Saturday morning unfolded softly over Jacksonville, Florida, its golden light spilling over rooftops and winding streets. The city stirred awake under the warm embrace of dawn. Nicholas Mitchell blinked into wakefulness, his pristine bedroom a testament to his germophobic tendencies. His hand groped blindly over the bedside table before he slid off the bed, landing on his feet. He grabbed his Crocs from under the edge of the frame, slipping them on with an automatic precision born of habit. Today was an unusual day—a rare break from the grind. He'd finished his assignments early on, leaving him free to pursue… what, exactly?
The muffled clamor of his parents reached his ears as they dashed around the house, calling out for misplaced items. Nicholas intercepted them in the hallway, holding out their belongings. "You dropped these last night, probably when you shuffled to bed half-asleep," he said matter-of-factly, handing over the items with a slight smile. Without waiting for thanks, he walked toward the dinner table. The aroma of sizzling bacon and freshly scrambled eggs greeted him, mingling in the air and making his stomach growl. He sat, letting the familiar smells wash over him, momentarily drowning out the noise of his parents' hurried departure.
The front door slammed shut, and the house fell silent. Nicholas stared down at his plate but paused as unease began to creep into his mind. His thoughts swirled, fragmented and unclear. They weren't like the logical streams he was used to—they were a chaotic fog of worry. Something felt off. Suddenly, he remembered the forum. The sprawling online community, FoundationPerhaps, was his haven—a place to discuss anomalies, hypothetical SCPs, and the vast lore surrounding the shadowy SCP Foundation. His phone buzzed faintly in his pocket. Fishing it out, he saw his lock screen: a photo of Mishu, his tabby cat, curled up in her usual spot on his bed.
"Safe to say I'm a cat lover," he murmured with a quiet chuckle, entering his password: ThatsMishu#1. Opening the forum, his eyes scanned the threads and messages. One in particular stood out, its title glaring in bold: ACCEPT OR DENY. A chill ran down his spine as he tapped it.
Message Content: Nicholas Mitchell, you are an individual who possesses the potential to industrialize and deepen the understanding of the Foundation. Your insights cannot be ignored. As a student, your influence could extend far beyond expectations. With your cooperation, I believe I can serve effectively as a Safe-class anomaly. This is an opportunity to shape your future—to safeguard your family and discover truths that have been concealed from even the most informed. The decision is yours, but I implore you to consider it carefully. Declining may have consequences you are not prepared to face. Through careful observation, I've eliminated the bots that have plagued you in the past. I remain steadfast in my pledge to aid you. Once you respond, I will act accordingly. I await your choice.
Nicholas stared at the screen, frozen. The words felt ominous and eerily personal. The writer knew his full name—information he had never shared, even with the forum administrators. This wasn't some generic phishing attempt. It felt… deliberate. His thoughts spiraled, irrational and raw. If I say no, will they come after me? What about my parents? The idea sent a jolt of cold fear down his spine. Hesitating only for a moment longer, he began to type his reply. It was short—an acceptance letter. As he hit send, the screen refreshed. A single reply appeared almost instantly: 🙂
The simple smiley face mocked him. Was this a game? A threat? Or something worse? Nicholas clenched his fists, his mind a storm of half-formed fears. Whoever this was, they had access to things they shouldn't. His phone? His home? Minutes passed. Then hours. Time blurred as he sat in anxious silence, dreading the knock on the door—or worse, the sudden crack of a gunshot.
The vibration of his phone startled him. He snatched it up, heart pounding. An unknown number lit up the screen. Hesitantly, he answered. "Hello?" His voice quivered slightly. A steady voice responded, calm and measured. "Nicholas Mitchell, correct? You applied for the position of Site Director for the Floridian auxiliary site?" Nicholas's breath caught in his throat. "Yes," he stammered, unsure why he even said it.
"This is for the SCP Foundation, correct?" he pressed, his voice low but steadying. "Correct," the speaker replied. "Verification is unnecessary. Our investigative officers have already confirmed your identity." Confusion tangled with fear. Nicholas had never applied for anything remotely like this. And yet, here he was—spoken to as if this were fact.
The voice continued, formal and unyielding. "You have been deemed fit for the role. The Department of Field Security and the Department of Internal Security have both agreed on your appointment. You will oversee 150 Mobile Task Force units and 250 internal security personnel. Scientists will be assigned as needed." Nicholas swallowed hard, his mind struggling to comprehend the words. "How will I… reach the site?"
"With your assigned personnel. As a Site Director, your position carries immense importance. Failures like the ones that have occurred before… cannot be repeated." The call disconnected, leaving Nicholas in stunned silence. The weight of what had just transpired settled over him like a suffocating fog. His thoughts grew even blurrier, disjointed fragments of fear and disbelief clashing in his mind.
The room felt cold now. Somewhere in the distance, Mishu purred softly, oblivious to the storm brewing around her owner. Nicholas sat still, awaiting whatever came next, knowing that his life had already changed forever.