For fame, glory, and science!
For this contest, write a vignette about one of your characters. A vignette is a piece of writing which I am here defining as between a paragraph and a page. It should revolve around characterization and give us a look into some of the personality and being of whoever your character is. Beyond that, there aren't a lot of rules. Scene from daily life? Stream of consciousness? History? Dream? Your choice!
Also: One entry per person. Sorry, Rights.
Prize will be: A special role (undetermined as of yet) in the ongoing plot I'm running. Also, the admiration of your peers.
Contest ends on: January 31st, unless I change that.
Go go go!
For fame, glory, and science!
Which makes it all very understandable, really, when you get right down to it. I would have made the same decision, in their shoes. Except I don't think I could be in those shoes, not even back when I first started.
So you want to know how it all came to this? I warn you. It won't make sense.
The building itself is completely logical. You just aren't opening the doors right. There is one path, and only one path, from the first room to the last. To me, it's completely obvious. The dead can see it too, but most of the time they don't look.
That's why they built it, really. Once something is built, it exists, backwards and forwards. Most people don't realize, but the creation of anything echos not just into the future, or the past, but to the sides as well. As long as they build it properly, … They will build it properly. I know they can decide the right one. Cause, they already did.
Thank you for coming. I don't have much time, so I'll try to make this work.
It's gone, all of it, all gone, all because they didn't see it. Why can't they see it? I see it all the time, and I wish I didn't. Vision, is a horrible, and wonderful, thing. Did I ever tell you that I can see all the Houses? One for each doorway, numbering six thousand, six hundred, and sixty-six. But you only get a thousand. It's a safety issue, really. Some of the places the doorways lead to… I shudder to think.
No, they aren't all from outside the House. Some of them were made by the juxtapositioning of the House and- did you hear that?
Oh hello there, I didn't hear you come in.
No, I have to go, someone is screwing around with the balance. No, I- Looks, just remember- What you think you know? You probably do.
Admin, SCP Wiki
She was hungry.
Her liver ached, her gallbladder twisted, her small intestine was a knot in her belly. She closed her eyes tight and forced herself to relax. This was no starving man’s hunger, nor the hunger in the eyes of a man looking at a beautiful woman.
This was a hunger that gnawed at her very cells, at her mind, at every last part of her.
Some days it grew into a scream in her chest that made her vision blur during surgery. Other days, it was just a slight itch under her skin, along the invisible scars.
Tonight, it was soft, but it was there. Crawling in her muscles. Just enough to fight off blissful sleep. She rolled to her side, looking at her lover in the pitch darkness with a sense that didn’t use her eyes. She watched his heart tremble and beat a steady rhythm, slower than when he was awake, felt his blood pressure smoothly rise and fall in time.
There was a slight flicker of stress along the muscles in his arms and hands, and in his brain hormones were slightly unbalanced. It left a mild taste in her mouth to study them. Too much caffine, too much work, as always.
She’d rather he have a longer life.
A deep breath in. Stolen lungs, slightly mismatched, filled in her chest and the itch started to subside, the hunger to quell. She shifted under the blankets, her narrow, pale body against his, bigger and stronger, fast asleep, and closed her eyes, shutting down her senses one by one.
She was hungry.
But tonight, she could stand to fast a little longer.
The worst part was the screaming.
Almost nightly, maybe skipping a day occasionally, but always with the screaming. He wasn't sure if the design of the building was intentionally letting them hear the screams at night, but it happened. Sometimes during the day. There had been 7 suicides halfway through the week. Hanging from their ceiling, gunshot wound to the head, anything to escape. The screaming was unbearable.
But he moved on. Day after day standing infront of the same door, making sure no one entered without proper authority…
… making sure nothing got out.
The first time the men in black showed up, he had been asleep for 30 minutes when they were all dragged out into the bitter cold night of a Russian winter. Most huddled together to keep warm. They weren't used to the cold. It took four hours before they were allowed back in. He'd counted fourteen go in, and nine leave. It wasn't a drill like they'd said, something had happened, and they were lying to him. He didn't mind, the pay was decent, and he wouldn't be allowed back in the Ground Forces as a marksman without his finger, so his off time was spent in the ranges. They'd given him an RPK. Spray and pray. Told him he'd never need to use it.
After 7 years, a letter arrived. He'd been relocated to Site 23. A shame, he was getting used to all the familiar faces. That Kenneth fellow from Hawaii, who always told the jokes about American women. Boris, who kept telling stories of fighting bears as a young child. But at the same time, the screaming would stop. His sleep would go uninterrupted for once in seven years.
And maybe, just maybe the smell of death would leave the BDUs.
His boots crunched through the leaves as he walked between the even rows of white crosses, his breath steaming in the crisp Autumn air. He spun a flower in his hand idly, taking his time and, for once, enjoying himself. The place was empty and still, as hallowed ground should be. The crosses seemed endless; so many comrades interred here, from the Great War, to Afghanistan and beyond.
Every year he came here to "pay his respects", or so he told the few people who knew about the little ritual. In fact, it was the closest he could come to reuniting with his family; their flowers and little remembrances left behind brought warmth to his soul and helped him deal with the pain of being away from them for good.
He'd watched as, year after year, they left corsages and bouquets for him, sometimes candles and little Orthodox crosses. A family photograph from his mother, a pack of cigarettes from his father. A strawberry plant from his wife that died in that first winter, and so on and so forth.
Then one year, there were only two gifts, and so it was for a while, and then at last only one gift was left each year on the grave. The passing of his parents seemed unreal; he had no way of knowing other than this, and wasn't even sure where they were buried. Only his fiancee remained faithful. He wondered how it must have been for her, how she'd taken the news. Had she fallen to a knee in shock, or did she bear the burden with a stoic sort of pride, being the fiancee of a fallen soldier? He would never know.
The crunching of leaves finally ceased as he found what he was looking for and stopped, staring down in silence for a long minute. He sighed heavily, left the flower at the foot of his own grave, and left.
There weren't any other flowers this year.
He watched the others as they ate their food, laughing and talking amiably with each other. He kept track as they conversed, eating the simple meals provided for them. His hard, pale eyes tracked their movements, always keeping track of who came and left, who spoke with who.
As always, they put down his silence and watchful eye to his usual anti-social behavior. Which was a good thing, he supposed, if his target realized that he was being suspected, he'd be on his guard and that would make the careful observations all for naught.
He wasn't exactly sure of who the infiltrator was, of course. That's how they had managed successful raids on the various Sites in the past, by having their spies blending in as well as anyone who actually worked for the Foundation. He knew, though, not to trust anyone, at all.
He'd been suspicious of a spy ever since all the new kids moved in, most of them new or from site 17. Pushing one in past the radars would be easier with all the newbies that would have to be kept track of. Some of them had even shot up through the ranks at alarming rates, a few of them even making it up to Administration in record time.
But he watched. He always kept watch, always on guard for the tricks. He's seen it too many times, a trusted friend suddenly turning traitor, stealing some major Item or killing someone important. He shuddered, remembering walking into Captain Brenner's tent that humid day in Uganda, only to see him dead with Corporal Day's knife in his back. For six years, they had eaten together, fought together, and lived together, only to find out he had been an Insurgent spy the whole time.
No, everyone and anyone was suspected.