In his daydream, between the long hours of the Work, Yoshihide pushes a cart up a hill.
He is eight years old again, sitting on the outskirts of his village. The wind brushes past his face as the clamor of construction rings out around him, reverberating past the howls of the rushing air. Caked around his legs, mud bubbles and crusts into a thick layer, the viscous substance arresting his movement — but only slightly. He trudges along, grinning, watching the workers busy around him.
He's not old enough to understand what they're building yet. It doesn't matter to him. What does matter — what utterly captivates his attention — is the cart, carrying piles of dirt far beyond the skyline. He watches them push the dirt along the track off into the distance every day after school. It's the first thing he does as soon as he gets home.
One day, as the tall men before Yoshihide laugh and work, curiosity gets the better of him. He hops down from the rock he sits on, and stumbles towards them past the piles of wood and steel stacked neatly into clusters. The two notice his approach, and the taller one — a man of darker complexion than his companion — bends down to meet him.
"Hey there," the man says, smiling, "are you lost, little guy?"
Yoshihide blinks several times, getting the sun out of his eyes, before pointing to the cart. He takes a few moments to find the words he wants to say, but he eventually seizes them.
"I… I want to push the cart!"
The man turns to his friend with a smirk that can only be understood with the retrospection of adulthood. After a moment's pause, in one swift motion, he rises to his feet and waves his hand towards it. "Well, come along then! This cart isn't gonna push itself!"
Yoshihide can hardly contain his excitement as he clambers up to the cart, right between the two men, who have now assumed position. The sun shines warmly on him, the rays casting their dull heat, as they begin to count one, two three! and push the cart with all their might. Without a moment's delay, it begins to roll forwards, inch by inch at a time, until Yoshihide can hardly keep up with its gathering momentum.
As it continues to roll, his footing loosens, and Yoshihide falls—
—and jerks himself to attention, catching himself. The room spins around him momentarily, before his gaze refocuses and drifts towards the ink and paper littered across his desk. The sun drapes light over the room in distinct lazy streaks, illuminating the countless bits and pieces of paperwork that occupy his time, day in and day out. And in the center of the mess, in the eye of the storm, the 001 document beckons towards him mockingly, waiting for his inevitable attention.
It takes him just slightly too long to realize that he's not alone. Beyond the open door of his office, in the vestibule where his secretary lies, a familiar face stares calmly through him, waiting for the first signs of recognition. It takes Yoshihide no more than a quarter of a second before he puts the eyes to a face. His grip tenses.
"Administrator."
The man rises perfunctorily, and walks in a way that betrays no underlying agenda for his impromptu visit. The light casts off his skin as he approaches, but it does not glow with warmth — the same pale, cold features are still as discernible as when they were bathed in darkness, no new life breathed into them.
He sits, and wastes no time. "I hope I did not arrive at an inopportune moment, Director Yoshihide. I recognize you have been under much duress since our last encounter."
The director glares cautiously at the man. "Your presence is certainly not helping in that regard."
The two sit in silence, briefly. The Administrator does not grace him with a smile anymore, the stone complexion of his face remaining wholly inert. "I apologize for that. I merely came to inquire about your progress on the SCP-001 containment case."
The silence continues now, as Yoshihide articulates his thoughts. If there's tension palpable in the air, the Administrator doesn't seem to feel it.
"I intended to begin the containment efforts tomorrow."
Now the Administrator smiles, his perfect white teeth peeking out from behind the lightly lifted folds of his face. "That is the correct response, Director. Perhaps there is still hope for you yet."
Yoshihide grunts, but doesn't reply. He's not sure if it's meant to be a joke.
"Regardless, I eagerly anticipate your inevitable solution to our ongoing… problem." The Administrator casts a forlorn glance down at the epicentral paper, nestled deep in the mess of the mahogany desk. "The particularities of this anomaly continue to elude our organization, and if there's any hope in a solution, it will be through you," a pause, "Yoshihide."
The manner of enunciation makes him shiver in his place. He tries not to show any sign of discomfort to the facsimile of a man before him. "I appreciate the sentiment, Administrator."
Another off-putting smirk, and his hand extends towards the document. The document. He picks it up, turns a few pages, then begins to read.
SCP-001 refers to an anomalous corpse, hanging within a containment chamber at Site-01, entrapped within a cocoon of silk threads. SCP-001's cocoon has thus far proven impenetrable; attempts to damage the exterior have proven futile. Blood continuously flows from between the threads on its body, at a rate of approximately five liters per day.
SCP-001's primary anomalous effect occurs at random. At an average incidence of once per day, a silk thread with identical composition to SCP-001's cocoon will manifest around the middle finger of a member of Foundation personnel. This individual is labelled SCP-001-A.
Over the course of 48–72 hours, the silk will continue to coil around SCP-001-A, extending from the location of manifestation. The speed of the silk's growth varies between subjects, though typically immobilizes them within 24 hours.
Once SCP-001-A has been wholly cocooned within the silk, it will begin to constrict around them. This process lasts approximately three hours, during which blood will begin to seep from between the strands at increasing rates. Once SCP-001-A expires, the cocoon will become inert, and the silk will lose its anomalous properties.
Thus far, over 85 Foundation personnel have been terminated in this manner.
He speaks with almost no emotional intonation, the gruesome information being relayed with near perfect poise. Yoshihide, for that matter, does not react either — he recognizes such treachery would not be tolerated by this man. The Administrator quietly places the document back down and reestablishes eye contact.
"Mr. Yoshihide," he starts, "what do you make of it?"
It's a test. One that Yoshihide is perfectly prepared to answer. He can feel the fire in his eyes glowing hot as the portrait forms in his head.
"All reasonable manners of conventional penetration have likely proven futile in breaking into SCP-001's cocoon," he begins, "so primary investigation into SCP-001 should first and foremost focus on mitigating its effects in the short term."
Yoshihide pauses, then continues: "Has amputation been considered?"
A smile blossoms on the Administrator's face. It appears genuine this time. "Yes, though no one has thus far been willing to try it."
"Then I will be the first."
It's a statement of fact, not a question. Something changes in the air, but the Administrator's smile does not falter. "You will be, indeed. Very good, Director. I look forward to seeing your progress report next week."
And with no further comments, the Administrator lifts himself from his seat and reaches over for a handshake. Yoshihide grasps the cold, lifeless husk in his hand, and they shake. Then, he is gone; briskly whisked away as though never present, as though the meeting was nothing more than an ephemeral dream.
Yoshihide stands, processing, for several seconds longer. The sun's beams constrict silently in the ensuing moments, before disappearing entirely. He leans back, collapsing towards his chair—
—and lands explosively in the mud, splashing the brown across his clothes and face. The men stop their pushing to turn back, and begin to chuckle as Yoshihide looks up. Seeing them laugh, he begins giggling too, and quickly pushes himself to his feet, though slips again, prompting more laughs.
"Say, kid," the second man chimes in, "Why don't you take a break? You've been working very hard, and you're covered in mud now. Hop on into the cart and we'll push you!"
Anticipation overwhelms Yoshihide as he gingerly attempts to climb the minecart's sides. The first man helps push him up, and soon he sits upon the mounds of dirt, overlooking the world from a bird's eye perspective. He can see farther than he ever could on the ground. The boy resolves, in that instant, to never again step down from the cart — a fleeting, ephemeral promise among the countless others that define childhood.
Seated firmly on top of the piles, the two men begin to push once more. He's small enough that he can sit tightly behind the rim on the top of the cart as it jostles through increasingly rural countryside, so he simply enjoys the vibrations of the ride as they flow through his body.
The wind begins to pick up, and Yoshihide becomes acutely aware that the cart is now quite high upon a hill, even further than before. Turning, Yoshihide sees the men are — not quite struggling, but they're huffing and breathing quite deep as the cart gains more altitude. He worries that he's adding too much weight, but his fear is quickly abated as the slope of the hill curves closer towards a flat plane.
Slowly, the cart levels and stops. The men take a breather. From up here, high upon the highest hill Yoshihide's ever seen in his life, he can gaze upon all of the trees and houses and roads and people from far, far away. His eyes are wider than the wheels of his royal carriage, and his mouth stands agape at the sight. Keen volander overtakes him.
After but a few minutes of this ephemeral moment, the cart jostles slightly. Yoshihide spots the first man's hand gripping the edge of the cart. He's smiling now, widely, as he begins to speak.
"Alright kid, you're gonna wanna hold on tight for this next part."
It takes a few seconds for the young boy to register what he means, before the cart begins to lull forward on the track. The realization slams into him, and he grips onto the side of the cart just before it begins to roll down the hill, slowly at first, then faster, then faster. He wants to yell, but the fear arrests any scream in his throat.
The minecart barrels and barrels and barrels, faster and faster and faster until at breakneck speeds—
—it slams down, severing the finger in one clean motion.
The man screams. Although the wound is cauterized instantly, although the doctor's entire arm has been numbed with anesthetics, he still screams. Yoshihide knows better than to ask him, though he still wonders why. It is, after all, to ultimately save his life.
As the man clutches his hand in mental anguish, Yoshihide studies the severed digit. Wrapped tight around the joint is the silvery strand of silk, digging into the now-lifeless flesh of the finger. He flexes it in his hand, feeling how it bends in his palm, rubbing the cauterized portion in curiosity. It's still warm to the touch.
He shakes his head, then gets to work. It takes several attempts, but after consistent pressure in precise places, the string begins to come loose, and soon slides off. He discards the finger. At least half of his assumption is correct — he begins work on the other.
Yoshihide stretches the thread out, stringing it through the finger-guillotine his team hastily assembled for this particular project. He does not hesitate as he turns it on, sending it careening down onto the thin white strand. It clunks against the metal, then lifts.
The string remains undamaged. The blade is chipped. Yoshihide's assumptions are correct — at least for the next three days.
He turns and studies the man, still clutching his hand in psychosomatic shock. He's crying, now, sitting upright curled on the floor, hyperventilating. Director Yoshihide briskly walks towards him, crouches down, and establishes eye contact.
"What's your name?" He asks.
It takes the man several moments to process the absurdity of the question, before snapping back into reality. "Z-Zenchi Naigu. Doctor. Sir."
"Let me see your hand."
The doctor hesitantly reaches out. Yoshihide examines the hand idly, as though this was all normal. He spends several seconds before he spots it — on the ring finger, a thin, silver strand beginning to swirl, digging into the flesh. Interesting.
Yoshihide looks back up at the man. "I apologize, Dr. Zenchi. It seems as though the procedure was a failure. I recommend getting your affairs in order within the next twenty-four hours."
He doesn't take any time to witness the doctor's reaction, but he can take a guess at what he's feeling. Shock. Horror. The realization that one doesn't even have time left. But it doesn't bother the Director to break the news; he'd had to do it countless times, after all.
The Administrator's voice rings in his ears. Are you prepared to do the Work? He shivers.
As he exits the chamber, he nabs the now-separated thread and walks into the observation deck. An assistant stands at attention; he doesn't need to say a word as he hands the string off, the associate understanding precisely what to do. They turn and walk away towards the door, and push it open just as another person pushes past them inside.
Not just any person, of course. His daughter.
He hasn't seen her in weeks. He'd been too busy. She strides in, not informally, but not as clinically as he taught her. There's an air of softness to her walk that he half-thinks to rebuke her for, but he swallows his complaint in his throat. She shouldn't be here.
"Hi, Dad," she says.
"You shouldn't be here," he replies. It's intended to be a statement of fact; instead, it's more of a reassurance: But I don't mind your company. He curses himself for betraying his love for her, then curses himself for cursing himself.
"I know," she says. There's a somber tone in her voice. "I just wanted—"
A scream finishes her sentence for her, reverberating through the chamber. She yelps at the sound; Yoshihide already knows where it's coming from. Naigu. The shock must have worn off. He turns to him — he's screaming from despair, clutching his hand — but then snaps back around to Yuzuki. She's looking at him with an… inscrutable expression, one that he imagines he sports often himself. One that certainly did not befit her mother.
It takes her several seconds to find the words, but they arrive eventually on their own. "Did you do this?"
He doesn't know how to respond, but he responds anyways. "I did."
The expression turns dour. "Why?"
"It was necessary." He clicks his tongue, weighing the scale of love and secrecy in his heart. They were not, he finds, competing. "I… cannot tell you why. I'm sorry."
His daughter pauses. There's a brief tension in the air, and Yoshihide realizes with growing trepidation that he was being tested — a test that has already been thoroughly failed. The scorn on her face is palpable, and cuts through his heart like a dagger.
She hesitates for several seconds. Their minds are in sync, and she knows what he knows, neurons exchanging signals with no medium in-between. Then, without saying a word, Yuzuki turns and walks away, not even as much as throwing a furtive glance in his direction. The doorknob morphs under her touch as she pulls, then slams the door behind her.
He puts aside everything, and for a brief fraction of a moment, the kayfabe is broken. Yoshihide wants nothing more than to leave this accursed place, to cherish the only family he has left, to live out his remaining days doing anything but this.
But, as he reaches for the door, his eyes treacherously drift. He sees Naigu, sobbing now, hunched in a corner, contemplating his fate in the fourth stage of grief. His eye is caught, though, by the scarlet-red stain streaked across the guillotine's bottom plate — a trail of blood that could not have been caused by a cauterized wound.
The facade returns, and the Foundation's tendrils once again take root in his mind. He can apologize to her later. For now, he approaches Dr. Zenchi, who looks ahead with hollow eyes. Yoshihide once again crouches, then speaks.
"Mr. Naigu… what is your blood type?"
The man doesn't respond for a beat. Then, focus returns to his face and his gaze tilts, until—
—it upturns sharply, slowing at the end of a perfect curve.
Yoshihide is shivering, utterly terrified. The sounds of the forest, originally awe-inspiring, now reverberated in an alien echo as he came to the realization that these men did not know him, and he did not know them. They were strangers, and although he had seen them push the cart every day along the track, he never knew just how far they traveled, just how far their jobs made them go.
The two approach the cart, smiling and laughing, apparently oblivious — Yoshihide hopes — to his reaction. He doesn't dare speak up or share his thoughts. His heart races in its place.
Without asking, the men begin to push once more. He begins to worry about where they're taking him. What lies at the end of the track? How far are they going to go? Are they going to take him back? Is he going to be able to go back?
Nothing but anxiety occupies Yoshihide's thoughts for the next three hours. The men talk between the two of them about trivial matters far above Yoshihide's concern, almost as though he didn't exist. Perhaps they've even forgotten he was there, as quiet as he is. It would not be the first time.
After a long while — too long of a while — the men stop pushing the cart once more, wiping sweat from their brows and dusting dirt off their briefs. There's still an endless stretch of track leading off beyond the treeline, so the question of why they stopped remains in the air, until one of the men pulls out a wrapped sandwich from their pocket. He turns to Yoshihide, smiling.
"You didn't pack any lunch, did you little guy?"
Yoshihide shakes his head no. They both chuckle.
"Well, here, have some of mine. It's turkey."
They help him down from the piles of dirt, and he sits next to them as they begin to share jokes, smiling, laughing amongst themselves and with him. They're jovial, peaceful even. They appreciate his company, which begins to soothe Yoshihide's gnawing concerns, silencing them in one long, fell swoop. He begins giggling and telling his own jokes, and they laugh, and he doesn't know whether they're just humoring him or if they actually find him funny, but it matters not for the young boy.
In due time, they finish their meals, each satisfied. With their strength rejuvenated, the men begin to stretch and get up, heaving and sighing as they prepare to continue their own work. Yoshihide — perhaps anachronistically — wonders if they know how important their work is, how important it will be.
But he hops from the stone they were eating their lunch upon, and quickly runs up to the cart once more. The first man turns to him, smirking again.
"Ready to keep pushing, little guy?"
Yoshihide beams, his spirit fully revived. "Yes!"
The man laughs again. He laughs a lot. "Alright, then let's go!"
Yoshihide once again takes position behind the cart. Now, he's less concerned and more curious — curious to see where the track ends. With the experience of pushing it once before, he steadies himself, preparing. And with a single, powerful shove—
—the Director throws the door to his office open, thudding it against the back wall, reverberating through the room. The space is empty. He walks past the dusting bookshelves and the streaks of sunlight beaming down onto the floor, and circles the lone desk in the back-center to get to his computer. With a click, it powers up, and he sits whilst tapping his hands in anticipation.
When the screen eventually turns on, Yoshihide promptly navigates to the intranet communications (they all call it email, anyway) and sees the notification he's been waiting days for. It's a direct line from the O5 Council, with several attachments. A good sign.
He opens it, trembling, and soon his lips blossom into a smile. Finally. The Council has approved his request for a complete release of information pertaining to SCP-001's victims, based on his progress thus far. His eyes scan the list, and he is overjoyed to find a plethora of information: every victim's names, ages, dates of birth; their employment information, record infractions, salaries; their familial ties, their deepest secrets, their greatest fears. A list of everything they've ever eaten from the moment they stepped foot into the Foundation's custody, a list of every time they've had sex and with whom. Utterly, totally comprehensive in every regard.
For most, this would be too much information. For Yoshihide, he's in his element.
Immediately, he checks his first hunch. It doesn't take more than a few keystrokes before the list is being filtered by blood type. The Director waits patiently for several seconds, before the columns and rows neatly organize themselves.
Seventy-three percent of SCP-001 victims are Type B. It's not perfect, but it's vastly over-represented in the data, to the point that — while it doesn't blow the case wide open — Yoshihide considers it a success. He glances at the bottom of the page, and is morbidly amused to see Dr. Zenchi among the list of the dead. Another statistic, but an invaluable one at that.
Next, he checks the date of deaths. The entries order themselves at his command, and he plots them into a simple graph. Much to his surprise, it is not quite linear; it's speeding up, very slowly, but thoroughly. It's no surprise, now, that the Administrator was so eager for Yoshihide to begin work as soon as possible — beyond the daily deaths, anyways.
The pencil taps against his chin. He checks the CRV levels; their averages are lower, slightly. He checks position, site, and salaries; no patterns there. Cause of death doesn't vary at all, and he knew that already — but…
It's a hunch, but he checks the list for past incidents. Foundation average is around 40% for known major infractions to their Code of Conduct, and this list turns up at around 80%. That's another significant deviation, and it begins to reinforce his theory.
He quickly glances through them. Embezzlement's frequent enough to be eyebrow-raising, but Yoshihide doesn't jump to conclusions — very likely that the Foundation's just got a lot of it across the board. Some notable ones catch his eye, though: an attempted defector to the GOC; a woman using an inanimate anomaly against protocol; a man leaving his friend behind during a containment breach to save himself. They're connected by an underlying thread, which Yoshihide begins to see — an outline forms, and his hunch becomes slightly more than a hunch.
His gaze drifts. On his desk, besides several scattered papers and manila folders, the silk from the severed finger floats in a glass container, slowly filling with blood. Type B blood, specifically, with no genetic matches he can find. He pulls closer to it, and watches it swirl slowly in a circle, bobbing up and down.
Carefully, Yoshihide opens the transparent cylinder, and plucks the string out. His fingertips stain red, and they shimmer as he holds the thread up to the light. Then, his other hand grasps the bottom edge, pulling it taut, and then pulling it further than that, as hard as he can. Several moments pass before, eventually, he gently places it back in the pool of blood and seals it inside.
He mutters to himself. "Reassuring, I suppose."
After several seconds further, he turns and begins writing a requisition request for a member of the D-Class faculty, with an emphasis on particular behavior patterns and Type B blood. He'll have to wait at least a day for the department to get back to him. He sighs, and leans back in his chair as he hits send, ignoring the overwhelming inferno of emails from countless people — some of which, to Yoshihide's dread, shares his name.
He knows he should read them. He knows he should just talk to her. But he worries if he involves her at all, if he gets her into the sights of the man watching over his shoulder…
In spite of the cloud in his head, Yoshihide pushes aside the thoughts and allows himself a moment of respite from the Work, taking in the brown and gold furnishings of the Site Director's office. The peace feels fleeting, as though he were a sailor riding along a clear sky, with thunder and lightning sounding off in the horizon. Lingering dread thus interferes with his break. He turns off his computer, pushes himself off his chair, and walks towards the door. He grabs its handle, and with great force—
—the cart is off once more.
For the next several hours, as Yoshihide alternates between sitting on and pushing the minecart, as they laugh and talk and sweat and just exist, the sun inches its way across the sky. The brilliant blue of the sky dwindles down into a murky mix of red, orange, and yellow beams. The twilight encroaches, and none of them seem to mind or care, caught up in the excitement of play and work.
Until, suddenly, the atmosphere shifts, and the cart comes to a slow, final stop. The men glance at each other, mid-conversation, a silent pact strung extending from between each other. A communication known only through context.
"What's wrong?" Yoshihide asks.
They turn down to him, the little boy pushing alongside them, with a gentle smile. The first man puts his hands on his knees. "We're at the end of the track now, Yoshihide."
The boy blinks, and glances behind the cart. Sure enough, there is no more track extending into the horizon. But there's nothing here; all that accompanies the trio is a large plot of uneven land, holes haphazardly filled in with… dirt.
"Do you guys fill in the holes?"
The second man smiles. "We sure do. Our job is to make sure this whole path is nice and well-filled for a… government project. But we've had to go a bit slower today, and our shift is coming to an end soon, so we'll probably continue filling it tomorrow."
Yoshihide feels disappointed that there was nothing at the end of his arduous journey. Still, he beams, proud of his accomplishment: "Can I see you tomorrow?"
The first man replies before his friend can. "Of course, but you need to be getting back home. It's getting late; we don't want your parents to get mad, do we?"
He gasps. He forgot his parents don't know where he is. They're going to be mad if he comes home too late…
The man points and continues: "If you keep following the tracks, you'll get back to where you started. It's almost a perfectly straight line, so if you walk near it, you'll make it home safe and sound."
Yoshihide steps forwards a few waddling steps, then glances back. Behind the men, the sun beams outwards, surrounding the pair in a brilliant orange glow. Clouds streak across the sky, which now begin to turn a darkish blue. If wonders if, all these years later, they remember him still.
He waves goodbye, and with no time to lose, Yoshihide turns—
—and sees his daughter close his office door with a firm click.
He didn't notice her come in. The office, now only illuminated by fluorescents in the dead of night, is littered with discarded papers and experimentation tools haphazardly strewn about. Yoshihide's head was cemented firmly down towards a final experiment proposal, half-way done with drafting, along with a document outlining a firm hypothesis for the mechanics behind SCP-001's -A selection, and the feasibility of permanent containment. He was so absorbed, he had — apparently — missed her calling his name several times.
They stare at each other, now. They haven't spoken once since that day in the lab, that day when she turned and left without a word all those months ago. He notices she's holding a bag. He glances, but reaffixes his gaze to her face. She stares at him.
"Father."
The single word strikes him like a bullet. She's never called him father before. Never with such a tone of trepidation. Never with such a sadness in her voice.
"Yuzuki," he responds weakly.
She winces. Of course she does; he steps out from his own body and can see himself for who he is to her, at this precarious moment: a maniac, desperate for promotion, willing to forsake everything for a chance at power. A man working himself to the bone to meet a deadline, telling himself it's for a greater cause. A man who doesn't even have time to answer an email from his daughter. He can see a perfect reflection of himself in her eyes, and he hates what he sees, what he's become to her.
Yuzuki, his daughter, his only living family left, approaches his desk. The bag falls to the floor gently with a thump, and Yoshihide's curiosity rises again. But he doesn't say anything. He knows he's being given a final chance, given one last test. This time, he knows it's coming. This time, he's prepared.
This time, he does not plan to cut the thread.
She sighs, and folds her arms into her lap. They stare at each other once more, the connection from the lab briefly reestablished, the lightning rekindled, the synapses reconnecting. And then, she begins.
"You've changed."
Yoshihide looks down at her folded hands, pretending to find the right words to express how he feels. He swallows the gut feeling slamming at his chest, the ego he has built around himself and his Work flowing down into his stomach. He looks back up, sadly. "I have."
There's another crackle of electricity between them, and this time it ignites something — only an ember. "You've lost yourself to your work."
He swallows his dread. "I have."
"You've lost all your… your faith in the world."
He swallows his discontentment. "I have."
"You've…" she shudders, inhaling sharply. "You've almost lost me."
He swallows his pride. "But not yet."
Yuzuki closes her eyes, exhaling lightly. "No, not yet," she says. "You haven't lost me yet. Yet."
He lets the words hang, momentarily. She doesn't know the truth, but she's very close to it regardless. She was always smart like that. Yoshihide sighs.
"And yet…"
The preamble has now concluded, the first hurdle passed. There's a tension that's softened, and yet hardened simultaneously: the fear of dismissal has been overcome, a Sisyphean peak rolled over. She knows he's still in there, somewhere. All that remains now is a father and a daughter, ready to present their souls bare to one another, grievances aired thoroughly, without fear of tacit rejection. Both of them now prepared to deal with the hard part.
Yuzuki continues. "And yet… you're still locking yourself in here, away from the world. You're still dedicated to your work above everything else, above your friends, above your family. Above yourself. Above me." — A pause. — "And you've…"
She doesn't want to say "you've changed" again, because she's now realizing that he hasn't really changed: the symptoms were always present, just magnified, now. She struggles to find the right words to express what she sees, what she thinks of him.
Yoshihide finishes for her. "I've become a husk."
She looks up at him suddenly again, her eyes wide. The eyes of her mother; the fire's ignited deep down.
"I've… You're right, I have lost myself to my Work. I've poured all of myself out into a blood-filled vessel—" he gestures briefly at the twine floating in a nearly-filled container of blood on his desk "—metaphorically, and I know I've utterly destroyed my soul and my body for this job."
She tenses. "But."
He closes his eyes. "But it's all been for you, Yuzuki. Everything I've done has been for you. All of it. There isn't a day that has gone by where I'm not thinking of you."
She tenses further, squinting. "But."
He blinks. "There's… there's no further buts. I—"
Yoshihide flinches before his daughter's hands even hit the table. Tears leak out against her will. "But you've refused to even speak with me! You've refused to take any time out of your schedule to show your daughter you love her! You've suffocated me my whole life, ever since Mom died, and then you disappeared as soon as you found a game to play on a grander scale!"
He sinks on every level, his shoulders scrunching in response. Her grievances run deep, and he realizes — only now realizes that —
She draws back her hands, and sinks into her own chair. She didn't mean to go that far. She whispers. "You've abandoned me."
He doesn't know what to say. She's right, he realizes, and from her perspective her grief is wholly valid. He is an antagonist in her story, even if he knows it was for a good cause. For her.
Yoshihide looks up at her hard features — remembering all the times he fought with her mother in that instance — then turns his head down in shame. He's tearing up too, now. "You're right, Yuzuki. You're right. I'm so, so sorry. It was never my intention to hurt you, not now, not ever."
At some point, he lost track of what hurdle of the test he was on, as the feelings overtook him. He suspects she lost track, too. But a change in the way they breathe tells him that whatever hurdle they were now on has just passed, and the test is approaching its final crescendo.
She takes a second to calm herself, collecting the tears back into her eyes, then continues. "I need you to prove that to me."
He knows what's coming. He swallows his anxiety.
"I'm not stupid," she says. "I know whatever it is you're containing has to be contained; it's a dangerous, probably powerful artifact of some kind. I won't ask you to stop your work. I won't even ask what it is. But I need you to promise me, to swear to me that, at the very least, it won't come at the cost of everything else. That you'll put time aside for me, and for your friends, and for— for yourself."
Yuzuki pauses again, allowing the reality to soak in, the final veil of emotional filtration lifting from their faces. Fear is palpable on hers.
"I'm worried about you, Dad. I love you."
The phrase feels artificial, but he knows the sentiment is still genuine. To love is to be loved, to change is to be changed. His wife had once told him that. He had not forgotten.
Yoshihide folds his hands into his lap, and bites his lip. She is not asking for much. He doesn't even have to abandon the Work, have to abandon his crowning achievement, in order to placate her. And he is not an unreasonable man, and she knows this, and he knows she knows this. There is no reason for him to deny her this single consolidation, this singular reassurance.
…He realizes he is staring down at the experiment paper. He sees what he's written. And then he resolves himself.
Resolves himself to love his daughter, above all else.
The fire now flows through his veins. His hands ball into gentle fists, and he can feel his face flush with life once more. He doesn't need to be a slave to his Work. He can resolve himself — force himself, if necessary — to put aside the aesthetics of functionality and purposefulness to become a human being again. Of flesh and blood. To see the beauty in mundanity once more.
He turns up to tell her he loves her. He stops.
His blood, mere seconds prior burning hot, now runs ice cold. His face pales, and he begins to sweat.
Yuzuki blinks at him, then realizes he's not looking at her. She turns, heart pulsing in her chest, and comes face to face with—
"Ms. Yuzuki," the Administrator says, "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting?"
Any warmth left in the room dissipates instantly. The Administrator stands in the doorway of the office, smiling vacantly at the pair in front of him with his hands crossed over one another. Yoshihide immediately stands on his feet, and Yuzuki glances back at him briefly before returning her eyes to the stranger.
"…We haven't, no."
No one moves. The man smiles. "I am the Administrator of the SCP Foundation. The authority vested in me is quite grand. I speak with the authority of the O5 Council. To put it bluntly, I am the one whom your father directly answers to."
She doesn't know how to respond. Truthfully, Yoshihide doesn't know either. But he can't let him interfere; the situation is too precarious, and he knows several critical wires are crossed.
Yoshihide glares at the Administrator, then clears his throat. "We are in the middle of something important. Can this wait?"
The Administrator smiles. "Most certainly not, considering it is pertinent to the situation at hand. I have full knowledge of what happens within these walls, and sometimes—" He turns to Yuzuki, who flinches under his malicious gaze. "—I can have some knowledge of what will happen."
And then he takes a step forward. And then another, slowly. His gaze is affixed to her, and her breathing quickens as he approaches meticulously, as though stepping through a minefield. Somehow, through this impossible weight, Yuzuki asks, "are you the one keeping my father here? Tying him down?"
The Administrator smiles again — he's doing that a lot, to Yoshihide's terror — but does not slow his achingly slow march. "I am. Your father is in charge of the containment of SCP-001, the most important anomaly our organization needs to contain. You understand, then, why he has no time for you, yes?"
Her expression morphs into a mix of fear and fury. "It's quite rude to listen in on other people's conversations."
"Your father…" he chuckles, "Your father is the most important man in the Foundation — besides me." What? "He is well on his way to becoming an O5 Council member himself; there's a vacant seat, you see, and I'm keen on getting skilled people into places where they're needed."
He is only met with silence and panicked breathing, so the Administrator continues: "Communications monitoring is sometimes necessary, as there are occasional rogue elements that require… amendment."
Yuzuki steps back. Yoshihide sees a shimmer in the air, as the Administrator reaches out his hand towards her, almost as if to grab and rip her apart with sheer will. His face is resolute. Yoshihide's eyes go wide, wider than he's ever stretched them. He's knows what she's about to do. He knows that— no! No!
"Yuzuki!" He shouts, before the world RIPS into several threads, separating the true from the false from the true in a stunning, red-hot wave of plasmatic distortion to reality, blooming out in several layers from her in all directions. Everything flies everywhere and the unreal becomes real, cracks shattering and tearing and morphing and then—
Everything SNAPS back into place, entropy reversing sickeningly fast, like an omelette reverting back into an egg in a blink, and Yuzuki is thrown onto the desk with deafeningly loud crash. The blood-filled container knocks onto the floor and shatters, drenching Yoshihide in blood Type-B. She screams in pain, a horrific howl that hurts his very soul to hear; the Administrator stands motionless, watching her with no expression, his hand now tucked by his side.
It all happens in a single moment, before Yoshihide can process everything that occurred. Reality crashes down in an instant, and he pulls to run towards his daughter, before being yanked back by someone who most certainly was not behind him a second ago. He realizes with horror that his hands are — quite literally — tied.
He looks up. The Administrator is staring down at Yuzuki as several guards flood the room, stepping around the now-burning papers and melted appliances. She turns around weakly, and locks eyes with the man who's untorn reality. Her face is filled with pure terror; his, with passive indifference. Yoshihide recognizes that the guards have brought with them a Scranton Reality Anchor, but it couldn't have been here a second ago.
The Administrator sighs. "All anomalies must be contained, Yoshihide. I have told you this before, no?"
"Bastard," Yoshihide snarls, "this isn't what I agreed to."
If he heard him, the Administrator didn't seem to react. He turns to the guards binding Yoshihide's daughter. "Take her to a retrofitted containment cell in Site-02. She'll do for Rashōmon."
She groans and sobs in violent fits as they restrain her. Yoshihide spouts endless curses and obscenities as they finish, and as they yank her back out towards the door, her panic focuses and her vision narrows back onto the single anchor in her life. The Administrator watches her with passing interest.
She sobs, and he winces. "Dad!"
Yoshihide struggles wildly now, desperately, futilely. It's no use: he can't reach her. He can't touch her anymore. "Yuzuki!" He screams, tearing up his throat, "Yuzuki!"
And then, with one last click of the door, she's gone. Silence deafens the room. He crumples onto the floor.
Several more empty, aching moments pass with the Administrator turned towards the door. Then, the knots around Yoshihide's arms come undone in a practiced motion, and the last guard wordlessly salutes and walks out through the door. Now, only he and the Administrator, arms behind his back, remain.
There's a hoarse, bitter laugh. Yoshihide wonders if he has gone insane with grief, but he realizes quickly that he's not the one laughing. The Administrator turns, and smiles warmly.
"I apologize for the dramatics, Yoshihide. You must understand that sacrifice is necessary for containment, sometimes."
Yoshihide spits at the man, and his saliva lands squarely on the Administrator's heels. He doesn't react, but he continues.
"It occurred to me in that moment, as you screamed for your daughter's return, as you made a fool of yourself, that you and I have quite a differing perspective on what it means to 'contain' something."
Yoshihide doesn't grace the thing in front of him with a response any longer. He continues regardless.
"I have already told you my perspective: containment is for the purposes of keeping the beasts along the path. To maintain normalcy, to ensure the creatures in the dark no longer go bump in the night. To prevent that child from being maimed again, whether by animal or man. A worthy, selfless cause."
The Administrator tilts his head, and smiles again. I fucking hate that grin. "But you… you see things differently. Containment isn't a means to an end; it is an end in of itself. A work of art. A portrait." He tosses the idea in his head, almost jovially. "You're an artist, and SCP-001 is your masterpiece. It's both pitiful, but also mesmerizing; a perspective I've never seen before. No wonder you are unique among your peers. I truly do look forward to the final act of your performance."
Yoshihide swallows, the dread open on his face like a book. They both do not say anything for several seconds, an opaque wall raised between their minds and intentions. And then, suddenly, the Administrator turns, and walks briskly towards the door.
He stops before opening it, turning his head back. "As an O5 Council member, you have the ability to exempt anomalies from containment if you believe them to be beneficial to our mission. Necessary sacrifices. There is only one path for you to reach that position, you understand."
He swallows everything. "I… I understand. Sir."
"Very good," the Administrator smiles. "Very, very good. Perhaps this story shall have a happy ending."
And he is gone, just as before. Nothing remains 'round the colossal wreck.
The office is an inferno, but Yoshihide doesn't complain. He takes stock of his surroundings. Everything's either burnt or melted or coated in ash. His papers — if they are still intact — are thrown everywhere in a chaotic pattern. The glass containing the thread is shattered, and the blood has seeped into his clothes and onto the floor. He spots the spider silk, and gingerly places it within his coat pocket. He doesn't expect to wash up any time soon, anyways.
His desktop is utterly destroyed. He'll have to request a new one. No— most likely, the Administrator is already preparing him one. They could easily finish the job themselves, but Yoshihide knows that he is the one that's going to complete the Work. That's all he can do, now.
Downwards, downwards, Yoshihide's eyes drift. If he had any more room for shock today, it would be well spent on his daughter's bag, still seated next to the chair she was sitting in moments ago.
His hands tremble — not from fear, but from weakness. He reaches down and lifts the bag from the floor, seating it down on the chair with a gnawing feeling of trepidation. The folds are cast aside and he reaches in, pulling the singular object from its hidden wrapper and out into the open in a single, swift motion.
In his hands, Yuzuki's toy monkey sits, melted from reality warping nearly beyond recognition.
She was going to give it back to him.
Yoshihide, dizzying, turns—
—and breaks out into a panicked sprint.
The sky slowly turns darker and darker as the sun sets over the horizon, its ferocious flames quelled by the oncoming night. Yoshihide shivers as the air around him begins to cool, his light clothes — designed for the hot weather — doing nothing to protect him from the elements. Wind slips on the breeze past him, and he shuts his eyes, trembling as he runs.
It's been a long time since he's been alone like this, by himself. He has never had to navigate in a city at night on his own, let alone a forest. Still, the tracks of the minecart feel familiar beneath his feet, and he doesn't feel desperate, even if he's scared. He knows, eventually, the tracks will lead him home, and this will be nothing more than a daydream, a bad memory. Dès vu.
As he runs, the twilight turns to dusk, and the dusk to evening. It becomes totally dark; even while following the narrow trail, the trek feels impossibly long, and he worries he might be going the wrong way — a totally illogical feeling, he knows, but it doesn't stop him from feeling it. The worry aches in his chest as a child.
He trips.
The stumble catches himself off guard, his balance thrown entirely off. Tears well in his eyes, and no one is around to wipe them away. He does so, and becomes acutely aware of a burning in his knee, a scratch that feels deeper than it should have been from a simple fall. He feels it through his clothes, and winces. His fingertips are wet.
This isn't how the daydream is supposed to go.
He gets up now, the bile in his throat rising with him. Yoshihide sprints before he even recognizes that he needs to run. There's something wrong. He runs, and runs, and runs, and eventually, something scratches at him again, ripping a tear through his arm. He yells, clutching it, but keeps running, eyes tight shut. He knows he should open them, but it's too dark, and the horror of the unknown is simply too intense.
He keeps running, and another stab pierces his skin, this time directly on his torso. And then another. They're not too deep, but he's bleeding, and he can feel his mud-caked pants mix red. Eventually, whatever is tormenting him causes him to trip once more, sending him slamming into the dirt and rail.
His eyes open by force. The moon is out, now, and shines a white glow onto the world. Now, he can see the path ahead of him.
He screams. Before him, around the rail, long, thin swords jut out from the trees and the earth. They shine impeccably, as though they've never seen a day of use in their life. All of them — whether above or below — point directly towards the rail, forming a tunnel of knives, blades, and pure sharp. There's just barely enough room for him to squeeze through. He has to get home.
He has to get home.
Yoshihide takes several deep, shuddering breaths, and with trembling trepidation—
—signals the experiment to start.
The observation room is packed. Several bureaucrats, scientists, assistants, and guards are watching with keen anticipation. It's the experiment that will finally — if Yoshihide is to be believed — crack the SCP-001 case wide open. There's a buzz in the air: of excitement, of potentiality. Of containment. Of the penultimate crescendo in the art of the absurd.
Yoshihide turns to his right. There, the Administrator stands silently. He does not look back at Yoshihide, his eyes glazed and turned towards the D-Class in the chamber. It does not seem as though he is particularly eager to see the experiment's conclusion, as though he knows already how it will end. It's possible that he does, which pisses Yoshihide off even more.
To distract himself, he turns and speaks instructions into the chamber microphone. The room falls perfectly silent behind him, as though standing in single file behind a leader.
"D-023," Yoshihide begins, his voice fauxly authoritative, "please pick up the axe."
The man in the orange jumpsuit behind the glass turns up at the microphone, and scoffs, but does as he's told. The axe isn't particularly notable; it's standard, built by a mundane facility outside the Veil. No, it's not the axe which is important here.
"D-023, please approach the artifact. It is not hazardous."
He does so. The string, bleeding from non-existent pores, is anchored in place with a powerful clamping mechanism. It's stretched taut, though this of course does not compromise its integrity. The D-Class steps forward, his grip firmly on the axe, eyeing the twine with ignorant suspicion. It does not matter if he trusts the Foundation or not — he will do it regardless.
He is not much different than I, Yoshihide muses bitterly. A grim truth and reality. He holds the man standing beside him in as much contempt as he does fear. He does not know what the Administrator is capable of, nor does he know what his end is — beyond seeing Yoshihide on the O5 Council, though he doesn't know to what conclusion that outcome will lead to either.
He leans forward now, and reactivates the microphone.
"D-023," he inhales, "please repeatedly slice the string in front of you with the axe. This may require several attempts; keep trying until the task is completed or you are ordered to stop."
The D-Class shrugs, and begins to fulfill his task. The first hit does nothing, though that was well expected.
The man was known by Yen-k'o in his former life. He was a collector of fine arts, a member of an elite circle of art critics with a taste for the anomalous. When he would see a piece he truly admired, he would stop at nothing to obtain it for his private collection. Which, of course, inevitably led him to the extreme when he met someone who simply would not give it up.
Not even the endless hoards of his wealth could save him from prison, in the end. His own brothers and sisters of the guild turned on him, and threw him away to rot, where he was inevitably scouted. His life was defined by his own whims. A life of decadence. A life of greed. A life — most importantly — of selfishness.
And that's the crux of it. Yoshihide sighs as the second strike hits. Selfishness. A heart that is destined to only look inwards, a view that never extends beyond one's own wants. It was obvious to him as soon as blood came into the equation: personality types based on blood were psuedoscience, but anomalies never operated on scientific principles to begin with. It was just a matter of confirming his theory.
He turns rightward as the third strike hits. The string reverberates strangely, and the crowd murmurs as they watch.
Yoshihide wonders if the figure standing beside him would qualify as a "selfish" man. Is the Administrator truly acting selflessly? Or was this all brought upon by his self-absorption? What did he want that would necessitate all this… grooming? Yoshihide was going to complete the Work regardless, no?
As though noticing him for the first time, the Administrator turns, in a manner that one could describe as somber. He doesn't say anything for several beats, long enough that the fourth strike occurs, but then he sighs himself.
"He always was a selfish man."
Yoshihide turns back towards the D-Class. "I am aware."
The Administrator chuckles, as though he's on the other end of some inside joke. He turns back towards the string. "I suppose you are."
Seething, endless rage once again bubbles in his chest. He remembers Yuzuki's face as she screamed, dragged from his office in agonizing pain. He remembers the mountain of smiling bodies, groaning and shifting, decaying in an abandoned pile. He remembers his wife, bleeding out on the pavement. And as the axe strikes the string a fifth time, he imagines the Administrator's neck in its place.
The man in the chamber continues to strike it, a sixth, seventh, eighth time. The string, while reverberating, loses none of its consistency. Murmurs arise behind him, but neither Yoshihide nor the Administrator turn. The tension is palpable, both literal and metaphorical. A ninth, a tenth, and an eleventh. Was Yoshihide wrong? The doubt creeps through everyone but the pair, and soon, the D-Class is flexing for another blow. Frustration builds on his face, and with one final motion, one final, guttural, definitive, inevitable swing—
Yoshihide bleeds. He is cut in several dozen places, red wounds filling with pus and searing pain, warming his flesh against the freezing cold of the night. The swords surround him, now, too tightly packed to be avoided as he runs through the tunnel they form around his frail body. He sobs, bitterly, weeping through the pain, but continuing to move, desperate to get home, desperate for the safety of familiarity. One thought repeats through his mind, over and over as he flees, dominating his conscious and drowning out all else: I don't want to die.
At last, through the pale reflections of the moonlight, he sees it up ahead. A light. A shining, shimmering light. An end to the tunnel. An end to the torture. He pushes, receiving several more cuts and spilling several more drops of blood. It doesn't matter. As long as he makes it— as long as he makes it to the village, he'll finally be safe. Finally be home.
He bursts through the final aperture—
And is greeted by a raging inferno, an endless Hell. The construction site is gone; all that remains in his view is houses, burning, rotting into ash and soot and dust. Black clouds pour into the sky in bulky columns, and the entire horizon glows around him. The breeze is replaced by radiated heat, and Yoshihide cowers under the intensity of the flames, under the intensity of the shining light.
In spite of this horrific sight, he presses on, pushing through the tearing and burning sensations that his body screams at him to address. He knows what he must do the make the nightmare end. He needs to find his house. He needs to go home. He needs to find them. He needs to know.
He spots it, then, in the center of the inferno, surrounded by the flames of the others. It seems untouched, but— no, he realizes the fire has already long-since burned the home, its walls now ashen grey, its wood now riddled with holes. He is far, far too late.
Yoshihide steps, trembling, both from fear and exhaustion, into the house. Its doors open without so much as even a push, as though welcoming him back. Nothing greets him, at first, besides the smoldering pale coating the walls. He tries to call out, but all that escapes his throat is a gurgle. He hopes that's not too bad a sign.
Slowly, he climbs the staircase across the front door. It goes up, and one bit at a time, Yoshihide meets its steps, gripping the rail for dear life. It takes several minutes for the boy to finish climbing, but when he does, he collapses, panting and exhausted at the second floor's landing. When he does push himself to his feet, it's met with a squelch, as blood — Type B blood — pools around his feet.
He looks up. The master bedroom door looms ominously, towering above his short stature. Foreboding, it mocks him, challenging him to confront what lies inside. Challenging him to face the music.
He cannot afford to delay the inevitable. Yoshihide opens the door.
In the king bed, two corpses intertwine, holding tightly onto one another. Their flesh is burnt off; their blood has long boiled. Their hair has been plucked clean from their heads, and their hollow eye sockets stare petrified, longingly, achingly towards one another. The clothes they both wore have ceased to exist under the now-gone hellfire, but it takes no effort for Yoshihide to identify them.
He expected this, on some level. He expected no happy ending.
His gaze rises like a flame. Above, above, hanging above the bed, a portrait of a man is framed in immaculately pristine condition. His skin mirrors the ash, a sickly mix between bone white and midnight black. The folds of his face wrinkle like a labyrinth and his teeth shimmer pure. His gaze is affixed with grey eyes down towards Yoshihide, piercing him.
And then, it laughs. The sound fills the room, echoing through the roar of the flames and drowning out every other sensation. Yoshihide covers his ears and screams, if nothing but to drown out the noise. It does not stop, and in desperation, he crawls. He crawls to the bed, then climbs, with limbs no longer belonging to an eight-year-old child, with forearms far too long and legs aged decades, and grabs the painting with his porous fingernails by the frame.
In agony, he rips. The seams split and shred under his grasp, as he sobs and screams and shakes, wracked with despair and fear and hatred and overwhelming, overwhelming sadness, encompassing his whole body, his very soul. The world dissipates into the flames, engulfing the house once more, fire burning fuel well-spent. Everything is alight once more and the man continues to laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and Yoshihide abandons every ideal, every ounce decorum he had left as he rips and maims his face to pieces.
The tearing becomes manic and methodical concurrently. There's nothing left besides the searing heat and the face, and the blood. The endless blood, the endless strings, and the endless pain. He digs his fingernails deeper in, but the man doesn't even mind. As though the flesh he inhabited was ephemeral, as though he was never there at all.
The painting is in tatters now, but the laughter continues. There is one, final stitch in the canvas — the jugular, strung tightly against the back wall. It bleeds, scarlet flowing in viscous, endless streams. The fires burn everything besides it, and through the frenzy, Yoshihide pulls. He pulls, and pulls, and pulls, staining his melting hands crimson, and pulls. He pulls until the very fabric of his body becomes undone, and he screeches a primal, final wail as he pulls, and pulls, and pulls, and pulls and pulls and pulls and pulls and pulls and pulls and pulls until—
Until—
Until—
The thread snaps.
ACT III
THE ROAD TO HELL