Chapter Text
I awake confused. I hear soft footsteps and the buzz of electronics. I am almost blinded when I open my eyes too fast.
I see rows of men lie still on beds in various states of injury beside and across from me, all unconscious, most unresponsive. Medical personnel walk about chaotically. The air is stale, and the chemical stench burns my nose.
I am inside a tent. A field hospital, I recognize.
Clean, white, sterile. The clothing of the people around me and the nurses’ equipment tells me I am in the early twenty-first century. I feel relieved. The beeps and clicks of digital communications sound like music. Finally, back to the comforts of modern life.
Huh? Am I forgetting something?
I startle when a doctorly man sits on a collapsible chair beside me. He must have seen me up and moving, unlike the other patients. He wears plain clothing overlaid with some form of scrubs and a pair of blocky glasses. There is a logo on his breast that reads: ‘Sir Charles Parker General Hospital’ . It is not a name I recognize.
“You’re awake,” He has a mild surprise in his voice. “That’s good. Well, not to be alarmed but there has been an incident.”
“What do you mean?” I look slowly around the tent once more. I fail to scan for more pieces of evidence. All I gather is that there has been some disaster, natural or otherwise, and I seem to be a beneficiary of the relief efforts. Before that, I had been doing something else. But what?
“A thunderstorm. It started a few kilometers away from the city. It wasn’t anything to be alarmed about, but then it created a tornado. Ravaged half of Knoxville. Only let up a couple of hours ago.” It takes a moment for his words to reach me. There is pity in his eyes.
I struggle to respond in a decent manner. Thoughts form in my mind but the words do not quite click . As if they were covered in a slippery, gunky oil.
My brain lagging so much irritates me.
“... I have no memory of that.” I finally say.
Had I hit my head? That would explain why I do not remember anything about a tornado. Or a storm. It did not feel as if I had a concussion or anything of the sort. Though my memories are all in a tangled mess. I’ve just woke up and I cannot recall much of anything.
The mention of Knoxville triggers a pang of recognition in me. I recognize it as the name of the city I am currently in. My city. How did I get here from... wherever I was before? I am certain I came from somewhere else.
This is not my only hometown. I did not know why, but I knew it is true down to my bones. Deeper, even.
“We found you unconscious. You seemed to have hit your head quite hard.” Ah, that could explain it... But I am not usually the sort of person to be so careless, and I could not have tripped, so something must have befallen me.
Surely, I took some measure of precaution from the incoming tornado? It isn’t as if I was entirely unaware. There must have been a siren or a warning if relief efforts could be deployed so quickly.
My memory becomes a tad clearer, and I recall objects flying around sporadically.
Odd. “Where did you find me?”
“You’ll have to ask one of the rescue teams, but most of the patients here were under rubble from what I understand.” All right then. Still, I have a seed of doubt in my mind.
Aren’t I remarkably healthy for having the building collapse on top of me? I would expect grave wounds, or at least more bruising, if that were the case. Bones broken, muscles twisted, organs bludgeoned. There is not even a break in my smooth skin.
Fancifully, I imagine a magical barrier erecting to intercept falling debris. Oddly, it felt more like a nostalgic memory than a dream.
“And I survived that?” He shrugs.
Maybe, I was simply incredibly fortunate. Doubtful, considering my luck. Something is out to get me, something powerful, something irrational. Images of war, death, light, and a berserker flash in my mind. Memories of flying high above trenches, rifle in hand and comrades by my side, come flooding back.
I remember fighting armies of men in the skies, the dirt, the sand, and the snow.
I remember dying, to an American-made super weapon, and before that to a speeding Japanese bullet train.
I remember seeing that bastard’s face, as it sent me to my next life.
The last time Being X reincarnated me, I became a little girl forced into an alternate version of World War One with magic added on top. What would it put me through this time? I dread the thought of another such meat grinder.
One war was harrowing enough and pushed me to my limits. A losing war is demoralizing for everyone including myself, no matter how much I played the zealous patriot. The Empire could only wait for the spears of every other nation to pierce. I never bowed down to it, of course, but I know I was teetering on the edge.
Being X, cursed be its name, would only escalate from there. I would be the recipient of every torment and torture it could think up in that deranged mind. Maybe, it would not even be a war this time but a horrid plague. A horde of monsters. An alien invasion. I wouldn’t put anything past it .
I despair when I realize. Will I be reborn after I die this time, too?
The man makes a contemplative face. It is dutifully hidden under layers of professionalism, but he is clearly disturbed. “What do you remember?”
Obviously, I could not reveal my memories of my past life to him. At best, he would dismiss me as hysterical. At worst, I would be thrown in the looney bin for the rest of this life.
No, I would act as closely to what I had been before and hopefully avoid suspicion. That being, someone completely unaware of their previous lives. I was thankful that I gained memories of my third life along with that of my second and first.
“I remember studying for a test — statistics. In the study hall.” Thinking back, the material was laughably simple. The person I used to be struggled on regression analysis. Am I a simpleton in this life?
“I was reviewing notes when things just... started flying across the room. Everything not bolted down and-...
“And some that were,” I say, and my eyes widen.
Wait, isn’t that odd? Tornadoes grip and fling objects, sure, but the walls should have crumbled before the wind could reach them. It is not as if wind could take hold of cups and lamps without ever touching them.
They are not members of a certain order of monks with laser-swords.
“Had there been a warning before it came?” Air raid sirens, radio transmissions, phone notifications, anything.
“... No, there wasn’t enough time.” The man scans me. He starts to shift in his seat as I think.
A natural disaster of such size as to rip apart anchored structures. One that formed so quick as to evade precautions, injured dozens of civilians, possibly killed a few, and I was unfortunate enough to be in its way.
You’ve got to be kidding me! I almost scream out. The story sounds plausible at first, but there is something niggling in my mind about it. I remember seeing wispy, smoky forms.
Was it not a tornado? What else could it be then? A gas leak? Hallucination? No, perhaps a ghost? That would explain how the effect bypassed the study hall’s walls, at least for a little while.
Such supernatural explanations would normally never occur to a rational person like me, but I find myself increasingly convinced. With a malicious entity like Being X watching over me, I would not be surprised if a museum statue magically came to life to kill me.
But, as far as I know, this world has no magic. There are no spells, formulae, or operations orbs as in my second life as an aerial mage. This Earth is supposed to be perfectly mundane and normal.
But would Being X send me to a normal, mundane world? Of course not.
I feel a sharp sting in my arm. It came from the direction of the man the last I had seen him. I stare down at shock. A syringe. My arms are too sluggish to fight back. My vision blurs.
* * *
The man still sits beside me as the world comes back into focus. The other patients are still in their beds. By the lighting, some time has passed. He waits a while and takes a small breath. "Hello, not to alarm you but there has been an incident.”
I try to get up. My body responds to my commands slowly, and with a groan. “What did you put in me?” My mouth moves weakly. He looks surprised.
“What?”
“The syringe.” I try to put on my best intimidating stare. Since I am physically indisposed now, confrontation would end badly for me if things went south. However, I still needed to be sure I had not been injected with poison or something of the like.
I jerk my chin to my arm at the injection area.
He seems uncomprehending for a moment — frozen in fear — before he gestures behind me. I grimace as I feel a familiar sharp sting on my neck. I glare at his hands and notice them empty.
Verdammt!
* * *
“Before we start, we want you to confirm our information. What is your name?” a man in a doctor’s jacket with an ID card pinned on front speaks. A recording device sits at the side of our desk. I nod.
“Tanya Phoenix Derrick-Ganz.” I state my name in a bland, utilitarian room. Mellow lights are fixed in the ceiling. It is clean enough, but there is noticeable grime in each of the corners. A one-way mirror replaces one of the walls.
“Please give a summary on what you think happened, Ms. Derrick-Ganz. Just for th’ record.” He has a thicker accent than I do. Without this life’s experience in the language, I would be terribly confused.
It rankles me; at least I try to clamp down on it. It almost feels as if those hours practicing alone at night weren’t worth a damn.
“It was the night of November 1st, 2022. At 19:35, Eastern Standard Time —” A bit of preamble never hurts, and it is always important to give the most complete information possible in a report.
“— An anomalous explosion occurred within the city of Knoxville, Tennessee. The explosion’s origin is unknown, but the ritual to summon it was performed within Person of Interest 2607’s known area of operations.”
That would be my brother’s apartment. I would have never guessed he was a cultist. ‘Phoenix’ wouldn’t have either. Though, searching her memories, he was always the sort to stay in dark rooms researching the magic and old gods.
Is this a case of hindsight being 20/20 or is it more proof Phoenix — who inhabited this body before me — was a dullard?
Everyone thought it wasn’t enough to make a fuss about and didn’t bother him. ‘He had peculiar interests’ was all. Besides, he wasn’t falling behind on his studies due to it or becoming particularly antisocial. It was just another quirk.
“The incident released intangible entities —” ghosts, “— that wreaked havoc across the city very quickly.” I take a break to think. The doctor on the other side has heard it all before, I am sure.
Personally, I think it was a case of prolonged chuunibyou syndrome. It is odd for someone not to grow out of it by adulthood, but it isn’t exactly unheard of. It was only pure dumb luck that he managed to stumble across instructions for an actual working occult ritual.
The doctor keeps nodding intermittently as I speak. His eyes are stiff and still with a tense hand glued to his notepad. Clearly cognizant but uncaring. A tad unprofessional for my tastes, but I am in no position to judge.
“It is believed that Person of Interest 2607 performed an occult ritual to summon spirits for the purpose of contacting his ‘past lives.’ He had no previous anomalous connection and was not documented as a Person of Interest before this incident.”
Some rage slips into my voice. The circumstances of the incident is anger-inducing for an experienced mage like me.
That idiot. What idiot would try ancient magic they learned off a post on the internet? What idiot would post that in the first place?
Hadn’t they ever heard of spell security? It was standard practice in the Empire to keep newly made spell formulae secret, especially those with military applications. There is no reason it would not be the same in this world.
Gamers Against Weed. What a stupid name. May a DDoS strike you down.
At least he couldn’t conjure up another disaster in the heart of the city since he’s dead and all. Small mercies.
“It remained active for around 15 minutes. A Foundation team was alerted and sent to contain it, but they had arrived too late. The event had already ceased, with no sign of reoccurrence. They could only secure the area and rescue the survivors.”
That had surprised me when I first heard about it. Even with my perfect recall of Phoenix’s memories, I had never heard of any organizations made to deal with the supernatural. Both of us would relegate the idea to the fiction of shows and movies. It is just so patently absurd as to be laughable.
Apparently, that is entirely on purpose.
Anomalies are things, people, or events that didn’t make sense, violations of science and physics. The SCP Foundation dispatches agents to secure these anomalies, contain their effects, and protect the public from them. Additionally, they staff legions of doctors, scientists, and researchers to understand how to keep humanity safe from them.
“All witnesses were treated with Class A amnestics according to standard field protocol. It awoke during the cleanup afterward.”
The Foundation did all of this in the shadows, away from the public eye. With the approval of every major government in the world. To 'maintain the veil’ and prevent panic in the masses. Drugs to make them forget (amnestics) would be administered to anyone that saw something out of the ordinary.
I could despair. It's difficult for a rational being like me to understand the veil. To my mind, there is no purpose to keeping the anomalous secret. ‘Panic’ is a paltry thing to keep secrets for. People would adapt quickly, as we always have. All it does is produce ignorance.
Ignorance may be bliss, but bliss is meaningless without understanding.
Just thinking of the technological and economic advancements society could create with knowledge of the anomalous fills me with a sense of admiration for the free market. What wondrous commodities could be produced with anomalous methods?
Even if anomalous goods prove unstable or unpredictable, industries producing tools to combat the anomalous would benefit everyone just as well.
I am familiar with the capabilities of magic in the economy. Mages with our computation orbs advanced technology by decades. This only after the orb itself was invented a couple dozen years before. There is no telling what businesses might be possible with more sophisticated orbs and formulae.
It was unfortunately chiefly used in the wasteful follies of war, expediting its development, but so was the radar and the computer. The potential of magical industry was only beginning in my second life during the Great War while it flounders in this life during a modern era.
This world is exactly what I feared: a playground of the supernatural. It is all humanity can do to keep the monsters at bay in paper cages, hoping tomorrow that they won’t break out. And right under my new body’s nose, I am thrust headfirst into dangers only a madman could think of. I know nothing of what I am to face or how to combat them.
I would have to correct that immediately.
“I spoke to a doctor, and it was discovered that I was resistant to amnestic treatment. Following more testing, it seemed I was entirely immune to standard amnestics.” That is a polite way of saying they strapped me to a gurney and pumped me full of every type of forgetting drug they had .
“Then I was transferred to a holding within the nearby Site-159 and put under observation. There is some suspicion that my immunity is anomalous in nature. I am to be kept in confinement and interviewed periodically by you, Dr. McDonald.”
The man, Dr. McDonald, jumps in his chair across the desk, as if he had been waiting for a cue.
“And that brings us t’ now. In our months of observation, you’ve shown remarkable cooperation with the Foundation. Furthermore, you’ve excelled in the psychological evaluations and expressed int’rest in working closer with our organization.”
He is laying it on thick, but I do really want to find a place in the Foundation. They possess a large repository of knowledge and expertise in the anomalous world. Other anomalous organizations exist, but the best in esoteric supernatural research flock to the Foundation like country bumpkins to the big city.
“Yer anomalous characteristics are deemed insignificant to professional duties. Plus, a reason for your disappearance from normal life is easy to make. Which is why the Personnel Department gives the go-ahead to offer you a job at the Finance Department here at Site-159.”
If anyone had the resources to protect me in this world of gods and monsters, it is them. The Foundation is exactly what I need to combat the new threats to my life. Nothing could get the jump on me, should I do the reading and make the connections. I would be a fool to give up such an opportunity.
Besides, it’s the rear-line posting I’d dreamt of in my second life. A career away from the mud and fighting, sipping coffee and making spreadsheets. No more trenches. No more late-night operations. No more dangerous dogfights.
A smile threatens to split my face in half. I could almost cry.
* * *
I do not much enjoy being an assistant again. The main point of working hard is to get promoted stop having to do degrading manual labor. At least, not for a pittance.
Alas, a comfortable, mid-level desk job is not in the cards for little old me, freshly dropped out of college and inexperienced as they think I am. I was not expecting anything so grand anyway.
No, I am in for a grand whirlwind of office busywork and menial chores. If I were charitable, I would call it ‘a humbling experience.’ That would not even be a lie; my pride feels as if it is being crushed into a little ball.
There is the typical fetching of coffees, donuts, and pens. And then there was the setting up of meetings, clearing of schedules, and ferrying of papers. My legs were sore every morning because of that.
This body isn’t as physically fit as my previous ones. I try to remedy that with the Foundation recommended training regimen, but it hasn’t been enough time to be all that effective.
If it seems like my coworkers simply shunt off anything they do not want to do to me, it is because they do.
I am not one of those types that detest an office environment. On the contrary, I find the orderly work of each employee progressing through their tasks is comforting.
There is a great deal of calm in the space between clacking of keys and ringing of phones.
Certainly, it is better than the front. Of any theatre.
I would trade trenches for cubicles any day.
What really gets to me is shadowing my fellow employees. Admittedly, I might have needed the refresher on peacetime office dynamics, but I could only watch so many forms get filled or calls get made before it got redundant.
I also must bite my tongue dozens of times at misfiling, misspeaking, and all the other mistakes lest I gain a poor reputation. It is almost bubbling up inside of me.
They make a dozen errors every other second, I swear. My precise corporate spirit is practically shuddering with their every breath!
As it is, I tolerate it.
I had been a human resources manager in my first life. A veteran military commander in my second. Neither of those positions were handed to me on a silver platter. I scratched, bled, and clawed for them. From the bottom.
I am an old hand at withstanding the frustrating intricacies of low-level work to be promoted up to something higher. Momentary displeasure and disrespect is not something to make a fuss over.
A man a few cubicles away from me stops clicking and typing at his computer. He turns to the side and begins to talk through the wall.
“Hey, Eric, do you what happened to Johnson?”
Usually, I abhor office gossip. It is an unproductive waste of time, and I know for a fact that these two are behind on their work. If you want to run your mouth to a friend, do it on your own time, not the company’s!
This instance is an extraordinary circumstance, however.
“Same as always, man. A week ago, he went on a mission to bag a SCiP and didn’t come back.” The man next to him, Eric Henshaw, rolls back in his office chair too enthusiastically. He stares through one of the windows at overcast sky.
“I-Yeah, I know that . I mean — what killed him?”
“How the hell would I know that?”
“C’mon... You’re in with the containment teams, ain’t ya? They’ve gotta have told you something.”
Eric sighs. “Fine, I’ll tell ya.” It’s odd that he doesn’t stop to realize how the entire site is bugged. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a thousand listening devices in every building in the country.
“Grace was on mission with Johnson. They were tracking down some sort of sage. Y’know, old, Tibetan mystic type shit. SCiP ran and Johnson tried to stop him, got turned inside-out. They’re still searching for it in the Himalayas. Any more classified material you’d like to know?”
“... No. I think I’m fine... I should get back to work.”
Since my detainment by the SCP Foundation and subsequent employment, I fear for my life more than I did in the Rhine!
It would be one thing if they are just baseless rumors. Juvenile superstition worthy of the lowest playgrounds.
It is another thing that they are actually plausible .
Everything I have come to learn about the anomalous world underneath the veil supports their claims. Dimensional travel, time travel, sentient ideas, magic, and violations of all reason.
Even with my Level One clearance, I stumble upon baffling information inside SCP files, reports, and logs administration deems ‘too unimportant’ to restrict access to within the sites.
If one reads between the lines, even low-level documentation reveals startling truths about an organization. Especially to someone as clueless about the anomalous as I.
Beyond that, the rumor mill is rich with stories that beggar belief. ‘Tales to excite the imagination,’ as Paula would call it. What garbage. As if piling possible threats upon me without end is in any way exciting .
How am I supposed to go about my business when anomalies await in every shadow?
And it isn’t as if these simply pass under the watchful eyes of the informational security personnel, either. RAISA security is top-grade, not to mention their ‘surveillance division.’
What I know is just the tip of the iceberg. There is more under the surface than I can uncover.
The thought makes me shudder a little.
You would think that I would be used to such phenomena by now, but that is not the case. Desensitization comes from repeated exposure to the same or similar stimulus over a period of time. Naturally, things like blood, guts, and paperwork got old after a while.
This, however, is a barrage of entirely different stimuli that make me want to curse at the sky. It is one thing to be ripped to shreds by machine gun fire; it is another thing entirely to be disassembled by an anomaly.
Still, I cannot simply dwell on my misfortune. I would do what I have always done and find a way to survive. I will do everything I can to gain some measure of protection against these anomalies.
That is the reason why I had been putting out feelers through my limited contacts for enrollment into some of the research department’s seminars.
Site-159 is not the most technically or academically gifted Foundation site, but there should still be some books and training for the site’s researchers. How else would they know how to contain SCPs?
Actually, I should check with Alex if there is anything here about magic. This world’s ‘thaumaturgy’ seems close to what I had in my second life. I should see if I can recreate my aerial mage formulae.
A protective shell sounds wonderful about now. Artillery wouldn’t be remiss either.
I just need to be careful about the analgesic formula. I need my mind clear.
If that is not possible, I even looked around for reassignment opportunities. Though it pains me to give up my hard-won desk job, security is paramount.
I would not be infected by some esoteric disease or mauled by eldritch horrors if I could help it. It is best to avoid anything remotely related to them.
In order to avoid them, I must learn about them. Discover how to deal with anomalies should I encounter them; and I had no doubt that it would.
An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure after all.
* * *
Klaxons blare painfully loud and bathe the office in deep red light. The other workers stiffen and look around, feeding the nervous air. Eric makes a commotion when he falls back on his chair.
I flinch.
“Attention! Multiple SCPs have breached containment! Please remain calm and move to a safe area!” That repeats across the intercom.
“We gotta get out of here!”
All of us are expedient and raring to pass through the doors into the corridor. It’s the quickest route to the safe room from our location.
Everyone panics. No one quite screams, but it is a close thing. It takes minutes of reassurance and no small number of threats to keep the exit from becoming congested.
That is all too annoying. Seriously, can no one keep their cool? I know I shouldn’t expect much from civilians but...
Even the security is tense.
They are acting like greenhorns that haven’t so much as held a gun. And they are not even in the face of the enemy.
At least be bombarded by artillery first before you start making a fuss!
Speaking of artillery, I wonder if site security will be enough to recontain all the escaped anomalies. Maybe they will send one of those Mobile Task Forces to deal with it.
Of course, that would require a severe containment breach of high-threat anomalies, so I can’t count on it. Even if they did show up, it would only mean the situation is worse than I thought.
The security manages to mollify the mob by waving around their rifles. It’s crude and barbaric, but it works. Sometimes, a situation calls for a quick solution over a good one.
I had to do the same thing a couple times. Green soldiers can’t be counted on not to flee in face of the enemy. My respect for the officers guiding our evacuation grows.
When people say, ‘There is a time and a place for everything,’ they do not have a Foundation security breach in mind. You can scarcely find anyone sane that could conceive of a situation where mass discharge of the SCP containment cells is beneficial.
Anomalies are the fear of the unknown made manifest and kept inside weak stone. No one knows what they can do; half the time, they themselves don’t know what they can do.
That is why site security staff is so valuable. Finding meat shields willing to charge headfirst into fire is hard enough, let alone finding one willing to charge anomalies.
Just as I think that, I realize a critical mistake. I am alone; neither the crowd nor the guards are anywhere in sight.
I stare uncomprehendingly at a wall inscribed with ‘Heavy Containment — Level Two, Sector B.’
I am baffled.
My legs move before I my brain does.
What the hell? Why am I in Heavy Containment? I’m supposed to be in Administration, near the top floors!
I must have been teleported. Scattering objects and chittering noises are everywhere. The halls are circuitous and confusing. I almost feel like I’m playing American football with how many twists and turns I make.
In my disorientation, I find a guard slumped against the wall and covered with blood. He is in full security gear and his hands rest near a standard-issue MP7 submachine gun with bullet holes opposite to him.
I grab his gun and a magazine off his harness without a second thought. It’s not he’ll need it as a corpse anyway.
There is a screech from distressingly close behind me, followed by a harsh headache. I waste no time and start running.
While running, I take periodic glances at my new gun. It seems to be moderately beaten-up, with dings and scratches along the larger surfaces. I switch out the current magazine for the new one, just to be sure it is fully loaded.
I cannot take the chance that there were only a few bullets left, nor could I check if it was at all chambered while on the run. That is too great a risk.
The creature behind me is clearly not anything to risk my life with unless absolutely necessary.
My head still hurts. Like its beating against the walls of my skull, desperate to get out. I keep running with my sore legs.
My fingers frustratingly fumble along the MP7’s contours. Shit, I’m panicking. It takes more effort than usual to will myself to calm. It almost feels like a herculean effort.
I must have gone soft.
The gun feels heavy and clumsy in my hand. I almost wish the dead guard had been equipped with a Mondragon, Gewehr, or Mosin–Nagant rifle. They are antiquated by now, but I am intimately familiar with how to use them.
I grumble that the Foundation procurement officers hadn’t taken time-travelling dimension-hoppers into account.
Or perhaps — knowing what anomalies are like — they did, and I just missed it.
The screeches behind me get closer and I feel a new sense of invigoration. Nothing like the fear of death to motivate someone, I guess.
I turn to shoot my gun that I had been lamenting about. It is a large thing — a large shambling network of fibers easily covering most of the hallway — so it’s easy to hit.
Bullets impact the creature’s skin but fails to draw blood. Damn.
I quickly pivot to retreating and bolt into the nearest room, locking the door behind me. My gun is aimed at the door shaking from the creature’s attacks.
My headache may mean the creature is using some sort of mental attack as well. There aren’t any other doors in this room either. Only windows leading to a suicidal drop into a testing chamber.