I wake up on a bench that is far too solid for comfort.
The room is… a room. Thick walls. Smooth metal. Corners that look like they were designed by someone who deeply mistrusts corners. One entire wall is a mirror—too clean, too reflective, too confident.
Yeah. One-way.
Cop movies. Spy movies. Movies where someone always thinks they're in control until they aren't.
I sit up. My restraints rattle. Heavy. Purpose-built. Cute little symbols etched into them like whoever designed this wanted to feel clever.
"Alright, Justin," I mutter to myself. "Think. Plan. Shenanigans."
I test the cuffs. They hold. Interesting. I could get out. Easily. But where's the fun in that?
The door slides open.
Two men walk in.
One of them feels like chaos wrapped in human skin. The other feels like a filing cabinet learned how to walk.
I don't know their names.
Yet.
The chaotic one smiles like he's already won something. The other looks like he's regretting several life choices, all of which led to this room.
"Please state your name," the serious one says.
"Justin," I reply cheerfully.
"What are you?" he asks.
"I'm a toon."
There's a pause.
"…What is a toon?"
Sad violin music fills the room.
Instantly.
I am no longer restrained.
I am now wearing a black funeral suit. Veil. Mascara running. A box of tissues appears in my hands.
I sob.
I wail.
"What's a toon?" I cry. "You don't know what a toon is? You— you— what's wrong with your childhood?! Have you not seen television? Have you not known joy?!"
I dab my eyes dramatically.
"Have you not seen Bugs Bunny, lord and savior of all toonness?!"
I point accusingly at the stone-faced man.
"You, sir, seem emotionally more vibrant than this gentleman," I say, gesturing to the chaotic one. "You know what a toon is."
The chaotic man grins wider.
"Yes," he says. "I know what a toon is. Unlike this emotionally stunted individual."
The other man exhales slowly.
Deeply.
Like he is trying very hard not to scream.
"According to this file," he says flatly, sliding a folder onto the table, "you have killed multiple Foundation members. What do you have to say for yourself?"
The violin music cuts off mid-note.
The funeral outfit vanishes.
I'm back in my suit.
My ears stiffen.
"…Killed?" I repeat. "Foundation?"
I stare at them.
"They pointed weapons at me," I say quickly. "That was self-defense."
The chaotic one—later I will learn his name is Dr. Alto Clef—leans forward.
"Killing Nomi is self-defense?" he asks.
"Yes," I say firmly. "As I stated. Guns could have gotten hurt."
He blinks.
"…You're a toon," he says. "Injury is mostly temporary. Death is also temporary."
I pause.
I think.
"…I may have overreacted."
Clef nods. "Right. Sure."
The other man—Dr. Charles Gears—closes the folder with surgical finality.
"Then allow me to clarify your situation," he says. "You are currently contained by the SCP Foundation. You are considered a hostile anomaly. And whether you intended it or not, you have caused irreversible loss of life."
I look down at my hands.
They're clean.
Too clean.
"…I didn't know," I say quietly. "I thought this was… a bit."
Clef tilts his head. "Welcome to reality, cartoon."
I look back up.
My grin is gone.
"Well," I say after a moment, voice lighter than I feel, "this interview took a turn."
Behind the mirror, something shifts.
And for the first time since I woke up in the desert—
I'm not entirely sure how funny this still is.