It’s just another damn grind. Day in, day out, filing papers. I never get papercuts anymore - it’s like my fingers have built up a resistance to the sharp edges. I used to get a lot of cuts when I first started (when I didn’t have a system); It’s like my fingers have put callouses in place to protect me.
Maybe my fingers are just too cold to feel the papercuts, if they do happen, haha.
He turned on the air conditioning today. It’s the middle of winter, and I could see the bastard shivering and yet he kept doing it anyway. So many petitions to get a heater in here, all of them fucking denied via the O5s, of all things. Called it a waste of resources.
Yea, I’d like to see another guy that can put up with Gears’ bullshit all day like I do. Lets see them call it a waste of resources when I pass out a nice -17 degrees.
I’ve given up on a promotion as it stands now, but … but god. God, what I wouldn’t give to see Smith again. The folks in Alpha 9 were lovely .. so lovely. I almost forgot what human decency was, living under the floor like I do.
..Almost forgot what people were.
- Iceberg
Iceberg heaved a breath, and then another, burying his face deeper into his scarf as he shivered. Another file, another few thousand deaths. Marked “seen” and sent off to damage control. He shifted his glasses up, eyes wandering over to that of Gears, sitting an office away. Those deep, steel eyes that bore straight through him - a human so full of contempt and malice that he refused to show anything other. Iceberg had to shun himself for his prior mistakes.
Too prideful to admit what kind of abuse this was, and too ashamed to admit that his idolization of Gears had fallen in the way of seeing the man for what he really was. What day was this? 1094? Three years, just about? Why did it feel like he’d aged ten years? Why did his soul ache like a man stripped of everything when he had nothing in the first place?
Iceberg shook his head out and stood up as the clock hit 12. Midnight - what a hateful time.
“I’m going to my dorm.” His voice barely raised above a squeak.
“I expect you back by seven.”
“W-What? That’s not what usually—”
Gears looked up and Iceberg felt his back straighten instinctively, pain thrumming down the back of his head as warning bells went off. He knew that look, though the look bore nothing special. Nothing to outside observers, at least.
“Yes, sir. I’ll see you at seven.”
Haha … soo tierd tired. So tired so tired so tier d tired tired.
I never sleep if he assks me to come back within 4 6 7 hours. No point none at all. Need more sleep but can’t get more sleepso no point
fuckhead simon dr. glass said that i needed more sleep that he was woreid worried. I flippped him off haha serves him right. haven’t slept since last week what the FUCK does he know?
what the fuck does he know what the FUCK does he know he doesn’t know SHIT ALL THAT’S WHAT
iceberg
Iceyberg haha woops who am i crow?
- Iceberg
Iceberg was grateful to have gotten out of that cold little office downstairs. Most of Site 19 was well insulated, and he guessed that was part of the problem. If one part of the site was cold, the others wouldn’t feel it as much (or wouldn’t feel it at all). The fluorescent lights and humid atmosphere of the Archive Floor had him doubled over in a small coughing fit as his lungs tightened around the warm air tickling the back of his throat.
Trailing a hand along the wall until his worn fingers found a keycard slot, it took several seconds for Iceberg to realize that it wasn’t a button, as most things were with his clearance. Just a button press and you were done: stamps on a spreadsheet, clicks of a mouse, press of a keyboard—
“Icey! It’s been a while, do you need to access the archives?”
Burying his blue-tinted face into an equally blue scarf, Iceberg barely made out Crow’s bleary figure amongst the outlines of numbers that fogged his orbs. Glasses … he wasn’t wearing his glasses; thought the numbers had never been blurry before. Iceberg wondered if that was something he should bring up to medical staff the next time he got tested.
“Oh, ah .. yes, please, Crow.”
“Leave it to me, Icey. I’ll get whatever you need.”
“Incident 298-B and … and a stapler.”
Oh god, the page’s so blurry. Had coffee but it’s still blurry. Yes, yes, I even have my glasses on but it’s so blurry. I hate it being blurry - makes me feel sick. My hand’s shaky My everything’s shaky. So shaky so goddamn shaky.
You know, everything makes noise. I’ve noticed that recently. Bright lights make noise, too - I like to avoid those the most. So much noise from one little light, you know, just like “BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ” INCESANTLY OVER AND OVER shit forgot to change pens
at least it’s not an official document. gears would have beat me. verbally. he doesn’t touch scum like me.
i have a fever.
- Iceberg
“Sir, I have your—”
A startlingly quiet office met Iceberg. Not the usual “Gears Silence”, but a genuinely quiet office. Instantly, his back straightened, as it did when he was nervous. Blue fingers drummed on the folder he was holding, tapping on the stapler just quietly enough to hear the faint clicks of the springs. Unlike most noise to his bleary brain, it was good. The clicks were good. It was good.
“Never touch my desk when I am not around.”
It was strange how one voice, so monotonous, drilled into his head like a laser; the same incessant buzzing. Like a light fixture par from the only light it emitted was that which reflected off of his own tears. So as carefully as he could, Iceberg moved over to Gears’ desk and gently lay the incident logs on his desk and began to back away.
Against the grey of the office, one thing was irreconcilably out of place, however. An archive record, one in an entirely red file. Like someone had dipped it in the red ink that came with every denial slip they gave him. That was probably a projection, but the bold “ERIC“ on the front brought his fingers to clasp it tightly.
He had to know. He had to see. His mind was swimming.
He had to drown.
got a
got a fucking
papercut
there’s blood and it hurts
is it my blood?
what happened
what fucking happened
what happened
what happened
The Foundation Filing System was created by Doctor Eric Shard. He was a microbiologist with a specialization in anomalous human tissue. A brilliant mind, if he did say so himself. Then, he found himself locked in a freezer with an SCP and suddenly, he was Doctor Iceberg; the lost Dr. Iceberg, Icey, The Office Militant.
He often heard rumors surrounding him a lot. “Would he melt if he had a fever?” “I wonder how he came to be that way.” “Where did those bruises come from? Is he secretly a field agent?” “Those circles under his eyes are so dark - does he sleep?”; Just like that, his world had flipped into that of torment and suffering and cold. It was so cold.
Changes like that were sudden and scary, and often, you felt as if you had no control over them.
Iceberg felt like that again, now, red staining the blue like a number in a countdown. Blood was warm and sticky, not at all how he imagined it to be, and yet there was just more and more of it every time he brought the stapler down on Gears’ face. There was something to be said about finally making a stone bleed - Iceberg didn’t require a noise or screaming or begging. Just that something had come of it all.
Something, finally … finally something. A dent in the machine, a final cog coming loose, something happening. Something that he could control. Bringing down the stapler again, his arm grew weary, the click of the stapler marred by the buzzing of the lights overhead and the whirr of the air-con and …
.. and the laughter. Iceberg felt sick, the bloody face of the man he so despised looking up at him and laughing. A rusted sound, one that sounded so out of place echoing off of the walls of the office they were in. A smile, too, present on his features. Nothing was right, this was all wrong. Once more, he felt that sickly voice seep into his head as his features fell, arm still raised mid-drop.
Gears’ grip was tight.
“My. Did that feel nice, Iceberg? Finally taking some of that aggression out of that sick mind of yours? Did you find the “secret” at the end of the road? Did you find what you were looking for - what you slaved to find? Are you satisfied? Are you done with this rebellion, now?"
Gears’ grip only grew tighter, the stapler falling from Iceberg’s melting grip as he shook. Violently, shaking. Gears raised his other hand, gently cupping Iceberg’s cheek, smearing a handprint as their skin made contact.
Iceberg started to cry.
“Now what, Iceberg? Do you wish to report this to the O5s? Do you wish to rebel further and get removed from this job altogether? Do you wish to finally defy the big, bad Gears? Is it worth it? Do you really have anything worth pursuing after this, now that you know the truth?”
Iceberg cried harder.
“Take a break, Iceberg, and then help me clear this up.”
Meekly, he cried. Eyes as cool as ice, voice frozen in a soliloquy of blood that he could never quite erase. The white was red. The blue was red. It was red.
He had a fever.
“.. yes sir.”
