Mankind in its present state has been around for a quarter of a million years, yet only the last 4,000 have been of any significance.

So, what did we do for nearly 250,000 years? We huddled in caves and around small fires, fearful of the things that we didn't understand. It was more than explaining why the sun came up; It was the mystery of enormous birds with heads of men and rocks that came to life. So we called them gods and demons, begged them to spare us, and prayed for salvation.

In time, their numbers dwindled and ours rose. The world began to make more sense when there were fewer things to fear, yet the unexplained can never truly go away, as if the universe demands the absurd and impossible.

Mankind must not go back to hiding in fear. No one else will protect us, and we must stand up for ourselves.

While the rest of mankind dwells in the light, we must stand in the darkness to fight it, contain it, and shield it from the eyes of the public, so that others may live in a sane and normal world.

We die in the dark so that you may live in the light.

We Secure. We Contain. We Protect.

A sudden burst of bright light jolted a man out of a deep sleep, illuminating the small room he'd found himself in. He shot up in the bed he was laying on, which was little more than a metal frame, a lousy mattress, a couple of white sheets, and a flat pillow, and looked around frantically, his eyes wide and his heart pounding. The room was cold and cramped, containing little more than the bed he sat on, a square sink, a metal toilet, and a small desk and barstool, all of which were firmly fastened to the ground, wall, or both. The floor was tile, the walls were brick, the ceiling was cement, and all of it was the same shade of eggshell white. There was a ventilation duct near the center of the ceiling accompanied by a correctional lighting fixture that was embedded into the cement beside it, and on the wall high above the bed was a small, circular speaker protected by a mesh cage. Across the room from him was a thick metal door that was gray in color and lacking a handle. In that moment he knew only one thing; He was locked in a cell.

"Hey! Hey, somebody help!" he shouted, jumping out of bed and running over to the door, pounding on it with his fist in a desperate attempt to get someone's attention. "Can anyone hear me!? Help!"

"Shut up in there," a gruff, muffled voice called from somewhere on the other side of the door. "You'll get your breakfast along with everyone else."

"Sir, sir! Please, I don't know where I am, what I'm doing here, anything! Can you please just tell me what's going on!?" he called out in desperation.

"Try reading the pamphlet on your desk. Now quiet down or you'll be eating leftovers alone in your cell," the same voice responded. He backed away from the door in despair as panic coursed through his veins. He glanced over at the desk beside the bed and saw that there was indeed a sheet of paper sitting on top of it. He rushed over and took it in his hands, scanning over the document in a desperate search for answers, but he wasn't happy about what he found.

SCP

Secure. Contain. Protect.

Orientation Leaflet for 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 have 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.

"Death row…" he muttered as his blood ran cold. "What the hell is going on?" He tried his best to remember something, anything, but he was coming up empty. There were no memories of who he was, what he'd done, or anything beyond waking up in this cold, miserable cell. For a few terrifying moments, he couldn't even remember his own name, but slowly, he was able to recall that one simple aspect of his identity; "Benjamin…" he whispered, "My name is Benjamin… but people call me Ben." Despite his best efforts, he was unable to remember anything more than that, and even his last name eluded him. He couldn't even remember what he looked like or how old he was, but fortunately, the metal toilet was reflective enough to help him fill in those blanks; As far as he could tell, he was around thirty years old. His fearful eyes were dark green, his dark hair had an unkempt, comb-over style cut, and the short boxed beard on his face was the same shade of black. He had an average build and was somewhat tan, although it seemed like his skin was beginning to turn pale. Ben looked down at his clothing, now noticing that he was clad in a dark orange jumpsuit and canvas slip-on deck shoes of the same color, as well as a white undershirt that was barely visible, all of which fit him near perfectly. The front of the jumpsuit featured a zipper that ran from just above the waist to just below the collar, and stitched horizontally into the left side of the shirtfront was the identification number he'd seen on the pamphlet; D-9341.

"Attention all Class-D personnel, breakfast is now being served. Please exit your cells and make your way to the cafeteria in an orderly manner."

Ben nearly jumped out of his skin when the automated male voice blared through the speaker above his bed. On queue, the cell door slid open to reveal a long hallway with a floor, ceiling, and walls identical to those of his cell. The hallway's walls were lined with thick metal doors, most of which were now open, and it wasn't long before the sound of voices began trickling into Ben's cell as the other inmates exited theirs. Seeing no other option, Ben cautiously stepped out of his cell, joining a growing line of men and women all clad in the same clothes as him. At first, he was surprised to see that the men and women weren't separated like they would be in any other prison system, but it made sense in a weird way; This SCP Foundation, as it was called, was offering a prize too good to go and throw away. Any convict who valued their life and freedom would be on their best behavior during their month of service, which eliminated the need for certain prison requirements. "Why is it that I can remember how a prison system works but not my own life?" Ben thought to himself, nervously glancing around as the line began to move, passing by various doors and hallways. He also noticed the other reason for inmates to be on their best behavior; Armed guards patrolling the corridors of D-Wing, keeping a close eye on the line of inmates.

The guards all wore the exact same gear, sporting gray and white fatigues that were reminiscent of winter camouflage. Gray padding was sewn into the knees and elbows of the uniforms, and each guard was wearing a sleek, gray bulletproof vest over their fatigues. The ends of their sleeves were tucked into gray combat gloves, and the same had been done with the bottoms of their pants, which disappeared into combat boots of the same color. The helmets they wore were the same color as the rest of their armor, and skintight neck gaiters of the same shade concealed the few parts of their heads that the helmets didn't. Their eyes were shielded from external view by dark visors just big enough to do the job, and each helmet had a miniature microphone that hung beside the guard's mouth and was connected to the helmet's built-in earpiece. The guards weren't lacking in equipment either, for strapped to the front of each of their vests was an angle-head flashlight accompanied by a combat knife that was sheathed in a sewn-in cover. Each guard carried an assault rifle that looked to be far beyond military-grade, and holstered in their tactical belts were sidearms just as advanced, as well as pouches holding ammunition and basic medical supplies. Lastly, embroidered on the right shoulder of every uniform was a black symbol that Ben could only assume was The Foundation's logo; A circle with three arrows crossing its contour and pointing to its center that was enclosed in a thin circular frame with rectangles protruding around each of the arrows' tails.

Lost in his thoughts, Ben wasn't paying attention to the quickly moving line and thus was caught off guard when one of the guards standing on opposite sides of the hall addressed him. "Clothes?" a female voice asked.

"Huh?" Ben responded, looking up at the guard to his right.

"Do you have any dirty laundry for us?" she asked again, sounding annoyed. Ben shifted his gaze to the ground and saw two large laundry baskets placed beside the two guards, both of which were quickly filling up with dirty clothes from the other inmates.

"Oh, uh, no… I don't," Ben stammered, looking back up at the guard's concealed face. He couldn't see her eyes, but he was sure she was rolling them.

"Then move along. In case you haven't noticed, there's a line of people waiting behind you," the guard to his left said, sounding more annoyed than his partner.

"Actually, I need to ask you about-" Ben began to say.

"Move it!" the second guard commanded, raising his voice. "If you have questions, then go bother someone who isn't busy with them!"

"Yes sir," Ben said in surprise, quickly moving forward with the rest of the line as the inmates made their way deeper into D-Wing. Ben wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings, but he was dimly aware of the cell doors disappearing from the walls after the laundry checkpoint. He vaguely recalled passing by a gym, a rec room, showers and bathrooms, and an infirmary before the group of convicts finally ended up at their destination; The Cafeteria. As they slowly trickled into the room, Ben saw that it had an elongated, hexagonal layout featuring seven rows of stainless steel tables, all of which were bolted to the floor and equipped with four barstools of the same material. High above the ground was a balcony that spanned the length of the room, providing the guards perched on it with a perfect view of the ground floor, where the inmates had been split up into two different lines, both of which were moving at a steady pace as the convicts were served their food. Having no appetite whatsoever, Ben slipped away from the line and made his way to an empty table at the back of the cafeteria, deciding against seeking help from the cafeteria staff after his previous experiences with the guards. He sat down and leaned against the table with his head in his hands, desperately trying to remember something, anything about who he was or what he'd done to land himself in this situation, but it wasn't long before his thoughts were interrupted by an unfamiliar voice.

"You okay there, buddy?" the newcomer asked. Ben looked up to see a black man who looked a little older than him standing at the opposite side of the table with a plastic tray that held two slices of toast, a bowl of oatmeal, and a cup of orange juice. He was completely bald and had no facial hair, his eyes were hazel, and he had a muscular build. His jumpsuit had the identification number D-9358 stitched into it, and after a few moments of Ben saying nothing, only looking at him questioningly, the man chuckled. "Yeah, that was probably a stupid question," he said, sitting down across the table from Ben. "I've never seen you around here before. It seems strange that they'd bring a new convict in halfway through the month, but maybe we've just never met. Either way, you look like you could use a friend," he said, holding out his hand. "My name's André."

"Ben," the amnesiac glumly responded, halfheartedly shaking André's hand. "I shouldn't be here."

"Should any of us be?" André asked, beginning to eat his oatmeal. "Probably not. This place is… weird, to say the least, but it's better than death row. That's why we took their deal, right?"

"I didn't take any deal. I never belonged on death row," Ben said.

"Yeah, and I definitely didn't end up in here for killing my bitch wife and the four guys I caught her cheating on me with," André said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Seeing the look of shock on Ben's face, he decided to elaborate. "Relax, Ben, the only people who had anything to worry about from me are dead. Other than a couple fistfights, I've never hurt anyone else. You've got nothing to fear."

"Right…" Ben said cautiously, unsure of whether he could trust this self-admitted murderer or not.

"Still, I did what I did. I put myself in this position and so did you. The sooner you accept that the better."

"André, I don't remember what I did, if I even did anything," Ben insisted. "I can't remember anything; Who I am, what I've done, my life before this… It's all gone! I can barely even remember my name!"

"Damn, you're serious aren't you?" André said.

"Of course I'm serious, why wouldn't I be!?" Ben said, doing his best not to raise his voice. "Maybe I was never even on death row! Maybe these people came and kidnapped me because I knew too much about them, or because they needed more Class-Ds for testing, or-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, just calm down man. Take some deep breaths. Freaking out won't help anyone," André said, trying to defuse the situation. "I think I might know what happened to you," he said after a few moments of silence.

"What?" Ben asked.

"You read your pamphlet, right? Everything about this place is top-secret, so having all of us Class-Ds wandering around and socializing during meals and leisure time makes for a big security risk. It's the same deal with them letting us go at the end of the month, so to compensate for it, they give us these things called amnestics."

"Amnestics?" Ben questioned.

"Yup," André said with a nod. "They're these little white pills they make us take after assignments. They get rid of any memories The Foundation doesn't want us to have, so we never remember the details of our assignments. Only that we did them. Hell, they probably wipe our memories of this place entirely at the end of the month."

"And you're all just okay with this?" Ben asked, completely dumbfounded.

"Sure," André shrugged. "They get to keep their secrets and we get to go free at the end of the month. Everybody wins." He paused for a few moments, letting Ben take all of this new information in. "What I'm getting at here is that I think something went wrong when they amnesticized you. Instead of only knocking out the memories of your assignment, they got rid of everything."

"That… makes a lot of sense," Ben stammered. It was a relief to finally have an answer, but at the same time, it didn't really make anything better. "So what can I do about it?"

"You see that guard over there?" André asked, gesturing at a guard who was standing by one of the cafeteria's service windows. "His name's Pearson. About a week ago, I helped him restrain an inmate who got violent with him. It earned me some brownie points with the guards, but I'm not very popular with the other inmates because of it. That's actually why I came to you; Seems like we could both use another pair of eyes watching our backs."

Ben nodded in response, allowing a trace of a grin to appear on his face. "So you're saying he could help me?"

"No, but he can take you to someone who can. I figure the guy owes me a favor," André said, standing up from his seat and pushing his tray over to Benjamin. "You're welcome to have my toast. I know you probably don't want to eat, but you should. We only get three meals a day."

"André," Ben said just as his new friend was starting to walk over to the guard he'd pointed out.

"Yeah?" André said, turning to face him.

"Thank you."

"Sure thing, pal," André said with a grin. "Just remember what I said about watching each other's backs." With that, André turned and made his way over to the guard. Ben watched as the two began to talk, taking a bite out of a piece of toast and allowing a small smile to creep across his face. It felt good to have a friend.

(X)

A few hours later, well after breakfast and lunch had been served, Ben was still sitting on a cot in the D-Wing infirmary with a doctor who'd been only marginally useful to him. She was an older woman with brown, graying hair and dull blue eyes hidden behind circular spectacles. The nametag pinned to the front of her white lab coat read Dr. Annette Sharpe. She'd run a number of tests on him to no avail, and over the hours he'd spent being poked, prodded, and hooked up to strange machines, Benjamin had lost most of his patience, which is why he didn't acknowledge her calling out to him.

"D-9341," she said again, finally getting his attention.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" he grumbled, hating that his identity had been reduced to a numerical designation.

"Because it's protocol," she answered simply. "Now then, we were recapping what you've learned about yourself and this facility?"

"My name is Benjamin Oliver Walker, I'm thirty years old, the date is April 15th, 2012, and I'm a glorified lab rat in a top-secret research facility."

"Area 37," Sharpe nodded. "And you aren't lab rats, you're D-Class Personnel."

"Same difference," Ben muttered. "Also, you can't tell me anything other than that because you don't even have the clearance to access my files, but apparently they have me labeled as a low-risk inmate, which I can only assume is a good thing."

"That's correct, as unfortunate as those limitations are," she sighed, sitting down in a chair facing the cot. "I'm afraid there isn't much else I can do for you without violating security protocols."

"Then do it," Ben snapped. "You people broke my memory, now fix it."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, D-9341," Sharpe responded. "However, I've sent a notice to the higher-ups of the facility and we are actively looking into your situation. Your condition is an uncommon one, but not unheard of. It should be treatable, but it'll take some time to get the proper clearance and resources to remedy your affliction."

"How much time?" he asked.

"It could be hours, it could be days. Maybe even a week, I'm not sure," Sharpe responded, much to Ben's annoyance. "What I do know is that we'll have you fixed up long before you're sent back into the real world."

"Great, that's a big help. Thanks a lot, doc," Ben muttered sarcastically, trying his best to hold in his anger as he gripped the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on.

"I'm sorry, I really wish there was more I could do for you," Dr. Sharpe said. "For now, why don't you head to the rec room and clear your head? I think they're going to be showing a movie soon. Or you could go back to your cell if you want to, the choice is yours."

After thinking about it for a moment, Ben looked up to face her again. "Just put me back in my cell. I'm not in the mood for a movie."

Dr. Sharpe nodded in response. "Sure," she said. "I'll have a guard escort you there." Cursing under his breath, Ben waited for a few minutes until the guard she'd requested came to retrieve him. As they left the infirmary together, Annette sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, sighing deeply as she finally allowed her act to fall apart. "Oh, Benjamin…" she mused, "If only I could tell you what's really going on."

(X)

Ben was frozen, and could only watch with terror-filled eyes as his ice-cold body tried its best to move a muscle. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, and a suffocating sense of panic had him in its clutches. His cell was almost pitch black, and shadowy shapes and figures lurked in the corners of the room. It was dead silent aside from the disembodied whispers that floated through the air, but none of them made any sense. They all spoke in gibberish, and as he fought to muster words of his own to drown them out, someone else beat him to it. "You look afraid," a low, enigmatic voice said. Ben's heart raced in his chest, and he shifted his focus to the right of his bed, catching sight of a strange man sitting on the barstool and looking down at him with a stoic expression. The man was ghostly pale and appeared to be in his late forties. He was clad in a black, buttoned-up, cold war era business suit, as well as a white, collared undershirt and a black tie with gray stripes. The dress pants and dress shoes he wore were both black, 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, but the terror in Benjamin's heart only increased with each word from the specter's mouth. "I wouldn't want to wake up, but unfortunately, you must."

(X)

Benjamin shot up in bed, breathing heavily and blinking the bright light shining from overhead out of his eyes. He hadn't even meant to fall asleep after returning to his cell, and evidently, he hadn't been sleeping for very long, as the light above his bed hadn't yet been turned off for the night. "Sleep paralysis," he gasped, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Fucking hell." His skin still felt cold, there were goosebumps running down his arms, and he couldn't stop shaking. He glanced over at the empty barstool, half expecting to see the strange man sitting there and watching him with that same stoic expression, but there was nothing. He was alone. He let out a deep breath of air and attempted to calm himself down, trying to convince himself that the whole ordeal had been nothing more than a nightmare. "That man was telling me something," Ben pondered. "Nightmares are coming… What the hell does that mean?" His thoughts were interrupted by heavy footsteps approaching his cell, and as he listened intently, he was able to make out one of the last things he'd wanted to hear.

"Control, this is Agent Ulgrin. I need you to open Cell-311," a muffled voice said. Moments later, the 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."