Dr. Windes zweiter Übersetzungskasten
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Ich möchte hier nochmals erklären, dass 106 nicht wie gemeinhin geglaubt ein einfaches Raubtier ist auf einer Stufe mit einem weiterentwickelten Hai. SCP-106 ist ein empfindungsfähiges Wesen, wenngleich auch ein völlig fremdes. SCP-106 scheinen verschiedene Dinge jenseits des Feldes von purem Instinkt und genetischer Erinnerung bewusst zu sein. SCP-106 bricht konsequent in Momenten aus, an denen das Wiedererlangen und Eindämmen am schwierigsten sind. Ein Fuchs könnte einen Weg aus einer Falle finden, aber nur ein Mensch wird darauf warten, bis seine Geiselnehmer wegschauen, um zu entkommen.

-Dr. Allok
„Über Empfindungsvermögen bei Eingedämmten Humanoiden”


„Zum Teufel nochmal, wo zur Hölle ist es?”

Agent Weng seufzte, während er sein Gesicht unter der Maske rieb. Die Nacht war kalt, aber alle drei Männer schwitzten stark. Um sie herum fluteten Schreckgestalten, Monster, Dämonen, fantastische Bestien und lebendige Gegenstände, die kicherten und brüllten, während sie umherzogen. Die drei Männer mit Gasmasken und Panzeranzügen sahen eher zu einfach gekleidet aus, wenn überhaupt. Während sie da standen, streckte ein Mann plötzlich die Hand aus; eine behandschuhte Faust, die einen leicht angetrunken Zombie greift und ihn für ein paar Sekunden an sich heranzerrt, bevor er ihn zurück in die Woge an Menschen lies, wonach die untote Bestie fluchte und davonstolperte.

„Verdammte Halloween-Scheiße. Wir müssen das gesamte Areal abriegeln.”

Agent Drak schüttelte den Kopf und gestikulierte in Richtung der reisenden Rudeln von kostümierten Zechern. „Der Triebwagen platzte zu nah an der Stadt auf. Es sollte nicht mal auf dieser Spur sein, sie glauben, MC&D hätten vielleicht etwas versaut. Wir können die ganze Stadt nicht einspannen ohne einen großen Fallout.”

„Und was zur Hölle glauben die, was passieren wird? Der alte Bastard ist da draußen und wir können ihn nicht mal FINDEN, verdammt nochmal!” Weng trat gegen eine weggeworfene Verpackung und starrte jeden wütend durch getönte Brillengläser an, der nicht seine Brötchen damit verdienen muss, der Hölle nachzujagen.

Drak tätschelte den vor Wut kochenden Mann auf den Rücken. „Ruhig, großer Junge. Der Führungsstab vermutet, dass der alte Mann ein paar Leute schnappt und dann sein Faules-Krokodil-Ding macht. Das ist einfacher zu verschleiern als warum eine Großstadt an Halloween unter Quarantäne gestellt werden musste.”

Parks, bis jetzt nicht mehr als eine Statue, krächzte mit seiner gebrochenen, kratzigen Stimme: „Wie schwer ist es einen verrotteten alten Mann zu finden, der alles, was er berührt, tötet?”

Weng schüttelte den Kopf, während er immer noch die Menge absuchte: „Er sieht nur die meiste Zeit wie ein alter Mann aus. Er kann so aussehen, wie er will. Normalerweise weisen wir den Leuten an nur dem Geschrei zu folgen. Wird uns jetzt verdammt viel bringen. Wo zur Hölle ist der Experte?”

Ein brüchiges, knarzendes Kichern kam aus dem Funkgerät. „Harken sagt, dass er genauso ein Experte für SCP-106 ist, wie ein Überlebender eines Flugzeugabsturzes ein Experte für die Luftfahrt ist. Die setzen keine Labortechnik bis zur Erstauswertung ein. Wir sind für's erste auf uns allein gestellt.”

Die drei Männer standen da, überflutet von Schreckgestalten, und suchten nach einen, der den ganzen Rest in den Schatten stellen würde.


Der betrunkene Engel wanderte am Rande des Feuers. Dämonen, Zombies und Ikonen der Popkultur wirbelten um sie herum und bewegten sich wie eine einzige Masse, bevor sie sich zu kleinen Haufen und Paaren zerstreuten, nur um wieder zusammenzufluten. Das Lagerfeuer schien zum Takt der dröhnenden Musik zu grollen, das Feld, das für die plötzliche Teen-Invasion ausgesucht wurde, war gerade weit genug entfernt, um Lärmbeschwerden zu vermeiden, aber nicht weit genug, um ungewohlte Erwachsenenaufsicht anzulocken. Alkohol floss, Leute kicherten und der laute Knall von gesenkten Hemmungen und Teenager-Angst war dick in der kalten Luft.

Die Nacht war noch jung, jedoch waren viele Pärchen schon von der Behaglichkeit des Feuers weggewichen, um andere Behaglichkeit im Dunkeln zu suchen, private Wälder, die das Feld ertönen ließen. Der Engel starrte wütend die stillen Bäume an und nahm noch einen Schluck aus einem fast leeren Bier. Sie entleerte es und warf es dann runter, damit es einem Holocaust ihrer Brüder begegnet, wie sie langsam getreten und in die weiche Erde gestampft werden. Sie sollte dort sein und von warmen Armen gehalten werden, einen warmen Mund küssen… aber nein, sie entschied sich dazu den einen Jungen zu nehmen, der anscheinend geglaubt hatte, der Augenblick vor der Party wäre der beste Zeitpunkt seine „Sorgen über unsere Beziehung” anzusprechen. Bastard.

Der Engel, dessen Flügel nun schief liegen, fing an zu diesen kühlen, dunklen Bäumen zu wandern. Scheiß auf ihn… wenn er sie wegwerfen wollte, in Ordnung… aber das hieß nicht, dass sie trotzdem keinen Spaß haben würde. Sie kicherte ein wenig und lächelte zum ersten Mal seit langem wieder. Warum nicht ein wenig Spaß haben… einen Streich spielen und ihr Süßes bekommen. Sie lachte, der Rausch von gemeinem Vergnügen und Alkohol lag hoch in ihren Wangen. Sie hatte einen der Jungs von ihrer Freistunde hierher wandern sehen… vielleicht könnte sie ihn ja finden, um sich ein wenig… besser kennen zu lernen.

Sie ging in die kühlere Dunkelheit, das gelegentliche Kichern, ein Fetzen Geflüster oder der Schein einer Knickleuchte waren die einzigen Anzeichen von Leben. Sie stolperte über eine Wurzel, torkelte vorwärts und stützte ihre Hand an einem schleimigen Baumstamm. Sie riss ihre Hand fast augenblicklich weg, die grobe, sickernde Konsistenz brannte in ihre Handfläche und der Haltverlust ließ den Engel fast der Länge nach hinfallen. Sie schaute blinzelnd auf ihre Hand und erkannte eine Schmiere aus grobem, faserigem Gelee, das sie bedeckte, wobei das Brennen schlimmer wurde, als sie die seltsamen Vertiefungen bemerkte, die in den Stamm des Baumes gefressen wurden.

Der Engel schauderte, plötzlich nüchtern und sich sehr über die Tatsache bewusst, dass niemand wusste, wo sie war. Dass sie niemanden kannte, der nah genug wäre, um ihn überhaupt zu rufen. Sie versuchte ihre Handfläche an ihren tuntigen Rock zu reiben, ohne die rote und schwarze Schmiere, die sie darauf machte, zu bemerken, ihre Augen waren weit aufgerissen und starrend und ein tiefer, dämmriger Teil ihres Urgehirns schlug einen Alarm. Sie fing an loszugehen, eilig, während sie sich auf die zuwinkende Leuchte des Lagerfeuers fokussierte und versuchte, sich selbst albern vorzukommen, um die anschwellende, vernunftlose Panik zu ignorieren.

Ein Zweig zerbrach hinter ihr.

Sie erstarrte, ein weißer Schatten, eine Hand, aus der Blut tropfte von einer zersetzenden Wunde, vor der sie erschrocken wäre, wenn sie geschaut hätte. Der Engel wagte es nicht zurückzublicken, aber sie hatte Angst davor wegzurennen, zu hören, wie etwas nachfolgt, die Hand nach ihr ausstreckt, nach ihr greift. Augenblicke gingen vorüber, gefüllt mit nichts, als der Engel letztendlich beschloss wegzurennen, aber genau in dem Augenblick sich eine dünne, knochige Hand durch ihr Kostüm ausstreckte und in die Muskeln ihres Rückens wie ein freches Kind, das seine Hände in einen Kuchen quetscht.

Sie schrie, oder versuchte es, der Laut verkümmerte zu wenig mehr als einem harschen Bellen durch den schieren Ausmaß an Schmerz, die Glieder plötzlich knochenlos und bleiern und die Nerven tot außer für Agonie. Sie fühlte, wie Finger ihre Rippen von innen berührten, selbst als sie langsam weggefressen und zersetzt wurden, und ihr Körper verschob sich langsam, um sich dem Besitzer der Hand zuzuwenden. Das Flackern des entfernten Feuers zeigte etwas vertrocknetes, dunkles, schleimiges und fleischig-weiches, aber auch etwas drahtiges und starkes. Zwei milchig-schwarze Augengläntzten ihr in einem zu großen Kopf zu, die über einem eingefrorenen Leichengrinsen schwebten, die Zähne dünn und abgeplatzt.

Der festgenagelte Engel keuchte und wimmerte als sie eine ölige, brennende Fäulnis, die in ihren Körper sickerte, spürte, während sie versuchte ein langsames Gefühl des Fallens zu unterdrücken, versuchte nicht zu fühlen, wie der Boden unter ihr matschig und weich wurde und die beiden Gestalten Zentimeter um Zentimeter verschlang. Es neigte sich näher und trotz des versengenden Schreckens dieses Gesichts hieß ein immer noch vernünftiger Teil von ihr willkommen, was sicherlich ein bevorstehendes Ende für ihren Schmerz war. Es verweilte jedoch, die andere verrenkte Klaue von einer Hand erhob sich, als der Boden begann, deren Hüften zu verschlucken.

Die neue Berührung machte dem Engel eine neue Angst deutlich, als ihr Gesicht sich auf diese verrotteten Augen einrasteten. Sie erkannte den Glanz hinter ihnen und begann mit neuem, angewiedertem Grauen zu schreien, selbst als es begann sowohl ihr Kleid als auch ihre Haut als durchnässte Streifen abzureißen.


Jason ran, lungs burning, trying to yell for help between sharp gasps of air. His Batman costume felt like such a joke now, running between streetlights, feeling that warm spot of pee on his pants. Where WAS everyone? It had been so stupid, trying to be the big brave kids and go out alone…now he really was alone, and his friends had probably been eaten.

He didn't know this for sure, but when the boogeyman dropped out of a tree and started shoving kids in to a wall that was suddenly like quicksand, it was probably a safe bet. He hadn't even been able to do anything, just watch as those long, bony fingers grabbed his two best friends and just…yanked them away, like dolls, barely screaming before the squishy black wall gulped them up. The boogeyman, it hooked his fingers in to David's eyes like dad had taught him to hold a bowling ball, and…

Jason was abruptly sick down the front of his costume, the half-digested mass of chocolate looking unsettlingly like the goo that had splattered everywhere while the tall, lanky, naked old man had landed out of the tree. He stopped, stumbling to his knees, coughing and gagging, wailing out a weak scream for help to the dim night. It drifted off, unheeded, the boy unable to even sob, too numb with exhaustion and horror. He barely noticed the footsteps until they were nearly on top of him.

He looked up, ready to beg whatever adult he saw for help. Then he saw the legs. Thin, black, the feet looking pulpy and flat with age, the concrete under them turning cracked and gooey. Jason looked up more, shaking more and more violently. The withered hips, the sticky, soft chest that didn't rise or fall…and finally that nightmare head, looking like some kind of rotten pumpkin, but black and oily as a bucket of tar. The eyes locked on the boy's, as shiny and blank as a flashlight in a basement. The teeth parted, some kind of rolling, slimy blackness shifting inside.

Jason stumbled back, gasping, trying to scream but unable to even breathe correctly. He stared at the boogeyman as he rolled something in the palm of that thin, beaten hand, pulling it between two bony fingers and lifting it to his mouth. The boy thought it was a candy or something, but then he saw the glint of metal.

It was his best friend Anthony's front tooth. It still had the bracket from his braces on it.

The boogeyman placed it between his teeth, gently, the tooth still white and clean in that filthy, dripping mouth. He seemed to hold it there a moment…then his jaw bunched, and the tooth shivered…then burst like a jawbreaker under a car tire. He chewed it twice, then just stopped, still staring at the boy. It seemed to go on and on, Jason unsure if he was even breathing anymore, knowing this was the end, this was what happened when you didn't listen, when you went off alone, the boogeyman came and took you, forever and always…

But he didn't. He turned, seeming to get ready to take a step…then fell forward, slowly, like an old man tripping over a shoe. The black monster almost hit the ground…but just fell through it, like it was made of air, nothing but a black smear left behind on the concrete…and the tiny, corroded bracket from the tooth.

When they found him, hours later, he'd gripped it hard enough to embed it in his palm.


The boy sat, comforted and miserable. His mother had been nice enough to let him at least wear his Mario costume, but even he had to admit he was probably too sick to walk around the house, let alone outside for hours, in the cold. He'd woken up vomiting, and it had just continued, his parents hoping for the best, but finally forced to cancel the trick-or-treating. As sad as he was, they did try their best to make it up to him. There was a small bowl of candy for him, with the promise any leftovers would be given to him, and he could watch all the scary movies he liked.

Knock knock

“Trick or treat!”

“Aww, such a cute turtle! And what are you, honey?”

“I'm Rapunzel!”

“Well, here you go, princess!”

“Thank you!”

He hadn't even wanted to help pass things out. It was better to just try and ignore things, just pretend everyone else was inside too, that made it better. He tugged the floppy hat down a bit, trying to convince himself that his tummy wasn't feeling like a hedgehog was rolling around inside. He watched the zombies lurch across the screen, half-wishing that the screaming people running for the house were kids from school.

Knock knock

“Trick or treat!”

“Oh, what a nice vampire!”

“I'm draculaura! Rawr!”

“So fearsome! Here you go…”

“Thank you!”

He turned up the movie, the slow groans of the walking dead drowning out the happy shouts of the living. The worst was going to be tomorrow, being forced to listen to everyone, watch them eating candy and talking about different houses and adventures. He sighed and swallowed thickly, his stomach doing another slow, oily roll. The boy pushed away the candy he'd been nibbling, suddenly sickened by even the smell.

Knock
“…”

“Hello?…oh…”

“…”

“Uh, are you withOHGOD!”

The sudden, rising shriek of his mother made the boy suddenly bolt upright, his stomach clenching even worse, but now totally forgotten. He couldn't see her from the couch, but he could hear noises, thumping and muffled shouts…and some kind of slimy-sounding rustle, like sewage over dry leaves. He stood, and started to peer around the short wall blocking the entryway, calling with a hesitant voice, scared of not getting a response, but almost equally so of getting one. He was only a few feet away when the hand whipped around the wall, gripping it tight.

It was black-gray and thin, as bony and thin-skinned as his grandmother's, with wide, flat nails gripping the paint hard. Where it touched, a black stain was spreading, like grease on a paper bag, the knuckles looking puffy and thick as they flexed. The boy stared, backing up slowly, calling again for his mother, his voice starting to plead. The hand flexed, actually sinking into the wall as that stain spread, and a nightmare peeped around the corner.

The head was thick, misshapen and lumpy, like a poorly made scarecrow, the skin thin and jelly-like. Two hard, glistening eyes the color of maggots stared from above the thin, wide slash of a mouth. Their eyes locked, and the boy felt fear wash from his head down to his feet, his stomach boiling like a forgotten kettle. His nerves screamed to run, to run away, but he couldn't make himself stop watching those eyes, feet moving slowly backwards like a sleepwalker. The hand and face shifted a bit, and there was a wet, heavy dragging noise as his mother was pulled in to view.

She was dead, or close to it, moved forward by the hand in her chest like a sock puppet, bits of her black and pulpy, smears of that black stain eating in to her face, her neck, her arms. Her chest was a black, jelly-coated hole, the thing's other hand buried in it up to the wrist, the bloodless, ruined remains of his mother hanging from it like a rag doll. He screamed, then threw up, little more then a mass of bile and half-digested snacks, then ran, shrieking up the stairs, begging for his mother, his father, anyone, someone.

He slammed into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door, shaking and crying. His dad had gone down the street to visit, he'd be home any second, and he'd fix this, somehow. He'd call the cops, or something, get them out of the house, leave that black thing far behind. Maybe mom was just hurt, people could get really hurt and still be fine, he'd only seen her a few seconds. That thing was just some psycho in some costume, he'd probably run off as soon as he heard someone coming, and it'd be ok then, it'd be fine. He kept whispering this to himself, feet braced on the sink, back against the door.

He was still repeating it when the face pushed through the wood above him.

He heard the crackle, and looked up, to see that hell face looking down, inches above his head. The floor under his feet suddenly felt sludgy and soft as he stared, the mouth splitting open, to let a tongue as rotten and bloated as a dead fish roll free…and down…and down, sliding down onto that horrified face like a syrup, burning even as he felt his legs sinking down and down, unable to even move really as that soft, slimy flesh burned like an acid in to his face, feeling his nose cook down like an over-used eraser, screaming just long enough to catch a few feet of that endless tongue in his mouth, gagging hard before the nerves died, starting to pass out as he felt the nightmare tasting his eyes.


Drak awoke feeling like he'd been sleeping on a pile of rusty car parts. He sat up, twisting and trying to locate the source of the throbbing pain in his leg, that…memory started to flood back, hitting like a freight train. Running across town. Slamming through a crowd, seeing the withered, crumbling arm laying on the ground. Screams. People running. That horrible black face sliding from the ground, eyes locked on his. Parks firing. More screams. A withered hand reaching, gripping, pulling…

Oh god no.

He looked around in welling horror, pleading with his own brain to lie to him. The room was dark, dirty, and low-ceilinged, tufts of dirt and debris in the corners, the grayish paint peeling in ragged streamers, the stained ceiling and floor warped and lumpy. A doorway opened in to darkness, a vague, insistent noise sounding from far off. The light was dim, but didn't seem to come from anywhere, seeming just a weak, omnipresent glow with a slightly green cast, like deep ocean water.

Drak knew this room, even though he'd never been here. At least, ones very much like it. The old man liked to dump his new catches here before he…found them. Drak rose quickly, hunching down to avoid a sagging bulge of ceiling. He barely wanted his shoes touching this place, let alone anything else. He winced, feeling a dull, empty ache in his leg, high in the calf. Probably where it grabbed him…and damned if he was going to check it. He limped a few steps, making sure it could bear weight, eyes sweeping over every surface.

He breathed slow, deeply, remembering the file, the brief. Time was subjective, he could have been out for seconds or weeks. It liked to play cat and mouse, tracking through its…home, or playroom, or whatever the fuck it was. Space was endless, but sometimes people got out, or were released. Keep moving, don't hide, because it was god here and would know. He felt panic slithering around the edges of his brain, and pushed it down, hard, face set and grim as he stepped out in to the darkness beyond the doorway.

The hall was long, and broken, like a hospital hallway after an earthquake. No big holes, just twisted and tilted oddly. He creeped down, as close to a wall as he could get without touching it, feeling gritty plaster crunch under his feet. The noise was louder, the sound of high-pitched, monotonous crying. It set the teeth on edge, but they'd said it would be like this. The key was to keep moving, keep looking. Yes, it was endless, but if you kept on the move, it seemed like 106 got confused, or lost track of things, and you could accidentally wander back in to the world. He kept repeating the steps, the briefing in his head like a prayer, ignoring the part where 106 would typically hunt escapees forever.

He took a right at the end of the hall, passing down another, then a left, starting to move faster, ignoring the odd, corroded twists of pipe and wire in some of the rooms he'd passed, or the suggestive, soggy mounds of…something. The crying kept getting louder, the high-pitched, gurgling wail of a baby. Ignore it, keep moving. It called the shots, it could make the whole place sound like a dentist's drill if it wanted. Drak pounded down a hall, nearly at a dead run, trying not to see the growing dampness of the walls, the changing texture of things. Broken plaster over old, greenish bricks, floor going from broken vinyl, to concrete, to dirt.

He turned a corner, too fast, a gooey patch of black causing his foot to skitter, nearly dropping him to his knees as he clutched the bare, wet brick wall. He looked out in the the dim, mossy room, the sound of helpless, angry crying very, very loud now. He froze, staring, half-crouched and clutching the wall. It was standing in the middle of the room, a thick, ankle deep puddle of black jelly at its feet. The old man was turning, slowly, rocking in slow, side-to side motions. The crying was coming from the thing in his arms.

It was a torso, wrapped in masses of what looked like barbed wire. The wire threaded in and out of flesh, some places looking like the bleeding skin had flowed like warm taffy over it. The ragged remains of the limbs twisted and stretched, every movement making the wires dig and tear more. It was hairless, the skin of its bare head and neck looking peeled and rotten, the face a mask of pain. The throat had been…opened, carefully, twisted and held with wires. The baby crying was in fact this grown, mute torso, mutilated to make that pitiful, helpless wail.

The old man was watching him. Face turned, eyes locked to the man as he slowly tried to stand upright, ignoring the hissing of his boots, trying not to think of what would have to be done to a throat, to make it sound like a baby in agony…or where that pitiful torso's limbs had gone. It watched him, cracked teeth slightly parted, and slowly stopped its rocking. It dropped the wire-bound bundle, arms going limp at its sides as the mass of flesh and pain bounced off the ground, then rested face-down in the mossy grime, sending up a new wave of protest between bubbly, sucking breaths. It turned to face him, arms dangling, body wrapped in what looked like some kind of shredded cloth of oozing black fabric.

Drak ran, bolting like a scared deer, throwing training and conditioning to the wind in the mad, blind, animal panic of escape. He screamed, panted, talked, laughed, anything to drown out the sound of the slow, stuttering steps lurking behind him. He ran, and ran, and ran, falling and hitting the ground like he'd been hit by a car, gasping and waiting for the end, muscles throbbing…then they would start again, those soft, rustling footsteps, driving him on, and on, and on.

He didn't know it, but he'd run for four days before the old man started taking chunks out of him.


Recovery was in the pre-dawn hours with no sun or moon, and went shockingly smooth, all things considered. SCP-106 was found in the middle of a field, making pumpkins sag and burst by squeezing or stepping on them. The team, a man short, was finally reinforced an hour before they caught it, pushing it back to the recovery chamber with the big halogen “sun guns”, nearly blinding two of the recovery crew in their zeal to have the old man back under lock and key.

It sat in the cell, without a moment's attempt to try and escape. It sat, and did nothing, head tilted, arms and legs limp. One MTF member stated that it looked sated, and was told to shut up in an official capacity. Disappearances were glossed over, murders quieted and made un-newsworthy, urban legends seeded and caressed. Over all, it went well, once the hell was over.

Weeks later, an observation tech made a note in the day's log. SCP-106 was observed to suddenly produce a large handful of small white objects, later identified as teeth and finger bones, and set the pile on the floor. It then sorted these objects in to what seemed random piles, later identified as separated by age of victim. It then stared at these items for several hours, then re-collected them.

The significance of this was considered unworthy of contemplation.

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