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A computer sits idle, yet running in a dark room, the only safe one left in the abandoned facility. The windows, already blacked out before the disaster, have their edges taped shut, besides one, which is broken. No glass litters the floor. It was broken from the inside, then. The beam of light is easy to avoid. The room is in disarray. With a gentle motion, trying to make as little noise as possible, you close the door behind you, noting what looks like a lock that has been ripped out and thrown on the floor.
You cross the room, every footstep just a tad too loud.
The computer hums, and upon a little prodding, it opens to desktop - a folder full of video files sitting already open. They are numbered by date, the most recent a week old, the oldest two weeks. A webcam sits smashed on the floor below the monitor. A video diary. So there had been survivors. The idea unsettles you a little bit, and you glance around the room again. The emptiness no longer comes as a comfort now that you know this.
Your gaze settles on the computer once more.
The world is a nightmare, and this facility is heavily compromised. And yet, somehow, this little room with a broken window is the safest place for miles and miles around. There is nothing for you to do but pick up a desk chair covered in a viscous, dark liquid, and set it upright, in order to watch the videos. Maybe you would learn something important. But, you think as you double click on the first file, it's more likely you are about to watch something bad happen.
This doesn’t deter you as much as you feel it should.
The file begins to play, a short burst of static cutting to a black screen. There is vague, unintelligible chatter in the background, before the sound of hands touching a microphone, buffeting it a little bit, and a voice closer to the camera mutters something that cannot be heard above the static. The accompanying video feed stutters and flickers, before displaying a slightly grainy image of a pair of hands, obscuring most of the lens. There is a thump as the webcam is set down on something, and the hands are withdrawn, showing the room you are sat in now, except in a much lesser state of disarray, and far darker. A young man sits in front of the camera, and he frowns, reaching forwards again to adjust the camera, before brushing his dirty blond hair out of his face, and adjusting his labcoat. He is sitting in the same chair as you are. He swallows.
“Hello, I am Dr. X- ah, no, who cares about that anymore. My name is Grian. I am a level two researcher and one of the only survivors of Site HC-6.”
He glances at the room behind him, where a couple of figures are visible, but difficult to discern due to the camera quality.
“If you’re watching this then- well, you know what happened. Dr. Locke was right, unfortunately. The sun rose and… well. Most of the planet was wiped out, all at once. Our site suffered a fair few casualties from the initial instance of this SCP but most casualties came from the security breach that followed it. Um- some really dangerous Keters got out. They didn’t last long, but… they lasted long enough. Most of the facility is compromised- one of the downsides of working one of our surface sites, and… I’ll be honest with you, it’s a miracle any of us survived at all.”
Grian shuffles in his seat, and brushes the hair out of his face again. A nervous habit, it seems. His voice is fairly upbeat, and he smiles awkwardly as he speaks, but there is something jumpy in his eyes and restless in his demeanour that betrays his anxiousness. It is clear he’s fighting the urge to spin around in his seat every time one of his companions makes too loud of a noise, as if every time it’s the sound of the door breaking in, of the sunlight reaching them. He clears his throat.
“I- we- are holed up in Storage room 2-A, in the south of the facility, or what’s left of it. It’s.. it’s not too bad in here, really. We have food, clean water, mechanical parts, and the windows are already blocked out! Probably to avoid spoiling the food. I- I’m not a food scientist, though.”
Another awkward laugh. Another brush of his hand through his hair.
“The corridor leading to this room is safe as well- it, uh, has no windows and the escaped SCPs didn’t make it this far, so, no real structural damage either. We’re using it as… as a buffer, so if anything goes wrong… we’ll have time to escape, hopefully. That’s a big ‘if’ though, the- the sites that managed to contact us before the breach said to head to Site-19, but, we don’t intend to do that, not yet anyway. It’s- it’s too dangerous. And there are so few of us… No, we’re going to wait on that, I think. Maybe see if there’s anyone else alive here first. Not that my hopes are high but… It just feels right to check. Tango said he might be able to build us a remote drone with the parts in this room, so…”
Grian pauses, leaning back in his seat, before his eyes widen in sudden realisation.
“The other survivors! Right!”
He reaches for the webcam, and picks it up, turning it to the rest of the room and carrying it away from the laptop. The figures become easier to see. All are humanoid, but not necessarily human. Grian approaches a pair of masculine figures in the corner of the room first, who are talking over a pile of mechanical parts and circuitry animatedly. They are both in fairly casual clothes, clearly not bound to the same dress code as the researchers. They pause their conversation as Grian approaches, both turning to face him.
“Hey G! What, uhh, what’ve you got there?” Asks one of them, an aggressively blonde man, with large red shades over eyes that could be the same colour, but it's hard to tell.
“He’s making a video diary, dude!” The other says, tilting his head and grinning at his companion. One hand goes to his face to adjust an eyepatch that sits over his left eye. The other comes to rest inside his pocket. Despite their cheery demeanours, both men look exhausted.
“Yeah! And I need to show whoever might be watching who’s- who’s here. For archival purposes, or, something.” Grian says, his voice taking on a slightly more friendly edge as well. The blonde man snorts.
“Alright then, I’m Tango, an engineer. I used to work off-site but was asked to come in on the night before… everything went bad.” He pauses. “Me and Iskall here are trying to figure out if we can use some of the stuff in here to make a drone to check the facility for other survivors- They seemed to store a lot of camera equipment in here so, it's not unlikely, I don’t think.” Tango glances at Iskall, who smiles again and nods, running a hand through his beard.
“Yes, I think we can do it.” He glances at the camera, expression hardening a little bit. “We all have people we want to make sure are safe. This facility was very close-knit.” as he says this, Tango glances away from the camera, and swallows, nodding a little. Iskall leans towards him and wraps a prosthetic arm around his shoulders, a comforting gesture.
“Iskall-” Grian nudges, clearly trying to disrupt the slightly awkward air that the more serious tone has created, “introductions, remember?”
“Oh! Yes, uh, hallo, I’m Iskall. I- I was an MTF field agent, but now work as an engineer after, well,” He gestures at his missing eye, half smiling. “That used to be classified but… who cares anymore?”
“Not me!” Grian says, chuckling. “And- well. Who even knows if the 05-Council are even alive anymore. Probably not them either.”
Iskall shrugs.
“I don’t know if they were involved in that decision at all anyway. More Site Director X’s thing.”
“And Site Director X isn’t here.” Tango adds, his voice low. “At least- as far as we know. Which is why we’re making the drone!” He says, allowing himself to perk up a little. “And- we might find others too. We have to find others.”
The three of them settle into an awkward silence for a moment, before Grian clears his throat.
“Yes. Well- thank you, guys. I should, um, I should move on, still have a few people to talk to-”
“No, of course!” Tango says, snapping to attention, and waving to the camera.
“Goodbye, to anyone watching!” Iskall adds, once again grinning. Something about the cheery goodbyes makes you feel hollow.
The emptiness of the room around you is smothering.
Grian turns, carrying the camera to another little group of people. A man and a woman stand chatting, idly, before glancing up at the camera as Grian approaches.
“Howdy, Grian, how goes it?” The man asks, smiling in a friendly manner. He is fairly nondescript, aside from some green dye in hair that has long since grown out, but his nametag, barely legible, marks him out as a lead researcher on an SCP whose number you cannot read. It might actually have been scratched out.
“Well!” Grian says, matching the man’s tone. The woman stays silent, watching, a little guarded. Something about her looks off but it’s hard to tell what, between the hair covering most of her face and her angling it away from the camera. “I’m just documenting everyone who’s in here, you know, for future reference, if anyone finds these recordings.”
“Of course! I’m Joe Hills, or- Dr. Hills if you want to get all proper. But what’s the point of that anymore?” He adds, with a laugh. “I was this vaguely important researcher, but that doesn’t matter.” He waves a hand dismissively, and then glances at the woman, who clears her throat, awkwardly.
“And I’m Cleo.” She says, shifting, her voice whistling through a hole in her neck you only just noticed, previously obscured by her long, orange hair. The vague green tint to her skin, previously excusable as poor lighting in the dark room, is now clearly rot, and it sags a little in some places, and clings far too tight in others. Her eyes, too, are a little milky and yellowed. Corpse-like. “I- was contained here. But after the breach, they threw out my containment procedures.” She snorts out of a nose desecrated by decay. “Lot of good that’s done me. May as well be back in my cell with how little space we have in here.” Beside her, Joe leans against the wall.
“It’s just temporary. Besides, beats the Special Containment Procedures we had in place before.”
“You mean the ones you drew up, Joe?” She says, a lighthearted threat in her voice. Joe laughs, a little sheepishly.
“Maybe. But on the bright side you’re stuck with me now, allll the time.”
“On the bright side, huh?” She snorts. “Please, get me back in that old cell! Anything but this!”
Joe laughs again, more genuinely this time, before his gaze slides to the camera.
“No point trying to contain a sentient SCP like Cleo anymore, is there? She’s tryin’ to get by, same as us.”
“And it's not like the immortality will help me either. Have you read this… thing’s file? 'At no point does the affected die.’” She sighs, shaking her head. “Any of your foundation's employees watching this would be losing their minds, I bet.”
Grain pauses, and then shrugs, the camera bobbing up and down with the movement.
“I’m not sure, honestly. We’ve worked with SCPs a lot, and, I’m not supposed to say this, but… Did you ever meet the Head Engineer, everyone called him Doc? He is- was, an SCP himself. Honestly, 70- uh- sorry, Cleo, I’m just glad to have another survivor around here.”
Cleo’s gaze softens a little, and she half smiles.
“That’s the kind of breach of kayfabe that could get you killed before all this, right?” she says, raising an eyebrow.
“Not killed- just demoted and given amnestics maybe. But- take it as a show of trust, Cleo. You’re not an SCP anymore. No one and nothing is, really.”
Joe nods. “The Foundation has all but ceased to exist, from what I’ve gathered. All the other GOPs have probably disintegrated, too. And these entities, SCP-001-A, they nullify all anomalous properties anyway. What even is there to contain and protect anymore? Not much, now. Not much.” He says, his expression sobering for a moment, before his gaze flickers to the camera, and he smiles. “On the bright side though, it's a new start for all of us! Maybe we can survive this, become a society of underground mole-people or… or something!”
“That sounds unlikely.” Comes a new voice from the right of the camera, and Grian turns, showing a young man dressed in a long lab coat, although it's missing the ID tag. There is something a little off with him too, but, unlike Cleo, it’s unclear what. Perhaps the video quality is just that poor. Perhaps his skin looks a little too much like skin. He glances at the camera. “Jevin. Level one researcher. I’m, um. New.” He clears his throat, awkwardly. “You know, it’s a nice thought, Joe, but we’re running on borrowed time here. Any light in the visible spectrum emitted from the sun touches you, and you’re dead, no matter what you are. I would be shocked if a single human survives this for long.”
Joe sighs. “Being dreary isn’t going to help any of us, Jevin. Besides, I think you’re underestimating us, you know?” Joe walks over to Jevin, pausing in front of him. “The world has come close to total destruction countless times. Ever heard of the P-T Extinction Event? Previously the worst extinction the world ever saw, before this, and yet,” He gestures at the room around them, “Here we still are! You see, not to quote Jurassic Park, but life finds a way. Even if all we mere humans die out, something will find a way to live out there eventually.” He pauses, and then shrugs. “Besides. You could argue that SCP-001-A are human. Just….. Goopier. That must count as survival, right?”
Cleo steps forwards to join him, wrinkling her nose.
“That’s hardly living though, Joe.”
“Sometimes to survive you have to forfeit living, Cleo! I thought you of all people would understand that.”
Cleo goes quiet for a moment, before chuckling, shaking her head.
“It’s not the same.” Jevin says, reinserting himself into the conversation. “They aren’t people anymore. They- they can talk and… and maybe think, and try to convince you that they’re human, but they’re not. They’re just… Mimics. Stealing dead people’s memories and selves. If I had trusted their insistences that they were human, I would be dead. It- It sounded so much like Hypno-” Jevin heaves a sigh, and pauses. “But that’s besides the point.”
“And also besides the point I was making.” Joe says, leaning forwards and placing a hand on Jevin’s shoulder. “But this is going nowhere. We will live the best we can for as long as we’ve got. And if we don’t make it any longer than that? Well, we’ve had a better run than most people.”
“...That is true.” Jevin concedes.
“It’s probably best not to think about it too much.” Grian says, apparently no longer content to let this play out without his input. “We’re fine for now, though, and that’s what matters.” He continues, trying to lighten the mood. Joe nods.
“Yes we are! And you should probably go and talk to the last of our number.” He says, smiling a little wryly. “Can’t devote too much time to me, no matter how much I’m sure your viewers would like that.” He adds, jokingly. Cleo snorts, shaking her head. Jevin rolls his eyes.
“Well if you say so!” Grian says without missing a beat, and he turns sharply, laughing a little, his laughter mixing with theirs. For a few frames the video is just Grian’s shoes walking away from the group and the sound of trailing laughter, before the camera pans up again, pointing at a woman who was inspecting the food stocks on the shelves, making notes on a clipboard as she goes. She glances up, and smiles, warmly.
“‘Ello, Grian! Sounds like the video’s going well- you need me to tell the camera who I am too?”
“If you wouldn’t mind!” Grian says, his tone a little more professional, now. The woman sets the clipboard down on a shelf, and pushes her brown hair out of her eyes, reaching for a name tag that’s decorated with stickers shaped like flowers and hearts.
“I’m Dr. Monster- but everyone ‘ere just calls me Stress! ‘S an old nickname, I don’t ‘ave time to explain it now. I was a senior researcher, I helped coordinate the whole site and make sure none of the D-Class caused too much trouble.” She returns the name tag to where it was. “The people ‘ere think I’m the most senior member of staff left, but that’s what the drone Tango an’ Iskall are making is going to find out, innit?”
“Y-yeah, it is,” Grian agrees, and there it is again, that certain professional air to his voice that wasn’t present with anyone else, makes another appearance. It is clear Stress notices it too, and she laughs.
“You don’t gotta do that Grian, we’re all in this together. It’s like what Joe was saying earlier. There is no foundation anymore, at least not for now anyway!”
Grian chuckles, a little nervously, but when he speaks again it’s clear he’s more relaxed.
“What are you up to, anyway? We already took stock of food.”
Stress reaches for the clipboard, and smiles.
“I’m seeing what we ‘ave that we could grow. Plants need light but I think that the lightbulb will work for that. And Iskall says he thinks there could be some grow lights somewhere in ‘ere.”
“Oh! That’s a good idea actually, I guess- yeah. The food in here won’t last forever…”
“Yeah. And I got a feelin’ we’ll be holed up in ‘ere a while, if nothing goes wrong.”
The camera is jostled a little as Grian nods.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it, Dr- uh- Stress.”
Stress laughs, not unkindly. It is clear that in some previous life she was his boss, or some kind of higher-up, and the habits from that relationship are hard to break. Grian carries the camera back to the computer, setting it atop the monitor once more.
“And that’s everyone. That’s everyone who survived from Site HC-6, at least as far as we know.”
Grian goes silent for a few seconds, his expression darkening, before he clears his throat and tries on a smile that doesn’t really seem genuine. But when have any of his smiles been genuine?
“We- um-” He chuckles a little. “We’ve taken to calling ourselves the G-Team. Just because it’s a little ridiculous, good for morale. Something to cringe or laugh over, better than… better than the alternative, I suppose.” He shifts in his seat. “I’ll be recording more videos to document our progress, so… I’m sure you’ll see them soon enough! But um.. Well, if this is the only video you see, then… check some of the other folders! Or at least the ones that don’t need a passcode. But if you can’t find any, then.. Well. You know what this being the only video means.” He swallows self-consciously before talking again.. “But- let’s not think about that. For now, this is the G-Team over and out.” He winks, and does a sort of half salute with two fingers, before reaching for the webcam, the video ending on a freeze frame of his fingers.
You find yourself leaning back in your seat, the room suddenly so, so empty, and deeply, oppressively silent. You know it’s safer this way, but… You turn, examining the room, noting the overturned shelves, the broken machines, the suspicious splotches on the walls. You can almost see them, the small group huddled in here, except clearly their worst fears came true.
You turn back to the computer, the remaining files staring out at you. You are glad that the first video wasn’t the last but… Watching these, knowing that something bad must have happened, it’s going to be hard. Even so, with a reluctance that simply isn’t enough to overpower your curiosity, you click play on the second video diary.
Grian’s face flickers into the view. He looks more tired than before, but his eyes glitter with something they did not truly have in the previous video: hope.
“It took a bit of trial and error, but we got a drone up and running, and sent it out this morning. It’s this little remote thing, um, fitted with a camera, and, well, everything is about as expected. The Facility is deserted, all the windows are broken, the ceiling is full of holes… it’s pretty much impassable. It would be really difficult to travel without getting in the sunlight, and this storeroom has a lot of things but,” He chuckles a little, “It’s not got any clothes!”
A voice chimes in from behind him, a little far away but you recognise it as Iskall’s.
“Tell them about the interesting bit, Grian! They’ll already know that if they’re watching this.”
Grian turns around in his chair, his expression amused, “I’m getting there! And they might not- I’m hoping these will be watched after we leave and are all safe.”
“Yeah, that might be a little too optimistic, G.” Tango chimes in, his tone not disparaging. If anything, he’s joking, a far cry from the previous video where any mention of survival had him withdrawn. Whatever they found, then, well, it must have been good.
Grian shakes his head, still smiling, and turns back to the camera.
“Ok, so we found, on the other side of the facility, a locked door. Now, now, this doesn’t sound too impressive on its own, I know, but the door was fortified.”
There’s the sound of quick footsteps. And a pair of hands grab onto Grian’s chair pushing him out of the way a little to reveal Iskall, jostling in beside him.
“And I recognise the construction! They were made by Head Engineer- uh- Grian what’s his actual name?”
“Doc’s? Um, Dr. Monster, I think?”
Iskall frowns, and turns, looking out into the corner of the room.
“But I thought-”
“No relation, luv.” Comes Stress’ voice from the direction he is looking in, “It’s why everyone calls ‘im Doc, I was ‘ere first!”
“Ohh, right!” Iskall calls, before turning to look at the camera once more, “Well, it looks like the stuff Head Engineer Doc used to make. Couldn’t get too close to it but- that’s life. That’s a sign of life. And if Doc survived, who knows who else could be out there!”
“We all have… friends we’re hoping could be holed up with Doc, behind that door. Joe and Cleo are currently working on writing a message to give them, and Tango is reviewing the footage to try and plot a way to get past all the defences to deliver it. If they are alive then they- well, I hope that they will want to know we are alive too.” Grian elaborates, leaning back in the chair.
"They will want to know." Iskall declares confidently. "They will."
"Yeah!" Grian agrees. "Of course they will." There is a note of uncertainty in his voice. "Why wouldn't they? Anyway, that's about it for now. Maybe I'll upload some footage from the drone for you! And I'll, um, record more when we have more to say, I guess. No sightings of any of the… SCP-001-A instances in the area. I'm hoping they've moved on, but it's unlikely. Anyway, That's all for now."
Grian reaches forwards and the video ends abruptly.
There’s nothing else to do. You reach forwards and close the window, clicking on the next video. The thumbnail is bright, sunlit. Anxiety spikes in your chest for just a moment, before you remember there are more videos after. Whatever happened in this room, it hasn’t happened yet.
The video starts, the quality higher than the little webcam you’re used to seeing through. The viewpoint is low, the camera nearer the ground, and Tango is standing over it, holding a little remote controller. He smiles, waving, before fiddling with the controls and the camera lurches forwards. You realise that you are on the drone. The door is already open, and you catch a glimpse of Stress holding it open. The hallway outside is dark, just like it is now, and the drone pauses halfway down as, presumably, the door is shut behind it, although you can’t hear anything to confirm this. Then, it lurches forwards again and pushes its way through the door into a dilapidated hallway lit by bright sunlight.
It looks very different to how you saw it, in the dead of night, your whole body obscured by protective clothing, and vision blurred by goggles. You don’t remember it being so blood-stained, but, by the way the camera rattles and bobs, the floor was just as littered with rubble then as it is now. Evidence of the containment breach, you suppose.
Much of the video is very similar. The little drone trundling through ruined hallways, past broken containment chambers, through identical corridor after identical corridor, and, at one point, cutting through a cafeteria filled with upturned chairs and stains that could only be the distinctive, slick ooze of the SCP-001-A specimens. You’ve long since stopped trying to imagine who or what those things could have been, the series of events that occurred when the sun rose hostile, but the picture painted here is crystal clear. It would be sad, if you weren’t so numb to it all.
Once or twice, you think you see something in the shadows twitch.
Eventually, something changes in the sad, empty corridors. They become more shaded, for a start, the walls more intact and the windows covered in sheets. The first sign of humanity and inhabitants you’ve seen here, aside from the G-Team. The drone continues on but it begins to move more erratically. You can’t really see what it’s avoiding, but you trust that Tango is steering it carefully around a series of traps. It seems to be making its way through safely, and after a little while it arrives at a solid, heavy, white door. It bonks against it, once, twice, before there is a sharp click and, in a surprisingly deft movement, a piece of paper is released and is slid under the door. The drone backs up, waiting by the door expectantly.
Nothing happens, not for a good few minutes, and when you’re just about to consider skipping ahead a little, the door handle turns, and a person, dressed hastily in haphazard protective clothing, opens the door. They hesitate, for a moment, glancing around beyond your line of sight, before crouching down, and pulling off the mask and hood that obscures their face.
You do not know him. If you did, you would quickly recognise him. He has greying, brown hair and a scraggly beard, but, most noticeably, half of his face appears to be replaced by a series of very complicated cybernetics. If it weren’t for the rim of scarring around the area, you could almost believe that he was some kind of android. He opens his mouth, as if he’s about to speak, before stopping to grin down at the camera. His face is not unkind but you can’t help but notice that his teeth are sharp. You recall the rumours about the old Head Engineer, the one they thought made the traps. This must be Doc.
Doc reaches down, and picks up the drone, tilting it from side to side as he examines it, before turning, drone still in his hands, and beginning to walk back into the room he came out of, the video cutting and ending on a freeze frame of a group of blurry, poorly lit figures within. No matter how hard you squint, you can’t make out many meaningful details. Perhaps that one had a gun? The glint of sunglasses in a room too dark to justify them?
You give up, after a few minutes, opting to move on to the next video. You miss, in one of the brief frames preceding the cut when Doc turned away, the vague oozing silhouette that watched him from where the light just about touched the other end of the corridor.
The next video opens in that same dark room. Doc is leaning into the camera, frowning, before straightening up when he seems to be content the camera is running. The others in the room are gathered, standing behind him, exchanging words that you cannot hear.
“This drone arrived approximately ten minutes ago. I apologise for turning it off but until we had confirmed that it was not a threat to us, we did not want to run the risk of allowing it to operate. I recognise that it is ROV, of some kind, and so I- we hope that there are people on the other end of this.”
Doc’s voice is deep and gruff, but not stern, just tired. He smiles, though the movement is a little uneven - the extensive scarring across half of his face seems to restrict the movement of that side of his mouth. You are no medical professional, but you are well aware that severe enough burns, and you think the scars look like burns, can cause nerve damage.
“Ms. Symmetry suggested we use the one knock for yes, two knocks for no system to communicate. I suppose in this situation, that would correlate to the movement of your wheels, and so I must ask. Is there anyone there?”
There is a beat of tense silence, as the observers, still hard to make out, perhaps deliberately, all wait with baited breath for the drone to respond. You find even yourself leaning into the screen, hoping that Tango still has control of the vehicle, that he can still respond. Despite the fact you know they are doomed, you find yourself wishing desperately for these people to succeed.
And then, after what seems like an eternity, a single mechanical whirr cuts through the air.
Doc leans back, glancing around at the people around him, his face now also obscured by shadows. You can see the impression of smiles and hear excited whispers. Someone new steps into view. A tall, muscular man, wearing what looks like a respirator and a pair of goggles. When he lifts the goggles off, his eyes are kind, if a little worried. He crouches, bringing his face closer to the little camera.
“I am Site Director X.” He begins, pausing to shift his weight a little. “And you have no idea how relieved I am that we’re not the only ones alive. We uh- we were going to go out and search for any more survivors but this whole place is far too bright for that to be possible, and we don’t have the supplies in here to make anything like you seem to.”
Behind him, Doc nods.
“All my traps have to work based just on gravity and such. And most are… improvised is not a strong enough word.”
X nods, glancing at Doc, before turning back to the camera and holding up the letter, reading over it, briefly.
“I want to confirm…” He begins, brow furrowing a little, “Right- yeah. Just five staff and… two? Humanoid anomalies. Hm. Right. Well, I guess around ten survivors out of the whole facility is… pretty good, considering everything! What with the breach on top of-” He sighs, “Everything’s been declassified, hasn’t it? Right. On top of the manifestation of SCP-001.”
The Site Director stands, stepping back, raising his voice so he is still easy to hear.
“You’ve seen nothing else? No other anomalies, staff, not even the- the results of the Hels project? I am sure that the safe Skips must be somewhere, I mean, that rock can’t have gone anywhere right?”
“It’s probably still in my office.” Says the man in sunglasses, snorting. X shakes his head, a smile clear, before straightening up, realising something.
“Oh- oh yes! Everyone here-!” He put a hand on the back of the man in sunglasses, and gently pushed him forwards. “Ren,”
“Oh! Uh, hey dudes. I’m- Well, if we’ve met you’ll know me as Dr. Dog. I uhm- level one researcher in memetics, nothin’ special. But my name’s Ren.” There was something a little unusual about this man although you can’t quite discern what. He smiles awkwardly, showing a mouth full of… well if you didn’t know better you’d call them dog teeth. Besides that, he seems fairly nondescript, wearing a red shirt and jeans under his lab coat, his hair still tied into a ponytail. Add a pair of gloves and he’d still be in… passable PPE. He glances behind him, and steps aside, allowing a pair of people to step up.
One is very clearly a member of some kind of MTF group, still in the distinct dark armour associated, although his visor is up, allowing a glimpse of blue eyes and a pleasant face. You do not recognise him, but you do recognise the logo emblazoned on his uniform - a hat surrounded in fumes with a distinct biohazard symbol in the middle. So he’s a member of MTF Beta-7. You suppose that makes sense, given the nature of the current crisis, but what makes less sense is the fact he was taking refuge in a cupboard with a bunch of terrified researchers. As far as you know, the MTF were not afraid of death. Although, perhaps that was Foundation propaganda getting to you. The woman next to him, whilst not in armour, is somehow the distinctly more intimidating figure. She is armed, which helps, but there is something in her eyes, a deep kindness, yes, but something dangerous too. Her casual attire stands out next to the armour and labcoats around her. The man speaks first.
“I am Wels, of…” He glances at X, who nods, “Of MTF unit Beta-7. You might know us as the Maz Hatters. A group of us were deployed to this site alongside some of unit Epsilon-9, given the effectiveness of incendiary weapons against these entities. Myself and a…. Colleague, in Epsilon-9 were split from the main group, and ended up unarmed and having to take shelter in here. He- Hels, he left a few days ago to see how much of the facility he could explore, thinking that his armour would be sufficient to protect him from the light. He… has not returned. If he is with you- please. Let me know.” The woman beside him reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder, before withdrawing it and straightening up.
“And I’m.. False. I- I don’t really understand all this ‘SCP’ and ‘MTF’ stuff, I’m- I suppose I’m a civilian who just… walked in on all of this….” She looks over at X “What even is this? Some kind of secret Government agency?”
Doc snorts, derisively, and X shoots him a look.
“We’re independent of the government.”
“Right….” False says, frowning. “Well- I was out in the woods, and heard this insane commotion from this.. Well we all thought it was abandoned, but I guess it wasn’t, from this Site. I ran in to help and... Now I’m here.”
“The fact you’ve made it here is incredible.” Wels says. “One woman with a gun and no armour… I’ve seen people with far more training killed in an instant by far less.”
False laughs, shaking her head.
“Who said I had no training?”
“Touché.”
From the back of the room, someone clears their throat, and the group around the camera all glance back.
“Excuse me, could I-?”
“Oh! Of course, sorry Impulse.” Wels says as he and False start shuffling aside to let Impulse into the frame. He smiles, first at them, then at the camera. From behind it, the drone’s wheels begin to turn and shift back and forth, making the camera shake a little.
“Hi! I’m Impulse, an engineer and- Well-” He glances at X, “You said it was Tango who made this?”
X nods.
“That’s what the letter says.”
“Ok! Good I- man I am so glad you’re alive. You had me worried, dude! I didn’t think that dying was something you could.. You could do! And I guess I was right. I knew you’d be ok.” Impulse glances around, facing his companions. “We’re from outside this Site but we came in together.” He adds, as explanation, before turning to the camera again.
“I’m glad your friend is alright.” X says, genuinely. “We should send the drone back now though. We have no equipment to play or create videos or access files besides our phones, and we’re rationing those, so please continue with the letters. If you’d rather we use letters as well, then let us know in your next communication.”
Beside him, Doc reaches forwards, picking the drone up and carrying it towards the door, before propping it open with one foot, and placing the drone down. As it starts to trundle away and the door begins to close, you can just faintly hear,
“It’s nice to not be alone anymore.”
The video immediately ends.
You lean back in your chair for a moment. More survivors…. You don’t know if that should make you happy or sad. You contemplate, for a moment, getting up and trying to find the room they had been holed up in, but decide against it. This place was perilous to traverse, even back when these videos had been filmed, and the whole place had clearly deteriorated since then. Better to stay safe here, in this room, and try to figure out just what had happened in this now abandoned site.
Your attention returns back to the computer. Scrubbing through the videos, the next few seem to be more or less the same. The drone going back and forth between the two groups, ferrying messages, supplies, and the like. The camaraderie in a dying world is… nice, to watch, but there’s this terrible feeling in the pit of your stomach as you just sit and you wait for things to go wrong. It’s a constant, creeping fear, like waiting for the next jumpscare in a horror movie.
Four videos in you notice it. It could have so easily slipped by you, but by this point your eyes are focused, picking apart the shadows in your wait for things to go wrong. Of course, given the state of things, the shadows were the wrong place to look. No. You see it silhouetted against a window, sunlight streaming past its indeterminate shape. It looks… kind of wet, like slime, except you know it to all be flesh. Something that could be an eye is trained on the drone, and it doesn’t bother to move out of sight. Perhaps it trusts that it will not be seen, since Tango’s attention would be fixed on driving. Perhaps it doesn’t care, knowing that its targets are trapped in tiny rooms, isolated and unable to reach the drone. Perhaps it doesn’t think at all, and any intelligence you assume it has is just a projection of your own. No matter what it may be, you start to notice more of them, peeking around corners or gathered just barely in frame, stray eyes glittering in holes in the ceiling, ever watching, ever waiting. You start to notice well trodden trails of gorey slime down the, now familiar, route the drone took between the two hideouts. You wonder why the residents of this facility haven’t.
And once you do notice them, every interaction, every smile as the second group- now calling themselves Team STAR to match the G-Team, address their friends, makes your stomach twist as you are forced to watch and wait for it to all come to a head.
The video where everything goes wrong is not immediately unusual, and is not unlike all of the others, initially. A little bit of preamble from whoever in the G-Team has something to say, before the drone is sent out, letter on board, to Team STAR. The day is crisp and beautiful, as every day since the disaster has been, the little specs of dust in the decaying facility catching the light. You always imagined that these shells of humanity in the apocalypse would be overgrown, at least allowing the plants and the animals to repopulate and thrive. Part of you is angry that this was taken away. Part of you is far too tired to care.
The first sign that things are wrong is the absence of the watchful SCP-001-A entities. For the first time, their efforts to go unnoticed are successful, assuming they were even trying before.
The second sign, and arguably the more obvious one, is the fact the trail of liquid gore has expanded, no longer a dark, wandering line across the floor but is now a splatter, all over the walls, the ceiling and the floor, only getting denser, darker, and fresher as the drone, now slowing down a little, approaches Team STAR’s hideout.
Turning into the hallway leading up to their hideout, it appears that Doc’s traps had not been ineffective. Thick clumps of dripping, reddish sludge paint the walls, the chunks too large to have been naturally shed, the ooze even foamy in some places thanks to the ferocity of the mechanisms.
Despite this, though, despite the carnage, the blood, the clotting clumps of what were once people, despite all this the most disturbing sight captured by the camera was deceivingly innocuous: An open door and an empty room sitting at the end of the corridor.
The drone stops, its driver taking in the scene for a moment, before just turning around and beginning to drive back to the G-Team base.
Something shifts in the corner of the video as the drone turns, and a horrible sinking feeling brews in your chest as you realise.
The drone is being followed.
The feed cuts, suddenly, to the now familiar sight of the G-Team through the webcam, and the room that now feels far less safe. Grian, as usual, is front and centre. Behind him, there is a small huddle. Iskall can be seen with his arm around the hunched figure of Tango. You don’t need to be able to hear them to know what is going on over there.
Grian’s voice shakes as he addresses the camera.
“The- the- uhm.” He swallows, glancing behind him. “The SCP-001-A instances have- they-” He breathes heavily, looking away. “Team STAR’s position was less fortified from the light, I- I guess it- if they couldn’t relocate we knew it would just be a matter of t- time but…” He trails off, before shaking his head, fortifying his expression. “We have to get out. We’re- we’re going to go in the day, so it’s easier to figure out where’s safe or not, uhm, moonlight doesn’t have the same contrast. Joe and Cleo are sorting out clothes that will fully cover us and, hopefully-”
Grian is cut off as, suddenly, chillingly, there is a knock at the door, that single, simple sound sending shivers down your spine.
“Hello? Grian?” A voice calls out, a distinctly English accent shaping the words, but one you don’t recognise. Grian clearly does though, and he stands up abruptly, backing away as his face pales.
“We have to go. We have to go!” Tango says, quickly. The voice is talking, too, sickly sweet and somehow distinctly sticky.
“Tango too?” A different voice adds. It is strikingly similar to that MTF officer’s, Wels’ voice, but is deeper and, like the other voice, somehow sticky.
The knocking turns to banging as the group scrambles, Joe and Cleo throwing large sheets of fabric to their companions, the group desperately wrapping up, using whatever they can to cover any exposed skin. More voices join the initial two, clamouring to be let in, and you can see something fleshy beginning to seep in under the door.
Somewhere offscreen, glass smashes, and your eyes flicker, for just a moment, to the broken window. There’s a cry, perhaps ‘This way!’, although you can’t tell who’s talking under the layers upon layers of voices begging to be let into the room, and the door’s complaining as, whatever is on the other side, smacks its whole form into it.
The G-Team sprint together for the broken window, Jevin’s form just disappearing from view, as the door splinters and breaks open in a shower of wooden shards. For a moment, just for a moment, before a fragment of the door hits the webcam, you can see a hulking, fleshy mass silhouetted against the door.
And then the room is silent as the video ends.
Something twists inside your stomach, and bile rises in your throat.
This room is not as safe as you thought it was.
It’s time to leave.