The bite of the cold wind sent Clara's hands to her pockets. She buried her face close to her chest, shielding her nose and mouth from the chill. It was far too cold for her liking. She was already missing her warm Florida evening walks where she would kick off her sandals, feeling the earth and sand between her toes and listening to the always consistent sound of waves breaking against the shore. Tourists tended to die down after the sun had started to dip below the horizon, and she liked to walk along the beach, studying the leftover remnants of their presence there: bottles, empty cans, plastic bags and candy wrappers, sometimes even a deflated beach ball or shovel. She'd pick them up and toss them in the trash can, knowing full well that the next morning would bring in a new helping of tourists and suburban families, eager and unaware of the evidence they left behind.

This was not Florida. This wasn't even the United States anymore. This was hell frozen over, Antarctica style. It was secluded, she'd give them that. Cinderblock and cement walls stretched as tall as trees in front of her, armored vehicles patrolling like guard dogs behind her. Men in masks and goggles watched her like vultures, looking for some signal to begin a storm of bullets. The trip here had been a long one, but suddenly didn't seem long enough. Clara swallowed, feeling a heat burning in her stomach despite the below-freezing temperatures.

"Keep moving please," her escort said. His polite tone was flat and calm, different from the barked-out orders she expected to hear after so many sci-fi movies. She wished this was just another sci-fi movie, like E.T. or hell, even those labs from Stranger Things, and they were pretty messed up. Probably be better than the fortress solemnly gazing at her now.

Clara followed after him, her boots crunching through the snowed-over path that she imagined was never fully cleared. Her escort, who never revealed his name (though Clara had not asked), walked her through several layers of gates and passages up to the front entrance, a heavy looking door big enough to fit three of those armored cars all stacked on top of each other. He keyed in a code and muttered something into a walky-talky while Clara stood idly behind him, her breath pluming in front of her like tiny clouds. Several beeps later, the door rumbled open, revealing more ambiguous guards inside. They didn't bother trying to hide their weapons, nor hiding their eyes as they looked her over. She didn't blame them. She didn't think she belonged here either, but it was far too late to back out now.

She was led further into the building, the gate grinding to a close behind her with a groan. Air-tight. Sealed-shut. Nothing getting in, but especially nothing getting out.

Clara felt words bubble up in her throat, anxious to escape and try to break the heavy air of imprisonment, but any thoughts she had of speaking died when met the stale atmosphere of the soldiers around her. Her eyes wandered from door to door, her escort weaving her through maze-like hallways that she was only partially prepared for. "Meant to keep things lost," her escort had explained back in the car. "Just in case anything gets out of its cell." There was something else about being able to add in a lot more expansions this way, or keeping things moving and progressing with the more they found, she couldn't remember. It was just as confusing as the halls she walked in.

Each hallway scared her, each doorway, though its contents hidden, filled her with terror. What horrible thinks lurked on the other side? Did they seek to kill her? Eat her? Something worse?

She shuddered.

No matter of memorization could really hold in her mind; the second she thought she could retrace her steps, they turned a new corner and she felt lost all over again. It seemed that her escorts served more than one purpose. Clara remained silent throughout their trek. Words felt false and childish and died in her throat before she could even strain out a sound.

Finally, the guard scanned his card and the door to an office slid open. He nodded to Clara and stood at attention. Clara took a deep breath and stepped inside. The room was, surprisingly, warm and inviting. A mahogany desk sat alongside floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. There were no windows, but a large painting of a mountain-scape was framed and hanging behind the desk, providing only a temporary illusion of space and freedom.

To say that it wasn't what she was expecting was an understatement. She was expecting a prison office with bars and guns along every wall. Maybe even monitors lined up along the walls, revealing all manner of monstrosities within the screens. Almost instantly, Clara felt her shoulders start to relax.

The man seated at the desk was flipping through papers, one of which had her picture on it. He wore a tight black shirt, looking more military than doctor or researcher. His dark brown hair was buzzed short along his head. Dark brown eyes scanned papers up and down without pause, and his lips were blank, neither a frown nor a smile to be seen among his features. She couldn't quite pick out how old he was, but she didn't doubt his authority for a moment. To an onlooker, she imagined she must have looked even more out of place in his office. Her auburn hair was pulled into a quick and hasty bun atop her head, a few strands falling out and landing haphazardly at her shoulders. Freckles speckled across her nose and beneath her pale eyes, a mixture of blue and gray. She was small, perhaps only five feet give or take a few inches, but she appeared smaller swallowed up by the heavy winter coat she wore.

He didn't even glance up at the opening door, or Clara's figure waiting for him to finish. Clara fidgeted slightly with her tundra jacket and tried clearing her throat, only for it to catch and end in a rather loud cough.

The man looked up and nodded. "Ah yes, my apologizes. Please have a seat, Ms. Elione. Is that French, Greek? Or would you prefer Clara?"

It's Greek, Clara wanted to say, but instead she just nodded.

"Ms. Elione is fine," she said, sitting down in a rubber chair that squeaked from the pressure. It was stiff, hardly taking her form at all, cracking like new leather often does. Clara wasn't surprised that the chairs felt unused. Even the man's own chair looked uncomfortable, and he shifted occasionally. Sometimes crossing or uncrossing his legs, sometimes straightening, always moving in a way that showed was never quite comfortable sitting down at all.

"Yes, Ms. Elione. I'm Lieutenant Hollaway. Your escort already told you the basics, yes? Your reason for being summoned here?" he asked, closing her file with the flip of his wrist.

"Yes sir. I was transferred here from Florida's Research Division on the coast after demonstrating incredible skills in terms of computer science and technology and-"

"You're here because you found something you shouldn't have," he interrupted. Clara swallowed, her eyes lowering.

"Yes sir."

"One of our associates, Doctor Ivar, was visiting your facility for research and you 'just so happened' to stumble upon some of his research notes that he left out on his desk. You shouldn't have even been in his office."

"He had my flash drive-" Clara looked back up and snapped her mouth shut. Dr. Hollaway's eyes were narrowed and cold. His hands were crossed in front of him, his chin pressing into them as he leaned forward to stare at her, unblinking. Clara's hands tightened into fists.

"Are you finished making excuses?"

"Yes sir."

"Let me make something very clear to you, Clara. You are not here because you're a good scientist. You're alive because you are. Dr. Ivar breeched our confidentiality and you are the result. He has been killed. We killed him for his mistake. Do you understand? We could have just erased your memory, but that causes too much of a fuss. You're not here as a guest, you're here as his replacement for sticking your nose somewhere it shouldn't have been, accident or not. If you prove to be even a sliver less than his merit or worth, you will be killed. And you will not make the same mistake he did. Am I clear, Clara?"

"Yes sir," Clara said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Good. You're here to save me time and effort. You're here to avoid any more casualties, but I couldn't really give a damn if you end up getting killed in here, except that you'd probably make a mess for one of my boys to clean up. So, stick to your escorts. Go where you're supposed to. And for your sake, I hope you've squashed whatever lingering curiosity you may have inside of you. Death is the least of your worries here."

Dr. Hollaway sat back in his chair with a sigh, moving his hands to his lap. "You start tomorrow. Your escort will take you to your room. You're Class C personnel, so you'll get a bed and three meals. There is no room for mistakes here. For your sake, I hope this is the last time I see you here. Now get out."

Clara didn't remember getting out of her chair, or scrambling to the door. She didn't bother trying to memorize the hallways, and her brain no longer graced her with memories of warm sand and easy waves. As she was walked to her room, she bit her lip to keep from crying, and prayed that if there really was a god in this hellish place, he'd have a little mercy on her.

Dr. Hollaway watched her leave, and flipped her file back open for a moment. He stared at the picture there and frowned, pulling out a separate file from his desk. It was packed to the brim with papers and notes, bulging at the seams with all it contained. Dr. Hollaway flipped it open, adding Clara's file to the front. So much information, and he had already poured over it all. He'd read over every letter, every note. This was a risk. Every part of this was a risk he didn't want to take. But they'd already come too far to back up now. No, that would be foolish. How much money had they already poured into this? How long had they been asking those higher ups for a chance like this? And for such an opportunity to literally walk through their front door…

"Ivar, you better be right about this," he muttered. He closed the filed and placed it back into the safe it came from, cranking it shut. He cracked his knuckles, a nervous tick, and sat back in his chair once more.

"SCP-049, please step forward. You are being relocated to a more secure cell," a guard said over the intercom, his fat finger releasing the speaker button a moment later and watching the SCP with trepidation. He didn't bother hiding his disgust and unease, but then again, few did. Perhaps it was the fact that out of many of the creatures kept here in this place, SCP-049 looked more human than the others. In form, at least. His bird-like mask unsettled many of the visitors who came to observe his work. At least he wasn't a giant lizard.

SCP-049 stepped forward as instructed, resisting the urge to claw at the brace around his neck and wrists. Can't have him moving, he supposed, though he wished they'd get rid of the iron collar. He was not a dog. He had been nothing but accommodating, hadn't he? He really preferred that they wouldn't sedate him every time they had to transport him, so that they could put this ridiculous collar on. He hated to have his mind altered or foggy. It was just unsettling, and after they accused him of such horrid things too the first time they didn't sedate him. He had just done his duty as a doctor, after all. That man he cured would have been grateful, could he still speak. They were all doctors here, he still wasn't sure why they were treating him this way. He supposed he couldn't complain too much though, they had been generous with their specimens he had received. So much to learn, so much more still to learn.

They moved him without a word, quite a large set of guards escorting him too, he was almost honored. Two in front of him, one on each side holding the neck brace bars, and a lone gunman in the back, tranquilizers at the ready. Each step in a pattern, in a line, carefully controlled. He wished he could consider his outing a breath of fresh air, but these stale and clean walls were hardly inviting. He didn't mind the occasional change of scenery, however.

They pushed him along, the guards at his side holding his neck brace out at arms' length, steering him like cattle, how offensive. They moved him through path after path, leading him away from the familiarity of his cell and toward the solemn unity of the next one. They were all practically the same.

"Hold!" the guard up front commanded, screeching to a halt. "Let these people pass by, move SCP-049 to the right."

They shuffled him along, practically blocking his view. A small group, a few scientists, an escort, passing through to do their jobs. Usually they scheduled his movings during a time when no one would be passing through. It was not like them to break routine. He craned to look over their shoulders. More infected? More pitiful souls he needed to cure?

A woman. Practically a girl, following behind a guard. Her eyes were swollen and red. She had been crying? She kept her gaze to the ground, moving quickly as instructed by her ever-dutiful escort. But, for just a brief moment, curiosity got the better of the girl, and she looked up. Her eyes widened in fear, face twisting into uncertainty. Or was it fascination? He blinked at her, this girl, this creature clearly not meant for these walls. Was she like him? Or…was she just another infected? No. No, she was, she was clean. She was not infected. But there was something odd about her, something about the Pestilence that he couldn't quite discern, like looking though murky water, like fog, like an itch buried deep within his brain, impossible to scratch, like-

"SCP-049, DO NOT MOVE!" the guard barked, catching him as he leaned forward toward her. She paused, taking a step backwards and closer to her guard, who had his eyes locked onto SCP-049. With a final shaky breath, the woman scampered after her escort, turning the corner and disappearing around the hall. His eyes followed her until she was out of sight, and lingered a moment longer.

"SCP-049, you are to keep moving forward," the guard demanded. With one last pause, he complied.

Could it be possible? Could a simple woman really not just be cured, but immune, to the Great Pestilence? By the time SCP-049 had even started to begin to gather his thoughts, he was in his new cell. The door sealed shut behind him, and his neck brace and arm locks were pulled from him.

The Pestilence had ways of surprising him, even after everything he had learned thus far. He had been doing this for years, eons, lifetimes, so the only thing he wasn't surprised by anymore were surprises. But she was something else entirely.

There it was again. That thing he couldn't quite put into words, on the tip of his tongue, something so fleeting and out of his reach. He felt this often, a whirl of thoughts or a confusing cloud over his mind. He knew, he just knew that if he could grasp whatever it was that always slipped away from him, he would finally have the cure. He could finally cure these poor souls who wandered around like infected sheep, like cattle. But he was their shepherd, and just as a shepherd is to protect his sheep, he would protect these people. This was always his purpose, and he existed for no other reason. He was getting close to a solution, he knew he was, and this girl, this oddity, may just be his key.

He strode across the room, pulling out his notebook from his cloak and flipping to a new page. Yellowed pages lined the journal, filled with a language no man could understand, though they inability to grasp its meaning was something SCP-049 couldn't understand either. To him, it was like plain English, but to any others, it was jargin, nonsense, an unbreakable code that might as well have crafted solely by the owner of the journal. For all they knew, it was. But SCP-049 didn't seem to mind this, as he poured over previous notes and writings, flipping finally to a new page and getting out his pen.

Excitement, the thrill of being so close to a new discovery, gripped at his chest. Every step forward he made was progress, and progress was the greatest task a man could pursue. Discoveries of the unknown, and that girl was most certainly an unknown. This required a more thorough bit of research, without a doubt. He just couldn't wait to get his hands on her.