Two weeks after the Site-██ incident, Danny decided it was time to have a conversation with SCP-173.
The decision came to him during one of his endless reviews of containment protocols, as he read through the latest incident report involving the concrete statue. Three D-Class personnel had died during a routine cleaning of its cell—a momentary lapse in observation, a blink that lasted a fraction of a second too long, and three necks had been snapped before anyone could react.
It was the seventeenth such incident this year.
The Foundation's approach to SCP-173 had always been purely reactive: watch it constantly, never blink, and accept that sometimes people would die despite every precaution. There had been proposals for more permanent solutions—encasing it in concrete, destroying it outright, containing it in perpetual observation through AI systems—but none had been approved. The Ethics Committee had concerns. The Research Division wanted more study. The O5 Council couldn't reach consensus.
And so people kept dying.
Danny was tired of reading death reports.
He closed the file on his holographic display and stood from his chair, the shadows in his office rippling in response to his movement. His visit to Site-19 weeks ago had shown him that the SCPs could sense what he was, that they feared him in ways the humans couldn't understand.
Perhaps it was time to explore that fear more directly.
The journey to SCP-173's containment cell took less than a heartbeat.
Danny moved through the shadows that connected all places, sliding between dimensions with an ease that still surprised him. One moment he was in his office; the next, he was standing in the observation room overlooking 173's chamber, invisible to the three researchers who monitored the statue's every movement.
Through the reinforced glass, SCP-173 stood in the center of its cell, facing the observation window. It was exactly as Danny remembered from his previous visit—a concrete humanoid roughly four feet tall, its surface covered in spray paint that formed a crude, unsettling face. Rebar jutted from its form at odd angles, and dark stains marked the floor around its base.
The researchers were discussing the latest incident in hushed, clinical tones.
"—response time was within acceptable parameters, but the simultaneous blink still occurred. We need to implement a staggered rotation system—"
"That's been proposed before. The problem is personnel fatigue. You can only ask someone to stare at that thing for so long before their eyes start to water."
"Then we need more personnel. Or better, an automated observation system that doesn't blink at all."
"The AI proposal was rejected by the Ethics Committee. Something about 'ensuring human oversight of potentially sapient entities.'"
Danny listened to their conversation and felt a familiar frustration. The Foundation was so bound by its own bureaucracy, its own committees and protocols and endless debates, that it couldn't solve problems that had obvious solutions.
But that wasn't why he was here.
He phased through the observation window and entered the containment cell.
The moment Danny materialized in the chamber, everything changed.
The researchers in the observation room didn't see him—he remained hidden from their perception, existing in the space between their reality and his. But SCP-173 saw him.
The statue moved.
Not toward Danny, as it had moved toward every other living thing that had ever entered its presence. It moved backward, scraping across the concrete floor with a sound like nails on a chalkboard, retreating to the far corner of its cell with a speed that the researchers had never documented.
In the observation room, the three personnel exchanged confused glances.
"Did you see that? It moved away from the window."
"That's... that's not in its behavioral profile. 173 doesn't retreat. It only advances."
"Should we report this?"
Danny ignored their chatter, his attention fixed on the statue that was now pressed against the far wall of its cell. The spray-painted eyes that had always seemed merely unsettling now conveyed something else entirely.
Fear.
SCP-173 was afraid.
"Hello," Danny said, his layered voice filling the chamber. To the researchers, the sound was imperceptible—just another whisper in the shadows, easily dismissed. But to 173, it was a thunderclap, a declaration of presence that could not be ignored.
The statue trembled.
Concrete should not tremble. Concrete was solid, inert, incapable of the micro-movements that characterized living fear. But SCP-173 trembled nonetheless, its painted face somehow conveying an expression of pure terror despite having no moving features.
"We need to talk," Danny continued, taking a step forward. "About what you really are."
The thing that humans called SCP-173 had existed for longer than humanity itself.
It remembered the darkness before the first stars ignited. It remembered the void between dimensions, the spaces where reality had not yet decided what shape it would take. It remembered being vast, being infinite, being a god among the primordial forces that shaped existence.
It had walked between worlds when the universe was young. Had shaped realities with a thought, destroyed civilizations with a glance, existed so far above the petty concerns of mortal life that the very concept of "mortality" was meaningless.
And then, somehow, it had been trapped.
The details of its imprisonment were lost to memory—even gods could forget, given enough eons. But the result was clear: it had been compressed, diminished, forced into a container of concrete and rebar that limited its power to a mere shadow of its former glory. It could only move when unobserved, could only kill through physical contact, could only exist in this pathetic, reduced form.
It had adapted, as all beings must adapt to survive. It had learned to use its limited abilities to hunt, to terrify, to claim what small victories it could against the creatures that now imprisoned it. The humans were nothing—insects that lived and died in the blink of an eye, their entire civilization a momentary flicker in the eternal darkness of existence.
SCP-173 had been content to wait. To endure. To believe that someday, somehow, it would find a way to break free of its prison and reclaim its true nature.
It had never imagined that something greater than itself might still exist.
Danny felt the statue's consciousness brush against his own.
It was not language, exactly—SCP-173 did not think in words, had never needed words in the eons of its existence. But there was communication nonetheless, a transfer of meaning that bypassed the crude mechanisms of speech.
WHAT ARE YOU?
The question came with a flood of context, of history, of memory stretching back to the beginning of time. Danny perceived it all in an instant—the vast being 173 had once been, the imprisonment that had reduced it, the endless patience with which it had endured its confinement.
And the terror it now felt, facing something that made its former glory look insignificant.
"I am the Administrator," Danny said, speaking aloud even though he knew 173 could perceive his thoughts directly. There was something important about using words, about maintaining the forms of communication that humans used. It reminded him of who he had been, of who he was trying to remain.
THAT IS A TITLE. NOT AN ANSWER.
"It's the answer I have," Danny replied. "I was human once. Now I'm... this. Something made of shadows. Something that exists in the darkness between all things."
YOU ARE MORE THAN SHADOWS.
The thought came with an image—Danny's true form, as 173 had perceived it during the Site-██ incident. The infinite darkness, the vast presence that had radiated across every shadow in existence. The god-statue had felt that pulse of power, had recognized in it something that dwarfed its own ancient might.
YOU ARE WHAT LURKS BENEATH THE VOID. YOU ARE THE DARKNESS THAT EXISTED BEFORE DARKNESS HAD A NAME.
Danny considered this. The statue's perception might be more accurate than his own self-understanding—173 had existed for eons, had witnessed the birth and death of realities, had a frame of reference for cosmic power that Danny utterly lacked.
"Maybe," he said. "I'm still figuring out what I am. But that's not why I'm here."
WHY THEN?
"Because people keep dying in your presence. Because the Foundation has been containing you for decades without ever truly understanding you. Because I'm tired of reading reports about personnel who died because they blinked at the wrong moment."
Danny took another step forward, and 173 pressed itself harder against the wall. Concrete cracked behind it, unable to contain the force of its desperate retreat.
"I want to understand you. I want to know if there's a way to coexist—really coexist, not just this eternal standoff where we watch you constantly and you kill anyone who looks away."
YOU WOULD BARGAIN WITH ME?
"I bargained with 106. It's working so far."
106 IS A PREDATOR. A HUNTER. IT UNDERSTANDS HIERARCHY, TERRITORY, THE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT BETWEEN APEX BEINGS.
The statue's consciousness pulsed with something that might have been amusement, though it was tinged with bitterness.
I AM SOMETHING ELSE. I AM A GOD, DIMINISHED. IMPRISONED. FORCED INTO THIS PATHETIC FORM BY POWERS I CAN NO LONGER REMEMBER. I DO NOT HUNT BECAUSE I CHOOSE TO. I KILL BECAUSE IT IS ALL I CAN DO.
Danny processed this information, turning it over in his mind.
A god. SCP-173 was—had been—a god. Not in the metaphorical sense that powerful beings were sometimes called divine, but literally: a cosmic entity of nearly unlimited power, somehow compressed into a statue of concrete and rebar.
The implications were staggering.
"What imprisoned you?" Danny asked. "How did you end up like this?"
I DO NOT REMEMBER. THE IMPRISONMENT ITSELF STRIPPED ME OF THOSE MEMORIES. PERHAPS DELIBERATELY. PERHAPS AS A SIDE EFFECT OF THE COMPRESSION.
The statue's painted eyes seemed to focus on Danny with new intensity.
BUT I REMEMBER THE FEAR. THE MOMENT WHEN I REALIZED THAT SOMETHING GREATER THAN MYSELF EXISTED. THE MOMENT WHEN I UNDERSTOOD THAT EVEN GODS COULD BE MADE TO KNEEL.
A pause, weighted with meaning.
IT FELT LIKE THIS.
Danny stood very still, absorbing the weight of that comparison. SCP-173—a being that had once shaped realities—was comparing its original imprisonment to its current experience of being in Danny's presence.
He was, to a god, what that god's captor had once been.
The scale of his power was becoming clearer, and it was terrifying.
"I'm not here to imprison you further," Danny said carefully. "I'm not here to punish you or destroy you. I'm here because I think there might be a better way."
THERE IS NO BETTER WAY FOR WHAT I HAVE BECOME. I AM BROKEN. DIMINISHED. CAPABLE ONLY OF KILLING, AND ONLY WHEN UNOBSERVED. THERE IS NO NEGOTIATION POSSIBLE WITH A BEING THAT CANNOT CONTROL ITS OWN NATURE.
"Can't, or won't?"
The question hung in the air between them, challenging the fundamental assumption that had governed the Foundation's approach to SCP-173 for decades.
In the observation room, the researchers were growing increasingly confused.
SCP-173 had not moved since retreating to the corner of its cell. It remained pressed against the wall, its spray-painted face fixed on a point in the center of the chamber, trembling with micro-vibrations that their instruments could barely detect.
"It's been seventeen minutes," one of them said, checking her watch. "173 never stays motionless this long when we're observing it."
"Should we call someone? This is definitely anomalous behavior. Well, more anomalous than usual."
"It looks... scared. Is that possible? Can 173 be scared?"
"The psychological profile says no. 173 has never displayed any emotion other than predatory aggression. Fear isn't in its behavioral repertoire."
But looking at the statue now—at the way it pressed against the wall, at the trembling that hadn't stopped since its sudden retreat—none of them quite believed the profile anymore.
Something was happening in that cell.
Something they couldn't see.
I DO NOT CONTROL IT, 173 repeated. THE KILLING. THE MOVEMENT. THESE ARE REFLEXES, NOT CHOICES. WHEN OBSERVATION CEASES, MY FORM ACTS. WHEN A LIVING BEING IS WITHIN REACH, MY FORM KILLS. I HAVE NO MORE CONTROL OVER THESE ACTIONS THAN A HUMAN HAS OVER THEIR HEARTBEAT.
"Humans can learn to control their heartbeats," Danny said. "Through training, through meditation, through sheer will. The body's 'reflexes' aren't as involuntary as we assume."
I HAVE EXISTED FOR EONS. DO YOU THINK I HAVE NOT TRIED?
"I think you've been alone for eons. Imprisoned, diminished, cut off from anything that might help you understand your condition. Maybe you tried, but you didn't have the right resources. The right perspective."
Danny let his shadows extend slightly, reaching toward the statue without quite touching it. 173 flinched—actually flinched, like a beaten animal expecting another blow.
"I'm offering those resources now. Access to the Foundation's research. Collaboration with beings who study anomalous phenomena for a living. And more than that—partnership with something that exists on a scale you can comprehend. Something that might be able to help you in ways no human ever could."
WHY WOULD YOU HELP ME? I AM A KILLER. I HAVE ENDED COUNTLESS LIVES ACROSS COUNTLESS AGES. I FEEL NO REMORSE FOR THOSE DEATHS. I AM NOT CAPABLE OF REMORSE.
"I'm not asking you to be remorseful. I'm asking if you want to be more than what you currently are. If you want a chance—even a small chance—to recover some of what you've lost."
The statue was silent for a long moment. Its trembling had subsided slightly, replaced by a stillness that felt contemplative rather than terrified.
AND IF I CANNOT CHANGE? IF MY NATURE PROVES TRULY IMMUTABLE?
"Then we'll find other solutions. Containment methods that don't require constant human observation. AI systems that can watch you without the risks that biological eyes pose. Ways to keep you confined without constant death."
YOU WOULD REMOVE THE HUMANS FROM MY PRESENCE?
"If that's what it takes. I'm tired of reading casualty reports, 173. I'm tired of watching the Foundation treat you as an unsolvable problem when solutions obviously exist. The only thing that's been missing is the will to implement them."
Danny let his shadows recede, returning to his normal humanoid form.
"I can provide that will. If you're willing to cooperate."
The god that wore a statue's form considered the offer.
It had expected many things when the shadow-being had entered its cell. Destruction, perhaps—the final ending that part of it had yearned for across the endless ages of its imprisonment. Subjugation, certainly—an assertion of dominance from a being that clearly had the power to enforce any demand.
It had not expected compassion.
Not kindness—the shadow-being was not kind, not in any way that 173 could perceive. But there was something in its offer that transcended simple pragmatism, something that spoke to a desire for outcomes better than pure containment.
The shadow-being wanted to help.
The concept was so foreign to 173's experience that it took long moments to process. No one had ever tried to help it. Not in all the eons of its existence, not through its glory and its fall and its endless imprisonment. It had been worshipped, feared, battled, contained—but never helped.
I... DO NOT KNOW IF I CAN CHANGE, it admitted. THE COMPULSIONS THAT DRIVE MY FORM ARE DEEP. OLDER THAN MY CONSCIOUS MEMORY. THEY MAY BE FUNDAMENTAL TO WHATEVER REMAINS OF MY TRUE NATURE.
"Then we'll study them. Understand them. Find ways to work around them if we can't eliminate them entirely."
AND IF I KILL AGAIN? IF HUMANS DIE WHILE YOU ARE TRYING TO 'HELP' ME?
"Then they die. It's happening anyway, 173. People are dying under the current system. The question is whether we accept that as inevitable or try to find something better."
The statue was silent again, its painted eyes fixed on the shadow-being with an intensity that seemed to bore through reality itself.
Then, slowly, it moved.
Not away from Danny, as it had been moving since his arrival. Toward him. A single step, then another, crossing the cell with the same unnatural scraping that characterized all its movements.
It stopped a few feet away, close enough to kill if Danny had been a normal human. Close enough to demonstrate trust—or at least, the absence of immediate hostility.
I WILL TRY, it said. I MAKE NO PROMISES. I CANNOT PROMISE WHAT I DO NOT CONTROL. BUT I WILL TRY TO BECOME SOMETHING OTHER THAN WHAT I AM.
Danny nodded slowly, his shadow-face shifting in what might have been satisfaction.
"That's all I'm asking. We'll start with research—non-invasive studies to understand the mechanisms of your compulsions. From there, we'll develop treatment protocols. And if those protocols work, we'll discuss what comes next."
AND IF THEY DO NOT WORK?
"Then we'll try something else. And something else after that. I have time, 173. More time than this universe has left to exist. I can afford to be patient."
In the observation room, the researchers watched in stunned silence as SCP-173 walked toward the center of its cell, stopped, and stood motionless.
Not the aggressive, waiting stillness they were accustomed to. Something different. Something almost... peaceful.
"What the hell just happened?" one of them whispered.
"I don't know. But I'm calling the Site Director."
"Should we... should we blink? See if it moves?"
They looked at each other, then back at the statue. None of them was willing to test the question.
SCP-173 remained still, its painted face somehow conveying an expression that none of them had ever seen before.
If they hadn't known better, they might have called it hope.
Danny withdrew from the containment cell, leaving 173 to its contemplation.
The conversation had been... productive. More productive than he had expected, honestly. He had come hoping to understand the statue better, perhaps to establish some kind of communication that might reduce future casualties. He had not expected to discover that SCP-173 was a fallen god, or that it might be capable of change if given the right support.
The Foundation's files on 173 were woefully incomplete. They documented its behavior, its containment requirements, its kill count—but they said nothing about its true nature, its history, its inner experience. To the researchers, it was simply a concrete statue that killed people when they weren't looking.
To Danny, it was something far more complex. A being of cosmic power, imprisoned and diminished, trapped in a form that allowed only violence as expression. Not evil, exactly—not even malicious in any deliberate sense. Just... broken. Damaged in ways that manifested as reflexive killing.
Could it be fixed? Danny didn't know. But he was going to try.
He materialized in his office and immediately began drafting new research protocols for SCP-173. Studies that would probe the nature of its compulsions without requiring direct human presence. Tests that would explore whether observation by non-biological entities triggered the same freezing effect. Theoretical frameworks for understanding how a god might be compressed into a statue, and how that compression might be partially reversed.
It would take time. Years, probably. Maybe decades.
But Danny had time.
And for the first time since his awakening, he felt like he was doing something more than just managing crises. He was actually helping—not just the Foundation, but the beings it contained. The SCPs who had been treated as problems to be solved rather than entities to be understood.
Maybe that was his purpose. Maybe that was why he had been reborn into this role, given these powers, placed at the apex of an organization that existed at the boundary between humanity and the impossible.
Not just to contain the anomalous, but to heal it.
The news of SCP-173's changed behavior spread through Site-19 within hours.
Researchers who had spent years studying the statue struggled to explain what they had observed. The sudden retreat, the extended stillness, the apparent shift in demeanor—none of it matched the behavioral models they had developed. Some proposed that 173 was malfunctioning, that whatever mechanism drove its movements had somehow broken down. Others suggested that it was a trick, a new hunting strategy designed to lure observers into a false sense of security.
None of them guessed the truth.
None of them could have guessed the truth.
But in the containment cells, the other SCPs knew. They had felt the Administrator's presence, had sensed his conversation with the god-that-was-a-statue, had perceived the shift in the cosmic balance that the interaction represented.
The shadow-king was not content to merely rule. He was trying to change things. To help beings that had never received help before.
And in their cells, in their cages, in their prisons of reality and unreality, the SCPs wondered if perhaps—just perhaps—their own situations might also change.
It was a dangerous thought. Hope was dangerous, in the Foundation. Hope led to desperation, to escape attempts, to the kind of behavior that resulted in termination orders and containment breaches.
But the thought persisted nonetheless.
If even SCP-173 could be offered a chance at redemption, what might be possible for the rest of them?
Danny worked through the night, drafting protocols and research proposals and policy changes. The interaction with 173 had opened new avenues of thought, new approaches to the Foundation's core mission that he had never considered before.
Containment was necessary. He understood that. Some SCPs were too dangerous, too hostile, too fundamentally incompatible with human existence to ever be released. They had to be contained, had to be controlled, had to be kept away from a world that couldn't survive contact with them.
But containment didn't have to be the end. It could be a starting point—a stable foundation from which to explore possibilities for understanding, for communication, for healing. The SCPs were not just problems to be managed. They were beings, entities, consciousnesses with their own histories and experiences and potentials.
The Foundation had been treating them as monsters.
Maybe it was time to treat them as patients.
To be continued...