They Locked you up. (Skill issue)

The echo of boots on polished linoleum filled the sterile corridor as Dr. Amelia Hart walked briskly between her two escorts. Officer Ramirez kept pace on her left, his hand resting a little too tightly on the grip of his holstered pistol, while Officer Petrova flanked her right, scanning every hallway intersection with sharp, wary eyes that betrayed the tension in her jaw. “Honestly, I still think we should have waited for the full psychological profile before the first D-class test,” Ramirez muttered, his voice low but edged with unease that he could not quite mask. “This is a brand-new SCP. We have no idea what it can do. Most of these things are beyond anything we can explain, and they can kill you before you even realize you’re dead.” Dr. Hart adjusted the tablet in her hands, her eyes flicking over the preliminary containment logs. A faint crease appeared between her brows, the only outward sign of the professional caution she felt toward every unknown anomaly that crossed her desk. “That is precisely why we are proceeding now, Officer. Preliminary scans show no immediate memetic effects or visible lethality on contact. If SCP-82-A exhibits any anomalous interaction with living subjects, we need the data immediately. O5-7 has already signed off on a single Class-D test subject. Minimal risk, maximum information gain. We follow protocol.” Petrova snorted softly, but the sound carried a nervous undercurrent. “Famous last words. Last time we sent a ‘minimal risk’ D-class into a new chamber, we had to repaint the walls. And that was one we thought we understood. This one… we know nothing. Just another thing that shouldn’t exist, waiting to prove it can end us all.” They reached the heavy blast door marked “CONTAINMENT CHAMBER 82-A – LEVEL 4 CLEARANCE REQUIRED.” Dr. Hart stopped, pulled the Level 4 keycard from the lanyard around her neck, and swiped it through the reader. A soft chime sounded, followed by a mechanical hiss as the outer airlock door slid open with a pneumatic sigh. Red warning lights flashed once, then turned green. For a brief second, all three paused, the weight of the unknown pressing on them like the thick concrete overhead. “Proceeding,” Hart stated calmly into the recorder clipped to her coat, though her grip on the tablet was firmer than usual. “Date: April 3, 2026. Time: 19:47. Initiating first interaction test with SCP-82-A. Test subject: D-4782, female, age 26, sentenced for multiple counts of aggravated assault and drug trafficking. Physical description on file: 5’7”, athletic build, long wavy chestnut-brown hair, green eyes, and symmetrical features that the psych eval described as ‘conventionally attractive.’ She has been briefed that compliance will result in a commuted sentence. Standard observation protocols are in effect.” The three stepped into the outer airlock chamber. The door sealed behind them with a heavy thunk. Through the thick one-way observation window, the interior of SCP-82-A’s chamber was visible: stark white, empty except for the bolted table and chair, cameras silently tracking every angle. Hart pressed the intercom button, her voice steady but her posture rigid with the ingrained wariness every Foundation employee carried when facing the inexplicable. “D-4782, step forward.” The inner airlock door opened. A single female D-class prisoner was gently but firmly pushed inside by two additional security officers waiting in the staging area. D-4782 stumbled slightly as she crossed the threshold, her bright orange jumpsuit hugging her figure. Her long chestnut-brown hair cascaded down her back in loose waves, and even under the harsh fluorescent lights her green eyes were vivid and nervous. She was undeniably pretty—high cheekbones, smooth olive skin, and a full mouth that trembled as she looked around the chamber. A small identification barcode was tattooed on her left wrist. “W-what do I do, ma’am?” D-4782 called out, voice shaky but trying to sound cooperative. She hugged her arms around herself, glancing toward the observation window she could not see through. “They said… they said just talk to it? Or… whatever it is?” Dr. Hart’s voice crackled over the chamber intercom, professional and detached. “D-4782, you will enter the containment chamber fully and remain inside for exactly ten minutes or until otherwise instructed. Approach SCP-82-A. Attempt verbal interaction. Do not touch any surfaces unnecessarily. Report everything you see, hear, or feel. Compliance will be noted on your record.” The inner door remained open for three seconds, then began to slide shut behind the D-class with a low mechanical groan. D-4782 took a hesitant step forward into the center of the chamber, her sneakers squeaking on the white floor. Her breathing was audible over the intercom—quick and shallow. “SCP-82-A is now in the chamber with the test subject,” Hart announced to the recording device, her tone clinical. She turned slightly toward Ramirez and Petrova, who stood at attention beside her, both officers visibly tense, eyes locked on the window. “Observation window and all four cameras are live. Sedation gas on standby. Let’s see what it does with her.” The three Foundation personnel watched in silence as the pretty D-class woman stood alone in the middle of the brightly lit room, eyes wide and fixed on the exact spot where SCP-82-A was located. The air inside the chamber felt heavier now, the only sound the faint hum of the ventilation system and the nervous breathing of D-4782. Ramirez’s hand never left his sidearm; Petrova’s jaw remained clenched. Even Dr. Hart, for all her experience, felt the familiar chill that came with every new SCP: the quiet, logical fear that this one could be the one that finally broke the rules they lived by. Dr. Hart leaned closer to the glass, tablet ready. “Begin test.” Your move, Buckaroo