The dusty Mongolian wind, a constant companion, rattled the thin walls of Aris Thorne's field tent.
Outside, the vast Gobi stretched into an endless horizon, a muted tapestry of ochre and burnt sienna under the pale pre-dawn sky. Inside, the dim glow of his laptop screen was the only beacon, casting long, wavering shadows that danced like ancient spirits, or maybe just his own anxieties doing the Macarena.
Aris, all of 24 years old and looking suspiciously like he'd just wrestled a badger, hunched over the keyboard, a half-eaten packet of stale biscuits beside him. He was supposed to be reviewing seismic data, prepping for another grueling day of geological mapping that usually involved more dust than actual excitement. Instead, his fingers flew across the keys, a frantic dance of disbelief and burgeoning terror, punctuated by the occasional cramp from holding his breath.
It had started innocently enough. Boredom, that insidious beast, had gnawed at him after another long day of analyzing rock formations that were, frankly, less exciting than watching paint dry… if the paint was beige. He'd fired up his PC, looking for a new distraction, something beyond the usual array of RPGs that now felt utterly mundane. "Dragon slaying? Pfft. I've practically become one with the rocks," he'd thought. That's when he'd stumbled upon it: an interface, sleek and professional, yet impossibly out of place. It was labeled, simply, "SCP Foundation System."
Aris had scoffed, figuring it was an elaborate ARG or some hyper-realistic game mod. "Probably some indie developer's fever dream," he'd muttered, already mentally composing his scathing Steam review. He'd poked around, a curious click here, a tentative keystroke there, much like a cat investigating a suspicious lump under a rug. And then, the impossible happened. The system hadn't just allowed him access; it had welcomed him. "User Aris Thorne accepted. Founder status confirmed.
Pre-existing clearance detected. Welcome." The words had flared on the screen, cold and absolute, chilling him more than the desert night, mostly because he'd half-expected it to ask for his credit card details.
He'd dismissed it, of course. A glitch. A prank. He'd even considered that the extreme isolation was finally giving him hallucinations of a highly organized, bureaucratic secret society. "Next, I'll be seeing the Gobi Desert as a giant, sentient sand dune demanding a sacrifice of stale biscuits," he'd mused. But then, the pieces started to click into place, a horrifying mosaic of undeniable truth.
For weeks, he'd felt… perfect. Not just good, but unnaturally, impossibly perfect. The usual aches from fieldwork that made him walk like a rusty robot, the lingering fatigue that made him consider napping on a cactus, the hint of a sore throat that had threatened to turn him into a permanent wheezing machine a week ago – all gone. Vanished without a trace, like his motivation to eat another bowl of instant noodles.
He'd attributed it to the fresh air, the unexpected solitude (read: no one around to judge his questionable singing), perhaps even the rigorous Mongolian diet (mostly mutton and fermented mare's milk, which he'd begrudgingly come to tolerate, mostly by holding his nose).
But then his eyes landed on a small, red plastic bottle sitting on his makeshift medical kit, looking utterly innocuous. He remembered finding it tucked away in the very bottom of his emergency bag, unmarked, nondescript, and suspiciously like the free sample shampoo bottles you get at a bad motel. He'd swallowed one of the small, red pills inside it the first week he arrived, figuring it was a potent multi-vitamin, a preemptive strike against the inevitable fatigue of fieldwork, or maybe just a placebo for his general state of being perpetually knackered.
Now, with trembling fingers that suddenly felt far too big for his body, he typed "red pill" into the Foundation's search bar. The results flashed up, agonizingly slowly over the satellite connection, like dial-up in the middle of nowhere. His blood ran cold.
"SCP-500: Panacea. Object Class: Safe."
He read the description, his breath catching in his throat, which was now thankfully not sore. A small, red pill capable of curing any known disease, condition, or injury in minutes. "Even a broken heart? Asking for a friend... who is me," he thought wildly. He scrolled further, his gaze fixed on the final, terrifying line: Source currently unknown. Instances consumed do not deplete total supply.
Infinite.
He, Aris Thorne, junior geologist, was not only playing with fire, but he was a walking, talking anomaly himself. He had swallowed SCP-500, not once, but several times, unknowingly ingesting the most potent healing agent on Earth. He was basically a human cheat code, and the system had recognized him.
Recognized his connection, his... foundational alignment. "So, I'm a founder? Does that mean I get a pension plan? Or free coffee?" he muttered, a hysterical giggle bubbling up.
The vast, quiet desert outside no longer seemed so serene. It felt like the calm before a storm, a deceptive silence before the world he knew shattered, presumably into tiny, non-anomalous pieces. His geological research had just taken an unimaginable turn, from mapping rocks to potentially having a conversation with one that glowed. His mundane life, meticulously planned and painstakingly built (mostly out of pizza boxes and student debt), had just been obliterated by a red pill and a cryptic system message. Aris Thorne was no longer just a scientist.
He was a founder. And he had no idea what that even meant, beyond a sudden overwhelming urge to reorganize his duffel bag.
The metallic creak of the tent flap announced the arrival of Dr. Lena Petrova, Aris's lead field colleague and general purveyor of early morning enthusiasm.
Aris, still reeling from his digital dive into the Foundation's secrets, instinctively slammed his laptop shut, his hand sweeping the small, red bottle of SCP-500 off his makeshift desk and into the depths of a dusty duffel bag. The thud of it hitting the bottom felt impossibly loud, like a tiny, existential grenade.
"Morning, Aris! Or what's left of it," Lena chirped, her voice cutting through the lingering haze of his panic like a particularly sharp butter knife. She was a whirlwind of energy even at this ungodly hour, her face already smudged with a streak of dirt, a testament to her early start – or perhaps a botched attempt at applying war paint. "Ready to tackle the Singing Dunes today? Forecast says clear skies, finally. Maybe they'll even sing a pop song for us!"
Aris forced a smile, trying to wipe the bewildered terror from his face, which probably looked less like "bewildered terror" and more like "just smelled something expired." "Hey, Lena. Yeah, just... getting my head in the game. You know, early starts and all," he mumbled, acutely aware of the duffel bag and its impossible contents, which now felt like a ticking time bomb disguised as a bottle of Tic Tacs.
Lena, thankfully, seemed too focused on the day's tasks to notice his strained demeanor, or perhaps she was just used to him looking vaguely haunted before his first cup of coffee. "Tell me about it. I swear, the coffee machine back at base camp is the only thing that gets me through these pre-dawn reconnaissance missions." She gestured towards his laptop.
"Everything good with the seismic readings? Anything interesting from the last sweep? Did you finally find that secret underground dinosaur disco?"
"Uh, yeah, all good," Aris stammered, his mind racing through a mental rolodex of increasingly implausible excuses. How do you talk about mundane geological data when you just found out you're tied to a secret organization that contains reality-bending anomalies and you're carrying a miracle cure in your bag that could probably cure Lena's incessant cheerfulness?
"Just some... standard fluctuations. Nothing out of the ordinary for this region. The usual subsurface rumblings, you know. Like my stomach before breakfast." He tried to sound convincing, but the words felt hollow and fake, even to his own ears.
Lena nodded, pulling out a laminated map of the day's survey area, which she unfolded with the dramatic flair of a treasure hunter. "Right. Well, let's hope it stays 'ordinary' then. We've got a lot of ground to cover before that dust storm rolls in later this week.
I want to hit that ancient volcanic fissure before lunch, if we can. The preliminary scans suggest some unique mineral deposits there. Could be a significant find for the university – maybe even get us a better coffee machine." She paused, then peered at him, her brow furrowing slightly.
"You look a bit… peaky, Aris. Not catching that bug that went around base camp, are you? The one that makes you sound like a dying walrus?"
Aris instantly bristled, then remembered his secret.
"No, no, just... didn't sleep great," he lied, rubbing a hand across his jaw. The irony was palpable. He hadn't just not caught the bug; he was immune to it, and everything else, including apparently, the effects of a truly terrible night's sleep. "Too much excitement thinking about those geological formations, I guess," he chuckled, a sound that felt entirely foreign to his ears, like a dying crow attempting stand-up comedy.
"Just need more coffee. Plenty of coffee. Maybe enough to fill a small swimming pool."
"Fair enough," Lena said, her gaze returning to the map, thankfully distracted by the promise of geological glory. "Well, let's get a move on. The sooner we start, the sooner we're back. And maybe, just maybe, we'll find something worth writing home about today."
Aris nodded, forcing another tight smile that felt like it was glued on with superglue. Oh, they were going to find something worth writing home about, alright. He just couldn't tell her what it was. Not yet. Not ever. The weight of the secret, and the infinitely replenishing red pills in his duffel bag, pressed down on him, a heavy, unshakeable burden in the vast, empty expanse of the Mongolian desert, a burden he was pretty sure he couldn't cure with an SCP-500. Not that he was going to try. Yet.