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 calmly and 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 and 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.”