Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The file read:

“Item #: SCP-7234

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-7234 is to be contained in a standard Safe-class storage locker at Site-12. Direct physical interaction is permitted only with prior approval from the on-site Ethics Liaison and the supervising research lead. All individuals who make direct skin contact with SCP-7234 must undergo a mandatory 72-hour observation period and submit to a full biometric and psychological profile update.

SCP-7234 must remain under constant video surveillance. Any spontaneous activation events (i.e., changes without direct contact) must be reported to Dr. Kamenev within 15 minutes of detection.

Description:
SCP-7234 is a small, palm-sized sculpture of unknown composition, resembling a smooth, stylized human skull made of polished black stone. Its surface is unnaturally warm to the touch and emits no detectable radiation, heat, or sound.

When a human subject makes direct skin contact with SCP-7234, a series of slow, observable physiological changes begin over the course of 3 to 5 minutes. These include:

Changes in skin tone, facial bone structure, hair texture, and other phenotypic traits associated with different ethnic or ancestral backgrounds.
Fluency in languages previously unknown to the subject (limited and variable).
Alterations in cultural memory, dream content, and emotional responses tied to specific cultural touchstones.
The effect appears to be permanent, though not harmful. Subjects retain prior memories and cognitive abilities. Emotional responses vary widely: some experience intense euphoria, others distress or derealization.

SCP-7234 does not respond to animals or D-Class with cognitive impairments. It appears to “select” only those with a clear, stable identity concept—though this remains unconfirmed.

Research Log Excerpts — Dr. Ira J. Levitt (Psych/Cultural Anthropology Division)
Site-12, 7234 Project Lead

Log 01 — Day 54
Morales says it’s my turn to catalog the subjective effects again. That means interviewing people who just watched their reflection tilt sideways and come out… different.
One guy said it felt like he’d “woken up in a dream someone else had about him.” Another just cried, touching his face like it wasn’t his. Not sadness. Not joy either. Just awe, maybe.
I don’t know how to describe this object without sounding like a poet or a liar. It’s like it doesn't do anything. It just shows you who else you could've been.

Log 07 — Day 112
D-Class 7234-22 turned into a little girl’s grandmother. Said she always felt "not-quite-here" growing up in foster homes. Now? She’s fluent in Gujarati and speaks it in her sleep.
We ran her DNA. She's still Irish-German. But you wouldn’t know it to look at her. Her dreams are filled with monsoons and mango trees. She says she misses someone she’s never met.
I asked Morales if he wanted to try it. He said no, then stared at the object for a long time like it had blinked at him.

Log 11 — Day 201
I dreamt I was in Aleppo again, even though I’ve never been. Not really. Not before the object.
It’s strange. I still am me. But there's music in my head now. I crave cardamom and rose water. I call my mother ima by accident.
I tried writing in Arabic last night. It felt like remembering something from a long time ago. Like a part of me had always been waiting for this.

Addendum 7234.3 — Ethics Observation
Senior Researcher Kamenev has noted the potential for SCP-7234 to be misused as a tool for cultural erasure or infiltration. Requests for use in undercover operations have been formally denied by the Ethics Committee.

However, Site-12 staff continue to request voluntary contact, often citing "a desire to feel whole" or "to understand something they’ve always felt was missing." No conclusive psychological benefit has been established.”

Dr. Elliott Voss closed the file with a sigh that was equal parts professional resignation and mild existential dread. SCP-7234, aka “The Identity Sculpture,” wasn’t what he’d call a fun anomaly. Not explosive, not contagious, just… quietly unsettling in the way only objects that rewrite your ethnicity can be.

He rubbed his temple and glanced at the clock. Three hours of interviews, five hours of paperwork, and another dozen people who’d touched the thing and come back with a new cultural playlist stuck in their heads.

And, of course, the usual “Please don’t let this be some weird memetic contagion” briefing from the higher-ups.

Elliott had been here a year and a half, interviewing SCP subjects, compiling logs, and never, ever getting too close. That was rule number one. Never get attached. Never become part of the file. Because if you did, the Foundation had a nasty habit of erasing you like you never existed.

But for all its quiet strangeness, SCP-7234 was strangely compelling.

He stared at the black stone skull sitting in its containment locker across the room, warm under the fluorescent lights. It didn’t look like much. Like a tourist souvenir for a dystopian graveyard tour.

Except for what it did when you touched it.

Elliott’s job was to get answers without stirring the pot too much- to let the SCPs speak for themselves while keeping his own emotions in check. Except sometimes, he wondered if the SCPs were the only ones truly alive around here.

He pulled his chair closer to the terminal, fingers poised over the keyboard.

Begin interview summary: Subject 7234-22...

And the day begun.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

The door hissed behind him as Elliott entered Containment Observation Room B-7. The glass wall was smudged slightly—probably from the last intern leaning too close—and on the other side, SCP-7234 rested quietly on its pedestal. It never moved. Never pulsed or glowed or screamed. It just waited. Like a paperweight with godlike audacity.

He clicked his pen twice, made a note on the clipboard.

Subject 7234-22, also known as Greg Pinter, Janitorial Staff, sat opposite the object, arms folded. Greg had the loose, resigned posture of someone who had, in the last 24 hours, become Polish.

Previously, Greg had been Guatemalan.

“Morning,” Elliott said, pulling up a chair.

Greg nodded. “Morning.”

Elliott glanced down at the report. “So. You touched the artifact while buffing the floors.”

“I mean, I didn’t lick it. Just bumped it with the mop.”

“And now?”

Greg shrugged. “I’ve been craving borscht. I called my mom, and we both started crying because she swears I was born in Warsaw now. Birth certificate changed. Passport too.”

Elliott nodded, not unkindly. “Do you feel… yourself?”

“Mostly.” Greg scratched his temple. “I mean, my knees hurt like they always have. But now I’m Catholic and argue in my sleep.”

Elliott stifled a chuckle. “That part’s not in the file.”

“It should be.”

He tapped the clipboard thoughtfully. “Any residual memories from the new background? Any sense of… cultural displacement?”

Greg frowned. “Nah, just a vague urge to build a sauna. Honestly, it’s not bad. I think I got a good roll.”

“‘Good roll’?”

“Y’know. Could’ve ended up cursed. Or a time traveler. At least now I get a killer pierogi recipe.”

Elliott made a noncommittal grunt and stood up. “Alright. You’ll be in Observation Quarantine for another 48 hours, then you’ll be re-evaluated and probably reassigned. Sorry.”

Greg smiled faintly. “It’s fine. I always wanted to try a new life. Just didn’t expect it to be... this literal.”

On the way out, Elliott passed Dr. Khanna in the hallway. She offered him a half-eaten protein bar and a raised brow.

“You’re doing interviews again?” she asked. “Didn’t the ethics committee tell you to take a break?”

“They did. I told them I’d take a break when SCP-7234 turns into a cat.”

Khanna made a face. “Don’t joke about that. You know the last cat was lethal.”

Elliott offered her a tired smile. “Just trying to keep things light.”

Back in his office, he stared at his desk. It was covered in half-drunk coffee cups, redacted transcripts, and a sticky note that just read: DON’T TOUCH THE SKULL. Someone—probably Simmons—had drawn a frowny face under it.

He sat.

Outside, in the fluorescent-bleached corridors of Site-12, the air buzzed faintly with the sound of high-grade containment fields and humming vending machines.

Inside, Elliott cracked his knuckles and opened the next file.

SCP-7235: A mirror that shows your worst fear. Interview pending.

He sighed.

Just another day at the Foundation.

Chapter Text

Item #: SCP-4130
Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures:
SCP-4130 is to be contained in a standard Safe-class anomalous item locker at Site-12. Testing must be approved by Level 2 personnel or higher, with at least one attending researcher and one monitoring staff member present during all active sessions.
All personnel interacting directly with SCP-4130 must undergo a psychological evaluation within 48 hours post-interaction.
Viewing SCP-4130 through cameras or digital media has not shown anomalous effects and is permitted for observational purposes.

Description:
SCP-4130 is a commercial-grade, full-length mirror approximately 180 cm tall and 60 cm wide, mounted within a simple brushed-aluminum frame.
When viewed directly, SCP-4130 does not reflect the subject's current physical appearance. Instead, it displays a temporally shifted version of the subject—typically 5–15 years older—exhibiting different emotional affect and subtle physical discrepancies.

Discrepancies vary by subject, but commonly include:

Different clothing (including uniforms or styles the subject has never worn)
Facial expressions and body language inconsistent with the subject's current state
Presence or absence of scars, tattoos, or injuries that do not exist on the subject’s actual body
A delay in motion between the subject and the reflection, ranging from 0.5 to 3 seconds
Subjects consistently describe the reflected version of themselves as “deliberately watching” them. In some cases, subjects report that the reflection smiled, frowned, or mimicked distress before the subject expressed any outward emotion.

SCP-4130 appears to manifest emotional inversion or projection. Subjects experiencing confidence may observe anxiety or shame in the reflection; those feeling afraid may see themselves appearing calm or resigned.

The file read:

“Addendum 4130-A: Psychological Effects
Prolonged exposure (greater than 15 minutes) has resulted in minor dissociation and emotional disorientation. One subject, a junior researcher, reported "missing" the version of themselves they saw in the mirror and attempted to "force the sync." They were removed without injury but placed on temporary leave.

Addendum 4130-B: Incident Log
On ██/██/████, during an unscheduled testing session, a D-Class subject reported the reflected self mouthing the words “Get out.” The phrase was not audible and did not coincide with any audio captured in the room. No further incident occurred, though the reflection repeated the phrase approximately 23 seconds later without prompting.

Note from Dr. Chen:

While SCP-4130 presents no immediate danger, it’s clear the entity or phenomenon behind the mirror is aware. I suggest we reconsider the current testing frequency—there's a difference between a harmless visual anomaly and a sapient mimic.”

Elliot rubbed his eyes, sighing.

The containment chamber for SCP-4130 was unremarkable—just a box room with white walls and a mounted steel-frame mirror, roughly four feet tall, set behind reinforced glass. There were no warnings written on the outer door. Nothing to imply it could cause irreversible psychological damage. It looked like a dressing room for ghosts.

Elliott glanced at the report again as he walked in.

SCP-4130 resembles a standard commercial-grade mirror, though it does not reflect the viewer’s current appearance.
Instead, subjects report seeing a slightly older version of themselves with notable emotional divergence.
The mirror appears to "respond" to emotional state and occasionally moves before the subject does.

“Cool,” he muttered under his breath.

A voice drifted from the corner of the monitoring booth: “You’re early.”

Elliott turned slightly, then nodded in greeting. “Hey, Chen.”

Dr. Mira Chen was one of the newer research assistants at Site-12—early thirties, precise, sharp-eyed, and one of the few people Elliott could stand being around for more than twenty minutes. She had a calm presence, the kind that made even anomalous entities seem like filing errors waiting to be sorted.

She was seated at the observation panel, clipboard balanced neatly across her lap.

“I was just done pretending to work somewhere else,” Elliott added.

Inside the observation bay, the mirror stood as still as mirrors tend to. A subject was already seated in front of it—D-Class, ex-accountant, middle-aged. He kept rubbing his hands on his pants and breathing like he’d run here.

“He’s been in there twelve minutes,” Chen murmured. “Mirror’s been mimicking his movements a few seconds before he makes them.”

“Precog mirror. Love that,” Elliott muttered, flipping to a new page on his clipboard. “Any speech?”

“No, but subject seems... unsettled. Claims the version he sees looks disappointed.”

Elliott pressed the intercom. “D-9824, can you describe what you’re seeing?”

The man looked up, startled. “He’s... still me. But he looks... wrong. Like he knows something I don’t. He’s wearing a suit. My old suit. The one I wore to court.”

“Court?”

The man stiffened. “Fraud case. Doesn’t matter. But he keeps... judging me. Like he never got caught. Like he’s the version of me that walked away.”

Elliott blinked slowly. “Okay. Cool. Existential mirror guilt. That’s... spicy.”

Chen choked back a laugh.

“D-9824, have you noticed any physical symptoms? Nausea? Fatigue? Headaches?”

“Only when I look away.”

Elliott raised a brow. “You’re getting symptoms when not looking?”

“Yeah. I—I keep feeling like I’ve left something behind. Like part of me is still in there.”

They ended the session six minutes later when the man began crying. When guards led him out, he didn’t stop looking at the mirror. Even when the door closed. Even when it wasn’t in view anymore.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Elliott sat with a protein bar in the break room afterward, chewing like someone who hadn’t remembered what taste was. “You ever wonder if we’re the reflections and not the real ones?”

Chen blinked. “That’s way too deep for 1:30 on a Tuesday.”

“Right,” Elliott said. “Sorry. Mirror brain.”

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Later, when the lights dimmed and Site-12 settled into the kind of silence that only government-funded concrete bunkers can produce, Elliott found himself back in 4130’s containment room.

Alone.

No camera team. No assistants. No one to ask what he was doing.

He just stood in front of the mirror. Waiting.

At first, it didn’t reflect him at all.

Then, a second later, something moved. Slightly delayed. Slightly smoother. It was him, but... straighter shoulders. Sharper jaw. Eyes that didn’t look so tired.

The version of himself in the mirror raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Elliott whispered. “Same.”

He didn’t know how long he stood there. But when he left, the mirror image lingered just a second longer than he did.

He didn’t notice it wave goodbye.

Chapter Text

Item#: SCP‑M‑54

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures:
Stored in Standard Safe‑Low locker. No unauthorized IDs. Testing requires 2 researchers and one psychological monitor. No solo sessions. Coffee consumption pre‑testing is prohibited.

Description:
SCP‑M‑54 appears as a worn vending machine labeled “Lucky Pop! Memories”. Instead of snacks, it dispenses sealed day‑capsule canisters containing detailed human memories when a button is pressed. Memories transfer tactilely upon opening/canister, complete with sensory and emotional content. Long‑term use may cause mild dissociation.

Dr. Elliott Voss hadn’t slept. That in itself wasn’t unusual- sleep was optional when you worked for the Foundation and actively discouraged if you had a reputation for “being the calm one” during cognitohazard containment.

But last night had been especially restless. Too many papers. Too little coffee. And now he was standing in front of SCP-M-54, otherwise known as the Memory Machine, with half a cup of burnt cafeteria espresso and the ghost of a migraine blooming behind his left eye.

He squinted at the thing.

It was, to all appearances, a mid-90s vending machine. Blue, scratched-up casing. “Lucky Pop!” stenciled across the front in yellow, bubble-font letters. Below it, in fading Sharpie: EVERY CAN A SURPRISE!

Dr. Voss didn’t like surprises.

To his left, Research Assistant Helena Chen stood jotting down notes on a clipboard, chewing gum with the deliberate slowness of someone who’d stopped caring about protocol four job titles ago. She was, in many ways, the only reason Elliott hadn’t quit yet. Not because she was helpful—she wasn’t- but because she asked fewer questions than anyone else he’d worked with.

“Ready?” she asked without looking up.

“No,” Elliott said.

He stared at the machine. He had interviewed anomalies that erased your name from history. He had survived a door that only opened into universes where you were already dead. But something about this one- something about the way it just stood there, humming softly to itself like it was full of secrets and expired soda- unnerved him.

Still, orders were orders. They had to confirm the current behavioral parameters for M-54, ensure there was no drift in content or severity, and document any emotional aftereffects. Simple stuff. Low risk. Minimal heartbreak. Probably.

“Let’s get it over with,” he muttered.

Elliott pulled on a pair of latex gloves and pressed button A3.

With a soft mechanical whir, a metal capsule rolled down the chute into the retrieval tray.

He picked it up, held it level with his eyes.

“Dr. Voss, initial interaction with capsule A3,” Chen said, her voice flat and practiced. “Proceeding with contact.”

The moment he cracked the capsule open and touched the glass interior, it hit him: the scent of lavender, a room painted light green, and a frail hand gripping his own.

He was someone else. He knew this woman- his grandmother? Her face was lined, her eyes teary and gentle. There was warmth, aching sadness, and then-

Gone.

He staggered slightly and blinked. “Elderly care memory. Bedside farewell. Emotional intensity: moderate.”

Chen scribbled. “Crying?”

“No,” he said, then added, “Not yet.”

She glanced up. “You want another?”

Elliott sighed, but nodded. “Might as well hit the discount bundle.”

Button B2.

Capsule. Tray. Contact.

This time, he was a child- barefoot, running across a cracked driveway. He could smell asphalt and rain. He felt scraped knees and wild laughter. His mother was yelling from a porch. A dog barked.

He opened his eyes again, blinking rapidly.

“Happy memory,” he said. “Summer storm. Maybe ‘80s or early ‘90s.”

Chen nodded. “Still no side effects?”

“Besides crushing nostalgia for a childhood I didn’t have?” He waved it off. “No.”

“Do you… want a third?” she asked.

He hesitated.

“No,” he said finally. “I’ve had enough for one morning.”

They stood in silence, facing the machine.

“Do you ever wonder where the memories come from?” Elliott asked, without looking at her.

Chen shrugged. “Same place socks disappear to. Other dimension. Psychic trash bin. Who knows.”

He let the joke pass.

“There’s something…” he trailed off. “Something invasive about it. The fact that you’re not supposed to be there. That you’re wearing someone else’s feelings like an old coat.”

Chen blew a bubble. “You didn’t say that about the skull that almost made you forget English.”

“That skull didn’t cry to me.”

They packed up slowly. Chen logged their results, labeled the capsules for containment, and powered down the machine with a toggle switch that somehow still worked. When the flickering Make a Selection sign finally died, Elliott let himself exhale.

They were halfway down the hallway when she spoke again.

“Y’know,” she said, “we could just tell them the machine made you remember how much you hate your job.”

“Too obvious,” Elliott muttered.

“Or how much you miss college.”

“Now that’s cruel.”

She grinned, just a little.

As they reached the elevator, Elliott leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes closed.

“I think I’m going to request a desk day tomorrow,” he said.

“You’re due for one.”

“Maybe I’ll reorganize the lab’s filing cabinet.”

“Only if you alphabetize the alphabetized.”

He chuckled, low and tired.

The elevator doors slid shut.

Behind them, the vending machine in Containment Room 4 buzzed faintly… then quietly dispensed a capsule into the empty tray.

No one saw it roll.

No one claimed the memory inside.

It would sit there until someone needed to remember something that felt like it wasn’t theirs.

Chapter Text

The anomaly was a cassette tape.

Not a tape player. Not a stereo system haunted by the ghost of a teenage road trip. Just the tape.

It arrived at Site-12 in a manila envelope, no return address, delivered by a courier service no one remembered hiring. It was labeled, in faded blue marker, “Memories (Mix For You <3).” The heart dotting the "i" was aggressively passive-aggressive.

Inside: one (1) unmarked Maxell cassette tape. No further instructions. No obvious threats. No blood. No crying. Already an upgrade from last week.

Voss looked at it like it had insulted his tie.

He sipped lukewarm coffee from a paper cup, then looked at the tape again.

It still didn’t burst into flames. Or sing. Or offer a deal in exchange for his soul.
Disappointing.

“Let me guess,” he said. “It plays music, and then what? Melts your brain? Transmits Morse code to Mars? Tells you who your real father is?”

Dr. Chen flipped through the preliminary incident file without looking up. “None of the above. Plays music. Induces memory recall.”

“That’s it?”

She nodded. “The tape was found in the glove box of a totaled 1992 Honda Civic outside Omaha. Paramedics say the driver had veered off the road, parked in a field, and sat crying for twenty-three minutes before calling her mother.”

“Her mother?”

“Hadn’t spoken to her in seven years. They’re apparently going to dinner next week.”

“…And this is dangerous how?”

“Try listening to it.”

Voss raised an eyebrow.

They were in Containment Interview Room 2B, which was blessedly free of the weird humming noises that plagued Interview Room 1C (still under investigation).

The only thing between him and psychological collapse, apparently, was a 40-year-old cassette player with one button that stuck when pressed too hard.

“Standard protocols?” he asked.

Chen already had her clipboard out. “Subject seated. One witness. Observation glass active. Medical on standby. You know the drill.”

Voss sighed. “Let’s do this.”

He inserted the tape. It clicked into place with a reluctant thunk, like a child being told to apologize.

Then: silence.
Then: static.
Then- music.

“Hey now, hey now…”

Crowded House. 1986. Soft percussion and tired hope.

Voss blinked.

And then he wasn’t in Site-12 anymore.

He was ten, maybe eleven. Rain tapped against the kitchen windows of a too-small house with an avocado green stove. His mother was arguing with the dog, something about mud. She laughed as he handed her an umbrella from the coat rack. Called him “a little gentleman.” He remembered the smell of her shampoo. Apple-something.

It hit like a freight train in slow motion. A memory he didn’t even know was gone.

He pulled the headphones off. Too fast. Nearly knocked the player off the table.

Chen raised an eyebrow. “Welcome back.”

“I- what the hell was that?”

“Track one,” she said. “Nostalgia. Wait till it hits track three.”

He stared at the tape, stunned.

“I remembered-“ he gestured vaguely, like trying to describe a dream. “Things. Her perfume. The tile grout. It was like being there.”

“Yeah.” Chen uncapped her pen. “Describe the feeling on a scale of one to ten. Ten being ‘devastating life revelation,’ one being ‘forgot where I put my keys.’”

“Seven,” he said automatically. Then paused. “Eight. No. Seven and a half.”

She nodded. “Typical.”

The music still played softly. A tinny saxophone bled into the background. The player gave off a faint, sentimental hum.

“So what happens if you let the tape run?”

“No one gets to Side B,” Chen said simply.

“What happens on Side B?”

She hesitated. “We don’t know. Every subject has removed the tape before the flip. Some start crying. One started laughing and didn’t stop for nine minutes. Another person vomited and had to be sedated.”

“…Is it a mind-affecting memetic agent?”

“It’s Barry Manilow.”

“Okay, but emotionally?”

“No. It’s literally Barry Manilow. Track six is ‘Even Now.’ He never saw his wife again after that session.”

Voss pushed the cassette eject button. It refused. Of course it did.

“So the tape isn’t dangerous,” he said, “unless you consider emotional vulnerability a threat.”

“I do,” Chen replied, completely deadpan.

He couldn’t argue.

They ran tests.

Ten minutes in, the cassette had prompted three full sobs, one confession about a forgotten goldfish, and a doodle of a childhood home Voss barely remembered. He wasn’t sure if it was working on him or if he was just exhausted.

“I think I remembered my own third-grade spelling bee,” he muttered, pacing. “The word was ‘carousel.’ I lost to a kid named Dean. Dean.”

“Document that,” Chen said, scribbling. “Might be relevant.”

“Dean?”

“The spelling bee. Not the child.”

Voss collapsed in the observation chair and stared at the tape. The player whirred quietly. Still going.

He considered pressing the rewind button, just to feel something.

“Alright,” he said, peeling off gloves. “It’s not violent. It’s not sapient. It’s not even malevolent.”

Chen looked at him. “But?”

He sighed. “It gets to you. It burrows. It’s not a threat, it’s a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

“That you used to feel more than tired and caffeinated.”

They sat in silence for a while.

Eventually, Chen jotted something down, then passed him the form to sign. “One more note,” she said. “We tried destroying it.”

“Let me guess. Didn’t work.”

“It disintegrated, then showed up in a glovebox in Site-12’s parking garage.”

“…What kind of car?”

“1992 Honda Civic.”

“Of course.”

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

“We’re going to need to put that thing somewhere people don’t drive decade-old sedans with working tape decks.”

“Where’s that?”

“Probably Europe.”