The office was neat. It clearly belonged to someone who had too much time on their hands. Every piece of paper on the desk was stacked neatly into three vertical piles, each the same height. There was a small pot of pens, and about ten cheap biros in it. They all looked brand new; the owner had never needed to replace them. Next to it was a name plate, with the words “Dr. W. A. Hamilton” engraved on it. At the centre of it all was a balding, middle-aged man named Hamilton. He sat at his desk, staring at the door, and watched silently as it opened.
In stepped Sanchez, a young, nervous research assistant. He pushed his glasses up, as they were beginning to slip down his sweat-covered face. Hamilton stood to greet him, and they shook hands.
“Please, take a seat,” said Hamilton. Sanchez complied.
“So, Sanchez, what is it that you wanted to talk about?”
“Well, sir, I was browsing through some old newspapers, and found this.”
Sanchez retrieved a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and pressed it onto the table.
“It says that, two days ago, a Mr. Walter Copper died due to a broken spine. Reasons unknown.”
“Well, according to his wife, he was just eating breakfast. She came back in the room, and he was dead.”
“How is this relevant?” asked Hamilton, who was beginning to think his time was being wasted. Sanchez would be desperate to try and show his command he had his eye on the ball, yet this would just make him look like an idiot.
“W-well, sir, he was reported as having a spoon in his hand when he died.”
Hamilton was about to laugh at the absurdity of the sentence, when he realized the full implications of what was being said.
“You mean it’s like-“
Hamilton never finished, as Sanchez was clearly desperate to get his point across.
Hamilton stood up, knocking over the pot of pens as he did so.
“Has it breached containment?” he asked, his voice a tone of worry.
“I checked with Doctor Nauls, nothing happened. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Hamilton began to relax, but stopped himself just before he did.
“S-sir, I-I think…” began Sanchez, whose voice was filled with worry.
“I think there’s more than one.”
Hamilton stared vacantly at Sanchez, before snapping out of it.
“Alright, have you told anyone else?” he asked hastily.
“N-no…” said Sanchez, quietly.
“I’ll get supervisor Childs, you try and get me all the information on Copper.”
“Sir, just one more thing…”
“What?” said Hamilton impatiently. He grabbed the pen pot and slammed it onto the table, upright.
“Why spoons? It seems a bit random.”
“I don’t know, Sanchez,” he said, as he grabbed a few pens at once at dropped them into the pot.
Hamilton never finished. He was going back for a second handful of pens, when he stopped suddenly. For an instant, he stood perfectly still. Then his head snapped backwards violently, and he slowly fell onto the floor, his head smashing against the wall as he fell.
Sanchez jumped up suddenly, making his chair fall on the floor.
“Oh JESUS!” he shouted, as he tried to get as far away from Hamilton as possible.
He looked over the desk, to see Hamilton's empty expression staring back at him. He was dead.
In his hand, was a pen.
Sanchez stood in silence, for what could have been either seconds or hours, before finally whispering, "They're everywhere…"
The shed had a strong smell of damp and sweat. The wooden boards that composed it were filled with rot. It was the only room in the shed, and a few rays of sunlight from the setting sun seeped in through the murky windows.
This was where I was born. No, born isn't the right word for it. Created, maybe.
My existence began with a blinding flash of light, followed by a view of the shed’s ceiling. I don’t know how, but I knew. I knew that the sky was blue, that I had just been born, the capital of Latvia, all the languages in the world; I knew. I don’t know how, but I knew.
I attempted to move, but I was unable to. Then, I realized what I was. My eyes - or at least what I used to see - were located in a shallow, oval-shaped bowl. The rest of my body was composed up of a single thin bar.
I was a spoon.
I was completely unable to move, I was trapped.
Then, my view of the ceiling was interrupted by someone’s head. He was white, overweight, and his head was devoid of any hair. He then spoke the first words I’d ever hear.
“Goddamn it! Fucking thing didn't work!” he shouted, in a slightly Welsh accent.
He picked me up, and inspected me. Then, he threw me to the ground in rage.
“Why won’t it just work? I paid good money for that!”
When I hit the ground, it was the first time I had ever felt pain.
That was immediately followed by the first ever feelings of rage. I couldn't move, why? Why me? What did I do? Why? Why? Why?
I landed on the floor, angled in such a way I could still see the man. He was leaning on a table; presumably where I was created.
He grabbed a scrap of paper, and began scribbling down notes on it. Then, he pressed on the pen so hard it went through the paper, causing him to scream in rage. He threw his pen across the room, breaking it.
Then, he kicked open the door to the shed, kicking in closed as he fumed back to his house.
I didn’t know at the time, but that would be the last time I ever saw him. It would be years until I saw anyone else.
I think it was years, anyway. He left me to fester in the shed, to rot, to die. Eventually I began to wish I could. There was nothing but the shed. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t escape, I couldn’t scream.
I could watch, and I could hear, and I could smell.
I could see the moss slowly grow around me until it encompassed me, leaving me with nothing but darkness to look at.
I could hear the patter of rain that I would never feel, the trickle of water that I would never drink.
I could smell the linger of damp that encased the shed, the slow, rotting body of a nearby rodent.
I think my creator killed himself after I failed to show any signs of life, that 200 days of work resulted in no pay off. Ironically, he succeeded.
Why did he succeed? What was he even trying to do? Why did it have to be me?
Maybe it was years. Maybe decades, or even centuries. I waited. And waited. And waited.
I could think, my mind was complete.
Eventually it was filled with only one thought.
It took a few years, but eventually the moss rotted away. The shed was different when I next saw it; the table had gone, and a few random objects lay on the floor, all covered in rust. Hundreds of dead flies were everywhere.
Someone entered the shed again. He was tall, white, and much thinner than the only other human being I had ever seen. Dust and cobwebs flew into his face, but he brushed them away.
“Jesus, Terry, this place is really fucking old,” he said, looking behind him.
He lowered his head down, to see old random objects on the floor, such as a disc, a playing card, and a small scrap of paper.
“This stuff might be worth something, actually.”
“Yeah, Paul, I’m sure someone will pay millions for some old king of clubs you found in a random shed…”
Paul continued to search. Finally, he came to me.
He picked me up, and inspected me.
“What’s that?” asked Terry, who had entered behind Paul.
“Just this old spoon.”
“Oh wow, a spoon! That was obviously worth going here!” said Terry, putting on a mock voice.
“Well, it might be worth a few quid. This looks pretty well made.”
“Let’s have a look.”
Paul passed me to Terry.
Terry looked at me, his expression one of disgust, before he turned me around.
“Ah!” he shouted out of shock, and he threw me to the ground.
“What?” asked Paul.
“It’s got a massive lump of mould on the back of it! I’m not fucking touching it!”
“Fine. When I’ve sold it for millions, you won’t get any.”
Terry let out a small laugh.
“Yeah, I’m so jealous,” he said, sarcastically.
I could only watch as Terry left, and Paul leaned down to retrieve me.
I hated them. I had realized that I would be stuck, that they didn’t care.
He picked me up.
I still do not know how exactly I did it. The build-up of rage had been going for years, probably more.
In a single second, all of that energy was released.
Paul was in the doorway of the shed, when his head snapped back violently, and he fell to the floor with a thud.
Terry must have heard it, and he turned, still smiling.
His face instantly contorted into a face of horror. Even from several feet away, Paul’s death was obvious. His neck was angled awkwardly, his back bent over itself. His eyes were open, gazing vacantly at the ground. His mouth was open slightly, a small pool of saliva dribbling onto the ground.
Paul’s body was dead, but a small part of him survived. He wished he was dead, but he wasn’t. I knew his fate, and he knew mine the second I killed him. He was now me. His mind was transported into another spoon, somewhere in the world. There was a weak, extremely weak, telepathic connection. I could see, and smell, and hear what he could see, smell and hear. I think he was somewhere in a kitchen. I took his knowledge as well.
I would force him to kill. If anyone touched him, they would die. If anyone touched me, they would die. Humanity had left me to rot in a shed for years; I would have my revenge.
Terry panicked, and ran, as he retrieved his phone, and hastily began dialing 999.
It took ten minutes, and I was stuck in Paul’s cold, dead hand for all of it. It was better than the shed, at least. It was summer, and I wasn’t in the shade. Sure, British summers were pretty shitty, but it was at least warm.
That was the first - and only - time I was in the sun.
I managed to get a good look at the house. The windows were boarded up, and parts had completely collapsed. Nettles and grass grew everywhere; the house had clearly been abandoned some time ago.
Sirens loomed closer. Eventually, the paramedics arrived. They walked around the house; there were no fence to stop them.
They all wore high visibility jackets, and carried a stretcher between them. Terry was nowhere to be seen.
They all bent down, and laid the stretcher next to Paul's dead body. Two of them lifted Paul- and myself- up onto the stretcher.
One of them must have noticed me. Rigor Mortis had not yet set in; he attempted to remove me from Paul's grasp.
I was ready, but he wasn't.
He let out a scream, and collapsed to the floor. One of the medics, who was standing the closest to him, spoke.
"Shit, Ryan, you ok?" she asked, walking slightly closer.
Ryan just let out another scream.
His back was bent at awkward angles, and blood was pouring out of his mouth, while he continued to scream.
"Shit, Dave, Steve, get the spine board."
Steve and Dave exited, running.
It was an hour later, when I learnt, much to my disappointment, that Ryan had survived.
However, Paul had managed to kill two more people. Two more people who could join my ranks.
The police arrived shortly afterwards.
There were eight of them, five men, three women. They took Terry, Ryan, Steve, Dave, and the female paramedic whose name I had never learnt away for questioning.
They all inspected the area. When Ryan broke his back, I had landed nearby in the grass.
Three figures approached. They must of had realized what I was capable of, as they edged slowly towards me. I noticed one of them, the tallest, had a pair of tongs in her hands.
"Alright. There it is. Benny, you got the safe?" asked the one whose hands were empty.
Benny acknowledged him silently by nodding his head and holding out a small, cubical metal box.
"Good. Amanda, you ready?"
"Yeah. Let's just do this."
She bent her knees slightly, and gripped me with the tongs, before dropping me into the box.
Benny closed the lid on it instantly, and I was left in darkness.
When the darkness finally ended, I was in a small glass display case.
Ten faces watched me, from outside the glass. All peering in, all desperate to know what I was.
I would show them.
All of them.
If they want to know what it's like to be me, I'll let them.
I've picked up the occasional piece of information from the Class-D they send me. They're throwing fuel on the bonfire, and I'm all too happy to spread.
They recently found out there's more than one of me, but it was worth it.
I absorbed the knowledge and thoughts of Doctor Wilford Anthony Hamilton.
I know their secrets.
And they know mine.
I am SCP-463.