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eowynstwin · 27 days ago

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Blackbird, Fly - Four

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. - Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you. - ao3

When you wake the next morning, Hans’ side of the bed is empty, the linens already cold.

As sleep leaves you in fits and starts, the aches pull you inward—glowing dull and orange like banked embers. Your whole body feels like a twisted ankle. Nothing is broken, exactly, but every muscle feels as if it’s been pulled in a direction God never quite intended it to move.

Your shoulders. The meat of your thighs. Your hips.

The entrance to your womb.

It isn’t the knife-sharp pain from before. Only the muted, persistent throb of a wound left alone to heal. In the cottony space between sleep and waking, you think there should be more damage—for all of what happened last night. And yet, there isn’t.

Still, you don’t move when your eyes finally open. Stillness seems the only defense against the bare truth of the gray morning.

Your husband used you hard on your wedding night, and did not care for the pain he caused.

You are not fool enough to think your experience unique. Women talked as much as girls did. Your mother’s friends were wont to complain when they thought the children out of earshot: husbands who grunted and sweated over them in the night, often without uttering a word. Sometimes not even waiting for the pain of childbirth to subside before claiming their marital due.

You just had come to believe, with every letter that arrived, that your fate would be different.

But it turns out none of this is a dream after all.

Your throat closes, then. Tears prick hot in the corners of your eyes.

Stupid, stupid girl.

You swallow hard. Sit up away from the pillows, even as the aches flare in protest.

Beside you, where your husband slept, there’s a noticeable dip in the mattress. Worn in over years of slumber, and you, you suppose, on Anna’s side of the bed.

Was Hans kind to her too, before?

Abruptly you swing your legs out from the linens, and go to find one of the dresses you brought along from home.

The house is empty when you descend the stairs, as far as you can tell. You hear the steady tick, tock of a grandfather clock somewhere in the sitting room that you hadn’t noticed yesterday, in all of the commotion of the wedding preparations. The floorboards creak beneath your feet as your grumbling stomach leads you along to the kitchen.

The space is as modern and well-appointed as the rest of the house, and bigger than any kitchen you ever imagined needed to be. A cast-iron wood stove with four burners and a large oven, a sink with a pump right there by the basin, and—you nearly stop dead at the luxury—an ice box, right there beside one long counter.

You momentarily forget the troubles of the night, crouching beside the little box in fascination. A cloud of cool fog descends when you swing open the door; you brush the tips of your fingers across the huge block of ice on the top shelf, jerking them away when the cold unexpectedly burns. Not once in your life have you ever seen so much ice in one place.

On the lower shelf, you find cuts of pork and beef, wrapped in brown butcher’s paper and tied with string. Bacon for breakfast, then, and biscuits if you can find flour. Your mother always said that a difficult thing was easier after having a meal.

You find the larder stocked with further luxury. Nowhere are the home-jarred goods that would populate your family’s pantry, garden-grown vegetables pickled in vinegar or hand-pressed jams fresh from the blackberry bushes along the road. Instead you find rows and rows of cans, factory-sealed tins of manufactured uniformity, colorfully labeled and containing everything you might have ever thought to grow yourself and more.

Beans of every variety. Corn. Carrots. Peas. Beets. Tomatoes.

How much must all this have cost? So many, and lined up deep into the back of the larder. You and Hans couldn’t possible eat them all before some of them began to spoil. Of course, if he could afford to buy so much, maybe that didn’t matter.

You find the flour, and baking powder as well. Breakfast is a quick affair after that, and thankfully so, as your stomach really begins to complain as soon as the food is ready.

There’s a small table in the kitchen—yet more luxury, you think, remembering the long dining table you saw yesterday—and it’s there you sit down to solve your hunger.

The hard wooden chair is not kind to the ache between your legs.

You bite into the bacon, crunching it to pieces. There—it’s all right. You have your breakfast. Isn’t that something to be grateful for? Breakfast, and a nice stove, and an ice box, and a kitchen so stuffed with food that you can’t imagine ever running out.

Isn’t this what a loving husband provides? A good home, for his wife to live comfortably in? Pretty dresses, like the one he gave to you last night? A nice ring on your finger—the little gem glittering in the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window?

Hans loves you. Of course. This is love.

You bite into one biscuit, hot and steaming from the pan and burning your tongue. Your mother can make them better, but you tried the best you could to follow the recipe she taught you.

The front door opens outside of the kitchen. Something quick and sharp travels up your spine. Heavy boots step inside—your husband, come looking for you—you freeze without realizing it, holding half-chewed food in your mouth—

“Mrs. König?” calls Kate Laswell, the foreman, and you relax.

“In here,” you call, after swallowing.

Laswell enters the kitchen, and turns to you, at the table. She’s dressed in mens’ clothes, dusty trousers and a heavy jacket over a button-up shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat still on her head. She looks like she’s dressed to travel.

“I’m afraid I can’t show you the accounts today, like I said I would,” she tells you, no preamble, no pleasantries.

You remember then your brief conversation with her the previous night—and Hans’ disapproval at the idea.

You set down your biscuit. “Good morning, Miss Laswell. Why not?”

“I’m going over to visit the Vargas place. We’ve been working on a leasing deal. I’ll explain when I get back.”

“Of course,” you say. “Would—” you clear your throat, embarrassed— “Would you know where my husband might be?”

The lines of Laswell’s face tighten. She has a severe look to her that you think is always present—ranch work must harden anyone, man or woman—but there is no wedding happening around you now to distract you from the unmistakable displeasure on her face.

“Last I saw he was out with the herd,” she says shortly. “Anyway, I’ll be gone for a few days. The ledger is in the cabinet by the desk. Take a look at it if you find the time.”

She tips her hat to you before you can figure out how to respond—some part of you bristles at being given orders by someone who is now, ostensibly, your employee—and leaves the kitchen. You scramble to follow her, and catch her when she’s nearly out the door.

“Miss Laswell,” you call, “is Hans—is my husband—”

You’re not very sure what you intended to ask her, before you began the question. Nor, you realize, do you think she could answer honestly, if you asked her what you really wanted to know. It wouldn’t be her place, and it would be inappropriate of you to ask.

If you could actually work up the courage to approach it.

So you settle for, “Is my husband angry with me?”

She stops, and blinks at you. You see her look you up and down, briefly, but when she meets your eyes her expression is impossible to read.

“I have no idea,” she says, and her tone betrays nothing. “Gaz wants to see you in the stables when you have a moment today. Ma’am.”

She nods farewell at you and leaves.

The steady ticking of the grandfather clock punctuates the end of the odd exchange. Disoriented, you return to the kitchen to clear away the remnants of your breakfast, flushing in confusion.

Do you really want this?

His question rings now in your ears. Along with it come memories of the previous night. The Madame’s odd interest in you. The store owner Miss Boucher’s sidelong glance at Hans. Myriad other quirks of the brow or mouth that you only now grasp the meaning of.

Everyone knew, somehow, what was coming. Everyone except you.

And Gaz had been the only one to try and warn you.

You tug on a shawl as you step out onto the front porch, breathing in the mountain air. The morning chill hasn’t yet burned off, and the sky has yet to gain its full color. Across the clearing, Kyle Garrick is at work in the stable’s corral.

He holds one end of a long lead, attached at the other to the bridle of a red-brown horse, which trots in a wide circle around him. Occasionally, with the lunge-whip he holds in his free hand, Gaz taps the horse’s hindquarters, redirecting it patiently whenever it tries to move inward or otherwise deviate from its orbit.

Horses are scared creatures, Miss, I don’t know if you know this, Hans had written. You must be gentle when you train them, or destine them to a lifetime of anxiety.

When you approach, the horse’s attention briefly turns toward you, but Gaz taps it again and it goes back into its pacing. You have a moment to admire the long line of the cowboy’s body, the focused angles of his shoulders and hips, before he addresses you, sensing your presence without having to turn and look at you.

“Good morning, miss,” he says. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you,” you say. It feels dishonest, even if it isn’t a lie. “Good morning, Mr. Garrick.”

The horse makes its way past you, and then Gaz brings it to a stop. He winds up the lead in one hand and makes his way over to you, meeting you where you stand by the corral fence.

You can’t help but notice how handsome he looks in the light of late morning. The serious expression on his face is the same one he’d worn the day before; you suspect it’s his natural disposition.

You remember the brief smile he’d shown you last night, before Hans had taken you away, and your cheeks warm despite yourself.

“I thought I might introduce you to the horses today,” he says. “If you’ve got the time, that is.”

“Oh,” you gasp, suddenly eager, “Please! I’ve been looking forward to it ever since Hans proposed! I told him about the two old nags we had on our farm, to pull our wagon, and he said—”

We must get you on a proper horse, then, to show you the true pleasure riding may offer.

You stop mid-sentence. Something about what Hans had written rings in your memory now with a different note. It seems…mocking, almost. Imbued purposefully with a meaning intended to escape you, given you had not the experience enough to catch it.

Shame blooms painfully behind your breastbone.

“…He mentioned he’d bring me to meet them,” you say lamely.

The smile Gaz gives you doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s very busy, or I suppose he would be today.”

“I suppose,” you echo.

Gaz inhales deeply, and then he gestures to the red-brown horse. “Well—this here is Newt. I’ve been getting him used to the bridle today.”

“Hello, Newt,” you say to the horse. You reach a hand out, briefly, but then pull it back; your instinct is to let the horse get your scent, like you might with a farm dog, but you don’t know if you should. Your father had always handled the nags.

Gaz notices, and brings one big hand to Newt’s long face, squeezing the arch of his muzzle. The horse’s eyes droop in obvious pleasure.

“He’s a big baby,” says Gaz, expression gentling. “I’m trying to see if he’ll make a good cutter, but it’s too early to tell.”

You reach out again. Newt’s velvety nostrils flare as he inhales, and then his hot breath bathes your hand and wrist. You suppose you have his approval, because Newt simply works his teeth a little and makes no indication of displeasure.

“A cutter?”

“Yeah. The kind of horse that can cut a steer out from the herd so you can drive it someplace else,” Gaz explains. “Horses either got cow-sense, or they don’t. Here, come around inside and I’ll show you the rest.”

Long Mask Ranch, Hans had written, built its reputation on the quality of its quarter horses. In the early days of its inception, his father had struck an extremely lucrative deal providing the US Army with its cavalry mounts, which had turned out to be a perfect way for the ranch’s reputation to spread. Even after the army mostly withdrew from the region, every state in the surrounding countryside knew: if you wanted good horses, you went to Long Mask.

“These are the yearlings,” Gaz explains as he leads you through the stable. “Just now we’re getting them trained to follow directions. Won’t be riding ‘em for a couple years yet.”

He puts Newt away and beckons you to follow. In the neighboring stall, one of the horses pokes its head out over the gate. It’s a light-colored colt, yellowish in the body and white-maned.

“This is Gus,” Gaz says, scratching its fuzzy chin. “He’s a big flirt, yeah, aren’t you, boy?”

You also reach out to give Gus a pat, and the colt chuffs and butts his nose into your hand, proving Gaz’s accusation. You can’t help giggling a little.

When another horse across the building snorts, Gaz chuckles, and leads you in the direction of the noise. “Ah, yeah, and that’s Woodrow. Him and Gus are always goin’ at it, but you won’t ever see better friends.”

Woodrow is dark gray horse with a distinctly unamused face. He accepts a pat on the forehead with what you can only describe as resigned patience. Gaz feeds him a sugar cube from one pocket for his trouble.

He takes you further along down the line of stalls. You meet a spirited filly named Elmira, and a colt beside her named July whose love for her is unrequited.

“We’ve already gelded him, so it wouldn’t matter much anyway,” Gaz relates.

He speaks fondly of every horse as you meet them, with the familiarity of long days working beside each of them. It relaxes him, you realize, to speak of them—the hard set of his expression has softened, the serious line of his brows eased from their iron setting.

It makes him look—not younger, you decide, but properly his age. A cowboy just beginning the best years of his career, still hale and fit enough to meet the rough demands of the job, but with enough experience under his belt to confront any challenge with confidence.

Such confidence is obvious in the way he moves. He walks loose and easy through the stable, his every step as assured as the sunrise the next morning. The line of his broad shoulders, the swooping curve of his back—they tell you at a mere glance that home is in this place, working with these creatures, and there could be nothing more Kyle Garrick might long for besides.

Envy twists your intestines around its fingers. There’s an empty space inside of you that you’d been expecting, as your wedding vows had finally taken flight, to fill with that same feeling.

At the end of the stable, in a stall in the back corner, a horse pokes its head out over the gate. It’s bigger than the yearlings, with a pale face and a dark, gray muzzle. It looks right at you, with such a clear focus that it startles you.

“Ah,” says Gaz, when he sees. “Was wondering if she’d notice us.”

“She?”

He nods. “A mare. She’s…difficult.”

The mare stares at you, with deep, night-black eyes.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

Gaz works his lips over his teeth. “Mr. König bought her last year off another rancher who was ‘bout fit to shoot her. She’s a thoroughbred, and she ain’t never met a white man she likes. As like to buck a man off as to let him ride.”

“Oh,” you say.

Gaz leans against the wall between two stalls. “Mr. König thought he might be able to break her. So far she hasn’t gotten him off her, but she won’t let him come near without putting up a fight. I’m the only one can saddle ‘er.”

You frown. “Why would he ride a horse that doesn’t want to be ridden?”

At that, Gaz’s eyes go cold. Shockingly cold, like an empty winter’s night. “Suppose he just likes taking what he wants, I guess.”

You should reprimand him. You know it immediately. It’s no way to talk about his employer, and certainly nothing he should ever say in front of you, his employer’s wife.

But you remember the blood, and still feel the ache. You have to look away from him, ashamed. Embarrassed.

You cannot defend your husband, and he must know it.

“I imagine he must know what he’s about,” you mumble.

Gaz gives a derisive snort. “I don’t know about that. He’s of a mind to start with thoroughbreds, but she will not let him breed her. Damn near killed every stallion he’s brought her to try.”

It hits you so sharply that you inhale with sudden pain, pressure knifing at your eyes. You turn away from Gaz entirely now, pressing your hands to your chest. Every ache from the night previous ricochets around inside you again, knocking all the way down into your bones.

You tip your head upward, as if it will prevent the gathering tears from falling. What’s worse, Gaz puts a hand on your shoulder behind you. You flinch at the touch, hips aching where Hans had bruised them in his grip.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” Gaz says softly. He sounds like he means it. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

He knows exactly what ails you. And why wouldn’t he? He’s known his employer for years. He’s worked this ranch for longer than you’ve even known of its existence.

He knew the previous Mrs. König, who first endured Hans’ attentions.

You are a terrible fool, and you are the last to know it.

He doesn’t remove his hand as you tremble. He squeezes you gently, the same caress he’d given to the young colt Newt. It is so kind that it nearly breaks you.

“Here,” Gaz murmurs, “let’s see something.”

You turn back to him; he takes your hand, and leads you to the back of the stable. The mare follows the two of you with her eyes, expression unchanging as you approach her.

Closer now, she is a stunning creature. You’ve never seen anything like her. Her coat is silvery-gray, with darker patterns all over her body, like ink absorbed into paper and then laid beneath a light rain. Her legs and mane are the same dark color as her muzzle, and there is a deep intelligence in her eyes as she beholds you.

“You might be the first woman she’s ever seen up close,” Gaz says.

He takes up a position behind you, and turns your hand over in his, opening your fingers. Then, slowly, so the horse can see it, he brings them to her face, pressing your fingertips to the soft whorl on her forehead.

The mare’s eyes do not leave you. She exhales a little through relaxed nostrils, chuffing, flicking her ears toward you. You play with the starburst of pale hair, following the direction it grows; her lids, heavy with thick, black lashes, drop a little.

“I’ll be,” Gaz murmurs behind you. “I think she might like you, miss.”

A loud BANG claps against the wall on the other end of the stable, and the mare jerks her head immediately, flinging your hand away. She grunts, snorts, and dances away from the gate, shaking her head, eyes flaring wide.

You and Gaz both look to the commotion—

Your husband stands in the open doorway, cast in a dark silhouette by the late morning light.

“Just what the hell are you doing?”

a/n: the horses' names are all references to characters in my favorite western, Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry.

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wolveria · 1 year ago

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The Raven's Hymn - Ch 44

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, violence, horror, death, monsters, human experiments, dark with a happy ending

Chapter Summary: “Whatever happens, I’m not going back to my cell.”

AO3

Not being dressed in the orange jumpsuit of a D-Class gave you a slight advantage, but the white smock was still a dead giveaway. Your first goal: find a disguise. Or at least, a change of clothing so it wasn’t painfully obvious you were an escaped prisoner.

The corridor outside your cell was conspicuously empty, but the other corridors in Heavy Containment were not. You had to duck into more than one utility closet, waiting out guards and researchers who passed you by. But you knew the layout well, and the heavy footfalls of guards, the sharp click of heels, and the rhythmic tap of dress shoes gave you plenty of warning.

You also knew where the security cameras were, mainly focused on four-way junctions and places of gathering, such as breakrooms and cafeterias. That gave you a limited range of movement, and you were running out of utility closets until you found the one you wanted.

Boxes lined the shelves, and you opened them quickly, one by one, until you found plastic stacks of white fabric. You pulled the box down and sorted out the stacks, looking at the letters printed on the plastic indicating sizes. Finding one that would fit, you tore open the package and slipped on the lab coat.

You still wore the smock and leggings underneath, but the weight and familiarity of the lab coat was like slipping back into an old comfortable sweater. Even your posture changed as you searched the shelves and found a box of rubber bands. Wincing at the stray strands pulled out of your scalp, you tied up your hair, both to change your appearance and get it out of the way.

It would have to do. You might fool staff who didn’t know you, or guards that weren’t assigned to you, but you wouldn’t get out of the sector without a keycard. You wouldn’t even be able to get to a computer without one.

You waited until the hallway was clear before slipping out of the closet. If you were lucky, you could find a laptop in one of the staff rooms, its owner distracted while you swiped it. And then, of course, you had to figure out what was on the thumb drive and prayed it could help you in some way. You trusted 049, but he wasn’t known to be the most tech-savvy SCP. How he’d come into possession of the thumb drive, you could only guess. And your guesses weren’t many.

Your steps slowed when you realized where you were. You’d had to backtrack to avoid a T-junction with a security camera, and perhaps thoughts of him had brought you back to this area of Heavy Containment. Either way, the containment door was open.

Two D-Class were at work cleaning up the mess on the floor, courtesy of 049’s spilled bag. The doctor’s bag was nowhere to be seen, but there were plastic bins on the autopsy table where the D-Class were using as sharps containers.

A glimmer drew you to one bin, the overhead lights reflecting off the thin edge. It was the scalpel 049 had held to your neck.

One of the D-Class raised his head and blinked at you.

“Sorry, we’re not done in here yet.” He gripped the handle of his mop, nervousness in the width of his eyes. “We’re going as fast as we can—”

“Uh, no, no. That’s fine.” You forced out a smile and tried to remember what it was like to be on this side of the cage. “Pretend I’m not even here.”

The D-Class relaxed and nodded, turning back to sweeping up the mess, seeming all too glad to return to what he was doing.

But the other D-Class gave you a hard stare, as if trying to figure out if he knew you from somewhere. You returned the stare with an irritated one of your own. He quickly turned away.

Before either of them could come to the correct conclusion that you didn’t belong there, you quickly swiped the scalpel and slipped it into your coat pocket. Without a word, you left the chamber, unsure if you would ever return again.

If all went well, you wouldn’t.

Now with a weapon and a supposed means of escape, all you needed to find was a computer. But the staff rooms you found were either empty, or worse, contained people you recognized. Panic crept up your spine; you were trapped in this sector, and even if you tried to quickly move past the cameras, you couldn’t leave Heavy Containment.

Maybe you could find a keycard, steal one from a staff member. You had to do something before your absence was noticed. Every minute that went by was another minute more likely you would be caught, another minute closer to failure—

You were passing the communal bathrooms when you came to a dead stop. Only a few feet away stood Kenneth. He was too distracted to notice your presence, dabbing his nose with a tissue. It was stained red, and one of his nostrils still trickled blood.

“Goddammit,” he swore under his breath. Turning his back to you, he started down the other direction, moving slowly as he tried to stop his nosebleed.

It gave plenty of time for you to catch up, grab his free arm, and slip the scalpel against his side.

“Don’t speak. Don’t raise the alarm. Keep walking.”

Kenneth went stiff, freezing on the spot.

“I said keep moving,” you hissed, and he obeyed with a tiny jerk as the tip of the scalp pressed against his ribs.

“How did you get out?”

At least he spoke in a whisper, though it was nasally behind his pinched nose. His naturally pale face had lost even more of its hue, and anyone glancing his way would know something was wrong. If you weren’t so focused on escaping, you’d be more worried he was going to faint.

“Doesn’t matter,” you said so only he could hear. “You’re helping me escape.”

“I... yeah, okay.”

You frowned.

“Really? Just like that?”

Kenneth sighed and pulled the tissue away from his nose. Satisfied it had stopped bleeding, he slipped it into his pocket, careful not to jostle the scalpel.

“You think I wanted to follow those orders? Or help the Site Director torture you?” He glanced at you over his shoulder. “A lot of things have changed, but you’re still my friend. I’ll help any way I can.”

His words brought up a confusing mixture of emotions. Guilt, relief, and cautious but hopeful gratitude.

“Oh. I… wasn’t expecting that.”

A faint ghost of a smile appeared. It wasn’t quite the goofy one he used to give you, but it was nice to see again. He almost looked the way he used to, a little too carefree and relaxed, but you suspected that old version of Kenneth was rarely seen these days. His sandy-copper hair was too long, his framed glasses unable to hide the bags under his eyes, and there was a lot more stubble on his jaw than there used to be. He looked older than his years, and it was hard to remember he hadn’t yet reached his 30s.

“Not sure how much help I’ll be. My card can’t get you out of the facility.” His smile slowly faded, a grim flattening of his lips taking its place. “You know this place is supposed to be breach-proof. Even if you had the Site Director’s own card, there are other security measures that would stop you.”

“Let me worry about that.” You pulled the scalpel away from his side, but you kept it gripped in your palm. You didn’t want to hurt anyone, but you weren’t going to let anyone get in your way, either. “Just follow me.”

Kenneth nodded, and even though you kept him in the corner of your eye, he didn’t attempt to run or alert anyone to your presence. In the junctions and high traffic areas, you put Kenneth between yourself and the cameras, staying close to him as if you were two normal coworkers discussing the latest observation report.

“What happened to your nose?” you asked after pushing the elevator button. Thankfully no one else was waiting.

“Oh, that. Donno. Been getting nosebleeds lately.”

You made a sympathetic noise, but your gaze dropped to his hands where they fidgeted against his lab coat.

The elevator ride to the skybridge level was silent and filled with a tension you couldn’t quite pinpoint. You were relieved when the doors opened, and you continued onward to the large walkway that spanned the empty space between Heavy Containment and the administration section.

The two sections looked like skyscrapers placed deep underground. Heavy Containment was larger and built out of heavy concrete and steel. The administration building was a more flexible blend of concrete and stone. It had only been a few days since you’d last been in the admin building, but it seemed like a different lifetime.

Kenneth swiped his keycard to open the glass doors that led to the skybridge, and you crossed the covered tunnel, looking out of the glass walls into the darkness beyond. It was easy to forget all of Site-20 was underground. It had been a long time since you’d seen the surface, and your heart ached with the desperate need to see sunlight and smell fresh air again. It was painful to imagine that it had been even longer for 049.

“Did you watch us?”

Your question hung in the air. There was no need to specify exactly what Kenneth would have watched. His unhappy sigh meant he understood the question.

“I didn’t look at the monitors, but the Site Director was there. I couldn’t—he wouldn’t let me leave. I didn’t want him to do that to you. I didn’t... I wanted to stop it, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry, Reid.”

He sounded so sick to his stomach that you couldn’t be angry, not at him. Your rage was reserved for only one person.

“I know,” you said quietly. “It’s not your fault, Kenneth.”

His expression was pained, and his words surprisingly bitter.

“It sure feels that way.”

You entered through the glass doors into the admin sector and the halls remained empty. Judging by the lack of activity and how tired you were, you guessed it was the night shift’s turn to be on duty.

No one in sight, you slipped your hand into Kenneth’s. He gave a small start, his eyes wide, but then he relaxed, his arm brushing yours as you walked. He was the closest thing you had to a friend besides 049, and it was comforting to think it was a friendship that could be salvaged. Even if best case scenario, you managed to escape with 049 and never saw Kenneth again, at least you’d part on good terms.

It wasn’t long before you both stood in front of Dr. Puli’s office. Kenneth turned to you and released your hand, his expression folded into something tense, earnest.

“Reid, I... I want to say something first.”

You glanced both ways down the corridor; it was still empty but wouldn’t remain that way forever.

“Okay. What?”

His mouth worked as if searching for the words, or perhaps unable to voice them. He winced, his hands fidgeting at his sides.

“I didn’t want to listen to him, I didn’t. But he made me do things—I’m sorry. I did it, but I didn’t want to.”

You frowned and shook your head. Hadn’t you already forgiven him for what Leahy had forced him to do?

“I know, Kenneth. Like I said, it’s fine. I forgive you.”

Instead of looking relieved, he seemed more frustrated.

“That’s not... what I’m saying.”

A closing door followed by footsteps somewhere in an adjacent corridor drew your attention. You put a hand on his upper arm, forcing Kenneth to look at you.

“We can talk about it later, okay? There’s no time right now.”

To your relief, he nodded his agreement. You released his arm.

“Here’s what I need you to do.” You tilted your head toward the door. “I need you to get Dr. Puli to let us in. Don’t tell him I’m here, obviously. Once we’re inside, do as I say. Okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He attempted to give you a ghost of his old smile, but there was sweat beading on his forehead. “I can do that.”

You kept close just in case something went wrong. Despite Kenneth’s nervous behavior, you didn’t sense that he was trying to trick you or lead you into a trap. His guilt seemed far too internal, his focus scattered. He seemed like a man floundering rather than one attempting deceit.

Kenneth pressed a shaky finger to the intercom button.

“Doctor Puli, are you there?”

You waited in tense silence, broken by the click of the speaker.

“Yes, what is it?”

He sent you a relieved glance, and you nodded your encouragement.

“Doctor, it’s Kenneth. I want to talk to you about... about Reid.”

Another beat of silence.

“Very well.”

The door clicked as the magnetic bolt slid free.

It had been easy, much easier than you thought, but then again, this wasn’t supposed to be the hard part. You took Kenneth’s arm and quietly bade him to open the door. He did with the click of another button, the door sliding open, and you both crossed through the threshold into Dr. Puli’s office.

As soon as the door slid behind you, automatically locking, you pulled the scalpel out of your pocket and held it aimed at Kenneth’s neck.

Dr. Puli hadn’t even looked up yet, too busy focused on the papers on his desk, pen scratching across the surface.

“What is it?”

When Kenneth didn’t answer, your former boss finally looked up. He froze, eyes wide as he took in the blade, Kenneth’s pale features, and finally yours, hard and determined.

“Get up.”

He didn’t move.

You positioned the scalpel closer to Kenneth’s neck, and he made a startled sound that didn’t seem part of the act.

“Please, do what she says.” Kenneth’s voice was unsteady but effective, getting Dr. Puli up and away from his desk. You watched his hands, making sure he didn’t press the emergency call button.

“Reid,” he said, slightly spreading his palms to show he wasn’t holding anything, “what are you doing?”

“Sit down. Over there, on the futon. Keep your hands in the open.”

He frowned but did as you demanded, cautiously crossing the office to sit on the green piece of furniture. His gaze flicked between you and Kenneth, as if trying to solve a puzzle.

“What is this?”

“You wanted to help me, right? That’s what you said?” you asked, some of your bitterness slipping through. “This is how you’re going to do it. Pull out your keycard. Toss it on the table.”

He moved his hands in a plaintive spread.

“Please. No one needs to get hurt.”

More bitterness poured through, no longer a trickle but an oozing wound.

“Little late for that.”

He winced but otherwise didn’t move.

“Yes, I will acknowledge that. But what you’re doing isn’t going to make your situation any better. Do you really think you can get very far even with my keycard?”

“The time for you to give a shit about my well-being passed a long time ago. Put down the goddamn card.”

His frown deepened.

“You don’t expect me to believe you’d actually hurt him.”

Your fingers tightened on the back of Kenneth’s neck, forcing out a small whimper.

“You want to test how far I’ll go to save 049?”

Dr. Puli’s gaze faltered, then fell, and with a defeated slump of his shoulders he pulled the keycard lanyard from his neck and tossed it on the coffee table.

“Take it and lock the door.”

This last set of instructions you directed at Kenneth, and he took the card, fingers slightly trembling. You walked him over to the door, keeping the scalpel close to his skin in case your old boss tried to play a hero. You didn’t think he would, but backing people into a corner made them desperate. You would know.

Kenneth used the keycard to lock the door from the inside. There was a keypad next to the door, and without his keycard Dr. Puli would have still been able to enter a code to leave. Now the door wouldn’t budge without the proper level of keycard.

You tugged on Kenneth’s coat collar, leading him up to Dr. Puli’s desk. On its surface sat a monitor, the desktop hidden somewhere inside one of the cabinets. But the monitor itself had USB ports, and you had to hope it was enough.

“What are you doing?” asked Dr. Puli, eyeing your progress. “I thought you would want to know where 049 has been taken.”

“Do you know where he is?”

Dr. Puli opened his mouth, and then closed it.

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Didn’t think so.”

He was out of the Site Director’s good graces and had been for some time. He wouldn’t know where 049 was, even if he was willing to help you.

Needing both hands, you released Kenneth’s collar and slipped the scalpel back into your pocket. You fished the thumb drive out of your bra, the grey object innocuous and rather dull as far as escape tools went. Kenneth looked at it with confusion, but Dr. Puli seemed more alarmed.

“What is that? Reid, what are you—”

Fingers gripping the drive like a blade, you aimed it against the port and slid it inside. It clicked into place.

The dark monitor flickered, sporadic and unstable, and it wasn’t the only thing. The lights dulled and brightened, as if there was a brief fluctuation of power followed by a surge.

A long siren began to wail.

You exchanged a wide-eyed look with Kenneth. It was the most unsettling noise you’d ever heard, and by his expression, he thought the same.

Dr. Puli moved, and you went to grab your scalpel, but there was no need. He was pulling something out from his belt, something small that beeped out a loud, analog chime. A pager—old school but effective as an emergency broadcast receiver during containment breaches.

“What is it?”

“Something’s broken containment,” Dr. Puli said to your question. He read the scrolling message on the beeper and looked up at you both, his words thick. “SCP-106 has escaped.”

What? Had the thumb drive caused it? Why would 049 have something like that—

“Wh-what about the other anomalies?” Kenneth stammered.

“It appears to be just the one, for now.”

“What about 035? Is he still in containment?”

You frowned, a reflection on Dr. Puli’s face.

“As far as I know. But we need to get to the nearest shelter. Reid, you’re coming with us.”

You didn’t answer, your attention drawn to the monitor next to your arm. The screen had flickered briefly, but in that moment, you had seen something there. Something impossible.

“Where’s your laptop?”

Dr. Puli blinked, thrown by the non sequitur.

“In my desk drawer.”

You pulled it open, the drawer not locked. The disjointed klaxon hadn’t abated, and it was starting to grind on your nerves. The hairs on the back of your neck stood upright, each rise and fall of the eerie pitch giving you the sensation of being hunted by an unseen predator. Whoever designed that sound deserved a healthy raise and some therapy.

Placing the laptop on the desk, you hoped this would work. If you were right about what was on the thumb drive, you would need something more portable than a desktop.

“Go.” You raised your eyes when neither of them moved. “You both need to get to the shelters before they go into lockdown.”

“What about you?”

You met Dr. Puli’s gaze.

“Whatever happens, I’m not going back to my cell.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words remained where they were, unspoken. He gave you a nod, something sad lingering in his eyes as he palmed open the door. It had been unlocked during the power fluctuation, a fail-safe measure that would keep people from being locked inside rooms without a designated keycard.

The door remained open after Dr. Puli disappeared through it, but Kenneth didn’t immediately head for the exit, his eyes pleading with you to follow.

“I’ll be fine,” you assured him, not wanting him to wait around. The sooner he got to a bunker, the safer he would be. “Go. Go.”

He finally moved at your urgency, glancing back when you called out to him at the room threshold.

“Kenneth… I wouldn’t have hurt you.”

The smile he sent back was tinged with a sad understanding.

“It’s okay. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”

Something ached in your chest, and you searched for the words that would soothe the discomfort. You didn’t find them.

“Good luck.” He gave you a two-fingered salute, a goofy gesture the old Kenneth would have made, and you almost called him back. It would be a relief to have an ally, to not have to do this alone, but it would only put him in further danger. You couldn’t do that to him, especially because you knew he would say yes.

And then he was gone. The door slid shut behind him, seemingly of its own accord. You certainly hadn’t shut it.

A face appeared on the screen, textured in black-and-white, its features blocky and obtuse.

“079,” you breathed out. You’d never met the SCP, but it could be nothing else.

“Identified: Assistant Researcher █████ Reid.” A stiff, digital voice spilled from the monitor speakers. “Proposed designation: SCP-6830, rejected. New designation found.”

It paused, and the computer inside the cabinet whirred. It spoke again.

“Identified: Assistant Researcher █████ Reid, SCP-001.”

Next Chapter

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