“Please, good sir, I beseech you, as a man
of science, nay, as a man of reason, you mustn’t stifle my research at this critical juncture! You have no idea how close I am to finding
a cure for this blasted Pestilence. I need only a handful of live subjects to
complete my research...” The Plague Doctor’s emphatic pleas fell
on deaf ears, as a stone-faced researcher took notes on his latest pontifications. The Doctor - whom those clods had reduced
so rudely to a mere number, SCP-049 - banged his gloved fist up against the wall. And to think, he once thought of these men
as intellectual equals - Fellow travelers on the road to scientific enlightenment! What a positively sick joke... Before the Doctor got another chance to appeal
for his right to experiment, the researcher left him alone once more. A truly sad state of affairs. Nobody appreciated a true scientist in this
day and age. It was sure to be another day of languishing
alone in his cell, wishing he had the capacity to do more. So he was as surprised as anyone when alarms
started going off, and the door of his cell swung open, automatically. The Plague Doctor stepped out of the cell
and into the hall, where many other humanoid anomalies were roaming, confused as to why
they’d been suddenly released. What was happening? As it turned out, what was happening was one
of the most brutal Chaos Insurgency raids the staff of Site-19 had ever seen. It had been planned immaculately. You see, guards rotate semi-regularly at Site-19
due to the high-pressure nature of the job. Lots of deaths and mental breakdowns, as you
probably correctly predicted. Even the administrative staff of the SCP Foundation
are only human - Well, mostly, anyway - So they’re not immune to little oversights
here and there. And it’s in those oversights that expertly
trained Chaos Insurgency Infiltration Agents make their living. No less than fifteen of them had been working
undercover in Site-19 for just over two weeks, and they did a fine job of lowering the metaphorical
drawbridge for a heavily armed invasion force. The guards who weren’t plants were quickly
murdered by the infiltrators, and even some of the on-site Task Forces were quickly overwhelmed
and gunned down by the high-precision rifles of the Chaos Insurgency’s finest. While the front liners were distracted by
the sudden assault, the infiltrators found their way to the site’s security control
room and massacred everyone inside. Opening every single door in the site was
as simple as putting in a few stolen key codes and flipping a few carefully-remembered switches. Consequently, while Foundation Agents and
Chaos Insurgency mercenaries clashed sabers, high-priority anomalies like SCP-049 simply
wandered the facility, watching the calamity unfold from within. The Foundation was beset on all sides: Shot
at by heavily-armed maniacs and attacked from within by the numerous roaming anomalous entities
that were eager to get their hands on Foundation personnel. Definitely not an ideal situation, to say
the least. The Plague Doctor only had one thing on his
mind, though: “Hmmm, this definitely won’t do my research any good. Unless I can escape and find my way to a suitable
laboratory. Oh, now there’s an idea...” But his scientific fantasies were soon interrupted
by a Chaos Insurgency soldier swinging the butt of his M4 Carbine into his avian exo-skull
with a supremely unpleasant crack. The Doctor was dazed by it momentarily, the
pain coming at him like a thunderclap, but the Insurgent never got the chance to take
another swing. Before the Insurgent could do anything, the
Plague Doctor lunged out with practiced speed, grasping him by the throat. Immediately, everything went black, and the
Insurgent’s limp corpse collapsed to the ground. Serves him right, the Doctor internally mused,
soldiers attacking medics is violating even the most basic rules of gentlemanly warfare! Then, another flash of immense pain, as a
different rifle butt collided with the back of his head. The Doctor fell to one knee, feeling dizzy,
but before he could retaliate, he felt the two sharp prongs of a cattle prod pressing
up against his neck. The sudden rush of electricity surged through
his neck, sending his muscles into a wave of involuntary spasms. The Insurgents crowding around him chimed
in with their own agonizing cattle prods, relentlessly shocking him until the flashes
of white-hot pain soon became an oppressive blanket of total dark. Even on his most cantankerous days, the SCP
Foundation had never treated him like this... When he eventually came to, he was still in
darkness, standing upright, with high-tech shackles holding every limb in place. It was beyond uncomfortable for the poor Plague
Doctor, but it succeeded in the task of keeping him under control. He couldn’t move an inch. There were muffled voices beyond the dark,
beyond the confines of this new containment. The modulated gas-mask voices of Insurgents,
and something else. Faintly accented, oddly familiar, but he couldn’t
quite place it. Soon, the voices were replaced by another
sound: The grinding of crowbars levering nails out of cheap wood. With a creaking tumble, a rectangle of bright
light opened up in front of him, populated by a number of silhouettes. On either side were Chaos Insurgents in familiar
tactical garb, and in between them stood a tall, well-groomed man with an expensive-looking
purple smoking jacket and a pencil mustache. For the first few fractions of a second, his
face was a portrait of excitement. But as he took in the sight of the Plague
Doctor standing before him, all the joy drained from his snooty countenance. “What the hell am I looking at here?” the man in the smoking jacket said. The Doctor, indignant at such a response from
the man who’d presumably ordered his assault, rasped, “A man of science, good sir.” The man in the smoking jacket ignored him
and continued to berate the Chaos Insurgents, with an odd level of confidence for someone
reprimanding trained, cold-blooded killers. “I wanted SCP-650, the Startling Statue,
not this clownish Ren Faire cosplayer! What the hell did I pay you ruffians for? I was told you ‘Chaos Insurgents’ were
the very best at this, and for your hefty price, I expect excellence!” The rant continued much like this, leaving
everyone in attendance - the Insurgents, the Plague Doctor - feeling thoroughly exhausted
by him and unable to do anything about it. You see, this wasn’t just any Chaos Insurgency
client - Your average tinpot dictator or arms dealer, you know the type. This was the one and only Pascal Laget: One
of the most famous, or rather, infamous, Anart Collectors in the game. He’d been a Foundation Person of Interest
for years due to his dealings with the Chaos Insurgency and Marshall, Carter, and Dark
Ltd., all to the end of expanding his Anart Collection, but his vast wealth and connections
had always shielded him from Foundation probes. For those unfamiliar with the subculture,
Anart - short for Anomalous Art - is exactly what it sounds like: Artistic projects with
anomalous properties to give it that extra kick. One of the most popular Groups of Interest
dealing in Anart is the iconic Are We Cool Yet?, which, incidentally, had recently excommunicated
Pascal Laget for being an exceedingly wealthy, up-tight Square who really didn’t represent
the collective’s rebellious ethos. And considering his response was to pay the
Chaos Insurgency to Raid Site-19 for a few pieces for his own private collection, costing
him millions of dollars and both groups many lives, it was safe to say he wasn’t taking
it well. “Look, we got you that other statue and
that thing killed four of our best guys, so how about we just call it even?” said one
of the Insurgents. “I’m sure you can have fun with bird-brain
here, too.” Pascal tutted and reluctantly dismissed his
hired guns. Having the Plague Doctor here definitely wasn’t
ideal, especially considering he wanted to host the ultimate Anart exhibition to put
Are We Cool Yet’s worthless Sommes-Nous Devenus Magnifiques? to shame, but he would make do with what he
had. Perhaps he could say that 049 was a commentary
on the ever-present nature of disease in mankind’s life, and our forever archaic approach to
it. Yes, yes, that would do nicely... Needless to say, the Plague Doctor was infuriated
by all of this: The violence against his person, the kidnapping, the disrespect, and most of
all, the interruption to his precious research - especially considering how close he’d
gotten to finding a cure for the Pestilence! But instead, he was soon spirited by a legion
of heavily-armored goons from his wooden box to a glass one in one of Laget’s many opulent
hallways. There were other glass cases on either side
of him, and more on the other side of the hall. All too reinforced for the Plague Doctor to
ever smash through on his own. Damn it. Laget’s own private Anart exhibition, probably
wedged between his oversized dining room and his jewel-encrusted crapper. Occasionally, Pascal himself would jaunt down
the hallway to gaze upon his new stolen Anart pieces, and of course, the Plague Doctor would
try his best to reason with him. “I am a patient man, Monsieur Laget, but
this is simply barbaric! By what right do you imprison me here? Is your intention to deprive the world, the
entire human race, of my valuable medical breakthroughs? Could you live with that on your conscience,
good sir?” There was never any meaningful response. The Plague Doctor soon learned that Pascal
Laget didn’t like his art interactive. It was simply meant to languish away in a
glass box, being watched, being passively looked at. Those Chaos Insurgency louts hadn’t even
bothered to bring his notebook or medical bag, so he was without the tools to even perform
his experiments. As loathed as he was to admit it, this was
even worse than being locked up by the SCP Foundation. But all of this wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. There was something in the glass box across
from the Plague Doctor that he vaguely recognized back from Site-19. He’d never seen it up close, but he’d
heard researchers speaking about it, and even seen a few pictures. And such a strange construction it was... A peculiar, haphazard Sculpture made from
concrete, rebar, and spray paint. Quite ugly, in this humble Doctor’s opinion,
but there was something oddly entrancing about it. And for reasons beyond the Doctor’s recollection,
four of Laget’s men stood around the glass box it was being stored in, always watching. The men were frequently switched in and out,
as though they were watching it in shifts, always fixing their gaze on its peculiar,
malformed body. Maybe it was all the electric shocks and knocks
to the head, but he just couldn’t remember why Pascal was having the piece so carefully
observed. But he knew, on some primal level, that the
secret to this would perhaps be the key to his own escape. If only he could remember... Still, time passed, Pascal drifted in and
out, sometimes with guests. The Plague Doctor had learned not to speak. These animals could not be reasoned with. As a scientist, he would instead carefully
observe, until his observations bore fruit. He noticed that Pascal’s guests - All people
who looked equally as wealthy and pompous as Pascal himself - all seemed to look right
over him, and instead focus on the ugly statue across the hall, still forever observed by
any four of Pascal’s men. Some of them looked actively nervous, just
being in its presence. Curious. The Plague Doctor made a mental note of this. Just as he did when Pascal gave his guests
a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and told them, “Please, calm yourself. It’s harmless while my personnel are keeping
an eye on it.” Little by little, the Plague Doctor’s memories
of his infamous neighbor had begun to return. He knew what he must do to escape, now all
he needed to do was wait for the perfect moment. Soon enough, Pascal’s mansion was filled
with a bevy of Anart snobs from hither and yarn. A private soirée, to show off his new collection. They wandered the halls in three-piece tuxedos
and designer ballroom dresses, sipping champagne from imported crystal. All such lovely, refined, high society people,
and if the good Doctor’s plan went off as he intended, they would all be such lovely,
refined, high society corpses. The Plague Doctor waited until, mercifully,
he and the four members of personnel watching the Sculpture were the only ones left in the
hallway. He’d been so good, so patient, that none
of the men guarding the Sculpture at present had ever heard him make a noise. He was so invisible to them that, in all likelihood,
they probably didn’t even notice he could make a sound. And that worked for his purposes just fine. Though in any case, if he wanted this to work,
he would need to time his plan perfectly. Even a fraction of a second out of place,
and the whole thing would have dire consequences. Still, the Doctor was still a Frenchman at
heart, and as a Frenchman, he knew he would rather die nobly in the process of escape
than remain captured by this worthless buffoon. He’d be sure to take as many of these men
down with him in the process as he was able. The Plague Doctor exhaled deeply, drawing
a lungful of air, then bellowed as loud as he possibly could. The sudden, unexpected noise was so shocking
that it jogged the four watchers almost reflexively to turn and look at him. And in that split second that they did, the
Plague Doctor closed his eyes. In the dark, time seemed to move slower - Perhaps
due to the Doctor’s keen focus, cultivated over many a century. He listened carefully to the sequence of sounds:
Glass shattering, four choked gasps in sequence, four brutal crunches, then, nanoseconds later,
more glass shattering— The Plague Doctor’s eyes snapped open, just
in time. Just as predicted, the Sculpture, being entirely
unobserved, had smashed through its glass case, murdered all four members of personnel
by snapping their necks, and then smashed through his own glass case to do the same
to him. The Plague Doctor had cut it so close, in
fact, that he opened his eyes to the face of the Sculpture staring into his own, its
concrete limbs wrapped around his neck. Very good timing, indeed. With a sigh of relief, the Plague Doctor slipped
out of the Sculpture’s concrete grasp, and backed down the hallway, keeping his gaze
fixed on the Sculpture the entire time. He’d heard it decimate Pascal’s men, he
certainly didn’t fancy undergoing the same fate. The second the Plague Doctor backed around
the corner, rendering the Sculpture - or as the SCP Foundation called it, SCP-173 - out
of sight, he could hear terrified screaming coming from the other end of the hall. He was not a sadistic man, but the Plague
Doctor would be lying if he told you he didn’t take just a little bit of pleasure in hearing
that sound. Somewhere else in the vast mansion of Pascal
Laget, the Sculpture was slaughtering its way through servants and party guests, while
the Plague Doctor searched for some kind of exit. Anyone who dared get in his way was given
a swift and merciless touch of death, sending their body unceremoniously to the ground. Anyone in his way was preventing him from
finding a cure for the Pestilence, and thus, endangering countless lives. It was, of course, regrettable to have to
kill anyone, but some sacrifices must be made for the greater good of mankind. Well... It’s not necessarily ‘always’ regrettable,
per se. On his way out, while the murderous rampage
of SCP-173 seemed to distract anyone of note, the Plague Doctor just so happened to encounter
a fleeing Pascal Laget, hoping to find some kind of escape himself. It seemed that, now, fate was on his side
once more. To have his jailor right here, in the palm
of his hand, would be such a perfect parting gift... Funnily enough, Pascal was far more talkative
to him now. He rattled off a rapid-fire series of threats,
bribes, and pleas, claiming in the end that he never meant any harm. He was the one who freed the Plague Doctor
from the SCP Foundation. They were on the same side here. All this was for the art. No offense was ever intended. Pascal Laget simply lived for art. “Then die for it, good sir,” the Plague
Doctor said, and with a single touch, Pascal’s eyes rolled up into the back of his head,
and he fell to the ground, dead. It was one of the few non-scientific deaths
that he felt truly no guilt for. After some time searching, the screams around
the rest of the mansion eventually went silent. That did wonders for his focus. It didn’t take long for the Plague Doctor
to locate an exit - A fine, mahogany door with elaborate adornments befitting a man
as gaudy as Pascal - and begin strolling towards it, his chest swollen with pride and a sense
of accomplishment. Then he blinked, and a few feet in front of
him stood The Sculpture. It was there so suddenly that the Plague Doctor
fell backwards in shock, but he devoted everything to keeping an eye on that monstrosity. With everyone else in the mansion presumably
dead at this point, it had now come back for him. It stood there, staring, silently, ready to
exact the terrible price for freeing it as soon as the doctor dared to blink. The Plague Doctor began crawling backwards
down the hall, just wanting to put some distance between himself and the Sculpture. As the seconds passed, he could feel his eyes
drying out, until the inevitable... Blink. The Sculpture was standing right in front
of him now, gazing down, almost mocking. It had closed the distance so quickly. If the Plague Doctor blinked again, he was
sure that his eyes would never open again. All it had to do was wait as the seconds passed,
and the Doctor began to feel his eyes drying up again. That subtle sting quickly grew into a nagging
pain that could not be denied. Sooner or later, he was going to have to... BANG! The front door flew open, and in an instant,
the hallway was filled with heavily-armed troops. All wearing the familiar black and grey of
the SCP Foundation. The Plague Doctor had never been so relieved
to see the organization that had kept him locked up for so many decades. For once, they’d saved him from something
even worse. Of course, the Sculpture didn’t say anything,
but the disappointment of losing that one more victim seemed to radiate off of it like
a lingering bad smell. The Plague Doctor willingly gave himself up,
and heavy machinery was brought in to pick up SCP-173 - with the help of the Eye-pods
to make sure it didn’t try any funny business in transit. Pascal had gotten away with his shady dealings
for years, but the brazen attack he funded against Site-19 was now enough for the Foundation
to track him down. When his corpse was found in the halls of
his own home, with no obvious cause of death, we can happily tell you that nobody was disappointed. By the evening, the Plague Doctor was happy
to be back in his cell. His research could continue here, and in time,
he knew that the personnel of the SCP Foundation would listen to reason and comply with his
demands. After all, science marches on, regardless
of who chooses to march with it. But he would forever feel a little nervous
in Site-19 after that, knowing the concrete monster he was sharing the building with. He hoped that if ever there was another containment
breach involving that... Thing, that it didn’t feel like paying him
a visit, for old times’ sake... Now go check out “SCP-049 The Plague Doctor
- Everything You Need to Know” and “SCP-173 Origin Story - How 173 Got to Site-19” for
more on the two SCPs from today’s original tale!
