God Damn It, Every One!

Site-76, December 24th, 2018. 11:27 PM

The last thing D-24899 needed was the grim reaper at the foot of his bed. Sleep paralysis, again? But he could still move. He rubbed his eyes and sat up. Yep, that's the reaper all right. And not a minute too soon. Alright, you finally gonna take me to the other side?

The figure shook its head, or whatever head-simulacrum was hidden under its dark robe.

Wait, I didn't say that. You can read my thoughts.

It nodded.

Shit, okay. Um. Okay. Clear my mind. Do NOT think about stupid shit.

Silence.

…wait a second. You don't have a sickle, so you're not Death. And you don't talk. Are you supposed to be the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come or—

It nodded.

D-24899 let out a sad chuckle. Yeah, great. Okay. Here's the thing: I got really drunk and killed my sister with a kitchen knife, I was on death row for a while, and now I've been transferred to a top-secret military testing facility, or whatever this shithole is supposed to be. If you were thinking of showing me how to save my soul, I'm afraid the options are a bit limited.

Before D-24899 could say anything else, a dark, thick mist from the ghost's robe cut him off, and when it cleared—

Site-76, December 25th, 2018. 9:00 AM

—he and the ghost were standing in his cell. The lights were on. The D-24899 of, presumably, a few hours from now, lay in the bed. His eyes were open, and he was in a cold sweat.

The bulkhead to his cell opened, and a pair of armed guards stood at the ready. "D-24899, there's been a change of plans. You have been scheduled for testing with SCP-1883. Please come with us. …oh, and Merry Christmas." Yeah, fuck you too.

"You too," said his future self. Discreetly grabbing a small metal something-or-other, like a coin, from under his pillow, he followed the guards.

Shit. This is gonna be how I die, isn't it.

Once they were further down the hallway, the guards were distracted by a strange sound coming from the cafeteria. Seeing his chance, the D-24899 of the future clapped their heads together like cymbals, and as they were distracted, stole one of their pistols. Bang, bang.

Spirit, are you warning me against this? Because I wasn't planning on doing it anyway. But the ghost said nothing.

His future self made a mad dash through the corridors, right into the Keter wing. Alarms. An intercom warned personnel of a D-class making an escape attempt, lots of "all staff are advised to remain calm" and "he is armed and dangerous." Aww, I'm flattered!

Finally, he stopped at a large bulkhead labeled with "SCP-140" and every way to say "do not enter' that a weird little boy with a thesaurus could put on his bedroom door. Those were the days. He punched a code onto the numeric keypad — "619400."

With a stiff, demanding, skeletal finger, the ghost pointed to the keypad. Are you telling me to remember this? The ghost nodded.

The alarms kicked into high gear as the bulkhead slowly opened. Future D-24899 dove in as soon as the hole was big enough for a human.

Inside was a room, with a small desk and a black book.

Future D-24899 placed his strange metal coin on the book, "REASSURANCE" side up. With a deep breath, he turned away from the book and shot himself in the right temple.

Present-day 24899's heart sank. Even though his future self died with a satisfied smile on his face — okay, but WHY, though?! — seeing your own dead body was never an enjoyable christmas tradition. Especially the part where the scattered bodily fluids started to move on their own, towards the book — NOPE. Done. I'm done. Wake me up now, please. Done. Wakey-wakey.

Site-76 Director's Office, December 25th, 2018. 2:37 PM

Not yet, clearly. He joined the ghost in the Site Director's office, in the middle of an emergency conference call between three doctors and some jerkass on the phone.

"Are you positive it was a copy of SCP-3922?" said the raspy voice on the other end. "Because we tested it on the written word, and it didn't change a thing."

"But was it tested as it was being written, Dr. Naismith?" said a doctor.

"Yes, but only electronically. There was some minor text corruption when we used a word processor on a computer to write a short story, but it couldn't make any changes to traditional pen-on-paper writing."

The fuck are they talking about?

"It must have affected the way that SCP-140 drew blood from D-24899," said another scientist. Ugh, don't remind me. "Are we sure the book's been neutralized?"

Another researcher pulled up some photocopied pages. "Inconclusive, but it's not taking any more ink. The story leaves off on the Daevite civilization constructing a magical gateway to the 'Great Kingdom of Kor-Bah-Nik' to conquer it - the first of its kind, it says, to be able to safely transfer organic material. Immediately afterward, the 'Indestructible Horde of the Three Moons' comes out, kills all the Daevite aristocracy, liberates the lower classes, and the portal goes into dormancy, so that the Horde can get all their armies ready to brutally enforce world peace in the year 2020.”

Dead silence.

"Merry fucking Christmas to us," said the voice on the phone.

Spirit, I reiterate: the fuck are they talking about?

The Great Desert, Corbenic, December 25th, 2018, 10:20 AM (Site-76 time)

Another shift of scenery, and there stood the D-24899 of the future, naked stamping his feet impatiently, with the Future Ghost of Christmas Future next to him.

Dark sand, bitter cold, and three glowing moons in the cloudy green sky. Is this hell? Do I actually go to hell?!

The ghost shook his head. Well, this sure as shit don't look like Heaven.

The hum of helicopter blades in the distance.

Future Ghost handed Future D-24899 a suit. "He's here," said the Ghost, the actual voice of whom was nasal and very annoying. "Don't think you'll wanna be naked for the President." Wait, what?!

A fleet of dropships descended from the sky, all bearing three crescent moons on the sides. From the biggest and brightest of them came no fewer than 20 soldiers in white armor and gas masks. Are those fuckin' space marines? Trailing behind them, presumably, the "President" — in a blue and gold uniform covered in medals, was a French Senegalese man with a Hercule Poirot mustache, and all the violent self-confidence to not think it was tacky.

Future Ghost saluted, and motioned for D-24899 to do the same.

"At ease, Bones," said the President, shooting the ghost a finger gun. He turned to D-24899: "You, too. Daniel Mortimer, was it?"

"That's me," said his future self.

The President shook his hand. "Girard Niang, president of the Three Moons Initiative. For giving us access to the mortal realm at the cost of your own life, it's my honor to assign you Class-SSSS Elysial Residency conditions in Saklovai, expiring never, and effective immediately."

"How many swimming pools?" said his future self.

"Seventeen."

His future self fist-pumped.

"Let's get you home, Mr. Mortimer," said the President. "By the way, your sister called."

"…What'd she say?"

"She forgi—"

Site-76, December 24th, 2018. 11:40 PM

…and in another flash, D-24899 was back in his cell.

"What'd she say?!" he said, out loud this time.

The ghost didn't respond, only handed him a small business card, with the strange "REASSURANCE" coin glued to it, and the phrase "WILL YOU DO IT?"

D-24899 thought about it for a good ten seconds…

…and threw the card to the side. "This is too fuckin' weird," he said. "I'm going back to sleep. Merry Christmas."

With a heavy sigh, the ghost shook his head, and reached into a pocket of his robe. D-24899 realized, all too late, that the ghost did have a scythe.

(the real) Site-76, December 25th, 2018. 8:20 PM

The director of Site-76 nearly gagged as he walked into D-24899's quarters. He knew there was some sort of fatal incident, and dead bodies didn't scare him after 10 years in command, but 24899's face was another matter entirely. Like something had terrified him in his sleep, to death.

"There were 16 more just like him, this morning," said a security officer. "Cause of death seems to be cardiac arrest."

"Anything unusual about the scene?" said the director.

The officer pulled up a small, metallic disc in a Ziploc bag. "These were found with each body."

The director rubbed his forehead at the sight. More 3922. Dr. Naismith's gonna pop a blood vessel.

Elsewhere, far beyond the plane of mortal consciousness, south of the Great Desert, and at the second-to-last barstool at the Great Mead Hall of Saklovai, the Ghost of Christmas Future drowned his regrets in a tankard of Soma.

"Buck up, Spirit," says an old Londoner, still in his nightgown and cap. "There's always next Christmas."

"Oh, fuck you, Ebenezer."