Chapter Text
July 19th, 1914.
Item #: SCP-963
Object Class: Euclid
Security Clearance: Level 2
Special Containment Procedures: SCP-963-A is currently stored at Site-14, kept in an inactive state when not in testing. No living organic matter is to make contact with SCP-963-A outside of testing. Any SCP-963-B instance is to be properly disposed of to prevent further spread
Description: SCP-963-A is a fungi species found in Tallahassee, Florida. While sharing similar make-up of other fungi, SCP-963-A forms crystal-like formations similar in appearance to human-cut gemstones. Discovered when a human SCP-963-B instance attempted to assault and infect several bystanders.
When a living organism makes physical contact with SCP-963-A, the object’s roots will attempt to burrow into any exposed organic surface, creating a -B instance. SCP-963-A will attempt to mimic the host entity’s internal systems until they are indistinguishable.
If SCP-963-A is removed from any living material it will enter a type of stasis, becoming imobile and eventually crumbling into loose spores. These spores will revitalize upon contact with living tissue. Use of fire or acid is recommended to fully dispose of these spores.
While behaving like a parasitic entity, tests have shown -A survives on being attached to a living entity rather than feeding on anything in the host.
-B instances, while not immediately hostile, will attempt to infect any nearby personnel or other living beings. Tests on D-Class show it can take up to eight hours post exposure for the host to become incoherent and attempt a breach. SCP-963’s reason for spreading has yet to be determined. During research no more than one -B instance has been allowed to exist at once.
Further testing and research pending O5 approval.
…
If it weren’t for the writhing bunch of roots attempting to puncture her thick leather gloves, she wouldn’t believe this was a plant and not a precious stone. It’s smooth and shiny in her hand; she can see herself in its cut reflection. When it finds it can’t worm its way under her gloves, it seems to go limp with defeat.
Why she of all people is tasked with transporting this thing is beyond her, as are most of the comings and goings of her employer. She’s no researcher or trained soldier. She’s a secretary at best and a janitor at worst, though her superiors prefer to call her a ‘Factotum’.
She has no name, she doesn’t know if her parents ever gave her one or if she ever had family. It never occurred to her that it was strange to be nameless. She was ‘You!’ or ‘Listen up!’ and she didn’t need to be anything more.
Even if she doesn’t know why this item is her responsibility, she does know that her boss, the Founder of her one and only home, expected her to transport this item without delay. She would hate to disappoint her dear Founder.
The halls were oddly empty. The occasional doctor or group of guards, but few others. It’s almost completely silent until-
POP!POP!POP!
Gunshots.
She freezes, doing the exact opposite of what one should do when they hear gunshots. They came from in front of her, muffled but definitely still close. Should she be running away or running to help?
Someone is shouting, something large falls over, glass shatters, rapid footsteps approach her. Firm grasp on 963, she turns tail and runs.
Founder’s office is this way! Founder means safety, her thoughts supply her. Get to Founder, get to safety. If she should just go a little faster, turn the corners a little sharper, just stay ahead of her pursuers-
Boom!
She sees the bullet hit the wall in front of her before she feels it. The bullet tore straight through her torso and through 963. She would almost find it impressive if she had the capacity to notice. Loose spores spill between her fingers like sand and she hits the ground.
Her killers run past her, leaving her to bleed. They don’t even spare her a glance. Why would they? She was only a factotum, barely a person, barely a causality.
Her death isn’t as instant as she would like it to be. With the sounds of fighting to keep her company, she gets to watch her blood stain the carpet. Her vision goes black and the sound of fighting becomes muffled and then becomes nothing.
No past to mourn, no future to protect, she is content to die here.
963 is not.
…
The irony of the insurgency killing several ignorant workers in the name of protecting a few humanoid anomalies is certainly not lost on Founder. As he passes through the hallways he barely makes notice of his dead assistant. Just one body out of several.
He doesn’t notice her hand twitching towards him as he passes. She was an experiment, a test to see how far the Foundation could push one’s loyalties by removing everything else. He found the experiment successful, and thus, paid no mind to his dead prototype.
There are more important things to take care of, an attempted revolution for one. It wasn’t just spontaneous violence, this was coordinated, planned. The fact this was planned under his nose is infuriating.
Just looking at the pile of incident reports already on his desk was enough to give him a headache. There were reports to write, skips to recontain, damaged sites to repair, and hardly enough useful workers to get it all done!
At least when the janitors come by he can work without the smell of a rotting corpse nearby. It’s almost a shame that his assistant was one of the casualties when a headache forms and there’s no one around with his usual coffee.
A commotion echoes down the hall. Is this commotion his problem? It better not be.
“Sir! Sir!” A disheveled guard bursts into Founder’s office, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. Founder almost wishes the man would’ve tripped so at least he could get a laugh before his mood is ruined even further. “Outbreak in the hospital! Everyone needs to evacuate!”
Of course. Of course! A disease outbreak! “Pull yourself together and quarantine the area!” Founder marches towards him, tempted to slap the since into him.
“Understood, sir!” The guard scrambles out.
Dawning a gasmask, Founder marches towards the hospital wing. But, as he passes a handful of terrified workers, he spots O5-2, the Gardner, tending her flowers as she always does.
“There’s an outbreak nearby. You should evacuate.”
She only chuckles at him. “Come now, do you really think a gardener is scared of a couple weeds?”
…
Her: Wait am I still here? Why can I hear myself?
963: We hear her.
Her: Woah! Why are you so close!
963: We must survive.
Her: You saved me?
963: We saved we.
Her: So what happens to me then?
963: You are us. Us is we.
Her: So what are you? What are we?
963: We are we.
She could ask a thousand more questions, but as 963 burrows deeper into her body, into her mind, she finds she has no reason to. She knows everything 963 knows, and in turn, 963 knows everything she knows.
Someone passes by. Their hand twitches out. If they could get just a bit of themselves in the other, then they could send a message. 963 may be able to knit together every piece of the body, but not quicker than the body can die.
By the time they are moved it would be incorrect to refer to 963 and her as two distinct entities.
Guard 1: “Yeah, apparently the whole thing was started over some kid. Pretty crazy huh- wait what the fuck!”
The guard freezes as control of his body slips from him. They, looking through his eyes, see their body laying on a hospital bed. They’re certainly not the only one in the hospital but they are the most recent.
Their blood is on his hands. He can and has wiped it all away but not before their spores could cling to his skin. Just as desperate to survive as the rest of them, the few loose spores burrow into him, growing their roots slowly but surely.
While they can see through his eyes, the guard can see through their eyes in return. The flashes of the hospital room mixing in with the unconscious darkness makes him stumble in confusion.
Doctor 1: “Hey! Watch it!”
The doctor’s hands were also covered in their spores, more so than any of the guards combined. The doctor may have been thorough in washing up, but the spores plant their roots quickly. Having made physical contact with nearly every doctor and patient in the area he’s spread a little bit of them into everyone.
Guard 2: “Hey you alright man?”
The second guard attempts to take a step forward, only for the nurse behind him to involuntarily take the step instead, bumping into a second doctor.
Nurse: “I’m so sorry!”
Doctor 3: “Careful! Wait what am I doing over here?”
The second doctor finds himself speaking through the third doctor’s mouth, and simultaneously seeing through every other body the roots grow in. Spread too thin, the roots can’t get in deep enough. They are we but they’re not close enough to be us.
Chaos ensues as everyone loses track of their own thoughts, their own bodies, their own selves. A passing guard, one free from their spores, runs from the scene to the first authority figure he can think of.
The image of Founder standing tall among the disorder sends a shock through the entire disjointed hivemind, resonating from the center of it all. Respect for the O5s, for their Founder, was drilled into every Foundation employee, especially his assistant. His dear assistant, who he’d never once given a second thought, and who was about to become his most useful tool.
…
Addendum: Following the “Chaos Insurgency” incident, several staff members were exposed to SCP-963-A, leading to the discovery of a secondary anomaly. All -B instances share a psychic connection, which becomes more stable the deeper the “roots” are allowed to grow.
As all current -B instances were loyal Foundation employees, they have continued to express their loyalty as one entity. SCP-963-B can control these spores and roots with some practice. Roots can be removed completely within six-eight weeks of exposure, making the host body no longer a -B instance.
As of writing there has yet to be another accidental infection.
Proposal: The 963 “hivemind” allows for the sharing and quick spread of information among -B hosts. This hivemind will allow for better information and will boost the number of skilled workers available. Proposal to utilize and spread this psychic connection under Foundation supervision.
The council was practically baren. In their haste to clean things up and return order, the council seats were filled by barely qualified stand-ins. Normally, in this state, no large decisions would be made, but who was going to say no to him?
Support: One, Five, Six, Nine.
Oppose: Three, Ten, Thirteen.
Abstain: Two, Four, Seven, Eight, Eleven, Twelve.
Motion passed 4-3! Founder had won. Though… there was one vote that caught his attention. The new members could feel the weight of the vote even if they didn’t have the context.
O5-13, Tamlin, is the one council member older than Founder himself, older than the very concept of time. Tamlin rarely voted on council matters, only notable for tiebreakers and real changes. When they voted personally it meant something serious.
Even if Founder has won, Tamlin is against him. That couldn’t just mean nothing.
Founder has never taken the path to speak to Tamlin directly. There were many paths, all impossible and contradictory just as Tamlin’s existence. The trek to slip into Tamlin’s domain was a small price to pay for peace of mind.
He didn’t go alone. By his side is his assistant, his precious Hive as they’ll come to be known. Around their neck, sealed inside a circular glass locket, are the remains of SCP-963-A. With a piece of Hive by his side he could have eyes on the Foundation in his absence.
Tamlin’s domain is difficult to look at, and much the same could be said about the man/woman/thing themself. They were always a little different, their features hard to grasp, like looking in a foggy mirror.
“You will say nothing,” Founder commands his assistant.
As Founder enters what could be described as Tamlin’s office, he sees a young man leaning back, almost casually, in a swivel chair. He wears a tie-dyed shirt, the colors of which swirl and spin in a headache inducing pattern, and his long, red hair is pulled back into a pony-tail. He sips from a steaming mug, the contents of which Founder could never guess.
“Strange to see you here,” Tamlin says, eyes on Hive. “What do I owe the visit?”
“The recent discussion over the utilization of SCP-963.”
“Yes, your special little hivemind.” Tamlin blows the steam off their drink. The steam hits Founder and he catches a whiff of his wife’s perfume. Of course he doesn’t have a wife, having the familiar scent all the more disconcerting.
“I don’t see what you want to discuss. The motion passed, you got what you wanted. Now I’m sure you have more important places to be than here.” Tamlin turns their chair around to stare out a window that may or may not have been there moments before.
“You voted against my proposal. I want to know why. What do you think you know that I don’t?”
“Oh Aaron, oh Aaron. Tsk tsk. You think every little thing is some long planned out plot against you. Is it so hard to believe I just don’t personally agree with your proposal? What about three? Or ten? What do they know?”
Founder grits his teeth. “Don’t play with me, Tamlin. If you know anything that could tamper with this project you have the obligation to tell me here and now!”
Tamlin spins back around. “There’s nothing that I am aware of that could ruin your project. It will be perfect, it will work exactly if not better than you imagine! Your Hive will change the very core of the Foundation! Is that what you want to hear?”
Founder was showered with the very validation he was seaking, and yet he feels even more insulted.
“Then why did you oppose me?”
Tamlin stands, casting a shadow over Founder despite their shorter frame. “You’re really that wounded that I could possibly oppose you? Change my vote to abstain if your pride can’t take it. You’ve won either way.”
Tamlin downs the rest of their glass and falls back into their seat. “Oh wow, would you look at that.” They aim the mug towards Founder, allowing him to see how the specks at the bottom have formed the perfect image of Founder laying dead on the floor of his bedroom.
“Enough of this.” Waste of his fucking time! Founder turns his back to Tamlin, gripping Hive by the shoulder.
“Say hello to your son for me!”
“I have no son!”
“No… No, of course you don’t.” As the Founder leaves, Hive makes eye contact with Tamlin. Tamlin’s expression is unreadable, their features already blurring and disappearing from Hive’s massive memory, but right before the doors shut Tamlin waves.
The image of his inevitable death at the bottom of Tamlin’s mug sits with Founder for years. He is old, much older than he possibly should be, and he has no plans of ever dying. Not while his Foundation still stands.
He has a project to focus on, as his pet project grows so does its strength and the more control he must have. As years pass, Founder allows the memory of Tamlin’s opposition to fade away.
Until, on one unassuming day, he passes by a woman on the streets. The thick smell of her perfume smacks him in the face and he’s back in Tamlin’s office once again. With his fate ever looming over his head, he asks the woman’s name.