The following is a log of Agent John Hardcastle's interaction with an anomalous reality-bender.

Date: 09/11/1988

Location: Traktir na Zabytyy, a bar in Arkhangelsk, Soviet Union.

Notes: Agent Hardcastle had spent several months researching the earliest records of SCP-4833's experiments. He had come across records indicating that one Vasily Stroganov, an individual known to Agent Hardcastle, had been the subject of SCP-4833 experiments in the late 1940s. Mr. Stroganov was tracked down to Arkhangelsk and interviewed alone by Agent Hardcastle.

<Begin Log>

Agent Hardcastle activates his camera. He is in a wide, deserted alleyway; it is snowing heavily. A sign can be seen saying "трактир". He moves towards the doorway and enters.

The interior is dark, and dirty. The walls are undecorated brick, and a few tables are scattered around the place. The bartender is an overweight middle-aged man who is clearly inebriated. Another man - Vasily Stroganov - is slumped over a glass of vodka. There is nobody else in the establishment.

Agent Hardcastle: (in Russian) Vodka, please.

The bartender fetches a glass of vodka. As he does so, Stroganov sits upright and stares at Agent Hardcastle, who nods at him. The bartender gives the drink to Agent Hardcastle.

Agent Hardcastle: (in Russian) Much custom this time of year?

Bartender: (in Russian) A bit. You American?

Agent Hardcastle: (in Russian) English. But don't worry—I'm one of the good ones.

Bartender: (in Russian) There are no good Englishmen. But there are no good Russians either.

Agent Hardcastle hands the bartender a thick wad of ruble notes.

Agent Hardcastle: (in Russian) Here's a little tip, for some, uh, privacy.

The bartender looks through the money, nods, and shuffles into the back room. Agent Hardcastle pulls up a seat next to Stroganov.

Stroganov: Shit.

Agent Hardcastle: Hello, Vasily. It's been a while, hasn't it?

Stroganov: Please, just leave me alone. You promised to leave me alone. After Buda, after I saved—

Agent Hardcastle: I'm sorry, Vasily, I really am. I didn't want to be here, but there's something bigger than you or I going on.

Stroganov: I'm an old man, John, I can't help you. I live in a shitty apartment in a concrete building nobody cares about, watching the snow go past. I don't even have heating. The empires I used to…

Stroganov shakes his head, and does not speak for several seconds.

Stroganov: Just go away.

Agent Hardcastle: I can't. I wish I could, but I can't. I need you to tell me about Syncope, Vasily.

Stroganov visibly tenses

Stroganov: No. No, no no. Go away, John, you don't know what you're dealing with.

Agent Hardcastle: Children, Vasily. Just like you were. I need to know what happened in 1954.

Stroganov: No. I can't. Please, I can't.

Agent Hardcastle: We can take you in. Set you up somewhere nicer, somewhere—

Stroganov: It doesn't matter where you set me up, it'll all be the same.

Stroganov takes a large swig of vodka.

Stroganov: Have you been here long? What do you think of the city?

Agent Hardcastle: That's not—it's fine, I guess. Same as any other Soviet city I've been to—big, filled with concrete. Another cold and obscure Russian town.

Stroganov: This town doesn't feel obscure to its residents. It's the biggest city for hundreds of miles. But for a man in the West, a man looking at the map of the world, it seems like the farthest outpost of civilisation. Everything you think anchors you is just a minute island washing through an endless sea. There's always another design, bigger than the last, that's what they told me, and they'll find me, John. I can't tell you anything.

Agent Hardcastle: You've already helped me, Vasily. They believe in a "design, bigger than the last". That's enough. Come on. We can keep you comfortable, safe. You can tell me all about what those powers are that you never wanted to reveal to me. It's not like the old days. We're kinder now. Gentler.

Stroganov: This place will be obscure too. This time, this place, that footage on your camera. The 1980s. What will people think of it?

Agent Hardcastle: A glorious decade.

Stroganov: For some. For others, I think it'll be remembered as a dark place. Cold and full of uncertainty, like wading through a lake at night.

Agent Hardcastle: All the more reason to improve the world, then. And we can start with Syncope.

Stroganov: But they're barely even a player any more. Didn't you know that? Hardly anyone's been taken these last few years. They've found what they were looking for. Can't you leave them alone? Can't you leave us all well enough alone? Let me die in the cold, John, let me forget what a miserable waste I've been. I don't want to go back.

Agent Hardcastle: They're taking children, Vasily.

Stroganov: I don't care.

Agent Hardcastle sighs heavily.

Agent Hardcastle: Then I'll have to take you in by force.

Stroganov stares at Agent Hardcastle for several seconds.

Stroganov: Who was Marcie, John?

Agent Hardcastle moves back sharply.

Agent Hardcastle: I—I don't know what you mean. Stop it.

Stroganov: Marcie Green. A village girl, who would dance on the moors. Practising for a life you both knew she'd never have. You'd sneak out of boarding school to watch her.

Agent Hardcastle: I—I don't don't please—

Stroganov: Your first kiss. You talked of running away together. But your parents found out and you were taken away. You were seventeen. The last summer of your life.

Agent Hardcastle: I said I'd wait…

Stroganov: But you didn't. You went off. She probably did too, but I can't see that much. The Marcie in your head is just a shadow, a shade, a frail copy that only tells a fraction of the story of the original. Why don't you go back, John? Go—God, I'm sorry.

Agent Hardcastle: Go back to the fields…

Stroganov: Y—yes. Go back. I'm sorry, John, I'm sorry…

Agent Hardcastle collapses, gibbering for several seconds before expiring. Stroganov stares into space, mutely crying, for several seconds.

Stroganov: I had to. I had to. They'll never get out of my head. They want it too badly, don't you see? Don't you know what you did?

Stroganov shakes his head, and screws his eyes closed. The feed flickers and cuts out.

<End Log>