Chapter Text
You've spent years majoring in psychology. What a pity that in an attempt to pay off years' worth of student loans, you find yourself in this hyper-sterile hellscape. Your major has earned you a respectable place in Site-19.
You halt in front of the thick glass panel, peering inside only momentarily. 035 resides within, sitting (albeit, quite improperly) in his chair. Your eyes darted across the various unintelligible texts on the walls, all in what you can only assume is Greek. The longer you stare, the louder the sound of whispering echoes in your ears. With a huff, you press your shiny clearance card to the scanner by the door and enter the chamber. The whispering ceases instantaneously.
“035,” you sigh. The fear you felt on your first day here is long gone. With adequate hosts at his disposal, the masked ‘man’ has gradually become easier to talk to. Casualties have, by some miracle, declined. Not to say that his ability to kill you at an instant doesn't linger in your mind. You just choose to lay your trust in the fact that nobody else in this facility will stand to listen to his endless monologues. He likes you; the issue lies only in keeping it that way. Being too entertaining to kill. You feel as if you’ve taken on the court jester role that he abandoned.
035 tilts his head curiously as you step into the room. “Doctor,” he drawls, tapping blackened fingers against the table. The typical D-class uniform sleeves are rolled up, showing hands that look as if they've been dipped in ink. “Lovely uniform you have there. When do I get one of those?” he asks, his voice tangy and smug.
“Maybe when you stop drawing on the walls.” You grimace, eyes scanning the dripping diagrams and paragraphs upon paragraphs sprawled across the chrome tiles.
“You don't like them?” he asks, his voice pitiful in a mocking kind of way.
A noise resembling something of a scoff escapes your throat. “No, no, they're very…abstract.” It's hard to define the crude drawings, and even harder to find the effort to do so. They're layered upon each other, gleaming in the harsh lighting. You can make out what seems to be the pointed mask of 049. Other masks, entities drawn much larger than what you can only assume is The Plague Doctor, also make their appearance. Below them all is a figure in a lab coat. Their face is a smeared nothing, consisting of the dripping liquid you've seen in every other corner of 035’s containment chamber. A long, smudged line travels from their face, moving up in various paths and connecting to every other mask visible. It's the only line that seems to be hand-drawn. You do your best not to make assumptions.
“Abstract?” 035 questions. “Well, I suppose I'll have to take that as a compliment. I knew Van Gogh, you know. I do so adore a fellow man of the arts,” he sighs in reminiscence. “Don't think too hard about that,” he adds much too easily, alluding to his suicide-abettor streak. “So, Doctor,” he starts anew. “What's on the table today?”
You look back at him and take a deep breath. “Well, it's our last day together. Site-19 rotations are in order.” You'd be lying if you said you weren't relieved. “So this is kind of a progress evaluation. They're very proud of you for, uh, not killing me?”
There's an awkward silence before 035 stood up. He leaned against the center table, where you two have shared various interviews. Many consisted of the flirtatious bastard attempting to charm or persuade you into situations that would surely lead to your early demise, but at least he was never a bore.
“Last day?” he asks, bracing himself with his palms on the table. You can't recall seeing his mask change to tragedy. “You can't be taken off my assignment. I’m not done with you yet.” He steps closer. A move strongly advised against in protocol.
You take an instinctive step back. “To be honest, if you stopped saying ominous shit like that, they might have kept me here longer.” Your legs echo in a familiar stiffness. Your body locks itself into place, and it's hard not to wonder why the human mind believes adrenaline is best used in immobilizing yourself. You attempt to soothe your own questionably conditioned mind by telling yourself it’s just the effect of being around him for prolonged periods of time. Lord of Anguish, and whatnot. You haven’t lost your cool yet. “You know the drill. Site 19 rotations are mandatory.”
“Aw, right. Preventative measures for your poor personnel. Pity,” he says, his voice bitter.
You've heard the stories of people bashing their heads in at his command. 035’s quadrant has the lowest morale rates of any other part of the facility, tenfold. You’d hate to be cocky, but it's no wonder the foundation would want to preserve one of the only scientists to work with 035 and not kill themselves. You were exceptionally lucky to leave unharmed after the past couple of weeks.
SCP-035 slams his hands down onto the table, making you flinch. “You think you’re special? You think you've lived this long because you’re a psychologist, that you're immune to my influence? I've kept you alive this long because you’re useful!”
He rarely presents like this. You’ve only really ever seen him angry when people ask him about Alagadda. “035, stand down. You know I have no choice in this.”
“You dare defy one of the masked lords of Alagadda?” 035 sneers.
“You were exiled. Lord of Alagadda my ass,” you retort. You curse yourself internally for allowing such a comment to slip, but it seems pointless to attempt to remain professional with an entity that can essentially read your mind. Especially when, by some miracle, it's your last day with him. If that comment alone didn't make him smite you right here, of course. “If I asked to stay with you, they'd have me terminated,” you say cautiously. “I'm already in for weeks' worth of psych evaluations.”
“For scientists, you all are painfully stupid.”
You ignore the insult. Those weren't new from him. “Come on, it's our last day. You know our time is limited. Let's make the most of it, right?” You eye the red glow of the digital clock within the wall. You have about 5 minutes left.
“Who’s your new assignment?” he scoffs, ignoring your words.
You recall the rules of not giving SCP’s information about staff placement, but disregard it when you think about the likelihood that 035 would simply take your body and find out the information for himself.
“049,” you answer monotonously.
035 stares at you, bewildered. Then he begins to cackle. His mask has, in the blink of an eye, returned to comedy. “What absolute genius decided that?”
You give a nervous smile. At least he was laughing. “Yeah, I dunno. Not exactly looking forward to the possibility of being killed because of a cough.”
“Ask him how his cures are going, will you?” he says, his tone derisive.
You nod slowly. Some days you wish your often pre-set questionnaires included more of the history between those two. Maybe you’d get luckier with 049. Through 035, you've been grateful enough to hear theatrical retellings of his time in Venice and Greece. Sometimes even spiteful snippets of his short-lived time in Alagadda. The history of Alagadda remains a very, very large puzzle piece. 035’s retelling of his time in what was only ever described as an abyss, as well as his time with 049, was hardly ever comprehensible. Truthfully? Seemed more like he was harassing the poor bird-man instead of an actual, decent friendship.
“He made me a promise, long ago,” 035 speaks, quieter now. “The irony truly does lie in his title.”
“I'd ask you to elaborate, but-” You glance at the clock. “It seems like you get to save that tale for the next poor soul assigned to you."
“I fear that I’ve hardly learned as much about you as you've learned about me. It isn’t a fair trade yet, Doctor."
“Your turn is over,” you note. "Besides, you're the one with..." You glance at your clipboard. "Genius-level intelligence and understanding of the workings of the human mind. Jesus Christ, this is written like a villain's wiki page. Who makes these? Regardless, if you haven't learned anything about me, that's on you." You back up, feeling for the door handle. Never turn your back on a Keter class. A rule drilled into your mind from the start. Sometimes it was pleasant to ignore the fact that you were interacting with a Keter, if not for your own sound of mind. Maintaining neutrality was the best way to avoid an accident, after all. But in some sort of ironic comedy, the fact wasn't one to be taken for granted.
The door denies your exit, even as you feverishly press your clearance card against it.
"035."
"Yes?" he asks innocently.
“SCP-035, please open the door.” Your voice comes out more shaky than you meant it to. You're not scared. You're listless. The scientists never really looked into 035’s gradually increasing mechanical control. Your free hand nervously grasps at the cool handle, rattling it with increasing force. Your back is pressed against the strikingly cold metal. Never turn your back on an anomaly, they told you. So what are you supposed to do when the goddamn door isn't opening?
“That's not my name,” 035 said, the liquid from his mask becoming more fluid. It rolled down his face like tears, outlining the slightest of dips and waves that define his face. “My name is Dỳo. You know that.” He continued to step closer to you.
Your throat has that kind of soreness that accompanies fear. You swallow the pain to speak. “They won't let me call you that. Names form attachment.”
035 scoffs. “Aren't you their favored little psychologist? Didn't they send you here because they trusted you to not kill yourself the moment you were assigned to me? What kind of psychologist gets attached with something as trivial as a name?"
Your breath comes out shakily. “Let me out.”
The intercom crackles with a female voice. “SCP-035, please stand down.”
035 ignores the command. Typical. “I have many names. I am The Black Lord, The Anguished, Lord Hubris, Duke of Black, Lord of death, Nigredo, Dỳo Polonio. I'm really not that picky, doctor. Truthfully. With names. Or faces."
You can hear the heavy boots. Rustling, from the outside of the room.
“I'm no object, after all. In fact, when most of my names include ‘lord’ in it, I expect to be treated with a bit more respect,” he scoffs, grabbing one of your hands in a crushing grip and pulling you forward.
You may have let out an immediate string of curse words upon impact- it's hard to tell when your hand feels like it's on fire. You frantically use your other hand to push against his shoulder, trying your best to make space between you two. Keep your face away from his. That was the primary thought.
You hear the sizzle as he grips your hand, the soft flesh of your palm bubbling and corroding with each second it's pressed against his own. Guards burst through the door only in time for you to nearly pass out.