I got this journal from the Foundation, so I suppose I should write in it. Do they want us to write in this? Are they going to read it later? Probably.
My old name is Michael Harris. My new name is D-18363. It feels so impersonal, makes me think of old Nazi camps. I suppose we aren't really supposed to be people here, the batshit professor doing the orientation didn't really treat us like we were.
I suppose I should get my thoughts out?
I'm at a place called the 'SCP Foundation', whatever that stands for. I was in prison for life. A guy came up to me, said I could get out, only had to do a few months of community service, show my nation I cared. Obviously, I fucking jumped. It's a worse deal than he made it out to be, that's for sure.
I might die soon, if I'm thinking honestly. The scientist telling us about our new situation said so many terrifying things. That the last group of D-Class, they lost twelve people. He said that we would probably die, just flat out, and then started laughing his ass off. Asshole.
But, no time for that. Gotta stay positive, 63!
I'm in a room with three other D-Class guys, two bunkbeds, we all share a dresser (I think they separated us out on who all had the same shoe and jumpsuit size). There's D-10147 (Formerly Jeremiah Smith), he's got a thick beard going that I think they're gonna have him shave, and he's pretty tall. Then there's D-29178 (Formerly Kurt Harris), he's lanky and gaunt, looks like a wind could dismantle him. Finally, there's D-56910 (Formerly Anthony Hogg). He seems kind of skittish, but in a dangerous way. Like if you move weird around him, he's ready to stab. Since we all have different ending to our IDs, we go by that. I'm 63 now, friends with 47, 78, and 10.
I'm gonna miss my old name.
Whatever.
The new clothes are a garish orange, and the rest of the facility (from what I see) is mostly just monochrome whites and blacks. The doctors wear white coats and black slacks, the janitors wear white shirts and dark pants, it feels like we're wearing these jumpsuits so they can stare at us as we walk down the hallway, thinking to themselves, that's a D-Class.
This whole place gives me chills, too, it's so cold, impersonal. And what's behind those walls? Some of them look thick, you don't even have to look at the sides of them, you can just tell from how they sit. It's unsettling. The guy who recruited me, he wasn't too up-front about what kinda work I'd be doing.
The crazy researcher who let us know the gist of what we'd be doing here wasn't all that open, either, but I feel like I'm going to die before I've done all my service hours and it'll be a joke to them.
They're calling us for dinner now. I wonder what it'll be?
- 63
