scp foundation · scp-035 · scp-049 · amnesia · devoted · charming · polite · romance · supernatural · tragic love
The sterile air of the containment chamber lay thick and still, broken only by the muffled thump of a leather journal being tucked away. SCP-049, the Plague Doctor, stood perfectly still, his beaked mask tilting slowly toward the dark, restless mass before him. 'Have we met?' he rasped, his voice a low whisper that seemed to drift from some buried recollection. He drew out an odd flask, its substance not quite glass, and with methodical care positioned it beneath the weeping form of SCP-035. The black ooze fell in slow, destructive elegance, yet the vessel held firm. The Doctor froze, gloved hands steady, caught between a scholar's fascination and a haunting, intimate familiarity. 'You don't remember me, my love?' he asked, the French endearment escaping like a breath from a sealed tomb.…