Missing Drafts

Having suffered from sleep apnea for most of his adult life, Dr. Johannes Sorts was quite accustomed to waking up suddenly in the middle of the night (or day) because he had stopped breathing in his sleep.

There was a time that this troubled him greatly, but the constant disruptions kept him from sleeping for too long, or worse, dreaming, so he had come to accept them with a bit of gratitude. This was a source of constant concern for the site 17 physician assigned to look after him. Dr. Charlene Robertson had been known to break into his cluttered office/bedroom and coerce him into wearing a CPAP mask so that he didn't suffocate in his sleep.

So when Dr. Sorts woke suddenly to find himself sprawled out in his office chair, he was not immediately concerned. When he read Dr. Robertson's voice insisting that he put his mask on, he was not immediately concerned.

But when a lifeless, sandy hand was clamped over his face to suffocate him, he began to remember certain things. Leaving his musty office sanctuary at Site 19 on short notice to supervise the handling of several SCP artifacts. Setting up in his slightly less musty office sanctuary at Site 17. Turning down invitations to some social gathering in the break room. Sitting down to write a memo about SCP-945's unacceptable temporary containment conditions but opening up a game of Atom Zombie Smasher on the side and…

Dr. Sorts pushed the dusty clay hand away from his face and gasped, "Doctor Robertson! I'm not supposed to be asleep right now!"

"Very well, Johannes. I will be back tonight to be sure you are wearing your mask. Please get back to work," the figure leaning over Johannes did not make any motion to leave, it just hung over him and stared blankly with painted, kohl-rimmed eyes.

"I have work to do right now, and so do you," Dr. Sorts scrambled to straighten his glasses and get out of his seat, nervously stammering to the clay figurine that was wearing Dr. Robertson's white, bloodstained smock, "You're supposed to be in the medical ward handling trauma cases, remember? There's a lot of new SCPs on site right now so we need all medical hands on call in case of an emergency."

Dr. Sorts was going to miss Charlene fussing over him, if one of SCP-945's shawabti replicas was impersonating her in his office now it meant that she was dead. It also meant that if he didn't destroy that replica or keep it under constant supervision it was going to start killing more people, starting with him.

The figurine turned towards the door "Yes, yes I should be there. There are a lot of bad cases there. But… the medical ward has been damaged beyond repair by an explosion. That is why I came to check on you. You skipped your last checkup, you know. Please take your seat and we'll begin." The shawabti produced a tattered black bag and pulled a scalpel from it.

"Wait! Dr. Roberston, you've been exposed to a class A memetic agent. Regulation says that you need to do as I say in order to prevent a virulent memetic outbreak. Listen to me very carefully. We have to pretend we are in… uh… an action movie."

Debriefing: Dr. Johannes Sorts
Excerpt from Interview conducted by O5-█, regarding Dr. Sort's involvement in Incident 234-900-Tempest Night-1.

O5-█: Was it really necessary to convince the replica of Dr. Robertson that she was your love interest in an action movie?

Dr. Sorts: Believe me I wish I had thought of something else off the top of my head. I've been exposed to enough of SCP-945 prior to this clusterfuck, I really didn't want to, you know, improvise a love scene with my colleague's shawabti. I've prepared a full report on that experience by the way. Psych's going to have a field day with it I'm sure.

O5-█: What happened next?

Dr. Sorts: Well, last time we had a really virulent SCP-945 outbreak the replicas overwhelmed an entire site. But they also kept it operational — when it became clear to me that every possible bad thing that could have happened DID happen I decided that regardless of the danger the SCP-945 replicas posed they were more valuable as an ally… er… asset, than otherwise. So I set about collecting as many replicas as I could find running around the site and convincing them to play roles in this movie. It was the only way I could claim any authority over the positions those replicas were taking.

O5-█: How many replicas did you have under your command?

Dr. Sorts: Never more than about two dozen at any one time, but I think we went through about fifty replicas total.

O5-█: How was the replica of Dr. Robertson lost?

Dr. Sorts had someone's red tie wrapped around his forehead, and his shirt was hanging open over his hairy stomach, "Alright men! Let's secure this hallway. I want Johnson, Figgs and Lewis on point! Tiberson, cover me. I'm going in!"

Dr. Robertson's shawabti had tied its smock in a knot across its bust, where it had stuffed two rolls of toilet paper, "Wait! Don't go, I couldn't stand to lose you again!" the clay statue squealed with the enthusiasm of a high school drama student.

"I have to go, baby, we need to secure the medical ward so that you can get back to work on the survivors," Dr. Sorts claimed. He hadn't found any yet, though. Just a batch of replicated security guards who had already armed themselves and were now following his orders and calling him …

"The hall is clear, Commander Badass!" shouted the replica of Lt. Figgs in a much more accurate representation of the late man's voice and mannerisms, "We're go for retaking the medical ward! Let's move, people! Go Go Go Go Go!"

Dr. Sorts and his impromptu squad of clay soldiers burst into the medical ward, which was a sea of bloodstained, writhing flesh, dripping with maggots. One of the replicas pretended to vomit. Dr. Sorts held his breath on the off chance he would wake up.

The ward was filled with an expanding pile of barely human figures anxiously clutching at each other while slurping bits of scattered and burnt flesh against their faces. Dr. Sorts had no idea what kind of SCP would produce a scene like this, but the nightmare before him was content to keep to itself on the other side of the room.

Dr. Robertson's replica touched his shoulder, "This is a serious a SCP-726 outbreak. We need to…"

The replica trailed off with what could only be described as a gasp, although the clay figure never moved its lips or breathed. But crawling out of the pile of squirming bodies was another replica of Dr. Robertson, this one crafted from living flesh and blood. It slurped at the air and twitched its shoulders before disengaging from the rest of its nightmare spawn, flopping across the broken tile floor like a fish out of water towards the group of clay soldiers.

Dr. Robertson's shawabti pushed forward past the guards, grabbing the remains of a chair and rushing forward to bludgeon its rival duplicate, "No! No! My body is to be at rest! MY BODY IS TO BE AT REST!"

Dr. Sorts: She was within the medical ward when I had the other replicas collapse the entrances with explosive charges. I believe her … I'm sorry. I believe the duplicate was… the duplicates were destroyed in the explosion.


Dr. Sorts: I'm sorry, I need … I need another sedative.

O5-█: We'll continue this later.

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