You turn and leave the holding cell, letting the door seal itself shut behind you.
From your pocket, you withdraw a small notepad and a cheap ballpoint pen, and everything you just mentally noted — every little detail and more — flows right from your brain through your arm and hand and right onto the tiny page, in the messy handwriting of someone who shouldn't be walking and writing at the same time.
It's an old habit you picked up a few years back, when staff was a lot slimmer and there were more things to be done in less time. You should really still be stood in that room, making those notes live, but this is good enough. Your memory is more than adequate. If the thing turns out to be an antimeme, standing and taking notes would be just as useless, so where's the issue?
You get back to your office clutching a notepad full of chickenscratch. The name on the door isn't yours — it's Dr. Jason Greaves, an amnestics chemist — this was just the only Class 3 office that was available at the time. You don't plan on requesting a new label for the door, because you don't plan on spending very long here. If SCP-3939 doesn't get you promoted, then you might think about it. Hell, you haven't even unpacked. Your suitcase sits on a small chair next to the door. The shelves behind the desk, shelves that should be full of all the awards you've earned over the years, lie barren. The dust on them is broken by little squares and circles where Dr. Greaves' awards once sat.
You take a seat at the desk. It's made of cheap fibreboard, probably, but every surface is covered in a plastic veneer made to look like oak. It's shit. It's the same shit you had when you were Class 3. Hell, this could even be the same office you had, there's barely any difference. Your desk, your Class 4 desk, is easily twice the size and made of real oak. Or at least, it's oak as far as you know. You've never been an expert on wood.
On the desk itself, there's not much to speak of either. There's a monitor and keyboard, both of them clunky and shit; there's a telephone, and there's a metal canister of airborne Class B amnestics . It's probably the new formula that Dr. Greaves was working on. Seeing as the office was free, and Dr. Greaves isn't here anymore, you decide that it's probably best not to sample it.
You boot up SCiPnet, log in, open SCP-3939's document and start typing.
You classify it as Safe. It's still in the room, and it didn't try to kill you, so that's pretty simple.
For the Special Containment Procedures, there's not really much to say. It's fine where it is.
As far as the Description goes, you write what you saw. The stuff you wrote in your notebook is barely legible, but it translates from written to typed pretty easily.
Now comes the question you've been looking to avoid for as long as possible. Why wasn't it already classified?
