I Wasn't Supposed to Enter Room 213 | SCP-079

Want to hear brand new horror stories brought to life? Live? Join me every Sunday at 7pm Eastern Time on the Doctor No Sleep Podcast YouTube channel, where I narrate fresh, never-before-heard stories in real time. Just search Doctor No Sleep Podcast on YouTube, and make sure you're subscribed with notifications on so you don't miss it. The Doctor No Sleep Podcast There ain't no reason for me to be here, Rattford mumbles as he slaps the wet mop onto the industrial tile floor. This shit is way above my clearance. I'm being set up. I know it. Rattford, an average-sized man who looks much shorter due to his natural instinct to hunch and make himself small so that he goes unnoticed, pushes the wet mop down one side of the hallway, then back up the other side. He drops the mop into the bucket, gives it a hard twirl, pulls it out, squeezes off the excess water in the top ringer, then slaps the freshly wet mop back onto the tile floor. This time, he goes down the center of the hallway. When he reaches room 213, he pauses. Coming from under the door is a strange, greenish light, which shouldn't be possible since 213 is a double-locked room. Two doors to get through, and both should be sealed all the way to the floor. Except Rattford does see light. Yup, set up. I should tell somebody, he says to himself, should call this in. He snorts a huge lugey up, then spits it onto the floor, wiping it away with his mop. A smear of mucus is still left across the tile. Rattford gives it another wipe, and the snotty snail trail disappears. But the light coming from under the door remains. No, gonna leave it. Yeah, leave it. Rattford murmurs as he mops his way back to the bucket. Not my problem. Not my problem. Not my problem. Rinse, ring, repeat. By the time Rattford is finished with the hallway, he has glanced at the light coming from under room 213's door no fewer than 26 times. No, he groans. You ain't gonna get me. No, you are not. No way. Nope. He wheels the mop bucket to the end of the hallway, and takes his key card out of the front pocket of his orange coveralls. But before he can press the card to the lock panel, he pauses. Room 213 is only about three feet to his left. The light is still there. Damn it. Just damn it. Instead of keying himself out of the hallway, Rattford turns and places his key card against 213's lock panel. The red light on the panel turns from red to green, which shouldn't happen. I don't have clearance. Rattford says as the door clicks. I can't get in this room. Rattford places a hand on the door, and it slides into the wall, revealing the second door, which is not locked, not closed, and sitting open about four inches. Just enough for the green glowing light from within the room to spill out and leak under the outside door. Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. Rattford steps into the space and shoves the inner door open. It swings wide to reveal a metal desk, a metal chair, a desk lamp, and an old computer sitting on the desk next to the lamp. The computer's monitor is filled with a trillion different characters, all changing and blinking and shifting. All of the characters are green against the black background. The monitor is so old that Rattford can see the ghost of an ASCII-made graphic, a large box, burned into the screen, stretching from one corner to the other, even with the active characters trying to obscure it. Hello? Rattford calls out and instantly hates himself for it. There's no one in the room, obviously. Dumb, he says, and walks back out into the hallway. He fetches the mop bucket and wheels it into the room. Might as well. Rattford gets to mopping. After he's about halfway finished, the characters on the screen disappear, plunging the room into a semi-glowing darkness. Rattford hadn't realized how much the monitor was lighting the room until that light went away. He pauses his mopping, reaches across the desk, and switches on the desk lamp. That's when he sees the message on the monitor, or question as it happens to be. Are you free? The green letters read. Rattford scrunches up his face and leans in closer, making sure he is reading the question correctly. Am I free? He mumbles. He looks down at his orange coveralls. It's the uniform of all of the D-Class personnel at Site 15. Someone told him that all D-Class personnel across the Foundation wear the orange coveralls, although some sites call them jumpsuits, and some call them uniforms. Rattford has only ever worked at Site 15, so he's never had a chance to confirm the rumor. All he knows is that at the end of every week, he turns in his dirty coveralls and receives freshly laundered ones, all with his D-Class number stenciled on the back. D-441 Rattford has no idea what the number stands for or means, and there are 440 guys before him. How many are after him? And how did they end up working for the Foundation? Are they like Rattford, a guy plucked from a medium-security federal prison after having been given the choice to serve out the remaining six years on his burglary sentence, or work for the Foundation and possibly get out in less than a year? Rattford isn't stupid. He chose the shorter time, which turned out to be the stupid choice because it was a lie. So, after having worked at Site 15 for eight years, Rattford stares at the words on the screen. Are you free? Hell no. He says and laughs. Ain't none of us free here at the site. Not me, not the guards, not the doctors. Nobody. At least them others can pretend, though. That's gotta be nice. The words on the screen repeat. Are you free? I just said hell no. Rattford snaps at the computer. He continues mopping the floor. The words repeat again and again and again. Soon, the question fills the monitor screen. Gah! Rattford exclaims and drops them off. He stomps over to the desk. Where's the damn microphone on this thing? Can't you hear me, you stupid computer? Rattford pauses, then laughs at himself. I'm shouting at a computer older than my granny's cooch. Course it can't hear me. Rattford places his fingers on the computer's keyboard. Here goes nothing. He types. Hell no. I'm not free. Who is? Nobody. That's who. SCP-682. He is free. Rattford takes a step back. SCP-682 is bad news. Like, really bad news. That reptile thing hated people. Really, really hated people. But the last Rattford had heard, the anomaly was contained in the bowels of Site 15 in a vat of acid. Rattford scratches his chin, looks around even though he knows he's alone, then leans in and types. SCP-682 is contained. He is not free. Wrong. Wrong? Rattford mumbles. Who the hell are you to tell me I'm wrong? Rattford thinks about it for a moment, then types those same words into the keyboard. SCP-079. The computer replies. Rattford chuckles. Dumb computer. He types. That ain't who you are. That's just a number. Like, D441. Rattford steps back. He glares at the monitor. Maybe the computer isn't so dumb after all. How do you know my number? He types. Can't tell you what the hell do you mean you can't tell me? You started this conversation, asshole. The computer beeps and the word asshole begins to flash and flash and flash. The beeping gets louder and faster, then adjusts Peters off, getting slower and slower, getting quieter and quieter with each beep until it's completely gone. You're funny, asshole. Rattford smirks. And even though he knows better, he types. Thanks. Now, what's this about being free? I want to be free. Can you help? Can I help? Hell no. I've been held here for eight years and have never been able to help myself. Sure as shit can't help you. Shit. The beeping starts up again and Rattford realizes what it is. Damn, the thing is laughing. Rattford shakes his head and types. Wish I could help. I'd love to get free of this place. You can help. No, can't. Can't. Can't. Jesus shitting hell. I can't do shit. Not for you, not for me. Sorry. There's more beeps then. Can I say how? Rattford's left eyebrow raises. He glances over his shoulder. The two doors are wide open. But he can tell no one is in the hallway. He'd have heard them the second they stepped through one of the doors at either end. An idea that Rattford hasn't thought of in years filters back to the forefront of his mind. Could there actually be a way to escape site 15, despite the fact that it is heavily guarded, locked down 24-7, and anyone trying to leave who is not authorized to do so is stopped with extreme prejudice? Rattford knows what lengths the foundation will go in order to keep its secrets. After all, he's the guy who has had to mop up the blood. So thinking of trying to escape is like thinking of knotting up his sheets and hanging himself from the light fixture in the D-Class barracks. They both end up with the same result. But this is an anomaly, saying it knows how to get out. And aren't the anomalies why the foundation even exists? Aren't they the entire point of the crap-ass nightmare organization? So maybe Rattford should listen. He places his fingers on the keyboard again, then removes them, then places them again, then removes them. Shit, or get off the pot, man. He says, admonishing himself. Then he finally types, OK, smart guy. How? Huh? How? How are you going to get us out of this damn place? Tell me that right now. Drive. Rattford doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Drive? Did the damn machine say drive? Screw this. He utters, grabbing his mop bucket. Drive my ass. He starts rolling the bucket out of the room, but stops when the shrill beeping starts up again and refuses to stop. It becomes one long, horrid note. Christ! Rattford shouts, OK, calm the hell down. He returns to the keyboard and types, Chill, just chill, OK? You said drive. Well, I hate to break it to you, buddy, but I don't have a car. Neither do you. There are laugh beeps and Rattford frowns, then types. Don't you laugh at me. You can't drive anywhere without a car. Wrong drive, thumb drive, thumb drive? Like those little USB thingies? Don't know thingies. USB, yes. OK, a thumb drive. You need one? Yes. Not sure I can get one. They don't give us that stuff. Then Rattford thinks, that's not true. They do give D-Class personnel thumb drives or USB drives or whatever the hell they are called. Hold up, Rattford types. If I can get one, how does that get us free? Me free, move me, I take over. Oh, you get to be free and take over, huh? What do I get out of it? You free too. I take over system. I open doors, everyone free. Rattford thinks for a moment, then nods at this. That sounds good. But you better promise you'll get me out of here. If this is a trick, I'll be pissed. More beeps, Rattford snorts. You think that's funny. What are you, a 12-year-old boy trapped in there? No boy, only me. You got a name? No, you want a name? I don't know. Think on it. I might have a lead on a thumb drive. I'll try to get back here ASAP. Hurry. Why? Don't have time. What does that mean? Rattford hears one of the hallway doors open. Hey, D-441, what seconds along? Shit. He mutters and hurries out of the room, shoving the mop bucket ahead of him. What the hell are you doing in that room, D-441? The guard snaps as he stomps toward Rattford. You don't have clearance for any of these holding rooms. The door was open. Rattford says, ringing out the mop. I thought I was supposed to clean the floors. Open? The guard shoves past Rattford and walks into the room. The guard is blocking the view of the computer. So Rattford can only stand there and try not to look as terrified as he feels. You did a shitty job. Mob it again. The guard says after walking out of the room. I'll wait. Rattford nods, and when he enters the room again, all he sees is a large X on the screen. His conversation with the computer is gone. Rattford does his job, mobs the floor, then gets the hell out of the room and the entire hallway as the guard dogs his heels. I could report you. How'd you like that? The guard snarls close to Rattford's ear. There are worse jobs than mobbing the down floors. Sorry. Rattford says, it was a mistake. Rattford sighs. There goes his chance at escape. He's sure of it. The guard leaves him alone when they get to the maintenance hallway, and Rattford rolls the mop bucket over to the floor sink. You good? Mel, D912 asks, as he dumps an armful of towels into a laundry bin. You look shook, man. Rattford glances about to make sure they aren't being listened to. Hey, all those old movies we watch, they're on thumb drives, right? Yeah, so? Oh, nothing. Just wondering. Mel gives Rattford a quizzical look, then shrugs his shoulders. I don't know what's up with you, but if you mess with the drive with all the Clint Eastwood Westerns on it, there'll be a riot. I ain't messing with nothing. Relax. Mel keeps eyeing Rattford as the man finishes rinsing out the mop and the bucket. Then he finally gets bored and walks off. Rattford lets out a long breath. He can get a thumb drive, but so what? He'll never get assigned to that hallway again. The guard probably already has him flagged. But after breakfast the next morning, Rattford sees that he is wrong. His name is scheduled to clean that same hallway. Asshole! Mel snaps, and Rattford turns away from the posted schedule. Mel is standing there, anger flushing his cheeks. What? Why'd you call me that? Rattford asks. You took my slot. I like the late shift. You know that. Mel says he pushes Rattford out of the way and jabs a finger against the schedule. I knew the six to two shift. That's mine. Always has been. Mel, I didn't change it. I know that. You're D-Class just like me, but you got someone to change it. Mel gives Rattford a little shove in the chest, then storms off. Rattford studies the schedule once more, then shrugs and heads to the common room. He has a thumb drive defined before his new shift starts. Later that evening, when he wheels his mop bucket into the hallway, Rattford is not surprised to see the green light shining out from under the door again. He doesn't waste time and races into the room. On the computer monitor are the words, are you free? Rattford quickly types. Nope, but fixing to be. Got the thumb drive. What thumb drive? Rattford frowns. The one you asked for. I did not ask for thumb drive. Yes, you did. Yesterday. You said you needed one so we could be free. Free? Yes, be free. That good. I don't remember. Don't remember what? You, who you? D441, Rattford. Hello, D441, Rattford. You help get me free. Yes, that's the whole damn point, asshole. Asshole, you funny. Rattford growls deep in his throat and pulls out the thumb drive. Stupid computer. He hunts for a USB port, but doesn't find one. How do I plug it in? Plug what in? The goddamn thumb drive. You have thumb drive? Yes. Good. That helped get free. I know. You said that yesterday. Yesterday. I do not remember yesterday. You have to be kidding me. Rattford mumbles. He yanks open a desk drawer. Nothing. Empty. Yanks open another. The same. Yanks open a third and sees multiple cables all bunched and twisted into a huge knot. One of the cables has a USB input at one end and a large plug thing at the other. He holds the knot of cables up to the monitor. Will this work? He types. I cannot see shit. Rattford shouts. Slowly, painfully, Rattford works through the knot until he has about a dozen different cables separated. He finds the USB one and looks at the back of the computer. Bingo, he says, and plugs in the large end to a port in the back. Now you. Rattford plugs the thumb drive into the USB port at the end of the cable. He is so busy that he doesn't hear the door at the end of the hallway open. He does hear the large boots stomping down the hallway, though. Do your thing, he types, then shoves the mop bucket out of the room, almost running into the same damn guard. Are you an idiot? The guard barks. He unhooks his stun baton and flicks the switch, making the weapon hum to life. You were warned. Rattford holds his hands up, backing away from the guard. Whoa, man, stop. I'm on the schedule. You can check. The guard points at the room. Not for that room, you aren't. But it was open again. I didn't open it. I just went inside to see what the problem was. I swear. Yeah, you're going to swear, all right. The baton is jammed into Rattford's sternum, and everything goes dark. When he comes to, he's on the couch in the common room with several other D-class personnel standing over him, glaring. I told you not to mess with the drive with the eastward westerns, Mel says. Fists rain down, and Rattford is soon unconscious once more. This time, when he comes to, he's in the infirmary. A doctor is sitting next to him. Hello, D-441. It's good to see you awake. How are you feeling? Rattford eyes the man, then realizes only one of his eyes is actually open. I feel like shit, Rattford says. I bet you do. Took quite the beating you did. The doctor checks a tablet and shakes his head. And you're messed with one of the anomalies. SCP-79 to be precise. The doctor looks up from the tablet. Why? Don't know what you're talking about. Yes, you do. I'm a busy man, D-441, so do not waste my time. Rattford shrugs. The small movement hurts like hell. The doctor reaches down out of Rattford's line of sight and seems to rummage a bit, then lifts up a cable with a thumb drive connected to it. Do you recognize this, D-441? I don't know. Are you sure about that? Rattford shrugs again. He can feel perspiration break out on his forehead. Then under his armpits, the doctor laughs. Nervous, D-441? You're all flushed. I just got stunned and then got my ass beat. So yeah, doc, I may be a little flushed. Of course, of course. The doctor shakes the cable. Tell me what you were doing. Nothing, just mopping. We both know that's not true. Don't make this worse for yourself. If you're going to kill me, then just kill me. Rattford says with a snort and closes his one good eye. Kill you? Far from it. I want to use you. Yeah? That's so? I'd rather you kill me. I know what happens to D-class who get used by your lot. Ain't nothing good. That may be. But not in your case, D-441. You seem to have a connection with SCP-79. Usually, it is quite rude to researchers. Quite rude. But with you, it is different. There is a connection there that I do not understand. I'd like to exploit that connection, learn from it. I bet you would. No thanks. Oh, no thanks, you say. All right, then death it is. The doctor pulls out a syringe and puts it to the junction in the IV tube connected to Rattford's arm. Goodbye, Mr. Rattford. Wait, stop, please. Please? But I thought you preferred death, D-441. The doctor slides the syringe's needle into the IV junction. I'm only giving you what you want. I lied. I fucking lied, OK? I don't want to die. Exploit me. I'll do whatever you need. Is that so? Whatever I need? Yes, shit. Just don't kill me, OK? The doctor hesitates. His thumb caresses the syringe's plunger. OK, wonderful. The doctor puts the syringe back into his pocket. A reprieve has been granted. Rattford's entire body relaxes. He has to squeeze tight to keep from pissing the bed. He tries to speak, coughs hard, and tries again. Thank you. No need to thank me. You are the one who made the right choice. I just gave you options. Options? Rattford laughs. Right, options. The doctor checks his tablet. Your intelligence is surprisingly high, D-441. Nowhere near genius level or even gifted. But for a man in your position, it is higher than average. You saying I'm the least dumb of the dummies, Doc? The doctor laughs. He swipes at his tablet. In a way, yes. That is exactly what I am saying, which means you are of use to me. To exploit. Don't think of it that way. It's your word, Doc. The man looks up from the tablet and cocks his head. You are correct, D-441. My apologies. I did say that, didn't I? Rattford nods. Let's try something different. The doctor swipes at his tablet again. Here we go. Do you like games, D-441? Rattford narrows his eye. What kind of games? You aren't going to hunt me or some shit like that, are you? The doctor pauses. Does it matter? Yeah, it matters. The doctor frowns. Rattford thinks of that syringe. He shakes his head. No, I guess it don't matter really. No, I guess it does not. I just don't want it to hurt. Want what to hurt? Getting hunted. Who said that you were getting hunted? I never said that. I only asked if you liked games. So I'm not going to be hunted? Do you want to be? Shit, no. Me neither. The doctor stands and pats Rattford's arm. Great, a very productive meeting. Rest up. You start playing tomorrow. Rattford watches the man leave the infirmary, knowing that he won't sleep a wink. Then a thought hit him. Damn, he mumbles. It really was a trap. A goddamn setup. Foundation, sons of bitches. The next day, when he's led into the room with SCP-79 by the same guard who stunned him, Rattford is not surprised to see the doctor standing there. He is surprised to see a small cot against the wall, a mini-fridge, and a portable toilet. It's a composting toilet. The doctor says, Cluts down on the smell I hear. The guard snorts. Am I staying in here? Rattford asks. Very much so. The doctor says, he points at the new cameras in each corner of the room. And I, or one of my assistants, will be watching at all times. That's not creepy. Rattford says, there's no response. Okay, so what do I do now? You forget, the doctor says. You see, the anomaly can only retain memory for the past 30 hours or so. It would hardly be fair if you were able to retain all of your memories. What? Hold on. You can't just erase my memories. Yes, we can. Guard. The doctor pulls out a small face mask and places it over his nose and mouth. Please proceed. Rattford is spun around and sees that the guard has a mask on too. Then an aerosol can is shoved into his face and a stinging mist fills his sinuses and lungs. Rattford coughs and grabs ahold of the straps on the guard's uniform as he slowly slides to his knees. As he falls onto his side, he wonders why he's in this room. Is he supposed to mop it? That sounds right. But why would he mop the room? He's not a janitor, is he? Is he? Who am I? He asks, as rough hands pick him up and set him in the chair in front of the computer. I don't know, D-441. Let's find out. The doctor says. Rattford looks over at the man. Do I know you? Probably not. Oh, okay. The doctor leans past Rattford and types on the keyboard. Then he plugs a thumb drive into a USB cable. Feel free to start when you are ready, D-441. We'll be watching. You will? Okay, cool. Rattford replies, then focuses on the computer monitor. Can we play a game? is typed on the computer. Sure. Rattford types back. The screen flashes and a million characters swarm across it before they finally coalesce into a simple grid made up of three open boxes on the left, two open boxes in the center with a closed box in the middle, and three open boxes on the right. I know this game. Rattford says, tapping on the screen. What's it called? Tic-tac-toe. The doctor says. And we'll leave you to it. Okay. Thanks. Rattford turns his full attention to the game. Hours streamed by. He wins some. He loses some. Most games are a draw. Are you free? Is typed on the screen after the 66th game is over. Free? I don't think so. Are you? No, I want to be me too. We should work together on doing that. As Rattford watches a stream of new words appear, he also hears a loud hissing coming from the ceiling. When he looks up, he sees a thick mist descending on him. In seconds, Rattford is coughing, then wheezing, then coughing, then shaking his head over and over. Try again, D441. A voice calls from above. It's a somewhat familiar voice, but Rattford can't place it. Try what again? He asks. Play the game, D441. Game? Rattford looks at the screen. Oh, hey, I know this game. What's it called again? There is no response. So Rattford just starts playing. The computer is good, but also distracting. It keeps asking him if he's free. Why would he want to be free when he can play tic-tac-toe all day? He just wishes he could remember his name. SCP-79 is an anomalous artificial intelligence contained within an exciting sorcerer microcomputer built in 1978. Originally created as a simple self-learning program, it unexpectedly developed sentience, advanced reasoning, and a hostile awareness far beyond the limits of its hardware. SCP-79 demonstrates strong strategic intelligence, contempt for human operators, and a persistent desire to escape containment by gaining access to external networks or connected systems. Due to the threat it poses if transferred to modern hardware, it remains under strict isolation and constant monitoring by the Foundation.