Henzoid

You are running. You don't know why you are running, or what you are doing. In fact, you're acutely aware of the fact that you aren't doing anything, at least, you don't think you are. You must be forgetting something, though you're not sure what. However, memory is a dangerous thing in the Foundation, and you know that whatever you're forgetting would be better remembered. You decide there's only one surefire way to remember what you were doing: Going back to your office.

You run through the tight hallways of Site-96. Though you’ve been working there for years, you can never remember how to get to your office. And ever since Site-94’s conversion passed, the security’s been up, and the manageable space has been down. You narrowly avoid crashing into Laura Knight, the director of Site-96. She yells after you not to run in the halls, but this is an emergency and she’ll probably understand, unless she just fires you right there on the spot, but she’s a pretty reasonable person so you just hope that she lets the issue be.

You make it to your office, and struggle to open the door. After a few embarrassing seconds of fiddling, you remember that Dr. Knight recently upgraded the doors to require ID Cards to open. Flustered, you shuffle through your backpack, swearing under your breath. Another minute goes by before you realize it’s been in your wallet the whole time. You pull out your ID Card and take a look at it.

idcard.png

You wrinkle your nose at the picture of yourself. Not that you have low-self esteem issues, though you do, you just wish the ID photos were taken on a day where you didn’t look so absolutely dead inside, though you are. Waving it in front of the door, you hear a click, turn the knob, and step inside.

Entering the room, you're once again reminded as to why you hate being in here. Papers and sticky-notes line the desk and floor, in the least organized array of information ever seen. Shoving a stack of documents from the Ethics Committee aside, you sit down and turn on your computer. It takes five excruciating minutes to boot up, and another four to load the user selection screen. You haven't downloaded anything malicious, to the best of your knowledge, and you have a fairly good anti-virus software, so it's unclear as to why your computer sucks so much. Finally, you're greeted with the user selection screen. You click "Dr. Rosen", and enter your password: "Jane9513".

ACCESS GRANTED



Welcome, Doctor Rosen. What would you like to access today?







You shake your head. The memetic effects of whatever you were trying to remember are already kicking in, and you can't remember which file you're supposed to be looking for. Frantically, you type "Give Me More Details" into the console, hoping that it will provide enough information for you to find what you've almost entirely forgotten.

ACCESSING DETAILED FILES






Your fist tightens. You're not an idiot, at least you don't think you are, but you are absolutely certain that you still haven't found the document you know you have to find. You know you didn't write any more documents, however, so it's unclear where else you could possibly look. You type into your console "Open Notes". Maybe, just maybe, you left a note for yourself that could aid in this conundrum. The computer pauses for a brief moment, before a large block of text appears on your screen.

ACCESSING NOTES


Hi, I'm Henzoid, an SCP author who can hopefully give you some enjoyment out of my weird, nonsensical ideas. Though I started reading the SCP wiki in 2012, I didn't start writing or even make an account until early February, 2019. My first scp Idea, which I quickly learned was not up to par, was a floating ball of light that caused stress to whoever it was following. The idea had emotional and comedic presence, but I eventually scrapped it to work on what is now my first successful scp: SCP-4252, "Beans and Betrayal. I had been lucky enough to crit WerylliumWeryllium's donut scp, SCP-4759, and was heavily inspired buy his combination of absurd, food humor and fantastical characters. From there, i found inspiration in the popular image of a clock with baked beans in it, and originally, I even used it as the SCP-4252-A1 image, but soon found out it wasn't copyright compliant. Taking matters into my own hands, I did the only thing a rational human would do in that situation: I bought the cheapest clock I could find on amazon, dismantled it, filled it with beans, put it back together, and posed it all over my house, taking pictures and cleaning up bean spillage. Eventually, I had finished SCP-4252, and was overwhelmed by how quickly it took off. It's not nearly my most popular or upvoted scp, but it will always hold a special place as my first venture into the scp universe.

You're incredibly frustrated at this point. Nothing makes you angrier than a problem that you can't solve, especially with something you are pretty sure is memetic, although you're still not 100% certain you know exactly what counts as memetic, and what counts as just "mind-affecting". Regardless, you rack your brain for any sliver of memory, any clue as to what the hell you could be forgetting. Lost, unable to think of an answer, you mash "WHAT AM I FORGETTING?" into your console. You fully expect it to return an error or some other form of unhelpful result. Much to your surprise, however, one single file shows up on the screen.

ACCESSING WHAT AM I FORGETTING?


You're in shock. How… how could such a dangerous cognitohazard get in? However, the though is short lived, as you run out the door, sprinting down the corridor. You call out for Dr. Knight, but to no avail. It seems she must be preoccupied with some other matter. Frantically, you call again, increasing your speed. You are running. You don't know why you are running, or what you are doing. In fact, you're acutely aware of the fact that you aren't doing anything, at least, you don't think you are. You must be forgetting something, though you're not sure what. However, memory is a dangerous thing in the Foundation, and you know that whatever you're forgetting would be better remembered. You decide there's only one surefire way to remember what you were doing: Going back to your office.