Autoerotic Assassination

SCP-173 has a human brain - or at least, a human-like brain. I know this because I have possessed it. My name is Carmen Lopez. I was born on January 17, 1951, in Santa Clara, California. I joined the army in 1970 and was deployed to Vietnam in 1971 before being plucked into the ranks of the Foundation in 1972. I am a member of Mobile Task Force Lambda-9, nicknamed "Mind over Matter". Lambda-9 is an offensive branch of the Foundation's Psionics Division; we are tasked with investigating, containing, and in some cases, terminating psionic phenomena. I am only thirty-two years old, the youngest and newest member of Lambda-9 by far. This also makes me the most expendable. Therefore, I was the least risky choice for possessing SCP-173 to see whether or not the Foundation can put it to use as an effective assassination tool in a highly classified weapons testing program.

I'm so goddamn horny.

It's crucial for me to know who I am, where I come from, and why I have possessed this concrete monster - otherwise, the memories, instincts, and other unconscious brain functions of what I'm supposed to possess could possess me instead. Mental fortitude - willpower - is everything. And right now, I want nothing more than to go to town on my non-existent genitals. It's a pounding itch in my skull. It's hard to remember why I agreed to this or even why the Foundation wanted to try this. I vaguely remember something about hunter-killer flies, whatever those are, but I can hardly think for want of need to beat my cock like it owes me money. It's the first time in my life I've ever felt this way - one of the reasons I was shortlisted to join Psionics was my apparent lack of libido.

I force it down and focus on what I'm doing in here. I would take a deep breath but I can't breathe. I can't move my limbs at all. I can't even move my eyes - I'm locked into place in this concrete room, standing upright and staring straight ahead, because I am under observation by three women wearing orange jumpsuits and trying to avoid blinking at the same time. There are comms in their ears, undoubtedly telling them to look away at the same time. The people behind the comms want to see if I can stop myself from killing them instantly or if I am just a passenger along for the ride.

Whoever's negotiating with them must be a hell of a talker, because they're moving to take up positions around me. Two of them move out of my line of sight; the third stays where she is. Then she closes her eyes.

I'm so fucking horny. I thought it was bad before but it's excruciating now. Christ, is this what life is like for ordinary people?

But I haven't moved - not even my eyes. And it only then occurs to me that I should try moving. Breathe in - or imagine breathing in. Focus. Lesson one of being a psionic is maintaining focus. I focus on the woman in front of me. She's trembling but her eyes are closed. I try to remember my training. Start small. Diagnose my movement capabilities.

I start by rolling my eyes. I'm not sure if they're actually moving - this room has no mirror - but I can see into the corners of my eyes. Then I rotate my head. I don't actually feel it rotating - there's no feeling of movement or muscle or really anything besides my goddamn libido - but I can look to my left, where one other woman is trembling with her eyes closed, and my right, where a third woman is trembling with her eyes closed.

They're trembling. So I haven't killed them. That's good. That means I have some control.

I try to move my arms. I look directly at my concrete appendages and there's no movement whatsoever, but I can feel them. It feels as if I have two phantom arms, but I can move them and flex them and rotate them. I can even feel my hands moving around. I pump my left fist - the concrete doesn't budge an inch, but I can feel my phantom elbow popping slightly. The same goes for my right fist.

Can I walk? I'm not sure. I try to move my legs but it feels, with some irony I note, like they're stuck in concrete. Again, it feels as if I'm controlling phantom legs that are flexing and bending and walking around. These concrete ones aren't going anywhere. Or so it seems. I've taken twenty nonexistent steps before feeling resistance, like I bumped into something. The woman standing in front of me opens her eyes and all of a sudden it's like I teleported from one end of the room to the other. I loom over her and I'm frozen in place again and she screams and falls back on her ass but she's alive.

I'm feeling pretty proud of myself for not killing any of the D's when it hits me that the whole reason they put me in this thing is to kill people. And I'm still horny.

Lovely.

I wonder how much more productive humanity would be if they weren't so concerned with sexing each other. Still, I can hardly fault them if this is what they feel like all the time. It's horrible: a yawing hunger in my stomach coupled with a heavy itch in my loins that seems to be occupying all of my higher brain functions. My meditative exercises can barely keep it under control.

The tingling gets worse when the D-Class enters the room, which makes things even more fucked up since said D is a he. The loudspeaker says something about a terminal disease, and then the words "Sergeant Lopez, proceed as discussed."

The poor jumpsuited bastard blinks and then it's like my genitals and brain have swapped places. And as much as I want to have lost control of the concrete fucker, it's 100% me that imagines myself lunging across the room and wrapping my concrete stubs around his neck. I can feel his throat compressing; it's firm yet squishy and the itching in my loins is getting worse and I can feel myself getting closer and then his arteries burst from the pressure and there's an invisible crunch as his vertebrae give way and I come.

If I had a cock there would be semen on the floor. But there isn't. The only thing on the ground is a dead man. I feel exhilarated, elated, exhausted, and empty. The tingling is gone. The hunger is gone. In their place is shame. I think I just got off on murdering someone. I hope to God that Abuela isn't looking down on me from heaven; she might die from shame and become the first person to do that up there. The only good thing is that my head is finally clear again. I can think properly for the first time in I don't even remember how long. I say a few prayers in my head, but I doubt that even the Lord will be able to forgive what I just did.

I take these moments of lucidity to think. I just killed the D-Class. That time I was actually able to visualize myself crossing the room and throttling him. Which is odd because the whole time I was testing not killing the D's I had to imagine what it would be like to walk and move around. There's two reasons for that I can think of - either I've gotten better at controlling the concrete fucker or it reacts differently when it's actually in murder mode. I very much want it to be the latter. I don't want to be responsible for what I just did.

The doors open and I take a look at the next poor fucker to enter the killing room; her face is puffy and weeping. There are little pustules all over her face, dripping onto her jumpsuit and streaking it. She looks resigned to her fate. God help me, the itching in my head starts again.

"Sergeant Lopez? You may proceed."

She blinks. I do the only thing I can.

I've stopped counting how many D's - how many people I've murdered at this point. I'm not even sure it's that many - the Foundation doesn't have the resources to just throw people into a meat grinder - but I don't want to make the number any bigger than I have to. It helps me sleep better, and considering how many dreams I've had recently that ended with my hands wrapped around my mother's throat, I'll take what I can get.

I have to keep telling myself I don't like killing. Not even in Vietnam; that was sixteen months of tropical disease and shooting at plants that shot back. I didn't sign up with the Foundation out of a sense of duty or righteousness - I just wanted away from that jungle. Away from all the killing.

So that turned out all right.

I don't even remember why I agreed to this. I had to have known I was going to be murdering people, right? Why else would I have agreed to possess a fucking murderous statue? There's so many things about this project and myself that don't add up but I can barely tear myself away from these fantasies of sex and death to think about them. This isn't me. This is the influence of the statue. My meditation and focus exercises are becoming less and less effective. Whatever passes for a mind inside this fucker is nothing more than a bundle of sexual and killer instinct. And it's worming its way into mine.

But there's a light at the end of the tunnel. The shrinks have decided that my dreams aren't too problematic and I've been cleared for active duty. I don't feel ready at all but, ironically enough, I guess I know less about my own brain than they do.

The target is a drug dealer with a passion for fine art. I keep hearing the words 'reality bender' and 'bixby' and 'Type Green' being thrown around but it feels like they're going in one ear and out the other. This whole thing is way too convoluted for an assassination - they could snipe him or bomb his chateau or poison his dinner or literally anything easier than training a psychic to possess a fucking killer statue - but apparently those won't work.

The next few days pass by in a haze as I spend all my mental energy on ignoring my lower body. There are a couple more terminal D-class to kill. There is a box and the rumbling of shipping and handling. Then there's moonlight. I can't move at all but something is moving me through a garden. I'm staring at a marble fountain, surrounded by fancy topiary.

And then I'm alone with a man in a fancy suit. He's admiring me - the statue. He's admiring the statue. This must be the target. He looks beautiful.

He blinks. I do the only thing that I can.

I don't remember what happened next. I don't remember how I got out of there or how I came back to the Foundation or anything that happened after I squeezed the life out of the man in the suit. All I remember is the rush of watching the life drain out of his eyes and the relief of my head clearing.

I can't wait to get out of this body. I can't wait to get out of this prison of fucking concrete that's stripping my mind from me. I can't wait to not dream about killing people. I can't wait to not fantasize about murder.

They wheel my body - me - into view. I'm separated from myself by a thick glass window and there are fifteen people staring at me from the other side. I've been placed into a coma and have been kept on life support for the last few days.

The people behind the comms tell me that they're going to deactivate my life support within five minutes. I only need five seconds to jump out of this concrete fucker and

and

and

and five seconds later I'm still stuck in the concrete. I can't stop thinking about how much I want to break them all. How much I want to break myself. My exercises aren't working. I can't think properly. I can't focus. I can't breathe.

The people behind the glass look increasingly worried. I can't talk to them. I can't tell them what's going on. I can't beg them to help me. I can't do anything but stand there and suffocate inside of my own mind. There's a pressure building up in my head.

Then I see them put an oxygen mask back onto my body and wheel me away. I'm stuck. I'm trapped. I'm buried inside of a concrete prison and there's a pressure in my head and my crotch and I can't think straight and I need to kill I want to kill give me someone, anyone to break and watch the life drain out of them please.

The doors open. A D-Class walks in.

She blinks. I do the only thing I want to.