In the wake of SCP-2845…
On a clear orange-and-blue day in October, when the air was not chilly enough to be uncomfortable, Siddhi Sehgal took stock of what was left of her world.
There wasn’t a whole lot to be seen. She had found more and more time to herself as the months went on, time filled with empty, slow spaces, dotted with moments of smothering acute awareness at…how little she belonged. Of how alien the world felt around her, of how disconnected she was. Floating and alone, without an anchor. Without a purpose. A leftover crust of bread, floating on the water, waiting for the fish.
There were not even bones left of her world. Bones were too solid, too real. Now there was only that chilling pocket emptiness that crept up the spine, gently silencing words in the throat. Not violent, no. It would have been better had that been the case, rather than the damnable silence.
Out there, past the vast empty space that surrounded her, Siddhi Sehgal saw the world passing from her hands.
It could never go back, and what lay ahead was obscured.
For so long, the future had been two things to Siddhi Sehgal: a continuation of the present, or death. There were no branches from the path, no variations, no choices to make. The path was solid, it was real, it was normal. There was nothing to doubt, nothing that would break the comforting cocoon it formed around her, nothing to assault the belief that she was doing the right thing, that she was serving a purpose.
And now…it was gone. Gone with the chill October air.
The people demanded security. They demanded comforting words. They demanded blood…and Siddhi Sehgal could give them none of that. The name carved on her yoke of twenty-six years was smeared with mud, and there was no comfort to be had in it. Only doubt.
Siddhi Sehgal carried with her a blackened name – The People Who Did Nothing. Her people did not kill monsters. They did not share miracles. They did not create. They merely…hoarded. In immaculate order, all was labeled and tagged and placed in a box. They put the world in many boxes, and then they did nothing.
She could not blame the public who shunned her people. Her people could not say “I have slain Grendel”. Her people could not open their arms and say “I have walked among the gods and written down their words”. Her people could not say “We shape the future by our own hands.”
They could only say “We were there.”
Being there was not good enough. Slander was thrown. Demands were made. Terms were set. Siddhi Sehgal’s yoke was chipped down, slowly, slowly until it felt weak on her shoulders. Monsters were killed. Miracles were shared. Men women and children looked up into the sun for the first time in years. The world adapted, though it did not do so smoothly or quietly. A blessing, to be rough and loud and ornery.
Chip by chip, the yoke was broken down, and the hoard was emptied, until…
Until there was nothing left.
Overseer Seven…Siddhi Sehgal…sat on the bench, in the park, by the lakeside, and was alone.