His shallow breaths staggered as he rifled through the crumpled documents. The terminal beside him printed a pile of papers. From the twenty-fifth to the twenty-fourth page, his eyes darted through, skimming the contents before moving to the next.
Cast in darkness from the light which shone through the cracks in the walls, he sat. Even the interior of Site-19 wasn't safe from the harbinger of death. Yet, even amidst the chaos that roamed outside, there was nothing but silence.
The screams which once pierced the warm air were gone. Only he was left.
Thirteen, twelve, he lamented to himself. Encapsulated in a gathering of emotions, he couldn't tell what was authentic, and what was self-pity. A state of confusion. He took a breath of air to calm his nerves. It didn't do much.
Despite this, he flipped through the papers. Like a mindless being dedicated to one command, like a robot stuck in eternal servitude, like the things roaming outside.
He had to. He felt obligated to. He had to do the others justice. Everything was on him.
That slight sliver of hope he was given when the others had said they'd found the answer kept him going. His broken mind still barely running. He could practically hear the whispers of those who gave him hope.
A minute, which felt like an entire hour, passed before he reached the end. The final document. His eyes skimmed the top of the paper, to the middle, to the end. Yet, he couldn't find what he was looking for.
The file was supposed to update.
He looked again and again, from the top of the pile of papers, to the document he was just on. But there was nothing.
Where was the update? Did he grab the wrong iteration? Where are the answers?
And just at this moment, the terminal next to him blinked.
You have (1) new message!
He quickly put the papers down. Moving his hands across the table to reach the mouse, he clicked on the notification.
An 001 file has been updated! View the updated content?
His hands hovered over the message for a few seconds, before clicking the link.
.
.
.
Description: SCP-001 is the designation given to the Sun, after an event caused its early collapse (by approximately 5 billion years)—
Suddenly, his giggles pierced the silence. Giggles which slowly turned into laughter. Laughter which slowly descended into madness.
This wasn't the outcome he expected.
He slammed the desk with his fist, cracking the wood as dust flew into his eyes. He slammed the desk again. And again, and again, until his hand bloodied.
Then he stopped. His arms drooped down, his body slumped in his chair, his head looked up. He sat in this position for the next minutes. The passing time felt like an eternity.
He stood up.
Slowly, he struggled as his legs started moving away from the desk. He could feel the hands of the many that counted on him, that believed in that slight sliver of hope. The terrifyingly warm hands which pulled on his legs as he approached the door.
But it wasn't his fault that the world died.
He walked towards the door of his once barricaded office. His hand passed the light shining through the window, but he didn't mind. It wasn't his fault after all, so why should the lives of the others matter? They placed their lives on him, but he also was left disappointed, destroyed.
Removing the planks one by one, he kept silent. Blood from his hand splattered across the room, staining the walls and the floor. It looked as if those spoiled, warm hands desperately tried to grip at his back. Looking back, he saw the faces of the many who believed.
Soon.
He gripped the doorknob, hesitating to open the door and step into the decay of the outside world. Anybody would hesitate to step into a living hell.
But the day has already broken. Who's to say he hasn't broken as well?
