Mothers Day

The slightly-chubby man wearing a jumpsuit and a large utility belt threw the twenty-fourth copy of his mother’s day letter away into the trash can. He just couldn’t write anything meaningful. He thought and thought until he resigned to staring at the mold-stained roof of his containment cell.

SCP-507 had been kept in this very cell for ten years, seven months, nine days, and about six hours but he couldn’t tell exactly. The clock never worked. He had occasionally seen the clock hands suddenly move by themselves but none of the scientists ever told him why that was or even what anomalies were contained near him. All he knew was that mold grew very quickly on the ceiling, something made thumping noises in the cell on his left every Friday, and that a lot of old books kept being taken out of the cell on his right. Where the books came from was beyond him. Maybe it was some strange old philosopher that can summon magical artifacts, but if you dare sneeze he starts attacking you with tentacles. 507 couldn’t remember whether he met that on a shift or saw it in one of his nightmares. What’s the difference really?

Suddenly, 507 had an idea. He grabbed his yellow notepad and began to write. “Dear mom, I know it’s ben a whi-” The pencil, paper, and man all disappeared in an instant, leaving no sign beyond the messy bed and overflowing wastebasket that anyone had inhabited the cell.

108-1 paced the floor of her containment cell as she had since ’09. She wondered if she would eventually die in this cell. She wondered what strange “anomaly” would replace her if that happened. She still didn’t know why they had to call her that. All she did was try one stupid magic trick for a party and ended up bringing a fucking Third Reich bunker into her nasal cavity. Magic’s weird sometimes.

“SCP-108, you’ve got a letter from someone named ‘Tina Halloway’. Claims to be your kid. Site Director already cleared it.” 108 bolted towards the door of her cramped cell and eagerly grabbed her letter, being careful not to tear it. Once the boring guard left, she began to read.

“Dear Mom, I know I haven’t written since you got in prison. I’m sorry. Don’t worry about me, I’ve been doing fine. On the back’s a picture of your new grandson. Happy Mother’s Day. –Tina”

The formerly sad woman tried to hold back a tear but couldn’t. She sniffled with joy so hard a Lego-sized plane engine fell to the floor of her cell, ready to stab the toes of the janitorial staff.

Shirley sat in a huddle with her small group of survivors, all former members of Section 320, who were now hiding in a locker room. A few guards stood watch, armed with two guns that they had stolen. After this many repeats, Shirley knew exactly how many weapons there were and knew if one of the other powerful groups showed up, like the Faith-keepers, they didn’t stand a chance this loop.

Shirley reached into her wallet and pulled out a photo of her family. She put a gentle finger on Dave’s face, then began to quietly sob. After this many loops, it must be about Mother’s Day, but her kids don’t even know what’s happening to her, being trapped in some cyclical basketball game hell. She thought once more about the inevitability of it all and cried loudly, not caring if anyone heard her. Death wouldn’t last long here anyways.

“D-75505, repeat that one more time.”

“I’m telling you doc, there’s a giant Valentine’s Day heart here. Please don’t tell me this thing sent me back to February or something.”

“D-75505, wait right there and don’t touch anything. Don’t take a single step. I need to consult another researcher as to why SCP-2739 has a new exhibit.”

D-75505 hated this new gig. At first he’d thought it would be great; no more prison sentence if he spends one month being a guinea pig and doing tests. That was what he thought until he saw his former prison bunkmate get eaten alive by some man-eating african tree. Since then D-75505 had almost died four times in less than two weeks and everyone called him by some hard-to-remember number instead of his name. Today though… Today was special.

He had been chosen to explore some art exhibit SCP, and been woken up at 4:30 in the morning just for this job. Unfortunately, the guard was loud and his bunkmates were pissed that they were woken up so early. If he made it back, he probably wouldn’t be well-liked. He then had to sit in a hot vehicle with tinted windows for two hours and then get dragged into some nearly-condemned apartment building, just to check out some “spatial building anomaly”. Strange name for an apartment with an impossibly big art museum on the inside, filled with various things about a drug and abuse-filled sob story he had already heard the likes of a hundred times in prison.

He decided to look more closely at the immaculately-clean five-foot-tall heart. An old picture of some lady with a kid was placed above a plaque. “To Ira. Your mom missed you and still misses you, wherever you are now.” Lame. D-75505 took out a smuggled cigarette and decided to take a smoke break while waiting for Dr. What-his-face to be loud and nosy again. Only 19 days left of this stupid job…

Junior Researcher Thomas Melville stood facing the containment chamber taking notes, trying not to lose his meager breakfast. He first started having this problem back in med school, and had hidden it well enough until he joined Site-71 two weeks ago. The problem was that even in med school, he never had to observe a man with a gallbladder for skin for ten minutes straight. Tom closed his eyes, counted to ten, and finished his daily morning report for May 12th. He then turned around and walked down the hall to Senior Researcher Mane’s office to cross the next thing off his morning list.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes. You are part of Four Thirty-Nine’s research team, are you not?” The elderly man shuffled a packet on his wide desk while waiting for a response.

“That is correct,” Tom replied, trying not to remember what happened to D-439-127 last week in a weak attempt to appease his fighting stomach.

“Then explain what SCP-439 is. Quickly.”

“SCP-439 is the designation for an anomalous subspecies of earwig that find lonely, reclusive people and turn their skeletons into hives. Our site has five queens in containment, which is probably five too many,” Tom hastily replied, worrying situations playing out in his brain.

“Well done. Just making sure you know your stuff, kid. Now let’s visit queen number three’s containment chamber, shall we? Also, no more jokes.”

The junior researcher followed along, nervously adjusting his glasses and trying to breathe calmly. After what felt like an eternity, they entered an observation chamber.

“Everyone quiet down. We have observed unusual behavior from this particular hive. Specifically, all the workers are bringing the queen an unusual amount of food, and the hive is starting to grow.” Head Researcher Camp gestured towards the large hive sitting in the dark chamber, hundreds of earwigs crawling over its surface. “We will preemptively terminate this hive and begin the dissection in twenty minutes, but do any of you have some potential reasons for their behavior before we start?”

This question was obviously directed towards the three junior researchers, but he couldn’t think of anything. Still, he spoke. “Maybe it’s a mother’s day gift?” The others stifled their laughter quickly and the glare from Camp said one thing. Tom still had a lot to learn about Site-71.

“So what you’re telling me,” the strange alien creature gurgled as if drunk. “Is that you have an entire day dedicated to mothers?”

“Yes,” Agent Kuller curtly replied before looking at her watch. She only had nine and a half minutes left of her shift with this annoying thing before her lunch break. Her lunch break was the only time she could truly relax at this godforsaken site.

“Why wasn’t I told this sooner?!” SCP-2020 quickly reached for its pencil once more and began to think of more stories. “I must write about this holiday at once! What about a poem dedicated to all earth mothers?”

Agent Kuller attempted to speak before 2020 dismissed the issue itself. “No, that would be too long and cliché. What about a story just about your mother, Agent Cooler?”

“It’s Kuller and I think that would be a great stor-“

“No, I apologize. I could never write effectively about your mother, and I don’t have one myself which creates a problem… I know! I’ll write a story about a young lizard lying to its mother but he becomes sad. Do you think that sounds good, Agent Coral?”

“I think it sounds wonderful. Also, my name is Agent Kuller,” she replied through gritted teeth trying not to think of ways to kill an anomalous extraterrestrial.

“Thank you for your input but I just don’t think it would be any good, you know? Maybe I could write a story about a human child who-”

Agent Kuller closed her eyes, plugged her ears, and desperately hoped for her lunch break to come soon. She wasn’t paid enough for this kind of crap.