A/N: Here I am with another SCP fic, and slightly different from my previous ones — this one is... pretty much a direct sequel to "Clusterf[REDACTED]", a Tale that lives in my mind rent free, and while the general gist of it is gone into here, I do recommend reading it yourself so this makes a bit more sense, and because it seems to be a relatively obscure Tale I think more people would enjoy :] This fic also makes use of the "Amnestics Orientation Manual" page, buuuut I can't link to either because of FF's not allowing links XD

That aside, enjoy! Cover art is fanart of Clusterf[REDACTED], drawn by me.

Agatha Rights always had an overactive imagination — enough to fill sketchbook after sketchbook, even when she grew to be the age where others may have called her immature for it. Her place of work only exacerbated it — ever since she begun work for the SCP Foundation, the pencil drawings she spent more time on than her paperwork grew darker in nature, reflecting the unrealistic reality she'd found herself in — the kinds of drawings one may expect to find out of a child in a horror movie, of horrible creatures with human faces and spider legs devouring their eggs, the remains of skinless fetuses spilling out of their human-teethed mandibles, of herself ripped in two with her organs missing from their cavity and glassy eyes staring at an offscreen ceiling...

They came naturally to her, and she thought nothing of drawing such gruesome things, but Dr. Glass found them quite concerning — his brow would raise and his almond-shaped eyes would fill with concern, tapping his pen against his lip as he took in the page of the journal before him his patient had passed his way. He looked to it, then to her, sitting as casually as ever with her legs crossed upon the desk despite the doctor's insistence she stop, and then looked back to the page.

Glancing again to her, he shifted a thumb under the corner of the page he was on, silently asking her approval to turn it, which she gave. She didn't even remember what was on the next page, but his eyes widened when he processed it — and then he blinked, exhaling through his nose, visibly thinking hard, before he set the journal down.

Upside-down, the memory of the piece on it came back — smeared by other pages, by her hands, by her leaning against it as she worked, as these weren't meant for a museum or art fair — drawing was simply therapeutic for her, a relaxing hobby not unlike spending time to mindlessly pick flowers, and being considered good at it was merely a bonus.

The drawing was a mess of things — separate parts, separate scenes, but all quite concerning ones in Glass' eyes: Rights' arm stretched out, her skin shaving away like a potato peeler had been taken to it, thinner and thinner, until her fingertips were white bone; a screaming toddler with a blurred face in a child's car seat as odd substances splattered the window around it; a crowd of people in various states of fading away, some skeletons, some bundles of nerves, some wet organs in human-shaped suspension; an overcast morning sky with unidentifiable blobs falling from the fog — all done in cheap pencil, some gone over in ink from a visibly dying pen, their art-style closer to cartoony than realistic likely being the only thing keeping Glass from institutionalizing her on the spot.

"Do these have any particular..." He began, the words sounding involuntary as he tore his eyes away from the drawing to make eye contact with Rights, who was currently enamored with watching the clock. "... any particular meaning to you?"

Rights sat up in her chair, clicking her tongue in thought. Truth be told, she knew exactly what their meaning was, but knew the answer would result in Glass probing her mind even more. She loved the guy, but he really thought too hard sometimes, looking for signs of memetic-induced psychosis or SCP brain control or suicidal thoughts where there were none, and the topics of her mindless drawings didn't help that.

There wasn't anything wrong with her, no matter what Glass would think — Rights found herself one of the most normal of her coworkers, honestly. She exhaled, blowing a strand of hair away from her nose. "Uhh... they come from, like..." Leaning forward in thought, she crossed her arms over her chest, against Glass' neat wooden desk. "These nightmares I keep having."

Glass' eyes widened for a moment, his grip on his clipboard tightening as he stopped in the middle of writing something. Before Rights could ask, as she had no idea what could have provoked such a reaction, his astonishment faded, and he lightly nodded as he scribbled something down. "Nightmares?" He echoed. "How frequent?"

"Eh." Rights shrugged, making a noncommittal hand gesture as she did. "Enough for me to remember. It's like... I wake up one morning, some SCP that doesn't exist breaks out. It's all fuzzy. There's Ophi, and my ex-husband, and... another kid." The more she thought on it, the more incoherent it all felt — really, she only remembered disconnected details, only odd flashes: of a crying child she couldn't fully piece together the face, of white splatters freezing things in time, of watching her co-workers fade away, down to the bones and organs. "I don't really remember how it all goes."

"Can you try?" Glass suggested. Rights didn't know why he honed in so far on this story in particular, but she figured it was either padding time — or some psychologist thing she didn't fully understand. Maybe it was secretly symbolic of her motherhood struggles, or something.

Wracking her brain, she stared up to the ceiling, "ummm"ing in thought. She'd had that dream a few times, with no real pattern to what caused it — but it returned, over and over. A small part of her wondered if it was anomalous in nature, which would be cause for Glass' concern, but... she'd definitely never heard of an SCP causing things like that.

"Something's happening with the skip. I remember Cog's there." That was a decent start, right? She looked to Glass for any reaction, but he was only watching her, waiting for her to continue. "The breach causes, like... I don't remember. But it ends up with me and everyone else in Site-17 in some... shelter. There's a countdown, and we all fade, in that way I drew..." She waved a finger in the direction of the sketchbook — her arm, the fat, the muscles, the bone, the nothing... "then I wake up."

Glass nodded. The gravity of his expression put her off, and she forced her lips to quirk into a smile as she brushed her curly hair over her shoulder, managing her usual lighthearted, flirtatious laugh. "I've always had a weird imagination." She finished, shrugging.

"Oh, I know." Glass responded, smiling in turn, as if being knocked out of that grave trance, pausing to write something down on his clipboard. "Your art seems like a healthy outlet, on top of being excellent. And I like to learn about your process." He chuckled, clicking his pen.

He was lying.

...?

Rights blinked at that thought — it came to her too clearly, like a knee-jerk reaction, or a bad gut feeling. Woman's intuition, she thought for a moment, but she never took Glass as the lying type. They were friends, outside of the therapist's office, and he was just as easily victim to the random sweets delivery and bad jokes and flirty comments as the rest of her co-workers. Never once had she thought him with a bad bone in his body — never once had she ever gotten that feeling from him, but...

...they weren't friends right now, they were therapist and patient. Glass made sure to keep a strict divide between those things — he had to be a master at compartmentalizing to even be allowed to give his friends formal psychological evaluations, much less remain friends with them after. Why did he take interest in her drawing process in the therapist's office? It was the kind of compliment he'd give her in the break room, not in a recorded evaluation...

Then he flashed that smile at her, and her worry faded. Glass was just a nice guy, in and out of the office — what was one stray compliment? Rights let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding — she hated to distrust her friends, even for a split second, much less the bright-eyed and loving Simon Glass.

"Well, thank you. I've been drawing since I was little. You can tell all the cartoons and anime I grew up on." She laughed. "The Foundation makes a great subject. Good place of inspiration — that's the way I like to see it. Better than being scared of it all, right?" Taking her sketchbook back, she idly flipped through more pages — it wasn't all darkness, though that was what Glass liked to focus on most. A smile wormed its way onto her face to see that stupid doodle she'd done of Kondraki frolicking about with butterfly wings on his back — she'd take that one to her grave, as the man himself would likely shoot her if he ever saw it.

"It's a nice way to look at it." Glass agreed, with a light hum. "I'm inspired by your optimism, Agatha, I'll be honest. It's hard to stay that way in the face of the things we work with around here, but I know a lot of people here like you." As he spoke, he pulled a folder from a drawer in his desk, flipping through it — sheets of tickets, of some kind, or prescription slips. Rights wasn't a stranger to them. He licked a finger as he thumbed through the pages, finding one in particular and tearing it off.

Rights thought on Glass' words as she watched him pull out his pen and write, unable to make out the contents exactly — chuckling inwardly at those jokes about doctors' handwriting, but the thoughts that clouded her brain at Glass' comment weren't all positive.

She was well-liked, but with it came pressure to uphold that reputation — enduring Dr. Iceberg's sleazy comments popped into her head first, but that was the least of her concerns: at least that was something she could laugh at, but she couldn't find it in her to do the same for, say... having to put on a brave smile for every sapient SCP she talked to that cried and begged to know when they'd be allowed to go home, or having to do the same for her daughter when her work made her grow more and more absent.

To see Dr. Glass encourage that... it made her heart sink a little, but she supposed that was nobody's fault but her own. He was her therapist, yes, but a part of her still saw him these days as the friend she hung out in the break room with, like any other, and couldn't stand to worry him — besides, it was just... awkward. She loved the guy, she really did, but he wasn't close with her enough to know all her deepest secrets, even when it was his entire job description.

Shaking those thoughts away in favor of taking the compliment, she returned her attention to her sketchbook as she continued to flip through it. "I am a knockout," she snarked, "can't blame 'em." Ah — there was a portrait she'd done of SCP-590, based off a painting she saw once — the little guy's strict containment procedures didn't allow gifts, but he made a good subject, and would probably appreciate being used for doodling over everything else his containment team put him through. And... oh, this was a cute one, Dr. Glass and his old assistant with a pair of ducklings!

"You and your jokes," Glass regarded her fondly as he finished writing up what she assumed to be a prescription — but he didn't give it to her, and she bit back the desire to ask questions. Glancing towards the clock, his eyebrows lowered, giving a sad tinge to his smile. "Ah, we're out of time." He said, adjusting his glasses as he turned to her. "I'll see you next month, then?"

Nodding, Rights stood from her chair, retrieving her lab coat from where it had been casually discarded on the floor to pull it back over her shoulders, needing to transfer her sketchbook from hand to hand to manage it. Gathering her purse as well, she blew a playful kiss in her friend's direction in farewell — their session was over, and the air between them relaxed, something she was infinitely more comfortable with — as she turned and left with a jovial "see you next month!"

Glass waved as she left, keeping that smile until the door was closed behind her and the clacking of her heels vanished down the hallway — when it did, he allowed the worry to crease his face, grin dropping as the light switch in his head flipped off. What Agatha had said and described... Dr. Gears had informed him of the event, but he never thought it to be practical knowledge until now. After all — she didn't remember any of it, and she'd shown no signs of immunity to memetics like the ones employed that fateful day. Had her brain not taken well to them?

Exhaling, Glass could no longer hide the concern welling in his chest. This was bad — Agatha was innocent, completely, but the mere fact those memories resurfaced at all put her in danger. How much longer until she pieced together that this was all no dream, and the slapped-together, panicked security measure the Foundation employed that day, using their staff's off-the-clock lives as mere experiments, were all a reality? When would she learn that the child she'd lost in that dream was once her own — and what would she do when she found out?

It was moments like this that Simon Glass was not as soft as everyone, including him, liked to believe. He was not anyone's friend, not really — as even the kind-hearted therapist had people to answer to, and ideals he would trade lives for. When someone truly soft came, the Foundation stomped it out of them, or ripped them apart — just as this knowledge would do to Agatha if it persisted. Glass was not soft — he had been the Foundation's best performing therapist for years now.

Gears picked up the phone immediately, giving Glass no time to reconsider his decision — that his session with Agatha Rights today had been a security breach of Incident 7843-1-7778-C, and thus opened the belly of the beast. It was something the Foundation took very, very seriously, and Glass shut his eyes tight as he stamped the regretful, soft part of himself down. It was for Agatha's own good — better the odd dreams end here than grow, and better she never learn the full truth that came with them, that she'd erased her own child that day, that the people she worked for and loved so dearly saw it as a mere test in personal information retention.

It boiled Glass' blood to remember — but the incident was completely erased, much like the lives of Chester Rights and God knew how many more people in the process. All that remained of it were incident reports, security footage, and items submitted as evidence bagged and placed into storage somewhere, if not destroyed completely. Truly, it was as hidden as something could be, and even a hint of it, of one of the Foundation's greatest shames getting out...

He should have taken the sketchbook, Glass realized with a sigh. The medical staff could handle that. Prescribing amnestics was nothing new to the Foundation's Head Psychologist — but there were some measures even he hoped he would never have to employ, much less for someone as bright-eyed and loving as Agatha Rights.

It would be for her own good, he had to remember, and he told himself that every time he saw her in the months of debate among the Ethics Committee it took for his request to be approved. The dreams were clearer each session, as were the drawings — one of which he was allowed to take in as evidence, and it terrified him how clear Agatha's self-portrait of herself covered in those washed-off words was, how the white statues of people frozen in terror began to litter more and more of her pages — she didn't know the significance of any of it, nor why Glass' stomach seemed to turn at every mention of "that weird dream". He didn't want it to be true, but painfully, it was right there:

Agatha Rights remembered it all, even if she couldn't piece it all together — and the incident was years ago now, nothing a typical Class-B could touch. That was the most dangerous kind of anomaly, and the most dangerous kind of memory to remove — Glass had coaxed many people into taking Class-Bs with the mantra of "if you don't forget now, soon you'll have to get rid of it entirely", usually in the context of forgetting a friend's brutal death in favor of forgetting their whole existence, and it was true: if Agatha came forward with her drawings and her dreams only a week after it happened, something could be managed, but...

It had settled. It had seeped into her subconscious like a tumor, and one that was impossible to remove without amputation.

Glass' request was given a fancy red stamp — it was a termination order in all but name, and Agatha's questions were only half-annoyed snarks as she wondered aloud why the medical staff were keeping her so long for a simple check-up. Glass had no easy answer for her, trying to avoid looking at the IV in her arm, knowing exactly what would go in it, and joked along with her as he thumbed through the sketchbook she'd left on her nightstand. It was the last time he'd see her art, before it was expunged from Foundation records just like its creator, and he wanted to remember it.

He landed on a cartoony (anime, was that what she'd called it?) drawing in black marker on a yellow post-it note stuck to the page, of himself and his old assistant — smiling at the viewer as simply-drawn ducklings toddled after them, charming in the way all Agatha's art was, with the big eyes and silly expressions. He was always astounded, every time he saw her drawings, by her ability to go from the silliest things to the most grotesque. She had more love and jest in her heart than she had morbidity, one could tell just by flipping through the books she'd made her portfolio — morbidity was just to be expected with her line of work.

Looking to her in the hospital bed, she'd gone limp — silent, her eyes fluttering closed as the light and comprehension in them faded. The first dose was kicking in, and Glass' heart twisted. He knew what a Class-E amnestic was, how she would never wake up again — and how this was the intended result, no matter what the medical staff and Ethics Committee would say to her friends and family. It was one of the many things Glass had to live with on his shoulders — but he could forget, too. That was the only ray of hope with his job: he could forget whenever he wanted, and that was the only thing keeping him from breaking right then and there in front of the medical staff.

Thankfully, the small yellow note made minimal noise as he plucked it from the page of Agatha's sketchbook — odds were it was to be incinerated, but he wanted to keep this remnant. A memento for his friend — or a beacon of shame, as he was the only one to blame for Agatha's state now.

It was for her own good, he told himself every time he saw that post-it note pressed inside of his clipboard, the only surviving piece of Agatha Rights' art — as time went on, it seemed to be the only surviving piece of Agatha Rights at all, save for articles signed in her name, as fewer and fewer people questioned her whereabouts as time marched on. Everyone seemed to forget the quirky, soft-hearted artist as easily as she forgot her own child, and Glass had no room to be bitter, but that made it hurt no less.

There was nobody he could tell, of course — he was only told of what happened with SCP-7778 to know what to look out for in those affected, and he had no doubt he would be given those fateful IV doses if he blabbed to the wrong person, tempting as it was sometimes.

And so Glass held onto it — he held onto that incident and onto Agatha's memory, just as he did everything for the sake of his coworkers: remembering atrocious things they'd all forgotten, until the stress became too much. Remembering the child Agatha had forgotten, and in turn remembering the artist the Foundation had forgotten.

A/N: Hi. I'm sorry.

I knew for a while I wanted to write something about Clusterf[REDACTED], and the general concept of Rights remembering that day or otherwise finding out what she did, as well as do something to acknowledge Rights in-universe as a generally unused/'erased' character.

Reviews, etc, are appreciated! Thank you for reading!