Chapter 5: Chapter 2: Charisma

John let out a yawn as his eyes cracked open, and for a brief moment, he wondered if everything had just been a bad dream.

However, the cold metal walls and barely furnished interior banished those thoughts immediately. He sighed deeply before returning his tired gaze to the camera. He decided it would be best to let the camera bitch be for the time being.

As he lay outstretched on the stiff mattress, he contemplated existence for a bit.

What was his purpose? Why was he here? How was he going to go about his life when he got out of this cell?

"If" he got out of this cell...

What was the—eh, who fucking cares?

All this thinking did was annoy him; it was much more fun to annoy others.

After a while of just vegetating, he quickly forgot what happened after his previous tomfoolery. It could be assumed that he was either a slow learner, or just an annoying bastard, as he was eager to bother the lady even after the previous incident.

"Hey, camgirl, can I get a puzzle or something?" he asked with another yawn.

"Call me that again, and you will take another nap." The voice snapped.

"That depends...."

John let the last sentence hang for a second and continued, "Will you tuck me in and read bedtime stories?"

Before the lady could reply, he smirked while saying, "I'm partial to Dr. Seuss."

He couldn't help but chuckle as the lady ignored him once more.

About 30 seconds passed before he pushed the question again, "So what about the puzzle?"

Still ignored, he decided to clarify his reasoning: "Y'know, for like brain activity and all that, it would also help keep my mind clear, and I might have a better memory for any upcoming interviews or whatnot."

***2 minutes later***

"And the thing about the puzzle is that you already know what the end product will look like; there is no surprise, no gravitas; the outcome is predetermined."

He licked his lips and continued, "So the entertainment you acquire is a result not of the final product but of the action of producing it."

"When you put together a puzzle, you are in the act of restoration; you take these...broken pieces and put them back together to form a whole."

John turned over, propping his head with an arm.

"This act of restoration—it could even be considered an act of creation—but what happens when you achieve this goal?"

"Sure, you could glue it together, display it as a trophy, or use it as a conversation piece."

"However, most puzzlers do not do this; instead, they look at the finished project, this culmination of creation, and... destroy it."

He glanced at the camera and said, "Isn't it fascinating that we gain the same feeling, the same dopamine response, sometimes an even stronger form of catharsis than completing the puzzle itself...by disassembling it?"

"Whereas it can take hours, if not days, to complete the puzzle, it only takes seconds to undo all of that progress for a mild spike in serotonin, a temporary dopamine high," John says with a look of melancholy.

"Destruction is much faster than creation, and they both yield the same temporary feeling of excitement."

"So you are in this perpetual cycle of creation and destruction, a cycle that is ultimately pointless in the end."

He laid back down.

"So why would someone waste their time on a puzzle?"

"Why go through the effort just to disassemble it and cause no change to its state of being?"

Surprisingly, the lady seemed to be listening.

"Why?" she asked in interest.

John cleared his throat and stood up.

"It's simple," he said while waving his hand with a flair, "these people like puzzles."

John waited for a response but got nothing.

He attempted to start a conversation with the lady for about 5 minutes, but it seemed like she turned off the audio input or something because she didn't even react to him threatening self-harm again.

Eventually he gave up and lay down in the uncomfortable bed, wondering when he would get out of this tin can. That's when he remembered the whole reason he got sent here—it was that, uh, what was it called?

"System?" he thought to himself.

Suddenly, fluorescent blue text appeared in his vision. It looked kind of similar to the player menu in some video games.

________
[Status]
[Missions]
[LOCKED]
[LOCKED]
[LOCKED]
________

John was once again confused by the way his memory worked. It was like he was able to remember things that didn't specifically have to do with himself or his previous life. He retained knowledge of anything he learned, just not how he learned it or any feelings associated with it.

So, despite the fact that he couldn't recall ever playing any of them, he knew what they were and could easily navigate the menu.

He decided to refer to this as "second-hand memory."

Anyways, he noticed the locked options immediately, and could infer that these would be unlocked if he "increased his level" or completed tasks. This was assuming this "system," as it called itself, was similar to these "games."

He decided to check out the first option before viewing any missions. He was curious to see how the system rated his physical and mental state—after all, he wasn't exactly a video game character. A problem came up though: he couldn't "click" the options.

This was quickly forgotten as he discovered he could control the system with his thoughts. Apparently just thinking the name of any option would bring it up, which was nice to know for future reference.

He simply thought "status," which brought up a new panel.

____________
[Player]
Health: 80/100
Sanity: 45/120

Vitality: 1
Strength: 0.8
Dexterity: 0.9
Intelligence: 1.5
Charisma: 0.1
Willpower: 1.2
____________

"System, I think these stats are wrong," he said as he examined the figures with a scowl on his face.

[Every calculation by the system is guaranteed to be 99.9% accurate. There is only a 0.01% chance of failure due to the indeterminable nature of certain anomalies.]

"Well then, I guess this is a fucking anomaly; why is my charisma stat so low?" he asked in his head while gritting his teeth.

[Calculating]

John calmed down when he saw the system was willing to admit its ignorance.

[The number is indeed correct, although it is possible that this could be classified as an anomaly.]

"See, sometimes a man's intuition can outdo a machine's logic," John said with a "holier than thou" expression.

However, the system was not finished with its statement.

[The system believes this could set a precedent for negative parameters. It is unknown how this stat was not capped at 0.]

As he prepared for a thousand-round battle of tongues with the system, John's face contorted.

But it won the war before he was even able to land the first verbal blow.

[The System recommends the host stop conflating obnoxiousness with charisma.]

He honestly didn't know what to say at this remark—maybe he was just annoying.

He didn't know why he even acted the way he did; he had no idea if this was how he was before he lost his memory or if it was a symptom of it. Maybe it was a coping method of sorts.

Would nobody in this world like him?

Before he could spiral into depression, the system responded.

[No need to worry, host; you will have the chance in the future to increase your attributes.]

"Wait, so I could be like a superhero or something?" He thought about flying around with a cape, saving the day, and... nah, that sounds like a hassle.

[Your questions will be answered after you complete a few missions.]

"Eh, sure, why not?" he thought.

He certainly didn't have anything else to do at the moment. He closed out of the status panel, returning to the main menu. After that, he chose the missions option, causing a new panel to appear in front of him. The resulting options were a bit different from the daily quests or story missions he expected; there were 3 options, but only one of them sounded tempting:

__________
[Special]
[Errand]
[Chore]
__________

He saw that the text saying "special" was glowing red, which greatly stood out from everything else, which was a neon shade of cyan. He wondered why this option was so different from the rest and, by instinct, clicked it first.

________________________________________________________________________________________________
[Building your foundation]

Congratulations on becoming the host of the SCP Management System! However, before you can begin your foundation, you first need to register your land for the first facility.

Mission: Choose the land where the first research facility will be built.

Reward: 1 mystery unit (safe), 10 anomaly tokens
________________________________________________________________________________________________

"I still don't get any of this; what the hell is an SCP?"

"What the hell is an anomaly token?" John complained.

[Would the host like a general overview?]

"Yeah, sure, it couldn't hurt," he thought.

[Uploading data to the hosts' brain...]

***

John was in amazement at the speed with which the system could bestow knowledge. The system had pretty much implanted a PDF file into his mind. He didn't need to read it, as it was latent in his brain, as if he had known these things for years.

He could pretty much summarize everything into a few notes, as most of the information was worthless to him. Especially the part about the foundation having funding from every national government around the world or the security team and their different rankings. So the main things he had to think about were split into:

Anomalies: The word pretty much describes them; it's just a different way of saying "strange." An anomaly could be a person, a place, a thing, or an idea; it could be anything or nothing. They could appear anywhere and everywhere.

The Foundation: An organization whose duty it is to follow the so-called "SCP Protocol," which is an acronym for "Secure Contain Protect,"  going as follows:

Secure: They needed to grab the anomalies from wherever they popped up, through either coincidence or intel, to make sure that they were not discovered by citizens or other parties with malicious intent. They must try to obtain the anomalies as quickly as possible so that they can be researched.

Contain: Once the anomaly was nabbed, they would lock it up through various methods—whatever worked to keep the anomaly's influence and power at a minimum. Whether it required relocating them to a facility, concealing them if they couldn't be moved easily, suppressing public knowledge of them, or preventing proof of their existence, the foundation must do whatever it takes to stop the anomaly from affecting or potentially having an effect on the public.

Protect: The Foundation's goal is to shield humanity from the effects of anomalies or to shield the anomalies themselves until significant knowledge can be extracted from them in order to advance or create scientific theories. Though research is a goal, the Foundation must also be willing to neutralize or destroy any anomaly that can't be contained and/or poses a great threat to humanity or the planet, though this must be used as a last resort.

"Wow." John let out a small gasp. "That's pretty heavy."

He really didn't expect this foundation place to be so powerful or important to the world. He was worried, but also somewhat excited to see these "anomalies" in person. It was a significant improvement over his current situation of being constantly locked in boxes.

Speaking of...

"Hey system, I, uh...kind of can't do anything while I'm stuck in this cell." John thought, wondering if the system could be of use in escaping this place. He wasn't really impressed with their accommodations, to be honest. Unfortunately, the system just replied with:

[The System is unable to provide help with matters unrelated to anomalies or the Foundation.]

Unsurprising.

"Well, that sucks," he thought, as he clicked on the second option, labeled "chore."

You are reading story Secure. Contain. Prevail. (A Marvel/SCP Mashup) at novel35.com

[There are no chores to complete at this moment.]

He shrugged and clicked the third and final mission option, "Errand," but he received pretty much the same prompt.

[There are no errands currently available.]

John sank back into the bed, annoyed that there was no quick way to escape. He really thought the system would let him pull a rabbit out of the hat. He thought that he could obtain some gadget or skill that would change his current circumstance, but it seemed this system wasn't as versatile as the omnipotent cheat tool he had imagined.

"Looks like I'll have to rely on some scheming and good ol' human ingenuity to get myself out of this pickle," John thought while glancing at the camera in his peripheral vision.

He ruminated for a while but couldn't come up with any solutions. It really seemed like he would just have to wait it out, but he felt like this was a mistake.

What if they just killed him after they found out he wasn't really special?

Well, he was "special," but not in the way they were interested.

The phone was already broken, so he couldn't use that as a leverage. It's not like he knew how to make a smartphone either, and it seemed like they were more interested in the phone's previous apparent indestructibility than anything else.

So he was at a bit of a loss.

He scratched his chin but jerked his hand away when he felt pain. That's when he remembered his stupid protest earlier and that his face was probably swollen.

John got up from the bed and sat in the chair, which was closer to the camera. He looked towards the camera and asked the lady for an ice pack or something to stop the swelling.

There was silence for a while, so he thought she had just ignored him again. To his surprise, a hole opened up next to the chair, startling him for a second. When he inspected the new opening, he found that it was one of those pass-through specimen boxes that were used for urine samples in the bathroom of a doctor's office.

Except it was slightly bigger, and there was a tray inside. Sitting on the tray was an unbranded ice pack.

John picked up the ice pack to inspect it. When the item left the box, the little door shut by itself and was now re-concealed, although he could now notice the seams, which were smaller than the ones for the hidden door.

He really didn't understand why everything had to be like that. What difference did it make whether he could see the door or not? It wouldn't make it any easier to escape. What did he gain from learning about the secret compartment? Nothing!

It just seemed like the kind of dumb science-fiction aesthetic that had no practicality.

Anyway, he stared at the icepack for a bit, one of those small square ones, the disposable kind.

He quietly took the icepack back to his bed.

***

Glancing down at his pants, he used his nails to remove a metal rivet from the jeans. After obtaining this small object, he began casually scraping it against the metal frame of the bed.

He continued doing this for a few hours, swapping hands when one would get tired. The result was that the rivet now had a faint orange glow, and was hot to the touch. John had to wrap his hand with his shirt to not scald his fingers. He tried his very hardest not to draw attention to himself, trying to stay low-key.

He did this for a few more hours before he became satisfied.

He then took off his shirt and wrapped the metal up, grabbing his chest.

John convincingly portrayed himself as having chest pains, resulting in a guard opening the door to check on him.

When the guard began walking towards him, John grabbed the piece of metal, ignoring the pain as he tossed the icepack towards the guard's face.  He then tossed the flaming piece of metal towards the guard, which punctured the bag, causing a chemical reaction between the heat and the ammonium nitrate inside the ice pack, resulting in a small explosion.

The guard tried to shield his face, but his reaction was too slow. John watched as the guard's face turned red as his skin was affected by 3rd-degree burns; he smirked before grappling with the wounded man, stealing his gun, and shooting him in the head.

"Get science'd, bitch!" He said with a cold, emotionless smile.

***

"Gah," said John, waking up with a cold sweat.

"Thank God," he mumbled.

He laid back down on the bed and held the pack up to his face. He enjoyed the soothing chill greatly.

He ignored the cringe-inducing dream as he wondered when someone would let him out. I mean, surely they didn't plan on just leaving him here to rot, right? They were probably just waiting to interrogate him or something.

Eh, whatever; there was nothing he could do at the moment.

Nothing realistic, at least.

With that last thought, John was preparing to go to sleep again.

However, a noise jolted him up. He glanced in the direction it came from and realized it was the same compartment he got the ice pack from. He got up from the bed and ambled over to the opening, wondering what was going on.

As he neared the wall, his stomach began grumbling.

"Of course." He mumbled as he eyed the inconspicuous food sitting on a clear plastic plate.

He had totally forgotten that he hadn't had anything to eat since his time at the police station.

He sniffed the food suspiciously before realizing there was no point using the food as a medium for drugging him, as the lady could just release that knockout gas whenever she felt like. So he picked up the plate and took it towards the chair. He ignored the sound of the compartment on the wall sliding shut as he stared down at the plate.

None of it looked all that appealing, but it wasn't particularly revolting either. It was probably about the same quality as one of those frozen packaged meals you would get if you couldn't dine out or lacked the time to prepare food at home. John could clearly recognize that these products were of objectively lower quality than a home-cooked meal, but he had no personal opinions or experiences with either.

"Beggars can't be choosers," he thought self-mockingly.

The meal consisted of some kind of meat product separated into three servings—most likely some type of "Salisbury steak." This was a dish originating from the U.S. that was a blend of ground beef and other various ingredients, topped with gravy most of the time. It was also a staple of frozen packaged foods, often referred to as "TV dinners." Along with this was a side of mashed potatoes, whose texture left much to be desired, and a side of cheap canned corn.

John was confused as he couldn't find any utensil to eat with. He asked the camera lady for a fork, but she seemed to still be ignoring him. He wondered if they expected him to use his hands.

Perhaps this was just another way to humiliate and degrade him. Unfortunately, if that was the case, they underestimated the thickness of his skin.

He shrugged his shoulders as he stuck his finger in the mashed potatoes, pulling it out and popping it into his mouth.

It was bland, nearly flavorless, with a distinct lack of salt and butter.

He grabbed a small handful of corn and tossed it in his mouth. He grimaced as the corn left pieces in between his teeth after every chew. He quickly decided to ignore them, glancing over at the "meat." He inspected the gray "steaks" as they continued to drown in their watery grave-y.

[Good one, user.]

John was startled by the system's response to his pun.

He forgot there was a live audience member constantly loitering in his mind.

Well, things weren't that bad. At least he had someone to talk to—or was it something?

(Even though that personthing was relatively useless.)

[Calculations in progress...]

"Huh?" John said as a new panel suddenly appeared in his vision.

John looked at the graph and sighed in frustration. He knew the system was right about him being the cause of his own frustrations, but wait—what did it mean by "user accessibility"?!

Was he being made fun of?

John ignored the pretentious system as he remembered he was supposed to be eating. He quickly picked up the meat patty and unceremoniously dunked it into the mash, formerly known as potatoes.

The combination of two mediocre dishes did not result in the pleasant surprise he had hoped for; it seemed the effect of logical fallacy when applied to a cheap frozen dinner meal was minuscule. No matter, he still needed to eat, so he scarfed down the food, leaving only the accursed corn lying lonely on the plate.

He placed the nearly empty plate near the concealed pass-through box, wondering if someone would grab it as he walked over to the other side of his cell. He glanced around a bit and then pulled up the system, navigating back towards the status menu.

____________
[Player]
Health: 85/100
Sanity: 50/120

Vitality: 1
Strength: 0.8
Dexterity: 0.9
Intelligence: 1.5
Charisma: 0.1
Willpower: 1.2
____________

He was bored and curious, so he decided to experiment with something.

"Hey system, if I were to, say, exercise, would that increase my stats?"

[The user's "stats" are just a quantified appraisal for easy interpretation by the user. There is no "boost in potential" that the user is currently imagining. You are able to increase your stats through correlated training, but it will take you as long as it does for any other mortal individual.]

John's shoulders slumped.

"Maaaan, the more I talk to you, the less cool you seem," he thought to himself depressingly.

[The System recommends the following:]

"Shut the fuck up."

John gritted his teeth as he heard an all-too-familiar voice echo in his mind. This was a new level of self-deprecation, one that didn't even come from him!

Well, he probably deserved it. It's not the system's fault; he was the fuckup.

His self-loathing was quickly interrupted by a feeling in his bladder.

"Oh shit," he said, as he searched the room for a toilet he may have overlooked. To his dismay, there was no such thing.

He waddled over to the camera comically, praying that the lady was done with her petty revenge as he yelled, "I really need to use the bathroom."

He held his breath and then sighed in frustration as he got no response.

But then he heard a whirring sound, and to his amazement, the door was open. Standing near it was a short, slim woman, staring daggers at him.

The woman had brown hair that matched her brown eyes. Her prominent nose and overall facial structure allowed him to believe she was distinctly of English descent.

He smiled awkwardly as the woman coldly said, "Follow me."

John glanced at his surroundings, which seemed almost maze-like in structure. He figured if he tried to escape, he would only end up lost in the endless corridors.

That's not to mention the small lady in front of him. He wasn't going to let her perceptibly weak body give him ideas about taking her down.

John had no qualms about beating a woman; he believed strongly in equality. But it wasn't even guaranteed that he could win, and he certainly wasn't in amazing shape. Not to mention that she could be carrying a plethora of weapons on her body (besides the two on her chest, though they were somewhat lacking in firepower).

The woman abruptly came to a halt, giving him the impression that she had somehow read his mind. But he was just worrying about nothing as he noticed they had arrived in front of a door.

John glanced at the woman, causing her to roll her eyes and sigh. He flashed her a smile before opening the door and stepping into the bathroom. He briefly wondered if they were recording inside and checked the ceiling out of paranoia.

"Surely not," he mumbled, "that would be against human rights."

Not that this organization seemed to care about them in the first place.

John couldn't find anything suspicious as he glanced at the ceiling. Maybe there was something hiding, but John did not see it. He sighed with trepidation as he wandered towards a stall.

At least he wasn't dissatisfied with the bathroom's cleanliness.

Everything seemed like it was habitually sprayed and wiped down with disinfectant, as it appeared shiny with the light reflecting off of the walls and bathroom stall doors. Speaking of the doors, they looked like they were made from gray plastic, but on closer inspection, they were covered with bumps for some reason. These doors were clearly at odds with the rest of the building's "pseudo-future" aesthetic, consisting of convoluted metal and glass designs.

John wondered what the reason for this was as he surveyed the room a bit more. This didn't last long, as he finally needed to relieve himself at a urinal.

This made him think, "Why is there no toilet in my cell?"

It seemed pretty inefficient to have to escort the prisoner to the bathroom whenever they had to go. John finished and washed his hands at one of those "no-touch" sinks where you wave your hand to get the water to run. But he didn't leave the bathroom just yet, as he checked for any means of escape.

Unfortunately, the only thing he found was a vent embedded into the wall near the end of the room's ceiling. The vent's opening was way too small for a person to fit through, even if they managed to open it up.

He gave up, giving the vent a disappointing look as he marched back to the lady, who was waiting patiently outside for him.