SCP-6730
rating: +22+x

FILE RECOVERED FROM POCKET UNIVERSE C-223

Item #: SCP-6730

Object Class: Safe (Revised)

Special Containment Procedures: Deceased.

Description: I’m not really sure where to begin, if I’m honest. I’ve never been one for clinical writing nor being honest about my feelings, but they tell me this will be kept forever — whenever someone wants to look into what happened, the first thing they’ll stumble on is this file.

Might as well make it worth their time, then.

What I was called before transfer to Site-921 isn’t important. Neither is my gender, my height, my weight, my eye color — none of that is remotely relevant, and if we’re both being transparent, you know damn well you wouldn’t care. I don’t expect you to, don’t worry. What is important, however, is where they keep my body.

From what I remember, I was moved to the Site-921 Cold Storage Facility. They usually just called it the morgue. Not very creative, I know, but you can’t expect colorful imagery or verbiage from the people who write everything with the passion of wet bread.

Anyway, for whatever reason, the people in charge of this facility deemed it prudent to take a .357 magnum and discharge one round quite cleanly into the back of my tender head. This, of course, killed me, as one would expect. What’s interesting, though, is that a part of me was left behind; a souvenir of my time in this world and a connection to reality that can never be severed. That’s how I’m writing this right now, if you hadn’t already guessed. In killing me, they somehow induced a transfer of consciousness; it’s something of a psychological black box, if you will.

Intriguing things occur when the mind is deprived of a physical form. Take my access to the Foundation intranet, for instance. Did you know that every single security portal on the network possesses a hidden back door? Did you also know that these back doors lead to secrets and golden nuggets of information long believed to not exist at all? I’d tell you how I found all of this, but the quite disconcerting reality is that I don’t really know.

I just woke up like this. And, believe me, it hurts.

Remember when I made the black box analogy a moment ago? Well, it’s not solely your consciousness and your memories that survive the fatal blow. You also retain a psychosomatic, looping playback of how you died. The brain continuously believes that the body is in imminent danger and sends distress signals in the form of pain. This is consistent with your brain’s responses to most immediate threats. The problem, of course, is that the body no longer exists.

All this to say that I relive being shot in the head every nanosecond.

Sometimes, I can disregard it. When I’m preoccupied with a task or thinking about something, it’s not quite as present, becoming more of a dull ache in the background. But this is rare. Usually, it’s searing and unmistakeable, bringing to me what I assume would be tears were I corporeal. In the first few years, I thought it was done to me on purpose by the containment team; some sort of retribution or spiteful, final gift.

I spent those initial years screaming from a mouth that didn’t exist.

When I finally calmed down and became at least partially coherent, I set into motion the beginning of a plan. It wasn’t well thought out and I more than once wrote it off as an inevitable failure. Luckily for me, though, even the Foundation has an upper ceiling of maximal control it can hit. No system is impregnable, and nobody had any reason to look for me so long as I didn’t make myself known.

I sat on the network for a few months and studied not only the core systems, but the people at the facility, too. The great thing about humans is that they’re fallible. One slight misinterpretation of protocol, one forgotten security regulation — and now I have access to on-site nuclear warheads or the jail cell you keep hell itself locked in. I’m not going to lie and tell you that I didn’t consider letting everything loose and reducing the Site-921 research staff to a scarlet, gushing pulp. But where’s the fun in that?

Nah, that’s too easy. Contrived, even.

At the core of the facility is an anomaly that is far too complex to warrant description here. The gist, though, is that it bends reality, and does so maliciously. It’s quite the thinker, as I discovered. Inside its cell is a computer interface manufactured specifically to facilitate two-way communication between the Foundation and whatever that thing is. So I got cracking; I sent a few messages, a couple cute little promises, and bam! The Red Disciple is on my team.

I made sure the Anchors were offline, moved everyone inside as part of some last minute, entirely staged event, and hit the button. It would turn out that my new colleague’s methods of asserting control over spatiotemporal reality were less than…refined. You ever heard a human being scream from six mouths collapsing upon themselves? How about a woman with eyes that stretch across all the walls around her but still see perfectly fine?

Not the prettiest sight, I concede. But it worked.

When things settled down and we doused the building in some of your patented amnestic gas, nobody was aware of anything having gone awry. To the staff, Site-921 was as it always had been; a relatively boring and quite crudely designed facility in a long list of boring, crudely designed Foundation containment sites.

We chose to make them forget dissolving into a smoldering ash every night only to be reconstructed at the atomic level the next morning.

We also chose to make them never look out the windows — extradimensional space, as I’m sure you know, doesn’t jive well with the human mind. Tends to make it about as consistent as jello.

A few weeks after I assumed control, I managed to locate the security operatives responsible for actually firing the bullet. They’re special, to say the least. I don’t wipe them at the conclusion of each day. Instead, they’re all around the others. The walls, the ceilings, the flickering light fixtures — their minds are stored in every recess of this place. I’m pretty sure they’re still conscious and capable of sensation, but reacting to stimuli is relatively difficult when you have no discernible organs or limbs to speak of. My favorite thing, though, is that they still scream — once in a while, a researcher will hear them, only to assume they’re imagining things and pay it no further mind.

I like licking the backs of their tear ducts when I’m bored. It’s always the best when it’s fresh — and with them, it’s never stale.

So, that’s what I’ve been up to lately. Playing god may not be the most original of activities for a disembodied being, but it’s certainly among the more entertaining. And as for my body — where it was stored?

You can check the morgue. You won’t find anything there now. You can check the burial site — it’s empty too. No, I’m nowhere, and I’m everywhere.

I’m nothing, and for them, I’m everything.

Extradimensional space, as you know, is quite expansive. I’ll have to make the best of however long it takes you to find this universe. I’m sure you will, in time; there are, after all, a finite number of pockets in the cosmos.

Until then, I’m happy to inform you that I am very much contained, and have reclassified myself as Safe. No further containment procedures are necessary.

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