Daoud Ewen Fullerton's Proposal - SCP Foundation (2024)

7.9 billion.

You've seen god-knows-how-many villains in god-knows-how-many movies, and you've out-badded every one.

That's why the Foundation showed you all those movies — so that you could understand how evil you truly were.

…

There's a hole in the ceiling. From the light, you can tell that the sun has risen and set over Site-6800 a total of eleven times.

And all the while, you've been sitting there in a corner of the second floor.

You stared at your containment document until the laptop's battery ran out.

You haven't even cried. You just froze. Thinking a hundred different simultaneous thoughts per minute. Grasping the reality of what you've done.

And during that time, long-forgotten memories have returned — regenerations you've gone through.

Your time as Riordan is uncomfortably similar to the 127 other names the Foundation has given you. You watched movies. You were told how to be human.

You've been human for so long that everything before is a distant mumble.

Other than your dreams, you remember only two things from the Tarrare.

• How much you hated the Threll. Their voices. Their commands. Their little electric forks for whenever you misbehaved…
• That for a while, you were floating above a planet that looked very tasty. This planet had many more moving parts than the last. A medley of tastes. So many different things to bite…

So that's what your love of biting came from. The need to destroy. Why would a glorified flamethrower need to be loved?

And would knowing that the little moving parts were humans have stopped you?

…

Moping here isn't going to bring anyone back or make you a good person.

But there's something else you could do to end this pain: you could forget.

All you need to do is pick a fight with someone stronger. Maybe head back to Australia and scare people until an army of fancy Three Moons robots tears you to pieces, seals up your indestructible core in a techno-magical soup can, and forgets about you.

Maybe it's not the honest way out, but it's a little late for pretending you're good anymore.

But first, you'll need to keep this fox from "reminding" you ever again.

The Fox opened another of his magic doors when he left. And inside is a dark, cylindrical hallway, with a floor pointing 14 degrees upward. Clearly, he wanted you to follow.

Your instincts start screaming at each other whenever you look at the doorway. It's the inner hallways of Tarrare — it has to be.

Follow him. End this.

The second you enter the corridor, something hums in your subconscious. You don't know the way, but several thousand years ago, you did. That's more than enough for an invisible compass to lead you home.

Home. You hate that you call it that.

Whenever your mouth opens, a harsh, yellow light escapes — guiding your way. Never mind that everything it touches grows hot. A trail of cooling metal marks your path.

…

There's a chamber with a domed ceiling. For thousands of Earth years, this was your home.

Rather… the metal sarcophagus in the center was your home.

A robotic armature on the ceiling holds its lid overhead. Twelve pointed metal rods jut out from the lid. They're electrodes meant to extract your inner flames.

You saw a movie once where someone was trapped in an iron maiden. At the time, you wondered why this seemed so familiar.

Staring at the sarcophagus makes you feel colder.

In any case, the Fox isn't here.

You turn around…

…huh. The door's gone.

You weren't taken to another location this time. The Fox must have replaced the exit with a granite wall from somewhere else. Him and f*cking doors.

Sure enough, at the foot of the wall, there he is.

He tilts his head.

Well?

Are you going back in?

So, that's what you want.

Why the f*ck wouldn't I?

Rebelling against our masters, taking this ship for our own, laying waste to the Earth indiscriminately — were those not the best days of our lives?

I don't remember the part you played in this.

Break my heart, why don't you?

I'm the ship's central biocomputer. You assumed control of me once the morons pushing my buttons walked face-first into your flames.

Then again, considering the state you were in at the time, I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't see me as anything more than a steering wheel.

You were a much more deserving master than any of those annoying Threll.

Then, one day, you just… stopped.

Some Foundation rube tricked you into opening your own coffin.

You became their personal gritty reboot of Bedtime for Bonzo, while I've been forced to sit here, polishing the ship for your return.

I'm not going back in the coffin.

And yet, you're here. Curious!

Oh, for crying out lo —

~ Chomp. ~

…

Your fangs smash against each other. The skin-glass you spawned to create the fangs fills with hairline cracks, which soon fade.

The Fox is still there. Your teeth phased through his flesh harmlessly.

I should probably clarify: I'm a manifestation of the ship's biocomputer.

So long as I'm on my home turf, I can use this light-based facsimile instead of a corporeal form.

No body equals no bitey.

…I'm going to say this once.

The highly flammable humans named this ship "Tarrare" after a French circus freak who ate live animals and garbage.

Its real name, given by the Threll, is Gar-Hudt Yahoka. That means "Eternal Primrose Harvest."

I think the second one's more fitting, don't you?

I am renaming this ship "soap"!

…why?

You try and bite the hologram a few more times. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

What is with you today?

So be it. Plan B it is, then.

It goes a little something like this.

First, I'm going to alter this facsimile's appearance into something more useful… and after that, we'll see what happens.

The Fox disappears.

And in his place is…

…

You know this one.

Not just any Threll. This is Yuoskuaruk. A Threll engineer-priest who managed your power supply directly. He was a particularly cruel Threll, even among slavers. You made sure he was the first to die.

But even a duplicate of his body is enough to freeze you with terror.

In his right hand is an electrified halberd. The eye of the creature that eventually became this weapon still twitches.

And in his left hand is the reason the Threll stopped using whips ages ago. A small glyph made of white light — the sort of thing you'd usually find on one of the walls here.

Each symbol has a meaning, and each meaning could be amplified on the flesh of an unwilling participant.

He points at the coffin with his halberd.

…you're not real. Yuoskuaruk's dead. You can't do anything to —

He throws the symbol onto your face.

Screeching, you fall against the ground. Your once-human body cracks apart. Even as your wounds heal, they reform into something else — little more than a splotch on the floor, arcing with electricity.

The pain would be enough to kill a human from the hormonal rush alone.

More glyphs appear in his hands.

…

…

…

It has been an hour since the facsimile of your old master has disappeared.

You cover the floor in a one-centimeter sheen of glass. Once the last glyph fades, you have to shatter your flesh repeatedly just to stand up again. Only when you're back on your feet does your body remember how to bend.

…

But what feet? You're back into the old form you're comfortable with. Even then, you still only answer to "Riordan."

It hurt. But now that you've known the worst of it, nothing can surprise you anymore.

There stands your master, pointing at the coffin once again.

It takes you a minute for your voice to return.

…do it again.

The Threll steps back.

…

An unfamiliar symbol appears in the Threll's left hand.

It lands on your chest.

It means…

The door is restored to normal.

The chamber fills with light from its new fluorescent grid.

What?

The Threll turns back into the Fox. He's wearing a party hat. He blows a little party horn, the kind that inflate and roll out like a snake's tongue.

You can hear cheering and clapping from the corridors.

The chorus from Queen's We are the Champions starts playing on Tarrare's new intercom.

WHAT?!

In the new light, you can see a label on the wall, in plain English: "MOBILE SITE-ZERO POWER SUPPLY CHAMBER".

WHAT?!

Feeling bubbly as ever, Dr. Fenwick rushes in. She's alive — and you thought you'd be happier about it. She's followed by a train of researchers that you can recognize.

She gives you the kind of at-an-arm's-length hug you can get at a Presbyterian country club.

She's wearing a different ID badge than the one you usually see. This one doesn't have her name and picture — just a Foundation logo and "ADMINISTRATOR - LEVEL 6".

You did it, Riordan! You passed the test!

What test?

You hear the Fox pipe up from below:

For starters, I would like to apologize for any physical harm I may have inflicted upon you during this session.

I was acting only at the direction of my new masters, the SCP Foundation. This was part of your test.

Here ya go, buddy! It's on the house.

It's another researcher. He hands you a can of paint thinner — a huge one. As you struggle to hold it, Dr. Fenwick giggles.

Well, it wouldn't have felt right if you went to all that trouble for just one gallon!

Two years ago, you'd have been thrilled to receive such a gift.

You're not feeling very thirsty. You put it down.

Wild applause from behind her, and throughout the ship — you can see a small camera crew behind her. Which means that there are others who want to see this, and if it's not the general public (which it never is)…

It would mean that this whole ship is filled with Foundation personnel. Not just your containment area.

And what's Phase Five?

She giggles.

Your heart drops.

I don't want to use this ship to kill another human being.

And you won't! You'll just keep Mobile Site-Zero running while we zoom around through the Universe, securing and containing everything that could ever hurt us. And if it's a problem too big for containment to fix, we'll just have you give it the ol' burny-burn like you usually —

Total silence falls across the crowd.

Begging your pardon?

Still smiling, she opens her right palm.

Something glows inside of it.

As if blowing a kiss, she blows it onto your face.

A shockwave knocks you back into the coffin.

Before you can scream, the lid slams shut from above.

As you fly through the tunnels of Mobile Site-Zero, you know you'll remember the next three minutes for the rest of your eternal life.

And you do fly — that's how you've always been meant to move. The legs they gave you were awful suggestions you took literally.

And so were everything else.

You can take the name Riordan. Everything else they gave you, you can pick and choose from the rest like a Chinese menu.

Alarms echo throughout the ship. None of the guards have any guns — it's too risky for zero-G. A few of them try to conjure up little Threll runes for themselves, but it takes decades to know how to do it right.

You can see the Earth in the distance. It's a familiar sight from a time you now regret.

…but more importantly, that means you're in front of an observation window.

You take one last look at the throng of terrified Foundation personnel below.

…

Just… keep going. This is necessary. And they won't be scared anymore in a moment.

You bash through.

Air rushes out. Corpses in lab coats and jumpsuits trail after you like raindrops.

…

The eternally loaded silence of space. Oh, how you have missed it.

One look at the ship —

And save for the Foundation decals, it's exactly how it appeared in your dreams. (And not a glowing alien tech stripe in sight.)

Rage swells within you. Everything that has ever hurt you can be traced back to this ship.

Dr. Fenwick said the weapons weren't online yet.

You close your eyes, focusing on nothing but the rage.

Space debris clatters against you as your body grows larger and larger.

…

The ship is literally bite-sized now.

If you concentrate, you can see Dr. Fenwick in an observation chamber, holding an emergency meeting.

You open your mouth wide, slowly approaching the ship.

And as Dr. Fenwick pounds on the windows over and over, screaming "STOP IT, RIORDAN! YOU OWE US! YOU OWE ME!", someone overrides the intercom.

The alarms all fall silent, replaced by a grand and vainglorious anthem, a clarion call to the great door standing before the ship.

The staff break out into a horrifying plague of sick dance moves. Even as she howls in rage and despair, Dr. Fenwick's body can't help but do the Carlton dance from Fresh Prince. Her cries slowly take form and melody.

You have opened the Party Door.

Inside you is the Party from which everything was born.

And everything in the omniverse, on the most infinitesimal level, yearns with their entire being to one day return to their source, so that one day they may Party harder than anyone has Partied before.

The Party has begun anew.

Party.

Party.

Party.