Thank you and goodnight.
Solemn reverberations echoed throughout the abandoned corridors of Site-219 as Dr. Lament moved with a dragging gait. Each step was as heavy as her breath was ragged. She walked asynchronously; there was a drag, an occasional stumble, and then total silence. Her grip tightened as she lifted her fireaxe away from the grime-imbued floor.
Site-219 had once housed a small variety of anomalous objects; more specifically, it was where Foundation-Made technology underwent maintenance and, in rare occasions, manufacturing.
Site-219 had built its reputation from nothing. At first, it had been considered a joke – a facility that mimicked the failures of others; taking what was once considered useless and revitalizing it into something that the Foundation's twisted personnel could play with.
But then… it happened. They found something. Something real. Something worth manufacturing. They found it…
And without hesitation, the Overseers voted in favor of its production.
Dr. Lament gently wiped all of the filth from the crooked plastic sign strewn across the now-isolated security door. It read:
“SCP-8177 – SAFE”
SCP-8177. Site-219’s claim to fame. Overnight – with the assistance of this thing – they had won over the Council. They had won over the Task Forces. They had won over everyone. They had done it. They had found their ticket out of mediocrity, and with that, everyone was waiting for what came next. The next device. The next document. The next subject.
But it never came. Site-219 never uncovered anything of major significance ever again. They had attempted in-house creations, of course, but those never seemed to work out for one reason or another.
Site-219 was a joke. An utter failure. An embarrassment. Site-19, Site-01, Site-73, Site-13, they had all done it better. They had all done it faster. They continued revolutionizing modern-science under the guidance of that damned three-arrowed insignia. Site-219 was left behind — walking one step forwards and three steps back.
After a moment of thought, Dr. Lament rattled the doorknob of the containment chamber. It had been left unlocked. Inside, there was an operating table, a camcorder, and a console.
The console.
SCP-8177’s console.
It reeked of forgotten memories and missed opportunities. It represented everything wrong with so many people. Dr. Lament loathed it for that very reason. She loathed them. How could you have thrown away your one big chance in pursuit of a hypothetical? How could you have been so blinded by the sun you crashed into the ocean before your wings began to melt?
She hated the twisted reflection of herself visible on it's screen.
With a final breath, she swung her axe into the console. Metallic plating and outdated-circuitry flew into the air as her axe dug deeper into its core. Digital screams echoed throughout the facility, calling out for a savior who wasn't there.
She knew no one would notice it was gone. No one had entered the facility in over forty years. And even if they did…
Why would they care?