Chapter Text
The emergency lights flashed red in a consistent pattern. On, off. On, off. Again and again. There wasn’t a good view of them from here, they could just barely see the bits of light from their containment chamber. Despite the heated energy of another breach, SCP-049 remained calm, as they always did. Breaches were a common enough occurrence. Some days they were worse than others. Pained screams would echo through corridors, beastly roars would echo even further. Other days, it would be a minor breach. A few daring times, the Doctor themself breached containment, often making acquaintance with other anomalies in this odd facility.
Today seemed slow— at least in this area of the facility. Who knows, there could be blood-curdling screaming on the other side of the building, or maybe men walking through decaying walls. Still, the Doctor took care. Their tools, previously set out on their examination table, were slowly and steadily being put away. 049 had a rhythm to putting away their surgical tools, something new they had taken up. They would hum a tune, a nameless church hymn more times than not, and put away their tools to the tune of it. The lilt in a hymn that should be a low gong would have to do with the quiet clink of a forcep instead.
They left out only two tools— a pointed probe and a thick scalpel. They tucked their doctor’s bag away in their robes and stepped towards the door of their containment chamber. It did not part before them. That wasn’t what they wanted anyway, though it would have made escaping much easier. No, the Doctor was used to working for what they wanted to the point where they preferred to work, even when it wasn’t necessary.
049 simply stood by their door, hands held behind their back and tools held in-hand. The sirens blared, almost deafening. He grew used to it after the first twenty minutes— at first it sent their nonexistent hair sticking up on-end and crashed a damn headache across half their head. Now, their heart seemed to beat in time with the whoops of the sirens, almost like its beats wanted to hide within the noise. 049 was a tad bit annoyed with hiding, but they were nothing if not persistent. The Doctor was waiting — just about pressed against the door — waiting to hear a specific sound. It wouldn’t be a difference between life or death if they didn’t hear it. Well, not their life or death, anyway. And so they stood, in the simple corner of their simple room, waiting for a simple… signal, perhaps was the right word for it.
Their room was simple. There was no clutter or nonsense— it was all business. In the corner furthest to the Doctor, was their bed. They rarely slept, for a multitude of reasons. Too much work to be done— Too little resources to get any damn work done in the first place— The disease was near— The disease was far— It was all over— They had to be awake to lament over what was and what could have been… Ah! And there was their bookshelf! It was only waist-high, but everything on it was medical. They enjoyed all literature on medicine, of course. It was amazing, what humanity could do… and yet none of them seemed wiser to the Pestilence. No books covered its nature— only their leather notebook. This was why their work was so important. Only he could cure this world, yes.
Despite their overwhelming lack of coverage on the Pestilence, 049 had their favorite books— one being a lengthy encyclopedia of pathology. They eyed it briefly before moving on. Closer, there was a wooden chair at a wooden desk. They both were quite a dark wood, and the desk was sturdy. The chair… well, 049 wouldn’t complain, but the chair was lacking in that department. It squeaked. Quite a bit. Oh well. They had bigger worries than a squeaking chair, didn’t they?
They heard a crash in the distance that snapped them to attention. Shoulders stiffened… head up… They listened for a moment… nothing. Nothing yet.
Their eyes slowly fell across their room once more, to the closest half of the room: the small, clean area where they could tend to the infected. 049 spent most of their time here, even if they didn’t have a patient. Their routine was hard to break, they simply needed to be around the odd cleanliness of chrome metal. It was very different from what they had started his medical career with, but they were awfully fond of this ‘chrome’ look humans had in this era.
In the distance, the Doctor heard voices. They recognized one or two of them. Perhaps they were guards posted outside their chamber at some point. They were raising their voices, telling someone to leave.
“You’re not supposed to be here—”
“August? Is that you?” Another voice piped up. “Why the hell are you down here? Shit, you’re bleeding!”
There was a pause.
“No, fuck, that’s not his blood—! DROP THE MASK NOW!”
049 tilted their helm as gunfire rang out. There was a fleshy thump against metal and a man’s dying shout.
“Back-up, I need backup!” There was the clamor of footsteps following the man’s voice. Wispy, echoing laughter bounced around, like it was coming from all directions.
“You have nowhere to run, surrender!” A new, gruff voice shouted. There was a loud crumbling crash of metal and cement. 049 felt the rumble in their feet. It was like a portion of the upper floor had caved in— it must have, with all that noise. It was quiet for a moment, before one of the guards let out a confident, perhaps joyful shout. Like they had contained something. As if that was even possible.
Then there was only the sound of the breach sirens.
Slowly, but surely, SCP-049 went to work, gently and precisely attempting to unlock the mechanisms of the black door in front of them. They were confident enough in the untrustworthy— confident that the relative quiet was a success for the other. The Doctor crouched low, feeling around with the metal probe until they felt the internal lock of the door. ‘Bingo,’ some would say. 049 didn’t say anything, they merely smiled under their mask. They inserted the thick scalpel at that point, hammering it in as hard as they could, up until they felt some of the metal give, if only slightly. Then they move onto the other layers of locks. It was tedious, but 049 had time. Or at least they hoped they did. This seemed like a sizable breach, if the panic in the initial announcer’s voice was any indication. There had not been any broadcasts announcing recontainment. The longer breaches lasted without containment, the better. Cleanup would be the focus after recontainment, not wondering where a usually docile plague doctor was.
Minutes passed as the Doctor worked. They rose slowly, getting closer and closer to the mechanisms at the top of the door. At last, they were satisfied, and they took a step back, tucking the tools away.
049 eyed the door for a moment before slamming the side of their shoulder into it. The door shook with a metallic thunk. With a huff, the Doctor gave another full-strength slam on the door. While they didn’t put a dent in the metal of the door itself, the lock mechanisms and hinges creaked out their dying breaths. They decided to seal the fate of the door as they calmly stepped toward it again. With their clawed hands, the Doctor pried the door open. Before them was the observation room, where other men of science watched them, like they were no more than a lab rat.
They looked back at their chamber… their home. They gave a brief hum, as if they were considering staying. They stepped away from the exit. Away from freedom, it seemed. They felt the little pouch at their belt, full of cloth scraps and sewing needles, quite different from their doctor’s bag. This place was where they picked up that, ah, hobby of sewing. The Doctor stopped by their bookshelf once more, looking down at it. They took that beloved encyclopedia of pathology into their hands— and decided that they could take it with them. It wouldn’t be missed. 049 tucked the book into their robes and swiftly turned heel, their robes ruffling with the speed of it.
They stepped out of their chamber for the first time in a long while. It had been, oh, it must have been months since they breached. Being in the observation room wasn’t unusual — they were often sat down for interviews in this room — but the fact that they were lucidly stepping out… their head was clear, their mind not oversaturated with the smell of lavender, there were no guards, no chains, no guns… it was bliss. Pure bliss.
049 dragged the battered door back to its original placement. They wanted to leave little trace of what they’ve done, as proud as they were of it. They set a brisk pace to the true exit of his chamber. The Doctor pressed the release button and the wide doors slid open, the weight ringing as they were opened. They breathed in a long breath. Through their mask and all the cloth, they smelled dust, blood, and the smell of the Disease. It was close. They turned their head to their left and— ah! That’s what all the commotion was.
Down the corridor, quite close by, was rubble that piled from the floor to the ceiling. Cement and metal and black fluid and blood and bodies alike piled. 049 approached it, feeling a distinct imbalance now as they breathed. They wryly smiled, though distractly so, at the destruction— not quite at the mess, but at who made it. This was more damage caused by the mask than 049 had seen in a while. The Doctor gave in to the distraction— no, not a distraction, this was an utter necessity, even more so than escaping… Ah, but escape meant many more patients didn’t it? But they sensed suffering right now, right here—!
Their brow was furrowed, eyes dull in thought. They glowed to life once more, having quickly reached a decision. The Doctor’s eyes fell on a corpse, covered in dust, arms and legs splayed at unnatural angles. They took the body in their arms and positioned them in a way fitting for the deceased. Then 049 began preparing to operate on them in a way fitting for the living. The body would soon be lively enough again, they would help them, yes, they would. Tubing was set out, as well as vials of the necessary fluids. They began to cut into the body’s flesh, slicing deep into the chest. There was a method to this, there always was. An organized process. The steps were embedded in their mind. Hell, they were embedded in their hands, with how much they worked. Very soon, the patient was ready— ready for a cured life. 049 slipped a needle into their skin, giving the final injection to awaken them. They cleaned off their tools and waited for the first signs of life. At the twitching of a hand and the slight rise and fall of the chest, 049 rose. Their work was done. Hopefully this soul wouldn’t be killed by the Foundation, like so many were in the past.
Their doctor’s bag tucked away once more, 049 surveyed the damage in front of them. Ah, yes, this area of the hall was completely closed off now. It was easier to focus on that. Beyond the debris, they remembered, was an elevator down, towards the chambers of various hazardous objects, as well as a friend. Well, this way being blocked was more or less intentional by their companion. Hopefully, the Doctor would meet up with them, and soon. And so, the plague doctor turned in the opposite direction, turning down another long corridor. This one was much cleaner, clearly in better shape than the corridor close by their chamber. 049’s eyes darted around as they walked, even as they calmly held their arms behind their back. There were no guards to be seen. They all must have been called away for the breach or the recent commotion in this hall. Good. Very good. This all was a very good start.