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Chapter Text

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I was dead, and death was cold.

Perhaps everything we'd been told about Hell was wrong; and it was a quiet loneliness rather than the raging inferno of eternal pain.
It didn't seem likely this was Heaven -- but maybe it was a sort of Celestial waiting room as I listened for my number to come up so I could take my place at the Judgment seat and learn my fate.

More likely than either of them, though, was that there was no Heaven and no Hell, and that this was it.

Death was apparently fragments of memory; snatches of voices. Like dreaming when you're half-asleep. A quick decision I'd made replaying somewhat fuzzily in the back of what I still thought of as my mind -- but couldn't remember what it was. Only that it had been hard, unbelievably hard.

I felt detached, in death. Separated from the living by an unbreakable wall through which no words or actions could slip -- if I could have moved, or spoken.

And it was cold.
It was so damn cold.

Had I still been alive, I might have ventured to say that it was cold enough for someone to freeze to death.
As it was, that hardly mattered.

Eventually, I became aware of wherever I was becoming a little brighter, a little warmer.
Voices that were not my own or my memories filtered down toward me.
It took a while to remember how to pluck the sounds from the air and shape them into words, into things with meaning.

"My god, this guy's still alive!"

I thought about correcting them, but they were either also dead; or they were a part of my own experience within death as a product of the deteriorating mind, so it seemed hardly worth the effort.

I let myself fall away from the voices. After so long by myself, though I had ached for another person for much of it, it was jarring to suddenly be faced with them again. I almost wished they would go away, and leave me with the familiarity of my personal afterlife.

The world turned on its axis, and I drifted untethered through death.

Item #: SCP-3120

Object Class: Safe

SCP-3120 was found in the wreckage of a WWII era fighter jet just off the coast of [DATA REDACTED], and was brought into the facilities at [DATA REDACTED] due to the life signs shown though SCP-3120 was encased in ice at the time of discovery.

The next chapter of death felt like waking up.
It felt so much like waking up, I wondered if I was in Hell after all, and this was my punishment for...whatever I did.
My memories were scattered and dismantled, strewn across the fabric of my mind like the pieces of an engine on the ground, waiting to be put back together.

But I remembered what it felt like, to rise out of sleep into the new day.
Hoping to understand more fully, I opened my eyes, blinking against the soft light.

I had previously thought there had been no more light -- not to mention my having eyes to blink at the unexpected brightness of it.

Unsure whether to be glad or afraid at this new development, I wondered if the rest of me was somehow restored, so I sat up.
I swung my legs to hang over the side of the bed I'd been lying on; feeling the soles of my feet hit wood flooring.

The source of the light was a window through which the muffled sounds of a city could be heard, and other than the bed and a dresser, the room was completely bare.

My thoughts felt murky and  unformed, like I had slept too long in the wrong part of the day.

It struck me that perhaps what had felt like the long period of cold could have merely been my dying, and that this was now the afterlife.

The door opened, and a woman with fiery red hair came in.
She was slender, and moved in an elegant way that suggested deadly grace despite her small frame.

Whatever this was, it was definitely not hell.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, big guy." She said, and crossed her arms as she stopped in front of me, feet a shoulder's width apart.

Many things formed on my tongue, too many to say them all -- but one stood out from the rest.

"Steven." I said, the feel of the words in my mouth almost achingly familiar.
"My name is Steven."

Chapter Text

Description: SCP-3120 is a humanoid white male of muscular build approximately six feet in height (1.84 m) and weighing in around 180 lbs (81.6 Kg)...

There wasn't even time for me to contemplate my miraculous recovery before the woman introduced herself as Agent Romanov, and announced she was there to escort me to a physical examination.

"Where am I?"
She told me not to worry about it.
I did anyways.

This could still be death, of course. But perhaps I had never died. That brought up another slew of questions I didn't have the answers to. Maybe I should have been frustrated at that, however the effort of processing everything that was spinning in my mind seemed positively exhausting, and I ignored it for the time being.

I had no illusions that Agent Romanov was there out of courtesy to help me find my way, or that she should be underestimated simply on the basis of gender. She may have looked small and feminine, but she carried herself like a soldier. No, a warrior.

That understood, it was likely in my best interest to meekly stand beside her to follow where she lead.

All of the lights were a brighter white than I remembered lights being, and everything was sleek and electrical with white curving walls and locking door mechanisms I couldn't even pretend to understand. It reminded me of someone I had known -- someone who would have enjoyed the place, though I couldn't remember who that someone would be.

As we walked, my thoughts turned to the question of my location. Romanov was undoubtedly a Russian name; which was hopeful. It could be an Allied facility.

"Is this a military base?"
"You could say that."

Her answers were casually vague; betraying nothing. Not very promising.

I tried a different tack with one of the names stuck in my mind.

"Am I in a Hydra base?"

Had she been not as well-trained as she clearly was, the look Agent Romanov gave me might have been puzzled.
Her tone was as even as ever.

"I told you not to worry about it."

That could mean anything, but I had the sneaking suspicion I was a prisoner of war.

She came to a halt outside one of the doors in the hall. It looked identical to the others, giving me no clues as to what could lie in wait behind it. Sure, she said physical examination, but something about the entire situation was conducive to skepticism.

The door opened, and a nurse gestured me inside.

I looked back at Agent Romanov wondering if she would be joining me.

"This is where I get off. Good luck."

Apparently not.

"Thanks. I appreciate it, Ma'am."

That made the corner of her lips curl into a small, restrained smile.

"Well aren't you the polite one."

...Blond hair, Blue eyes, and speaks with a slight New York accent.

The physical examination started out routine enough; height, weight, temperature, blood pressure, blood and saliva samples. It was a little strange when they asked for a sweat sample, but it quickly got to the point where I had no clue what they could possibly be testing for.

All the same, I removed my shirt so that they could probe my spine with careful fingers; dipped my fingers in various liquids; had my reflection photographed; wrote out the alphabet with my non-dominant hand; and recited a sentence in another language they had written out for me phonetically.

Eventually, the nurses left me alone in the room sitting on the examining table.

To say that I was uneasy would be an understatement. Any guesses I may have had about the location or nature of the facility I was in had all been crossed out as feasible options.

I had absolutely no idea where I was, or what I had to expect in regards to what lay in store for me.

The opaque nature of the responses to any questions I asked didn't make it seem like I would learn much anytime soon, either. When the door opened, and a slightly furtive seeming man with glasses and dark, graying hair entered; I didn't expect to get much from him by way of what was going on.

“I hear you like to be called Steven.” Were his first words to me, as he pulled up a chair and propped his clipboard up on his knee, flipping through the pages.

I coughed out a laugh.

“It's my name.”

He looked at me, expressionless, above the rims of his glasses.

I made the mental note never to play poker against anyone I had thus far encountered in this place.

“Nice to meet you, Steven.”

He flipped a couple more pages, and cleared his throat.

“Now, first off you need to know that not everyone will call you by your preferred name,”

I opened my mouth to ask what that was supposed to mean, but he continued without waiting for a response.

“So you should probably learn to answer to thirty-one-twenty.”

“Excuse me?”

His eyes flicked up to mine again.

“You'll get used to it.”

I wasn't sure we saw eye to eye on that point.

“Now, you were found in the wreckage of a plane crash. Do you have any idea why?”

It had been important. It had been so important. Life or death important, important enough to die for and leave behind...something.

But I could not remember it at all.

“I--...no, sir.”

“What about yourself, do you know who you are?”

That was easier, my shoulders came back and my spine straightened into a semi-attention.

“Captain Steven Rogers, sir.”

“Captain? Of what?”

I smiled wryly.

“You're going to laugh.”

“Try me.”

I sighed.

“I'm Captain America.”

I expected him to laugh. To say I was an impostor, or a liar.

Everything but what came out of his mouth.

“And who would that be?”

SCP-3120 refers to themselves by the name of "Steve Rogers" and seems to be under the impression that they are, or were, a superhero called "Captain America".
SCP-3120 is not to be referred to by his "superhero identity".

Chapter Text

 SCP-3120 shows clear signs of military training, in addition to what is presumed to be a scientifically enhanced physical condition

I don't know how to answer.
He asks me something else, and I don't know how to answer that either.

He asks if I'm okay.
I don't know.

Maybe I hadn't liked that so many people had known me, sometime before my long sleep. Fame was awkward and cumbersome to carry.

For some reason the fact that he has no idea who I am is an infinitely heavier burden, with sharp, slippery edges.
I can't hold onto it.
It slides down through what was left of my comprehension of the situation, and slices me on the way.

I don't fully understand why this is so significant, but I do know that if where I am is indeed a military base, they should know me.

They don't. And for some reason, that scares me.

I know things in fits and bursts, things coming to me that I recognize as the truth about myself.
I don't remember why they should know me but it unsettles me that they don't recognize me all the same.

I ask him where I am, and he tells me someone is here to take me back to my rooms.

I half expected Agent Romanov, but it's a man this time. He's shorter than I am, not as broad in the shoulders. But his movements are silent, quick, and agile. I had no doubts to his ability to hold his own in combat. I found myself wishing I knew why that was the first thing I looked for.

He introduces himself as Agent Barton, and is the first person to shake my hand.
"Got a name?"
"Steve Rogers."
"Good. Hell of a lot easier to remember than a bunch of numbers."

He walks in a self-assured, almost careless way. The way his eyes flick over everything, mentally appraising all we pass belays the notion that he has not lowered his guard, despite appearances.

Asking where I am has yielded little, so instead I ask him what he does here.

"Romanov and I are a strike team. Field work, mostly."

Agent Barton seemed looser lipped than the others I had encountered, though it was also clear that nothing he was telling me was of any serious import.

"Do you enjoy it?"

He shrugged one shoulder.
"Not so much being cooped up when we're off assignment. Stuck here in the ass crack of nowhere. Least there's wireless."

I hesitated a moment before speaking.
"...Radio?"

He snorted out a laugh.
"I like you. I shouldn't, but I do."

It was an odd thing to say, but I didn't have the chance to ask for clarification before Agent Barton spoke again, having halted outside the room I recognized now as the one I'd woken up in.

"We're not scheduled to go out for another month or so. I'll see you round."
"Wait," I had one more question I was fairly certain he would answer. "How long was I out for?"

He worked his jaw back and forth, deciding whether to answer for a few moments.
"After we pulled you out of the ice? Couple months. Before that, I've no idea."

I remembered something -- something important.
"...Is the war still on?"
"There's a lot of wars going on."
Agent Barton jerked his head towards the room, signaling the end of the discussion.

I went in, and the door closed behind me. I heard a series of noises that must have been the locking mechanism.

I sat on the bed and reviewed my information.

There wasn't much.

Rather, my brief stint outside had alerted me to how many gaps in my knowledge there were.
I didn't know where I was, or why I was there. They didn't want me to leave, that was clear. I had no guesses to why. The organization that ran whatever facility I was in was absolutely unknown, and I had no clue as to what Romanov and Barton were Agents for.

I didn't even know the name of the man that had talked to me after the bizarre physical examination -- the examination itself being another thing I didn't understand.

I felt dull, and lost.

However, they had given me something.
I'd been found in the wreckage of a plane crash, and Agent Barton had mentioned pulling me out of ice.
Which explained why what I'd thought was death was so cold, though not why I survived either the plane crash, or being frozen.

Overwhelmed by my lack of information, I went over what I did know.

My name is Steven Grant Rogers.
I'm called Captain America on-duty, when leading troops against the Germans.
I was born in Brooklyn.
I studied art at school.

I mentally repeated those four facts over and over, trying to secure them; and maybe gain new ones in focusing hard enough.

"You've got an MRI scheduled."

I blinked out of my mantra to see Agent Romanov standing in the door, arms crossed over herself.

“Well, an MRI, among other things.” she corrected herself.

I didn't know how long I'd sat there, trying to reinforce that I knew who I was, and as I brushed away the protective mental wall I'd built, I said the first thing that came to my mind.

“What's an MRI?”

She raised her eyebrows at me, seeming half amused.

“Not a big deal. As long as you can lie still for an hour.”

That could be interpreted a myriad of ways, but it seemed best to respond as though I wasn't as nervous as I felt.

“I think I can manage that.”

“Great. On your feet, big guy.”

She had a voice that commanded obedience. I had the feeling it wasn't developed in peaceful situations, and found myself wondering what her story was as we walked down the hall. But I doubted I would make any headway by asking, and kept quiet.

An MRI turned out to be lying on a platform that took me through a long tube, watching parts of the tube spin around me, and listening to the hum.

The rest of the tests were something that felt more natural to me. They had me run on what they called a treadmill, do push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups. Everything was timed and documented by various uniformed attendants, with Agents Romanov and Barton observing from against one wall. At one point, as they had me doing sprints back and forth across the room, I caught a snatch of their conversation.

“I don't know about you,” Agent Romanov was saying “But I'm starting to think we should chuck him at six-eighty-two.”

As I turned to sprint across to the other side of the room, I heard Agent Barton snort.

“That shouldn't be as funny as it is.”

Whatever it was, I missed the joke.

As I headed back their way, Agent Romanov – with her eyes fixed on me – seemed to be fighting back a smile.

It is currently believed that these enhancements are what kept SCP-3120 in a stable condition of suspended animation while frozen.

Chapter Text

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-3120 is allowed free movement through the facilities at site [][][] provided they do not leave the building unsupervised.

"Good news," was Agent Barton's blunt greeting a few days later.

Without any visitors to distract me, I hadn't had much to do besides wait.

Sleeping was often out of the picture, needled with half-memory of my time in the ice, and what had to be my previous life -- full of explosions and screaming and people I'd lost.

But I had gotten a sketchpad and pencils when I asked for them, and was in the middle of a portrait of who I thought might have been my best friend when Agent Barton opened the door.

"...Oh?" I put down my pencil and rubbed at the charcoal on my fingers.

"They've decided you're human."
I didn't think I would ever understand a single word these people said.
"What?"
"Well," he amended "Humanish."
When I gave him a slightly befuddled look he said "Look,consider yourself free to walk about the facilities."

I pondered the implications of this.
"Does this mean you're going to tell me where I am?"

Which was how I found myself walking down the halls, flanked on either side by Agent Barton and Agent Romanov, who had apparently been assigned to me in the absence of a mission in the field.

"Welcome to the Special Containment Procedures Foundation," Agent Romanov said. "Keeping things away from the public that would either cause mass slaughter, hysteria, confusion or generally disrupt the accepted way of life. We have outposts in every part the globe occupied by humans, and many in places that aren't."

"Why am I here?"
She gave me a disdainful look.

"Rogers," -- her use of my surname reinforced my growing thoughts that she had militaristic origins – "You were found in a block of ice. And you're fine. That's not exactly normal, is it?"

"I'm not dangerous." That was a fact I felt sure of. My physical abilities were certainly remarkable, but I had no inclination to use them with any form of malicious intent.

"You've been classified as safe for the time being. As long as you don't do anything stupid--"
"Or start having flames shoot out of your eyes," Agent Barton added, slipping into her sentence between words with practiced ease.

She shot him a look, but it was tired and worn, used often and no longer carrying the meaning it once did.

"--It'll stay that way."

"If I'm considered safe, why am I here?"

Agent Romanov gave me a long, considering look before speaking.

"We also have a sea slug that thinks it's a naturalist called Lord Blackwood. Definitely safe, and definitely not something the public needs to worry about."

"If it's a sea slug," I spoke slowly, running over what she'd said to see if I had missed anything "How do you know it thinks anything out of the ordinary? I mean-- If...sea slugs...think much at all."

"He's telepathic. Speaks through thoughts." Agent Barton seemed almost cheerful at the oddity of the entire situation they were explaining to me.
"He tells god-awful stories, though. I wouldn't recommend extended conversation, he's boring as hell."

I came to the conclusion that learning more about the Foundation wouldn't help my state of confusion as much as could be hoped.

"What's going to happen to me?"
Agent Barton huffed out a laugh.
"A lotta tests, probably. The researchers are keen to get at you."
"Researchers? You mean like the one who spoke with me after the physical?"

Agent Barton leaned to give Agent Romanov a questioning look behind my back.

"Banner," she murmured.
Agent Barton looked at me now, incredulous.
"Banner? You talked to Banner?"
"I--I don't know." I turned to Agent Romanov for support "Did I?"

She gave both Barton and I a small nod.
He whistled.
"Didn't expect that one,"
I prepared to ask why, but he answered it before I even asked.
"Steve, Dr. Banner isn't a researcher. He's in the same boat you are. And SCP's are almost never allowed to interact."

Barton seemed to be considering the idea before speaking again abruptly. "Must've had him looking over your blood work or something. He's a genius, so they indulge him a bit. Despite the--"

"Clint." Romanov's tone was sharp with warning, and his mouth snapped shut.

The wariness in that interaction gave me the feeling that Banner wasn't classified as safe.

The facility looked essentially the same everywhere we walked; crisp, functional.
As blank and utilitarian as the halls I had already been through, not to mention my room.
There was, in all honesty, not much to see.

"Will I ever get to leave?"

Agent Romanov gave me a long, searching look, her own expression blank.
"I don't know."

Of all of them, she was the hardest to read.
All the same, I knew she was lying.
There was no hope of me leaving.

I didn't remember how I'd gotten in the ice -- or even in that plane. I hoped that would come with time; but for now I knew I was wasting my time here.
"What about the war?"

Agent Barton pursed his lips.

"That's the second time you've said that. 'The War', as if there's only the one and not the conflicts in the Middle East, more issues than can be counted in Africa, North Korea preparing for nuclear warfare--"

I cut him off.
"What about the Germans?"

I had kept walking several feet, awaiting an answer,before I realized they were no longer beside me.

Barton was gesticulating in an awkward, checked way that showed he was trying to keep his voice lowered.
Romanov was shaking her head every so often, spitting out the occasional word with her arms cross tightly over her chest.
I turned, retraced my steps back to them.
They both went silent as soon as I would have been within earshot, but were still shooting each other meaningful glances.

I remembered that I'd spent months thawing out. My voice came out quieter than I wanted to.
"Did I miss it?"

Both Agents said nothing.

"Did we win?"

Anxiety rose in my throat, bringing a note of desperation with it.
"Did we beat the jerries? Did we beat Hitler?"
Still, they said nothing. I was feeling short of breath, worry squeezing painfully at my heart.
Finally, Agent Romanov spoke.
"We won."

The relief I felt wasn't near enough to wash away the remaining fear. Something was still wrong.
But I deflated, not half as tense as moments before.
"How long ago?"
They seemed to be trying to find the words.
"Weeks?" I demanded "Months?"

Again, it was Romanov that spoke.
"Years."

Again the force I tried to speak with was strangled by my own apprehension.
"...How long?"

Agent Romanov's eyes met mine.
"A little over seventy."

Chapter Text

Upon questioning, SCP-3120 reports that they were a governmental experiment during the second World War and cites the names of scientists, military personnel, and locations (listed below).
The Foundation has been unable to find any form of documentation for the people, places, or events SCP-3120 makes reference to.

“Look, all we’re saying is that right now we have no way to verify what you’re saying.”
“They documented everything! There have to be files, something!” I wasn’t exactly proud of the desperation in my voice, especially in contrast to the very even, impassive tones of the Agents.
“Steve,” Barton cut me off in an authoritative voice, having struggled to get a word in edgewise for quite some time.
I wanted to keep fighting, to keep insisting that they had to be wrong. I knew they thought I was, at the least, completely delusional thinking I was some sort of superhero from a war almost a decade ago. Thinking it over, I could understand where they got the idea.
It sounded absolutely ridiculous.

Even if it was true.

But going into hysterics would hardly help my case, so I closed my mouth, jaw tightening.

“It’s going to take some time to figure out what happened, okay? Right now there’s too many possibilities to examine them all right now. Sit tight, we’ll figure this out.”

I was half-curious to know what other possibilities there could be – aside from me being insane or somehow having slept for seventy years, but a thought hit me and I took off running to my room.

Both agents yelled after me, voices tinged with apprehension, and I heard their footsteps as they took up chase behind me.

The door of my room had barely swung shut when it burst open again and they were panting behind me.
“Steven, you can’t run off like that,” Agent Romanov was saying, but I wasn’t paying her much attention. Instead, I was hurriedly looking through the portraits I had drawn, names trickling through my memory to latch onto the faces in charcoal.

“Here,” I shuffled the papers I had gathered, and handed them to Agent Barton, affixing a name to each sketch as I did so.
“James Barnes, Abraham Erskine,”
“Steve,” Romanov’s voice was almost gentle, something I hadn’t expected of her. But I couldn’t stop, they had to have as much as they could to help them find out who I was, to realize they knew me.
“Margaret Carter, Howard Stark, Chester Philips, Timothy Dugan,”

I continued until there was a mess of papers in Agent Barton’s hands, and one left in mine.
I swallowed hard, and passed it over. My voice faltered slightly, quieter than before.

“Steve Rogers.”

Time stretched as though I was now feeling the weight of the years I had hadn’t witnessed. The only people I knew to draw were the ones that had disappeared, ripped away from me and erased from the world’s memory, which took much of the interest out of what had previously been my only escape from the waiting. I didn't even know what I was waiting for anymore.

I spent most of my time lying on my bed, stiffly facing the wall.
I won’t deny that half of me was hoping I would fall asleep for as long as I already had.
Maybe that reality would make more sense than this one.

“You can still leave your rooms, you know.” It was Agent Romanov. I got the feeling she’d been checking on me the past couple days.
“Still classified as safe even though you think I’m crazy?”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“Not many other options.”

She laughed in a short, bitter way. “Believe me, Steven. There are a lot of possibilities.”

And then, in response to my earlier questions: “The Foundation has ruled your delusions as harmless.”

Delusions.
That was comforting.

I didn’t need to be looking at her to know she was standing at the center of my room, arms folded across her chest and chin ever so slightly angled upward.

“Come on,” she said finally.

I sighed. I didn’t exactly feel like going for a walk through the blank halls of the Foundation.

“I don’t really—” She interrupted me.
“I know a thing or two about clearing one’s head. Let’s see if we can wear you out.”

I looked over my shoulder at her, slightly puzzled, and was slightly surprised to see that she was in what was clearly clothing for exercise – slightly less clothing than I was used to, admittedly. At that, I flushed slightly, not exactly sure where to look.
If she noticed, she pretended not to, and jerked her head in the direction of the door.

“It’ll be good for you,” she assured me, somewhat monotone as usual.

This was, perhaps, her way of showing support in the face of having been forgotten completely, as though I had never existed.
So I pushed myself up, and followed her down to the gymnasium where I had done the physical tests. However this time, there weren’t any researchers with clipboards, no one taking notes.
In fact, we were the only two in the room.

As soon as we entered, Agent Romanov began jogging around the track. I followed her, matched her pace. She had a good stride, and didn’t seem too terribly out of breath by the time she peeled off from me to stretch for a minute or two before jumping and catching hold of a set of uneven bars for gymnastics.

Once my lungs began to burn, I did push ups. Then pull ups. Then sit ups.
I hadn’t noticed Romanov’s eyes on me, but she must have been paying attention because as soon as I finished a set and she was once again on the ground, she tossed something at me. I caught it out of reflex.
“Athletic tape,” was her short explanation. “Figured you might want to take a go at the bags.”

If there was anything to be said about Agent Romanov, perceptiveness would certainly come to mind.

We were almost never doing the same thing, but there was something companionable about it anyways.
It was nice not to be alone.

Hours later, when she escorted me back to my rooms — both of us somewhat breathless, slicked with sweat, and flushed from our workout – I went to thank her. For caring, for getting me out of my room.
“Agent Romanov, I—”
She didn’t give me a chance to finish.
“Don’t mention it.”

And so I said nothing.
She nodded to me once, and turned on her heel.

She had been right. I was more focused on the burn in my muscles than the pangs in my heart, and I fell asleep quickly.

It became routine for us to work out together; at least for a few hours before nightfall.

I found myself thinking I would miss her silent presence when she and Agent Barton were once again called into action.

Excerpt of an interview between SCP-3120 and Agent Coulson:
AGENT COULSON: State your preferred name, please?
SCP-3120: Captain Steven Rogers.
AGENT COULSON: And you’ve heard that we don’t have any records of anyone with that name from the time frame and location you’ve given us?
SCP-3120: Yes, sir.
AGENT COULSON: Can you explain that to me, Steven?
SCP-3120: No, sir. I don’t know why that is.
AGENT COULSON: Or anyone you’ve mentioned.
[papers rustling]
Let’s see; “Howard Stark”, “Margaret Carter”, “Sargent James ‘Bucky’ Barnes”, “Johann Schmidt”, “Doctor Abraham Erskine” — none of them exist, Steven.
SCP-3120: I—I don’t know why there isn’t anything about them on record.
AGENT COULSON: Do you think it’s possible that you’re wrong about who you are and what happened before the plane you were found in crashed into the ice?
SCP-3120: No, sir. No, sir; I don’t.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from official Foundation Personnel files: Agent Natasha Romanov

Natasha Romanov's crimes have been pardoned under the condition that she remain in the service of the Foundation for the duration of her working life. Any attempts to leave the Foundation or escape this contract will result in a restoration of her criminal record and any and all punishments associated.

It was better, after a while.

Agent Romanov's insistence that I get out of my rooms was almost irritating at first -- it didn't feel like there was much for me out there. Which wasn't to say that I didn't benefit from the physical exertion taking my mind off what had happened, but her persistence in dragging me out, even on bad days, was sometimes hard to deal with.

But I grew to appreciate the gesture as I became a little more familiar with some of the other staff, as I became more comfortable in my surroundings.

I didn't think I would ever be fully comfortable.
But I got used to it.

Agent Barton invited me to watch sports with him; Coulson offered me friendly nods; Miss Potts -- who I assumed was some sort of secretary -- greeted me cheerfully and ask how I was when she passed me in the halls.

And Agent Romanov and I began sparring together.
I underestimated her, despite feeling like I had appropriately adjusted for her clear combat training.
It was almost as if she wanted it that way; catching people off their guard.
I decided very quickly that Agent Romanov worked best under circumstances she could easily predict the outcome of; turn the tables to her favor whenever it suited her to do so.

She certainly managed to surprise me almost every match.

It was after one such match that we encountered Miss Potts, sitting at what I had decided was a front desk of sorts.

"Nat, you'll wear him out if you keep this up!" She called out, almost as if she was scolding Romanov.
I expected her to bristle at the familiarity but she smiled at the other woman.

"I don't think that's possible, Pepper."

Miss Potts crossed to us, and took my face in her hands to turn it in order to examine the proofs of my exertions with Agent Romanov.
I had come to expect the tactile nature of Miss Potts, but it was still surprising in context of such a businesslike group of people.

"Steve, you shouldn't let her slap you around so much."

"I'm trying, Miss Potts," I coughed out a laugh, feeling somewhat self conscious under her fingers and eyes.

"Look, you're bleeding." Her thumb swiped across my left eyebrow and came away smeared red.
She gave the other woman a feigned look of heavy disapproval as I gingerly prodded the area she had just touched.

Agent Romanov shrugged.
"He'll be fine."

That would have seemed amazingly cold, but for the fact that it was true. By nightfall, my raw knuckles healed over, any bruises along my ribs faded away.

Agent Romanov referred to it as an "accelerated healing factor", and claimed she was helping the Foundation learn about its properties by knocking the wind out of me on a daily basis.

Agent Barton referred to it as "Bitchin' " and claimed she was a sociopath.

Miss Potts gave me a small shake of her head though she was smiling.

Any further comments that may have been offered on the subject were delayed by a loud voice coming from the direction of the large entrance hall behind us.

“Pepper! Just who I was looking for.”

Miss Potts went from affectionately concerned to familiarly exasperated more smoothly than I would have thought possible.

“Hello, Mr. Stark.”

The man approaching was well dressed, with carefully styled hair and a goatee. He was on the shorter end, but from the fast, confident clip at which he was walking, you wouldn't think he was aware.

“Maneater,” He gave a nod to Agent Romanov, who was making little effort not to let her annoyance leak through.

He gave me a disinterested once over.

“Fresh meat?”

“Something like that,” was Agent Romanov's dry response.

Mr. Stark seemed to be waiting for more information, but just smiled at her when she didn't offer anything more, apparently trying to charm her out of her taciturn state.

It didn't work.

After being so used to seeing the same people, it was bizarre to see someone new, in civilian clothes. And far from the reserved nature of the staff of the Foundation.

“Now, Pepper, I was wondering if I could--”

He stopped as Agent Coulson approached Agent Romanov to lean in and speak to her in a low voice.

She sighed and swore wearily in Russian before quickly falling in step behind him, both of them just short of a jog as they left.

“What's going on?” Miss Potts called out after them, looking worried.

“Share it with the class!” Stark added, throwing a grin my way.

I'm wasn't sure I found his taste of humor appealing, and didn't return it.

“Thor again,” Romanov shot back just as she left the room.

“Oh dear,” sighed Miss Potts. “We should probably get under cover.”

Her words were serious, the situation they suggested dangerous. But the way she said it was more as if there was an irritating fly that wouldn't leave her alone, rather than the implicated issues tied to any SCP that was causing troubles.

“Steve, why don't you head back to your room.” She smiled at me in a preoccupied way before amending her suggestion “No, never mind. You could run into him. Here, come with me.”

She seemed completely unconcerned as she led me towards what I assumed must be a lock down room for Foundation Staff.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Mr. Stark's dress shoes squeaked on the tile as he jogged to catch up with us. “Did she say Thor? I just redid his containment unit last week.”

Miss Potts' response was slightly edged, though she smiled over her shoulder.

“And apparently it's working as well as all the others. I suppose he hasn't got the message yet that it isn't supposed to be possible to break out of anything you design.”

I coughed back a laugh. This wasn't a side of her I was used to seeing. Though she was amiable and often teasing, there seemed to be a certain level of sharpness reserved for Stark.

I couldn't say I blamed her; I could see how he would have that effect on people.

Mr. Stark was already pacing, apparently lost in thought by the time the heavy door thudded to a close behind us, sealing the three of us inside a small room with nothing but a table and chairs by way of furnishings or decoration.

He pulled a notepad out of the inside pocket of his suit and began to scrawl calculations, occasionally muttering to himself.

“Could I talk to Grumpy?” he asked abruptly after filling several pages within the course of a few minutes.

Miss Potts sighed, and responded in a flat voice.

“No, you may not speak with Dr. Banner. The Foundation--”

He cut her off, apparently already abandoning the idea.

“--is not in a habit of letting any SCP have outside visitors, I know.”

Leaned against the wall, I raised questioning eyebrows at Miss Potts.

“Mr. Stark does consulting work for the Foundation, particularly concerning containment procedures.” she said by way of explanation.

The other man looked up, as if remembering we were present after being sucked into his analysis and extended a hand to me.

“Tony Stark,”

The way he said it was formal; enough so to make me realize he was doing it out of habit and social grace more than in interest in my person.

I took it anyways.

“Steve Rogers,”

He nodded; formalities finished, and returned to his notepad.

Miss Potts rolled her eyes and cast me an apologetic look, as if feeling personally responsible for his disinclination towards conversation.

I didn't mind.

Given what I had heard from him already, I doubted he would improve upon acquaintance.

It could only have been about half an hour before I heard the door mechanism unlocking, and it swung open to reveal Agent Romanov.

I was the first to venture to speak.

“Everything okay?”

She nodded.

“He's not too difficult to deal with, except for the fact that he keeps breaking containment. Come on Rogers, I'll walk you back.”

I matched her stride as we walked to my room.

“Mr. Stark doesn't seem to like you very much,” I said eventually, after some deliberation as to whether I should comment on it or not.

She snorted bitterly.

“We have history,” was the blunt response. “From before I was with the Foundation.”

I looked down at her, stopping in front of my room.

“What did you do before working here?”

Her answering smile was enigmatic, and strange in a way that gave me the chills.

“Another day, Rogers.”

Additional Notes: Agent Romanov is efficient, sometimes to the point of overkill.

Recommended to always travel with another agent when out on missions.

Addendum: Agent Romanov has been permanently partnered with Agent Clinton Barton and stationed at site [][][][] when they are inactive.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from mandatory bi-annual psych evaluation: Agent Natasha Romanov

AGENT COULSON: You've been spending a lot of time with 3120 lately, is that correct?

AGENT ROMANOV: He's a good sparring partner.

The guy they called Thor broke containment on a fairly regular basis -- the Foundation clearly understood a lot less about him than they did even me. But he was apparently fairly easy to restrain; they just couldn't get a handle on how to keep him that way.

It vexed Mr. Stark to no end that he couldn't put his finger on the problem and fix it immediately. And, I will admit, I found that satisfying, in a way. He was so self-assured -- and for good reason -- that it was strangely pleasing to see him so irritated.

From the tight, sly smiles Miss Potts and Agent Coulson exchanged over his head as he muttered and cursed to himself, I knew I wasn't the only one.

But Thor wasn't a problem, not really. Not compared to the other things they had in containment.

Something I learned when the entire facility went on high alert in the middle of an otherwise calm afternoon.

I had been playing cards with Barton and Coulson (despite my earlier conviction not to -- they'd talked me into it eventually) when an alarm started blaring suddenly.

They both looked up as if expecting answers to come from the ceiling, something that made more sense as the PA system kicked in.

"Containment breach on level six, all agents required, SCP-8977 is out of containment and heading for level seven, all levels will be on lockdown until 8977 is again in containment. Repeat, Keter class SCP is out of containment, all agents required."

They didn't even spare breath to comment, curse, or explain the situation more fully before they were on their feet and running their hands over themselves in a tactile check of their weaponry before they headed toward the door of the small staff room we had claimed for card games.

Having only a vague idea of what was going on, I asked for clarification.

Coulson paused, as though remembering I was there after having gone into an autopilot response to the alarm.

"Go back to your room, Steve."

And then he and Agent Barton were gone, presumably to go assist.

When I peered around the door moments later, they were nowhere in sight.

"Rogers!"

I turned to find Agent Romanov, solemn and dutiful, striding up behind me.

"What are you doing?" She demanded, but continued before I could offer up any form of defense. "Get back to your room."

"Maybe I could help," I began, testing the waters.

"No," her response was immediate, heavy with finality.

"Go on." She jerked her head in the direction of my room.

I hesitated. If there was something dangerous going on, I didn't want to sit out and watch.

"Go." she snapped, and began jogging in the opposite direction.

I paused a moment longer before deciding I would rather feel useless than jeopardize my apparent good standing.

The halls were eerily devoid of activity, though I could hear shouting from distant corners of the facility.

I was rounding the corner to my rooms when one such uproar pulled my attention to what was happening behind me.

I turned, facing forward once more, to find a loose-limbed, translucent white humanoid creature launching itself through the air at me.

I was lucky my reflexes were good, because though my first instinct was to stare in disbelief, I found myself pulling back an arm for a punch regardless of the shock and fear.

My fist connected with its jaw, slamming it off-course of its leap and into the wall. It made a soft, broken squealing to the point where I almost felt bad for it. Until it began awkwardly scrabbling across the floor -- seemingly still somewhat dazed -- to reach my feet with clawed hands and teeth bared.

I had just jumped back when I heard a shot behind me and it collapsed.

"Dammit Rogers, I told you to go to your rooms!" Agent Romanov said briskly, shooting me a glare as she brushed past.

I could hear the rapid, anxious beating of my heart, echoing loud in my ears and I felt out of breath, though the level of physical exertion had been low.

"I was..." I said, gesturing vaguely at my door as she knelt next to the creature and examined the entry wound.

"Is it dead?" I ventured after another moment or two of silence.

"Nope." Barton said, coming up behind me and adding a muttered "More's the pity," under his breath once he stopped, reholstering his gun.

"Recon should be here in a few," he announced and Agent Romanov nodded, standing.

"You got him good, Clint." She was shaking her head as she joined us.

"Course I did." His reply was casually self-assured.

She turned to me, and jabbed me with an extended finger, locking eyes in a steely glare.

"Next time I tell you to get back to your rooms, do it. This hero shit isn't your job, Rogers."

I wondered if she had used the term 'hero' as an intentional mockery. Either way, the effect was intimidating.

Agent Barton threw his arm over her shoulder.

"Ah, c'mon, Nat; just admit you thought it was cool and leave him alone."

She snorted, and turned on her heel -- effectively dislodging his arm in the process -- to stalk away.

"She thought it was cool," Clint assured me as we both watched her retreating form.

A couple days later, she leaned against the door frame of my room and watched me sketch for several minutes before speaking.

"Where'd you get agility of that caliber?"

She must have watched the tape, and sounded genuinely curious.

Maybe not in the question, or the answer itself.

But in me.

I couldn't exactly name why that idea was so appealing to me.

AGENT COULSON: What about the whole 'Captain America' business? Do you think that's real?

AGENT ROMANOV: It's real to him.

Chapter Text

Excerpt from mandatory bi-annual psych evaluation: Agent Clinton Barton

AGENT COULSON: Do you think it's wise to be getting so close to an SCP?

AGENT BARTON: You're saying that like you don't play cards with us.

Agent Coulson and I were returning from lunch when we found ourselves approaching Mr. Stark in the hall, talking with an Agent whose wife was clearly expecting, judging by their conversation.

“Of course I think Anthony's a great name, but don't feel obligated. Really, I'm joking.”

Agent Coulson and I exchanged looks as Stark continued.

“But, you know, I always liked the name Jarvis,”

The weary voice of Ms. Potts came from behind us, accompanied by the staccato click of her heels on the tile.

“Mr. Stark, I feel morally obligated to tell you that Jarvis is a terrible name for a child.”

He turned, giving her a deeply wounded look.

“Excuse me, did I ask for your opinion?”

She ignored him and stopped by Agent Coulson's elbow, holding several files that she now flipped open to show him.

“Phil, I was wondering--”

“Phil?” Stark cut in. “His first name is 'Agent'.”

“Leave them be, Stark,” I sighed, having reached the limit of my patience with his snarky comments.

He turned on me now, and his tone became oily and self-satisfied.

“Oh, that's right, you're a Captain, aren't you? You absolutely have the right to order everyone around!

“Stop moving your mouth if you want to keep it functional, Stark.”

The hall was now getting rather crowded as Agent Romanov joined us, stopping next to me in what I now thought of as her characteristic position: arms folded across her and exuding challenge from her posture.

He opened his mouth, and obviously changed what he was going to say.

“Getting a little protective of the Captain here, aren't you?”

She didn't miss a beat as she turned on her heel and shot her response over her shoulder.

“That's my job, Stark.”

“You know...”

I was never sure how she managed to end up in my doorway without me noticing, but she did.

And I jumped every time.

I tried to regather what was left of my composure, coughed and responded in what I hoped was casual.

“What?”

When I looked up at her, Agent Romanov's lips were twisting into a smile – clearly my efforts had not gone unnoticed.

She heaved a sigh as she pushed off from where she was leaned against the wall and came into my room, kicking her feet and eyes to the floor.

“Maybe you should draw something else.”

Her eyes flicked pointedly to my overflowing sketchbooks, the papers splayed across my desk, the drawing currently in my hand.

All of them covered in the charcoal representations of everything lost to me, of people who I would apparently never get back. I had thought I was immortalizing them, but Agent Romanov clearly had other ideas regarding their helpfulness in my coping with the surreality of my situation.

She leveled her gaze to meet mine.

“Just a thought.”

Agent Barton – Clint – and I had taken up sparring. Boxing, mostly.

It was more a chance for conversation than anything; he was a talker when he got going, and it tended to drive his partner up the wall when she wasn't in the mood.

“Would you say we're friends, Clint?” I asked, narrowly dodging his wicked right hook.

“Yeah, probably.” He danced back, examining me carefully.

My original assessment had been correct; he was attentive and quick when fighting. Not much escaped his notice. Clint preferred to work long-range, but he was certainly not bad by any means at hand-to-hand. He'd certainly given me a run for my money after weeks (months?) of getting used to Agent Romanov's style. They were certainly similar, but different enough to make it a refreshing change.

“I'm guessing that's not exactly recommended,” I said, going in for a quick jab at his jaw.

He blocked it and shrugged.

“What about Agent Romanov?”

She was hard enough to read that I honestly had no idea how she felt about me.

Clint snorted in response.

“What?”

He gave me a smirk.

“She definitely thinks of you as a friend.” the implications of his tone were confusing. He laughed at the bewildered expression I must have been making and stooped to grab his water bottle, taking a swig before clarifying.

“The kind of friend you like to stare at.”

“Uh, what?”

He screwed the cap back on and approached me again, musing, “Well, I suppose you are facing the other way when she's checking out your ass.”

My momentary confusion gave him just enough time to land a hefty punch that I found myself on the mat, flat on my back.

Stark wasn't exactly one to flatter the firmness of my belief in my memories, that I was who I said I was.

And he was nothing if not vocal.

I would be lying if I said it wasn't discouraging, if I didn't question myself. It got to the point where I didn't even try to hide the fact that I was very obviously avoiding him. He noticed, of course, and couldn't resist parting shots more often than not.

I tried to block it out – I didn't need more confusion than I already had.

I usually ended up seated on the edge of my bed, head in my hands as I tried to clear out the cluttered mental space of my memories.

Once, as I sat there, I felt the bed dip as someone sat next to me.

Agent Romanov, by the light hand that was laid across my arm.

“Steve...”

Her tone was soft, almost comforting. A rare gift coming from her.

The question that had been rattling around my mind suddenly seemed alright to share.

“What if I'm wrong?”

I looked up at her, and she met my eyes. There was a soft note of concern in hers.

“I mean it,” I said, suddenly feeling as though I had to explain this wasn't just a reaction to Stark, wasn't a just small discouragement. It had been plaguing me for a long time, and it didn't seem to be going away.

“What if,” I tried to find the words for the coiled discomfort deep in my gut. “What if everything I remember is wrong? What if it's all just brain damage from the time in the ice? What if I'm just crazy?”

I slowly made my way to the thought which bothered me the most, that had tugged at my slight feeling of peace, and unsettled me as I tried to sleep.

“You're not crazy,” Agent Romanov said, as matter of fact as if she was stating the time of day.

I huffed out a laugh and looked at my hands, loosely clasped between my spread knees.

“You don't know that.”

Her quiet words made me look at her with shock, confusion, relief.

“Because I remember it, too.”

AGENT COULSON: What about Agent Romanov?

AGENT BARTON: Are you seriously suggesting I try and tell her what she should do?

Chapter Text

Excerpt from official Foundation personnel files: Agent Clinton Barton

 Agent Barton has uncommonly exceptional eyesight, with a slight inclination towards far-sightedness; useful considering his specialization in long-range firearms, facts that should be taken into account when sending Strike Team Delta out into the field. 

"...What?" I breathed. I knew I had heard her correctly, but that didn't explain why she'd said it. Not after there had been so much confusion regarding my memories. Not after this long...

She stopped herself from responding immediately, looking bewildered. From someone who usually didn't have any clear emotion, it was jarring to see her like that.

"I don't know why I didn't mention it before..." 

She seemed genuinely puzzled with the issue, as though trying to grasp at something that was no longer there.

"Agent Romanov." I was unable to keep the desperation out of my voice. "What do you remember?" Like one craved food, water and companionship, I craved confirmation. A reassurance after so much doubt.

She stared at me in turn for several minutes before speaking, and I sat in anxious relief as she told me about my life.

Clint brought it up himself – casually mentioned watching the cartoon when he was a kid. Coulson had apparently collected all the trading cards and was subsequently frustrated when he realized he had no idea where they'd gone. 

Mr. Stark complained to the infamous Doctor Banner – who in turn mentioned it later to Clint – that part of the reason he found me so irritating was his father's absolute obsession with finding me in the ice. I hadn't before connected the two Starks in my mind, but having seen it the resemblance was uncanny. 

None of them could explain why they hadn't said something before. They all looked vaguely confused and mumbled an apology instead.

I figured I would worry about that later – for now I was just comforted by the fact that there were others who knew. I didn't think I had ever realized how important the knowledge of the stability of your memories was until it was in question. We didn't even talk about it, really. Just knowing made a difference. And the knowing made it easier to be with them, to try and understand my situation in the context of the people I had come to associate it with.

I didn't feel like I was being humored by their company and was able to accept that they may enjoy my presence as much as I did theirs. I found myself privy to increasingly more instances of what were conversations of a personal sort they wouldn't have had before their admissions that they remembered me.

I was able to hear a little more about their lives, in addition to the lives of others. 

"Won't be long now." Clint said in a conspiratorial tone, eyes focused on a point over my shoulder across the open area that served as a sort of mess hall.

Agent Romanov leaned to see around me and snorted. I looked over my shoulder, craning to try and see whatever the two Agents were fixated on. As it was late afternoon, the room was almost completely empty, except for Mr. Stark and Miss Potts having what looked to be a rather explosive conversation.

Something that was a rather regular occurrence, honestly.

“What?” I turned back to Clint, who had narrowed his eyes in speculation, still fixated on that unknown point behind me.

Agent Romanov sighed and downed the last of her bottle of water, throwing back her head before speaking, voice dripping with skepticism.

"Clint is under the impression that Stark and Potts have a thing going on.”

“Not yet,” Clint corrected, turning momentarily to her to raise a finger between them. “But soon.”

She rolled her eyes in response.

"Look at them! Old married couple already!” he protested, still looking across the room.

"You know that arguing as though you've been married to someone you hate for fifty years is not actually a good start to a stable relationship, right?” she asked Clint, who appeared to be ignoring her.

She snorted again and stood from the table, addressing me as she did:"Come on, Rogers. Meet you in the gym in ten?”

 I glanced at her as she left – I had the feeling she had been a dancer at some point, considering the smoothness with which she moved.

When I turned back to Clint, he was looking at me now, slightly amused. "You two have the most bizarrely round-about courtship I have ever seen.”

 “I-- we're not...?”

“Aaand you didn't even know it was happening. Yup, bizarre.” He took a swig of water, ending the discussion, flapping his hand at me in a shooing motion.

His words stuck in my mind even as I made my way down to the gym where I knew Agent Romanov would already be waiting; she was extremely prompt. I had the whimsical thought that I shouldn't be examining the nooks and crannies of our interactions while in her presence. She had the kind of eyes that made you wonder if she could figure out exactly what you were thinking by looking at you.

She was standing in the middle of the largest mat-- the one we used for sparring-- and was taping up her knuckles.

 I smiled weakly at her, unsure if I should take Clint's comment seriously.

She tossed me the tape and stretched as I wrapped my own hands and took a moment to shake out a few kinks in my shoulders before giving her a nod.

She'd been increasingly acrobatic the last few sessions, and clearly didn't plan on changing that anytime soon as she leapt up and somehow ended up across my shoulders, an arm around my neck as she used her momentum to try and throw me. I rolled with the force, and we ended up on the ground.

 I pinned her with my forearm across her shoulders, one knee pressed across her thighs.

We were very close.

She raised her eyebrows at me.

Very close.

Was Clint right? Was the progression of our friendship a convoluted courtship?

She and Clint were undoubtedly the ones who I spent the most time with, and she had loosened up more upon further acquaintance, acting a little more lighthearted in my company.

I remembered a moment a few days before, when I had opened a door for her and she'd looked at Clint to ask him why he never did that for her.

I didn't remember what he had said, but she'd nudged my arm with hers and looked up from under hooded eyes with a small smile before she spoke to me.

"Never change, Rogers. Especially not into anyone like this asshole.”

The latter comment was directed at her partner, who bit out an indignant "Hey!”, and the moment had been lost to familiar banter between them.

She was soft and warm beneath me, and I could feel the rise and fall of her ribcage under my arm.

Her eyes flicked between mine, as emotionless as ever.

The moment didn't last long, as she apparently got bored and did something I would not have been able to explain if my life depended on it: she reversed our positions, effectively flipping me onto my back.

Had that been an actual fight, I had no doubts my hesitation would have cost me my life.

She stood almost immediately.

“Match.”

I stood and shook my head, trying to clear it – somewhat embarrassed that I had let a gossipy comment affect me so much.

Knowing Clint, he was probably just pulling one over on me as a joke.

Agent Barton will occasionally make the claim that his exceptional eyesight extends to an extraordinary perceptiveness bordering on psychic ability.

This is false.

Chapter Text

SCP-096 is a humanoid creature measuring approximately 2.38 meters in height. Subject shows very little muscle mass, with preliminary analysis of body mass suggesting mild malnutrition. Arms are grossly out of proportion with the rest of the subject's body, with an approximate length of 1.5 meters each. Skin is mostly devoid of pigmentation, with no sign of any body hair.

"Code Lima alert, SCP- oh-nine-six has escaped containment, all agents not needed should evacuate the site immediately."

It had been a while since there had been any containment breaches, let alone one as serious as this one sounded.

Of course the announcements over the PA system never gave any instructions for people like me, but I knew what they would have said: go back to your containment unit.

Which is what I should have done.

But I let that tense twisting in my gut – the pained useless feeling – get in the way.

Especially now that I knew it wasn't just me imagining myself a hero, I felt duty bound to help.

The only real problem was that I knew were I to ask how I could help, I would be sent back to my rooms. And once I was honest with myself, I had no idea what I could possibly be dealing with by putting myself in such a situation.

 SCP-096 is normally extremely docile... however, when someone views SCP-096's face, whether it be directly, via video recording, or even a photograph, it will enter a stage of considerable emotional distress. SCP-096 will cover its face with its hands and begin screaming, crying, and babbling incoherently. Approximately one (1) to two (2) minutes after the first viewing, SCP-096 will begin running to the person who viewed its face (who will from this point on be referred to as SCP-096-1).

I was mainly wandering the halls by that point, hoping to run into someone I knew that would let me give some assistance. It seemed a waste not to use my abilities, something I knew some of the agents had thought before, judging by how they looked at me.

However, as the evacuation notice went off, I didn't run into many people. The agents that did pass me were in such a hurry to leave that they barely had time to look at me, let alone realize I wasn't one of them.

 Documented speeds have varied from thirty-five (35) km/h to [ ][] km/h, and seems to depend on distance from SCP-096-1. At this point, no known material or method can impede SCP-096's progress. The actual position of SCP-096-1 does not seem to affect SCP-096's response; it seems to have an innate sense of SCP-096-1's location.

 I rounded a corner to see Agent Coulson through the doorway at the end of the hall, standing in the middle of one of the large atriums. He had his gun out, pointed straight at me.

“Coulson, it's me!” My hands shot up, palms toward him.

To my surprise, he didn't lower his gun. But he didn't follow when I moved out of the line of fire, so I assumed he wasn't aiming for me.

“Get out of here, Steve.” He said, and his voice was flat, serious.

“I can help,” I started trying to explain, but it sounded extremely juvenile now.

“Now, Cap.” There was hint of panic in the two words that was extremely unlike him. Coulson was the one who was always calm, always in control.

“I--”

Whatever I may have said to try and convince him was forgotten as the wall exploded outward in front of me.

I fell into a crouch, covering my head out of reflex as the debris showered across my shoulders.

The dust was still settling when I looked up, coughing as I inhaled the gritty air. A strange sobbing sound was coming from where the hole in the wall was – and I saw a figure hunched over itself, long skeletal limbs wrapped around its head as if hiding its face.

I wasn't sure if it had noticed me – or Coulson for that matter.

But then it looked up at him and screamed.

Coulson began firing, and I could see its head jerk back as he loaded bullets into its skull. But it straightened, scrambling over the broken wall, and I could see it was going to attack him. It seemed to be trying to cover its face still, beginning to run at an awkward gait as it stumbled over the debris.

Bullets may not have been able to stop it, but I could try to hold it back.

Leaping out from my place on the floor, I wrapped my arms around its neck and pulled back hard. It shrieked, shrill and broken in my ear and clawed at my hold on it, scratching long bloody marks down my skin. I gritted my teeth, and tried to walk backward with it awkwardly bent towards me.

For a moment, I thought I had it. It seemed to be going limp against me, and I was just looking over its bony shoulder to flash Coulson a smile when it somehow managed to break free of my hold and knock me on my back before sprinting towards its original target. Coughing as I tried to draw in breath, I pulled myself up to my hands and knees to try again, but it had reached impossible speeds and I no longer had any hope of catching it.

Coulson's clip had run out of bullets, and he slowly lowered his gun and stood there, waiting.

Why didn't he do anything?

I half expected time to slow down as Coulson began screaming, but it didn't.

I saw everything clearly regardless.

I watched in shock, unable to move, to do anything.

Strong hands gripped me under my arms from behind, dragging me backwards. When I looked blankly over my shoulder, it was Clint who had me in his firm grip, eyes screwed shut as he stumbled backwards, pulling us both around the corner.

He propped me up against the wall, where he opened his eyes, blinking against the light as he stood bent over in front of me, hands on his knees.

I felt like I had a head injury, dazed and confused.

“Why didn't he do anything, Clint?” Talking felt strange, slow and thick.

He met my eyes for a moment before he just shook his head, and then let it drop, not even bothering to support its weight anymore.

 Upon arriving at SCP-096-1's location, SCP-096 will proceed to kill and [DATA EXPUNGED] SCP-096-1. 100% of cases have left no traces of SCP-096-1. SCP-096 will then sit down for several minutes before regaining its composure and becoming docile once again.

“What happened?”

Agent Romanov had been sitting next to me on my bed for quite some time – I wasn't sure how long. She hadn't said anything, waiting for me to speak first. I had the feeling she knew I would ask her, that she knew I trusted her to give me a straight answer.

“Another SCP decided it would be fun to let oh-nine-six out of containment. Coulson was standing right there when the door opened.” Her voice dropped lower. “He didn't have a chance.”

“What other SCP?”

“Calls himself Loki. Likes a good prank. Or at least, that's what he says. I don't find his sense of humor appealing.”

Neither did I.

I sighed heavily, trying to let out some of the weight that had settled deep inside my bones, scrubbing a hand through my hair.

“I should have done something more,” I muttered. “I failed him.”

Agent Romanov snorted. She wasn't exactly the sympathetic type.

“It's hardly your fault.”

“You watched the tape, didn't you?”

“Of course.”

“Then you know that isn't true.”

Her frustration with my guilt was tangible; I could almost feel her rolling her eyes.

“Steve, we've shot oh-nine-six with the heaviest artillery we have, and it didn't stop. There's no reason why you should have been able to hold him back. He's unstoppable in every meaning of the word.”

She met my gaze for as long as I let her, before I turned to look the other way. I appreciated her sentiments, but only to a certain point.

“You don't have to lie to me, Agent Romanov. We both know that I should have been more alert. This is my burden. I just have to take it.”

"Oh, give it a rest, Rogers."

She laid a none-too-gentle hand on my cheek and turned me back to her as she snapped out her response. Her mouth and brows had flattened into exasperated lines.
She relaxed somewhat, sighing to calm herself before she raised her eyebrows, daring me to contradict her once again, and leaned in closer.

From what I remembered, I only had two frames of reference to go by.
But I didn't exactly need more than that to recognize that Agent Romanov was one hell of a kisser.

Chapter Text

MEMO TO ALL PERSONNEL AT SITE [][][]: SCP-3120 has shown some symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder following the incident of [][]/[][]/[][]13. It is recommended that they be monitored carefully to determine the extent of the effects on 3120's psychological well-being.

"I give up. I'm never going to understand anything."

I said it casually, as though it wasn't as significant as it was. But everything was so strange, it hardly seemed to matter how I said it.

"It's called 'the morning after', Rogers." Agent Romanov -- Natasha -- replied somewhat offhandedly from her position sprawled on my chest. Her words were indistinct with fatigue, excusable considering the hour, only just falling under the label of morning.

She had an arm flung across my chest, and her grip pulled tight when she readjusted herself against me, ankles interlocking with mine as she tangled our legs together.

Natasha hummed a soft, contented noise as I settled my arm around her waist after a moment of hesitation.

She inhaled deeply, before letting it out, quick and heavy, the warm air playing across my neck.

"Go back to sleep, Steve."

Despite the guilt weighing heavy on my mind, it was a lot easier than I expected to do as she said with her comforting warmth nestled against me.

I woke again to find her pushing herself up, and already I missed the feel of her skin against mine.

"You have to leave."

It wasn't even a question.

"Mhmm," She was quick and businesslike in her movements as she pulled her uniform on once more before sitting on the edge of the bed.

And there it was, the acknowledgement that the feeling of hopeful intimacy that I had felt when we had lain together had been something out of consolation, nothing more.

"Doesn't mean I won't be back, though."

Or maybe not.

"In case you're wondering," Leaning on one hand, Natasha looked over her shoulder to give me a sly smile as she continued,

"Nobody's going to ask questions. I had surveillance duty for your room last night. And," she heaved a dramatic sigh and gave my chest two brisk pats.

"I'm pretty sure you didn't leave."

She smirked at the blush that made an almost immediate appearance in response to that as I cleared my throat nervously.

"You're cute."

I was almost completely certain I didn't imagine the fondness in her voice, or in the quick kiss she pressed to my lips as she stood.

"Wait."

She stopped with her hand on the door, just about to leave to look back at me expectantly.

I had pushed myself up on my elbows and I could see the way her eyes flicked appreciatively across the line of my shoulders.

"Agent Ro-- Natasha... This wasn't...I mean, you weren't--?"

I wasn't quite sure how to ask what I was thinking.

She raised an eyebrow at me.

"If you're asking if that was pity sex, the answer is no."

And with that candid clarification, she closed the door behind her to leave me alone in my room with my thoughts.

Which there certainly were a lot of.

Later that day, after finally deciding that people probably wouldn't be able to tell how I had spent the night just by looking at me, I left my room attempting to appear casual. I was trying to decide how one imitated casual when it hit me in some distant space of my mind how similar all the halls looked. Which wasn't exactly news, but that idea bled, spilled into the forefront of my thoughts.

They were exactly the same.

This could have been the hall from yesterday, where I had watched a man I had come to consider a friend torn apart by something that shouldn't even have existed and it wasn't even the first time that had happened because I had failed Bucky due to Hydra's strange weapons, and the team I had handpicked to help me was left without a leader. There were all the young boys who had lied about their age on their enlistment forms and now their mothers may never even had their bodies to bury, not to mention Peggy, waiting on the dance floor for a partner who would never arrive.

I left them all behind.

I tried to fix it, but I just abandoned everyone.

I left them all to the war and if I had to wake up at all why did it have to be now, when I was too late to do anything that mattered?

Erskine had me promise to be a good man, but I couldn't do it. Serum or not, I still wasn't strong enough and people were still dying.

“Steve? Steve!”

I didn't remember sinking to the floor, but Clint was crouched down to be level with me so it must have happened at some point. He seemed so far away, so far from everything I had done that was so sharp and bright and terrible. I wanted to tell him to give up, that I wouldn't be able to save him when he needed it, but the effort of speaking seemed absolutely beyond me.

And then Natasha was next to him, Natasha, who had been so kind to me in her own roundabout way and I didn't deserve it.

“Steve, you have to breathe,” she was saying, placing a hand on my shoulder and leaning in close. “Breathe, Steve. You're going to pass out.”

That sounded quite appealing, honestly. Maybe I wouldn't wake up for a long, long time...

“Hey!”

I was jolted out of my thoughts by the sharp pain across my jaw.

I stared at Natasha in disbelief, focusing on her more strongly than before.

“..You slapped me...”

Which she already knew, but I wasn't exactly capable of saying much else at that point.

“Glad you noticed,” was her blithe remark as she stood. “Come on, back to your room.”

Clint gave me a hand up, and put a steadying hand on my back when being on my feet brought on a rush of lightheaded dizziness. I sat heavily on my bed, not really noticing much else aside from the fact that Natasha had sat down next to me with her back against the wall, drawing her knees up close.

“I got him, Clint. Go on.”

He murmured something to her that I didn't quite catch, and she replied with a soft “I know what I'm doing.”

She said nothing, merely drew the fingers of one hand across my back where they rested lightly.

When I spoke, it was almost under my breath with the weight of guilt and shame.

“I never had problems with shell shock before.”

“There's a first time for everything.”

For some reason that's funny – in a sour, off-kilter kind of way – and I snorted out a laugh.

Natasha continued in that smooth, level voice.

“Steve, you have every right to be bothered by what happened. But you have to forgive yourself.”

“No, I don't,” I muttered and wondered if it counted as accessory to murder if you should have been able to help them.

She sighed heavily.

“Fine. Take the blame. It doesn't make it any more your fault.”

I turned to look at her, and after a moment she used two slender fingers to brush a few strands of hair back along my part, regarding me with that blank expression that she wore at almost all times. I felt the affection in her touch regardless.

“I wish I could believe that,” I said honestly, ashamed of my selfishness, of my desire to not be at fault and let go of the responsibility that felt so impossibly cumbersome.

She breathed something that sounded like “Poor boy,” with a wistful smile, and pulled me into her arms.

After a while, she had stretched out on my bed, propped up on several of the overstuffed pillows with me lying flat on my side next to her.

She was running her hands through my hair – wonderfully distracting by way of keeping my mind off of the things it was so desperate to remind me of – when she spoke.

“I know what it's like. To wish you could be better.”

I didn't mean for my reply to come out as spiteful as it did.

“You've had friends die on your watch?”

“Yes.”

I shouldn't have been surprised, considering the Foundation. But the regret in her voice did, and I shifted to look up at her. To my surprise, Natasha didn't meet my eyes.

“I work here because the Foundation got me out of a lot of trouble once,” She said, eyes fixed to some point across the room. “I can't leave. And I shouldn't want to, because I made a lot of enemies and this is more than I deserve given what I've done. How many people I hurt.”

She took a deep breath, and I had the feeling this wasn't something she shared often – if ever.

“But I do. I want to do something other than bringing monsters back to their cages.”

“That's not exactly a bad thing to be doing,” I commented. She had probably redeemed herself several times over for whatever she had done that had gotten her on the Foundation's radar by preventing the mass slaughter she had referred to that first day they were allowed to tell me where I was.

She looked down at me with an amused smile.

“Steve, I work for an organization that routinely memory wipes its employees, and punishes them by assigning them to the dangerous things in containment – because once you start working, you don't leave. Not alive.”

She heaved out a long sigh, as if hoping to get out all of the frustration that was evident in her tone.

“That keeps people behind bars because they don't understand them.”

I had the feeling that comment was directed at least partially at me, judging by how her eyes flicked back down to mine.

As I had nothing to add to that, I said the next thing on my mind.

“Will you stay? I...I don't want to be alone.”

She brushed her hand through my hair once more.

“Yeah.”

She was with me near every night, to mumble sleepy reassurance when the nightmares shocked me back into wakefulness.

I still couldn't go out of my room.

Clint told me not to push it, that it was okay.

But I was sick of it.

Sick of not being able to stand under the weight of my guilt, of not being able to walk outside of places that were safe.

I got up that morning determined to go out, to at least step outside my room.

Despite that, I stood in front of the door for a long time, steeling myself before I reached for the knob.

The door was locked.

[]/[][]/[]

MEMO TO ALL PERSONNEL AT SITE [][][]:

SCP-3120 has been discovered to possess memory-altering qualities based on face-to-face interaction.

SCP-3120 has been put in isolation until there is a full understanding of the psychological effect.