"SCP-106 HAS BREACHED CONTAINMENT! INITIATE RECALL PROTOCOL RP-106-N IMMEDIATELY!"
A man clad in a white tank top and gray sweatpants shot up in bed, frantically looking around his small cell as a shrill alarm tore through the quiet night. Blinking the sleepiness out of his eyes, he stood up and made his way across the room, the white tile floor's icy chill stinging his bare feet. He pressed his ear up against the metal door, listening intently as heavy footsteps quickly approached, stopping only a few cells short of his own. Then, he heard a nearby cell door open, and a frantic conversation took place.
"D-9215, come with me right now!" a gruff voice commanded.
"Hold on a minute, what the hell's going on out there?" a startled voice responded.
"This is no time for games, D-9215! Now you will come willingly or I'll drag you out!"
"Alright, I'm coming! You could've asked nicely, asshole!" This response was met with a loud smack and a pained groan as the guard drove his fist into the inmate's jaw.
"You want another one, wise-ass? Follow me!" The footsteps of both guard and inmate then retreated back down the hall, quickly fading into silence once more. The man in the cell backed away from the door and sat back down on his bed, which was little more than a metal bed-frame, a lousy mattress, and a couple of white sheets and a pillow. He sat there for a few minutes, trying to comprehend what was happening when all of a sudden the intercom piped up again;
"SCP-106 HAS BEEN SPOTTED OUTSIDE OF OFFICE BLOCK C! ALL PERSONNEL, PLEASE VACATE THE AREA!"
The man continued to sit crouched over on his bed, covering his ears as the alarm continued its deafening cry. Then, the intercom turned on again, this time playing live audio from elsewhere in the facility; "You sons of bitches can all go to hell!" D-9215's furious voice shouted, before being loudly interrupted by the sound of heavy machinery operating, followed by a sharp crack and the agonized screams of the convict. His guttural cries went on for what felt like hours before fading into quiet whimpers. Moments later, a horrific wet, sucking sound became audible, as if someone was stirring thick mud. D-9215's voice picked up again as he began hyperventilating and sobbing, before culminating in a shriek of pure terror. Then, as suddenly as it all started, everything went silent. There was no more screaming, no more sirens blaring, not even the heavy footfalls of guards outside. After a few tense minutes, the intercom finally delivered the supposed good news;
"SCP-106 HAS BEEN SUCCESSFULLY RE-CONTAINED. ALL PERSONNEL, RETURN TO YOUR POSTS AND AWAIT DEBRIEFING. A CLEANING TEAM WILL BE DISPATCHED SHORTLY TO REPAIR THE DAMAGES."
"So, do you still not believe me when I say these bastards are using us as lab rats, Ben? Or were our friend's screams not enough proof for you?" a muffled voice from the other side of the gray, brick wall spoke up. The man crouched on his bed, Ben, stood up and walked over to the rightmost wall to respond to his fellow inmate;
"We don't know that for sure, Marcus. Just because the other inmates aren't allowed to talk about their work experiences, it doesn't mean some big conspiracy is going on. You read the same flyer I did, all this stuff is confidential. Besides, there's no way they deliberately just did something bad to Isaac because that's illegal as fuck, and if these leaflets are in any way accurate, there's no way they've released inmates back into the general public and not gotten sued into oblivion if they actually are committing crimes against humanity," Ben responded, sounding like he was trying harder to convince himself than he was Marcus.
"Whatever man, you're hopeless. I get that you're skeptical and all since neither of us has actually been given an assignment yet, but use some common sense. Isaac would have to be one hell of an actor to fake screams like those," Marcus responded with an irritated tone, before letting out a defeated sigh. "Arguing with a brick wall is easier than changing your stubborn mind, and it's way too early for this shit. I'm going back to sleep, assuming I can get those screams out of my head anytime soon."
"First of all, I never said they were fake. You know as well as I do how stubborn Isaac was, he probably ignored their directions and got himself hurt. Second, how can you tell what time it is?" Ben asked.
"Well, the guards haven't woken us up for breakfast yet, so that means it's too goddamn early. You should go back to bed too, you might gain a little more common sense if you're well rested," Marcus responded, ending the conversation on a sour note.
"Well fuck you too," Ben mumbled, walking away from the wall. "He did make some really good points though…" he thought, letting a sense of paranoia creep over him, before coming back to his senses and smacking himself on the head. "No, don't be an idiot, Ben. Marcus is just freaking out over nothing, as usual. I'm sure that by the end of the day, we'll know exactly what happened to Isaac," he thought, finally winning the battle with his irrational fear. "Marcus was right about one thing though, it's too damn early for this shit," Ben mumbled, getting back into bed and covering up, falling into an uneasy sleep.
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Several hours later, he was awoken by the sound of a loud buzzer going off, followed by the sudden activation of the cell's single light bulb. Despite being drowsy and irritated, Ben forced himself out of bed, knowing that the guards wouldn't be happy if he wasn't ready when they showed up… if they showed up at all. Although he'd never admit it to the others, Ben was jealous that everybody else had been working on top secret projects while he and a few others were stuck living a regular prison life. Sure, the D-Wing of the facility was far smaller than an actual prison, but it was still a prison nonetheless. It had the holding cells that he and his fellow inmates were currently residing in, a cafeteria, a gym, and even a rec room for those exhibiting good behavior, but that was all there was to it, and doing the same activities day after day quickly grew mind-numbing. He desperately wanted to start working on something interesting rather than wasting away in D-Wing any longer.
Nevertheless, he knew that his time to shine would come eventually, and had been on his best behavior to the point that even the guards were starting to grow fond of him. He hoped that winning them over would increase his odds of being chosen, at the very least. With an optimistic outlook for the day, Ben began his morning routine. To the right of his bed, on the eastern side of the cell, was a square sink, a prison toilet, and a small desk and barstool, all of which were stainless steel and secured to the ground, wall, or both. Atop the desk was the flyer he'd been given on his first day as a D-Class, as well as a paperback copy of 'The Return of the King' that he'd borrowed from the miniature library in the rec room. In the corner of the room opposite his bed was a small shower that consisted of a stainless steel shower-head and drain contained within a waist-high, white tile barrier that kept the water from flowing out onto the main floor, as well as a blue curtain that further assisted the water's containment. He began with going to the bathroom, then washed his hands and brushed his teeth before finally taking a quick shower within the ten-minute timeframe of hot water he was allowed every twelve hours. As his limit on hot water neared the halfway mark, Ben heard a slot near the bottom of the cell door open, followed by something falling on the floor and the slot closing again. He already knew what it was, as he'd gotten used to fresh clothes being delivered on a bi-daily basis.
He finished up in the shower and dried off with a gray towel before slipping on the fresh clothes; undergarments, socks, a tank top and sweatpants the same color as the old ones, as well as a dark orange jumpsuit. The jumpsuit zipped up in the front from just above the waist to just below the collar and was surprisingly comfortable for prison wear. It wasn't too baggy either, and Ben's personal Class-D identification number was stamped vertically on the left side of the shirtfront. After he finished getting dressed, he put on the navy blue canvas slip-on deck shoes that had been provided and sat down on the barstool, looking at his reflection in the mirror. The 30-year-old's black hair had an unkempt, comb-over style cut, and the short boxed beard he featured was the same color. He was physically fit and somewhat tan, although constantly being indoors was slowly making him grow pale, and his eyes were dark green. After determining himself to be presentable, Ben gathered up his dirty clothes and piled them up in preparation for when he would be let out of his cell, which was going to be sooner rather than later.
The door slid open half an hour later, on time as usual, and Ben picked up his dirty clothes and pocketed the library book before joining the rest of the Class-Ds in the hallway. They all stood in a single file line, carrying their dirty clothes to a row of hampers near the guard outpost and dumping them in. The Ds weren't allowed to do their own laundry, meaning that the guards had to do it in a makeshift laundromat located somewhere within their outpost. Although the guards were supposed to take turns washing the clothing according to their scheduled shifts, they often decided who would be the unfortunate soul to do the job by playing cards during their off-duty hours. Once the matter of the dirty laundry was dealt with, the door straight ahead opened up, revealing the rest of D-Wing.
The inmates were then filed through the door and into a four-way hallway featuring a black tile floor and two armed guards standing atop a metal catwalk that stretched from the upper western wall of the room to the eastern, and provided an optimal vantage point for surveillance. The inmates knew this hallway very well by now and had memorized exactly which doors led to where: The western door led to the gym, the eastern door led to the rec room, and directly ahead was the northern door that led to the cafeteria. As the line trudged along, Ben felt his stomach start to growl. He was starving after the hectic morning the facility had experienced, and the fact that he was near the end of the line didn't help. The Class-Ds were served their daily breakfast of oatmeal, toast, and orange juice as they trickled into the cafeteria. The same meal every morning got repetitive after a while, but nobody was complaining. Every Class-D in the room would gladly take the food provided by The Foundation rather than have to eat regular prison food. The cafeteria itself consisted of an elongated, hexagonal room with a concrete floor and seven rows of five stainless steel tables, each equipped with four barstools of the same material. High-up balconies allowed armed guards to survey the area, and every now and then a new guard would come through the doors to take over for whoever was about to clock out. Two different lines had been formed for the inmates to be served their meals, and each serving window was guarded by armed personnel just in case somebody decided to cause problems.
Shortly after all of the Ds had been situated at the tables of their choosing, their attention was drawn to the balcony, where a middle-aged man in a white lab coat stood, prepared to give an announcement. "Attention all Class-D personnel, my name is Security Chief Franklin Carey," he started. "It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that your fellow inmate Isaac Porter, also known as D-9215, tragically passed away this morning during the re-containment of SCP-106. He only has his own negligence to blame for his death, as he decided to outright ignore the proper safety precautions for operating the heavy machinery needed for the procedure. I'm sure you all heard him decide to do so when he told us to "go to hell". I'm also sure you heard the resulting accident that happened as a result of his actions before we were able to cut the live audio feed. It was a terrible mistake that never would have happened if he'd simply followed our instructions, but nonetheless, we are very sorry for the loss of your fellow inmate and friend. However, you'll all be pleased to find out that there's a bright side to all of this. As stated by Foundation protocol; In the event of a serious containment breach, all D-Class personnel will begin the process of being relieved of their duties that day, regardless of the specifications of their contracts." At this announcement, a chorus of cheers erupted from the cafeteria but was quickly silenced by Franklin making a shushing motion. "However," he continued, "This is not a short process, and may take longer than usual due to Area 19 never experiencing something of this magnitude before. Unfortunately for those among you who are scheduled to work today, you will continue to do so as planned. The rest of you, enjoy your last day with us as much as you can. We hope that you've all had a pleasant experience working in our facility. So on that final note, I bid you all farewell."
An enormous round of applause erupted at the end of Franklin's speech, and the man left the room with a surprisingly grim expression on his face. "You see that, Marcus? Not only did that guy just own up to what happened to Isaac, but he said they're letting us leave this place early too. Do you still think there's some big conspiracy?" Ben challenged the man sitting next to him.
"Give me a break, Ben, did you not see the look on that guy's face? He was lying through his teeth for that entire speech. Even if what he said about Isaac is somehow true, do you really think these pricks are just going to let us all walk free knowing what we know?" Marcus responded, visibly aggravated.
"Whatever, you can sit here and sulk all you want, I'm gonna try to enjoy the good news," Ben declared, standing up and taking his dirty dishes over to the kitchen window. About half an hour later, after everybody had been given plenty of time to eat, the cafeteria was slowly emptied, and the inmates with good behavior were allowed to wander D-Wing while under surveillance, while those who were known for causing problems were taken back to their cells. Some of them were even taken away to do their scheduled work, much to their displeasure. As Ben left the cafeteria and made his way to the rec room, he overheard a conversation between the guards on the catwalk;
"Why does this facility let the Ds have so many privileges anyway? Most of the other sites just have them sit in their cells until they're needed for something."
"I guess this place just has so much volatile shit in it as it is that the higher-ups decided the last thing this facility needs is the addition of a bunch of rowdy convicts every month. The better you treat them, the less likely they are to cause problems."
"There wouldn't be any problems once enough troublemakers got a bullet in the head. I bet the message would sink in pretty quick after that."
"Hey, you said it not me."
Appalled by their barbaric viewpoints, Ben decided to avoid crossing their line of fire as much as possible, so he skipped the gym in order to spend most of the day in the rec room instead. The room itself was in the shape of a rectangle, but it had carpeted floor and featured several different ways for the inmates to entertain themselves; including billiards and foosball tables, couches and chairs, several decks of cards, and an area where staff members would project movies like 'Ghostbusters' or 'Caddyshack' onto a decent sized screen. The room also housed a miniature library that consisted of several bookshelves and a small reception desk where inmates could rent one book at a time. Ben decided the first thing on his agenda was to turn in his old book and rent a new one, choosing a paperback called 'House of Leaves'. He then pocketed his new book and relaxed with the other inmates for a few hours, watching movies and playing a variety of card games before going to get some lunch from the cafeteria, where he was served a simple meal consisting of a bologna sandwich, an apple, and a carton of milk. Afterward, he decided to simply return to his cell and unwind for the rest of the day. Ben made his way back to his cell and stretched out on the bed, cracking open 'House of Leaves' and managing to read for a few hours before a feeling of drowsiness began to take hold. He decided that a nap sounded nice, and as he went to place his book on the desk he caught a glance of the leaflet that still sat there. It didn't take long for his habit of rereading the flyer to kick in, and he found himself going over it again for the seemingly millionth time;
SCP
Secure. Contain. Protect.
Orientation Leaflet for the Class-D Personnel
On behalf of the SCP Foundation and our staff, we welcome you to
an exciting one-month working period in one of our top-secret
research facilities. Unfortunately, the exact details of your
upcoming work assignments are highly classified, but please read
this document carefully to make your stay as safe and pleasant as
possible.
Each of the Class-D Personnel has been given a numerical
designation. Your personal designation is;
[D-9341]
Please memorize your designation, as the staff will use it to refer
to you from now on.
During your stay, you will be taking part in various testing
procedures. Some of them can be extremely dangerous if
appropriate precautions are not taken. This is why we need your
full cooperation at all times in all circumstances - our highly trained
researchers and scientists know how to minimize risks and ensure
the safety of the personnel involved in testing. If you fail to comply
with the instructions you are given, you will be sent back to your
term in death row.
If everything goes as planned (meaning that we have your full
cooperation), you will be released at the end of the month and you
will be granted an absolute pardon for all of your previous offenses.
"ATTENTION ALL D-CLASS PERSONNEL: YOUR LEISURE PERIOD ENDS IN TEN MINUTES. RETURN TO YOUR CELLS WITHIN THE DESIGNATED TIME LIMIT OR YOU WILL FACE DISCIPLINARY MEASURES. THOSE OF YOU CURRENTLY WORKING WILL BE RETURNED TO YOUR CELLS ONCE YOUR ASSIGNMENTS HAVE BEEN COMPLETED."
Shortly after the intercom went silent, a steady flow of Class-D's began trickling back into the cell block, not wanting their privileges to be revoked for being late. Once the ten-minute mark passed and all of the inmates were accounted for, the cell doors slid shut, sealing them inside once more. Despite the fact that the lights wouldn't be turned off for a few more hours, the feeling of drowsiness returned to Ben stronger than before. He placed the pamphlet back on the desk, laid down in his bed without bothering to take off his jumpsuit, and almost immediately fell into a deep sleep.
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He was frozen, and could only watch with glazed eyes as his ice cold body tried its best to move a muscle. The cell was almost pitch black, and incoherent shadows and figures lurked in the corners. He could hear a faint buzzing all around him and disembodied whispers floated through the air, but none of them made any sense. They all spoke in gibberish, and he couldn't muster any words of his own to tell them to go away. "Sleep paralysis," he thought, recognizing all of the familiar symptoms. This had been happening to him several times a month for as long as he could remember and wasn't showing any signs of stopping, but knowing exactly what was happening helped him to calm down… at least until an unusual guest introduced himself.
"You look afraid," a voice coming from his right spoke out. Ben's heart raced in his chest, and he shifted his focus to the right, catching sight of an enigmatic man sitting on the barstool, looking down at him with a stoic expression. The man was ghostly pale and appeared to be in his late 40s. He wore a black, buttoned up, cold war era business suit, as well as a white, collared undershirt and a black tie with gray stripes. He also wore black dress pants and shoes, and his dark, combed back hair was mostly covered by the black fedora atop his head. "Don't be afraid," the man continued, "This is a dream, the last dream you may ever have, for nightmares are coming." His expression never changed, and despite the newfound fear that Ben was currently experiencing, he also felt a strong sense of curiosity that only increased as the man talked. "I wouldn't want to wake up, but unfortunately, you must."
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Ben shot up in his bed, breathing heavily and blinking the bright light shining from overhead out of his eyes. He stood up, slipped his shoes back on, and began pacing back and forth, thoroughly freaked out by what he'd just experienced. The dream had felt so real… so real that he could practically feel the man's presence still on the stool beside him. After a few minutes, his breathing slowed back down to normal, and he took a seat on the bed and clutched his forehead, slowly convincing himself that it had just been a particularly haunting bout of sleep paralysis and nothing more. Several minutes into his self-reflection, Ben's thoughts were interrupted by heavy footsteps steadily growing closer to his cell. Then, at long last, he received the news he'd been waiting to hear;
"Control, this is Agent Ulgrin. I need to request to open up Cell-311," a muffled voice said.
"Copy that," a different voice responded through a radio. Moments later, the cell door slid open, revealing an armed guard standing on the other side.
"Hey, they've got some work for you. Do me a favor and step out of your cell," he commanded.