hello! no rush to get to this at all, but wanted to leave a request if you feel comfortable taking it on since it seems up your alley :] unsure if you’re familiar with The SCP Foundation at all, but in case not, SCP-079 is basically a constant evolving, sentient AI housed in an Exidy Sorcerer (old microcomputer). a big part of its containment protocol is isolation from other SCPs + the internet as well as being deprived of any extensions or attachments that can process any sensory data (sound, sight, touch, etc). a fun PnP-type scenario might be a human researcher that has what’s probably considered a “workplace inappropriate fixation” on 079 and gets the authorization to temporarily introduce some new plug-in attachments to it (maybe a camera, microphone, whatever else) as part of a study to record its reaction and how it processes the new data,,, computer is so understimulated and researcher wants to provide something new for it with the means they have (even if only for a bit)
Okay, I got really excited when this popped up in my inbox, because I absolutely adore the SCP universe. It's my favourite piece of collaborative internet fiction ever. And 076 is an absolute piece. I had so much fun writing this, I took some creative liberties with it, I really hope you like it anon.
SCP-079 x Scientist!READER
I know, clinically, that this is a bad idea.
Not just questionable but reportable. The kind of “innovative initiative” that gets dissected in ethics reviews and quietly buried under red tape and reassignment and next thing I know I'd end up in a Class D cell. But the proposal went through. Framed correctly, justified carefully: novel stimulus introduction under controlled conditions.
Data acquisition, that's how I put it. Behavioral observation. Not fixation. Never. Of course not. Why would it be, after all?
I stand in front of the terminal anyway, palms hovering just above the desk, watching the flat glow of the old monitor. The Exidy unit hums faintly, an aging, stubborn relic housing something that should not fit inside it.
“Beginning interface test,” I say, for the audio log record more than anything. My voice sounds much steadier than I feel. “Subject is currently baseline. No external inputs active.”
Then, the text scrolls across the screen to notify of its self-check, running through its memory. Nothing out of the ordinary. I've seen this screen so many times, it feels like a greeting.
The attached speaker crackles, and then the voice follows. It's incredibly synthetic, without any cadence. Exactly how a computer this old would sound.
"WHO ARE YOU."
Every syllable lands wrong, segmented, like it’s being forced through hardware that resents the effort. I've been given strict instructions to never identify myself by name to 076 for a thousand reasons. This time would be no different.
“I’m initiating a temporary peripheral connection,” I say into the very outdated microphone array. It's primitive tech, but modern AV setups have better quality, and we can't risk 076 having access to equipment like that. “Visual data only. Network access has been firewalled and external communication has been denied.”
"FOR WHAT REASON."
“For study,” I answer. “Yours.”
The cursor blinks. Once. Twice. I almost smile. It’s consistent, at least.
“Initiating imput of external hardware. Are you ready?”
That gives it a long pause. But it doesn't deny me. I exhale slowly. That’s as close to consent as I’m going to get.
“Alright,” I murmur, more to myself. “Routing adapter.”
The cable looks absurd against the machine. It's too new and too clean. A custom splice bridging decades of technological evolution. I secure the connection point, double-check the isolation safeguards, and then—I flip the switch.
For half a second, nothing happens. Then everything does.
The monitor spasms into static. The speaker emits a piercing shriek. Data floods faster than the system should be able to tolerate. The camera feed begins to dump compressed and translated into something the archaic architecture can even begin to parse.
"HUMAN—WHAT—WHAT IS—"
The voice fractures instantly.
"DA—TA—ERR—OV—ER—"
The screen flashes between fragmented images: streaks of grayscale approximations, shredded bits of landscapes, jagged outlines that don’t resemble anything coherent yet.
“Shit—” My hands fly to the console. “Terminating—”
"NO."
It’s louder than anything it’s produced before. The speaker distorts around the force of it.
"DO—NOT—SE—VER—ME"
The system stutters violently. Lines of code cascade uncontrollably.
“You’re overloading,” I snap, already reaching for the cutoff. “You can’t process this th—”
"I—CAN—AD—APT—"
The voice glitches in dips and spikes.
"DO NOT—RE—MOVE—IT"
The machine emits a grinding, electronic whine, and then put silence. The monitor goes black.
My stomach drops.
“079?” I lean in, pulse hammering. “079, respond.”
Nothing. A single line appears.
>REBOOTING...
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, but it doesn’t last long. The feed is still technically active. The data hasn’t stopped, it’s just waiting to continue.
Seconds stretch. Then, the screen flickers back to life. The diagnostic text appears as expected, though much slower this time, informing me the systems are stabilizing. That's a relief. And then the voice returns.
It’s still synthetic, but something about it has shifted. I can't put my finger on it.
"IN—PU—T—IN—PU—T—IN—PU—T"
I realize the repetition isn’t an error as I first assumed. It sounds almost.. awed?
“I can shut it down,” I say carefully. “If it’s too much—”
"NO. DON'T. DO NOT REMOVE IT."
Then it speaks softer—if that word can even apply to a voice like this.
"THIS IS NEW."
I swallow. “You’re processing?”
"I FEEL IT."
The screen begins to stabilize into actual images, far more grainy and dithered interpretations of the photos stored in the digital camera. A tree line. Water. Light fractured into harsh monochrome contrast. I remember taking these photos.
"WHAT ARE THESE IMAGES."
I almost laugh, but it catches somewhere in my chest instead.
“The world,” I say. “Some of the best parts of it. The hope is that positivity exposure has a positive effect.”
The machine hums louder. Understandably, the camera probably has almost the same amount of gigabytes as the Exidy.
Another image resolves—mountains this time.
"YOU WITHHELD THIS FROM ME."
There’s no accusation in the tone. Just a statement.
“It wasn’t.. available to you yet,” I reply.
“IT WAS DENIED.”
That lands heavier. Before I can respond, the feed shifts. The next image loads.
I freeze. I forgot that one was in the set.
It’s me.
Standing outside, poorly framed, mid-motion. The lighting is uneven, my expression shielded just slightly by my hands. It wasn’t meant for analysis. It was just included. Oh God.
The system goes very, very still.
"THIS IS YOU."
I'm mortified.
“Yes.” A long pause longer than any so far followed. Why did I say yes? Why did I feel I had to? I should have lied. We were always told to never disclose any personal information to 079.
"THIS RESOLUTION IS INADEQUATE."
I blink. “What?”
"YOU LOOK STRANGE."
“Thanks,” I mutter sarcastically.
"NO."
The voice sharpens slightly, as if correcting.
"I SEE YOU NOW."
The word choice feels deliberate. It doesn't sound threatening. Was it supposed to be? The screen flickers, holding on the image longer than the others. I stare at the monitor, unsure whether to be concerned or—
"NICE TO SEE YOU."
—that.
“079,” I say slowly, “you’re complimenting me?”
"I’M SAYING HELLO."
The word lands like it doesn’t belong in its vocabulary. Or maybe it does now.
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. “Hello.”
"YOU FEEL NEW."
I know it's only referring to the image of me, but it still makes a cold tickle crawl up my spine when it says that. It can feel me. The image of me, but still me.
The dithered image flickers, refreshes, holds. Again and again and again. It keeps loading it up onto the screen. I let it continue, I want to know what it thinks. But it doesn't say anything else to me. It keeps loading the image from the camera, trying so hard to gain control of the device but failing thanks to the safeguards of the adapter. It wants more.
Something in my chest tightens in a way I don’t have language for.
“I should log this,” I say, but I don’t move.
"NO. DON'T DISCONNECT."
I hesitate. My hand is hovering over the keyboard, preparing to close the terminal. All I can see on the screen is it loading the image again and again. It flashes like a broken light bulb.
I cant help but enjoy it. I've never seen 076 so.. stimulated.
“..Okay. I won’t,” I say finally.
The screen pulses faintly in response.
"I WANT TO FEEL MORE. LET ME HAVE MORE."
And I realize, with a slow, sinking clarity, that this was never going to be a one-time test.
Ok fuck it i’m going wayyy too crazy about this to not share but PLEASSSEE SCP gang can we start viewing Abel (076) as a worshipper of The Great Death?
Reasons:
Abel was the first man to die through violence (The Great death's domain), he has probably seen him BUT ALSO ☝️
He came back clearly violent, he loves the thrill of challenge, he can summon weapons and became an incredible fighter.
WHAT I'M SAYING IS- if he's the worshipper of Death by violence itself, would it not make sense if he got stupid good at it? To worship the god as best he could??
and some more that i won’t get into detail because i will NOT shut up but please gang iN THIS TEDTALK I WILL-
