat in my brain, like an old horror film reel I couldn’t turn off.

The Foundation called it an episode. An outburst. A psychological breach. They had terms for everything, boxes to fit trauma in, like if you named it something clinical it became easier to swallow.

But to me, it was Karl.

Karl, who once made me laugh with terrible impressions of Clef. Karl, who snuck me a ridiculous "World’s Okayest Researcher" mug last Christmas. Karl, who now sits somewhere behind five inches of reinforced glass and three biometric locks, labeled under temporary containment for anomalous psychological activity.

They don’t say it, but we all know what that meant.

The Quarantine-Observation Unit. The in-between place. Not quite a threat. Not quite one of us anymore.

I hadn’t slept last night. I don’t complain either. Some selfish part of me was afraid to close my eyes and see him again, eyes wild, forehead bleeding, begging me to get it out of his head. I don’t want to know what my dreams would do with that version of him.

Karl isn’t a monster.

He couldn’t be.

Not him. Not my Karl.

--

Marie blinks herself out of vending-machine hypnosis the moment we stand to leave. Her tray clatters a bit as she gathers it, still smiling to herself.

"So..." she starts casually, walking beside me down the sterile hallway, "what’s SCP-8707 like? I realized I’ve never actually read his file. Weird, right?"

Just hearing his number makes something in me tighten.

I don’t answer right away, just exhale through my nose and focus on the rhythm of my boots echoing off the floor. But she’s still looking at me, waiting. I can feel it.

"Snarky," I finally mutter.

"Snarky?" she repeats, amused.

"Yeah." My voice sharpens before I can help it. "The kind of guy who makes jokes when you're trying to talk about disappearing eels and global emergencies. Calls me ‘ma’am’ in that awful fake-submissive way. Like he’s acting in a play only he understands. Completely unprofessional. And arrogant, pretending he knows something we don’t and thinks it’s hilarious that we’re still trying to figure it out."

I realize too late that I’m still talking.

"He stares at the cameras more than he looks at me. And I swear he was two seconds away from lunging over the table just to steal a look at the damn clock on my tablet- "

I catch myself, finally, when I turn and see Marie.

She isn’t laughing, isn’t even surprised.

She’s just grinning.

Grinning like I’d just spilled tea about a crush instead of a classified humanoid anomaly.

I narrow my eyes. "What?"

"Nothing," she says, sing-song, obviously lying. "You’re just usually not this... talkative."

I huff, pressing the elevator button a little harder than necessary.

She doesn’t say anything else. But she doesn’t have to.

That stupid grin said everything.

The elevator gives a soft ding, doors sliding shut behind us with a mechanical sigh. I lean back against the metal wall, arms crossed, trying not to let Marie’s grin keep chewing at the edges of my composure.

She rocks back and forth on her heels like she doesn’t have a single ounce of guilt about it.

I squint at her. "Okay. What did you mean by that?"

She looks up at me like she’d been waiting for the question since we left the cafeteria.

"You like him."

I bark a laugh – sharp and loud. A startled junior researcher jumps as they passed by the elevator, nearly dropping their clipboard. Marie and I don’t even flinch.

"Absolutely not," I reply flatly.

"Mhm."

"I don’t."

"Sure."

"I like him as much as I like containment breaches and being sleep-deprived."

"Could’ve fooled me," she hums.

I step out first and gestured for her to keep walking. "I am a professional. A doctor in a Level 5 position. I don't 'like' anomalies. Especially not mouthy ones with smug grins and cryptic nonsense and- "

"Eyes that rather watch the security camera than you?" she adds, not even trying to hide her amusement.

I give her a look. "I’m not having this conversation."

"You already are."

"I am simply... deeply frustrated by the complete lack of order and logic surrounding his existence."

Marie snorts. "You’re blushing."

"Careful, Parker," I warn as the hallway clears around us. "I was starting to grow on you."

Marie chuckles, that bubbly, unapologetic sound echoing off the sterile walls. But she goes quiet as we reach the reinforced doors, the kind that make you straighten your back no matter how casual the conversation had been seconds before.

She turns to me with a grin that’s a little softer now. “You do?”

I give her hair a light ruffle, fingers catching for a second in the usual chaos of her curls.

“Of course, you nosy little creature. And don’t let the Level 3s pick on you this time. You’re smart, Marie.”

Her smile flickers into something more earnest. With a determined nod, she turns and heads off down the branching corridor toward her own protocol. I stand there for a beat longer than I meant to, watching her disappear around the corner.

Then I sigh, adjust my coat, and turn toward the next storm waiting for me behind locked doors.

Interview Log #2 – SCP-8707

Interviewer: Dr. [Your Name]
Subject: SCP-8707 (“Eloin”)
Location: Interview Room C-3, Sublevel 6
Date: ██/██/████
Security Status: Audio and video surveillance active; live observation from Level 5 staff authorized.
Recording initiated.

[BEGIN LOG]

Dr. [Last Name]:
Good afternoon, SCP-8707.

SCP-8707:
You again. How charming.

Dr. [Last Name]:
Let’s keep this professional.

SCP-8707:
Oh, I am the pinnacle of professionalism. My suit’s just at the dry cleaner. Lost it somewhere in the screaming void. You know how it is.

Dr. [Last Name]:
Right. Let’s start with a follow-up. About two weeks ago, SCP-3000 vanished from Foundation perception. Surveillance shows no departure, no breach. It simply… ceased appearing in records, technology, psychic residue. We believe it may be caught in a temporal anomaly - something akin to a loop. I’d like your insight.

SCP-8707:
That’s a lovely bedtime story. Tell it to the children.

Dr. [Last Name]:
I’m not here to entertain you.

SCP-8707:
You sure? 'Cause you’ve got that whole “stern librarian with a secret fear of drowning” thing going for you. A+ performance.

Dr. [Last Name]:
You know something about this. You reacted when I mentioned her last time.

SCP-8707:
“Reacted” is such a generous word. I flinch at bad coffee too, doesn’t mean it’s prophetic.

Dr. [Last Name]:
Then answer plainly. Can a being like SCP-3000 exist outside our linear understanding of time... trapped in a loop, present yet inaccessible?

SCP-8707:
Sure. You can lose something without it going missing. Ever misplaced your sanity? Same category.

Dr. [Last Name]:
That’s not a scientific answer.

SCP-8707:
Neither is your question. You’re asking how a god sleeps with its eyes open.

Dr. [Last Name]:
So you're confirming it’s not gone, only… stuck?

SCP-8707:
I’m confirming nothing. But let's say there's a clock. Not your little digital ones, the kind with teeth, ticking in languages older than death. And something slips between two seconds. Where is it? What time is it?

[Dr. [Last Name] remains silent for several seconds.]

SCP-8707:
Exactly.

Dr. [Last Name]:
And how would we find it again?

SCP-8707:
Why would you want to?

Dr. [Last Name]:
Because it’s destabilizing reality. People are cracking. Equipment’s faulty. If SCP-3000 is a keystone of dimensional stability and it’s been… displaced- 

SCP-8707:
Then maybe you shouldn’t have leashed it to a file number and a fish tank.

Dr. [Last Name]:
Help us, 8707.

SCP-8707:
No.

Dr. [Last Name]:
Why not?

SCP-8707:
Because you’re asking the wrong question. And because I hate that people are listening.

[Dr. [Last Name] exhales slowly. She glances at the camera. A flicker of hesitation. She doesn't reach for the mic this time.]

Dr. [Last Name]:
We’ll continue tomorrow.

SCP-8707:
Looking forward to it, Doctor.

[END LOG]

-- 

Percentages:

Marie: 65% (+5%)

She knows that she talks too much. But you never seem to mind. Having your support helps her bloom in this place. 

Eloin: 12% (+2%)

You may not be asking the right questions but you were the first person with the guts and patience to return. No one else before tried to interact with him twice. 

Also, you smell like vanilla. He likes vanilla. 

Karl: 67% (-3%)

[REDACTED]

Chapter Text

It’s always colder down here. Whether it’s the depth or the endless proximity to the ocean, the temperature in the Deep-Sea Observation Hub never seems to match the rest of Site-19. I press my sleeves down over my hands, fingertips numb as I stand before the towering wall of screens. Five separate camera feeds flicker in silence, each one showing a different diver from our current descent team. The Bay of Bengal stretches out beyond them – dark, vast, unknowable.

The divers are still waiting. Quiet, suspended in water so black it swallows the artificial light whole. Their breathing is the only sound, steady and deep, piped in through the speakers at a low volume. I find some comfort in the rhythm.

Elias sits behind me, leaned into his station, typing with the practiced laziness of someone who’s used to staring at screens all day. His chair creaks occasionally, then falls back into stillness.

No one speaks for a while.

Then: the sharp tap of a keystroke, followed by a pause. His voice is low when he breaks the silence.

“Got it.”

I glance over my shoulder, watching as he shifts the monitor slightly in my direction. “Last located position of SCP-3000. It pinged here…” He zooms into the coordinates on the map. “Five days after Karl’s dive.”

I blink, lips parting a little. “And two days before we noticed the absence.”

“Exactly.”

He marks the point – a narrow section along the Andaman Trench. The red dot pulses faintly on the dark seafloor map. I lean in closer. It’s deeper than we’ve searched since. Deeper than I thought we were willing to go. I say nothing at first, just watching the depth readings update in the corner of the screen. The coordinates burn into my mind.

“Send it to the dive team.”

Elias doesn’t argue. He keys in the command, and the dive team responds a few seconds later with soft affirmatives, voices slightly muffled through the transmission delay. One by one, their camera feeds adjust as they reorient toward the newly marked path.

The screens glow steadily in the dark, casting long, dim reflections over the metal floor beneath us. Elias rolls back in his chair and stretches with a sigh.

The divers begin their descent.

The depth counter climbs: 2,900 meters… 3,100… 3,350.

Somewhere between those numbers, I flinch. Something shifts on one of the feeds… a flicker in the corner of Diver 4’s screen. My heart jumps, eyes fixed on the spot. Nothing. Just murky water and sonar grain.

“You saw that too, right?” I ask.

Elias frowns. “Saw what?”

“Never mind.” I look away quickly, annoyed at myself.

My pulse hasn’t settled yet. That familiar throb in my ears starts to rise, and suddenly, the screens and Elias and the whole room feel miles away. My eyes drop to the edge of the console where a cup of water sits, half full.

The surface is still. Utterly calm. I stare at it.

Just a glass of water.

But for one long, dizzying second, it’s not. My legs are cold. My fingers twitch. And somewhere, from a memory I don’t remember, pressure blooms in my chest like I’m falling into the sea. Not sinking… just suspended. Too deep to scream, too far to surface.

I blink.

Just water.

The hum of the observation room returns like someone flicked the volume back on.

Elias is talking again, something about temperature shifts and sonar feedback. I nod like I’m listening, but I’m not.

It takes them longer than expected to reach the coordinates.

I watch in silence as the divers maneuver past clouds of sediment, their lights cutting narrow tunnels through the dark. The ocean absorbs color at this depth. Everything is grayscale. Like the world stopped trying to pretend it had life here.

Elias leans forward, murmuring a few updates to the team as they reach the designated zone. The red dot on the map blinks steadily, its ghost projected over a place that feels completely untouched.

But when they stop, there's nothing. Not a shadow. Not a structure.

I narrow my eyes at the coordinates again.

“You sure this is it?”

He nods once. “Cross-checked with the last confirmed trace. But we’re off by one digit each direction. Couldn’t lock it in closer.”

“Off?”

“Yeah. Every time I try to calibrate exactly- ” he gestures to his screen, frustrated, “the system just pushes back. Like something’s corrupting the alignment. We’re not being blocked… it’s like it’s not there anymore. But still… is.”

That makes my skin crawl more than I want to admit. I stare at the five feeds. The divers are hovering now. Waiting again.

Static hums faintly under the audio. One of them shifts, and their camera swings slowly to the side – showing nothing but water, endless and heavy. A quiet unease starts to build in my chest.

“Go deeper,” I say, barely realizing it aloud until I hear Elias stop typing.

He looks at me. “Deeper?”

I nod, swallowing the tension rising in my throat. “Just a few more meters. Something feels… wrong.”

He’s already sending the command, but his eyes stay on me longer than necessary.

“What is it?”

I almost lie.

But the flickering sensation from earlier returns like déjà vu, but not the gentle kind. It's sharp, like a needle behind my eyes. I blink and suddenly I’m not in the hub anymore. For a split second, I’m back at the surface, watching condensation slide down a glass of water. The sound of my own breath is gone… just the hum, always the hum. The moment vanishes just as fast, but the lingering nausea stays.

I shake it off quickly.

“It’s nothing. Just… I have thalassophobia,” I mutter, waving a hand at the screen. “I hate the deep. Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen it.”

Elias raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press.

I clench my jaw and focus back on the screens. The divers begin their descent again. Lower this time, past where the map starts to distort. Past where we were supposed to look.

Something is down here. Even if the ocean insists otherwise.

The lights on the diver’s helmets catch on the suspended silt and reflect back with strange weight. Not brightness. Weight. Like the water itself has changed. It isn’t colder, just… denser. It presses in around them, muffling even the static in our speakers.

“They’ve entered depths we haven’t explored before,” Elias murmurs beside me, almost to himself.

It doesn’t feel like unexplored depths.

It feels like territory.

I keep my eyes trained on the feed. Four of the divers are ahead, forming a gentle arc. The fifth lingers back, just slightly.

“Nothing, ma’am,” one of them says over comms, his voice dulled and low.

The sound buzzes in my skull. Feels too loud and too far away at once.

“Go further down,” I say. My own voice is unfamiliar. Flattened.

There’s hesitation, but they obey. Their lights tilt down, illuminating only a few meters ahead – until even the silt disappears. Like gravity has taken root in the water and started pulling them toward something older than the concept of light.

The GPS pings once… then stutters. Elias swears quietly.

“We lost accuracy again,” he says, tapping at the feed window. The coordinates keep blinking in and out, as if trying to find a place that doesn’t exist.

Then one by one the video feeds drop into pure black.

All of them.

No error message. No signal loss. Just the cameras showing exactly what’s in front of them.

Nothing.

I straighten in my chair. My fingers dig into the edge of the table. The pressure in my ribs tightens, like my lungs forgot how to move on their own.

There’s a long silence. One diver breathes into the mic – that rhythmic inhale/exhale like a metronome counting toward something unseen.

“[Name]?” Elias prompts gently. “They’re waiting.”

I clench my jaw, try to summon that voice of logic again. But my mouth tastes like static and sea salt.

We’re not supposed to be down here.

I exhale. “Pull them back.”

The water looks darker as they ascend. Not from lack of light, but as if the shadows are clinging to them, reluctant to let go.

“Copy that, returning to surface,” one of the divers confirms, the relief in his voice thin but real. The lights on the cameras tilt upward. Elias leans back in his chair with a sigh, already pulling the data logs for their dive route. “Well, at least we know the signal is stable down to- ”

I don’t hear the rest. Something on the GPS screen catches my eye. A flicker… small, almost imperceptible. But it doesn’t go away.

The coordinate numbers are wrong.

I blink and lean in. “Wait…”

Elias notices the shift in my tone. “What?” I point at the monitor, squinting like the numbers might reorganize if I just stared hard enough. “They’re not coming up. They’re still descending.” He frowns, clicks his keyboard to refresh the data, but the numbers don’t lie.

Depth: increasing.

Rate: accelerating.

“That can’t be right,” Elias mutters. “I just watched them change course.” My fingers twitch toward the intercom. “Control, confirm diver trajectory.”

There’s static. Then a diver’s voice, frayed at the edges, “We’re trying. We’ve changed direction twice. South, then west. But… everything leads down. There’s no incline. No ascent.”

Another voice cuts in, sharper now. “Ma’am, we don’t see the boat on the GPS. We were just there. It’s gone.”

My blood runs cold.

“What the hell…” Elias whispers beside me, leaning forward, mouth half-open like he’s waiting for someone to say this is all a glitch.

But the footage is clear. Clearer than it should be. The divers are moving, yes – lights catching only on denser and denser water. No sign of terrain. No currents. Just black.

No visibility. No return.

“Elias,” I say quietly, almost not hearing myself. “They’re stuck.”

One of the divers starts to panic, his breathing audible over the feed now, faster, shallower. “We need a heading. There’s nothing but- there’s nothing. Are we upside down?”

“No, no, keep steady,” Elias says, his voice tight as he leans into the mic. “You’re not inverted. You’re still upright. Try northeast. Just get movement on a different axis.”

There’s a pause.

“Copy… trying.”

I don’t say a word. I just watch. My own thoughts completely quiet, like something in me already knew this was going to happen. The abyss doesn’t let go easily.

Elias is still talking to the team, voice clipped and focused, but I barely register it anymore. Something’s off. Not just wrong. Off.

I glance at the thermal feed on one of the side monitors, mostly out of habit. The water, as expected, is a uniform mass of black-blue cold, the divers' bodies the only blips of muted red and yellow – four signatures, clustered close, their outlines flickering with movement. A hand belonging to the fifth diver who carries the thermal cam comes to few. They are all still there, just not able to see each other properly.

Then I see it.

At first it looks like just interference. A blur. But it moves. Fast.

A plume of warmth. Deeper orange, a muddled, organic swirl… it darts across the screen, not from the divers, but toward them. Toward the one farthest from the others. The shape isn’t structured, but it has intent. Trajectory. Like a jet of breath from something exhaling in the dark.

“What the hell is that…” I whisper, leaning closer. “Elias. Look at cam five. Thermal.”

He swivels his attention, just in time to catch the diver on the far left jolt – not violently, not like an attack, but like something touched him unexpectedly.

The diver inhales sharply. “What was that? Did you feel that?”

The others respond with overlapping voices, “What?” “You okay?”, but he doesn’t answer right away.

Then, after a beat, “It was warm.”

Warm. At this depth?

Elias double-checks the feed again, already flipping open two more display windows. “Temperature flux isn’t possible down there. That’s not a hot spring or a vent, there’s no seafloor. There’s nothing.”

But I’m not listening anymore. My eyes are still locked on the screen. The shape is gone now. Dissipated back into the frigid void like it was never there to begin with.

Except it was. I saw it. And that diver felt it.

A warmth in the cold. A presence.

It happens without warning.

The GPS screen, once a mess of static and impossible values, suddenly corrects itself – numbers blinking back into place with a sterile precision that feels almost mocking. I stare at them for a second, not even sure I’m reading it right.

“Coordinates are functional again,” Elias announces, tapping at the console. His voice is a mix of disbelief and relief, and the divers confirm one by one that they’re no longer sinking, the descent has stopped. Stabilized.

“Bringing them back up now.”

A wave of tension ripples through the room like an exhale everyone forgot they were holding. One diver cracks a joke, the way people do when they’ve been a hair away from death. Elias starts confirming data, asking for vitals, making sure everything is clean and logged.

But I don’t wait to hear it all.

The second I know they’re safe I stand up and walk out of the observation hub.

Not fast, not like I’m fleeing. But each step has that quiet urgency you get when the walls suddenly feel too close and your own skin feels too loud.

The hall is brighter, warmer. It forces out another breath I’ve been desperately holding onto. I lean against the nearest wall, palms flat on the cool surface, and inhale sharply through my nose. Deep breath in. Hold. Let it out.

It doesn’t help.

Because all I can think about is the moment the water turned warm. How something down there didn’t hurt them but made itself known. And for a second, I didn’t feel like I was watching from a distance anymore.

For a second I was in the water, alone with it.

I don’t know how long I stand in that hallway. Long enough for the chill from the wall to seep into my fingertips. Long enough to remember I haven’t eaten. Or moved. Or blinked much.

The smoke. Or whatever it was. It didn’t show up on the visual feed – just a ghost on the thermal. But it moved like something alive. Purposeful. Straight toward the diver like it knew exactly where to find him.

I file it away. Not mentally, I need it in writing. Something solid. Something to stare at and say, See? You didn’t imagine it.

By the time I get back to my room, my clothes smell like recycled air and stress. I don’t think twice – just strip down, step into the shower, and stand there until the heat fogs the mirror. My thoughts blur with it. The warmth is comforting, but in the wrong way. Like the heat of whatever touched the diver down there – subtle, wrong, almost gentle. A predator’s lullaby.

I get dressed in something soft, oversized. Clothes I’d never wear in the observation wing. My skin’s still damp as I sit down, crack my neck, and flip open the laptop.

I should’ve known something was off the second the screen lit up.

Not my usual desktop. No login. No notes page. Just white text on black background.

File downloading... 12%

I freeze.

There’s no title. No timestamp. No indication of who sent it or what it is. Just a quiet, steady pulsing bar that shouldn’t be there.

The fan in the machine kicks up, soft at first, then louder, struggling with the weight of whatever’s crawling into the drive.

And I sit there, staring at it, not breathing.

Just watching that number crawl higher.

--

Percentages:

Elias: 50%

You don’t interact much with each other, only when the work schedule overlaps. Today you behaved weirdly. Scared. But when you told him you have thalassophobia he understood, not asking further questions.

Karl: 60% (-7%)

[REDACTED]

Chapter Text

File Downloading... 49%

Great. Just crawling along like it has all the time in the world.

I stare at the number for another minute like it’s going to suddenly get self-conscious and hurry up. It doesn’t. Of course not. I blow out a breath and lean back in my chair, rolling my eyes at nothing in particular.

It’s 3:07 AM.

I’ve read the same line in the Eloin file six times now and still don’t know what it says. My brain is soup, my coffee’s gone cold, and I’m dangerously close to putting my entire clearance level at risk for a dude who talks like a rejected stage actor and probably hasn’t blinked since 2009.

I mean seriously. What am I even doing?

I rub my face hard enough to maybe scrub the thoughts out. But they stay. He looked at me like he knew I was going to come back. Like he expected me to keep poking at the loose threads even though everything about his existence screams “DO NOT TOUCH.”

And now here I am. Touching.

Again.

I glance at the file name like it’s taunting me. SCP-8707 – Eloin. The usual Foundation stamp, clinical and cold. I know what’s in there: redacted timestamps, a few weird interview logs, the same list of behavioral anomalies. No actual answers. Just more questions carefully hidden under words like “inconclusive” and “see appendix C.”

I tap the corner of the file with my finger like a guilt-ridden raccoon deciding whether or not to dig through the trash again.

“Stop trying to get fired over this cryptic little shit,” I mutter to myself.

I really should. I’ve worked too hard to get here. Seven years of sucking up to Level 3s, doing the boring protocols, saying "yes sir" to men who don’t know how to pronounce memetic. Seven years of climbing just to get a seat at the adults’ table.

And now I’m risking it all over Eloin. A guy who once described the end of the world as “a slow, beautiful fever.”

Honestly, I think I hate him a little.

Still... my eyes drift back to the file. The last line of the last log. The pause before he said something and didn’t. Like he could see what I was going to ask before I asked it.

I close the tab.

Then open it again two seconds later.

God, I’m the worst.

The download chimes… 51%.

My mind keeps whispering sweet words to me. Just one little chat with the mysterious dumbass… ask about his hobbies… tell him he isn’t funny… and I hope I don’t listen to these thoughts. Because if I do I’m screwed. I don’t want to be screwed.

…

52%

I’m screwed.

The corridors are quieter at night. They always are, and not in a peaceful way – more like a waiting-to-hear-footsteps-behind-you kind of way. The humming of machines is louder than usual, and I swear the floor is colder through my socks, but maybe that’s just nerves. Or guilt. Or idiocy. Probably all three.

But with Level 5 status, I don’t have to explain myself. Not to the night guards, not to the monitors, not to the security systems that flash green as I pass. Perks of being dangerously close to a burnout with high clearance.

Eloin’s containment chamber is tucked away where they keep the “don’t make eye contact for too long” types. It’s quiet there too, but in a different way.

I scan my keycard. The door hisses, the lock clicks, and I step inside.

He’s lying down, arm draped dramatically over his eyes like he’s auditioning for a ghost in a Victorian attic. Typical.

“Before you say anything,” I start, already regretting being here, “no, I haven’t gone completely insane. Just mostly.”

He grumbles like someone being rudely woken from the world’s most undeserved nap. “Ugh… what now? Did someone finally figure out I’m too handsome to keep contained- ”

His voice halts mid-complaint.

Then a beat of silence.

His lips twitch upwards, “…Wait. I know that voice.”

With a simple click on the control board the glass is transparent for both of us. We usually don’t let SCPs see at the staff. Tonight he gets that privilege. I raise a brow, folding my arms. “Still clinging to the belief that sarcasm makes you interesting?”

He sits up – slowly, with all the theatrical effort of someone trying to make it look like it takes effort – and squints at me through the dim light.

“[Last Name],” he says, like my name is the answer to a riddle he wasn’t expecting to solve tonight. “Back for round three already? I thought you had a career to think about.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I have insomnia and a death wish.”

“Oof. Flirting again so soon?”

“Not even if the world ends.”

He grins – that sly, punchable thing he does where you can’t tell if he’s genuinely amused or just baiting you for fun.

“Careful, [Last Name]. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you like me.”

I shoot him a look. “I don’t even tolerate you.”

He clutches his chest with mock heartbreak. “Oh no. My jailor has boundaries. How will I ever cope?”

“I’m not your jailor. I’m the idiot who decided to give you a second chance at making a useful sentence.”

“Oh, I’m very good at sentences,” he says, leaning back against the wall. “Just not the kind that get written down on paper.”

Of course. Of course he said that.

I close my eyes for a second, breathing in through the nose.

This was a mistake. I'm already regretting this.

And yet... I don’t leave. I pull out my notebook. Just the old, beat-up one, paper, pen, nothing digital. No mic, no Foundation eyes or ears in the walls tonight. I’m either being incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, and honestly, I’ve stopped being able to tell the difference.

Eloin notices immediately.

“No mic?” he says, mock-surprised. “No blinking red light? No clipboard of truth?”

I ignore that.

“I’m not here for a protocol,” I say, settling into the uncomfortable stool in the corner the room. “I want to know what you know. Without the pretense.”

He tilts his head. “Pretenses are the only thing keeping this whole place from falling apart, you know.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re always serious.” He stretches, joints cracking. “And boring, but I can work with that.”

I exhale slowly. “Just answer me.”

Eloin leans forward slightly, elbows on knees, fingers steepled under his chin. For a moment, he’s still – no jokes, no lazy smirks, no sarcasm. Just watching me.

Then, with a crooked grin, “You finally ready to admit that I know things your precious files don’t?”

“I’m ready to admit you’re still stalling.”

He hums, like that’s a fair answer. Then shrugs.

“You’re going to have to be more specific. I ‘know’ a lot of things. Some of them aren’t even real. Which are you after tonight? The truths, or the fun lies?”

“SCP-3000,” I say. “The last recorded coordinates. The timeline. The gap.”

His smirk fades a little. Not gone, but thinner now, as if it’s being held up with duct tape.

“And you want to know… what, exactly?”

“How a creature that massive just vanishes. The sensors didn’t fail. The data's not corrupted. It’s still there, technically… but also not. You know something.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifts in place, suddenly quieter. His gaze drops to my notebook, then back up to me.

“I’m not interested to talk about it,” he says softly. “You know that.”

“There’s no mic.”

“You are the mic, [Last Name].”

There’s something almost sad about the way he says it, like he’s tired of playing the trickster, just for a second.

I lean forward, gripping the edge of the notebook. “I need more than riddles. No metaphors. Just… tell me.”

He chuckles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You sure you want to know what happens when the ocean forgets how deep it is?”

I frown. “That’s not- ”

“No, I know. No riddles.” He sighs, leans back again, and closes his eyes. “But you don’t get it. It’s not that 3000 disappeared… it’s that the rest of you just drifted away from it. You all moved on. That's what happens with certain things. You don’t lose them, you lose yourself in the process.”

He pauses.

“Five days after your precious diver went under, the gap opened. Two days later, someone finally noticed the feeling of absence. You think the math is off, but it’s not. Time doesn’t always go in one direction down there.”

I stare at him, mouth dry, pen frozen in midair.

He opens his eyes again, softer now. “What’s the real question, [Name]? You didn’t walk here at three in the morning to be proven right.”

I hesitate.

“What if we start to forget?”

Eloin smiles, not teasingly but relieved I finally ask the right questions.

“The real problem is if we start to remember.”

I don't answer him. I can't… not immediately. His words are still sitting heavy in my chest like swallowed seawater, like they’re not quite meant to be held inside a human body.

Instead, I glance down at my notes. The ones I haven’t touched since he started talking.

“You’re thinking it, aren’t you?” Eloin says, voice low and far too pleased with himself. “That itch behind your eyes, where logic starts to fray. That tiny little voice that keeps wondering why nothing lines up anymore.”

I look at him sharply.

He grins. “Machines making mistakes they never used to. Systems giving wrong diagnostics. Containment anomalies acting ‘out of character.’ Reports showing data that shouldn't be possible. Oh, and my personal favorite — SCPs that exist, but no one remembers authorizing their classification.”

My heart skips, once. Just enough to notice it.

“…You’re saying that’s all because of 3000,” I manage.

But he shakes his head slowly, one shoulder rising in an almost lazy shrug. “No, no. Don’t do that. Don’t blame every cosmic crack in your fragile little reality on a single eel having a mental breakdown.”

His eyes flick toward me – something almost sympathetic in them, if sympathy could be filtered through a thousand years of boredom.

“You Foundation types always want one cause. One root. You think everything abnormal must be part of a single story.” He leans forward again, his voice just above a whisper now. “It’s not. Some things are connected, yes. But others… others are just wrong on their own.”

I blink. The room feels colder now, despite the artificial heat humming through the vents.

“Then what is connected?” I ask, almost against my better judgment.

He chuckles, a deep sound that echoes in the corners of the cell.

“You’re getting closer, [Name]. Finally asking the questions that don’t come with instructions.”

I hate that he knows I’m listening now. Really listening.

He looks up at the ceiling, thoughtful. “You’re standing on the edge of it. Something cracked, yes. Maybe SCP-3000 was the pressure point… or maybe it was just the first thing you noticed. Doesn’t matter. The cracks are there now. They spread. They whisper.”

He tilts his head back down, expression light again.

“But don’t start thinking it’s the only monster. That’s how you end up eaten by the one you didn’t see coming.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

He just smirks, toothy and tired and pleased with himself.

“There’s always a bigger fish in the sea.”

He lets it hang there, like he’s proud of the cliché. Like it’s not the most terrifying thing he’s said all night.

And I hate how much sense it makes.

I don’t say anything.

And neither does he.

The silence grows between us, thick and strange. Not awkward, not hostile. Just… quiet. Like the room itself is listening now, waiting for one of us to slip and say something too real.

I keep staring down at my notes, even though the words stopped meaning anything ten minutes ago. They’re just shapes now. Shapes scribbled by someone still pretending she has control of this narrative.

Then, after what has to be at least three full minutes of that unbearable stillness, he speaks again with a voice so calm, I almost feel as if he is holding my hand.

“What time is it?”

I look up at him, finally. He’s watching me with that same unreadable expression, eyes a little darker under the overhead lights. Not mocking. Not smug. Just… there. So human.

I blink once, slowly. Then I stand, tucking the notebook under my arm.

I don’t answer him.

And I don’t look back when I leave.

The sound of the door sliding shut behind me is the only thing that follows me down the hallway – but I swear, for a second, it sounds like the hum of deep water.

--

Daylight feels surreal after last night. The panels overhead are a little too bright, the air a little too clean. It feels like someone tried too hard to imitate a normal day. I’m leaning against the back wall of Briefing Room B, arms crossed, watching Marie’s hands shake just slightly as she clicks to the next slide.

She's up there in front of the new recruits – the other handful of wide-eyed Level 1s who came in with her almost a month ago – presenting her protocol notes on SCP-105 like her life depends on it. Which, in Foundation terms, isn’t exactly an exaggeration.

“Here you see… um, the instance of cooperative behavior observed during the photographic- ”

Her voice falters, catching just enough to make me wince on her behalf. I don’t move though. She told me not to intervene, that she’d feel worse if I tried to rescue her like a dog off a leash.

Someone in the back, a guy with the posture of a sleep-deprived hawk, calls out, “Speak up, we can’t hear you back here!”

A few scattered snickers ripple across the room. Marie swallows visibly. Her hands tighten around the edges of her tablet.

“…The subject complied with instructions and, uh, returned the photo to… to its- ”

“Are there even real SCPs in that file, or is this just photography club?” another voice chimes in. Less mocking, more bored.

I narrow my eyes. I’m cataloging names. Faces.

Marie doesn’t defend herself. She just skips the last two slides. Her thumb taps through them too fast, almost an accident, but no one calls her out for it. She clears her throat.

“That’s… that’s all for now. Thank you.”

There’s dismissive clapping, the kind you give out of habit, not respect. Her shoulders stay high, tense, as she nods toward the front row and unplugs the display. She walks up to me like a scared deer.

“Lunch?” I ask softly.

She just nods. Doesn’t say a word.

And I don’t push her to.

Marie doesn’t even make it halfway down the aisle before that rookie in the second row – the one with the buzz cut and the smug little grin – turns to his buddies, soaking in the reaction like he just delivered a TED talk instead of a half-baked insult. He raises his brows at them, smirking. They laugh. Like they’re already building their own stupid inside jokes.

I step forward before Marie can brush past me.

“Very good point, Parker.”

She stops mid-step and blinks at me.

I keep my tone light, maybe even pleasant, but my voice cuts through the air like something cleaner than it has any right to be.

“Not many in this room cared to also discuss the feelings of our humanoid SCPs.”

That gets some shifting in seats. Half the room sits up straighter, half glances at each other like they’re trying to remember if they missed something important. I can feel eyes on me now, and I make sure to turn just enough so they get a clear look at the clearance badge stitched onto my coat. Level Five. No mistaking it.

“In fact,” I add, letting the silence drag for just a second longer, “I think she was the only one.”

Buzz Cut stops smiling. I let my eyes pass over him just once before turning back to Marie, still standing a bit stunned with her tablet clutched in both hands.

“Come on,” I say gently, like none of this was a power play, just the natural order of things. “I’m starving.”

Marie walks beside me in silence, which feels wrong. It’s like watching a sunflower curl in on itself. Usually she shines so bright I suspect she could photosynthesize. Honestly, between all the policy red tape, anomalous containment headaches, and whatever spiral Karl dragged me into, she’s my only source of vitamin D lately. And seeing her like this?

It drains something out of me too.

I clear my throat and go fishing for something to lift the mood.

“I heard someone complained about the food lately,” I say, keeping it casual. “So… we’re getting burgers today. Isn’t that cool?”

She hums in response.

Not even a sarcastic ‘yay’. Damn. Okay. Think.

I try again, a little more deliberately. “The whole SCP-8707 situation might take longer than expected, sooo…”

I glance sideways. She’s not biting, but she’s listening.

“I’ll have to hand SCP-049 over to you for another… six months, maybe?”

Her head lifts slightly. “Really?” There’s the ghost of a smile.

Jackpot.

“Of course,” I say smoothly, leaning into it. “Word is he’s better contained under your watch. Like... lavender perfume? Parker, that is genius. I’m actually mad I didn’t think of that first.”

Her cheeks flush just slightly, the kind of shy pride that reminds me why I picked her up in the first place. She tucks her hands behind her back and shrugs, clearly trying to be modest, but I catch the sparkle creeping back into her eyes.

“I just figured… since he said strong smells irritate his senses… it might do the opposite if it’s something soothing.”

“Well, congratulations. You managed to outsmart a six-hundred-year-old plague doctor with a god complex.” I nudge her shoulder gently. “That’s not bad for someone who nearly vaporized mid-presentation.”

She laughs, soft but real. And just like that, we’re both breathing easier again.

“I know it’s hard,” I start as we step into the cafeteria, my voice lower now, calmer. “Especially as a newbie. You think differently. You care. That makes you stand out – and not always in the way people appreciate right away.”

Marie walks beside me, still quiet, but her posture's straighter than it was five minutes ago.

“But for the love of god, Marie,” I say, dragging a dramatic sigh as I grab a tray, “in three years- hell, with your performance, probably two… you’ll be their boss.”

She snorts, but I catch the faintest twitch of a smile.

“That kid who threw you off today?” I continue, loading a burger onto my tray. “He’ll still be gnawing on a promotion to Level 2, while you’re already writing your proposal for a Level 4 clearance.”

I glance at her. “So let him gloat. Let him feel important. He’ll figure out soon enough the Foundation doesn’t run on volume… it runs on people who actually know what the hell they’re doing.”

Marie finally cracks a proper smile, small but warm. “You’re really bad at the whole ‘gentle encouragement’ thing.”

“I prefer results,” I shrug. “But hey, if you need me to hold your hand and sing affirmations into a hairbrush later, let me know. I’ll pencil it in.”

She laughs, and this time it reaches her eyes. Success.

“Thank you.”

I don’t know how to properly respond. Because she is looking at me like I’m someone she as looked up to for years. I wish I had a person like that growing up. But at the same time I don’t. They say just the slightest change in timeline would’ve ended in a completely different result. Maybe I wouldn’t have been promoted, SCP-3000 wouldn’t have disappeared…

Or maybe I wouldn’t have met Marie.

And I don’t think I like the thought of that.

“You’re welcome.”

--

Percentages:

Eloin: 17% (+5%)

You returned… again. He likes that you have the ability to not only listen but think. You analyze a situation and when you demand answers you will find a way to get them.

Oh and you have such funny reactions when he messes with you. Its gold.

Marie: 68% (+3%)

You stood up for her. She hates talking in front of crowds yet attempted to handle the situation by herself. It didn’t work the way she wanted it to. Maybe the teasing will stop now that you stepped in.

Karl: ██% (██%)

█████ █ ██ ██████ ██ ████████████ █ ████

Chapter Text

‪‪

File downloading 89%.

Oh my fucking god.

Seriously?

After lunch I made the executive decision to head back to my room and finally open the cursed file that’s been haunting my screen for what feels like a year – but nope. Still crawling like a snail on sedatives.

I stare at the numbers for a second longer, like that’ll somehow guilt them into hurrying. It doesn’t.

Defeated, I grab my half-finished, very cold coffee with the grace of someone twice their age and three times as bitter. One sip confirms it's officially a war crime now. Still, I take it with me, because I'm classy like that.

Time for another productive bonding session with my favorite entity on this entire rotting planet.

Eloin.

The thought should make my stomach tighten with dread, but instead, there’s something weird happening. Like a warmth blooming right in the center of my chest. A little lightness. Like my bones are breathing easier. I don’t like it.

I should be terrified. Ashamed. Guilty over the fact that I secretly paid a visit to an unpredictable maybe-monster in the dead of night. But I’m not. Not really. Because – for the first time – it feels like I’m starting to see the full shape of something.

Enough loose threads to finally start tying knots.

SCP-3000 isn’t gone. Not really. She’s just... folded out of reach. Present without presence. An absence so thick it leaves fingerprints on reality. The anomalies we’ve been seeing… misbehaving SCPs, contradictions, vanishing proof… they’re not random. They’re echoes. Symptoms.

Note to self: I am not insane. Just observant.

I run that line through my head again. It’s comforting. Almost.

Except Karl. He doesn’t match the pattern. He never matched the pattern. His dive was before the disappearance. Something in my gut keeps circling that like a vulture. A single heartbeat spike... a drop in body temperature right after. Not enough for protocol alarms, but enough to feel off.

As if something touched him. Briefly. Sharply.

Like the sea held him too close for a second, tested the shape of him, then let go.

The Y-909 should’ve scrambled his recall to mush. But even before he slipped under, he knew something. He was off. Like the fear had arrived before the threat. It wasn't just physical. It was... psychological. Primordial.

Did she... choose him?

Or worse: did she become him?

Could that be what happened to SCP-3000? Not vanished, not dead. Just molded. Dissolved. Dissipated into the sea like smoke in the wind. I need to start tracking these theories properly before they turn into conspiracy webs.

My body collides with something hard and solid – definitely not a wall. I stagger back, and the sharp jolt drags me out of my own head.

It’s a guard.

Wait.

A guard?

“Doctor [Last Name], may you take off your digital devices as well as any other time-reading mechanisms?”

My brows knit together instantly. Huh?

That’s... new.

“Sorry?” I offer a tight, polite smile and tilt my head like I didn’t hear him right. “I’m Clearance Level 5. I appreciate you doing your job thoroughly, but those rules don’t apply to me.”

“From now on, they do.”

The voice is sharp, low, and full of irritation.

Clef.

He’s standing to the side now, stepping in just enough that the overhead lights catch on his scowl. He’s not amused. Not in the usual mildly-unhinged way. This is something else. Anger, maybe.

Wordlessly, I hand over my tablet. My phone. Even the tiny digital clock strapped to my wrist. I hold onto it for a second too long before slipping it into the tray. It feels strangely personal. Like handing over my last tether to certainty.

My legs carry me forward on instinct alone, through the heavy security doors and into the observation room.

And that’s when I see it.

The glass separating us from Eloin’s cell is misted with droplets of red. Crimson arcs like rusted paint across the lower edge.

Inside, Eloin’s wearing a straitjacket.

And smiling.

Oh. Oh.

“We had a little problem last night,” Clef says behind me, tone clipped.

Oh no.

My heart sinks like a stone. Eloin looks far too pleased with himself, rocking back gently on his heels as if enjoying a private joke. His hair is messy, his mouth split in a grin that’s all teeth and arrogance.

“Indeed we had. It was delightful,” he chimes, not even looking at us. Just... talking. To himself? To something? Whatever it is, I don’t want to know. But I think I already do.

The blood. The jacket. The confiscated devices. My very, very angry superior standing two feet from me. The puzzle pieces click in a terrible, inevitable way.

He knows.

“[Name],” Clef says, and it’s the way he says it that makes my stomach twist. It’s not my title. Not ‘Doctor.’ Just my name. Heavy and quiet.

He takes slow, deliberate steps toward me, hands behind his back like he’s trying to not explode.

“How did you sleep last night?”

My mouth opens. Closes.

Yep.

He knows.

“Sir, I deeply apologize—”

He cuts me off with a flick of his hand. “I don’t want your guilt.”

His eyes narrow, sharp and cold. “Tell me what motivated you to risk not just your career, but our lives?”

“I just wanted to help.” My voice is weak enough for one to pity me. He tries to gently grip my shoulders but shakes them in a way that screams upset.

“Then why the hell would you tell a loop-creating entity of Keter class the fucking time?!”

I freeze.

Because I didn’t.

I want to tell him but the words get stuck in the back of my throat like they’re afraid of making it worse. And honestly, they probably would.

Clef’s face is red, not rage-red, that would be easier to deal with. This is restrained-red. The kind of simmering disappointment that’s worse than yelling.

Just one glance to the side, toward the observation glass, and of course.

Of course.

That nasty cockroach is grinning.

Eloin meets my gaze like he’s been waiting for it. He raises his brows in two little bounces and gives me the smuggest nod I’ve ever seen – pointing, with the tiniest flick of his chin, toward my arm.

My blood turns cold.

The digital clock.

I didn’t take it off last night.

He must’ve seen it. Probably somewhere between our volley of insults and half-serious existential dread. He kept that perfect poker face, tucked the info away, and waited to drop it like a loaded die.

Stupid rat. Sneaky woodlouse. Walking mistake of nature.

“I never told him,” I finally murmur, voice hollow.

“Doesn’t matter,” Clef mutters back, rubbing a hand down his face like he needs to peel the situation off his skin. “You brought the time in. He doesn't need a briefing if he can steal it off your damn wrist.”

My jaw tightens.

Eloin just smiles wider, somehow looking like he’s about to offer me a friendship bracelet made of barbed wire.

“Don’t worry, [Name],” Clef says, attempting something that could be a reassuring tone if you squint real hard and imagine he’s not actively restraining the urge to scream. “You’re the only one who’s managed to talk with him without, well… dying.”

So comforting.

Truly warms the heart.

Clef forces a smile. And by ‘forces,’ I mean it looks like he’s trying to lift a car with his face muscles alone.

“So,” he continues through gritted teeth, “we’ll be taking your devices before every interview. You’ll be forbidden from interacting with SCP-8707 alone. And you can go on without further consequences.”

He pauses. “Sounds fair, my worthy peer?”

I nod. Because I’m not stupid.

And so, with the air between us now thick enough to chew through, we return to our usual routine. Only everything is tighter now. Quieter. The room is colder.

I take my seat across from the subject once more.

Eloin sits in his chair, legs crossed like royalty, head held high like a smug cat that just pushed a wine glass off the coffee table directly onto your white carpet.

His eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Heya, Doctor,” he chirps. “Watcha thinking about?”

I stare.

Hard.

He’s not charming. His silliness isn’t endearing. He’s just exhausting.

“Three different ways to bash your head into the table hard enough to give you a painfully long, humiliating headache.”

He hums. Thoughtful. Like I’ve just asked him to solve a riddle instead of threatened him.

“Oh, oh. Let me guess,” he says, tapping a foot. “Number one: slam me forward with one of those thick Foundation files. Heavy corners. Nice and dense. Excellent choice.”

He doesn’t wait.

“Number two: tilt the chair back just a little too far and let gravity do her sexy little job.”

I blink.

“And three,” he grins, “slowly, methodically lower my forehead onto the metal surface while maintaining eye contact, just to assert dominance.”

He looks pleased.

I look for the nearest window to throw him out of, preferably while the building is moving.

“Ready for interviewing, Dr. [Last Name],” a voice crackles over the speakers nestled in the upper corners of Eloin’s cell.

I roll my neck once, twice, trying to shake off the weight still sitting on my spine. Deep breath.

“All right,” I begin smoothly, hands folded in front of me. “Good evening, SCP-8707.”

His eyes spark like I just tossed him a bone.

“So it’s evening!” he gasps, clutching at his chest. “Now I just have to guess the hour. Ah, you make this easier than the other doctors.”

Fuckass demon.

My jaw tightens. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter.

I regain my posture, center my tone, and keep going as if I didn’t just hand a temporal anomaly the biggest cheat code of the day.

“It has been… a while… since SCP-3000 disappeared without leaving a single track.” My voice is steady. Controlled. “We have tried everything. And our current only hope…” I pause, eyes locked on him. “Is you.”

He throws his head back with a groan.

“Oh Jesus,” he says, dramatically throwing his cuffed arms to the sides as far as the jacket allows. “Give me a break in this place! I can’t reverse days or weeks! Not even hours! What do I look like, your little cartoon time traveler?”

Oh, he’s sassy today.

He wants sass?

He can have it.

I tilt my head, my smile tight. Sharp. “Oh, I know you can’t. I mean you can’t even escape this cell.” I raise a brow. “Despite my massive slip-up.”

That smug grin stays plastered on his face like it’s glued there. But his eyes – those deep, twitching voids – flicker. Irritation. Control slipping.

Checkmate in progress.

I take a step closer, steady and commanding. “SCP-8707,” I say, voice crisp, the snap of a breaking rule. “I want you to create a loop.”

The silence that follows is so loud it’s almost a sound.

Even through the one-way glass, I can feel the scientists and security behind me freeze.

Eloin stares at me.

Then slowly the grin fades. His lips press together, his head tipping ever so slightly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Create a loop.”

“No preamble? No tricksy Foundation clauses? Just boom- loop me, Daddy?”

“If you want to spice it up, feel free,” I say coolly. “But yes. Create a loop.”

There’s a beat.

He laughs. Full-body laugh, even though the jacket restricts the motion. It’s unhinged and musical, echoing off the walls with something feral curled underneath.

“Oh you’re fun today, Doctor.”

He leans forward, the straitjacket creaking slightly as he moves closer to me.

“Do you even know what you’re asking me to do?”

“I do.”

He studies me for a long moment. Really studies. And I know that whatever happens next is going to change something.

I push my chair back, slow and deliberate, the metal scraping against the floor. The sound echoes like a threat. I stand, adjusting my coat.

Then I move.

Not to leave… he’d like that. I circle around the table instead, heels clicking against the floor in rhythm with the pounding of his pulse – I imagine. He follows me with his eyes, but doesn’t turn his head. Can’t. The straitjacket keeps him still. And I want him still.

“I’m not asking you to reverse anything,” I say, passing just behind him. “Not time. Not memory. Not even action.”

I pause by his side, leaning just slightly, close enough that he can hear the weight behind my voice.

“I want a loop. A localized temporal distortion placed in a specific location. Deep in the Bay of Bengal.”

Silence.

I walk again, slow. Controlled. Back to his other side.

“There’s something… off. Something wrong with the coordinates where SCP-3000 was last detected. You know what I’m talking about. You hinted at it already.”

He doesn’t interrupt. That’s rare.

“So,” I continue, now standing directly behind him, “you’ll set a loop at those coordinates. Not here. Not now. But there. I want a slingshot through every alternate reality, every branching universe stacked like cards, until we find the one where it didn’t vanish.”

Finally, I round the table again and stop in front of him. Face to face. His smile is still in place but it’s twitching. His amusement has worn down to curiosity.

“You’re asking me to tear a hole in reality,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “In the deep ocean. Where no one can hear it scream.”

“I’m not asking,” I reply. “I’m demanding.”

He lets out a slow whistle. “God, you’re terrifying. It’s adorable.”

I ignore him and lift a small handheld from my coat – standard Foundation signal relay for underwater biofeeds. I toss it onto the table between us.

“We have divers ready. Monitors. Sensors. The whole thing’s wired. You just loop the spot. I’ll handle the rest.”

He looks down at it, then back at me. “You know what happens when I pull something like this? It's not clean. You don’t get a sterile timeline. You get collisions. Crossovers. Things bleeding in from places they shouldn’t be.”

“Good,” I say. “Maybe one of those things will be her.”

His smile fades completely now, and for once he doesn’t have something to say. That’s the real win here.

“Fine,” he says finally, voice flat. “But you’re gonna owe me.”

“I already do,” I say as I turn on my heel. “I just haven’t decided what the debt is worth.”

--

Percentages: 

Dr. Clef: 20% (-3%)

Stop trying to play the hero. He is afraid you'll mess it up. That night two guards lost their lives just because you weren't careful enough. Eloin is deadly. It seems you haven't understood that yet.

Eloin: 25% (+8%)

Thanks to you he had another attempt to escape. Haha, sleep deprived loser. 

The more you return the more he starts to like you. Because not only are you his source of comedy but you also talk smart. He doesn't always understand what you want from him so he just cracks a joke. 

And your idea to allow him to create a time loop? Perfect. Not to find an SCP but for him to finally escape this facility. 

Karl: ██% (██%)

-.. --- -. - / --. --- / .. -. - --- / - .... . / .-- .- - . .-.

Chapter Text

I knock softly on the already open door, and Karl’s tired eyes lift to meet mine. He looks worn out – pale, and somehow smaller, like the weight of everything is pressing down on him. Without a word, I step inside and wrap my arms around him in a big, steady hug.
“Hey,” I murmur, my voice soft against the dull hum of the containment room. He tries to return a smile, a small, fragile thing, but it fades quickly.
“Hey,” he says, his voice rough, happy to see me but too drained to show it fully.

I sit down beside him on the edge of the bed, resting my hand gently on his shoulder, offering silent comfort. The quiet between us feels heavy but not uncomfortable – more like a shared breath.

I glance at his forehead, where the stitches hold the wound together, a stark reminder of how fragile he still is.
“How’s your forehead?” I ask softly.

He lets out a dry chuckle, almost bitter. “Feels weird, but the headache is gone.”

That’s something, at least.

I glance at Karl’s forehead again and can’t help but tease, “Ugh, then don’t try the cafeteria food. It’ll just make it worse again.” I playfully roll my eyes, feeling the familiar warmth of our little bubble of normalcy.

He snorts and shakes his head, a tired grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I might have to act like I’m insane for a bit longer… because the food they serve in here? Surprisingly decent.”

I fake a gasp, clutching my chest like I’ve been betrayed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

We share a laugh, the sound light but fleeting as the joke runs out of steam. I sigh, the weight of everything creeping back in. “I messed up. Tried to be sly, play the hero… and instead, I got like two guards killed.”

Karl raises an eyebrow at me, half amused, half exasperated. “Yikes, [Name]. You and your weird little coping mechanisms.”

I grin, nudging his arm gently. “Your coping mechanism is banging your head against the counter and screaming.”

He shrugs, smirking. “I just enjoy expressing myself.”

I nod thoughtfully, “Valid.”

A pause settles between us, comfortable and necessary. I watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint flicker of life in his eyes despite everything. There’s something reassuring about this moment – a fragile thread of connection that reminds me why we keep pushing forward, no matter how dark it gets.

I finally gather the courage to break it. “Karl… you said something back in the lab.” My voice is softer now, almost careful, like I’m treading on fragile glass. “About the universe… how it’s incomplete, and now something is free.”

He hums quietly, eyes fixed on some point on the cracked ceiling, clearly not meeting mine. There’s a vulnerability there, something raw that he rarely lets anyone see.

I wait, giving him space to speak or retreat, whatever feels right. Finally, he looks at me, just for a moment, eyes flickering with something like fear. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

The question hits me harder than I expected. It’s not just about his words; it’s about him… the man caught between human and something else, drowning in uncertainty.

I shake my head slowly, trying to find the words that don’t sound hollow. “No. I don’t think you’re crazy.”

He lets out a breath that’s part relief, part sadness. “But…?”

I bite my lip, feeling bad he noticed my hesitance. “But I don’t know how to help you.”

The honesty between us feels like a knife slicing through the tension. It’s brutal but necessary.

He stares down at his hands, the scars, the tremor in his fingers. “You can’t,” he says softly, his voice almost breaking. “No one can.”

That hits me like a punch to the gut. The weight of it presses down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I want to argue, to say there has to be a way, even when deep down, I know he’s right.

I reach out, my hand resting lightly on his shoulder, a small anchor in the storm. “You’re not alone in this, Karl. Even if I don’t have the answers… I’m here.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, as if savoring the simple comfort. When he opens them again, there’s a flicker of something… hope, maybe. Or just gratitude.

“I have thoughts that aren’t mine,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I see things that aren’t there. And I have memory gaps.”

I frown, trying to make sense of it all. “Like DID?”

He shakes his head sharply, cutting me off before I can say more. “No. It didn’t grow inside me. It’s like… like a parasite.”

My heart skips a beat at the word. Parasite. Something foreign, invasive.

He leans forward, eyes darkening with something raw like fear and desperation. “Do you know the parasite that kills ants?” His voice cracks a little. “The one that controls them, makes them climb grass so cows eat them, and then it grows into something big and deadly inside the cow?”

I nod slowly, caught in the vividness of his metaphor.

“I’m just the ant.” His gaze pins me down like a predator eyeing its prey. “And it will spread… infect… kill.”

His words hang between us, heavy and suffocating.

I want to tell him it’s not true. That he’s stronger than this parasite. But what if he’s right?

The thought twists in my gut, a cold knot of helplessness.

He looks away, like he’s trying to hide the panic flaring behind his eyes.

I reach out again, this time gripping his hand gently, fiercely. “You’re not alone,” I repeat, voice steady despite the storm inside me. “Whatever this is… we’ll face it. Together.”

He slowly shakes his head. “No. No, I don’t want you to get involved, [Name].”

I frown, fingers curling around his cold skin like maybe, just maybe, my touch could transfer something – anything. Heat. Life.

Surprisingly, his skin warms under my hand.

All I can offer if not happiness or peace, is warmth.

“But I need you to be better.”

It’s not the romantic type of love… no roses, no promises whispered in the dark. It’s the kind that feels like family, forged in sterile hallways and cold nights spent fighting the impossible.

In the Foundation, they make you forget. Erase everything that’s not mission, not procedure. No one outside these walls knows we exist.

I have no family.

But I’ve always had Karl.

And to me, that was enough.

“I can’t lose you too.”

The words drop heavy between us, a weight that presses down on my chest.

He swallows hard.

His eyes flicker with pity.

“You won’t.”

But it doesn’t reassure me.

Not really.

Because sometimes – when you’re staring into someone’s eyes – you both know it’s a lie.

And that knowledge tastes like acid in the back of your throat.

--

The screech of metal grates against my ears as one of the robotic scrubbers gets too close and SCP-682 slams its tail against it, sending it flying like a crushed soda can. Sparks scatter. A pipe hisses. The stench of bleach and decay fills the air, even through the reinforced glass.

Marie flinches next to me, scribbling furiously into her notebook. She's focused, trying to understand the mind of a monster. I envy that clarity. That clean, clinical purpose.

Me? I’m just here to supervise.

But really, my mind is elsewhere.

Karl didn’t try to sugarcoat it. He didn’t ask for help or hope. He knows. I know.
He’s not coming back to work.

No more shared lunches. No more slouched shoulders across cheap cafeteria tables, hands wrapped around half-empty coffee cups. No more dumb inside jokes.

No more us.

They’ll classify him soon. Reassign his badge number to something with "SCP" on it. Stick him behind glass like the rest.

And I’m not ready for that day.

“Why does it hate all life?”

Marie’s voice is soft, but it yanks me out of my own head like a bucket of cold water.

She tugs gently at my coat sleeve, blinking up at me, not aware of the weight of what she’s asking. Not yet.

I follow her gaze down to the writhing mass of fury and rotten scale. SCP-682 slams its claws into the wall again, more show than strategy now. It knows it can’t get out. It just doesn’t care.

It bares its teeth, a snarl twisting across its snout as it locks eyes with me. Like it knows me. Like it senses something’s fraying behind my eyes and dares me to make it worse.

I stare right back.

“Because it has no reason not to.”

Marie is silent for a moment. The scribbling stops.

“…That’s terrifying,” she mumbles.

I hum. “Most honest answers are.”

After we’re done, Marie and I part ways again. She gives me a small wave, her arms full of messy notes and an untouched protein bar. I barely nod back, too heavy in the chest to return the gesture properly. The hallway swallows her figure, and I turn, feet dragging like I’m walking through wet cement, back to my room.

The door shuts behind me with a quiet hiss. I toss my ID on the desk, kick off my shoes with zero aim, and flop into my chair.

Just routine. That’s all this is now.
Open laptop. Log notes. Pretend like anything matters more than keeping your sanity intact.

The screen lights up with a soft glow in the dim room.

File successfully downloaded.

Oh. Right.
The file.

My fingers hesitate above the keyboard. That electric curiosity I had back when the download was crawling at 12% is gone now. Now that I have it, the file feels like it’s humming. As if it wants something.

It feels… wrong. Like a trap. Like a door you shouldn’t open, not because it’s locked, but because someone made sure you would open it.

I stare at the screen for a long second. Then two.

My mouth is dry. I glance over my shoulder instinctively, even though I closed the door. Even though I don’t have any cameras in my private room.

Still. I lean forward. Curiosity is the world’s worst addiction.

I click on it.

A black window opens. No text. Just a progress bar that flickers once… twice… and then-

Decrypting.

There’s no file name. No author. Just a heartbeat-like pulse in the corner of the window.

And then the screen begins to fill with words, slowly at first, as if the file’s being typed in real time.

--

PROTOCOL 04-YOU

Access Frequency: UNREGISTERED 

Last Access: [UNKNOWN] 

Clearance Override: Temporarily Suspended 

Classification: ████████

Status: [ACTIVE]

> Do not open. 

> Do not think. 

> Do not remember. 

OBJECT NAME: YOU 

Full Designation: [REDACTED] 

Containment Attempts: NONE 

Containment Possible: NO 

Spread Method: [UNKNOWN] 

Associated Phenomena: Memory Collapse, Identity Erosion, Behavioral Corruption 

Interaction History: [DATA LOST]

If you are seeing this file, █████ ██ ████████  is already listening.

--

…

Wow, good thing I’m told not to open after opening the file.

--

Percentages:

Karl: 80%

Seeing you helped him remember. Not what happened that day, no. He remembered something much more important: You. And he won’t let you save him because he can’t afford losing you either.

Marie: 68% (no change)

You were distant today. Sad. She doesn’t blame you for it, having heard rumors about Karl becoming an SCP.

And she will do anything to try help you through this.

SCP-682: 0%

Honestly, what the hell did you expect?

Chapter Text

So sorry for those who thought this was a new chapter, I’m on it dw.

And also sorry if this comes off as dramatic, I’m just anxious and new to the whole writing and posting online.

I asked for feedback and I got feedback. Can’t be mad at that you know?
But it’s the wording that got me.

Someone left a comment on the last chapter saying my writing quality has dropped. That kind of stuck with me. If it’s something other readers have noticed too, I’d genuinely appreciate hearing your thoughts - as long as it’s said respectfully. And I’m sorry if that’s the case of course.

I’m writing this story for fun, not perfection. English isn’t my first language, and I know my vocabulary isn’t on the level of a native speaker. But I’m doing my best, and I spend around 3 hours a day working on this because I love the world and the characters.

I’m not trying to be a professional. I just want to tell a story I care about and share it with those who enjoy reading it, doesn’t matter if it’s two or ten people.

If you’re one of those people: thank you. You make this worth it.
If you have feedback: cool! I’m open to it.
If you’re here for the best fanfic of this fandom or other high expectations: just know what I can give - and what I can’t.

I got called a performer who writes just for kudos and validation now.
You might not have noticed but I have another work on this account that has one single Kudo, no comments, about 30 reads and guess what?
15 chapters.
…
The math isn’t mathing.
It’s not a performance for validation, it’s just my low-quality-ass writing style.

Feel free to give respectful feedback or feel free to ignore my little tantrum and wait for the next chapter, just don’t attack me or each other for having opinions. And yes, I wrote this because it did hurt me a little.

Chapter Text

No matter where I look… there is only darkness. A black so vast and suffocating it doesn’t even shimmer. I’m suspended in it, floating like a dying satellite in a sky without stars.

But I know I’m not in space. Not really.

I’m underwater. Deep. So deep the pressure hums in my bones. The kind of depth where light doesn’t follow, where even thoughts echo like sonar pings against the endless dark.

My lungs are emptied of air, of sound, of anything that would keep me alive. And still… I don’t breathe. I don’t dare.

The water isn’t cold, not exactly. It’s heavy. Dense. It wraps around my limbs with invisible hands, pulling me downward inch by inch, like it owns me. Like it’s always owned me.

I try to move. My arms sway slowly – barely enough to change direction. I'm not swimming. I'm drifting. Aimless. Trapped.

And then I see them.

Eyes.

Massive, glowing orbs hovering not far ahead. They don’t blink. They don’t shift. They just… watch.

They’re not connected to a face – not visibly. There’s no outline of a body. No frame. No fin. Just those two motionless lights, staring through me as if they've been waiting.

They don’t float like me. They don’t even belong to the water. They simply exist here. Still. Alien. Timeless.

I don’t want to know what they are.

I can’t know.

There’s a sudden sharp crackle in my ear – static, splitting through the pressure. My heartbeat leaps.

A voice cuts through the void. Mechanical. Human.

"Doctor [Last Name], do you copy?"

I try to answer. My mouth opens, but nothing escapes. The sound is devoured by water before I can even shape a word. I'm not wearing any gear. No suit, no tank. Just me, drifting in the black.

"[Name]? [Name], can you hear me?!"

They sound urgent. Worried.

But I can’t respond. I can’t even move toward the voice. My lips part again, and this time, water pours in… mouth, throat, lungs.

There’s no panic. No sharp pain. Just that same unbearable heaviness.

I start to sink. Limbs loose, hair rising above me like dying roots.

Still, those eyes don’t move.

I reach out with a slow, trembling hand. Toward them. Toward the thing that never blinks. Maybe it's not alive. Maybe it's all that's left of what was. Maybe it’s always been watching. Maybe it still is.

"[Name]?"

My name again, smaller now. Fragile.

I feel it before I hear it. A hand on my shoulder.

My head jerks sideways only to meet the eyes of a man in a familiar lab coat.

I’m not in the ocean.

I’m not floating.

I’m in the training area. Concrete floor. Bright lights. Dry air in my lungs. My body trembling.

A breath escapes my throat like it forgot how to work. My eyes flicker toward the hand still resting on me.

But I’m still sinking.

Somewhere inside, I’m still sinking.

I turn back toward the tank, where the eyes had been.

There’s nothing there now.

Just a massive wall of glass filled with still, filtered water. Clear as air. Harmless. Artificial. A training simulation. No monsters. No glowing orbs. No crushing depths.

I'm okay.

I'm safe.

That's what I tell myself.

"Alright, ladies," Clef’s voice booms across the chamber, dragging me back into the moment like a lasso to the neck. His boots strike the floor in deliberate, heavy steps as he moves toward the gathered group of security personnel and Level 5 staff. He sounds impatient. Or maybe he always does.

"[Name], may you elaborate now that everyone has gathered?"

I nod, hiding the slow exhale behind a stiff posture. My hands move behind my back, fingers curling into each other to stifle the tremble. It's not fear. Not exactly. More like… pressure. Something pulling behind my ribs.

I step forward, letting the water tank behind me loom like a blue monolith. Its size is comforting, in a strange way – gives me a stage. Lets me separate myself from the crowd.

"Parallel universes," I begin, scanning the eyes in front of me, gauging their alertness, their skepticism. My voice comes out clear.

I spot an abandoned cup of coffee on the table beside me. Probably Clef's. I pick it up and hold it high for everyone to see.

"In our timeline, this cup is white." I pause, turning it slowly. "Somewhere else, it’s black. Or maybe pink with tiny bows. Or made of glass. Or shaped like a deer skull."

A weak chuckle escapes someone in the back – clearly looking around for support – but it dies just as quickly when no one joins in. The silence returns heavier.

"In our universe," I continue, lowering the cup and placing it back on the table with a soft clink, "SCP-3000 has vanished. Without warning. Without trace."

I look around. Their eyes stay on me, but they shift.

"In many other universes, it hasn't. It’s still alive. Still contained. Or maybe barely contained."Another pause. Let them feel it.

"Our goal is to find one of those timelines. One where SCP-3000 remains. We don't plan to steal it… we can’t risk creating a paradox that loops endlessly into destruction. What we need is a copy."

Some heads turn. Whispered fragments of logic and disbelief ripple through the crowd. I let it happen. Let them chew on the idea.

"Our best chance at survival is to replicate the anomaly. Bring a mirrored version back here. Enough to restore balance.”

Clef shifts, arms crossed. Watching. Judging. Calculating.

A hand raises in the crowd, fingers straight and confident. My attention snaps toward it.

“How do you plan to copy a 900-kilometer-long eel with teeth the size of your entire body?” the voice asks, dry and pointed.

I purse my lips, a single blink betraying my sudden itch to look away. Instead, I glance toward Clef, my so-called boss and part-time executioner of dreams. His brow is arched, unimpressed, gazing down at his coffee like he's reconsidering every career decision that led him here.

Maybe he’s picturing it pink. With tiny bows.

“That’s an… excellent question,” I say slowly, dragging the word out just enough to buy myself a second or two of panicked thought. My fingers twitch, fiddling with the edge of my lab coat like it might open and release a better answer.

“We’ll use…” I clear my throat and lean in just a little. “...another SCP for that.”

A few heads nod, the most overused card in the Foundation’s deck successfully played. It’s not a lie, but it’s the kind of truth that’s full of trapdoors.

Another voice rises. “How many people are needed for the mission?”

“Not many,” I reply, grateful for the easy pitch. “Only SCP-8707, an SCP with the ability to copy entities, and at least one diver.”

The words hang heavy.

One diver.

The real question is: Who the hell has the courage to dive with SCP-8707 and trust him to create a stable loop in the Bay of Bengal? In the crushing black where physics, logic, and hope all go to die?

He’s Keter class. He’s high risk. He’s got teeth behind his smiles.

An ugly, self-centered thought crosses my mind.

At least I’m not a diver.

“And we will only need one diver,” Clef chimes in from somewhere over my shoulder, his voice carrying with that infuriating mix of confidence and sarcasm. I stiffen as he steps into view, slinging a heavy arm over my shoulders like he’s announcing a raffle prize.

“And no one has this plan memorized better than its creator, hm?”

I smile reflexively at the praise. Nod, even. The team watches me with mild admiration. Confidence. Trust.

“Yes,” I say, still nodding. “Exactly. I- wait. What?”

Before I can finish the thought, Clef casually presses a diving mask to my chest. The plastic feels cold. Real.

His smile widens like a knife.

“[Name], what would we do without you.”

It’s not a question. It never is.

I stare down at the diving mask in my hands, like it might bite me if I blink wrong. My face strains around a smile, the corners twitching from the weight of it. A nervous chuckle escapes before I can trap it.

“Sir,” I begin, measured and hopeful. “I’m not trained for this. Maybe someone professional should- ”

Clef waves a hand through the air like my words are gnats he can’t be bothered to swat.

“Nonsense,” he says, all false cheer. “You’re trained for one of the highest-ranking positions in this Foundation. You’ll handle a little diving session with a hostile, time-warping, emotionally manipulative, and statistically uncontainable SCP just fine.” He claps a heavy palm against my back. “Won’t ya?”

We lock eyes. A breathless standoff. His grin is wide, toothy, and utterly unbothered. Mine is glued on like bad stage makeup.

I swallow hard. The words get stuck halfway out of my throat, and what finally escapes is a mouse-like,

“...Yes?”

“Splendid!” Clef crows, ruffling my hair like I’m a golden retriever who just brought him a grenade. “Excellent! Marvelous!”

My smile doesn’t break, but my soul quietly does.

Life is flashing before my eyes. Every bad cafeteria coffee, every lab report I handed in late, every time I told someone “I’ll take care of it” without checking what “it” was. This is karmic debt. I have died in another universe, and this is that universe’s punishment.

And yet here I am. Holding a diving mask. Nodding.

Because apparently I’m that bitch now.

Once I’m done mourning my fate in absolute silence – just me, my thoughts, and a diving mask I already resent – the metal doors at the far end of the room slide open with a deep mechanical groan.

And in comes the circus.

A reinforced glass container is wheeled inside by two grim-faced guards. Heavy, slow, careful, thinking it might explode.

Inside, draped across the floor like he’s lounging in a sunlit garden instead of a containment pod, is a man.

Well. Technically a man.

Cuffed at the wrists, ankles, and – why not – neck, he moves with deliberate languor, as if he's acting out a dream he’s already bored of. His head lolls to the side and bumps gently against the glass with a dull clink. Then he lifts his chin, just enough to meet my eyes.

That grin.

Wide, sharp, utterly self-satisfied, making one think he knows a secret, and the punchline is me.

A grin like the Cheshire Cat if it spent its ninth life in solitary confinement and came out with a PhD in manipulation and petty cruelty.

Eloin.

He looks delighted. Not surprised, not cautious… delighted. Someone must have told him he won the lottery and the prize is “annoying [Name] to the edge of a nervous breakdown.”

I blink at him once. Slowly.

He wiggles his fingers in a half-hearted wave, the shackles on his wrists rattling like a little encore. The guards pause just long enough to check the container’s readings, then step back.

I sigh. Long. Painfully. The kind that tries to expel an entire mental breakdown in one exhale.

I need a vacation.

No. I need amnesia, early retirement, and a very strong drink.

But what I get is Eloin.

And a diving expedition straight into the mouth of a cosmic horror.

Perfect.

--

The diving uniform reeks of chemicals. That’s one of the two things giving me a headache right now.

Guess the second one.

Eloin stands next to me in his own diving suit, looking like someone tried to wrap a cryptid in a wetsuit and gave up halfway. It took forever to find one in his size, which meant I’d been lingering in the middle of the room like a disgruntled penguin on sabbatical.

Now, we’re both standing on a high platform overlooking the test tank. Usually used for training new divers, checking equipment, and running breathing drills.

Today, it’s being used to teach me how not to drown like an idiot.

And unfortunately, Eloin is learning alongside me.

He keeps tugging at the seams of his suit and grumbling under his breath. Something about how tight it is. For the fifth time.

"Verbalizing the suit's fit over and over won’t magically expand it," I say flatly, watching the team below take their positions.

"It might," he mutters, still fidgeting.

I give him a side glance. “Don’t try anything, SCP-8707. I’m not going to lose my job over your need for chaos and attention.”

He tilts his head in a way a curious fox would. “Need?”

"It’s a compulsion. You’re trying to annoy me for your own satisfaction. That’s not strategy, that’s a behavioral tic. Possibly even a maladaptive coping mechanism.”

He blinks.

“You mean a kink?”

I exhale sharply. “No. I mean you’re a control freak who gets off, emotionally, on watching people scramble. Which makes you a liability, not a fetishist.”

He looks genuinely offended for a beat. Or maybe just disappointed I didn’t let him run with the wordplay.

Before he can respond, Clef’s voice cuts through the room. “Ready for the first test dive?”

I straighten up and nod, my fingers tightening slightly around the edge of my mask.

Emotionally? Not at all. Professionally?

"Ready."

Nothing happens for a moment.

Then Clef sighs loudly. “You’ll need at least some physical connection, you know that, right?”

Eloin and I glance at each other like we’re two kids forced to hold hands at summer camp. One small, collective baby step brings us an inch closer.

“Oh my god, don’t be childish,” Clef barks, exasperated. “Link arms, hold hands, I don’t care. Just do something. You need to be touching or the loop won’t take you with him.”

Unfortunately, he's right. That’s how Eloin works – looping only affects what he’s directly connected to. It’s like gravity, but worse.

I hesitantly raise a hand and pinch the sleeve of his wetsuit near his upper arm. It’s the least committed form of contact imaginable, but technically counts.

Eloin raises an amused brow, his voice dipped in mock scandal. “Wow. I didn’t know you were this freaky, Doctor.”

I pinch harder.

He winces. “Ow, okay, okay- jeez, no need to get handsy.”

"Just dive already!" Clef groans, dragging both hands down his face like he regrets everything about his job.

I inhale deeply. Instinct, maybe. Pointless, definitely. Because there’s an oxygen tank strapped to my back and regulators in my mouth. But the air tastes cleaner when I pull it in.

One step.

The platform falls away as water swallows me whole.

Instant silence.

I must’ve closed my eyes just before impact. Reflex. And now they’re sealed shut, refusing to open. The pressure of the water around me is similar to cold hands pressing against my entire body.

Open your eyes, [Name].

Open them.

Something brushes my arm – delicate and ghostlike.

Look. Please. Just look.

My heart rate spikes. It's not the suit. It’s not the equipment.

Something's wrong.

A phantom tug at my legs. Not real. Just the weight of the tanks. Just the pressure. Just-

The heat starts in my chest. Blooming like wildfire, spreading outward. Into my arms, my gut, behind my eyes.

Panic.

I don’t remember thrashing.

But suddenly I am. My limbs flail, kicking against the water like it’s trying to bury me. I can’t feel Eloin anymore. I can’t feel anything but cold.

My eyes snap open.

Distorted lights shimmer above me, glass warping their shapes. I surge upward, crashing into the surface and clawing at the smooth glass walls of the containment tank like a trapped animal. My hands slap wet against the enclosure, nails scrabbling.

Somewhere, someone is shouting.

My own voice is unrecognizable through the mask and water. Screaming.

Security scales the metal ladder like they’ve done this before. Arms reach in. Hands hook under my arms, drag me from the tank.

I choke, cough, cry. My gear hits the floor in a tangled, soaked heap.

I want to laugh. I want to disappear. I want to never dive again.

Instead, I collapse to my knees, drenched and shaking, while Eloin casually floats in the tank behind me.

Only when the mask is finally peeled from my face do I allow myself to breathe again.

The first inhale is brutal and too sharp, too dry, like sandpaper dragged down my throat.

The air burns in my lungs, not from lack of oxygen, but the way it rushes in after being gone too long. It’s the kind of breath that leaves you coughing and gasping, the final few steps of a marathon you never trained for.

My entire body shakes. Not a little tremor, but a full, uncontrollable shiver. Like a kitten that’s just fallen face-first into an ice-cold bathtub, limbs too stiff to find warmth again.

The wetsuit clings to me like a second skin.

A towel gets draped around my shoulders. It’s warm, fresh from the heater, and still not enough.

Someone’s beside me, crouching low, supporting my back with one hand and holding out a bottle of water with the other. But the moment I see the liquid, I flinch. My stomach turns.

I shake my head silently. I can’t drink. I don’t want anything near my mouth – no fluid, no risk, nothing I could possibly inhale and drown on. Not again.

The sound of the room starts to come back in pieces – footsteps across metal, someone muttering into a radio, the low hum of machinery. But none of it is louder than the frantic pounding in my chest. My heartbeat thunders against my ribs, trying to break free of the cage I put it in.

So I don’t listen. I don’t try to listen.

I just look up.

And I see Eloin, still floating on the surface like a man sunbathing on vacation, arms relaxed, posture weightless.

But he isn’t smiling.

He isn’t joking, or laughing, or cocking that stupid little brow with something snarky locked and loaded. His expression is neutral. Not blank but confused. He watches me with that tilted-head curiosity animals get when they don’t understand what they’re looking at. I’m a riddle he hasn’t solved yet.

There’s no worry in his eyes. Of course there isn’t.

Because why would Eloin worry?

He doesn’t feel fear like I do. Doesn’t carry the weight of water in his lungs, or dread in his bones. Doesn’t know what it’s like to be dragged under without ever really leaving the surface.

I’m grateful he doesn’t say anything.

Eloin is instructed to get out, too. He doesn’t argue.

The water ripples once more as he hoists himself up, his movements unhurried, practiced, as if none of this touches him the way it does me. He climbs out of the tank and walks barefoot across the slick floor before settling beside me on the edge of the platform. He doesn't sit too close. Just enough that the gap between us feels intentional. Respectful. Awkward.

The silence between us is thin and uncomfortable at first – a fog we can’t quite see through yet. Below us, the others gather to inspect the equipment, voices overlapping in clipped exchanges and rustling movements. There’s talk about oxygen levels and pressure gauges, masks and seals and monitors. But we both know it’s not the tech.

It’s me.

Just me.

I draw my knees to my chest and rest my arms over them, curling inward as if I could physically make myself smaller, like that might help me breathe again. The towel over my shoulders clings to my suit, damp and clumsy, not comforting in the way it was probably meant to be.

Still, I breathe in deep, hoping the fire in my lungs might flicker out if I just try hard enough. It doesn’t.

“I didn’t know you had aquaphobia,” Eloin says after a beat, his voice careful. It’s not teasing. Not smug. Just… curious.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, unsure why he’s trying to make conversation. Maybe he's bored. Maybe he's trying to profile me like he does everyone else. Maybe he’s human for once and doesn’t know what to do with someone quietly unraveling beside him.

“Thalassophobia,” I correct quietly, my voice a little hoarse from screaming underwater.

He shifts slightly, peering down into the tank below, the way someone might watch a campfire, quiet and contemplative. “Huh. That’s the one about deep water, right?” he hums, almost to himself. “Makes sense.”

“Does it?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He shrugs. “You look like the type.”

I let out a dry breath that’s almost a laugh. “Thanks. I guess.”

There’s another pause, heavier this time. He watches me, head tilted like he’s trying to understand the fine print written behind my eyes.

“Why’s that?” he asks eventually, softer. “The fear.”

I stare straight ahead, eyes unfocused, looking at nothing. The truth hovers somewhere beyond the reach of memory, like something submerged just deep enough to never quite surface.

“I don’t remember,” I say.

And that’s all I can offer.

Eloin scratches the back of his neck, clearly unsure how to handle the silence or maybe just how humans deal with discomfort. His fingers fidget, tugging at the fabric of his suit. Then, with a sudden shift in tone, he blurts out,

“Do you really think I’m kinky?”

I snort, shaking my head at the weird attempt to switch gears. “No,” I say, smirking. “You’re just an asshole.”

He lets out a theatrical sigh of relief, placing a hand over his chest as if I’d just saved his life. “Thank God. I prefer that option.”

We lapse back into silence, the kind that settles comfortably between two people who don’t really know how to fill it yet.

After a moment, he speaks again, quieter this time. “You can call me by my nickname, by the way.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Null Point?”

He rolls his eyes… or at least I think he does, given how the irises in his dark void-like eyes flicker with the motion. “Eloin. Just Eloin. You keep calling me SCP-8707. It’s annoying.”

His words sound like a weak cover for the request, but for once, I don’t tease him.

“Alright,” I say.

He drums his fingers nervously against the platform’s surface, like he’s summoning courage to say something ridiculous. Then he glances at me, a half-smile creeping on his lips.

“So… can I give you a nickname too? Like… ‘Scuba Doofus’?” He shrugs like it’s the best joke he’s ever thought of.

I snort again, shaking my head firmly. “No.”

His grin widens anyway. “Worth a shot.”

--

Percentages:

Eloin: 30% (+5%)

Seeing you so scared reminded him how fragile a human life is. He tends to forget people feel more than him. Annoyance, hate, stress, worry, love and even fear.

Only the last one was familiar to him. He relates to you somehow.

Clef: 22% (+2%)

Well… you tried. But what the hell was that reaction?

Chapter Text

The Foundation has multiple gardens in its different sectors. Most are artificial imitations of peace – little green boxes to pretend we’re not buried beneath layers of cement, surveillance, and secrets. But this one… this one is real. Above the ground it grew by the touch of nature.

A perfect combination of beauty and sadness.

I sit on an old metal bench, paint chipped at the edges, warm from the sun. Across the path, two kids run in aimless circles around a small statue of a woman holding a sphere. They're laughing and speaking in a language I can’t understand. Foreign and musical.

It doesn’t matter what they’re saying. That part isn’t important.

What matters is that soon enough, they’ll be behind the same thick glass walls I’ve seen in every SCP interview. Soon enough, their laughter will be logged and measured. Contained.

Karl’s hand lands softly on my shoulder. I don’t flinch. I never do with him.

He hands me a paper cup – caramel coffee, or at least that’s what I asked for. But when I look inside, the color’s off.

I narrow my eyes. "...This is hot chocolate."

He hums, nonchalant, as he settles down next to me. "You don’t need caffeine this late into the day."

I shake my head, but don’t argue.

Instead, my eyes drift back to the girls… one blonde, the other with short, dark locks. The blond one stops to balance on the edge of the fountain surrounding the statue. She nearly slips. They laugh again.

Karl exhales, his voice low and sad. He points gently with his free hand. "The girl with the blond hair," he begins, pausing to make sure I’m listening. I nod faintly.

"She’s immune to rat poison. They cleared her home two days ago."

My heart sinks. That kind of detail always carries a second, much worse half. I glance at him, but his eyes are distant, focused somewhere in the past.

"The police called us after the mother said her daughter came back from the dead. That she was taunting her. Eternal punishment for what she did." I take a slow sip of my drink, swallowing hard. My voice is dry. "So she tried to poison her daughter?" Karl nods once, sharply. "Several times. Mixed it in her cereal, even. The girl just kept eating. Didn’t get sick. Didn’t even notice."

"...That’s horrible," I murmur.

We sit in silence, letting the quiet settle over us again like a heavy blanket. It’s not peaceful anymore. Just heavy. After a minute, I nod toward the other child – the girl with dark, coiled locks bouncing as she runs. "And her?" Karl shrugs slightly, sipping his drink. "No clue. We’re still testing. Could be anything. Or nothing."

"She doesn’t seem dangerous."

"Neither did 096. Or 105. Or you."

That gets a small, tired smile out of me. One that doesn’t last long.

I tilt my head back, letting the sunlight warm my face. A rare gift in this place – just one patch of sky above us that isn’t hidden behind reinforced concrete or steel. One part of this facility that isn’t underground, suffocating. "So they still let you work despite quarantine," I mumble, half to myself.

Karl hums, noncommittal, sipping from his drink like he didn’t hear me, or he hears everything but only answers what he wants.

"They need me," he finally says. "Everything I can do from inside my chamber, they let me do."

"And yet you’re not considered a laboratory technician anymore."

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. It wasn’t really a question. Just a reminder.

My eyes drift back to the children. The blonde girl has grown tired, legs tucked underneath her as she sinks onto the grass similar to a marionette whose strings have gone slack. A woman in a white coat approaches – calm, practiced smile, gentle voice. She offers the girl her hand, and after a small hesitation, the child takes it.

She’s led back inside. Probably off to sleep.

“How’s your head?” I ask.

He’s quiet for a moment, the kind of pause that makes the air feel dense.

“Not entirely my own.”

I don’t ask him to explain. I just stare into my half-empty cup of still-warm chocolate. The surface swirls slowly, dark and dense, a void waiting to pull something under.

“What would you do,” Karl asks suddenly, “if you could’ve chosen a different life?”

The question takes me by surprise. I blink at the drink, as if the answer might rise from the foam. “I haven’t given it much thought,” I admit with a shrug. Karl doesn’t tease me for it. Doesn’t smile. His voice is quieter when he replies. “Then don’t. It’s the less painful option.”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. I’ve always wondered what kind of family he had before the Foundation took him in. In my head, I imagine his mother had the same soft features… the small tooth gap, the gentle eyes. His lips and the unkempt hair probably came from his dad. And maybe he had siblings. That would explain why he’s so good with upset kids.

But that’s just how I like to imagine it.

Still, after a pause, I try to give him an answer. “I’d be a biologist,” I say. “Working in a regular lab. White coats, microscopes, sterile lighting- ”

He bursts out laughing, and it throws me off.

“What?” I ask, frowning.

Karl waves a hand at me, still chuckling. “You’re completely brainwashed, [Name].”

“Oh, screw you,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “You do it, then. What would you do?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He tilts his head back and stares straight into the sun, unblinking, making me think he wants to feel something burn.

“I’d open a café,” he says finally. “Small. Nothing special. Just a warm place with good coffee and bad music.” He pauses. “And on weekends, I’d help out at animal shelters. Clean cages. Walk the dogs. Pet the ones that don’t trust people yet.”

I can’t tell if he’s smiling. But I think that might be the saddest part.

He doesn’t look like someone insane. He never does. He’s calm, almost too calm sometimes, like he’s made peace with something no one else knows about.

“You’ve always seemed like the type to do charity work,” I say eventually. “But what about diving?”

That finally pulls a smirk from him. He turns his head toward me, the grin already teasing. I can hear the sarcasm coming before he even opens his mouth.

“Ever heard of the term hobbies, [Nickname]?” he shoots back, drawing out the word like I’m the idiot here. “I like diving. But not for work.” I roll my eyes and try not to break character, but I can’t quite keep the smile off my face when he nudges my side with his elbow. I nudge him back gently and let my head fall onto his shoulder.

The sun is pulling pink streaks across the horizon, soft and melting. I know Karl loves sunsets… I’ve heard him talk about the way colors bleed into each other like a slow watercolor.

I think I prefer what comes after. That short window of deep navy-blue sky, where everything is still but not quite dark. No stars yet. No colors either. Just a quiet kind of nothing. Earth holding its breath.

That space feels more beautiful to me than the whole show before it. I don’t lift my head when I ask,

“What’s going to happen to you now?”

My voice is barely above a whisper. I expect him to grow uneasy, or push the question away with another joke, or change the subject. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sighs.

“Do you think knowing beforehand would make it any easier?” he asks, not unkindly.

I look down at my hands, folded neatly in my lap. They feel very far away.

“No,” I admit.

--

As I walk Karl back to his chamber, the echo of our footsteps is followed by the heavy tread of security boots. A group of guards trails us like shadows, unnecessarily close. It physically hurts to know they think Karl might hurt me in his current state.

He’s barely slept in days.

The door slides open with its usual hiss, revealing a room so sterile it might as well be a holding cell. No books. No personal effects. Not even a chair until recently. Karl steps in first, eyes flicking around the space like he’s still not used to the emptiness. He walks to the center, arms loosely crossed, spine stiff.

“They could’ve added something, at least,” I mutter, eyeing the white walls.

“As if I could kill someone with a houseplant,” he calls louder, making sure the guards at the door hear. His voice drips sarcasm, but the bitterness undercuts it.

I check the time on my digital wristband. “Visiting time’s up. I can try and squeeze in another hour tomorrow, though.”

“Don’t,” he says, gentle but firm. “I’m grateful, but please don’t overwork yourself for my sake.”

I nod, pretending I care about my health as much as he does.

I open my arms wordlessly. He always hesitates, then steps in for a hug like he’s afraid I might vanish if he blinks. “Sleep well,” I murmur.

But just as his arms begin to close around me…
He stops.

As if something shattered inside him.

His whole body goes rigid, ice locked into his joints. I barely register it before he jerks back, eyes wide. Not realization-wide, not shock. Something worse.

Something colder.

Something inhuman.

“Karl?” I whisper.

His eyes… they’re not focused. They’re not seeing me. They’re staring past me, past the room, past the world like something’s crawling into his vision from beneath reality itself.

My heart stutters.

“Karl, it’s okay. You’re okay- ”

He flinches, violently, like I just screamed in his face. He stumbles back into the chair with a clatter. I reach instinctively – too fast.

“Don’t!” one of the guards barks, and suddenly I’m grabbed, held back, restrained like I’m a threat.

“Let me go! He’s having a breakdown!”

Karl is shaking, gripping the sides of the chair like they’re the only things anchoring him to this world. His breathing is shallow. Too fast. And still, those eyes. Wide and hollow. Tracking something that isn't there. I stop struggling.

Because I’ve seen many things in this place.

But I’ve never seen someone look this horrified.

"Not [Name]."

We all stare at him, uncertain, the tension drawing tight in the air like a pulled wire. His voice is low, shaky. Confused.

"No... not her. Not her. Not her."

He’s growing uneasy now, pressing himself further and further into the corner of the room, like being near me physically hurts. I stand frozen in place, and feel as I’m being torn apart from the inside out.

I can hear my heart cracking.
The strings that tether it in place snap one by one with every word he speaks.

“Karl, it’s me,” I whisper, stepping forward, my hands trembling at my sides. “It’s just me. You’re okay.”

But he doesn’t hear me. Or maybe he does and that’s what terrifies him. His gaze flicks around and he's seeing something else. Something that doesn’t belong in this room.

Two men step forward, approaching him cautiously, thinking he might lash out. I want to scream at them that he wouldn’t. That he’s not like that. Not to me.

But before I can say anything, the third guard grabs me from behind.

"No! Let go of me- no!"

I thrash in his grip, arms flailing, my body bucking against his hold. My hands reach out, desperate, latching onto the cold metal doorframe as I’m dragged away from him.

“Let go! I can’t leave him!”

My nails dig into the edge of the frame like it’s the only thing grounding me. My eyes are locked on Karl, on the way he curls in on himself while something is breaking inside his mind.

I need him to remember everything is okay. He is okay and everything will go back to normal soon.

But he won’t meet my eyes.

And I don’t know why.

When they lift him by his arms, he hangs limp, a marionette whose strings have been cut.
His head dangles forward, his body swaying slightly in their grip, lifeless but not dead. Just… empty.

His hair falls in messy strands across his face, shielding him like curtains drawn in front of a broken stage. I've never seen a human look like this before.

It’s not the look of someone who’s given up.
It’s someone who’s given in.
Accepted something so unbearable, so hollowing, that even resistance feels meaningless now.

And then he looks up.

Through the shadows and disarray, he lifts his eyes and meets mine.

There’s no fear in them. No hatred.
Just quiet, heavy, soul-crushing pity.

Not for himself.
For me.

My breath stutters in my chest. I shake my head once, almost imperceptibly, trying to reach him with nothing but my eyes. To make him understand that I don’t know what he is thinking. Who is making him think.

They drag him forward across the cold floor, and for a moment, we’re close again. Not close enough. Not like we were.

I’ve been set down now that he’s calm.
They circle us with the same air people reserve for zoo enclosures: cautious fascination mixed with silent, pulsing dread.

Karl's lips purse as he’s still debating whether to speak.
And then, with a flicker of determination that cuts through his devastation like a dying star flaring one last time, he says,

“You said I’ve always been the type to do charity work.”

I don’t interrupt. I can’t.

I just nod, barely, unsure of where this is going.

“Well… I think you’ve always been the type to save people’s lives.”

My chest tightens painfully. My arms ache to reach for him. To pull him close and undo whatever this is.
But I’m rooted in place, frozen by the trembling tone of his voice.

He looks down again.

“But…”

His fingers flex once, twice, like he's still getting used to having them. Or like he's saying goodbye to them.

“Don’t be upset that you couldn’t save mine.”

And the air dies.

I open my mouth to speak but it’s already happening.

His hand moves in a blur. A single sharp, desperate arc toward the nearest guard’s holster.
There’s yelling, but it’s underwater. Slow. Distant. Dreamlike.

The metal gleams in his hands for the briefest second.

“NO!” I scream, the sound tearing through my throat like shrapnel.

I lunge forward, every part of me stretching toward him, but the gun is already beneath his chin.

The crack of it splits the silence apart like glass.

And he falls.
He folds, so suddenly, so quietly, as if even gravity feels sorry for him.

I crash into him before his body fully hits the ground.
The scent of smoke and blood stings my nose.

His warmth is still there.
But it’s leaving.

“No, no no no…”

My hands scramble against his shoulders, his chest, his jaw. Anywhere. Hoping I can stop it. Wishing I could push the blood back in.

But there’s too much.
Too much blood.
Too much silence.

Those soft, kind eyes aren’t looking at anything anymore.

I bury my face into the crook of his neck, sobbing so hard my body shakes against his.
My tears slide down into the fabric of his uniform, mixing with blood, grief, guilt.

I feel like a child clutching a broken toy, refusing to accept that it won’t work anymore.

“You idiot,” I whisper against his skin. “You idiot. I was right here.”

But he can’t hear me.

He’s gone.

And I’m still here, holding him like if I don’t let go, he might come back.

But he doesn’t. And he won’t.

Someone is trying to help me up. Hands gentle, maybe even trembling, wrap around my arms, trying to lift me away. But I won’t move. My fingers clutch the collar of his blood-soaked shirt with the strength of someone drowning, refusing to let go of the last solid thing in the world.

“I was right here!” I scream, my voice cracking like shattered glass.

It echoes, sharp and ragged, around the walls of the room.

“He was getting better,” I choke out, spit and grief catching in my throat. “He promised me he was getting better!”

My whole body hiccups, shaking uncontrollably now, sinking further into his lifeless form. I'm melting into him like a flame collapsing in on itself.

“You promised me,” I sob, and my fists twist tighter in the fabric of his shirt, wrinkled and damp with crimson and sweat and desperation.

Blood and tears mix freely on my face now, smearing across my cheeks, staining my lips, falling onto his neck like a storm of grief too big to hold back. I lower my head and press it against his chest, desperate for something. A rhythm. A beat. A flutter. Anything.

But all I hear is the silence.

The kind of silence that’s too loud. The kind that fills your ears with a roaring nothingness that screams, he’s not here anymore.

It settles in me like a second skin. It roots in my bones. It eats. And in that moment, I realize the truth I don’t want to carry.

He’s gone.

“What about the café?” I whisper against his shirt, the words so quiet they nearly drown in my shaking breath.

But he doesn’t answer.

He never will again.

And all I can do now is hold him, as the last warmth fades from his skin.

--

Percentages: 

Karl (final score): 90% (+10%)

His last moments weren't minutes but seconds. And in every single one he saw you. That was enough to calm him when the cold metal touched his skin.

Chapter Text

[BEGIN LOG]

( [Name] sits with arms wrapped tightly around herself, still in a slightly stained set of issue clothing. Her eyes are red. She does not make eye contact. Dr. Rousseau sits across the table, clipboard untouched.)

Dr. Rousseau: Thank you for coming in today, [Name].

(No response. Just a slight twitch in the corner of her mouth.)

Dr. Rousseau: I understand this is very recent. We’ll move slowly.
This isn’t disciplinary. I’m here to check on you. That’s all.

(Still nothing. [Name] breathes sharply through her nose. A tremor runs through her hands.)

Dr. Rousseau: You were the last person with Karl before... before the incident.
Were there any signs? Anything in his behavior you think we missed?

(A pause. Then a barely audible voice, hoarse and brittle.)

[Name]:
He said... it felt like a parasite.

(She doesn’t look up. Words come in bursts. Detached.)

[Name]:
That he was just a vessel. That it would spread.
Infect.
(a longer silence)
Kill.

Dr. Rousseau: Did he mention this after the SCP-3000 dive?

(Her arms tighten around her ribcage. She doesn’t answer.)

Dr. Rousseau: [Name], we need to understand what happened.

[Name]: (quietly)
I don’t think he understood.
Not all the way.

Dr. Rousseau: Were the two of you close?

(She slowly looks up at Rousseau.)

[Name]:
What kind of question is that?

Dr. Rousseau: I just meant… professionally or…

[Name]:
We were family.

(She doesn’t elaborate. She presses her palms into her knees, digging in with her nails)

Dr. Rousseau: Can you tell me what you think happened to him in that dive?

(A long pause. She opens her mouth slightly, then closes it again. Her jaw tenses. She shakes her head once, slowly.)

[Name]:
I don’t want to know.

(The silence in the room becomes unbearable. Dr. Rousseau looks like she wants to step out of the script.)

Dr. Rousseau: One last thing.
Do you remember his final words?

(Her mouth moves, but no sound comes out at first. When she finally speaks, her voice breaks.)

[Name]:
He said I was the kind of person who... saves lives.

(She stops. Tries again.)

[Name]:
And that I shouldn’t be upset that I couldn’t-

(She turns away. Shoulders trembling. She never finishes the sentence.)

Dr. Rousseau: Thank you. That’s... that’s enough.

(A pause. Papers shuffle faintly off-camera.)

Dr. Rousseau: We have the option of issuing Class-C amnestics. It would soften the memory… take the edge off, maybe let you function without reliving it.

Are you open to that?

([Name] snaps her head toward Rousseau.)

[Name]:
I can’t risk forgetting him.

(There is nothing else to say. Rousseau just nods once, solemn.)

[END LOG]

NOTE: Interviewee dismissed. Temporary leave granted. Further psychological evaluation recommended. Reassignment status pending.

"Do you want a glass of water?" the lady asks, her voice soft with concern.

I shake my head once. No words. Just the rustle of my clothes and the ache in my neck.

No. I don’t want water. I don’t want anything.
If I could live without fluids, without air, without sensation… God, I would.
Everything triggers something. Everything feels loud. Every clink, every whisper, every distant conversation outside the door – too much.

I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, spine bowed like I’ve been leaning forward for hours.
One wrong breath and I’ll go tumbling over.
And once I’ve fallen to the bottom, limbs all broken, I won’t be able to climb up again.

The woman lingers for a second longer, then backs away quietly, the door clicking closed behind her.
“[Name]?”

I think I’m hallucinating at first. But it’s real.
Marie. Her voice, small and gentle, but solid enough to cut through the fog I’ve wrapped myself in.

I haven’t spoken much in the past two days.
Haven’t needed to. Haven’t wanted to.

“Hey, Marie.”
It comes out broken. Scratchy. My throat cracks on the first syllable like it forgot how to form words. I sound fragile and unfinished. I hate it.

Marie pulls the chair up beside the one I’m sitting on, not saying anything for a moment. She’s careful. Afraid I might shatter. I don’t even meet her eyes.

“You joining for lunch today?” she asks, light, cautious. “Not that I’m forcing you. I just... thought maybe...”

She doesn’t finish. Her voice drifts off, swallowed by the room.
And I hate myself for forgetting she’s been eating alone these past days.
She always waited for me before. Even when I was late. Even when I didn’t feel like talking.

Guilt coils in my chest, bitter and tight. It moves me more than I want it to.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “I will. I’m gonna come over and grab a coffee.”

She doesn’t smile big or say something cheerful like usually.
Just a soft expression, one corner of her mouth lifting like she knows what that tiny sentence cost me.

Marie reaches out and places a hand over mine. Just rests it there.
It’s warm. Steady. Real.

I don’t flinch.

Not because it doesn’t hurt. But because, for the first time in days, something anchors me to the edge of the cliff.

And I don't fall.

--

I stare down at my plate like it holds the secrets of the universe.
It doesn’t.
Just another heap of mysterious cafeteria food, barely distinguishable in color or shape – but beside it, a single gleaming star in a polluted sky, sits a life-saving portion of fries.

Across from me is Marie eating happily, humming under her breath, tapping her fork as if our coworker didn’t put a bullet through his head.
And for once, I don’t feel offended by it.

I need this.
This casual, careless joy.
My daily dose of something not-crushing.

“How are things with SCP-049?” I ask, cracking open the seal on my triumph card – the one guaranteed to summon a flood of joyful yapping.

It works like a charm.

Marie lights up so fast I consider wearing sunglasses.
“He said he likes my lavender perfume!” she says, and I blink slowly, bracing for the wave. “It’s just like you told me, no one ever thought to use it for him instead of against him. And he loves the smell! He told me he’s been so much more calm in our interviews lately.”

I let her words wash over me, warm and bright. It almost burns away the chill still stuck to my bones.

No pity glances.
No heavy silence.
Just Marie and her absurdly concerning crush on something that technically doesn’t have a pulse.

“Oh my god,” she goes on, already choking on excitement, “I made a joke the other day. Some stupid thing about old surgical practices and he laughed.”

I glance up with mild alarm.
“You made the Plague Doctor laugh?” I ask. “Did anyone write that down?”

“Did you ever hear this man’s laugh, [Name]?”

“Not a man,” I mumble reflexively, chewing a fry.

She ignores my correction like always, her expression dreamy. “He likes the way I smell.”

I snort into my food, nearly choking on a fry.
“What kind of compliment even is that?”

Marie looks mildly offended. “I bet you’d like it if someone told you they like the way you smell.”

I shrug, finally letting a grin crack through my worn-out features. “Maybe. Depends on the person. If it’s a moldy Class-D, no thanks.”

She laughs, fork halfway to her mouth.
And for a second everything is okay.

We eat in silence. The clinking of utensils, the occasional shout from across the cafeteria – it all blends into a kind of peaceful white noise.

Until I feel it.
Marie’s eyes.

I look up, catching her way-too-sweet smile before she can pretend it’s innocent.
“Sooo…” she drags out, stabbing a lone fry like it personally insulted her. “How are things with SCP-8707?”

I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in my head. “That idiot doesn’t even fit in a swimsuit,” I mutter.

She blinks. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Don’t start.” But the words are already coming. I can't help it. It feels safe to complain – safer than remembering. “He’s normal height for an SCP, but for a human? Built like a linebacker. And he keeps making these... freaky comments. Like, unsettling in that weird, confident way.”

Marie hums, grinning wider with every second I keep talking. I know I’m feeding her, but I can’t stop. I need to talk about something that isn’t soaked in blood and silence.

“Get this,” I continue, waving a fry for emphasis. “After I had a full-on panic attack in that godforsaken diving tank, this idiot looks me dead in the face and calls me Scuba Doofus. Can you believe that?”

Marie actually snorts. “Scuba Doofus? That’s friendship-defining.”

“It’s a hate crime. Which perfectly matches Eloin.”

She’s laughing now, and I try to scowl, but it’s weak. The corner of my mouth twitches up despite myself.
I think I’m safe.
I think the moment will pass.

But then she says it, too soft, too sly.
“Eloin? I’ve never heard you use an SCP’s name before.”

The fork pauses halfway to my mouth.
I feel the grin falter, just a little.

My stomach tightens, not from the food. From everything else.

“…Yeah,” I mutter, eyes flicking back to my plate. “Well. He insisted.”

Marie doesn’t tease.
She doesn’t have to do anything besides giving me that look.
Just quietly knowing. Like someone who’s already connected dots you weren’t ready to see as dots yet.

I glare at her from my side of the table, mid-bite.
“What?” I ask flatly.

Marie’s grin only stretches wider as she shakes her head. “Nothing. Nothing.”

I narrow my eyes. “No. You just did that thing again.”

She blinks, mock-innocent. “What thing?”

“You know what thing,” I say, pointing at her with my fork. “That thing where you take all the info you’re given and… construct your own little story in that scheming brain of yours.”

Her eyes sparkle, like I’ve just handed her the jackpot. “Ohhh? And what do you think my little story is?”

I open my mouth, letters lining up like soldiers, ready to be launched.
But I stall.
No words. Just a squeaky throat noise and a very unconvincing shrug.

Marie watches it all happen with infuriating delight.

“I don’t know!” I finally blurt, voice going defensive way too fast. “Probably something dumb. Like… like he teases me because he likes me or some shit.”

She fakes a soft gasp, as if I’ve casually confessed to murder. “You just said that.”

“No, I- I didn’t! I said that’s what you think!”

“Hmm. So eloquent when flustered.” She leans her chin into her hand, beaming like a smug little gremlin.

“Just forget it,” I mutter, already stuffing another fry in my mouth and refusing to make eye contact.

But it’s too late.
Marie saw the crack.

“Are you into tall guys?” she asks, leaning in for the juicy gossip.

I shoot her a sideways glare. “Is this still about him?”

Her smile is all teeth. “Do you want it to be?”

I groan, dragging a hand down my face, catching myself before I slip any further into her trap. “I don’t see him that way.”

“Oh, okay,” she says, drawing out each word like she's humoring a toddler. I ignore it.

“He’s a test subject,” I continue, more firmly this time, pretending repeating it will make it truer. “I need him for the mission. And then he’ll no longer be my authority for further experiments.”

Marie places a hand over her heart like I just punched her square in the chest. “Ouch. Just a test subject? That’s worse than the friendzone.”

I don’t dignify it with a response. Instead, I flick open my tablet and let the blue light wash over my face, pulling my focus away from her all-knowing eyes.

Another dive today.

The words stare back at me like a dare.

Technically, I still have the option to postpone… take another day, let my mind rest. Everyone would understand. But I already know what happens when I let myself stay still. That’s when it creeps in – the silence, the red-tinged memories, the hollow in my chest that aches like phantom pain.

I need this. The routine. The structure. The illusion that everything is still in place.

I tuck the tablet away and force myself to stand.

Nothing happened.
Karl isn’t gone.
And I'm still whole.

--

Every single droplet of water in that giant-ass tank is taunting me.

Haha, you're scared of water.

Fuck yes I am. Wait until someone pisses in you. Then we’ll both be contaminated.

“[Name], ready for preparation?” Clef’s voice slices through my internal spiral. It's sharp, too casual, a needle slipping through fabric without pulling the thread.

I turn on command like a little wind-up doll and drop into the metal chair behind me. Cold. Always cold. Like everything here.

Next to Clef stands my psychologist. Pale cardigan. Soft eyes. Clipboard. I hate that I hate her. She didn’t do anything.

“Alright, [Name]. Let me ease your fear a bit before this dive.” She crouches slightly so her eyes are level with mine. Her voice is gentle, but not patronizing. I nod stiffly, jaw locked. My fingers are tearing at the edge of the diver suit. Subconsciously, I’m trying to peel it off piece by piece.

“Common symptoms of thalassophobia are heart racing, shortness of breath, rapid breathing, lightheadedness,”

I glance up, meeting Clef’s eyes. He gives me a nonchalant shrug that says ‘Don’t look at me, I just got assigned to this.’

“…sweating, dizziness, and nausea,” she continues.

A long pause. Maybe she’s waiting for me to say something profound. I hum quietly, hoping she’ll keep talking and not ask for feedback.

“To prevent those we’ll do some breathing exercises as well as practice calming words to tell yourself when you feel any of these symptoms, okay?”

Is it weird to hum two times in a row? I have to give her a different reaction.

“Yes.” Nailed it.

She gives a warm smile I don't return. My eyes slide past her toward the tank. It looks bottomless even when I know it’s not.

My gaze is ripped from the water when I hear the woman inhale sharply beside me. It's one of those therapist breath of the day moments – deliberate, exaggerated, her lungs are trying to win an Oscar. Clef and I both turn toward her in quiet, mutual confusion as she holds her breath for a full seven seconds before exhaling.

She stares at me with the kind of mild expectation that only makes me feel more out of sync with the room.

“Oh. We’re already starting...” I mumble, mimicking her action like a student who didn’t know class began. Inhale, hold, exhale. My chest moves mechanically. I’m pretty sure my soul didn’t join in.

How is this supposed to help? I’m not even panicking yet.
I want to tell her that the panic doesn’t come when expected. It’s never in this room, with the safety rails and too much overhead light. It waits until I’m underwater. Until the silence wraps around me like a noose and something deep inside whispers: It’s back.

“And repeat,” she says gently, and I’m about to question the scientific merit of guided breathing when the doors behind me fly open with a mechanical hiss.

“Oh no,” I murmur.

Two exhausted guards stumble in, visibly strained under the weight and resistance of a very uncooperative humanoid.

“I’m not cooperating until you get me a bigger diving suit!” Eloin bellows, voice echoing dramatically off the sterile chamber walls. One of the guards swears under his breath, while the other just mutters something about hazard pay.

Despite myself, a genuine smile tugs at my mouth. It's quick, half-disguised behind the back of my hand, but it’s there.

Goddammit, not now, I think. You’re not allowed to be funny.

Eloin plants his heels against the floor, refusing to budge, arms crossed like an overgrown toddler. The suit they’ve managed to shove onto him makes him look like a disgruntled otter ready to sue the manufacturer. His hair is tied back today, barely.

Clef mutters, “That’s our boy,” and flips a page on his clipboard with the same energy he’d use to check off a shopping list.

The psychologist clears her throat and offers a very professional “...Well, he certainly seems energetic,” which might be the kindest possible phrasing for what the hell did I just witness.

“I want one with pockets!” Eloin adds, looking directly at me now, as if I’m the one responsible for his aquatic fashion crisis.

“You think I control the budget for SCP wetsuits?” I raise a brow, arms folded. “Try looking intimidating with a zipper splitting open mid-dive.”

He pauses, gives a long suffering sigh, and mutters, “Maybe I’m just not made for human clothes.”

“Maybe?” I echo, grinning.

For a moment the pressure in my chest loosens. Not because I’m ready. Not because the dive feels easier. But because someone managed to punch a hole in the weight pressing down on me. Even if he’s ridiculous. Especially because he is.

“Up you go, [Name],” Clef gestures toward the metal platform with the enthusiasm of a man herding a cat into a bathtub.

I stare at the metal grating for a second longer than necessary, then inhale through my nose and force my legs to move. They do, but wobble like I’ve got sea legs before I’ve even hit the water. Clef must notice – his hands settle firmly on my shoulders the second I stand.

“Don’t think about what’s in the water,” he says low, calm. “It’s just fluid. A safe construction. No eldritch plot twists. No reality bends. No dream logic.”

I nod, swallowing the bile creeping up my throat. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down this time.”

He gives a small smile and pats my back in a way that’s half supportive, half “good luck surviving.” Still, I’ll take it. I pass him with my spine straightening a little. The suit still clings too tightly in all the wrong places, but there’s a flicker of confidence glowing in my chest now. I can work with that.

“And besides!” he calls after me. “Compared to the Bay of Bengal, this is a swimming pool!”

I freeze mid-step on the first stair, eyes narrowing suspiciously. That’s not encouraging.

“You know?” he continues brightly, “The Bay you’ll actually be diving into for the real mission?”

He’s still smiling like a damn camp counselor with a sadistic streak as I turn slowly over my shoulder to glare at him.

“The 4.694 meter deep body of water!” he shouts after me cheerfully, as though he’s reading it off a brochure. “Home to poorly-mapped trenches and unclassified things with eyes!”

I throw a dead-eyed glance at the dark, rippleless surface of the tank and mutter, “...Is this motivational psychology or sadism?”

Eloin, already being secured nearby by the two guards and halfway into a now-forcefully-altered dive suit, snorts so hard he nearly unseals his mask. “Damn, and here I thought I was the one with no empathy.”

Clef just shrugs and scribbles something on his clipboard.

I sigh and resume climbing the thin staircase. Each step groans faintly under the weight of my gear… and, fine, my fear. The scent of metal and chlorine sharpens as I approach the lip of the platform. The water stretches out beneath me, black and waiting, so perfectly still it looks more like a hole in the world than anything I should willingly enter.

My fingers twitch at my sides, rehearsing the movement. Step. Breathe. Another one. Eyes open. Mind clear.

Swimming pool. Not the Bay. Not real yet. Just another step.

Behind me, Eloin mutters something that sounds suspiciously like Scuba Doofus rides again, and I nearly trip on the last step.

Nothing is funny anymore once I actually stand before the entrance.

The water yawns wide and endless beneath me. Deep. Dark. Cold. Not safe.

My heartbeat starts that unkind rhythm in my ears again, too fast to keep track of, like it’s trying to outrun something before it even happens. My palms go slick inside the gloves. My stomach folds in on itself.

“Now that I think about it…” I mumble, barely audible, taking one shaky step back from the edge.

Eloin, already next to me, gives me a small but firm nudge forward. His touch is surprisingly gentle – steady, without mocking.

“Then don’t think about it,” he says. “Easy.”

He makes it sound simple. Like flipping a switch labeled Fear and going on with your day.

I glance over at him. He’s standing there tall, calm, poised in that too-tight diving suit like he’s five seconds away from saving the world and posing for a magazine cover. How the hell does he always look so ready?

“…You look stupid in that diving suit,” I mutter.

He smirks without missing a beat. “Shut up, Floaty McFearpants.”

“Chairface.”

“Gooberstein.”

“Emo Seagull.”

That one lands harder than I intended. He whips his head toward me with a truly offended look, like I just insulted his entire ancestry. “Emo Seagull- ?!”

Before I can throw in another, Clef slams his fist on the control counter, the impact nearly sending his mug flying.

“GET INTO POSITION!”

We jolt like scolded schoolkids. Eloin snaps upright, posture straightening with practiced ease. I follow, lungs pulling one reluctant breath after another. The humor fades from our eyes, but the warmth lingers just a second longer. Enough to remind me that I’m not stepping into the dark alone.

I stare down at the water again. Its surface doesn’t ripple. It just waits. Quiet. Unforgiving.

And then I take one small step closer.

I have a gut feeling my oxygen tank is filled with water.

Not air – water.

That the moment I’m under, my lungs will seize. That I’ll panic, kick, claw upward and only descend instead. Like the suit is working against me. It's dragging me straight to the bottom.

If there even is a bottom.

Maybe I’ll just sink.
And sink.
And sink.
Until something brushes my hand…
and I realize I’m not alone down there.
That something else is waiting for me.

Hold on… my hand?

Something is touching it.

My eyes snap downward in full-blown terror, only to find another hand loosely folded around mine. Gloved. Steady. Warm, somehow, despite the material.

Even he looks like he’s caught himself by surprise, blinking once like his brain is catching up to his reflexes. His hand doesn’t pull away, but his body stiffens, unreadable.

"You were trembling again,” he says flatly, eyes pointed anywhere but at me. “It was irritating my... peripheral field."

Peripheral field. Of course.

We both look away, too synchronized to be a coincidence. As if we don’t acknowledge the moment, it won’t count. Like it wasn’t anything.

But he doesn’t let go right away.

And neither do I.

"Ready when you are."

The instruction crackles in my ear, muffled slightly by the pressure-tight helmet. I glance at Clef, spotting him down with the rest of the staff. He's holding his little mic to his face like he's narrating a casual weather report, not sending me into one of my worst fears.

Let’s just get this over with.

I take a breath that doesn’t help. My foot leaves the platform, hovers over the water for a moment, then gravity handles the rest. Eloin follows right behind me, no hesitation.

And then: water.

The cold hugs my shaking body with all the affection of a corpse. It swallows the sound, dims the light, takes its time dragging me under.

I don’t open my eyes.

Not until I feel a hand squeezing mine.

That same steady grip.

And when I do open my eyes, blinking against the dark water and the slight sting of my mask, the first thing I see isn’t some abyssal nightmare. Not glowing eyes, not clawed limbs.

It’s my boss who gives me two thumbs up. "Sweet. Now all we’ll do for today is go through the plan."

Clef’s voice floats into my ear again, grounding.

Okay. I can do that.

I nod, trying to focus. My breath slows as Clef walks us through the contingency procedures for the real thing – the descent into the Bay of Bengal.

The real mission. The real nightmare.

I do listen but someone else doesn’t.

With a glance sideways I see that Eloin is watching me. Not grinning. Not teasing. Just watching, his gaze sharp, focused in a way that feels... out of place for him.

It’s not a look that pokes fun or makes light of the moment. It’s almost like he’s checking in. Like he’s measuring how far from panic I am.

I raise an eyebrow, question forming, but he doesn’t say anything. Just taps his wrist once and points at mine. No digital clock there today.

Ah. Right. He wants to know the time.

I flip him off with my free hand.

A tiny trail of bubbles escapes his mask as he laughs underwater. A short, sharp puff of amusement. The sound doesn't reach me, but I feel it. Warmth through cold. Soon enough, we’re told to surface.

I don’t hesitate. With delight, I escape the human-sized aquarium and throw myself onto the platform, letting the surface cradle me like I earned it. The water slides off my suit, pooling beneath me in a pathetic puddle, but I don’t care. For a moment, I just breathe – deep, shaky inhales through my nose. Air that doesn’t taste like plastic or panic.

“That was... not too bad,” I manage, eyes closed, letting exhaustion and relief pool together in my chest.

Eloin hums as he sits down beside me, peeling off his gear pretending it’s just another Tuesday. “Yeah, you didn’t scream for mercy while clawing at the glass. Progress.”

I choose to ignore him, basking in the bliss of gravity and oxygen.

He shifts beside me, and out of the corner of my eye I see him glance over. Then a throat clear, one of those not-subtle, something’s-coming kind of sounds.

“I did that because of the, uh… the loop, by the way.”

I open one eye and tilt my head slightly toward him, brows scrunched. “What?”

He gestures downward and I follow his gaze right to my hand.

“The whole physical touch thing,” he says, voice just a notch quieter now. “You can’t loop without it.”

“Oh, right- yeah. I know.” My words stumble over each other in their rush to sound unbothered. “I know.”

Silence.

Awkward silence.

I look back up at the ceiling, or maybe the lights above us, anything but him. He does the same.

Cool. Super casual. Definitely normal work conversation.

He swallows, jaw shifting slightly like the words are bitter on his tongue. “I also heard about your coworker.”

The moment hits like a nail to the chest. Every emotion I'd tried to let go of for just one second comes rushing back, a stampede of pain pushing everything else out.

Grief doesn’t knock. It breaks in, makes itself at home, and sits heavy in the place where oxygen should be.

“Oh,” I manage, hollowly. “Karl.”

“Yeah, that one. Everyone talks about it.”

I hum. A quiet, closed-off sound. Not an invitation. There’s nothing I want to say.

The sound of boots against the metal stairs echoes through the space – someone’s coming to get us back down. Thank god.

But before they arrive, Eloin speaks again. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

I blink. My heart stutters. That surprises me more than it should.

“…Are you?” The question isn’t aimed at him so much as it is whispered into the void between us.

He pauses. Shrugs. “I don’t feel as much as humans do. But with what I can feel… I am.”

That sits with me longer than anything else he’s ever said.

Not comforting. Not empty either. Just… honest.

I nod, barely, and let it rest between us like a fragile truce.

Chapter Text

I had to take a day off.

Yesterday went great. I managed to not have a panic attack in the mini version of the Bay of Bengal and behaved like a sane person… for someone who can feel everything in their life slipping away.

And that’s why I'm here now.

I'm slipping away.

It doesn’t make sense. He laughed with me, told me about his studies. We drank hot chocolate and talked about our hopes and dreams. Now nothing.

Just a hole in his head and the lack of life in his eyes.

I showered about 7 times since that day. His blood isn’t visible on my skin anymore but I swear I can feel it. Smell it. It burns through my flesh, trying to eat me piece by piece like the guilt and dread I couldn’t scrub off either.

Yesterday, I could control myself. I attended the interview, talked to Marie, participated in the test dive... it was all doable.

The information hadn’t reached my brain yet. It didn’t sink in fully.

Yesterday, he was still alive and well, even when in reality he was in a casket. To me, he was in his chamber, working. He talked to the little girl that got poisoned and survived. He would comfort her and soon become a person she trusts.

Yeah, that sounds a lot like Karl to me.

Today I stood up and the world lost color.

The coffee was cold. The air dense.

And my heart too heavy for a human chest.

I understand now that he is dead.

So I took a day off. It doesn’t have the effect I hoped for.

I turn for the third time in bed. Still uncomfortable. Still wide awake. I drag the covers off like they’re to blame and were pressing on my chest instead of everything else.

For a moment I just lie there, staring at the ceiling to check if it might offer some answers. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.

I sit up slowly. There’s that ache again. Behind my eyes, in my ribs, in the joints of my fingers. Grief has made a home in my body without paying rent.

What to do, what to do…

Phone?

I reach for it, then drop it face-down. Full of unread messages. Condolences. Grief-worded emojis. I don’t have the energy to sort through well-meaning noise.

Tablet?

Nope. That’s the workload. Assignments, reports, dive data, an inbox that never sleeps. I don't want to be [Name], Site-19 staff member right now.

Laptop?

It powers on. Blue light spills across the room. But there’s nothing on it. Nothing I want. My thoughts wander into silence. Hollow silence.
The file.

…

The file.
I forgot about it.

I pause, completely still now, as if my body knows I’ve just stepped over some invisible line. But there isn’t anything helpful on it, right?

I don’t move. I think. Try not to. Try to pretend that this is just boredom.

But it’s not boredom.

It's the kind of quiet where your brain starts chewing on the things you locked away on purpose. The kind of quiet where a dead man’s last words echo louder than they did the first time.

With a sigh, I stand.

The room is too dark, too quiet. The air feels wrong on my skin. Cold but not refreshing.

I grab my device and sink to the floor, back propped up against the bedframe, knees pulled halfway to my chest. My thumb hovers over the screen.

One tap. Just one.

Then I’ll close it.

I promise.

PROTOCOL 04-YOU

Access Frequency: UNREGISTERED 

Last Access: [UNKNOWN] 

Clearance Override: Temporarily Suspended 

Classification: ████████

Status: [ACTIVE]

> Do not open. 

> Do not think. 

> Do not remember. 

OBJECT NAME: YOU 

Full Designation: [REDACTED] 

Containment Attempts: NONE 

Containment Possible: NO 

Spread Method: [UNKNOWN] 

Associated Phenomena: Memory Collapse, Identity Erosion, Behavioral Corruption 

Interaction History: [DATA LOST]

If you are seeing this file, █████ ██ ████████  is already listening.

I stare at the screen.

No music plays, no loading bar spins. Just black text on a pale background, humming with unreadable weight.

Okay.
Not helpful at all.

But I’m not clicking away either.

I scroll again. Even though I’ve already read every word.

Still haven’t figured out why this is on my laptop. This thing doesn’t even have a number.

There’s no such thing as “SCP-YOU.” That’s not how we do it. We settled on numbers decades ago, for a reason. For order.

You don’t hear me calling it “SCP-PLAGUE DOCTOR.” He’s SCP-049. The Pipe Nightmare? That’s SCP-015. We file. We label. We control.

But this?
YOU.

It’s not labeled. It’s named.

And everything that should help me understand it is wiped clean.

Last Access: [UNKNOWN] – wow, great.
Classification: ████████  – mhm, tell me more.
Status: [ACTIVE] – not concerning at all!
Spread Method: [UNKNOWN] – perfect.

I almost laugh. But I don’t. This has to be a joke. A prank. One of the new recruits, the hacker types. They’re always in the systems – cleaning, rewriting, scrubbing the Foundation’s fingerprints off the surface of the world.

Maybe one of them planted this when I defended Marie in that ethics meeting last week.

Wait…
No.

That happened after.
Didn’t it?

…God. I don’t remember.

A sharp, pinching ache blooms at the base of my skull.

Okay, that’s new.

If this is real then I’m supposed to report it immediately. That’s the protocol. Always escalate anomalies. Always document the breach. But reporting it would mean admitting I read it.

Admitting I saw the warning.

Do not open. Do not think. Do not remember.

I’ve already broken two of those rules.

Let’s rewind.

A random-ass file started downloading on my laptop. No prompt. No source. No warning. Just... there. Like it had always been there.

Did someone break into my room and install it? Did a hacker guess my super-safe, ultra-complex password?

…vaniLLacoFFEE123…

Okay. That might need an upgrade.

But what if it wasn’t a break-in? What if it wasn’t a hacker? What if it was just another one of the things. The anomalies that have been happening more frequently lately. The ones we log, observe, and then pretend don’t keep us awake at night.

YOU.

That’s what the file is called.

No number. No SCP designation. Just that one stupid, haunting word.

You.

Is that the subject? The threat?
Or is it a mirror?

Does it mean me? Does it mean anyone who opens it?

Last Access: UNKNOWN.

Which means... what? That it’s new? That it’s been hidden this whole time? Maybe a civilian stumbled across it and couldn’t remember when.

No containment attempts, none possible. If they never attempted to contain it, yet know they can't, it must be too big. Or too smart, too dangerous..

maybe all of the above.

The spread method is unknown but it does show recurring effects on a person. Does that mean it doesn’t have a body? Is it fluid? A virus? Way too many possibilities.

But what does catch my eye are the symptoms. Memory Collapse, Identity Erosion, Behavioral Corruption...

Karl.

The thought lands like a weight across my chest.
I physically flinch, rubbing my forehead like I could push the idea back out of my skull. Karl changed. He started forgetting details, misplacing files, talking in loops. At first it was just little things… inside jokes that didn’t land, forgetting his coffee order. But then…

Then he got paranoid.

Then he got quiet.

I exhale sharply.

Could this have reached him first? Could this have been what...? How long has this file existed?

Was it passed to him like a virus? Did he open it and trigger something we didn’t understand? And if he did – what does that mean for me?

I close the lid of the laptop like that’ll somehow stop it from seeping further into my head. But I still feel it there. Pressing behind my eyes.

Too many questions. No answers.
Just a file named YOU.

And I already opened it.

--

My steps are calculated, a clear destination in mind.

Some people glance my way. Most don’t.
Good.

Rereading the file won’t give me new answers. It’ll just sand down the edges of the ones I did have. Familiarity is a sedative. It dulls panic and theories.

I need my panic sharp.

I slap my ID card against the scanner with the impatience of someone pretending not to be in a rush. The scanner blinks.
The doors to the Cognitive Evaluation and Psychological Containment Wing slide open.

I step inside.

Act casual.
Don’t draw attention.
Just get the records. Get out.

My footsteps are soft, gliding like I’m afraid to disturb the silence. As if sound itself could betray me. I don’t make eye contact. Not even with the staff I recognize.

Karl’s test results. That’s all. In, out, done.

Until-

"[Name]?"

I jolt, spine straightening like a rod.

"Yes! Hi. Good morning. Or should I say noon? Good noon."
Smooth.

Dr. Laurier raises her eyebrows, politely puzzled. Her gaze drifts over me, subtle but thorough. The eye bags. The cigarette smoke. The same pants I’ve worn for four days. She doesn’t comment. She doesn’t have to.

Her hands rub together – dry palms, faintly chapped. “Did you decide on the amnestics after all?”

I blink, momentarily blank.
“Oh! That. No. I’m not taking them.”

She nods slowly, like she’s not sure whether that’s brave or self-destructive. We stand there in brittle silence, tension wedged awkwardly between us. She scratches her cheek, hesitant.

“Then why exactly are you here?”

How do I say this?

I’m here to look up my dead friend’s test results because the symptoms he had after a traumatic dive perfectly match a file that downloaded itself to my laptop and might be erasing my memories as we speak?

Right. That’ll go over well.

“I’ve just been wondering... about him. About why he did what he did.”

Dr. Laurier exhales, something like sympathy crossing her face. Her head tilts, eyes softening.

“We can’t look into the mind of someone who’s suicidal, [Name]. What Karl did,” she pauses, “is not your fault.”

My eyes narrow.

“I know you wanted to save him. But…” Her voice quiets, edged with grief. “That poor man was dead the moment his shaking body was pulled out of the water.”

I swallow hard. Because she didn’t have to word it that way. The person I spoke to in his last days – the man who laughed with me, who shared his deepest thoughts, that was Karl. It must have been him, because if not that means…

“May you show me his test results?” My voice is quieter than I expect, almost pleading. “Please, Doctor... I have to know.”

Dr. Laurier bites her lip, hesitating. Her eyes flicker with something similar to sympathy. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just watches me carefully.

“[Name], you know I can’t.” Her voice is soft, but firm. “You’re not authorized to access other patients’ records. Especially not... his.”

I nod, swallowing the bitter knot in my throat. She’s right. I’m not a psychologist. I don’t have the clearance. I should accept it. Move on. Accept that there’s nothing more than a tragic accident, and painful grief, nothing sinister hiding beneath.

…

Is what I would say, if I was a naive girl from a low budget horror movie.

The moment Dr. Laurier turns her back and walks into her office, I slip out of the room. My footsteps are quiet as I close the door behind me, holding my breath.

The archive is small and cramped, lined with metal shelves stacked with files. My eyes dart quickly, searching for the letter K.

Ka... Kaan... Kai... Kaila... Kamila...

“Karl,” I whisper, relief flooding me like I’ve found a treasure.

I pull out my phone and open the camera app. Methodically, I snap pictures of each record dated from the day of the incident up to his death.

Stealing files outright would be reckless and obvious. No, this is smarter, invisible. Mission “Mysterious File” has officially begun.

When skimming over the pages my gaze remains on one specific entry.

SITE-19 MEDICAL/PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION REPORT
PATIENT ID: 4421-K ("Karl Wilson")
TIME OF INTAKE: 2:47 pm
ASSOCIATED PROJECT: SCP-3000 Retrieval Operation Y909-A
HANDLER ON RECORD: Dr. Laurier
CLEARANCE LEVEL: 3

EVENT SUMMARY:
Subject returned prematurely from the designated submersion zone at 2:43 pm, approximately 6 minutes prior to the scheduled resurfacing window. Unauthorized ascent triggered automatic extraction protocol.

INITIAL CONDITION UPON EXTRACTION:

• Conscious but severely agitated
• Heart rate at 173 BPM, spiking intermittently over 200 BPM
• Erratic breathing, disoriented visual focus
• Repetitive vocalizations observed immediately upon surfacing

VERBATIM TRANSCRIPT (Partial):

"It's in my blood! Get it out, get it out – it burns!"
"I’m not a vessel… I’m not a vessel!"
"It looked at me. I didn’t think it could look at me. Why did it look at me?"

Subject appeared unable to maintain coherent conversation. When questioned, speech became circular or nonsensical. Attempts to ground subject using familiar objects and personnel were unsuccessful.

INTERVENTIONS ADMINISTERED:

• Class-B Amnestics (3.5mL IV)
• Lorazepam (2mg IM) for acute panic symptoms
• Subject sedated for evaluation and held under observation in Site-19 infirmary

NOTES FROM ATTENDING PSYCHIATRIST (Dr. Laurier):
Patient exhibited extreme psychological dissonance upon resurfacing, consistent with previously theorized Y909-induced cognitive contamination. However, severity of reaction surpasses established baseline parameters.

Though sedation reduced outward symptoms, patient awoke 3.5 hours later with incomplete memory recall. Denied hallucination or physical pain but retained emotional memory of fear and insisted on immediate re-assignment, which was denied.

Follow-up scheduled, but subject expressed strong aversion to water, tight environments, and requested to be removed from further SCP-3000 operations.

RECOMMENDED STATUS:

• Temporarily unfit for field duty
• Psychological observation: Level 2 monitoring
• Reassessment in 72 hours
• Flag for anomalous influence (pending further scans)

“[Name]? Are you in here?”

Mission abort. Mission abort!

I shove my phone into my pocket and plaster on the best innocent smile I can muster.

“Sorry, I got curious. Just looking around. I’m going now.” My voice is steady, but my heart pounds so loud it might give me away.

As I walk past her, I let out a shaky sigh of relief. First crime committed. More to come.

Just as I reach the door, Dr. Laurier’s voice pulls me back like a chain tightening around my ankle.

“Please, stop trying to undo what’s been done.”

I freeze, the card in my hand clenched tight, the words slicing through me.

Her eyes hold a desperate plea. A warning.

But I don’t look back. Raising my card to the scanner, the doors slide open before me. I step forward, and with a voice low but unyielding, I whisper to the empty hallway,

“Karl wasn’t suicidal.”

--

Percentages:

Dr. Laurier: 30%

She understands you, of course she does. It’s her job after all. But you are… difficult to cooperate with recently. Your behavior has changed these past days. All she can hope for is that you don’t blame yourself.

████: loading %

Good luck.

Chapter Text

We just reached 1000 hits OMG

Thank you all SO much for the nice comments, theories and support! I even got a comic offer not so long ago and AAA this all makes me so happy! (avenia_draws on discord if anyone is interested in collaborating with them!)

Let me be honest: this fanfic was supposed to be a promotion for my original work "Creatures in a fragile mind", also on this profile…

in other words: I did not prepare much more than 5 chapters.

but omg people eat this up. And I honestly am too. The researching and coming up with the characters and a story line is so fun and a great distraction from my not so perfect life.
I know this work is obviously not perfect but it isn’t supposed to be. I want to have fun, I want you guys to have fun!

And as a small thank you I thought I’d give y’all a push into the right direction (no spoilers, just things you maybe didn’t consider yet)

1. You think the monster is the shark. But what if the shark is just bait?
2. Dicrocoelium dendriticum
3. Amnestics steal memories, but a phobia clings like salt to a wound.

Lots of yapping but I’m too excited to stop. Now that I have a few active readers, GUYS GUYS GUYS, tell me (if you want) what SCPs I can mention in this story! Tell me who your favorite character is, tell me if you like the sarcastic yet serious tone, tell me if you want to romance Eloin or push him into the Bay of Bengal, tell me tell me tell me.

Feel free to yap, write comments if you want, I always read every single word, every message, and I eat it up like you eat up my story!

Ps: don’t actually eat my story, it’s still cooking

I LOVE AND APPRECIATE YOU ALL!!!

Chapter Text

What the hell is wrong with me?

Genuinely why am I reading the same document for the fifth time without any hope of stumbling upon something new. The same words are staring back at me through the screen yet I try to shape them into new thoughts. It’s one of those situations where you open the fridge multiple times and lower your expectations until you decide to grab a tomato and pour yourself a glass of orange juice.

I find neither of those two. No tomato. No orange juice.

Karls test results tell me nothing I already know. His paranoia got worse with every passing day, he started hearing things, seeing faces and finally put a bullet through his head. Between lots of fancy medication and psychological help are descriptions of his changing behavioral patterns. First he couldn’t sleep, then he scratched a spot on his arm to the point of skin coming off. A day later he had a breakdown and could see images of dead people on the walls.

The only thing that I hadn’t figured out yet is how he got infected. But there are two theories I developed.

One: Fluids. Like sneezing on somebody and getting them sick the next day. It’s a common method to spread a virus. And the ocean is one big pool of fluid. I don’t know what the trigger was but he must have been infested that way.

Or two, less likely: the Y-909 mutated. SCP-3000 produces tons of it down where it lives. We all consume it through our medication. If that was the case many people would show the same symptoms as Karl by now. So I don’t really believe in this theory.

Whatever YOU is, it spreads. The way the document is written suggests an SCP. One that has no containment attempts but also cannot be contained. Another mystery I haven’t solved so far.

To sum up what I know: YOU is an uncontained SCP that no one seems to know of. It spreads through fluid – probably – and will show symptoms such as paranoia before taking over an individual.

It feels like a solved puzzle. But in reality I am far from that.

Why does it sicken our staff now? We have been diving in the Bay for years. What exactly does it do? Other than the fact that it makes a person go insane there are no vital damages or visible wounds. How does it profit? A parasite needs a host to grow, to live. This thing had no host for years, maybe even centuries. If the result of it is killing the host, what does it even need?

And worst of all,

Where is it now?

Because Karl Wilson is dead. But YOU is still there.

He told me something a few days before he passed. Something about an ant and a parasite… but I don’t remember. Why can’t I remember such a simple information?

My eyes follow the cursor as I open search and type in the best description I can manage to come up with.

Zombie ant infected by parasite

To my surprise the first website that comes up has a similar title. I click on the blue headline with newfound interest and watch the text slowly appearing on my screen.

Dicrocoelium dendriticum

Much of what is presently known about Dicrocoelium dendriticum is the result of the work of the naturalist Wendell Krull. While D. dendriticum was discovered by Rudolphi in 1819 and D. hospes was discovered by Loos in 1899 bla bla bla…

My finger hovers over the mouse as I fight the urge to scroll past the boring Wikipedia introduction.

Dicrocoelium dendriticum along with Dicrocoelium hospes are part of a group of flukes that can infect the bile ducts of humans. Because the bodies of these parasites are long and narrow, infections are generally confined to the more distal parts of the bile ducts. As a result, most Dicrocoelium dendriticum infections of the biliary tree produce only mild symptoms.

I still don’t understand what he was trying to tell me. Does he mean that YOU is such a parasite? It doesn’t add up at all.

Due to the highly specific nature of this parasite's life cycle, human infections are generally rare. Ruminants such as cows and sheep are usually the definitive host, but other herbivorous mammals and humans can also serve as definitive hosts through the ingestion of infected ants. One definitive case involved a man who ingested bottled water contaminated by infected ants.

My phone is ringing but I ignore it. The call is cut short like the person on the other end changed their mind.

The first intermediate host, the terrestrial snail, consumes the feces, and becomes infected by the larval parasites.

The second intermediate host, an ant, uses the trail of snail slime as a source of moisture. The ant then swallows a cyst loaded with hundreds of juvenile lancet flukes. The parasites enter the gut and then drift through its body.

Most of the cercariae encyst in the haemocoel of the ant and mature into metacercariae, but one moves to the sub-esophageal ganglion. There, the fluke takes control of the ant's actions by manipulating these nerves.  As evening approaches and the air cools, the infected ant is drawn away from other members of the colony and upward to the top of a blade of grass. Once there, it clamps its mandibles onto the top of the blade and stays there until dawn.

Night after night, the ant goes back to the top of a blade of grass until a grazing animal comes along and eats the blade, ingesting the ant along with it, thus putting lancet flukes back inside their host. They live out their adult lives inside the animal, reproducing so that the cycle begins again.

Another call. But all my brain can process are three sentences.

The second intermediate host, an ant, uses the trail of snail slime as a source of moisture.

There, the fluke takes control of the ant's actions by manipulating these nerves.

The ant goes back to the top of a blade of grass until a grazing animal comes along and eats the blade.

The ringing dies out before starting once again.

The ant goes back… it is ingested along with the parasite…

Pick up your phone, [Name].

The ant dies…

Pick up your phone.

The parasite travels…

I snap out of my thoughts when a message alerts my ears. Right, the phone.

Four missed calls from Marie.

I sigh in relief it’s not an emergency meeting or something that would add stress to my situation.

“Hello?”

“Finally! I was about to pay you a visit.”

I blink before looking down at all the papers and printed out documents spread over my floor.

“Please don’t.”

There is shuffling on the other end of the call, followed by a sigh.

“I can’t find the paperwork right now but I got assigned to a new SCP, they said it will be my big shot at showing the company what I am capable of.”
I raise a brow, leaning back comfortably against my bedframe. “Aren’t you excited?”

“Nervous. What if I mess up?”

“Oh come on, Marie,” I grin to myself because she is for once not all bubbly but rather anxious about this job. “You are by far the most capable of the new recruits. I think you’ll be fine.”

Marie chuckles, “Yeah, I know but… you know?”

“Yeah, I know. It’s a big responsibility for a newcomer.”

My gaze flicks up to the laptop, a reflex that activates when I see something out of the corner of my vision.

Typing.

Something is typing.

The lighthearted conversation turns into tense silence on my end. I slowly crawl closer to the device, with the care of a predator trying not to scare off its prey.

… Tick Tock …

“I might have to give up SCP-049 for a while. I hope he’s not upset with me…”

A hum leaves my throat despite the mental absence.

… die Uhr tickt… tick tock tick tock…

A language I don’t speak. Something European – Dutch or German maybe?

“Can you take him over again? Wait, no, I forgot you’re still working with Eloin. Shit, I don’t know what to do with him.”
I stare at the strange words filling the screen like I’m in trance. “I’ll handle it.”

“You will?”

“Yeah, I always do.”

… tick tock tick tock …

“[Name]? Are you sure you’re okay? You sound distant.”

…ticktockticktockticktockticktockticktockticktockticktockticktockticktock…

I hesitantly open a new tab and search for a translator. My cursor drags across the words before copying them into the blank box.

‘The clock is ticking’

“I’m… I don’t have time...”

“What?”

I don’t have time.

 -

With defeat my eyes settle deep into the empty tray that used to hold my will to keep going.

Fries. The fries are gone.

“Are ya gonna keep starin’ or eat something?” The lady behind the counter crosses her arms. Her hair is tied up into a messy ponytail, lips curved into a scowl. From my position she looks like a scolding mother. And I let her stay in that role by shrugging and walking past.

There’s no dive scheduled, but no one has told me what we’re actually doing instead. Whatever it is, it won’t be pleasant.

I sit alone at my favorite table of the cafeteria, absently stirring lukewarm tea in silent hope it will turn into alcohol to numb my senses. Karl’s usual seat across from me remains untouched. The chair’s slightly crooked, like he just left to grab a napkin.

But he’s not coming back.
I glance away before I can spiral.

“Hey, working machine,” Marie drops her tray onto the table, sliding into the seat opposite of me with zero grace. “Don’t give me that haunted doll attitude this early into the shift.”

I give her a puzzled look. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Didn’t have to. Your depression has a radius.” She chews the end of a straw in a way someone who is bored at a beach would, not a containment site.

Then, as casually as someone commenting on the weather,
“I hope I don’t have to hand 049 over. He’ll not be used to the new pattern.”

That snaps me out of it. Lunch conversations with Marie seem to flow naturally.

“I heard he made you paper flowers during your last interview.”

Marie sighs, all dreamy and fluttery-eyed. “Yeah. What a man.”

My eyebrow almost lifts by itself.

“But,” she adds dramatically, placing a hand over her heart similar to a Shakespeare reference, “I have to stay professional. This job is my big opportunity to show the Foundation my potential. Our love may be forbidden, but treasure it still!”

I blink at her.

“A monster… and a human. It could never be,” she continues, voice low and tragic, “so we must exchange in the scent of lavender and paper flowers.”

I stare at her. She stares back with complete commitment.

Until my eyes manage to drop and we go back to eating. “Whatever keeps you sane in this place.”

Marie’s grin grows wider, eyes gleaming like she is about to drop a bomb.

“And holding hands with a Keter-class keeps you sane?”

I spit out a mouthful of crumbs, coughing until I manage, “Excuse me?”

She leans in, lowering her voice for dramatic tension.
“Gossip spreads like a virus when over three hundred staff members get bored.”

I glance around the cafeteria. Someone near the vending machines just stares at us.

“The reality traveling only works for me when I’m touching him,” I say quietly, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.

We lock eyes for a beat – awkward and too honest. Marie’s smirk says exactly what I suspect she is thinking.

“Hands! As in holding hands, Marie!” I clarify, waving my fork like a tiny weapon.

“You could just hold onto his shoulder,” she says, casually dismissive.

Shit. She’s right.

“He implied it and I accepted. So what? I’m only doing this for the sake of our universe. Yes, I might save the existence of all the people in this room!” My voice unintentionally carries farther than I want. I suddenly realize I’ve drawn the attention of half the cafeteria.

Marie just shrugs and grins.
“Whatever keeps you sane in this place, [Name].”

-

I sigh as I step into the gym, already peeling off my jacket to reveal a sports bra and shorts. The cool underground air prickles my skin, but I shrug it off.
“Aren’t you cold?” my trainer asks, eyebrows knitting in concern.
I shake my head. “Not too affected by it. Got used to the underground temperature.”
He nods, apparently satisfied with the answer, and hands me today’s schedule.
“Today, we just test your limits. Based on that, I’ll design a workout routine for you. Nothing special, but if you aren’t fit enough for the deep dive, you’ll just be a pain in the ass.”

Thanks a lot. I resist the urge to glare.

Curious, my eyes wander. “What about Eloin?”

He gives me a confused expression, clearly not following. “Who?”
I sigh again, frustrated by the lack of recognition. “Null Point.”

Still no response.

“Scp-8707,” I add, trying to jog his memory.
Recognition flickers in his eyes. “Oh, that guy. Yeah, he’s joining in a few minutes. We don’t want to do this thing twice, so you’ll do it together.”

I give him a tight smile and stroll toward a quiet corner, placing my stuff aside and taking in the awkward moment before the warm-up.

Seriously, I hate stretching in front of other people. My body is too tense under observation to fully relax and prepare for exercising. The second I feel eyes on me I turn into a stiff, undercooked noodle pretending to be athletic. But I don’t really have a choice here.

With the grace of a worm, I take a big step with my left foot and lower myself down into a half split. Or at least that’s what I think you do to loosen up. There's a dull sting in my thigh. I hold it. Breathe through it. Repeat the process.

The floor is colder than expected, biting through the thin gym mat. It smells faintly of sweat and antiseptic. Somewhere in the back, someone drops a dumbbell. The echo bounces off the walls like a gunshot, and I flinch.

Repeating the stretch until I’m bored of it, I sneak glances in the direction of the gym’s entrance. The big metal door stares back. Still closed.

Whenever I catch myself actively waiting for a specific someone, I shake my head and force myself into the next stretch. I’m not waiting as in... waiting for him. More like wanting this to be over. Yeah. I just hope Eloin arrives soon so this day can be done. Crossed off. Burned and buried.

I bet he’s the type of person to make fun of people during sports. Something along the lines of “Oh, you can only do four push-ups? You’re such a weakling,” or “I just ran two miles without breaking a sweat, what do you mean you’re already exhausted?”

Ugh. I can't wait for the taunting. The smugness. He’s so... he’s not even cool. At least be cool if you're gonna act that way. Jeez.

"[Name], are you done with staring at the door?"

My head snaps around a little too fast and I feel a muscle twinge in protest, flaring hot like a pulled rubber band.

"Sorry," I mumble, stretching my neck pretending that’ll fix it. "I was lost in thought."

The man just hums, clearly disinterested and hoping I won’t try to explain what exactly I was thinking about.

“I just wanted to inform you that we need some blood samples from you. See it as a form of health check.”

Needles. Totally cool with me. Except for the deep, existential discomfort of something sharp piercing my skin… I’m fine. Really.

“I’ll tell you when I have time.”

Our conversation is cut short by the sound of the door smashing open suggesting someone forgot how handles work.

Of course. Beautiful entrance as always: Eloin.

Not in a tight diving suit this time. Instead, he’s wearing close-to-human clothes. Well, Foundation-regulated close-to-human. The SCP-designed uniform clings to his frame like it was custom-built – black compression shirt, simple black pants. He looks as if he walked out of a combat simulation promo video.

I hate to admit that it suits him.

Worse, he seems to know it suits him.

He doesn’t even walk like a normal person. He stalks in with the body language of a person that is about to dramatically throw a knife at a training dummy and say something cryptic about fate. His gaze sweeps the gym, checking for threats or maybe just checking if I’m already here.

I turn back to my warm-up and pretend I wasn’t watching the door. Or him. Or the way the black sleeves cling to his arms.

No wait, why would I think that?

Ignoring the task at hand for as long as humanly possible, I finally drag myself to the small gathering of people involved with today's schedule. A few other staff members stand there with clipboards, none of them looking nearly as miserable as I feel.

"Will you two please stand on a treadmill?" our instructor says, not even bothering to make it sound like a request.

I straighten my back, trying to look ready and very not about to humiliate myself. Maybe if I breathe evenly and channel my inner military documentary narrator, I’ll convince someone that I know what I’m doing.

Eloin steps up beside me, far too relaxed for someone wearing the government-issue equivalent of a superhero costume.

"First time?" he grins, eyes glinting with that smug satisfaction only people who’ve already passed this test possess.

I shoot him a look so dry it could salt the earth.

"Says the Soppressata-looking emo boy."

He actually whistles. “That’s… incredibly specific.”

“Take it as a compliment.”

Emo boy chuckles, hands loosely at his sides, not even attempting to hide how amused he is.

"So you did check me out?" he adds, leaning slightly closer. “I was starting to think I hallucinated. Y’know, part of my rich and unstable psychological profile.”

This day sucks.

I roll my eyes so hard it nearly resets my brain. “Don’t flatter yourself. I was looking at your uniform.”

“Sure, sure,” he says, stepping onto the treadmill with ridiculous ease. “Happens all the time. One second you’re looking at someone’s government-regulated combat fit, the next you’re writing their name on your clipboard with little hearts.”

“Just focus,” I mutter, adjusting my position. “Or fall. That’d be fine, too.”

His smirk widens. “Oh? Cheering for my downfall already? That’s hot.”

I’m going to push him off this thing.

"Find your pace and keep it up as long as you can. A timer will be set automatically."

I nod, dragging a calming breath in through my nose before tapping through the treadmill’s settings. Something in the range of “jogging-but-not-dying” feels right. No one says anything, no judgment from the clipboard army. Good. That’s a small win I’ll take.

The timer starts ticking up. One minute. Easy.

The rhythm settles into something almost… meditative. My legs fall into sync with the soft beat of some low-volume background music. The lighting is dim enough not to sting my eyes, and for the first time today, I don’t feel cold. It’s… weirdly okay. Almost peaceful.

Until I glance over.

Eloin is sprinting.

Like – full-on, calves flexing, elbows slicing through air, making-his-ancestors-proud sprinting.

I nearly trip just watching him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I bark, managing to shape the words between breaths without throwing off my pace.

He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t have to. His face is locked in, but somehow he still finds the breath to speak.

“Running. At my pace.”

I blink at him. “Yeah, I can see that. But why are you trying to break Olympic records in an underground trauma gym?”

He laughs, more of a sharp exhale, but smug all the same. “You tend to forget I’m not human, little lab lady.”

My jaw clenches.

“Oh, right, I forgot,” I say through my teeth. “You’re a divine entity with titanium lungs and cool trauma. My bad.”

He grins at that. Still not looking at me. Still sprinting like a man being chased by existential dread.

I return my focus to my own treadmill. The machine hums steadily beneath me, a small mercy against the chaos of this interaction. I try to match my breath to the beat again, ignoring how much louder his footsteps are than mine. This feels strangely similar to being paired with a racehorse while you’re just trying to survive gym class.

After a long moment, he speaks again.

“Didn’t peg you as someone who’d let me win.”

I snort. “Who said you’re winning?”

“You’re running at a grandma pace.”

“Yeah, and she’s a very fit grandma, okay?”

Eloin lets out another laugh – this one more genuine, despite the sweat starting to bead on his forehead.

The instructor glances over and scribbles something on his tablet.

I swear to God if he’s noting our banter instead of my form I’m going to fake an injury.

...

After a solid 30 minutes, my legs start pleading for mercy. Yes, I do not train often. Yes, I will absolutely collapse if I try to pretend otherwise. Leave me alone.

I push through the protest in my muscles, keeping my back straight and pretending I'm still in control. At 45 minutes, I finally let myself hit the stop button. The treadmill slows down to a halt, knowing that I have suffered enough.

Next to me, the goddamn roadrunner just keeps going – gliding across the treadmill with that infuriating consistency, panting like a husky on a summer day.

“Are you gonna fetch the stick soon?” I ask, pitching my voice into a faux-sweet baby tone, imagining I’m talking to a dog.

No reaction. He’s laser-focused now, drenched in sweat, breath loud and steady – an engine that’s never known mercy. Okay. Guess he can’t fetch the stick cause it’s stuck up his ass.

Exactly at the 60-minute mark, he hops off like this was his warmup. Not even winded.

To make my day even worse, he plops down right next to me, close enough to share air and ruin my aura of post-workout peace. He’s gulping down water, lacking any sort of grace.

“Your breathing was irritating me,” I mutter, wiping sweat off my forehead with a towel. The insult is intentional. Earned.

He hums without missing a beat, finishing the bottle and placing it between us. “Because I actually exercised instead of taking a walk in the park.”

Oh this smug little…

“I just hate,” he continues, looking around, “how they thought to remove every single clock in here before I came in.”

My eyes start to scan the room the moment he mentions it.

No wall clocks. No digital timers. Nothing on the treadmills. No phones, no tablets. No sense of anything.

“The last thing I need today,” I say dryly, head tipping back against the wall, “is to watch you crash over the concept of time.”

“You say that like it hasn’t happened already.”

I crack a smile. “Not yet. But I’m patient.”

We sit there for a few minutes, watching as the next test is prepared. Pull ups.

I groan and flop sideways like a collapsing cardboard box. “This was supposed to be a basic fitness test.”

“You survived. Barely. That’s something.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Anytime, little lab lady.”

If I had the strength, I’d throw the water bottle at his head.

--

Percentages:

Marie: 72% (+2%)

You might not notice but whenever she notices you spacing out she distracts you. You’ve already done so much, now it’s her turn to return the support.

Also she is convinced you and Eloin have smooched before.

Eloin: 43% (+7%)

He doesn’t understand how you do it. But every time he leaves his chamber he looks for you. In every room, every hallway, every face. Not in a desperate way, he doesn’t need you. He doesn’t need anyone. But… still, its nice to recognize your eyes already staring back at him in a crowded room.