SCP-1428 – "Cortexichildren"

Chapter 16: The Grind

Disclaimers: During the writing process, all of the SCP number selections I have used were / are vacant. I don't intend to publish this on the wiki, so if the series number is now taken… look at how many fucks I give, Anakin. This is mainly a crossover fic, not a SCP event log that will go on the site.

Forever reminder that I do not own anything. Fringe belongs to J.J. & co. Each SCP belongs to their respective individual author. The SCP universe belongs to that collective on that site. I do not own anything. I am a fan.

Forever reminder of how I handle alt!characters: Over There: Bob. Over Somewhere Else: Bob.

Author's Notes: This chapter may or may not also symbolize the grind I face while trying to crank out these little shits. This was so much easier when college was on winter break or when my classes were like in the weaksauce early stages of the semester. But now it's like try to say sane & not have a nervous breakdown because of overwhelming everything. I'm trying to make do. I'm sorry.

I don't want to say "I told you so" over the SCP-682 incident and the fuckery it's caused amongst this Foundation, but…

I CALLED IT. CHECK BACK IN THOSE LOGS BECAUSE I CALLED IT. – Dr. ████

Olivia hadn't seen anyone or anything apart from Nick – or SCP-682 and the guards used to remove her from its containment chamber – in what felt like weeks. Maybe it was weeks. It probably wasweeks.

The Foundation had committed a foul mistake, she assumed. And likewise they were afraid of the consequences. SCP-682 had expressed its interest in her. It saw the common denominator between them. It admitted, even in front of the Task Force and the multitude of recording devices in its chamber, that they were similar anomalies, anomalies that the Foundation could not understand or control. It shared her hostility for the Foundation. It shared so many characteristics.

And yet… they were not the same. Or at least, she hoped they weren't. Olivia was still human. Olivia respected and protected the lives of others. This SCP-682 cared only for itself and those that could directly help it. It was a creature with one goal and one goal only – escape. Any person or anything that stood in its way would be crushed. Mercilessly.

Olivia hoped that she would never reach such a state of resentment or desperation. She hoped she would never be driven to such extremes – such hatred. But how long had they been in this Foundation's clutches? Months? Her sense of time in this Foundation – in this universe – had been distorted. And it wasn't just because the two of them were locked in rooms with no windows and flooded with thick orange gas every few minutes or so. Even before they had been captured, something felt off. Something felt quite out of balance and out of sync.

If there had been a real Fringe Division, a division based on genuinely saving lives through actual understanding and relative trust, she would have presented these concerns to them. If the Foundation had only welcomed their existence and respected their abilities, she would have shared everything with them. Perhaps these anomalies were similar to the degradation Over There? Perhaps this was another form of degradation that could occur across the universes? Or did that make any sense? Alas, she was not Walter Bishop.

And perhaps the orange gas was clouding her judgment. The two of them were starting to build a tolerance for the substance, but it still saturated the room and affected her to some extent. Sometimes it got so thick that she couldn't even see Nick right beside her. Sometimes she couldn't even see her own body laid out before her. Sometimes she just couldn't even see – only orange.

What kept Olivia up at night was that confrontation with SCP-682. If she ever got the chance to see it again [she doubted that], what would she say? Would she welcome its proposal? Would she seize the opportunity and breach with it? Would she escape and possibly leave Nick behind? Or would she oppose the invitation as well as the monster? Or was opposition a foolish position to take against a beast of such power?

How strong was the SCP / subject / monster anyway? What sort of a chance did she really stand? The Foundation obviously had some confidence in her skills to send her there without Nick, but they had obviously made many blunders when it came to the topic of her. And now they were quite afraid of the possibility of the two of them getting together, as evidenced by this degree of segregation. But they weren't really afraid of HER exactly, were they?

The character of SCP-682… was she correct not to trust it? Her judgment of people was always spot on, with or without Cortexiphan activated, but this wasn't exactly a person. This wasn't even an animal. It was an alien from another universe, something she didn't really specialize in. Something she wasn't really sure you could specialize in.

And yet… Olivia couldn't help but feel… a bond between the two anomalies. As if she had found a kindred anomaly amongst the insanity of this prison. Or was it just mere coincidence that this "bond" was even happening at all? Was there really a "bond," or was Olivia forcing conclusions together after being trapped for so long; was she finally letting desperation cloud her judgment? In any circumstance, she wouldn't go into that chamber unless her life depended on it. She wouldn't even consider trusting that thing, maybe even if her life depended on it. And yet… this WAS the other circumstance; the unlikely, the unthinkable, the unimaginable had happened – like it always did for her. And yet… she didn't think this slew of current events would unfold in such a way. It was foolish and naïve to cling to such thoughts, given the abnormal context of her life, and yet… being abducted in another universe with Nick Lane… it was still such an outlier of a possibility. And yet it had happened.

So should she trust the being – the outlier – just like herself? Despite any hesitancy and doubt she had, could she trust it? It COULD be her only chance. It could be THEIR only chance.

And yet… she still resisted. And she felt guilty for doing so. This very well COULD be the only chance for Nick to escape and Nick alone, and yet… she wasn't even entertaining it? And to make the guilt exponentially worse, she had lied to Nick about it. When he had come out of the cloud coma they had forced him into, she simply lied right through those trusting blue eyes of his. She lied and said that she had been by him all that time, in the haze right alongside him. And he had trusted her. He would always trust her because she was his Olive and it ate her up inside. It felt like her insides were coated with that brownish-red substance caked in SCP-173's containment chamber. She felt like a Dr. Hendricks-type individual. It was awful.

Did he know that she was lying? That she was fixating too much on everything? Did he read the inner turmoil she had inside her? Or was it something else? Because ever since Nick had opened up to her, he hadn't said anything since. Something had changed in their dynamic between them. And she didn't like it. She didn't like it at all.

And she couldn't help but feel disgusted at the range of emotions she was experiencing. It was so unlike her to experience one emotion, let alone the countless sequences she had plaguing her in the matter of minutes and hours. She blamed the cell. And she needed to get out of it. She NEEDED to. There was nothing left for her to think about amongst the orange gas and the hissing silence.

What kept Nick up at night was his hatred. He hated it here. He hated feeling so weak – weaker than he had ever been before.

They kept them so systematically sedated, so submissive. They kept their powers – their true sense of selves – muted. They ripped from him the only thing he had. And left him naked in the orange gas on his pathetic mattress of a bed. They ripped from him the only confidence he had in himself and left him as a raw and disposable sack of flesh.

And spent. The remnants of soul he had left in that flesh was exhausted, and it wasn't from the gas. It was from… everything. Everything was taking its toll on him. Mounting and piling on his shoulders forever glued to the mattress.

The gassing was endless and the pain was endless. He wanted to die. Even with Olive right next to him, faithfully forever by his side, he wanted nothing more but to die. And there was nothing in there to give him that sweet release. No weapon. No strength to use such a weapon. Nothing.

Disgusting and disposable and deplorable. He didn't even deserve death. He didn't deserve anything. But a being as wretched as him didn't deserve to exist either.

She was so distant from him. She was so close to him in their physical reality, and yet Olivia was thousands of miles away. She didn't talk to him. She didn't look at him. She didn't want anything to do with him. And Nick couldn't blame her. He would do the same thing.

All he had left was the voice at the back of his head. The voice thrived in the suffocating orange gas. It craved it. It needed more of it. It lusted for it. It gained the strength that Nick lost. It gained the voice that Nick lost. It gained the power that Nick lost. It soon had everything.

'She's keeping things from you. She doesn't trust you. She doesn't need you. She's stuck here with you. And she's looking for other ways out. She'll leave you behind. You're just dead weight. You're worthless. You're hopeless. She doesn't deserve to suffer for the likes of you. She doesn't deserve to be in a prison with your rotten stench polluting the place.

'You're a lost cause, Little Nick. And you'll die. So very soon. They'll kill you. Even the Foundation has no need to keep you alive. You have nothing more to give. You HAD nothing to give in the first place. It was a mistake to even bring you here. You were only part of the package with Olivia. They were mistaken to observe you first. They were mistaken to consider you valuable. You have no value. You have no purpose. You're nothing.

'But death would be an award for such a foul failure like you. You deserve harsher punishment. You deserve an eternity with me. You deserve an eternity of suffering for your sad little sins.'

Normally Nick would have put up a fight. Normally Nick could resist the darkness and its voice. But it was suffocating and surrounding him, just like the gas. And in his eyes, the orange gas was grey, was black. And it flooded into his mouth and into his eyes and into every little orifice. He sucked it down so his lungs were black and his tongue was black and all of his insides were black and filth. He was filth. Everything was filth.

Why him? Why this? Why couldn't he have had… a normal life? Like the rest. Ordinary was better than this. Ordinary was a different kind of forgettable, an acceptable kind of forgettable. Like the Nick he saw in this universe. The little worker bee with his suit and tie, awaiting the grind. The grind sounded like paradise. Mediocrity and ignorance seemed like such sweet release. An ant caught up in its infinite colony seemed like sweet freedom, sweet bliss. But it was too late for him. Too late.

Nick was much too vulnerable now. She would tell him about SCP-682. She promised. She promised herself and if she didn't follow through… she deserved the vicious tactics the Foundation could concoct and enact against her.

But right now Nick needed support. He needed her. She wasn't great with such affection, even with Peter, and the last thing she wanted to do was play Dr. Phil in such a stressful environment, but he needed something. Or she would lose him. For good.

She couldn't move through the thickening gas – they drenched them with more and more everyday – but she could talk today. Olivia had enough strength for her voice and her voice alone. And she was fortunate for that because they BOTH needed this. They BOTH needed to keep their demons at bay. Olivia was wallowing and torturing herself in the darkest recesses of her mind, to different degrees and in different ways than Nick, but she still was inflicting torture on herself. She was still irrationally hard on herself. She judged herself to standards other humans did not. And those standards made her feel guilt and shame. And she hated herself to degrees other humans did not. And that self-hatred only bred more self-hatred for being so abnormal and freakish. Through this hellish experience, she learned how similar they really were. How fragile and vulnerable they BOTH were. How haunted and crazed they BOTH were. Perhaps they really were paired for a reason.

"Nick? Nick, can you hear me?" She sounded raspier than usual, but it didn't matter. She could speak.

"Y-yes." His voice was a harsh croak, but it was still a voice. "Olive?"

"Tell me about… our past. The good moments, not the bad. I want to remember… how I was like when I was little. I want to remember… our original bond."

The orange fog seemed to get thinner. And the distance between them seemed closer. It was easier to move now. And she felt… better. So much better as Nick, now animated and so very much alive, gushed:

"Golden hair. I've always remembered your golden hair. The golden girl. Olive." Nick was even laughing now as he remembered. "You had golden energy and a golden smile. Everything about you was just… golden. I'd draw pictures for you, when we got some alone time for ourselves. Golden-yellow birds. You loved them and I loved drawing them." Nick chuckled some more, "You flew the highest out of all of us. I couldn't get off the ground most days, but you could soar to the stars."

It even brought a smile to Olivia's face. But even when she strained to remember such pictures, they did not come. Nothing came. None of the images Nick described would come. And he went on for what felt like hours, detailing certain meals Olivia had preferred and crayons she had gravitated toward. He paid attention to everything, because she was that important. It was amazing how much he was able to remember. And how much she was able to forget. Nick remembered certain sweaters and shoes she had worn. Nick remembered how sour the lemonade they gave them had been [and it was probably laced with some chemical array for some unknown effect.] He remembered the equipment for tests and for play. He remembered it all.

And it actually made him happy. It brought him such joy to relive the moments with Olivia. And it gave her a little joy to hear him like that.

But she knew it wouldn't last. Nick was happy, but it was only temporary. The distraction was only a distraction; it wasn't permanent. Even though she wanted to cling to the words he said, they did not stick. She fixated too much on the reality of it all.

This kind of existence wasn't enough to survive. The two of them were at their limits, barely able to survive. Faintly. And they were slipping, slipping into the darkness of despair.

They needed to get out of there. As fast as possible. But how? How could they, when the orange fog arrested their movements and kept them trapped in their cage? And even if they got beyond their cage, what then? A second breach was not what the Foundation had in store. They wouldn't make any progress.

So what was the point? Why even fight at all?

Personal Log of Dr. Carla Warren:

We haven't made any progress. Dr. Kwon is furious. I've never seen him in such a state and I've known him for years. He hasn't reached any tipping point yet, but I don't want to see him unravel. Like how Hendricks unraveled.

I blame the fear – the fear is what's forcing us into a stalemate. Everyone's on pins and needles, tentative and apprehensive. We can't afford to make the slightest of errors – not now. Not after the incident with SCP-1428-2 and SCP-682.

We're running out of time. We've never been on an official schedule, but I know we're behind it. We need answers, but we only get more questions. And as a result, we only add to the containment procedures, not our awareness of the subject.

Dr. Montgomery is hesitant in the face of things. She's inexperienced and this probably wasn't the best project to start with. I fear for her. I hope she doesn't unravel. And I hope I don't unravel. Or die. There's been so much death. So many colleagues, so many of my friends, just…

I need to get back to work. We must make progress. We must make progress. I will grind myself into nothingness for progress. For Dr. Kwon.

"Walter, what the fuck are we DOING?!" Peter set his wrench down. And he ran his dirtied hands through his hair in exasperation. "This pace… it isn't sustainable. What are you hoping to achieve? Do you want to KILL us? Because I guarantee that you'll get those results before you get whatever the hell we're working on. I'm not going to grind myself into the floor just for the sake of grinding."

"Stop complaining; the pace simply isn't good enough, Peter," one of the Walters said. As of late, Peter couldn't even tell which was which; they had turned into the same person just hosted in two separate bodies. They fed off of each other. They craved that eager excitement creating and destroying gave – that power and necessity gave. And they were both prone to violent outbursts when things weren't going their way – which was often with this rag-tag team of Fringe crew members and random assistants. Walternate was better at controlling his temper, but they were still the same man. Under the suit and jelled hair, he was still the same man with the same ticks and the same interests. They both wanted perfection and nothing else. "We are behind. The pace is blistering yes, but we MUST make progress. For Olivia's sake. For the sake of the world." From these words, Peter guessed that it was his father, but he still couldn't be sure. Walter had invested more interest into his Olivia, but perhaps it was just to maintain a truce with Walter and with him. He was never sure when it came to his father – both his fathers.

"But Peter's right, Walter." Astrid's voice was hoarse and fainter than usual. She was always stationed at the second table around the four aides that Walter had chosen to bring over. "We're all running on fumes. We can't do our best work like this. Why don't we take a break? Just for an hour or two?" She saw that the Walters were not buying it. "I promise that our productivity will sky-rocket." Neither of the Walters were budging. "I promise, Walter."

"Asterisk, I just can't… we just can't take that risk." Walter's face softened. "I don't want Olivia's well-being to suffer just because we can't stand not to get any sleep."

"But Walter we haven't slept in days." And the days certainly took its toll on Astrid. She had always been skinny, ever since Peter had first started working with her, but now… Peter would consider her frail. Her hair that was usually full of life and excitement started to droop – just like the rest of her. Everything sagged, everything fell. The pace was grinding her into the ground, into nothingness. She wouldn't be able to last much like this. "And I know this is for Olivia – believe me, I do – but I just… we just… we can't go on like this. We need a break."

Walter knew. And Walter didn't want to see Astrid suffer so. He didn't want anyone to suffer, especially on his watch. He turned to his alternate counterpart and hoped that he felt the same tug on his heartstrings, or what little of a heart the man had left. "Do you think we can spare two hours?"

The alternate counterpart pulled up a blue spreadsheet on the transparent glass surfaces surrounding – and separating – the two Walters from the rest of the group. His fingertips flipped through a series of graphics; his face grimaced and snarled until he got to the needed slide. "I believe we can. If we must."

"Then that's settled then." Peter set everything he had been working on aside and moved to the break room. "We must."

The last time he had been in this side room, with its grey walls and windows, was when Olivia had come to visit them with doughnuts. He hadn't seen her since, just like this room. Her absence didn't necessarily worry him, but the subject of their previous conversation had. She had been so… unlike herself. So shaken. So unsure. He hoped that she was in a better state of mind.

And he hoped to reach a better state of mind with a nice cup of coffee. Again he was beyond grateful that Secretary Bishop was privileged enough to have such a rare commodity over in this universe. Smuggling coffee to and from the universes had been deemed illegal [and any other contraband] ever since the bridge had opened. And Peter was grateful that he didn't have to break any more rules than necessary.

As Peter was waiting for his black brew to come to just the right temperature, the door opened. A very unkempt Lincoln Lee staggered into the room, with pale skin and darkened circles. But his face immediately lit up when he saw Peter hovering near the coffee machine. "You are a saint amongst men."

"I do my best." And Peter tried his best to send a smile Lincoln's way, but his face could barely move given his current exhausted state. "The Walters certainly have been working us to the bone. And speaking of work, what exactly are they having you do?"

Lincoln heaved himself onto one of the plush couches and groaned, as he body began to finally relax. "Basically I'm the runner. They're sending me around as a liaison for parts and bits of technology. And I report back to Agent Broyles with our status. And I report to other entities on this side for necessary paperwork for trading and acquiring things. And I report back to the Walters for whatever else they need. I don't get any sleep the same as you. But I'm just not hovering over tech trying to get things to work. I'd be little help to you that way." He closed his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief, "But this… this just feels like heaven."

"Heaven, huh? Where all the good dead souls go?" That was a familiar voice. A familiar voice with red hair.

The door opened and Peter even smiled at the figure swaying into the room. "I was thinking about you, actually. How've you been?"

She stopped advancing forward, but she couldn't help but sway her hips gently from side to side. "Better, more or less." She did seem better. More energetic. And lively – a lot livelier than the zombies in the break room. "Thanks for that chat, by the way." Olivia shook her white box gently. "I come bearing gifts. But this time I hit the two masterminds up before you two. And they took quite a bit of the bounty, so head's up."

"I'd imagine," Peter smirked. "What's in it?"

"It used to be a smorgasbord of pastries, but again… half of its contents are with the Walters." She opened the box. Peter did see gaping holes, but it was still filled with a hearty amount of pastries. He spied flaky crusts full of various fillings, products with ample amounts of chocolate, circles of dough with layers of fruit and icing, and other such delights. He helped himself to a few [especially the ones with apple filling because he had been craving those as of late] and set them on the table next to the coffee machine on a lavender napkin.

Lincoln finally opened his eyes for this one. He perked up and leaned up to take from Olivia's goods. He expected her hair to be cascading all around her, possibly getting in the way of the food and of her face and all, but it was plied back into a surprising bun. Even her bangs had been pushed back into submission, smoothed out and clamped under a black clip. Not a hair was out of place. Everything was precise in a way that was intricate, even if her hair and her minimal make-up were very simple in nature. And to top everything off, she was in a rather commanding suit with a crisp ironed white shirt and jet black pants. He looked much more like his – or his universe's – Olivia, save for the bun and its color. And he rather liked the bun. He liked seeing her face. Since it was a nice face. Not that he didn't like her hair or anything. He liked that, too, but this was a nice change.

He was blushing. He hoped she didn't see that. He hoped he wasn't staring too much. He hoped he wasn't noticing too much about her outfit or her face. He hoped that she wasn't actually a Cortexichild like their Olivia and could actually read his thoughts just as he was thinking them. He was flushing and he swore it was apparent, so he took a bite out of his buttery croissant, swallowed, and forced a smile – forced himself to take control of this situation and play it cool. "What's the occasion? You're not one to dress like this every day." He hoped to every universe that it would work. "That's more of our Olivia's thing."

Olivia rolled her eyes. "I was forced to. I was in one of those meetings that I couldn't escape. We were discussing protocol and measures and figures – the last place I want to be with all these out of place bureaucrats that are the furthest away from matters that really matter. They talk their game and implement their changes, but nothing happens. They don't know one thing about the real world and they don't even care." She snarled at the wall, as if the men were actually in the room with her. "They'll never see a family in amber; they only read about it. They fuck around with their numbers and figures, but they won't even look to see the Fringe cases right in front of them." Olivia shook her head and threw her hands up, "I can't… I… I even had to wear these." She looked down to the black heels on her feet in mild disgust, looking like she was going to fling them at the windows at any second. "I had to borrow them from another agent and they're too small. And they're completely hideous, to make matters worse. I'd much rather be wearing my boots. Or sandals. Anything but these."

Peter couldn't help but laugh. "See here I was pegging you for a girl that liked her heels. I guess I was wrong. Oh and the coffee's ready, Lincoln."

"Pour me a cup," Lincoln grinned. "But really? Not a heels girl?"

"Not a heels girl." She closed the box and pursed her lips together, "You'll have to excuse me. I didn't come here to talk about my footwear habits."

"You have to leave so soon? But we were just getting comfortable." Peter sat down with his coffee and his pastries. "Surely you didn't just come here to deliver food and some sass." He would have winked but he figured that would be pushing it.

Olivia put her hands on her hips, hoping to deliver a frown to Peter and his taunting smirk in her direction. But she couldn't. Not even to Lincoln and his puppy dog stare aimed at her. She just couldn't. She was getting soft with these individuals.

She had to leave before she got too soft. "Just… good luck. I don't know what you're doing and it's probably best that I don't know a lot about the device, but good luck." And with that she left the room. In a hurry. In her heels.

"Some kind of woman," Peter laughed and took a deep sip of coffee.

"Yeah." Lincoln was still blushing, despite himself. And hopefully Peter wouldn't notice either.

Personal Log of Dr. Carla Warren:

I don't know what we're doing wrong. It's been days and nothing has happened. Absolutely nothing.

We go without sleep and it doesn't seem to help us, but Dr. Kwon doesn't notice. He's too blinded by his ambition. The only thing he cares about is himself. And what he wants. And how he's going to get into the Overseer class. Everything and everyone is secondary.

I wish I had realized this sooner. Even I'm expendable… just like everyone else.

But even if I'm expendable… I want to do my job. I want progress just the same. I want everything dealing with SCP-1428 to be under control. I want life to go back to how it used to be. Or relatively back to how it used to be since it's too late now. It's too late for a lot of things.

"I'd like to hope that we're almost done?" Peter asked, looking up at the structure before him.

It was taller than he thought it was going to be. Certainly sleeker than he initially thought. And surprisingly slender, even with those black and white panels. A lot of work went into the technology staring back down at him. A lot of sacrifice and dedication.

Walter was fiddling with his screens and his fingers. "I think that-"

There was a rippling that seemed to come from Walter's screens. But it wasn't his screens that were distorting the space in front of them; it was something else. There was only one thing – one person – capable of causing such a phenomena.

And that figure walked out of the rippling and distorting space. And he took off his hat and stared at the device before him, before Peter and the rest of the workers involved in its construction, tipping his head to the side just so. "Good. You are nearly finished."