SCP Foundation

This is about a Russian.

Эта история о русском.

While theatre came naturally to him, his skill in the other creative arts were lacking. He understood presentation; he did not understand color theory. He understood acoustics; he did not understand music theory.

Пускай театр давался ему от природы легко, ему недоставало мастерства в иных видах искусства.

Often, before the Foundation, he spent his time watching others play, admiring from a distance but never entertaining the thought of playing an instrument himself. He had a silent admiration and respect for these creatives, which were often at the dismay of his old colleagues. He had to bury this fascination, calling them a passing curiosity and, ultimately, a waste of time.

Now, in the Foundation, little has changed. This time, he chose to embellish his affinity with theatre, playing into his role as the eccentric Russian among scientists. Many of them were far more queer, for he observed a talking dog, a butterfly man, and a woman with horns. This time however, he buried his own fascinations; better never to fail than to fail at all.

Until one day, he spotted a ukulele on a lark, alone and untouched. While he was before the instrument, he played his role as the dramaturgist, bigger than life, bigger than himself, and to his surprise, the ukulele played back. It was simple, twangy, petulant, and other such crass words, but it was to his delight.

From there, he learned everything he could, still at a distance, still uneasy with these thoughts. He started off simple, learning the notes and where they were located and how to press them. Then the chords, which ones would produce the most pleasant (or unpleasant) sounds. Then, onto the finer things. How to tune the strings, how to protect the wood, how to clean the finish.

And then, came the right moment. This is the right moment. Maybe. He was still unsure, uncomfortable with actually playing, but he had already come this far. So he starts. Slow, plucking arpeggios, then something a bit less structured and more melodic, repeating the same chords and undulations he had learned not too long ago, until he started to sing along to something simple. Something nice. And then it was over.

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This is about a Brit.

While violent and foul mouthed and abrasive, he still cared about some things in life. Weapons came naturally to him like a red blooded yankee. Perhaps it was unhealthy, and it is ironic that his favorite pastime was borrowed from the colonies, but it simply was. Mechanical, high energy, low effort, it was perfect for him.

Often, he would head to the shooting range with the other miscreants and spend the time smoking and drinking. They would pass along jokes in poor taste, get angry, start pissing contests, and then move on to the next place. Maybe a casino. Maybe a club. Always someplace new, never the same place.

Now, in yet another hangover from yet another night, he draped himself over a cool bench to rest his body, feeling no better. And maybe he deserved this. The pounding headache and the nasty backwash with the ibuprofen rotting through his gut, and that maybe this will be his lot in life, forever.

Until one day, he comes across a sniper rifle. A genuine, well-polished and elegant SV-98. It was an old fashioned bolt action with modern accessories that were out of place and yet very much befitting it. It was well oiled, well machined, but had an edge that took him off the grid. It was heavy and light and he wanted to find out where it had just come from.

From there, he thought he knew everything there was to know about it. It had been modified by GRU-P, put through a dozen stress tests, performing each with ease. But it was no more than another rifle, and he knew what rifles could do. What else was there to say; it was usable, powerful for the right reasons, a novelty for sure, but anything else made for a poor weapon. He did not trust it, for all the above reasons and more.

And then, after all was said and done, he still took it out to the range. It was impulsive, he was in the mood, he wasn't particularly thinking straight. He got it into his head that this would have been a once in a lifetime chance, and that after this one he would never find another rifle like it, and that he was already lined up for the shot when he had snapped to his senses. He forces himself to steady his shaky breathing, he wants to stay dead still, he feels the pressure of the stock against his breast, his eyes stare slightly off target, his scope was not zeroed in and he knew he would miss and he should have taken the time to fix it but he had already pulled the bolt and he-