Document 2904-A

[Archivists note: This handwritten letter was included in the original briefing pack for MTF Pi-20 Operator candidates, where it formed an introduction to document SCP-2904. It has been transcribed for preservation in the digital archive.]

June 19th, 1981

To whom it may concern,

If you’re reading this then you’ve been offered a choice.

Hello, my name is ███████████████. I don’t know who you are and I never will. I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through. All I know is what comes next. I’m supposed to help you figure out what to do, but I’ve never been much good at giving advice. Instead I’m going to tell you how it was for me. How it worked out. Then it’ll be up to you whether you sign that document in front of you or choose whatever the alternative is in your case.

Let’s start… not at the beginning. Real stories don’t have beginnings. Let’s just start somewhere. Before. This is me:

I open my eyes. I must have been napping. The sun is warm on my back and splashes across my shoulders onto the desk. My eyes are drawn to the left side of my desk. The calendar there tells me that it’s Friday and my watch tells me it’s two pm. I check them automatically, without thinking.

I usually leave Friday afternoons free to tidy up any loose ends in the hope of getting a whole weekend to myself. I can’t be sure though, so I pick up the phone and dial through to Tiffany.

“Hi, Tiffany.”

There’s a brief pause before she replies “Yes, Agent ████████, what can I do for you?”

“Can you check my schedule and tell me if I have anything planned in for this afternoon, please?”

“Nothing except the meeting with Academy Director ███ to discuss the assignments for this month’s crop, Sir.”

“Oh, of course. Do you have the files for that, Tiffany?”

“I brought them through this morning, Sir. I believe you put them in your top drawer?”

“Ah.” I open my top drawer and pull out the files. “Yes, I have them here. Thank you, Tiffany.” I really need to get a system for this.

I turn on the radio. The Boomtown Rats are just getting to the chorus of I Don’t Like Mondays and I hum along.

Does any of that sound familiar? Probably. There’s only so many ways to get to where you are now. None of them good. That’s how I got there. You don’t need to know any of that, I guess, but if you know how I got there then maybe it’ll help you understand why I made the decision I did. Whether you want to make that decision too.

So you’re probably wondering now; “What happens if I do this? What will it be like?” The honest answer is, I don’t know. Neither will you. I’ll tell you what it’s like but neither of us will ever really know. So let me tell you, then. What it’s like after.

While I write this next part I’m listening to my own voice on tape. I’m listening to a stranger with my voice. He’s telling me what he’s going through so I can tell you. Here’s what he’s saying:

I am calm. I check for threats. There are men in suits at one o’clock and four o’clock. They are wearing the badges so I relax and allow the nearer of the two at one o’clock to continue changing the card in the holder on the back of my right hand. He has muttered something insulting about my diminished mental capacity. I make a conscious decision not to do anything about it. The Boomtown Rats’ I Don’t Like Mondays is playing from somewhere behind me so I know that I’m not active. The other man, the older one is holding a hand against his ear. He speaks:

“That’s a check on the throat mic. We’re good to go here.”

I realise I am whispering my thoughts. It happens automatically, without thinking. It ought to, after a month of conditioning to auto-dictate. I recognise his voice. It’s Abrahams. He looks terrible. Old. Worn. I know to expect this but it’s still a little surprising to see how unkind time has been to him.

“Thanks for that, pal,” he says. “Time catches up to most of us eventually.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and points at a large house about 200 yards away. “The target’s in there, █████. Go get ‘em.” He’s smiling but there’s something behind it. I know to expect this too. It’s pity. I walk towards the house and behind me The Boomtown Rats fade down to nothing. They are soon replaced by a deep bass thumping coming from the house. I walk through the front door.

I am calm. I check for threats. There is a teenager lying on the floor in front of me. He’s unconscious, looks like someone got in a few good shots to his face before applying a chokehold. Judging by the ache in my hands it was me. There’s no one else present.

I look down at my hands. My left hand is empty. A card is in the holder on the back of my right hand. It has a picture of a flat, shiny, round object on it and underneath that it says “Compact Disc, music storage.”

The room I’m in appears to be a reception room in a squat. Dirty mattresses are tossed down all over the otherwise-empty floor. The wallpaper is peeling down in swathes and the whole place reeks of sweat and damp. I can’t see anything that looks like a “Compact Disc” in here, can’t see much of anything interesting. I walk towards the doorway at the back. There are stairs leading up and I can hear that the music is coming from above. I climb up.

I am calm. I check for threats. I’m standing in a doorway and there is a teenage girl inside the room at twelve o’clock. She is turning towards me and she has a knife. She’s young, fast. She doesn’t hesitate. I don’t have time to draw my sidearm. She has come straight at me and she’s quicker than I’ve been in thirty years. She’s also clumsy; untrained and glassy-eyed from drugs or something else. I am prepared for this. I have guided her knife-hand wide with my forearm. The knife has struck the doorframe and been twisted from her grip. She has darted back across the room then she runs at me, screaming. I reach out and grasp the hand that is clawing towards my eyes. I pivot and use her momentum to throw her over my shoulder. She flies through the doorway and bounces down the stairs opposite. She comes to an awkward halt halfway down.

I can’t afford to leave her behind so I descend to stand over her. Her arm is obviously broken and she seems only partly-conscious. I lift my foot and stamp down on her head with carefully-gauged force. She will likely live.

I look down at my hands. My left hand is empty. A card is in the holder on the back of my right hand. It has a picture of a flat, shiny, round object on it and underneath that it says “Compact Disc, music storage.” I climb back up the stairs to the room the girl was waiting in. The music is coming from this room. Something about it tugs at the corner of my consciousness, like someone whispering your name in a darkened room. It is weak, though. It can’t find any purchase on me and slides away.

In the corner of the room are a set of enormous speakers hooked up to the smallest stereo systems I have ever seen. I crouch down next to it and look for a way to get the “Compact Disc” out. A tiny button is marked with the eject symbol so I push it. The music dies immediately leaving an echoing silence. A little tray slides out of the stereo system with a shiny object on it. I check it against the card and it looks the same. I pick it up and put it in a padded case from my belt. I take the case in my left hand and look for a way out.

I am calm. I check for threats. I am standing in a hallway with what looks like a doorway to the outside at nine o’clock. There are no threats present. I look down at my hands. My left hand is holding a case with the word “objective” printed on it in bold capitals.

I turn towards the door to leave the building. There is a noise behind me. I turn to see two teenage boys emerging into the hallway from deeper in the building. One of them is holding a baseball bat and the other a kitchen knife. They seem confused and angry. They rush down the hallway towards me. I have only one free hand so I draw my sidearm. Since I’m shooting one-handed I take my time to line up the shot carefully, to make it count. They get closer. Then I put two rounds into the chest of the first boy. The Webley bucks in my hand drawing my aim high and I fight to lower it towards the second boy. He’s stumbling across his companion’s body and too busy watching his feet to see the revolver draw level with him from five feet away. I fire twice more. One goes in his chest and the other through his neck. He crumbles and skids to a stop on the cracked tiles. Blood spreads out from the two bodies in a broad sheet. I wait, listening, watching. I am shaking with adrenaline. Nothing else moves. I turn and head out of the building.

I am calm, I check for threats. There are two men in suits standing at twelve o’clock and three o’clock. They are wearing the badges so I relax and allow the older one to take the case from my left hand. I can hear The Boomtown Rats launching into the second verse of I Don’t Like Mondays so I know I’m not active. The younger one is looking at me strangely, like he’s afraid. I have no way of knowing why. He hesitantly shepherds me into the back of a van. He waits while I strap myself in, offers me the helmet. I settle it over my head, relax in the darkness and hum along to the music.

Doesn’t sound very appealing, does it? So why would you volunteer for something like that? Here’s why:

If you’re sitting where you’re sitting, reading what you’re reading then you used to be a person who did things. Maybe you still are. Some of those things probably weren’t very nice, weren’t things you’d want to talk about even if you could. You did them anyway and you took the therapy and the drugs and the mandatory psychological leave so you could get recertified and get right back to doing them again. You did them because you thought they were important; that they needed to be done.

Thing is, you won’t be doing them for much longer, will you? You’re on a clock and it’s counting down, has been for a while. First they put you on “lighter duties,” before you know it you’re desk-bound. And that’s before they found out about whatever got you here. Even if they didn’t know about that, you didn’t have too much longer, did you?

That’s what they’re offering you: A chance to keep doing the things that need to be done. It won’t be the same as before. It can’t be. You can’t go back. But it’s something. Maybe it’s enough for you.

You’ve got to understand that what they’re offering you isn’t life, but it isn’t death either. Choose wisely.

Yours Faithfully,





████████





Operator ███████████████, MTF Pi-20





