Syns Rambles

SCP-XXXX
Designation: Euclid

Special Contaniment Procedures

SCP-XXXX instances are to be granted level 0 clearance and assigned simple work at low risk Sites. They must be identified with a special name tag at all times, and should be reassigned once per month. If an SCP-XXXX instance demonstrates comfort or familiarity with the routine before the period of one month is over, it is to be immediately reassigned to a similar job.

In the event of an XXXX-Service Event, employees affected are to respond with indifferent to the actions of the instance. Following the conclusion of the event, survivors should submit a report commending its performance to the current project head. 

MTF-Blahblah “” are to investigate reports of disappearances surrounding entry level workplaces. If an SCP-XXXX instance is identified, its current employers should be coerced to fire it, and it should be offered employment, with minimal details. Anyone at their previous job with awareness of their anomalous properties should be interrogated and amnesticized.

Description: 

SCP-XXXX instances are humanoids who appear to be college students or recent graduates, despite all research into known instances not identifying any existence before their first employment. If an instance gains familiarity with a job, which typically takes no less than a month, XXXX-Service Events will begin to occur weekly. 

The local area will experience a temporary CK-class restructuring event 

It is currently believed that the termination of one instance results in the creation of another one, due to the fact that no more than twenty three instances have been identified simultaneously, and as such, termination of instances.

Individuals attempting to describe an instance’s physical appearance are usually contradictory and follow up on individual descriptions has revealed matches with associates of the person attempting to describe it who are currently struggling with debt of some variety. Interviews with individuals identified through this manner demonstrate no awareness of SCP-XXXX and the effect is believed to be memetic.

All interviews have led to instances expressing distress at their student debt and will blame interviewers older than fifty for the state of the economy. Interviewers younger than forty will agree and express similar signs, regardless of their actual economic status. Following the conclusion of the interview, younger interviewers will express heightened symptoms of depression for approximately twenty four hours, with the exact length varying in inverse proportion to their economic stability.

Interview Log XXXX

Your first thought upon stepping into the house is this: It's so small.

You pass over your parents, barely processing their existence, and focus only the details. The stains on the wooden table. The cracking wallpaper. The piles of unwashed dishes.

You’ve watched them pile up in the one photo someone gave you. You don’t know who took it or why. You don’t even know how they slid it into one of your books. You don’t know if they meant it as an act of kindness or of cruelty, and you aren’t sure which one it ended up being.

They thought you were dead.

You could’ve been dead so many times over. You need only to close your eyes to feel the ghosts of all the knives they’ve been to your throat, all the guns that been to your head, all the times he’d breathed down the back of your neck and you’d known how easy it would’ve been for him to—

These people in front of you stare at you, taking in every inch of you. They get, and they run forward to embrace you. It takes effort not to stiffen at the touch, and you still can’t force yourself to melt into their embrace like you know you’re supposed to.

“Iris, it’s really you,” he says, between sobs. You nod. She’s your same height, and he’s ever so slightly shorter.

There are guards stationed around this house, and you aren’t sure who they’re supposed to be protecting. There are cameras in every corner of this place. Microphones too. Half a dozen different people must be watching each one.

You’re used to it. They might not even notice they’re there.

There are piles of magazines littered across the not quite familiar couch. Some of them were clearly supposed to have your face on them, based on the headlines. You are a symbol of injustice now. There was an army of people behind getting you here. You‘re supposed to be grateful.

You’re not ungrateful. There’s something in the weight of him against your chest, of her arms around your shoulder. It’s not happiness. It’s not relief. It’s just… something.

“We put everything we could find back in your room,” she says too quickly after you pull back. There are black circles beneath both of their eyes and wrinkles you’re sure weren’t there when you were a kid. “There’s not much, but…”

You nod and pull the Foundation issued tactical backpack off of your shoulders. They didn’t let you keep much, as apparently funding would be an issue from now on. No cameras, of course. That much was made very clear.

She frowns almost imperceptibly at the logo. As if the symbol was the problem. They look at you, but they don’t see you. You can’t blame them. You can’t see them either. She picks the bag up, with a little surprise at how heavy it is. You stiffen.

“I’ll just put this in her room. Dad.” she says in this awkward tone that makes it clear she’s grown used to calling him by his first name and she’s only calling him that because you’re here.

”You don’t need to do that,” you say, referring to both the bag and the name thing. By ‘you don’t need to do that,’ you really mean ‘don’t do that,’ but you don’t speak authoritatively.

“No, no, I’d rather,” she says and hurries up the stairs with effort. He’s still crying. You don’t know what to do. You’ve barely stepped through the entrance, and the door is still open behind you so you close it, seeing the guards when you do. You can’t see their faces, but you recognize some of them anyway.

Should you say something to him? What would you even say? I’m sorry, comes to the forefront of your mind, but you aren’t even sure what you’d be sorry for. You haven’t had any choice in your life for so long that being given it like this is overwhelming.

You breathe in.

His shoes are off, but you’re still wearing yours. The kitchen smells of something good, despite the piles of unwashed dishes. All the piles of clutter are as present here as they were in the picture, but it looks like they tried to hide them. Pushed them to the side. Like you didn’t notice them.

There are places on the wall that you remember as having family photos. Most weren’t taken down recently, though there are a few that might’ve been. You’re surprised they were allowed to keep the magazines.

“It’s really you,” he says. “My baby girl.”

“I’m not much of a baby anymore,” you say, and you meant it to be a joke. He’s so small. On those rare occasions you let yourself dream, mostly all the way back in the asylum, you imagined them both as superheroes, coming in and sweeping you up in an embrace. Bringing you home. They were the strongest people you could imagine as a teenager, even stronger than Able. But those were just dreams.

Nobody was strong enough to protect you. If he’d wanted to, he could’ve killed you as easy as he’d killed the rest of your team. As easily as he’d killed the only people who’d ever come close to filling the family shaped hole in your heart.

The hole that'd scarred over with time.

“You sure aren’t.”

He forces a laugh. You can tell it’s forced. He can tell you can tell. He tries to smile, but it’s even faker than the laugh. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in months, and he smells unwashed. He’s so weak. You remember when you were small, you would sit in his lap and watch movies on the same couch that’s covered in magazines. He would hold you tight during the scary bits and say that nothing like that would ever happen to you because he was there. And she would tease him because he was shaking too and always cried at the sad parts.

You don’t cry. You don’t even feel sad. This man in front of you is so divorced from what you remembered. His hair is halfway greyed, and he hasn’t shaved. It’s not regulation length. You’ve been trying to grow your own hair out, but it’s slow going.

You could kill him.

It’d be so painfully easy. There aren’t any weapons in this house— your eyes had flittered to the kitchen in search of knives and found none — with the exception of you. Even without any photos, you’re a weapon. He’s a big man, but that’s not because he’s strong. You see dozens of vulnerabilities. Almost all of his weight is in his left foot. He’s too lost in memories to see you at all. He has a weak hip. He’d be slow.

“I saw you on TV, you know,” he adds. You shrink a little bit. You’d kept a lot back in the interviews, partly because of the Foundation’s threats but also because you’d figured they’d be watching. And you were right. You’d hoped they weren’t. “You were incredible.”

You realize you’re in a defensive stance and push yourself to stand as normally as possible, which isn’t normal at all.

“Thank you.” The reply is automatic and lacks any real emotion.

She comes back down the stairs in between your reply and what he might’ve said, huffing a little bit from the exertion. She smiles at him and tries to smile at you.

“I wasn’t sure where you wanted your stuff, so I left it on the bed. Do you want to unpack while we finish up dinner, sweetie?”

Everything she says is so obviously forced.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course, sweetie,” she says, but she doesn’t offer any alternatives. You don’t have any of your own, so you follow the ‘suggestion’ and take the stairs. The second one creaks beneath your weight, just as it always did. You’d forgotten about that. It’s startling.

You keep checking behind you.

The door to the room that you used to live in is painted the same off-white as it was all those years ago. You remember there used to be a handwritten sign right above to the handle that said “IRIS ONLY.” They must’ve taken it off because it was too painful a reminder of their dead murderer of a girl.

You remember them crying at your trial.

The “IRIS ONLY” sign has been replaced with a banner that says “WELCOME HOME, IRIS” in what could be either of their handwriting. You don’t remember.

You push the ajar door all the way open.

Your backpack lays open on the bed. The walls are covered in old posters for boy bands popular right before it all happened. They’re all prints of art— no photos allowed— and they’re all clearly new. You did listen to some of the bands and yeah, you might’ve asked—begged— for some posters of them for Christmas, but that was years ago. The blankets on the bed are all faded. You aren’t sure whether from being washed thoroughly or if your memory of how bright they were is just faulty. The striped wall paper is garish.

You sit down on the bed, and it gives way so easily. There are a couple of stuffed animals in between the pillows which you vaguely remember, but most of them are gone. You reach for one of them— a pink cat. It had a name, you think, though you can’t recall what it was. You try holding it, but it doesn’t give you any comfort. It’s so small.

The lamp on your bedside table is the same style as the one in your memory but the shade was green then and it’s pink now. You think. There’s a piggy bank next to it. You shake it, and you don’t hear the telltale clink of coins. To be expected, you suppose. What would you even do with money?

Your bookshelves are empty, with the exception of the book she must’ve taken out of your bag in an attempt to unpack for you. You cringe when you realize she’d found the annotated copy of The Art of War that you couldn’t bring yourself to get rid of. The advice written there had saved her life several times, but…

You shouldn’t have brought it.

You couldn’t have left it behind.

You lean your head back. It’s too soft. The colors are at once overwhelmingly bright and muted. The walls feel cramped, even though it’s bigger than your cell. If you roll to your left or right just once, you’d fall out of this bed. It’s yours, right?

It's so small.

Maybe. Or maybe you're just too big for it.
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Item #: SCP-XXXX

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX should be contained at Site 18 in standard humanoid containment cells with the following modifications.

SCP-XXXX cell should be sound proofed and any interviews or psychiatric care must take place using microphones with one layer of distortion an an announcement system in the room (not sure what the word is.) When maintenance or cleaning is necessary, it should be exposed to a memetic agent capable of inducing temporary muteness.

SCP-XXXX's cell and any items within it must be painted with Black 2.0, with the exception of its food.

Personal stained by SCP-XXXX instances are to be given the choice to tattoo over the colored area or to undergo Procedure XXXX, objects stained by SCP-XXXX instances.

Following the containment breach (See Incident XXXX-3B) on April 7, 2017, SCP-XXXX is missing and should be considered a medium priority target for retrieval, as, although its anomolous abilities are limited, the involvement of POI-10251, POI-11113, POI-11513, and POI-88812 suggests Serpent's Hand.

Description:

SCP-XXXX is a Caucasian female whose skin is discolored primarily around its eyes and on its hands. It can see beyond the normally visible light spectrum and through walls, although the limits to this ability are unknown. It expressed symptoms of depression and did not comply with Foundation staff, regardless of incentives or threats. It did not respond to any attempts at communication between May 17, 2015 and April 7, 2017.

Addendum:

Incident Log XXXX:
SCP-XXXX-3 is taken into custody following reports of an arson attack similar to XXXX Event 1 and 2.
Mobile Task Force Sigma 3 “Bookworms” reported an individual matching the description of SCP-XXXX-3 acting with platonic intimacy towards POI-10251 on June 3, 2017 during a standard

reconnaissance mission.