WELCOME TO SCiPNET ACCESS PORT. YOU HAVE (1) NEW MESSAGE. OPEN?
> no
PLEASE ENTER YOUR COMMAND BELOW.
> open folder 9204
OPENING FOLDER…
scp_9204_temp.doc
NOTICE: This file is currently under review and may contain incomplete or inaccurate information. Please refer to supporting documentation for up-to-date information.
Item #: SCP-9204
Special Containment Procedures: Standard animal care procedures are to be used for SCP-9204. During care activities, personnel are to avoid using the word "fetch" near SCP-9204.
Authorized attempts to retrieve objects using SCP-9204 are to be supervised by no fewer than two individuals, with one or more stationed outside of the facility.
Description: SCP-9204 is a male Golden Retriever dog colloquially referred to as Milo. When given a verbal command to "fetch," SCP-9204 will always retrieve an object. This retrieval is uninhibited by distance, size, and other factors that would normally limit feasibility. A minority of requests result in retrieval of an object other than the one requested. The significance of non-target objects retrieved is unknown.
scp_9204_project_assignment.eml
From: ten.pics|43hsife#ten.pics|43hsife
To: ten.pics|84llimb#ten.pics|84llimb
Subject: SCP-9204 project assignment
Hello Brian,
I am slightly concerned about my assignment to the SCP-9204 project. Is there a reason you have added me to it? This is not the type of project I typically work on, and I am not sure that my perspective will be particularly helpful to the team.
Best,
Erin Fisher
From: ten.pics|84llimb#ten.pics|84llimb
To: ten.pics|43hsife#ten.pics|43hsife
Subject: Re: SCP-9204 project assignment
Don't sweat it - I know you need time. This should be less intense than your normal stuff. Figured it wouldn't hurt to play some with a dog.
Brian
You don't know why that response pisses you off so much. It doesn't really matter.
But god, you were fine before he reassigned you. This whole thing is ridiculous.
trial_procedure.doc
I. Descriptor-based retrieval
Each trial will begin with one tester and SCP-9204 at the TIS. The tester will command SCP-9204 to "fetch" a randomly chosen object based on description (e.g. "Fetch the red ball"). The tester will remain in place during the trial. Distance from TIS to the object and time from command to object retrieval, defined as SCP-9204 dropping the object, will be recorded.
II. Image-based retrieval
Each trial will begin with one tester and SCP-9204 at the TIS. The tester will be given a randomly chosen photograph of an object. The tester will turn the photograph such that it is visible to SCP-9204 and command SCP-9204 to "fetch" the object in the photograph. Distance from TIS to the object and time from command to object retrieval, defined as SCP-9204 dropping the object, will be recorded.
project_assignment.eml
From: ten.pics|43hsife#ten.pics|43hsife
To: ten.pics|84llimb#ten.pics|84llimb
Subject: Project assignment
Brian,
I do not believe my professional skillset aligns with the SCP-9204 project. Unless there is a reason I am needed on the team, I would like to be moved back to my previous assignment.
Best,
Erin Fisher
Hasn't even responded to that one. Asshole.
retrievals.csv
trial_type
requested_obj
retrieved_obj
tester
…
desc
handbasket
frozen meat, unidentified
fish
…
desc
toy car
wires, assorted
fish
…
desc
scarf
fox pelt
fish
…
desc
wooden spoon
copper saucepan
fish
…
pic
feather duster
arrow
fish
…
pic
glass jar
erasers, assorted
fish
…
pic
plate
screwdriver
fish
…
pic
concrete block
rotting log
fish
…
…
…
…
…
…
You can't help but feel like the thing's making fun of you. Like it knows, and it just wants to rub it in. But for some of those, you cannot fathom what the correlation could be. Don't even know where it got those things. You mean, those wires looked like they had been ripped out of something.
results.doc
I. Short-range retrieval
II. Long-range retrieval
You'll… deal with that. Though, you're really hoping you get reassigned before you have to.
code.txt
44635719
Your pen is wet with saliva. Gotta stop that habit; can't be good for you.
You grab a sticky note and scribble the code down.
It takes 7 minutes to cross the campus. Some would argue 9. They're wrong, of course.
Your shoes are wet from the sludgy remains of last month's snowfall. In your first year here, you got your car stuck just outside of the parking lot. You were standing there in the snow for a good ten minutes before you could find anyone who cared enough to help.
It was funny, how he could rally people to do anything. He couldn't quite teach you that one. Wouldn't be in this situation if he could, you suppose.
You're dragging your feet a bit. After all, you can't wait for another round of tests where that dog brings anything except what you ask it to.
When they hand you the photo, you want to do something. Tear it up? Scream and shout? You don't know. Just a photo of a folding chair. It drives you crazy. You shouldn't be on this project. This isn't your job.
You don't need a break. You don't even like dogs. You just want to go back to your bog plants.
It was supposed to be short, routine. Just grabbing samples. You were supposed to be on that mission, too. You're still wondering.
You punch the code in. The lock clicks.
There has to be something more to it, you're sure. They didn't see it happen. He didn't make mistakes, not like that.
It doesn't feel like you. It's a weird feeling, like you're watching someone through a camera.
[Dr. Erin Fisher enters the frame. She removes SCP-9204 from its kennel.]
[Fisher stares at SCP-9204.]
FISHER: Okay, here goes.
[Fisher pauses, then takes a breath.]
FISHER: Fetch ██████████.
[Fisher and SCP-9204 stand still.]
FISHER: Go! Fetch!
[Fisher points towards the door. SCP-9204 does not respond.]
FISHER: You're not even trying this time? You- you just want to spite me, huh?
FISHER: You work with everyone else. Can't you just… Can't you work with me? Just this once?
FISHER: Please. I'll leave you alone. Or… I'll give you treats? I'll… I'll… give you…
FISHER: God, I'm talking to a dog.
[Fisher exits the frame.]
You didn't mean to say that. Probably.
It didn't work anyway. Damn thing doesn't work with you. Never has, never will.
You speed walk past them. They're giving you that look again. You're not dealing with that, not now.
Goddammit, you don't understand why you did that. You only gave Brian more ammunition.
You're going home.
You shove your things into your bag. They don't sit quite right. Probably something at the bottom. You don't care. Sort of.
You leave your office quickly. Don't want anyone to catch up. They're always weird about it.
The faces around you are blank, belonging to people that may as well be strangers. You've never felt more new to your workplace of nearly two years now.
You don't really process where your feet are taking you. You turn there, almost instinctively.
They're clearing his office now. You'd update him on your project, whatever was sprouting this time. There's no one to update.
You didn't feel sad when they gave you the news. You didn't feel anything. You should have felt something, you're sure.
You almost see him at the computer. But there's no computer anymore. There's silence, where you should hear that awful clacking.
They took the cars. Those stupid, factory-reject figurines. Where are they?
They shouldn't even be cleaning it. They don't know. They barely even looked.
You don't know what they'll do with the AEP sites. Or the ground cover data. Or the jewelweed, or the…
He was always fighting to keep it all running. Are they just going to throw all of it away? Years of work, down the drain like that? Who'll fight now? You can't take over. You're barely past junior researcher. You're not ready to be on your own. It's not fair.
Could it have been different? If you…
You don't understand how, why. It shouldn't have happened. It doesn't make sense. None of it, none of it.
Something cracks. You feel sick. You pull away and turn towards the stairs.
Your feet land in the same grooves as you ascend.
You place your good hand in the dust-free spot on the windowsill. The view, once of rolling plains, is now gray, filled with rectangular towers. He told you, once, that he would take you to the hills in the distance when you were ready. You can't see the hills anymore.
You scan the figures below. Not what you're looking for. You continue on your way.
You hear a chime. You see that book on the floor. Again, you lift it. Again, you place it on the shelf. There's a hole where the book should be. You won't finish it; you can't. Not without…
Another chime. You peer down the stairwell.
That dog watches you from the bottom. Perhaps in some mimicry of instinct, you recoil. Curiously, it appears to have something shiny in its mouth. You won't risk it.
You don't know how it survived. You almost pity it. Almost.
You rip a chunk from the carcass and throw it at the dog. It drops the toy and snaps the meat up. Damn animal.
You grab the toy: a rolling, metallic thing that resembles the metal frames lining the old roads. You've heard the stories many times over. At some point, they sped along these paths, or so you've been told. You wish you could hear the stories again. The others don't speak of the time before.
The sky is empty. Stars twinkle above you, but you can't remember their names.
You see the smoke from their fire in the distance. You know you should head back, but you'd rather do anything else. So, instead of heading back, you just stand there like an idiot, staring at a fucking dog.
You feel that prickling on the back of your neck. You drop your kill.
Shit.
Your phone lies face down on the pavement. Your hand hovers over the case as you bend down.
Please don't be cracked. Please don't be cracked. Please don't be cracked.
You inhale, then pick it up. The screen is intact. Good, that's good. Okay.
That old beater is still in the lot. The ornaments on the dash are collecting dust. It took you ages to find that cactus. You'd think, with how often you would see them, that the right dancing cactus would be easy to find. You still remember his laugh when he unwrapped it. It doesn't dance anymore.
That feeling rises in your stomach again. God, you don't want to go home. You sure as hell don't want to be here, either.
You don't know how long you've spent trying to fix that clock. Those mechanisms are still just as foreign to you. You had spent so long hovering over his shoulder, but it didn't amount to learning.
It's a step. If you can get the clock working, maybe your hand will be next. He would be so happy if you learned to fix it. He was still working on getting it right. Said more experience was needed.
You thought, at some point, it was for that needed experience. That he'd be back once you fixed the clock. When your hand lost function, you weren't so sure.
It's not just your hand now. The errors have been piling up. You've been shunting them off to your secondary processor. You're not sure how much longer you can keep ignoring them.
They always avoid it. Talk around the topic. Like it's some awkward moment they're trying to forget. They all moved on so fast.
You're surrounded by people, but you're alone. They act like you should know. They act like you're some sort of nuisance.
They always give you that look, the one they're giving you now. You look away. Can't stand to see it for another moment.
The tower looms in the distance. That feeling, that rush of something horrible, surges through your limbs.
The dog bounds ahead. The snow stings your face. Their shouts fade into the wind.
The road is empty. Just an endless gray path cutting through the green expanse. You missed your turn miles ago.
You don't know where you're going. It doesn't matter. There's no one left to give a shit. You could just get lost in the forest, for all they care.
The… green…
That doesn't make sense. Those aren't conifers. It shouldn't be green. It's too early for that.
You slam on the brakes.
You've given up on the clock for the day. You stand and turn towards the window. It's strange, to see the people scurry about below. You wonder where he is, if he's among a similar crowd. You wonder when you, too, will be ready to see the world.
Some part of you wants to open the door on your own. It knows he's not-
It's easy enough to shut off that circuit.
You'll tidy the lab. You move towards the stairs.
You scramble through the snow, past broken shells of long-abandoned buildings.
You lived among those once. Sheltering under rubble, alone, cold. You long to be found again, but he's not coming back.
They didn't want to keep you back then. Said you'd be dead weight. You'll show them. You'll get strong, make your own life.
It's here with you, that dog. Did it do something? You're not where you were before.
You're on a dirt road. There's some sort of tower just past the trees. You've seen this place before. The photos. The photos he showed you. You were supposed to be here that day.
The tower. He had told you about it. You know he was curious. What if…
You move through the trees. It's a shorter distance than you thought it would be.
You find yourself in a field of yellowed grass that just touches the backs of your knees. Two lines of flattened grass, tire tracks, lead from the tower into distant hills.
You descend slowly, hesitantly.
The dog still sits there at the bottom.
The windows on the ground floor are broken, but the dog stares at the door, as if it's waiting for you to let it out.
You reach for the door, then stop. You're not sure why. It's as if you're feeling, for a moment, as he does. You've seen the outside from the windows; why now are you hesitating?
Your legs ache. Your fingers are numb from the cold. It looked so close from where you were.
Still, you press on. You'll freeze if you stop.
That dog is still going somehow. It's like the cold doesn't even affect it.
You won't let a stupid animal beat you. You find yourself speeding up.
You're close now. The tower is within your grasp. You can be rid of them. You just have to get to the door.
The dog trots beside you. Thing won't leave you alone.
You see it as you approach the tower. It's an old wooden door. Doesn't even have a lock.
You glance back towards the trees, then turn forward again.
You take the handle. The door creaks open.
The city.
The campfire.
Your office.
You're standing at your desk. That tech from before pokes her head in, then says something you can't make out.
Familiar faces push past her. They've been searching for you.
Your computer is still on.
> power off