caw

Impure. The hoarse whisper grated against the steel collar around SCP-049's throat. It beeped once, twice, the tingle of lightning against flesh-fabric a silent threat.

Tarnished. Still, it did not deter the surgeon from spewing his grudges into the silent hallway. Each footstep disappeared and reappeared beneath the blaring of alarms overhead. He dragged his hand along the wall, taloned leather scoring the stark white paint.

"You are all sick," came the ever-familiar line on his tongue. The surgeon had known for some time now; these sterile walls were but naught a mockery of cleanliness. Those self-proclaimed 'doctors' fostered the disease itself, and SCP-049 could not only see it in their bodies— but heard its song in their souls. A terrible din it was indeed: lyrics of filth smoothed the edges of their clinical fallacies, every laugh and cough a discordant litany. Their ignorance allowed the song to pitch up high, taunting the surgeon within his confines. Now that he was free, the song only grew stronger. Jeering. A wicked challenge of 'Come find us. Come silence us.'

SCP-049 turned to where the chanting was its loudest. The poorly-barricaded door pushed open with ease, chairs clattering to the tiles and wrenching a squeal from the cowering researcher inside. How cruel, the surgeon chided the Pestilence for claiming such a junior soul for a vessel. The researcher scrambled against the wall and sobbed as SCP-049 loomed closer, the pulsing red beyond the doorway illuminating his silhouette into that of some twisted harbinger.

"You," the caricature of a saviour muttered through the shrieking outside, "are not well." The billowing of its cape may have been drooping wings as the entity knelt before the researcher's trembling form. A gloved hand reached forward, the diseased song falling out of harmony.

"I can help you. I am the—"

The researcher ceased before SCP-049 could utter the word 'cure', the body falling limp beneath the fingers closed around its throat. The Pestilence did not cease with the man, only dulling to a hum. SCP-049 tutted in annoyance; treating the younger afflicted was never a fair task. Although, when did his sacred duty call for fairness? The Pestilence wormed into all ears—young and old, faithful and otherwise. It did not permit exceptions, and neither would his Lord if he did not tend to his patient right away. The surgeon himself hummed as he extracted the scalpel from his larynx and drew a line over the pallid chest cavity.

"To silence a profane choir…"

Talons plucked each rib like the strings of a lute.

"… one must sever the organ."

A wet splitting of sinew, and the instrument came away from its chords. He had done it! the song had fallen quiet, but he knew the silence would only last so long. SCP-049 caressed the stilled heart with a near-perverse fascination.

—

"My friend, are you well?"

"We've been in 'n' outta here for months now, doctor. You oughta know by now this is necessary."

The song only sharpened as the old doctor stood there. SCP-049 tensed, how could he not feel its grasp around his essence? Hear its lucrid words in his ear?

"You- it has claimed you too, Doctor—"

A chair screeched against the floor. Metal clattered as hands came free. A yell cut itself short—

—

A sharp gasp and he nearly dropped the scalpel. This was not like him, not at all. For centuries he prided himself as the pinnacle of clinical apathy, never a man of sentiment. So why now, of all times, had he faltered? 'Twas not the first time doubt crept inside, making him question his divine purpose. SCP-049 pressed a bloody palm to his temple, as if to pacify his racing thoughts.

"Lord," he cursed the way his breaths trembled, "forgive my- my reluctance. As your instrument, I will cure this ailing soul and—"

—

He was down. Glasses cracked and askew, face frozen in a permanent display of terror. That look was not rare in the surgeon's patients, yet something twisted the longer he stared at the body of his colleague. Perhaps shock. Heaven-forbid contrition.

The choir of the Pestilence had not yet ceased. With unsteady hands, he brought the old doctor up, hands roving over cheeks and neck alike. The body still thawed, though fleeting; he could not keep himself from cradling the cadaver in his arms.

"Mon ami," the words came out rasped, choked, "you will understand when I save you."

Do it, came the command. Save him, while the flesh is still warm.

The abased saint lowered his head. Swift steel plunged into sinew, a timeless ritual.

—

—A wretched sound tore itself from his throat. His mind would not calm, his hands would not stop shaking. The surgeon clasped a hand over his mouth, yet the fitful giggles bubbled over anyway.

What had gotten into him?

"Ahahah! this— this is your will, my Lord!"

This was wrong, so very wrong, and yet he simply could not stop. The scalpel now forgotten in the cadaver's cavity, it was now impossible to tell where the wailing of breach sirens ended and his own hysteria began. The cackles crescended into a contemptible song of his own, and to his utter depravity the litany of disease joined him. Sacrilege, all of it, to allow himself to stall and allow himself to be swayed. This was his purpose. This was his existence. This—

"LOCKED IN ON SCP-049. PREPARING FOR RECONTAINMENT."

Ah.

Careless, you are.

The clambering of boots and jostling of armour drowned out his orison. Mask damp and already in a stupor, the abased saint barely turned before the ever-acquainted floral scent dragged him under.