Fluffy Markiplier Oneshots

Ch. 4 - Other Side of the Screen

Such tired. Much school.  XP 

Enjoy Chapter Four, everybody!

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Mark's POV 

It was just a job, really. I'd sit in a rolling chair every day and watch her on a screen. It was my job. She was an assignment, and I had made her into something more. I suppose, over the last year, I might have fallen a bit in love with her. She was a welcome change from the cold metal doors and thick padded walls. Y/N was the first real colors I had ever seen in this place. I could remember colors; seasons; people and places buried deep in my software, encoded into my motherboard. Sometimes, just before they'd shut me down at night, I would ask them where they had found me. 

"I came from somewhere," I said. "Who created me?"  But they wouldn't tell me. They couldn't, by order of a higher authority. So they left me in my room, the lights off, the doors locked. And I would watch that bright screen and take notes, like the dutiful little engine I was. They wouldn't tell me why I had to observe people, either - usually I was stuck watching older men lead their outside lives. Then, after a few weeks of carefully noting where they went and who with, I would be given another assignment. I don't know what happens to the people I used to observe. I didn't want to think about it.

Y/N was pretty much like everyone else; she had a job and an apartment in which she lived and friends that she sometimes hung out with. She was, admittedly, a bit plain. But, slowly, something began to happen to me. I don't know where the nagging feeling in my chest came from - I had been told for so long that I was incapable of such things as emotions. That was why they sometimes allowed me to wander the facility without armed guards following behind - without emotion, I had no motivation to do anything I wasn't told to do. The men in the stark white coats told me time and time again that I was more machine than man, and that I would always be treated as such. Once, during a routine evaluation, I mentioned to the doctor that I truly felt that I wasn't just a automaton.

"I am a man." My voice sounded painfully monotone, even to my own ears. "I would like to be thought of as such." Please, I added in my head. In return for this honest confession, they rebooted my systems. For weeks I struggled to regain what I felt was the remainder of my humanity. After that incident, I didn't speak of my feelings. I began to experiment with my resources, to see if I couldn't find the truth on my own. Deep within my programming was the key to my freedom - if I plugged myself into a computer's USB outlet, I could sneak my way around any blocks on the server to seek out even the most classified information. 

It was late one evening, long past lights-out, when I finally managed to find my file. There, under the ominous label "SCP-694", I recovered some of my past. Before that time, I had never been addressed as anything other than "Six-nine-four". However, as I began to scroll through the countless lines of redacted information, I found that my name - my real, given name - was Mark. I tested the name several times out loud, and it felt good in my mouth. It felt right. The place where I had been found was covered up with the rest of my name, but by then it almost didn't matter. I had a name, and I had already downloaded pretty much the entire SCP database into my memory. So when a small army of guards came barreling into my cell, I only smiled smugly. For the first time, I had an advantage.

They took me to a tiny room that was cloaked in thick, stifling darkness. It was meant to secure the anonymity of the interrogator - they didn't know that I had excellent night vision. The interrogator was an older man by the name of Russo. He was a gruff, generic New York cop that the SCP Foundation had picked up after he insisted on getting involved in a containment operation. I knew his social security number. I knew where he used to live.