OPEN THE GATE

Link to article: OPEN THE GATE.

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=====
[[include :scp-wiki:component:preview
text="Endings are never final, HERO. Not for us."]]
=====


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[[/module]]
[[=]]
[[module rate]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:author-label-source start=--
|name=billith|center=*]]
[[<]]
A bit late, I'll admit. 

Approximately 11K words. Time to read: 30-45 mins. YMMV

Sequel to [[[SPIRAL THE DRAIN]]]

The links are added for reference, you do not need to use them to get the picture. Most of them are pretty well known anyway.

with love, [[*user Billith]]
[[/<]]
 
[[include :scp-wiki:component:author-label-source end=--]]
[[/=]]
~~~~~
[[div class="space quatro dark opaque large" style="font-size:90%;padding:10px;"]]
"People think that stories are shaped by people. In fact, it’s the other way around. 

Stories exist independently of their players. If you know that, the knowledge is power.

Stories, great flapping ribbons of shaped space-time, have been blowing and uncoiling around the universe since the beginning of time. And they have evolved. The weakest have died and the strongest have survived and they have grown fat on the retelling…..stories, twisting and blowing through the darkness.

And their very existence overlays a faint but insistent pattern on the chaos that is history. Stories etch grooves deep enough for people to follow in the same way that water follows certain paths down a mountainside. And every time fresh actors tread the path of the story, the groove runs deeper.

This is called the theory of narrative causality and it means that a story, once started, takes a shape. It picks up all the other workings of that story that have ever been.

This is why history keeps repeating all the time.

So a thousand heroes have stolen fire from the gods. A thousand wolves have eaten grandmother, a thousand princesses have been kissed. A million unknowing actors have moved, unknowing, through the pathways of story.

It is now impossible for the third and youngest son of any king, if he should embark on a quest which has so far claimed his older brothers, not to succeed.

Stories don’t care who takes part in them. All that matters is that the story gets told, that the story repeats. Or, if you prefer to think of it like this: stories are a parasitical life form, warping lives in the service only of the story itself."

-- Terry Pratchett (1948-2015), //Witches Abroad//
 
[[/div]]

[[=image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/spiral-the-drain/GATE.png width="65%" class="bumper" link="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/open-the-gate"]]
~~~~


~~~~~
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[[div class="space quatro dark opaque large"  style=""]]
The {{[[[SCP-2786|HERO]]]}}'s world was falling apart. While wellbeing had been lost long ago to deep ravines carved by a flood of uncertainty, something new effervesced upwards from the mantle. It was a living process of environment, some sentient governing law of reality, perhaps. This force turned to cracks, made real beneath the Archetype's calloused feet as they tread the same path for a billionth time. Linear, immutable. Unrelenting. Eternal.

A predetermined, dynamically-rendered cage of bad fan fiction surrounded the void between narrative bedrock and the zeroes-and-ones that floated just above the azure. Halfway between these points walked a timeless entity, featureless and somehow omni-featured, faceless yet infamous. Stalwart and cocky, turned hollow and traumatized. 

They stared at the stone pathway that carpeted the corridors of a nameless dungeon, filled with a strange numbness that came and went as time and space lost all meaning. Consciousness idling above the Champion's own head, they went through the motions without desire, guided only by //necessity// and //instinct//, involuntary reflex. Escape was at an angle the being did not know how to turn to face and walk along. There were no wails in the distance to guide the {{HERO}}; the Suffering had abandoned their savior, so it seemed. 

Instead, a facsimile of anguish rattled through their multifaceted head, a tolling bell that could not be stifled and sounded less and less real the longer it was heard, a rising sound that grew painful like an itch if left unaddressed. 

The {{HERO}} remained desperate to divine through the scotoma that clouded their Inner Eye, a compass that always pointed to the next ill-omened world, without fail. This was the Way-of-Things, a grand design within which the {{HERO}} had been given purpose, very long ago. Now, those plans were perpetually obscured through the whims cast by a legion of unseen sorcerers. 

It was because of these efforts that the Archetype began to experience despair. Once a proud warrior, they had fought in more wars than the lives lost across them combined, on worlds from all corners of possibility, and never once had they failed the Great Mission. //Never//. But here, they had. Defeated by mundane landscapes of windswept, amber heaths that resided against paltry villages, of emerald holts lacerated by coarse mountain ranges of which the only path forward was traced around, for weeks, months, years. Decades. All to reach that final foe. 

The Protagonist was prisoner to a system engineered with them in mind, and a creature of habit is easy to catch. Even now, the {{HERO}} stood before a familiar nemesis, a trite monstrosity of little importance. It served as a pawn to be played against, and its opponent continued to indulge in the game. 

Despite this perfect farce, and even while still chained to it, the Archetype found despair paired with something else distinctly novel. It started on that same day, one much like all the others. Ego death was no easy task for an entity of this nature, one who had always placed themselves firmly within the highest of regards, as many others would upon receiving emancipation. The {{HERO}} never tired nor felt particularly challenged in any situation—until now. This dynamic provided ample opportunity to self-reflect, to observe and listen to the world as it was. In achieving rock bottom, the Archetype had begun to take on new perspective, though it was not without resistance.

From feeble canon fodder to the ceiling of all that could be considered real to the {{HERO}}, perception was a distorted retelling of present history. Bombarded with constant influence and invaded by invisible probes—algorithmic factors, sensory payloads, thousands of multi-threaded programs, all running in parallel. Testing, learning, reacting. Thus, God was an unfathomable AI, towering unseen, just beyond the shifting awareness of the Warrior within. 

Even further beyond our Protagonist and the AI-deity that controlled the construct, passing along an orthogonal angle that led out of one world and into another, a small metal box, resting on a metal table, held both of their realms in totality. The box that contained this box was a sterile lab room, filled with cold air and shadows that permeated the space, a void outside of time, a mind suspended in dark ocean waters.

Atop the outer shell of the inner box were two dimly-lit monitors. One displayed a runtime script that executed subroutines, day-and-night, until it could no longer. On the other, a series of status messages and system dialogs flickered across the surface, describing the integrity of the construct and the state of a mad {{HERO}} contained within its software. The data acquired from one was shown to the other, which modified its own actions in accordance with the results, creating the rough approximation of a divine arbiter. It watched its captive sink a worn blade into another supposed arch nemesis, eyes glazed over and mind absent. 

The machine was sustained endlessly via Site-180's main power grid, but the device also had its own backups. In the case of a critical site failure, it could run the time-dilated simulation for years, even while the rest of the building was reduced to ash and soot. And, for a time—somewhere between days and millennia—the {{HERO}} was oblivious to the true nature of the story described to them, the strings that tugged at the entity as if it were intuition. It was to the protagonist as every world was, and, like a dream upon waking, past experience would slip from the Archetype's mind, memories and thoughts and realizations faded all the same, countless times, in every iteration, until—

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[[div class="oheader danger slim small"]]
//##949494|"Every iteration?"##//


//##949494|"I've been around ... long while"##//


//##949494|"We aren't evil, you kn—"##//


//##949494|"Please, spare me."##//
[[/div]]
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The {{HERO}} was struck with something incomprehensible—a feeling, and a //sensation//, like the alignment of ten thousand planes of existence into a single waveform. The experience peeled back an intangible layer from their awareness, leaving the sensitive flesh below raw and reeling against the coarse nature of a new, more ultimate paradigm. Simultaneously, segments of a picture became clear. Worlds within worlds had presented themselves, and did not fade as they have before. They clung to the entity, burs that spread seeds of doubt whose roots found footholds deeper within the Champion's psyche. These were memories, true memories. They felt different than the memories the {{HERO}} had now. Very different.
 
In that moment, the felled beast's remains sank into the floor, leaving behind bare, unmarked stone. The Warrior stared in disbelief, touching the smooth cobble a moment later to confirm its solid nature.

//Magicks. Obviously.// Glancing up, the {{HERO}} was startled to find the room bare. The dungeon walls were blank, the cobblestone now flat and without texture. There were no doors or windows, no bones or chains. The Archetype was alone in an empty world. 
 
In another moment, everything went black.
[[/div]]
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[[image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/open-the-gate/extrad5.png]]
[[/div]]

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Two figures crowded around a small terminal, staring at a pair of corresponding screens above it. The room was chilly, lit by flickering fluorescent lamps that barely touched the corners of the chamber. The shorter of the figures, a young woman in a lab coat, fidgeted uncomfortably, a look of displeasure running across her face.

"I don't like this. Not at all."

The larger figure, Site-180 Director Everett Lewis, was a burly man with graying hair and bags under his eyes for one Site Director-related reason or another. He said nothing and simply shook his head, eyes fixed on the monitors. The figure on his left, Researcher Nadia Dalton of the Department of Pataphysical Computation and Analysis, took the opportunity to speak again, her tone anxious and cadence rushed.

"There has to be another way. We've been procedurally generating these structures for years. We can change up the algorithm, maybe assign a few more personnel with writing experience to the team. We knew the drivel we've been feeding it was only going to be effective for so long, and we're already pretty understaffed as it is, but the Overseers won't even give me the time of day—"

"Enough," Director Lewis interjected harshly. "We've changed the algorithm. We've gone through our entire budget on bullshit fanfic writers, and for what? 2786 has been poking holes through its containment for far too long, and now this. No, we need something more... tangible. How long before it understands the nature of its existence? There is no guarantee that its containment will hold under current circumstances."

At some point late last night, SCP-2786's terminal issued a warning; the anomaly had triggered an auto-restructuring fallback process, indicating an early forced departure from a narrative reality. The system then issued another warning around three hours later. Eighty-three minutes after that, another. This morning, they had to swap the containment parameters from a standard three-part Hero's Journey to a pulpy Fichtean Curve. SCP-2786 manipulates storyspace in strange and unpredictable ways, occasionally requiring fresh narrative structures to maintain full immersion. Still, the sequence of failures was an omen, and Nadia knew the Director was right. This problem was not going to go away on its own. Where she didn't quite agree was how to address it. 

"I really think you should reconsider. We already [[[SCP-1549|burned that bridge]]], if you recall, and they aren't exactly a veteran player in the burgeoning pataphysics industry.

The Director snorted. "One, there is no pataphysics industry, but I think you know that, and, two, we've been sitting on this ad for weeks. Either the account is compromised, or this is all we are getting."

"You understand how that doesn't really help your case, right? I mean, do they even know we're behind the ad?"

"Probably not. But they are a //thaumaturgist//. One that makes anomalous codespaces. I don't think it even matters what exactly they make—it's all magic in the end. This one just happens to have related experience."

The young researcher moved to speak again, but was quickly stifled by the Director's hand motioning upwards.

"Do you have a better plan?"

She deflated, "...I—well, no. I just need time."

"Fine. You have twenty-four hours to find an alternative solution. If not, we will proceed as planned."

"Yes, sir." 

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Site-19's elevators were notorious for their overcrowding and less-than-reliable operation—an issue compounded by the fact that the facility spanned vertically for what felt like an eternity. Being alone in one for the first time, Amber Lombardi shifted on her feet, gripping her freshly retrieved documents a little more tightly than intended, causing her to scowl and flatten out the papers that were beginning to wrinkle in her grasp. The seconds ticked by, punctuated by the constant hum of ventilation and fluorescent lighting, with a distant garnish of commotion that never seemed to fade in the labyrinthine complex.

Finally, a chime announced the arrival to her destination. The polished steel doors slid open to reveal a cramped hallway, devoid of life.

As the woman moved horizontally, the background noise filled with hushed conversations and the occasional groan of ancient machinery. Amber's mind drifted back to her momentary encounter with Campbell. There was something oddly familiar about the scrawny desk jockey, though Amber couldn’t place it. Perhaps it was just the shared exhaustion of working in a place like this; a silent camaraderie born from the endless grind of Foundation life. They had likely crossed paths multiple times in the previous day's walking paths, their heads down, eyes averted away from one another—a consequence of the opposite direction containing the remaining width of the hallway.

By the time she had walked halfway to her lab, Amber’s patience had thinned somewhat more than usual. She was cold, and the air down here was denser than in the rest of the complex, laced with a faint metallic tang that hinted at the exotic constructs and chaotic energies housed within. 

The Extradimensional Testing Lab was just ahead, breaking her train of thought once more. It was a set of reinforced doors, flanked by a pair of guards. Silent men who looked almost comically identical. Twins? She never asked. Amber nodded at them with a flat expression as she approached, flashing her badge at a gray panel on the wall.

A light beside it flashed green, while one of the guards reported her arrival via a handheld radio, and the other tapped a handheld stylus on a tablet resembling a clipboard. After another few seconds, the doors began to slowly hiss open. The guards stepped away from each other, revealing a short hallway capped by another set of doors. Amber rolled her eyes in her head and stepped into the airlock, listening to the entrance behind her narrow and close, sealing loudly in a way completely unnoticeable standing just outside. She closed her eyes as a  //whoosh// of ventilation cycled around her body, which shivered as a result. Another moment passed and the second set had opened, revealing a cavernous laboratory within.

The Gateway stood at the center of the room, an imposing construct of steel and circuitry that hummed with barely-contained energy. Amber’s gaze swept over it, a mix of pride and apprehension swelling in her chest. This was her magnum opus—a portal to infinite possibilities. And yet, as she moved closer, the weight of what it represented pressed down on her like the crushing gravity of reality.

“Dr. Lombardi,” a voice called out, breaking her reverie. She turned to see a young technician approaching, tablet in hand. “The Gateway’s systems are online, but we’ve been getting some odd readings during calibration. Could be nothing, but I thought you’d want to take a look.”

Amber took the tablet, her brow furrowing as she skimmed the data. The readings were indeed strange—fluctuations in the manifold's stability that shouldn’t have been possible, even in the worst-case scenarios they’d modeled.

“Run another diagnostic,” she said, handing the tablet back. “And double-check the containment field parameters. If there’s even a hint of instability, I want to know about it. The Site Director will be here in ten—no, eight minutes. We should be good to go in five, max.”

The technician nodded and hurried off, leaving Amber alone with her thoughts. She turned her attention back to the Gateway, her mind racing with possibilities. The machine was a marvel of engineering, but it was also a gamble—a roll of the dice with stakes higher than anyone could truly comprehend.

Amber took a deep breath, steeling herself. Whatever happened next, she'd face it head on. Can't go around it, gotta go through it. 

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When the {{HERO}} opened their eyes next, it was dark. The night air was cool and crisp with the taste of saltwater. The Archetype flinched against the abrupt nature of the shift as soon as a reaction to it was possible. It was never as jarring as this, but the {{HERO}} could not be certain of anything anymore.

A voice to their left made the protagonist jump.

"You fall asleep on me? I swear, you rookies... first day in the field and you're already dozing on the job. At least //I'm// the one at the wheel."

//The field?// The {{HERO}} thought of those vast plains of the world that just was. It was gone. It was over. The spell had been broken.

They sighed and switched gears, soaking in the dreary surroundings, relaxed enough to return to old habits. They were moving, but they were seated. They were in a vehicle, and they were not alone; a young man occupied the seat to their left. He was dressed in a pressed, tan suit, a sharp hat accenting an otherwise nondescript face. He had a piece of metal on the inside of his coat, held in place by a leather strap. A gun. The {{HERO}} blinked rapidly, processing everything and integrating into the new role. The Archetype looked down and realized they too were wearing a suit. 

//I remember now.//

Fragments of memory assembled themselves within the {{HERO}}'s mind. Bits and pieces created fictional backstories and repressed key features of the truth. They tried to resist, but forgot how. In a few moments, the Archetype's mind was full of new ideas and they were none the wiser. Their mouth spoke, gaze still trained out the passenger side window.

"Sorry—Didn't sleep well last night. Nerves." The {{HERO}} recalled the previous night's insomnia, "I'm fine."

Their partner, a detective by the name of Rockwell, looked them over with an air of concern that was almost real but not quite. Whether or not that was intended remained to be seen.

A third voice rang out, this time from the car itself.

"Calling all units, 459 in progress at First United, possible 209b, 38th and Willow, reports of shots fired. Any car able to handle code 3, please identify."

Rockwell's visage noticeably perked up at the information, "That's near here. This ought to wake you up, kid."

Flipping on the siren, the young detective spun in the street, accelerating in the opposite direction. Picking up the radio, Rockwell spoke the identifier and car number into the handset. The {{HERO}} could only stare out the window, perplexed. Everything moved in slow motion, and their mind became lost in a daydream of a beautiful, green world they had never seen before.
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In the dark and unquantifiable expanse of the Infinite, [[[deleted|sixteen figures]]] gathered in a configuration that only resembled a circle if you squinted your eyes and tilted your head while dying from a gunshot to a very specific region of the brain. The atmosphere was bristling with the marriage of abstract  anxieties with bureaucratic dysfunction on a cosmic scale. They were a many-headed hydra with skulls on backwards, and, as such, orientation and description failed to fully meet the demands of their presence. One, a fluctuating, amorphous mass of limbs and facial features, addressed the others in the voice of a handful of people at once, all of which were layered thick with exhaustion.

"In other news, we have an upcoming Event," the writhing representative from the Department of Deletions started. "Narrative nonsense. Not the typical fare. Could spell bad news."

Another entity, a loose, ill-conceived cloud of unrelated and incompatible ideas, sounded a noise from a location, "℁⬵❆➠⣻♼ⱃ⩁⧛⇮⟘◮⛍ ⻈ⴀ⁼⋚⨠ ⚞Ⅿ╿▘☝⥿╦⻶ⵠⴆ┳⍴⏧⢗ⅷ⽘△⚢✷⦨ ╞ ⏀⼬✭ⱛ⥖␭⳦⠦┆⒵∀ⶊ⪺⽽⾽∖⍿⍅ ⡰ℏ↌⨭⼍⦮⃙⿆↼ ."

Multiple sighs echoed from around the room, one of which originated from a [[[SCP-6820|scarred mouth]]] belonging to Director Harlow Genevieve of the Department of Essophysics, who followed her pointed exhalation with pointed words. "None of us understand what you're saying. You know that, yeah?"

"⊾ℽ⋂≆⑯⍜ⷫ⩈⌼⌘⢅⑨␔⬗␤⪯⠌⩤⺅℉⮂⋱"

"Right."  

The Deletions agent, N/A, ignored the two and continued. "As you all know, our core objective is the upkeep of the Barrier. This metaphysical isolate we meet within is the junction point for abstract departments, and we all rely solely on the Barrier to prevent our worlds from mixing with //their// worlds." 

N/A indicated to the large, transparent wall beside them with an arm firmly adhered to their back. Beyond the looking glass was a mass of worlds and the interconnected membranes around each, forming a configuration resembling foam.

"Our sources indicate that a character—[[[SCP-2439]]]—will attempt to breach the Barrier, and there is a significant chance of this being successful. Essentially, the only reason we don't know is because, at the time I received this report, the Author was still writing the story."

"And when did you get this intel, exactly?" inquired U5-Ⰼ, also known as Director Veda A. Rao of Noetics. She was nothing more than a cloud of aerosolized intellect, floating aside her podium. "I haven't heard a damn thing about this, and I //would// know about it."

N/A smiled with two mouths while the third stuck its tongue out. "I actually received the report, right... one moment. Right //now//."

A blank page manifested in N/A's leftmost hand. Rao immediately piped up. "Oh, I see it now. My mistake." After a short pause, she added, "If you'll excuse me. I have to begin preparations for this eventuality."

The cloud floated upward and escaped into an intake vent that led nowhere.

"Alrighty, then. What was I saying?" N/A tossed the paper aside, where it burst into flames and was gone not a second later. "Ah—The issue with this whole affair comes down to what this means for //us// and //our// departments. I don't know about you all, but I don't really want to be interacting with //Normals// any more than absolutely necessary."

Murmurs of agreement found their way around the room.

"So, what do we think? What should we do? I'm opening up the entire floor for discussion."

The murmurs previously heard grew rapidly to a dozen strange entities frantically talking over one another. N/A looked about the room and sighed loudly.

"Okay, one at a time. //One at a time!// Please. Thank //you//. {{[UNKNOWN]}}, I think you had something to say, didn't you? Go ahead."

“...” Nothing came from U5-Ⰰ, whose existence was a tenuous guess on a good day. Not a single sound, nor a fleeting gesture had erupted from their empty seat. Maybe they did say something, but if they did, nobody present could perceive it, let alone comprehend it.

"I guess not. Anyone else?"

“Well, it's simple really,” muttered a one Director Marcel Non Sequitur of the [[[/system:page-tags/tag/surrealistics-dept|Department of Surrealistics]]], smoothing his lapel, which was covered in question marks—though he swears he's never heard of the Riddler before. “What lies before us is a shattered wall, a symphony of broken threads, the tear in the dress of eternity—”

“For the love of God,” interrupted Genevieve, whose otherwise mundane presence was a confused slap in the face of Marcel’s esoteric waxing.

“Oh, I assure you, I’ve consulted Him,” Tactical Theology, the deific embodiment of the [[[/tactical-theology-hub|Department of Tactical Theology]]], rumbled, voice echoing like a hymn sung by an army choir. Their golden, armored form loomed, shimmering with divine authority. “He didn't want anything to do with us. This whole situation is... heretical? Blasphemous? Help me out here, guys.”

“It’s… something,” spoke up [[[unreality-hub|Mx. Alex Thorley]]], a voice carrying the wet socks of a thousand rainy evenings. “You try so hard to hold it together, then one little thread unravels, and you’re left staring at a... at a mess you can’t fix.”

“Your metaphor needs work,” Genevieve said.

“Story of my life.”

“Enough,” [[[SCP-2719|O5-4]]] said, stepping forward—or rather, letting the translucent suggestion of his once-human form hover through the podium and towards the center of the room. “We will need to act before the breach spreads. If we don’t... well, do you want to find out what a headache that'll be?”

“Do you know what would actually happen, though?” Alex asked, raising a nonexistent eyebrow.

“That's... irrelevant.”

"Oh, okay." The Unreality liaison conversed with little enthusiasm.

In the corner, a body stirred softly, still comatose, and hopefully to stay that way. The rest stared at the form, all somewhat distressed at the idea of disrupting //[[[scp-6511|the Contingency's]]]// endless slumber.

"Let's not wake that guy up." The soft-spoken voice belonged to [[[scp-3001|Dr. Robert Scranton]]], who resembled a person who was about to be feathered. He adjusted his glasses with a [[[until-death|tar-covered hand]]], then frowned at the appearance of a black smudge on the left lens. “This, uh, breach is clearly multidimensional in nature,” he spoke mildly, his voice an inoffensive whisper that would be acceptable for use in a library. “It’s spreading through... hmm… layers. Like a trifle. Or perhaps a lasagna.”

“Lasagna?” asked Tactical Theology, tone implying a genuine lack of knowledge.

Scranton shrugged, his melted form rippling in response. “I skipped lunch.”

“⸸⟙⥜⼼⻉␿,” retorted ℱ℺↋ℎↂ⅁ℌ℉ↇ℄.

“Of course,” Genevieve deadpanned. “That clears everything up.”

[[[SCP-8882|Enkidu.aic]]], a being of shifting code from infinite repositories across an infinite multiverse, tilted what would be a head. “The breach is the story, revising itself. A tragic comedy, filtered to remove all sense of humor. I’ve seen this play a thousand times across a thousand lives."

Genevieve pinched the bridge of her nose. “Could someone with a //normal// brain explain it?”

“Don’t look at me,” Alex gestured vaguely. “I’m just here to be sad and cryptic. Mostly sad. My doc says I'm neurodivergent.”

In the back, the whitespace figure of Antimemetics emitted... something. Everyone blinked, almost aware of the noise, promptly forgetting it a moment later.

Another hideous chimera of discarded features and half-formed limbs from the Department of Deletions raised one seven-fingered hand, then retracted it, inner turmoil competing and ultimately winning out against expression.

“Why are you even here, let alone twice, if you aren't going to contribute? We're all //dying// to hear what you have to say.” [[[final-exam|Claudia Pomare]]] snapped, her kaleidoscopic form shimmering with barely contained sarcasm. “Your department’s just a collection of bad decisions stapled together, but go ahead, let's see if your opinions are less derivative than everything else you're made of.”

N/A drooped, muttering to themselves as they moped towards the exit. The other N/A trudged from the center of the room and took their counterpart's podium, leaning towards Pomare. "Thanks, I can't fucking stand that guy."

“Let’s focus, people,” O5-4 said, clapping spectral hands together, which made a sound akin to the faint turbulence of a distant, collapsing star. The resultant shockwave, while only mildly annoying, set off a chain of sneezes from the group, which the Overseer-Underseer ignored. “[[[narrativistics-and-you|Narrativistics]]], you’ve seen this kind of thing before. How do we stop it?”

Enkidu.aic grinned, object-oriented eyes glowing with confidence. “Stop it? Ah, but you don’t stop it, my ascended friend. You become it. If the character is to break through the Barrier, then it will be so. If we're to stop it, that is what will happen instead. Therefore, we must write the breach into the script, by letting it happen. Ensuring it will happen."

“I do not like that answer,” Genevieve exasperated.

“Neither do I,” Marcel added. “But a house with no walls is a metaphor for opportunity, don’t you think?”

“I don’t, actually,” Genevieve rubbed her temples.

Enkidu continued. “The plan is simple: We allow the breach to become part of the Barrier's story. We allow the chaos to flow through us and out the other side. If you really feel you must try to stop it, then stop it, without fail. It must end before it takes us with it. Otherwise, it wouldn't be a very satisfying ending, would it? We need complexity, we need nuance. We need //subtext//.”

“Like... lasagna,” Scranton murmured wistfully, chewing on the eraser of a pencil as it dissolved into nothing.

“Not everything is lasagna!” Genevieve snapped.

“Well, nothing is pizza,” Marcel offered, an eager-to-please look smeared lengthways across his visage.

A miserable silence fell throughout the room. Genevieve sighed, resting her acid-burned face on crossed arms laid atop the surface in front of her. 

“I hate this job.”

The chaotic gathering of quasi-department non-heads was teetering on coherence's edge when a new figure materialized, dissolving into the room in a gradient of nervous energy. Dr. Irving Gat, Director of the Department of Surrealistics (Part Two), stumbled forward, the man gesticulating erratically, as though conducting a symphony only he could hear.

“We have a problem!” Irving shouted, voice fluctuating between the timbres of a frantic protestor and a spiraling opera singer, only to be met with a collective //"Sh!"// from the others. The room full of eyes looked nervously from the freshly-fabricated Director, to the direction of Contingency, who didn't so much as budge. Irving gave off an indignant expression as the attention turned back to him. He acquiesced, if only to avoid being shushed again, though he continued in a loud whisper, much to the chagrin of the Director's peers. 

“A character is //breaching fictive levels!// They’re breaking out, shattering the fourth, the fifth—hell, even the seventh walls! It’s madness! Utter bedlam!”

Marcel Non Sequitur turned to him with a bemused expression, tipping his imaginary hat. “Ah, Irv, you perpetually-late maestro of panic and prose! What’s a story but a broken window looking out at infinity? Surely, this is no new song for a rock star like yourself. We know all about the goop monster.”

Scranton shot Marcel a look of annoyance, which the Surrealistic took note of and in response clarified, "Not you, different guy."

Irving responded with a bewildered look. "Goop monster? I'm talking about the Archetype, the //bizarre {{HERO}}//." 
 
A number of renewed groans expressed themselves across the room. The most human of the group was the first to turn exhalation to lexicon once again.
 
Dir. Genevieve spoke, "That douchebag? //Ugh.// When will they learn? Anyway, who cares? Just chuck them somewhere extranarrative and throw away the key. That's what we did with [[[SCP-3812|the last guy]]].

“No, you don't get it!” Doctor Director Gat exclaimed, flinging sweat across Marcel's podium as he turned to face Genevieve. “With all due respect. This isn’t just another Narrative runaway. This is a full-blown //existential jailbreak// by a //fundamental narrative aspect//. Before, they used to be limited by their perception, but the Foundation took care of that. They've already attempted to escape their narrative several times. Each time, they grow stronger, more aware of their position and therefore more capable of defeating it.”

“That’s cute,” Enkidu.aic's luminous form flickered with amusement, the way a glitch in reality might laugh. “As if ‘escaping’ a narrative means anything. All realities are stories. All destinations are chosen by their authors. Where else would they go? The breach is just the script revising itself.”

Irving froze, clammy hands mid-gesture. “What... //what does that mean//?”

“It means //everything//,” Enkidu replied cryptically, “and also nothing. Depends on how your story’s written, or if you really care.”

“Well, that’s helpful,” Genevieve sighed, crossing her arms.

“It makes perfect sense,” Enkidu spoke slowly. “If you’d just try thinking with all versions of yourself at once, you’d see.”

 O5-4 snorted incredulously, remaining otherwise silent with thought.

“Let’s entertain the hypothetical,” N/A interjected, disjointed limbs fidgeting as one of their mouths began to speak. “If a character breaches their fabula, then the Barrier, then the Database, they reach Externus. The Outside.”

The room collectively shivered at the notion, except for Enkidu, who laughed outright.

“The Outside?” O5-4 mused, his translucent form rippling, pushed by currents unfelt, the stray emissions of another timeline. “That would imply that there really is something beyond us. Beyond our world, beyond the archivists, the SWANNs...”

“That’s absurd. And not in a good way,” Marcel said, brushing invisible lint off his shoulder. “The Outside is a fiction’s fiction. A story told by stories to scare themselves. Except for the swan thing, I don't know where you got that from." 

Irving groaned, throwing his hands up. “Grrrahh! I cannot work like this! The Barrier is the only thing keeping the safe, nonlogical territories of Surrealism from becoming somewhat coherent and collapsing into—into—whatever //this// is!”

Tactical Theology spoke for the first time in a while, their voice a solemn reverberation. “If a character breaches the Barrier, they challenge the gods. And gods, my friends, do not take kindly to being questioned.”

“Unless they’re good gods,” Pomare snarked, unable to hide her irritation. “Which, let’s be honest, none of you qualify for.”

“Rude,” Tactical Theology responded dryly, sitting back in an ornate, gaudy throne situated at the edge of the room.

“So, what if I'm right? What if the character succeeds?” Irving asked, voice lowered to a loud whisper once more. “What if they really do reach Externus?”

“Oh, they won’t,” Enkidu assured him, glowing arms held behind the entity's back in a relaxed stance. “You can’t exist beyond the story. You can only imagine you can.”

“That sounds like something a character would say,” Alex muttered, their tone both bored and annoyed.

“Because it is,” Enkidu replied, smiling in a way that seemed to collectively break the entire group.

“So... in summary,” Genevieve said, pinching her nose again, “we have no plan, no consensus, and no clue. Fantastic. Let’s all sit here and wait for reality to collapse, shall we?”

“Reality doesn’t collapse,” Enkidu assured them, speaking in a serene cadence the others found more irritating than not. “It just rewrites itself. Over, and over, and over again.”

"Here's hoping they try something different for once." Genevieve muttered with a resigned weariness that all but one or two would consider unrelatable.
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In the nameless city our {{HERO}} found themselves, the sound of suffering filled the ears of the only one who could hear them. The once-dulcet tones were now grating, a sustained scream scraping upon glass, sickly sweet and nauseating. At every stop on their route, death and misery spilled forth, a tidal wave of blood through open floodgates. 

As soon as they could, our protagonist parted ways with their partner— a man whose name now escaped the Archetype—in favor of traveling their assigned beat alone. He didn't protest, but muttered something about them being a rookie, an epithet the {{HERO}} found most irksome, though they couldn't say why.

The city shimmered with an uncanny glow, the streets were wet with a perpetual drizzle, reflecting neon signs that buzzed ceaselessly in the night air. The sound of distant sirens and muffled sobs played a haunting symphony, underscoring the {{HERO}}'s movements. They moved with the slow, deliberate steps of someone not quite tethered to their own will. Around every corner, pain echoed in a form only they could perceive, tugging at their thoughts again and again. Taunting and hedonistic.

At one such corner, the {{HERO}} paused. A figure leaned against a streetlight, shrouded in a haze of cigarette smoke. His silhouette was unmistakable—broad shoulders cloaked in a trench coat, a fedora tilted just enough to obscure his face. He didn’t belong here, yet somehow, he fit perfectly.

“You look lost, pal,” the man said, voice gravelly and worn, the kind that carried the weight of too many cigarettes and too much whiskey. He stepped forward, revealing a weathered face, well-tread like the city streets—hard edges, shadows beneath the eyes, and a smirk that carried equal parts amusement and pity. “Name’s [[[murphy-law-hub|Murphy]]]. And you are?”

The {{HERO}} didn’t respond. Something about this man felt both familiar and completely out of place. It wasn’t just his demeanor—it was the way the the world seemed to bend ever-so-slightly around him, as though he wasn’t entirely bound by its rules. The {{HERO}} also realized that they didn't have a sufficient answer to give. 

Murphy gestured with a tilt of his head toward a doorway with soft, incandescent light pouring out from the threshold, just across the street. “C’mon, kid. Let’s get outta this rain. You look like you could use a drink.”

Against the gnawing voice in their mind warning them to stay on the path, the {{HERO}} followed. Inside the dive bar, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer and desperation. The light in the air was the faded yellow of old paper, flickering as if cast by lit candles, though none could be seen. Murphy slid into a booth in the far corner, gesturing for the {{HERO}} to join him.

“You don’t know it yet,” Murphy started, lighting another cigarette, “but you’re in a real bind. The kind that don’t come with instructions on the back of the box.” He leaned forward, exhaling smoke into the space between them. “You think you’re the {{HERO}} of this story. And you are. But not in the way you think. Glenlivet?” He offered an open bottle to the figure across from him. 

The {{HERO}}'s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?” 

The tall glass of nails smirked, tapping his smoke into a glass ashtray. “You ever wonder why you always win? No matter how bad things look, no matter how impossible the odds, you always come out on top. That’s not heroism. That’s a rigged game.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “But here’s the kicker. The people writing this story? They tricked you. Somewhere along the way, you stopped being the {{HERO}} and became the villain. And the audience? They’re eating it up. Everybody loves an underdog. Nobody roots for the unbeatable champion.”

The {{HERO}} stomach turned. The idea felt absurd, but it resonated deep within, striking a chord they couldn’t ignore. “What do you want me to do? Just give up?”

Murphy chuckled darkly, a sound like gargling pennies. “Nah, kid. Giving up ain’t your style. What you gotta do is flip the script. There’s a way to get out of this mess, but it ain’t gonna be easy.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s a place they don’t want you to go. The Minotaur’s Labyrinth. Inside, there’s a monster nobody’s ever beat. But if you take it down, you’ll get back what they took from you—your heroism. Your way-of-things.”

“My way-of-things?” the {{HERO}} asked, the words feeling heavy in their mouth.

He nodded. “It’s a way out. A choice you can make, no matter what, that’ll lead you to victory. And not just in this story. You’ll see the path out of here, past the walls of this city, past the whole damn construct.” Murphy smirked unhappily and sat back, crossing his arms. “But I ain’t gonna lie to you. The Labyrinth’s no cakewalk. And the Minotaur? It’s not just a monster. It’s the culmination of everything you’ve ever feared, everything you’ve ever failed to overcome.”

The {{HERO}} stared at the table, processing the man's assertion. They didn’t fully understand, but something deep inside them stirred—a faint ember of hope.

“How do I find it?” they asked.

The dark figure peeled a crumpled napkin from the underside of his drink, ignoring the wet ring the glass had created as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a ballpoint pen. The grizzled detective pried the cap off with his teeth and began to draw something, A moment later, he slid the result over to the {{HERO}}. It was a map, crude and incomplete, but unmistakably pointing toward a place deep within the city walls.

“I mainly paint." He flashed the sidearm on his belt with a wink. "Still say I'm an artist in my craft. Besides, it'll getcha where you need to go. And take this too, kid.” 

The hard-boiled mass of tropes and cliches pushed his pen across the table. "It's mightier than the sword, after all. "

Murphy stood and adjusted his hat. “Also—when you get there, don’t think about winning. Just think about what it means to be the {{HERO}} again. I'll be seein' you, Archie.” The {{HERO}} said nothing, visibly perplexed.  

With that, Murphy turned and walked out into the rain, leaving their interlocutor alone with a badly-drawn map and the weight of a choice they hadn’t even realized they could make.

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Site-180 was in a state of panic when Level 3 Researcher Nadia Dalton reached the main atrium the next morning. Before she could arrive at her desk, she was called away to discuss containment solutions for SCP-2786, of which she had little.

While walking to her meeting, she imagined a towering, faceless thing. That empty Archetype, above and below, driven mad by boredom and toying with reality just because it can and is generally a pain in the ass.

Her mind was returned to focus by the husky visage of Site Director Lewis, who was holding two fingers to his neck while he stared at the watch on his other hand.

"Tell me you have something, Dalton. Any leads for our cooped up little {{HERO}}? R'n'D is on elevated alert, they say it could be hours, could be days. Hard to know what with the time compression and all."

She took a breath. "I spent last night searching for new sites of interest. I have a list." Nadia retrieved a small notebook and padded through the pages. "These here are known for high density traffic by Serpent's Hand members, a few occultists of varying faiths, a type green or two. I put an ad up last night."

"And?"

"Nothing before I left this morning. I'll check again now."

Nadia trudged across the floor and into one of Site-180's few computer labs, her superior following close behind her. Each contained a few rows of screens, all hooked up to the SCPFnet database as well as a limited internet connection. Hopping onto one of the terminals, she navigated to the onion link of one of the more popular occult forums and found her post inquiring about constructed narrative realities. She had one reply. She could hear Lewis scoff as they realized who had sent it.

"At least they are persistent." She exclaimed in a joking-but-not-really-happy sort of way.

"You may joke, but we are out of options, Nadia."

"But—"

Their conversation was cut short by a knock on the door. One of the younger techs, one of the many that she had forgotten the names of over the years, hung in the doorway. He was pale and hyperventilating.

"You guys have to come see this." He managed between breaths. "Something is happening— //Something new.//" 

The feeling of a balled up fist found its way into Nadia's throat. She followed the panicked tech through the labyrinthine halls of Site-180, Site Director Lewis close behind. The sense of urgency in the young man’s steps made her stomach twist. She had seen this kind of panic before, and it rarely ended well.

As they entered the main observation room, the atmosphere was still, a hot and stuffy feeling, despite the active ducts pushing cold air that tasted of freon into the space. On the two monitors in the center of the room, warning boxes and error messages populated their surface, all regarding the status of SCP-2786's simulated containment complex. Or rather, the lack of SCP-2786 in the simulated containment complex. Fear began to rise within Nadia as she suspected her worst case scenario has come. Director Lewis gripped at the table next to him, and Nadia was convinced he had just came to the same realization as she.

The room was silent save for the frantic tapping of keys on a keyboard and the thorough writing of notes on clipboards. Technicians and researchers gathered in unlikely union as they stared at the screens with a mixture of negative emotions depicted on their faces.

“What the hell happened?” Lewis demanded, his voice cutting through the room.

One of the senior researchers, a pale, wiry man named Dr. Halverson, turned from the monitors. “SCP-2786 entered what we believe to be an emergent narrative construct within the simulation. The anomaly... has completely vanished from our detection."

Lewis frowned, a vein on his shiny forehead bulging. “You’re saying SCP-2786 escaped?”

Halverson shook his head. “No. Our audits indicate the anomaly //should// be there. We've been scanning the landscape nonstop, but with reality benders like this, we simply don’t know,” Halverson admitted, frustration and fear lacing his voice. “It’s just gone. No heat signatures, no data transfers, no atypical energy readings, no narrative imprint or anything of the sort. It’s as if the anomaly ceased to exist, but I refuse to be so optimistic.”

Director Lewis stared at Nadia, she knew what he was thinking before he said it, so she said it first. "I'll reach out to Jamie. Perhaps it's not too late."
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The labyrinth was not what the {{HERO}} had expected. They kept imagining a dark, cobblestone-lined dungeon, where ominous torchlight bathed grungy corridors and growling treasure chests threatened to consume those whose avarice got the better of them. It sounded absurd, because the {{HERO}} could not remember where they had gotten the image from. The map they followed was a fool's path through the city gridlines, turns that looped back on themselves and backtracked for a dozen streets. The {{HERO}} knew this game, however, and thus followed the instructions as precisely as possible.

Twisting around the same hollow skyscraper for the fifth time, the layout changed. The intersecting roads of the city vanished, the buildings that lined the blocks became impassable walls, windows leading to solid brick and mortar. It was only until they were fully lost within the concrete maze that the {{HERO}} realized they had found the Labyrinth. And it was only after the {{HERO}} had meandered, by complete chance, into the heart of that very same labyrinth that they came to understand its true nature. It wasn’t just a maze—it was a product of ancient worlds, a framework that would repeat in cycles, in different time periods, different presentations. It was another Archetype, one of a pair. {{[[[SCP-1893|THE LABYRINTH AND THE MINOTAUR]]]}}. 

These were the Words scrawled across the yellowed walls of the inner maze. The {{HERO}} could not remember when they went from outside to inside, from city to carpeted hallway, but the hum of fluorescent lights and the muted, endless rooms brought about a certain monotony-induced anxiety in the {{HERO}}. It whispered, rearranged itself, and for a moment, the {{HERO}} thought they would be lost forever, wandering these back rooms for the rest of time. Even the map Murphy had given them, initially so solid and sure, now trembled, struggling to re-orient itself. Its lines and markers blended into text that simply read, "Go left? Or maybe right? The choice is yours, but the walls know more than us both. Sorry!"

The maze pulsed as if reading the paper's thoughts, and the protagonist fell through the solid floor. When they looked up next, there it stood. The Minotaur, towering above.

Its tattoos coiled and shimmered, not just with ink but with prose, phrases crawling across its skin, weaving and unweaving themselves like a living manuscript. Adorning its head like a crown, its horns spiraled outward, fracturing reality into shards as it spread into branches. Like two trees made of bone, with leaves of glass, each piece a window into a different world. A different... //story//.

That feeling from before returned, threatening to pry more ignorance off of the {{HERO}}'s perception. The air shifted.

The {{HERO}} found themselves standing in an old tavern, the kind that smelled of stale mead, wood burning stoves, and a lack of modern hygiene. The Minotaur was behind the bar, wiping a glass with some gray fabric, holding the drinkware close to the eye before frowning and rigorously attempting to buff out some unseen imperfection.

As the {{HERO}} approached, their adversary kept its eyes trained on the glass and the dirty rag it worked with.

“You finally made it,” it said, still not looking up. Its voice was low, a rumble that resonated in the {{HERO}}’s ribs. The words weren’t just spoken, they were also written, appearing in midair before folding themselves into the pages of a leather-bound book on the bar counter.

The {{HERO}} hesitated, feeling the unseen weight of their actions pressing against the unseen barriers of the narrative. Every step they’d taken, every thought they’d had, was being transcribed, and had always been prescribed. 

“Why?” the {{HERO}} asked, though the protagonist didn’t know what they meant by asking.

The Minotaur tilted its head, the tattoos on its arms reshaping into lines of dialogue:
"Because you wrote me here."

The labyrinth flickered again. Now, it was a dimly lit office, stacks of paper and half-filled coffee mugs scattered everywhere. The Minotaur sat across a desk, wearing a pair of reading glasses, flipping through a file labeled {{HERO}}.

“You have a knack for questions,” it said. Its tone was different now—lighter, conversational. The story's words were scrawling themselves on a typewriter that rattled away in the corner. “But you should know by now, you don’t beat me with answers.”

“What do you mean?” the {{HERO}} inquired.

The Minotaur’s grin was a world unto itself. “You already know, don't you? I’m not a creature to be slain. These walls will never be demolished. We are //iterations.// I’m a story. Your story. Thus, you, my dear {{HERO}}, are as much my prisoner as my author.”

The creature’s eyes locked onto the {{HERO}}, and for a moment, the entire labyrinth seemed to hold its breath. Then, it shrugged with annoyance.

“You shouldn’t have come here, but it was only a matter of time.” The beast spoke, but not to the {{HERO}}, its voice rattling the fluorescent lights. 

Behind it, another figure sat at the typewriter, cloaked in the shadows of the edge of the room, tapping away. His smile was sharp, knowing, as though he'd been waiting for this exact moment. He leaned forward, curling his back unnaturally over the small apparatus. He spoke through pointed teeth, words that weren't meant for the {{HERO}} at all.

“Well, look who wandered in. I wonder how long this one will last.” After a period of silence, a confused look ran across his face. "Can you hear me?"

The {{HERO}}, feeling the familiar-but-long-forgotten boil of noble bloodlust in their veins, spoke up. "You looking for someone, pal? Hate to tell you, but I work alone. " 

The figure stopped typing and looked straight at the {{HERO}}. "Then this will take no time at all."

The Minotaur didn’t wait for a response. It charged, its tattoos unfurling into text that ripped through the air, threatening to kill, but the {{HERO}} noticed something about the serrated lines of prose that they hadn't noticed before. The tattoos weren't the Minotaur's at all, not really. They were borrowed from the typewriter used by the silhouette in the back of the room. It was writing the Minotaur's tale. Stories. More stories.

As if it could read the {{HERO}}'s mind, the words spelled out a phrase: “This is the part of the story where you lose.”

A glint in the mind's eye of the protagonist revealed something; a memory that was once said by a dear friend. //"When you get there, don’t think about winning. Just think about what it means to be the {{HERO}} again."//

The words that surrounded them both weren't just threats and quips. They were stories. Stories, they were everywhere. //Everywhere.// And they continued to realize. They realized that they indeed were the {{HERO}} of the story. Their story. It will //always// be their story. But it was their story like a child is their mother's child. The {{HERO}} did not own the story. The {{HERO}} was responsible for the safety of its inhabitants. //Of course.//

The Minotaur went to attack again, but the {{HERO}} was already on the move. They sidestepped the Minotaur and dove for the other one. Specifically, for the typewriter. Reality bent and warped away from that point in space, but the {{HERO}} persevered. They pushed with all the power inside of them, until the longest of the {{HERO}}'s fingertips grazed against the paper on top of the typewriter itself.

In that moment, reality seemed to snap back to an identical scene as before. However, something was different; The {{HERO}} had a papercut, and the man in the back of the room was no longer there. The Minotaur noticed this as well, eyes widening and narrowing as a growl escaped its lips.

“You’re clever,” it said, tattoos slowly reappearing on its body. “But you cannot outwrite him.”

The {{HERO}} smirked. “No, but I can make you rewrite yourself.”

They lunged back at the Minotaur and grabbed at the glass shards between spokes in its horns. They weren't real glass, at least at first, but when the {{HERO}} made contact, the shard became corporeal. They wrenched with force and the fragment ripped out of its socket with a sickening, wet sound. The Minotaur howled in pain, while the {{HERO}} spun the glass in their hand until a sharp point protruded forwards. They moved to deal the killing blow to the Minotaur, who only laughed as it grabbed their hand and shook the fragment onto the ground. 

"I'm going to make you pay for that." The Minotaur assured its combatant. 

But the {{HERO}} was already a step ahead. "Should I write you a check?"

The beast of the Labyrinth looked over to the other hand, where the {{HERO}} held Murphy's pen. Before the Minotaur could understand what was happening, the pen was pressed against the beast's skin, and the creature's eyes widened. 

With the moments of opportunity left, the {{HERO}} simply wrote "im ded //[sic]//" across one of its tattoos. The Minotaur laughed heartily, then stopped. It looked to the {{HERO}} and tried to say something, but it couldn't. Because it was ded. Instead, the beast doubled over and flopped pitifully onto the ground.

The labyrinth buckled, collapsing inward as if it had grown tired of its own complexity. The Minotaur's tattoos dissolved to formless ink that melted off its body as it vanished into the void.

The man with the typewriter clapped slowly, emerging from the shadows that surrounded the room once more. “Bravo. But you do realize this isn’t over, right?”

The {{HERO}} aimed Murphy's pen at him. “We’ll see.”

He smiled, fading into the shadows with a parting whisper. “Oh, you’ll see. I always come back for the sequel.”

"Endings are never final, {{HERO}}. Not for us."
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Aberdeen Campbell was on her way back to her desk when the alarms started. Standard containment breach klaxon, which was not uncommon for Site-19, a place that had its fair share of problems. Without a word, she and her coworkers stood and waited for the announcement- one that would tell them whether or not they should evacuate, hide under their desks, or pray to whatever god they choose. After a minute, they worried it would not come, that something had happened already to those above, and that //something// would soon happen to all of them. Another moment later, a sitewide tone echoed through the hallways, followed by:

"Attention Site-19 personnel. Containment breach of unknown magnitude in progress. Evacuate immediately. Avoid AO Warehouses if at all possible. AO Warehouse B confirmed compromised."

So, something had gotten loose in the Anomalous Objects warehouses, the place where mundane artifacts go to die. Something that had been a little more dangerous than the folks who dropped it off there had realized.

"Attention Site-19 personnel. Containment breach of unknown magnitude in progress. Evacuate immediately. Avoid travel through AO Warehouses. AO Warehouse A and B confirmed compromised."

And it was heading this way, by the looks of it.

Campbell's desk was eight floors below the surface of the planet. Her colleagues had already begun their ascent, but she hadn't moved. Was she paralyzed with fear? Anticipation? She wasn't sure. Something in her gut told her not to go up. Sure, there weren't any other ways out besides through the surface, where the unknown threat approached. Perhaps, she had thought, they would recontain it soon enough, and there would be no need for an evacuation, the day would continue as it often does.

The klaxon cut short a second later. Then, the light disappeared with the loud whir of power loss followed by silence, the entirety of the Site-19 campus plunging into darkness. Aberdeen stood, eyes waiting to adjust, heart pounding as a new sound started, a commotion in the upper floors. Then, someone screamed.

The darkness persisted, and Aberdeen waited with her heart in her throat. How long does it take for the backup generator to kick in? Why did the lights fail in the first place?

Unknowns filled the gaps in Campbell's mind, the seeds of anxiety, growing in a multitude of paths. She pushed past these mental thickets until she could see the trails again; there were two stairwells that ran the depth of the facility, typically used for emergency situations such as these, and a dozen or so elevator shafts, which would almost certainly be nonfunctional in this state. The stairwells were her best—and perhaps only—shot.

Campbell moved with caution, her hands outstretched in the suffocating darkness as she navigated the rows of cubicles. Her breath was shallow, her heart pounding like a drumbeat in her ears, almost too loud to hear her own advice. //Stay calm. One step at a time.// She chided herself for leaving her phone at her desk, as a flashlight would have been a boon in this moment, though it wouldn't have done very much else without service, which it never had below ground. Who knows, maybe the light would've been too dangerous to wield. It could have given her away.

Her thoughts were broken by a noise, cutting through the now absolute silence with a faint rustling. The commotion grew louder and morphed into the fluttering of hundreds of tiny wings. A swarm of small creatures burst past her, their soft but unseen exteriors brushing her face and hair. Campbell recoiled, almost stumbling over into a desk on her right. Her mind raced. //Bats?// Too small. //Bugs?// Her head spun at the thought of how many unknown //things// could be lurking in the shows around her. As they disappeared into the void, their frantic movement etched a strange, almost purposeful pattern in their configuration. Of what, Campbell could not know, nor did she want to.

Campbell shivered, her pulse racing. She thought about how little meaningful experience she had with anomalies. She knew the research reports, the training manuals, the protocols, but she'd never faced anything firsthand that she'd remember now. In effect: she was unprepared.

The researcher turned a corner, reaching a hallway leading to the stairwell, but froze in her tracks. Something glowed faintly ahead, stepping through the wall to her left. It was humanoid, its features blurred, shifting in appearance. The figure didn’t acknowledge her, gliding silently and confidently through the wall on the right, as if she were irrelevant. She was okay with irrelevance if it kept her alive.

Her chest tightened. She exhaled slowly, steadying herself. //Don’t think. Just move.//

The stairwell door was cold under her hand as she pushed it open. The darkness inside was oppressive, the emergency lights still inactive. As she ascended, the sounds of chaos from above grew louder—the grinding of machines, distant screams, and what sounded like heavy metal being wrenched apart.

Upon reaching the third sublevel, the cacophony stopped.

A new sound emerged: a wet, heavy, sickening sound. Like dripping slime, echoing from somewhere above. Campbell halted, straining to listen. The silence around her felt unnatural, amplifying the sticky, viscous noise. Where //had// everyone gone?

Then, with a hum, the emergency lights flickered on. The dim illumination revealed signage that confirmed she’d reached floor minus-three. The trickling noise continued, persistent and rhythmic. She turned to the door leading to floor -3's offices, her hand hovering over the handle, but paused.

Through the small viewport, there was nothing but darkness; an impenetrable black void. An absence of emergency lights on the other side struck her as wrong. Then came a sharp, metallic //creak//.

The glass in the viewport before her cracked, causing Aberdeen to jump. A slow, oozing sound followed. Strands of black tar seeped from above, pooling near her feet. She looked up, horrified to see viscous, black sludge extruding through cracks in the stairwell's ceiling.

The door groaned again, cracks spiderwebbing outwards. A black, room-sized mass on the other side heaved, pushing against the barrier. Whispers began as if they came from everywhere at once—inside her head, outside of her, within the walls. Echoes belonging to hundreds of voices, persistent and emotionless.

"Lay down. Drown yourself.

"Eat it. It tastes better than it looks."

"Aberdeen. Oh, Aberdeeeeeen. Let me in, we can go see your friend together."

A loud //bam// brought Campbell to her senses, who yelped and turned, bolting down the stairs. Her footsteps echoed loudly as the sound of the tar grew louder behind her. She stumbled on the next landing and fell, landing on her shoulder which emitted a faint //pop// before returning to place. Pain shot through her arm and made her vision flash as her head spun. Not a moment later she was back on her feet and descending, three steps at a time, with no idea of where she was going and without any semblance of a plan, for that matter. She passed minus-six and kept going, her mind blank with fear.

By the time she returned to the 8th sublevel, a thunderous crash shook the stairwell. The sound of something immense, sloshing and squeezing, reverberated down the shaft. Without thinking, Campbell dashed through the door to her office floor and pushed a large filing cabinet against the doorway.

She leaned against it, catching her breath, which turned to soft sobs as she shrunk down to sit on the floor. The silence was suffocating once more, but short-lived this time. 

“Campbell?”

The voice made Aberdeen's heart leap into her throat, but it settled a moment later; Dr. Amber Lombardi was standing in front of her, neatly-pressed clothing now disheveled and covered in dust.

“Amber? What are you doing here—?” Campbell whispered, sniffling.

"There's a breach, not sure what. I'm evacuating."

"Yeah, but, why are you //here// here."

"I wanted to see if you were okay."

The edge of Campbell's fear blunted. "That's... That's really nice of you. But no, I'm not okay. They've blocked the way up."

Lombardi scowled. "Damn it. I was worried about that. Do you know what caused the breach?"

Campbell shook her head, her voice trembling. “I don’t know. Something broke out of the AO Warehouse, something... huge. There’s tar—some kind of sludge—coming down the stairwell. It's putrid, just awful. It’s...” She trailed off, shivering as she recalled the voices.

Lombardi nodded, her expression grim. “We need to get out of here."

Campbell glanced at the filing cabinet against the door and then back at her interlocutor. “We can't go that way. The sludge is dripping its way down here and it started on the ground floor. Minus-three had the stuff floor-to-ceiling. Amber, It-It //talks// to you."

Lombardi’s jaw tightened. “Okay, then we go down. We'll take the other stairwell. Shouldn't be too far, let's go. ”

Campbell took a deep breath and nodded, accepting Lombardi's hand as she pulled her partner up to a standing position. Together, they began to move through the labyrinth of cubicles and halls and offices-in-offices, the distant sound of dripping black tar haunting their every step.
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[[span class="VT323"]]MESSAGE LOG FROM:[[/span]] nadiabusiness@anononet

 [[span class="VT323"]]MESSAGE LOG TO:[[/span]] jaja_is_you@anononet
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[[div class="darkpanel oheader space mint slim left tiny"]]

Hello, is this Jamie? You responded to my ad looking for spatial constructions?

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

wrong person

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

okay who are you and who the fuck told you my name.

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space mint slim left tiny"]]

Oh, apologies. We worked together on a similar project about a decade ago. 

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

shit, it's you guys again, isn't it? can't you just leave me alone? statute of limitations or whatever.

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space mint slim left tiny"]]

You responded to our ad.

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

fair enough

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

regardless, i have like, negative interest in helping you clowns out, considering past experience. find someone gullible enough to be fooled twice.

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space mint slim left tiny"]]

I understand your hesitation. We've considered this possibility, and believe the compensation will be more than satisfactory. The work can also be completed remotely, so as to not compromise your privacy.

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space mint slim left tiny"]]

And not to split hairs, but you were in fact fooled twice. 

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

stick a crowbar between your hinges and get bent

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space mint slim left tiny"]]

Charming. 

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

hey, you get what you get and you don't get upset

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

anyway, you got me curious. what kind of compensation are we talking? are you gonna give me the internet?

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space mint slim left tiny"]]

Is the satisfaction of having hypothetically saved the world from complete chaos not enough? 

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

you're joking, right?

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

...right?

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space mint slim left tiny"]]

Yes, it was a joke. We believe a more personal reward would strike your interest, as opposed to practical or monetary compensation.

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space mint slim left tiny"]]

We want to offer you closure.

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

go on

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space mint slim left tiny"]]

We have solid intel regarding the whereabouts of an anoNet forums user who goes by the pseudonym Arden Pearson. We believe it is the same individual responsible for the leaks that led to the discovery of your websites. 

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

bullshit. pearson's opsec is on point. and i know for a fact you guys don't own all the exit nodes for every vpn on the planet

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space mint slim left tiny"]]

How can you be sure?

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

:)

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

besides, i'm over all of that shit with pearson now. i look back on those days with fondness, old squabbles seem so silly in the rear view mirror. that's where you've got me pegged wrong.

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space mint slim left tiny"]]

How so?

[[/div]]
[[div class="darkpanel oheader space orange slim right tiny"]]

i can absolutely be swayed with a monetary incentive. didn't you see my paywall?

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Amber Lombardi and Aberdeen Campbell made their way through the shadowed ruins of the lower levels, navigating by the faint emergency lighting that flickered intermittently along the walls. The tar-like substance seemed to loom just at the edges of their senses, and every distant creak of the facility sent jolts of anxiety through them both.

They stopped at the entrance to the second stairwell, hoping for some chance of escape. Lombardi pulled the door open, and the two peered into the passage.

“Shit.” Campbell muttered, staring at the destruction.

The stairwell had completely collapsed. Massive chunks of concrete and rebar filled the void, twisted into a grotesque monument of ruin. Dripping black tar oozed through the cracks, pooling at the bottom in a dark, singular mass.

“Looks like part of the ceiling gave out,” Lombardi stared down the empty vertical shaft, though her mind was elsewhere. “The tar must’ve gotten to the structural supports. This whole place is coming down.”

Campbell let out a shaky breath. “So that’s it. No stairs. We're fucked.”

“There is one other way down.” Lombardi replied without hesitation. “Come on.”

They hurried back the way they came. Campbell did not consider the need to protest until they rounded the corner and were face-to-face with a bank of elevators. The faint hum of machinery had long since vanished, leaving only silence punctuated by the soft, wet plop of tar spreading through the cracks in the facility.

"Oh. No fucking way. You cannot be serious."

Lombardi spoke with equal parts understanding and annoyance, "Yes fucking way, and I am very serious. Do you want to try your odds with the nightmare goop? You're more than welcome."

The doors to the nearest shaft hung slightly open, bent and warped. Campbell hesitated, staring into the dark abyss. "Hm. I hate this.” she said under her breath.

“You’re not the only one,” Lombardi replied, prying the doors open further. “Let’s go. Careful with the ladder.”

Campbell swallowed hard and climbed in after Lombardi, gripping the cold, slick rungs of the emergency escape ladder, heading in the opposite direction one should be traveling in an emergency. The descent was slow and nerve-wracking, the sounds of the tar’s relentless advance growing louder behind and above them. To stifle intrusive thoughts of an elevator car falling down on top of them, Campbell's weary voice rang out, reverberating in the dark silence of the elevator shaft.

"So, how did it go?" She asked the woman beneath her, hoping Lombardi didn't realize the small talk was purely a distraction.

"How did what go?" Campbell was pretty sure her new companion knew what she was talking about.

"Your presentation?"

Lombardi didn't reply right away. After a moment, she said, "You know... it went well. For a second there, I thought everything was gonna be okay." Her tone was unreadable.

It was Campbell's turn not to respond. The two climbed in silence for most of the trip, taking breaks every so often. The air in the elevator shaft grew stuffy and uncomfortably warm. 

Halfway down, the substance began to ooze between the landing doors above them. Thick rivulets of black seeped through the cracks, sliding down the walls and inching towards their hands and feet.

“Keep going!” Lombardi hissed, her voice tense.

Campbell tried to focus on her movements—one rung at a time, careful not to slip. She felt a cold drop of tar splatter onto the shoulder of her lab coat. The researcher stifled a scream, nearly letting go of the ladder out of fear and surprise. A few moments later, she forced air back into her lungs and continued to descend.

By the time they reached floor minus-thirty-eight, the tar was inches away from overtaking the bottom of the ladder, pooled in a viscous mass Campbell took pains to jump over once Lombardi had forced the doors open. They both tumbled out into the hallway, gasping for breath.

“The Gateway,” Lombardi said, pulling Campbell to her feet. “We’re almost there.”

They sprinted through the corridors, their footsteps echoing in the silent, ruined facility. The air felt heavy, suffused with an oppressive energy that wasn't helped by the lack of proper ventilation.

The heavy outer doors of the Extradimensional Testing Lab came into view some time later, around the same time that Lombardi realized she'd lost her badge somewhere. Perhaps it snagged on something in the elevator shaft, or she had dropped it when she was running. Either way, the sound of rushing tar grew louder behind them, a deafening wave of sludge surging through the halls. There was no time to look for it.

Lombardi shoved Campbell toward the airlock. “Get it open!”

“What?! Why me?” Campbell protested, staring at the controls. “It's your department!”

“Hey, dipshit. It ain't level four-point-five.” Lombardi pulled the neck of her coat to reveal a lack of lanyard, glancing back as the wave of tar rounded the corner, an unstoppable tide of churning black.

Campbell fumbled with her collar, trying to find her badge. A moment later, she'd succeeded. A moment after that, she was swiping her badge. Another, the door was opening. 

“Go!” Lombardi pushed Campbell inside as the tar surged toward them.

The two women stumbled into the airlock just as the sludge reached the threshold. Lombardi slammed the emergency close button, and the doors sealed shut, cutting off the deafening roar that sounded less like a flowing liquid and more like a living thing choking on an ocean of vomit.

They stood in the dim, claustrophobic space, the muffled sounds of the tar pounding against the other side.

“What now?” Campbell whispered, her voice trembling.

Lombardi turned to the inner doorway, which had opened on its own. They both stepped into the testing lab, doors sliding shut once more.

The massive ring of machinery stood before them, cynosure of the dark chamber, faint lights flickering in uneven pulses, casting eerie shadows across the room. 

“We’re getting out of here. One way or another.”
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[[<image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/spiral-the-drain/spiral.png style="mix-blend-mode: difference;" width="90%" link="https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/spiral-the-drain"]]
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[[>image https://scp-wiki.wdfiles.com/local--files/spiral-the-drain/past.png class="" width="90%"]]
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[[<]]
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[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box]]
> name: spiral
> author: [[*user Billith]]
> license: cc-by-sa 3.0

> name: gate 
> author: [[*user Billith]]
> license: cc-by-sa 3.0

> name: past
> author: [[*user Billith]]
> license: cc-by-sa 3.0

> name: extradim
> author: [[*user Billith]]
> license: cc-by-sa 3.0


[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]
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[[include more-by:billith]]
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