The SCP Whisperer

It's morning. The alarm clock on my nightstand begins to ring loudly enough for me to hear it. I groan and reach over to hit the off button. The noise stops. Sitting up in bed, I yawn and look around the room. It's small, but it has to do. I've only been living here for about a year.

I live at the SCP Foundation, a facility that captures mysterious entities and researches them. I came here about a year ago after the Mobile Task Force (MTF for short) discovered an entity that I was connected to. Ever since then, I had been living here.

I hop out of bed and onto the rug, slipping into my slippers. I turn on my light and begin getting dressed into my uniform. It's different than the people we have here. Some might consider me a Class-D personnel, but others say I'm just someone who works well with the SCPs, which is what the foundation calls the entities here. My uniform is a grey shirt with a white jacket and black pants. When I wear it, I look like a scientist, though I'm not.

There's a knock on my room's door. "Come in!" I call and the door opens. An MTF guard stands there in full uniform. He wears a helmet over his head with a visor to block out his eyes. His shoulders are covered by black shoulder pads and in his hands, he holds an FN P90, the primary weapon for "terminating" any non-compliant Class-D personnel. It's a good thing I'm not one of them. 

"Dr. Harper wants to see you in her office," the guard says. I smile and thank him. He turns and walks down the hallway as I leave my room. The hallway is brightly lit and I can hear MTF guards and scientists walking down. On occasion I can hear the complaints of personnel in their cells or talking with one another. This is life of the Foundation.

I reach the hallway with the scientists' offices and use a key card to gain access inside one of them. Dr. Harper sits at her desk, typing on her computer. As she looks up, she smiles.

"Ah, Trisha! Good to see you're up," she exclaims in her thick British accent. I take a seat across the table. She's wearing her lab coat and over her eyes are a pair of glasses. She has long brown hair and wears red lipstick. She's pretty, for a scientist.

"What do you need?" I ask. Dr. Harper shuffles through the papers on her desk and finds one. She hands it to me and I take a look. It's a case file for one of the SCPs here at the foundation. The file has a picture of what looks to be an old century plague doctor.

"We have an interview scheduled this morning with SCP-049," she says. "I want you to go and talk with him while I take notes. You two seem to have a good relationship together." I shrug. "That's what happens when you spend a lot of time with someone," I answer.

My main role here at the foundation is to interact with the SCPs. I've had the gift of communicating with entities that are not normal ever since I was born, but it never became a problem until I was around ten. That was when things started to get chaotic.

As I grew older, my abilities began to scare my friends and family. Friends left me and my parents, well, they became terrified of me. I would interact with the entities and they weren't accepting of my so-called friends. At least, they didn't think they were my friends.

All the entities that I've met were taken to the foundation and classified as SCPs. SCP-049 was one of them. I've known him since I was four and he's been nice to me over the years. He was taken to the foundation when I was around ten. So when I was recruited, I paid a visit to dear old doctor. He was happy to see me, though I couldn't shake his hand because, well, I would be dead.

SCP-049 has a tendency to touch those who have the disease and cure them. Those infected die instantly but then are reborn after 049 injects a special chemical to make them pure again. Even though I'm cured, we have to make sure physical contact is prohibited. SCP-049 agrees to this as he doesn't want to cure me when I'm already cured.