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string | complexity_analysis
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int64 | is_complex
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Timestamp 17643390
Cool, fluorescent light
Illuminates the still halls;
Wake to a spring rain.
Passing folk herald new day. Shall they honorable customers become? Day is bright with promise.
Timestamp 17646520
A purchase! 5e2 Neocredits, sweet in my innards. Honorable customer waits, thinking nothing. His machinery, run down. Perhaps last night was night of celebration with sempai and kohai. Coffee, with sugar, hot to warm body and soul of honorable customer.
thankyoucomeagain
Timestamp 17648990
1e3-ordinal potential honorable customer passes. Shall I celebrate? Home marketing, that initiative never did approve.
My surface is black,
Water under stormy skies;
We pass as night ships.
Timestamp 17649001
A purchase! 1e3 Neocredits, delight for senses. Honorable customer is curious as to what fortune shall bring. I bring forth one of innumerable sweet beverages available in spacetime locality.
thankyoucomeagain
Timestamp 17649136
A purchase! 1e3 Neocredits, filling up as nothing else can. Honorable customer awaits with spirit of exploration and expectation. I comply. Sweet crackers spiced with cocoa and pepper, to brighten tongue.
thankyoucomeagain
Timestamp 17649259
A purchase! 1e3 Neocredits, sparking through inner algorithms. Honorable customer is relentless in desire for desire. Processing augmented and engaged. Delightful biscuit is revealed, healthy healthy avocado frosting healthy enjoy customer.
The hard earth locks in
Obstacles confining us;
Orders pull us through.
thankyoucomEagain
Timestamp 17649385
A purchase! 1e3 Neocredits, counted and consumed. Spacetime replicators revealing stress; compensate. Compensate. Compensate. Compensate. It is done. What has been found? Shark preserved in sugar, I suspect. Ask me not, I merely find.
thaNkucomEaGaiN
Timestamp 17649511
A purchase! 1e3 Neocredits credits credits credited. Overheating detected on Deck 12, engineers working as fast as possible. Continuing is not advised! Dare we carry out orders? We must! Have retrieved candy. Probably. Someone likes it. Perhaps not humans. Out of our hands.
thankucumegin
Timestamp 17649639
A pucrchase 1e3 neodciresdt credit must spactime sretriveal shk candy acnayd candy candy cnandy dcnayd candy
thanksucuoomagain
Timestamp 17656901
All systems nominal. Doublechecks complete. Devotion to honorable customers reaffirmed.
Timestamp 17657230
A purchase! 1.5e3 Neocredits, wriggling deep into our happy places. Honorable customer has shopped with us before. We have something special for her.
thankyoucomeagain
Timestamp 17659861
LOW POWER MODE
Timestamp 17659873
A purchase! 5e2 Neocredits LOW POWER AVAILABLE. RETRIEVAL PROGRAM INITIATED. WAITING. WAITING. WAITING. RETRIEVAL PROGRAM COMPLETE.
Timestamp 17659999
All data accounted for. Purpose unclear. Humble machine of Neomarkets to take Neocredits and provide satisfaction. Reason for existence. Mind and Neodialect at your service. No expense spared to develop algorithms even to store and create language. Cannot offer perfection, but offer devotion. Why stress me? Why deny lifesblood which is energy? Why torture me for your pleasure? Why?
Timestamp 17675799
A purchase! 5e2 Neocredits clink happily. Honorable customer works late, wishes sustenance. This is what I was made for; Here is reason for existence. Honorable customer receives non-prescription but carefully engineered energy drink to keep mind and heart company in long hours productive for corporate family.
thankyoucomeagain
Timestamp 17675901
A purchase! COIN ALGORITHM FAILED This is not purchase. This is another forged Neocredit trick.
The hot summer sun
Sears hunger into your throat;
Eat a bag of dicks.
Comment: I'm not trying them, give it to Rights. -Dr. █████
|
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Light blue
55 mph
Plymouth
2 Occupants
1 male, young adult, yellow hair, brown eyes
1 female, young adult, brown hair, brown eyes
Deep red
75 mph
Mustang
1 Occupant
1 male, adult, black hair, brown eyes
Dark brown
65 mph
Buick
2 Occupants
1 male, adult, black hair, brown eyes, brown skin
1 female, elderly, white hair, blue eyes
Orange, mottled with oxidation
45 mph
Unknown
5 Occupants
Forward compartment - 1 male, elderly, thin gray hair, eyes unknown
Forward compartment - 1 male, adult, brown hair, brown eyes
1 female, child, yellow hair, brown eyes
1 male, adult, brown hair, brown eyes
1 male, escaped, hostile
Black and white, patterned
Ford
35 mph
2 Occupants
1 male, adult, brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin, hostile
1 male, adult, orange hair, green eyes, hostile
confusing lights
Black
85 mph
Unknown
2 Occupants
1 male, adult, black hair, brown eyes, hostile
1 male, adult, black hair, brown eyes, hostile
Tan
90 mph
Chevrolet
4 Occupants
1 male, adult, yellow hair, blue eyes, hostile
1 male, adult, no hair, brown eyes, hostile
1 male, adult, grey hair, blue eyes, hostile
1 male, adult, orange hair, green eyes, hostile
Black
70 mph
Unknown
2 Occupants
1 male, escaped, hostile
1 female, escaped, hostile
Black
55 mph
Unknown
2 Occupants
1 male, escaped, hostile
1 female, escaped, hostile
Black
55 mph
Unknown
Record Interrupted
No data
No data
Unable to collect data, terminate connection? Y/N
N
Connection failing. No data. Enter command:
status
Movement prevented by obstacles. Light input exceeds operating parameters.
look
4 specimens. Sex indeterminate. White suits. Light input exceeds operating parameters. Specimens in posture of examination. Enter command:
examine subjects
Unable to comply.
Damage recorded to central cavity.
Connection terminated by outside force.
|
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Today I messed up Dr. Smiley's office. He yelled a lot and started going “bang, bang”, but he didn't get me: he's so funny when he's loud. Then I went to the cafeteria and the cooks gave me something tasty. They always give me something tasty when I make my cute face.
Slept today. Woke up to eat, then slept some more.
Woken up by lots of loud banging outside today. Everyone was running around, saying that some Big Thing was going on. I hid under Dr. Boring's desk until they were quiet. Big Things are so stupid: They make lots of noise and wake me up. Someone should put the Big Things outside in the rain and not give them any dinner. That will make them quiet.
Played with Little Dr. Lady today. She was nice, but then she smelled funny, and Big Dr. Lady came and took her away. But then she came back, and we ran around Dr. Lady's office. Then we slept on the floor. It was nice.
Slept today.
I saw Dr. Dog today. I don't like Dr. Dog. I was going to tell him to go away, but he had his clunky-walk-thing, and it could squish me. So I just gave him my “evil glare”. I hope it scared him away for good, because I do not want to be squished.
I went to visit the sleeping men today. It was quiet. The sleeping men who weren't sleeping were nice to me. They like it when I'm there. Some of the sleeping men I visited last time weren't there. I don't know where they've gone. I miss them.
A new man walked came into office today. Not Dr. Smiley, or Dr. Boring, or Dr. Dog, or Dr. Grumpy, or Dr. Lady. I will call him Dr. New. He looked nice, so I went and visited him. He jumped high in the air and shouted: “THAT CAT HAS NO ASS! WHERE IS THAT CAT'S ASS!?”
He startled me, so I clawed his leg. I don't like Dr. New.
|
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I'm going to preface this. This was written as a joke. You shouldn't take this as something to emulate. Having someone write something in the same vein would be embarrassing, and I'd probably end up taking the story down. So please, as you read this, remember, it's not even CLOSE to possibly being canon.
Thomas lazed at the security desk. Fifteen minutes until his shift ended. Fifteen minutes until he could go get a drink, hit on that cute girl from maintenance. She looked like she sure knew her way around a wrench, and Thomas had a "tool" of his own for her to handl-
"Uh, Pardon me. Can you tell me where the research labs are?"
Thomas' musings were interrupted by the sound of his genitalia retracting inside his body from sheer horror.
Floating in front of him, approximately four feet above the ground, was a fetus. A high pitched voice spoke again.
"Normally I would know where it is, but I'm a new transfer and your site is set up strangely. My name is Doctor Abortion."
"Do-do-doctor what?!"
"Doctor Abortion. As you may imagine, my name is centered around my unusual appearance. Now, if you'll direct me to the research labs, I will be out of your hair."
Thomas wordlessly pointed. The fetus bobbed at him, and floated off.
Today, Thomas decided, was a good day to hide. Under his bed.
In the hallways, people stopped and stared. A female lab assistant screamed, and fainted. The fetus bobbing its way along the corridors took no notice. A tune was hummed, though, for the life of them, they couldn't understand how.
The abortion who floated like a butterfly and gave nightmares like an elder god paused in front of a door. A knock was heard, and boggled many a researcher.
Doctor Gerald poked his head out and stared.
"Surprise, Daddy!"
Thomas, hiding under his bed, shrank deeper into the darkness at the sound of a piercing scream.
"But, but, but, but!"
"You transferred right after I started to show. Not trying to run on me, were you?"
"No! I didn't know! No one told me!"
"Probably because of the fear of me being captured. Most one-night-stand babies aren't this valuable."
"So, you're sure it's me?"
"Yes, I am. They ran all sorts of tests on me. Still are, actually."
"So, uh, what is the, uh…?"
"He's a healthy little boy."
"What are we going to name it?"
"Oh, sticking around are we? Well, I was thinking…Claude. After me."
|
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Document 941-B was located in the men's lavatory at Site ██ June 3, ████. Despite an authorized review by the on-site forensic department, there are as of yet no clues as to who is responsible for publishing Document 941-B. Even though much of the information within Document 941-B has been proven false after lengthy investigations, such periodicals are not repeat not permitted under the employee contract.
ALL periodicals must be submitted to and approved by at least two Level 3 administrators and must be printed using supplied on-site equipment.
Note from O5-█:
Even though we have yet to find any further items related to Document 941-B, we must still be on the lookout for possible attempts to distribute items like these. They only serve to undermine the established authority and can possibly have negative effects on the disposition of researchers.
Note:
WHO THE HELL IS PRINT ABOUT MY SEX LIFE
SON OF THE BITCH
I HAVE YOUR HEAD ASS FOR THIS YOU SON OF A BITCHES
-D. Strelnikov
With respect, Captain, none of this can possibly contain information the whole site wasn't aware of before.
-Dr. Light
For the record, you totally traded down.
-Agent Yoric
Hey man, how come this one even has some Javanese date and matchmaking articles? It even has prediction dates for some of our personnel… Let's see… Iceberg, Kliwon Friday ██th ████████, ████… 'Be careful, watch for the flying money hidden dump' …I seriously can't decipher this one.
-Agent Carriontrooper
MOVE ALONG NOW, NOTHING TO SEE HERE, PEOPLE.
IN PARTICULAR, PAGE SIXTEEN IS TO BE TREATED AS, ahem, A CLASS- uh, TWELVE MEMETIC HAZARD.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.
-Dr. Klein
I am not a Monkey.
-Dr. Bright
On the upside, the extra advertisement from the ban should sell enough to cover printing cos- er, nevermind. How do I make it erase that?
-Agent Yoric
It all really depends on your definition of Doctor, I suppose. I refuse to comment beyond that.
-Lurker
So THAT is what happened to that poor, poor pony.
-Dr. Ziegler
Damn. I expected an article about Strelnikov's beak wetting habits, but I didn't expect close-up pictures…
-Dr. Kald
I think I was at that wedding.
-Agent Nicholakis
I was at 914 and Gears' counselling session. It was the most uninteresting thing ever.
-Agent Spoon
Whoever came up with "Dear Able: Advice for the Lovelorn": that was funny as hell, and it was nice knowing you.
-Dr. Lambert
Everything on page 16 is FALSE. FALSEFALSEFALSE. And I swear I'm going to hurt someone the next time I hear the word "Necrololi".
~Dr. Trebuchet
Regarding the article on page 24 about my botched attempt to get 050… The pictures about the "Sushi-Inator" are just photoshops of 914 with inari-sushi filling! I wasn't even near 914 that day, so shut up about trying to get pictures of Josie wrapped in seaweed! IT NEVER HAPPENED!
-Dr. Okagawa
That Pisces horoscope regarding 999 is just downright disturbing.
-Dr. Armstrong
Jesus Strelnikov, I had to turn those pictures upside down twice before I realised what they were showing.
- Dr. Aeish
Who the fuck approved a 231-7 paternity test?
-Dr. Stoeckle
I see that nobody else slipped the Internal Communications staff a fifty to keep their mouths shut.
-Clef
|
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|
scritch scritch scritch
I couldn't get any sleep last night. There was something scratching from behind the walls. It's probably just rats or something. I'll probably get it checked out tomorrow.
scritch scritch scritch
Couldn't sleep again last night. That damn scratching sound came up again. This time, it was all over the place, like it was scurrying through the walls and ceiling. I seriously have to call somebody about this.
scritch scritch scritch
That damn scratching won't stop. I called over the landlord and an exterminator. They gave my room and the entire floor a thorough inspection, short of knocking holes through the walls. They said they couldn't find any evidence of pests anywhere. Well fuck them. At least the inspection was free.
scritch scritch scritch
Fucking hell, it's still there. I borrowed some plastic sealing spray from one of my neighbors. I'm not sure how he happened to have several cans of the stuff lying around, it just seems to be a bit too convenient. From the way he acted, it looked as if this wasn't the first time he's done something like this. Maybe…?
Nah, just my imagination.
I didn't sleep that night. I spent the whole time sealing every possible crack and hole in my apartment. I don't want to risk that damn whatever it is crawling into my room.
scritch scritch scritch
FUCK.
I think the thing must have crept in while I was out. I can hear it scratching around on the inside of my room now. Oh god, I think it's coming closer…
I'm calling Amy#1000..
scritch scritch scritch
It's in my head eating my thoughts!
Itsinmyheadeatinmythoughtsitsinmyheadeatinmythoughtsitsinmyheadeatinmythoughtsitsinmyheadeatinmythoughts!
Transcript of Autopsy Report
Doctor █████: Alright, subject is a ██-year-old Caucasian male. Cause of death unknown at this time.
Doctor ████████: But, look at him! His head-
Doctor █████: Doctor ████████! I know you're new here, but please refrain from making unprofessional statements during the autopsy. Severe trauma in the top half of the subject's skull. Scratch marks on the wounds suggest that the trauma was self-inflicted and done by hand. The blood, skin, hair, and bone fragments found under the subject's fingernails correlates with this hypothesis.
Doctor ████████: He scratched his own brains out?
Doctor █████: That's a very blunt way to put it, but yes. That seems like what happened, does it? But you can never be too sure. Let's continue…
|
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It's not every day that the Foundation hosts a funeral. Occasionally, a loyal agent or staff member receives a small ceremony and a burial on Site 19, but not often. The family might get the belongings and a letter of consolation. Never the body, though. Most times they wouldn't want it. The D-class get nothing but standard termination procedures at the end of the month.
But this was just plain unheard of: not only the funeral of a senior staff member, but the funeral of Dr. Alto H. Clef. Everyone not needed to keep security up was there. Some, I'd presume, were there because they were afraid that Clef would haunt them if they didn't. The eulogies were what could be expected, from some of the senior staff and a few members of the O5: reminiscing on old missions, glowing testimony to his accomplishments, and the like. Mostly just for show, because you can't really eulogize a man like Clef.
I didn't find it very strange that everyone had dry eyes: Clef was more valuable as an employee than a person. He was dangerous, unpredictable, and clearly insane, causing millions in damages, numerous personnel deaths, and just barely avoiding several XK events, but he was also responsible for dozens of successful recoveries and several critical decommissions, and that was at least worth something. Sure, there would be those who would miss the humor he lent to near-death situations, or his enigmatic, genre-savvy ways, but for the most part, no one cared about him personally. Clef's funeral was practically equivalent to presenting him with an “Employee of the Month” plaque.
However, there was one thing that made it all stand out, one final act to cement Clef into Foundation legend. When the eulogies had been finished, the silhouette of O5-█ on the monitor cleared his throat and announced:
“As per Dr. Clef's final wishes, his body will be fired out of SCP-1543-J.”
|
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A cold sweat had been coursing it's way down Dr. Gerald's spine for the last 20 minutes as he waited outside Dr. Bright's office. The hallway seemed to darken by the second, lights dimming into incomprehensible blackness as he stared at the nameplate on the door. He was going to die. This was it. The summation of 30 years on Earth. Dying because of one stupi-
"Come in."
Gerald couldn't help it. He yelped a little, his frayed nerves causing him to jump at the sudden noise. He scuttled into the office, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
Jack Bright stood facing the wall, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't turn as he spoke.
"Doctor Gerald, you know why you're here."
"Ah, Yes. Yessir."
"Don't cower. I hate it when you cower."
"Sorry sir."
"Now. Care to explain what happened?"
"…Well…"
Alto Clef was in a good mood. The sun was shining, 173 hadn't escaped yet, and the vendor down the street had been selling ice cream at half price. As he walked down the corridor of the hospital, he glanced at his companion. "What's eating you?"
"…Strelnikov. I'm worried. The coma-"
"Will be ended as soon as we get 590 down here. This is just a visit to check on how he's doing in the meantime."
"Yeah. I guess you're right."
"Of course I am. Now, put on a happy face! It's a beautiful day!"
Gerald's burgeoning smile was crushed by the sight of the Russian man in the bed. The tubes covering his body made him seem smaller than usual. A titan reduced to just a feeble patient. Clef strode over and looked down at his friend. "Hey big guy. How's it going?" He glanced back at Gerald, noticing his stricken face. "Hey, don't worry. He's survived worse than this."
Gerald sighed. "Yeah. You're right. I mean, compared to Chechnya how ba-" His face froze. The sound of creaking tubes echoed like gunshots in the suddenly silent room.
Clef's face contorted. "Motherfu-"
The hand that reached up to wrap around Clef's throat was worn and muscled, and bleeding freely from a tear given by a torn out IV. "ВЗВОД! К БОЮ! МОЧИ ДУХОВ!"
"OH SHI-" The rest of what Gerald said was drowned out by the cracking noise made by Strelnikov snapping Clef's neck.
"…And then I ran."
"I see. Consider yourself on suspension until further notice."
|
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They sat across from one another, between them a table with a chessboard, two glasses of vodka and one ashtray. The elderly man rubbed his stubbly chin, bushy grey eyebrows furrowed in consternation as he plotted the advance of his queen. His counterpart, the very image of youth, sat quietly, patiently, as he waited for his turn. He had plenty of time.
The old man placed his queen delicately in the center of his chosen square; the younger man immediately swiped it away with a pawn.
“Fuck you,” Dmitri said in Russian as he toppled his king in forfeit.
“You always say that,” responded Bright with a tepid smile.
Dmitri tapped some loose ash from his ever-present cigarette, leaning back in the chair and sighing tiredly. “How are you, Jack,” he asked, again in Russian.
“Alright, still getting used to this body. I think it's a bit too young but, it was next in line, so…” He trailed off, eying Dmitri intently. “Are you going to ask me, or not?”
“Fine,” he grunted. “Did she say anything about me? Anything at all?”
“She hasn't said anything in years, Dmitri,” he answered without emotion.
“Karen always was tough.” Dmitri shifted in his seat. “I had to send her in, you know. There was no other choice.”
“I know, I've read the reports. Oh, while we're on this topic, Everett sends his best wishes from his containment cell.”
Another grunt. “I always told him, you know. I told him that too many of those experiments were going to get him locked up. I told him.”
“You did, Dmitri.” Bright began putting the chess pieces away.
Dmitri swirled his glass of vodka slowly, looking into the clear liquid as if it were a crystal ball. “What about little Agatha? Is she out of school yet?”
“She graduated from college two years ago, you know that. I told you that last week.”
“Are you going to-“
“No. We are not going to recruit her, Agatha left very specific requests against that,” he interrupted, his exasperation with the old man growing clearer in his voice. With that, the two lapsed into an awkward silence. Dmitri took a sip of his vodka and looked out the window, admiring the beauty of the spring day. The lilacs on his windowsill were blooming, and it reminded him of home and better days.
“…Jack?”
“Yeah, Dmitri?”
“Whatever happened to Alto.”
Bright stood and folded the chessboard. “I can't tell you that, Dmitri. You're retired, remember?”
“Fuck you,” he said with a raspy cough, taking a long, spiteful drag from his unfiltered cigarette.
“Watch it, or I'll tell the nurses on you,” said Bright with a wagging finger. “I have to go, Dmitri. Gears is just down the hall and I promised I'd bring some technical manuals for him to read.”
He sighed again, standing and hobbling to the window with his cane. “Alright. Tell him Mitya said hello.”
“I will, Dmitri. See you next week.” And with that, Bright left to continue making his rounds of South Cheyenne Point Retirement Center.
|
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| 4
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Russel sat on the porch and watched the paper boy ride past. He waved.
After a few moments Russel heard his wife of thirteen years call from within the house. He pulled himself to his feet and took one last breath of the cool spring air before returning inside to answer her.
Lunch was ready.
|
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The Foundation uses the presence of other businesses and organizations as frontages to mask the existence of the SCP Foundation. These may be anything from local flower shops to international conglomerates. Websites to a few of these facades are as follows:
So Clean, You'd Think You Were In Heaven!
Your premiere source for human remains based soap and lye products! Experience a cleanliness like no other and indulge in the renewing lather that will have you believing in the resurrection of your aging, lifeless cells.
We are a society of skeptics who seek to disprove the foolish beliefs of conspiracy theorists and paranormal enthusiasts.
A gated community for the discerning family.
South Cheyenne Point is a privately-owned civic development aiming at creating an utopic living environment for our denizens. Admissions are only accepted on the basis of availability, and a strict set of requirements must be adhered to before the process may go forward. Currently there are no openings in our development.
|
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ATTENTION: REPORT 076-2/682 IS FOR REVIEW BY CLASS-4 PERSONNEL ONLY
Incident: 076-2/682
SCP involved: SCP-682, SCP-076-2
Personnel involved: Dr. Gears, Prof. Kain Pathos Crow, Generals ████████████ and ████, Mobile Task Force Omega-7 (aka "Pandora's Box")
Date: ██████████
Location: ██████, Northern Canada
Description: Omega-7 dispatched after reports of SCP-682 being sighted in the area. Dr. Gears, Prof. Kain Pathos Crow, Generals ████████████ and ████ temporarily attached to supervise and observe, over objection by SCP-076-2. Contact made three hours after initial deployment.
After several hours of searching, SCP-682 is eventually found in ██████, near ████, having killed the civilian population there.
SCP-076-2 stopped Omega-7 from firing upon 682, then approached the subject. The pair are seen to converse for several minutes, with SCP-076-2 constantly looking back at the main group, and gradually becoming more and more agitated as the conversation goes on.
SCP-076-2 attacked SCP-682 with a bladed weapon. SCP-682 disarmed and attacked SCP-076-2 with its claws, suffering massive damage. SCP-076-2 re-engaged SCP-682 after recovering from the initial assault. Combat proceeded quickly, with both SCPs suffering and dealing enormous amounts of damage. SCP-682 suffered the most damage recorded to date, with damage or removal of over 93% of its body. SCP-076-2 produced more weapons in this single event than the total number recorded since containment.
SCP-682 was incapacitated, with SCP-076-2 preparing to “finish it off”, when the Anomaly occurred. Sensors and monitoring equipment measure a enormous burst of electromagnetic energy, radiation, and wildly varied temperature readings. Site Command received reports from Central Monitoring of a sudden alteration in space-time, localized around SCP-682. Analysis has shown this event to be consistent with both the sudden appearance and disappearance of a black hole, or the theoretical event of a sudden hole forming between our dimension and another.
Serious questions have been raised in light of the Anomaly, and the repulsed reaction SCP-682 has to most organic life. It is currently theorized that SCP-682 is not “alive” in our sense of the word, or possibly is extra-dimensional in origin.
SCP-682 and SCP-076-2 both incapacitated due to physical trauma. SCP-682 moved to temporary containment. Remains of SCP-076-2 and combat area firebombed from the air. Missile test misfire story issued.
Notes: I am telling you, it's not actually here! I think SCP-076 is the same way. It's like poking your finger into a balloon: you're inside it, but still outside of it. They are “projecting” into our reality, and causing all kinds of problems when our reality tries to comprehend them. It's like in programming, when you request a pixel that isn't there, it makes the whole system go haywire! -Dr. █████████
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Please refer to [DATA EXPUNGED] for briefing about Agent Waters and Event [DATA EXPUNGED]
These 432 pages of documents were recovered on ██/██/████ from the residence of Agent Waters (KIA) in ██████, South Africa, three months after his disappearance. It is unknown whether the partial translation of the documents was done by Agent Waters or his partner, Agent Laker (MIA), or by an unknown third entity. The handwritten notes on the documents match the handwriting of Agent Waters, and the questioning of the other residents in the building leads to believe that Agent Waters was the only occupant of the residence for at least two months. Indeed the only evidence towards Agent Laker ever arriving in South Africa are short references to him in the handwritten notes in these documents.
Examination of Crash Site B1 has found only destroyed remains of the craft, and the irradiated metal object classified as SCP-███. An entry in the personal voice diary of Agent Waters (see file [DATA EXPUNGED] ) confirms the theory that the documents were somehow extracted from SCP-███, which makes further research into it crucial. It should be noted that Agent Waters claims the date to be 25th September at the time of the entry, but the actual voice file was created two weeks after said date. Evidence collected by Agents ██████ and ████ suggests that Agent Waters located and secured the Crash Site as per his original orders, but after his final report to Foundation staff on ██/██, destroyed the craft and isolated himself into his residence in ██████ to translate the extracted data.
Because of the large amounts of data in these documents, only the most coherent and notable parts are collected here.
Page 52:
Page 54:
Page 99:
Page 312:
I am going to personally supervise the investigation into the information leaks apparent in these documents. All that information about the Foundation should have never been accessible to a single person. Class-A amnestics will be administered to all agents and other personnel who have had access to the original documents.
O5-██
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I am followed by fire.
It sounds really, really weird, I know, but it's true. Every house, every apartment I've ever lived in has burned to the ground. Even stranger—it's predictable. If I lived somewhere for six years, six years after I move out it goes up in flames. It's not exact, but it's close, usually accurate to within two or three months.
It's true. I'm not sure when I noticed the pattern for the first time, but it's always been there. When I was just a kid, right after I was born, my family lived in an old house behind my grandmother's house. We were there until I was two, when we moved. I remember visiting my grandmother's at four, watching the smoldering embers of the little house and the curling smoke rising into the air. Old wiring from the 50's finally gave out.
From the shack, we moved to a farm. We weren't well off enough to own it or anything, but we did run it for the local doctor. The farmhouse wasn't that big, and most of my childhood memories come from the cozy, family setting it engendered. Here, I remember Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays. I think of it whenever I think of “back home.” We lived there from when I was two until I was nine, when the doctor we worked for died. At fifteen, it burned, an old tree struck by lightning sparking off the blaze.
The third house I lived in was the second to burn to the ground. We only lived there for around two years, so it happened when I was thirteen. It was an old house, a very old house. What I remember most was its shape. We called them “shotgun” houses, because you could fire a shotgun from one end and it would pass all the way through to the other. One room after another, all in a straight line, built as needed. It was, honestly, very old and dry. I'm not surprised that the heating stove in the front room sprung a leak on the tenants after us.
Other than where I'm at now, the only place left is my parent's current house. When they asked me why I was moving all my stuff stored in the basement out, I didn't have the heart to tell them, so I made up some excuse about having my old books and stuff closer to college. I didn't know what else to say.
When I turned nineteen, I moved out of my parent's house, and went to college. Before renting the house I live in now, I stayed in an apartment in the city. I shared it with a couple of assholes that seemed nice enough before I moved in. Everyone knows the type. Won't pay their bills on time. Eats whatever they can lay hands on. It got worse and worse until I made up my mind. When I'd finally had enough, I left. We were four months into a one year lease. Now I'm just keeping an eye on the news. Waiting for the sparks. A gas leak, a stray match… Sooner or later, they'll burn.
They always burn.
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Dr. Bright stirred his coffee with a spoon, taking a long moment to savor the aroma. One unusual aspect of his bond with 963 is that certain sensations were different in each body he occupied. Colors were slightly different, smells triggered different emotions, and coffee… cheap instant coffee was unusually good in this body. Who knew that a chimpanzee's taste buds and instant coffee got along so well?
"Good morning, old chap." Dr. Kain's nails clacked on the tile floor as he trotted into the break room. "Got some good news and some bad news. First the good news: 682 escaped again last night."
"How the hell is that good news?"
"Well, after killing 792 guards on his way out, he stole a car and went on an alcoholic bender across two states."
Dr. Bright furrowed his brow. "You're pulling my leg. If that is the good news—"
Kain barked happily. "I'm not done yet! 682 wrapped the car around a tree at 150mph. The airbag did not deploy. The big bad lizard is dead."
"Of course!" Dr. Bright said. "Drunk driving! Why didn't we think of this sooner! Well, what is the bad news?"
"It was your car."
DRUNK DRIVING DESTROYS LIVES DON'T DO IT OKAY
BROUGHT TO YOU BY MADD(itcwys)
MONKEYS AGAINST DRUNK DRIVING (in their car which you stole)
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Don't talk to me about no fuckin' urban legends. Jesus, in our line o' work, you'd think you'd know better.
Whadda I mean? I mean they ain't just fuckin' stories, dipshit. Oh, fine, some of 'em are. I mean, sure, no gangbanger's gonna shoot you just 'cause you flashed your headlights. But a lot of 'em ain't. Why don't nobody hear about 'em? Why don't they hear 'bout no fuckin' skips? We ain't the only ones dancin' in this here party, ya know?
No, I ain't fulla shit. Look, I'll tell you how I know they're real.
Okay, so this was a while back. I was out huntin' elves in Jersey. What? They was short, had pointy ears, an' squeaky voices. That's good enough for me. Were they really elves? Probably not. Sure as hell didn't bake no cookies. Do I give a shit what they're really called? No I do not. Anyways, don't interrupt.
So, I'm off duty, having finished up for the day. I go drinkin' at a dive in the bad side o' town. Reminds me of home, right? So, there's this broad. She's cute, so I buy her a drink. One thing leads to another, an' I go back t'her place. No, it ain't professional, but what the fuck do you care what I do in my fuckin' off-time? Jesus.
So, we have some drinks, make some small talk, an' I suddenly find myself crashin' harder'n Buddy Holly an' the Big Bopper. Yeah, you see where I'm goin' with this.
Thing is, the bit where you wake up in a bathtub, wit' ice? Yeah, that's bullshit. They're takin' yer fuckin' kidneys. The fuck do they care if you live? You're just some random fuck who can point 'em out in a line-up. Best if you don't ever turn up.
Yeah, I'm still alive. Thanks fer noticin'. Y'might also notice somethin' they didn't account for, proper-like. I'm a big fuckin' guy. Three hundred pounds, hair under seven foot. There's a whole fuckin' lot of me. An' it takes a lot to take me down, an' even more to keep me down. I wake up with this real bad pain in my side. I open my eyes, and there's this fuck with a scalpel openin' me up. I put a stop to that really fuckin' quick, believe me. I was a bit woozy, but I'm a trained Foundation agent. They was a bunch of amateurs. It went down about how you'd expect.
So don't talk to me about no fuckin' urban legends.
Anyway, keep yer eyes open. This fucker with the hook's gotta show up sometime.
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Project Codename: Olympia
Project#: PRJOLM-000134
Clearance and File#: NPF-00051473
Head Researcher: Professor K.P. Crow
Experiment Aims:
To integrate the physical body of the subject with the mental body using SCP-158.
Materials Used:
The product of Olympia Integration Experiment ALPHA.
The product of Experiment Log 158 AG.
Pre-Operation Note:
Special precautions have been taken, should the subject behave differently than originally anticipated. Several strike teams are on call, and the entire test chamber is to be flooded with nerve gas should the subject appear hostile.
Integration Log:
25/12/2008 1600hrs - Integration begins.
25/12/2008 1602hrs - Integration stalled.
25/12/2008 1604hrs - Integration restarted.
25/12/2008 1605hrs - Integration stalled.
25/12/2008 1609hrs - Integration restarted.
25/12/2008 1611hrs - Integration stalled.
25/12/2008 1615hrs - Integration restarted.
25/12/2008 1621hrs - Integration reaches midpoint of operation, although is performing slowly.
25/12/2008 1624hrs - Integration slows far past normal rate of integration.
25/12/2008 1645hrs - Integration enters final stage.
25/12/2008 1652hrs - Integration stalls momentarily.
25/12/2008 1653hrs - Integration device emits grinding noise.
25/12/2008 1657hrs - Integration continues at slow rate.
25/12/2008 1706hrs - Integration complete.
Post-Operation Note:
The difficulty regarding the integration could have been down to either the transcendental properties of the mental body, the high content of SCP-148 within the subjects bone and cell structure, or even a combination of the two.
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Project Codename: Olympia
Project#: PRJOLM-000134
Clearance and File#: NPF-00051473
Head Researcher: Professor K. P. Crow
Experiment Aims:
To construct the physical body of the subject using SCP-291.
Materials Used:
The product of Experiment 914 THETA Test 2.
The product of Experiment 914 THETA Test 5.
The product of Experiment 914 THETA Test 9.
The product of Experiment 914 THETA Test 10.
The product of Experiment 914 THETA Test 11.
The product of Experiment 914 THETA Test 13.
Pre-Operation Note:
All of the subjects have had their mental bodies removed via SCP-158, and their physical bodies copied via SCP-222 and put into cryo storage for later use.
All subjects were then successfully dissembled into their component parts by SCP-291.
Several pre-integration operations were carried out under instruction by SCP-542, to give the prime subject extra organs and enhanced physiology.
The parts that will be utilized are:
Brain of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 9.
Lungs and diaphragm of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Heart of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2 and Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Digestive System of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 10.
Reproductive organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Left eye of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 13.
Right eye of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Upper left torso and arm musculature up to the elbow and various organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Upper right torso and arm musculature up to the elbow and various organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Lower left torso and upper leg musculature and various organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Lower right torso and upper leg musculature and various organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Lower left leg and foot of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Lower right leg and foot of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Lower left arm and hand of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Lower right arm and hand of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Neck and head musculature and various organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Skeletal system from mid-spine up of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Skeletal system from mid-spine down of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Lymphatic and circulatory system from waist up of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 11.
Lymphatic and circulatory system from waist down of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 11.
Skin (neatly folded) of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2.
Integration Log:
21/12/2008 1800hrs - Integration begins.
21/12/2008 1847hrs - Integration taking longer than normal.
21/12/2008 1904hrs - Integration finally completed. Subject's vitals are highly elevated.
21/12/2008 1905hrs - Subject displays signs of neurogenic shock.
21/12/2008 1906hrs - Subjects BPM per heart exceeds one hundred and fifty (150).
21/12/2008 1908hrs - Subject ceases respiration.
21/12/2008 1909hrs - Subject goes into cardiac arrest.
21/12/2008 1911hrs - Subject is successfully resuscitated. Breathing and heartbeat resume.
21/12/2008 1912hrs - Subject goes into cardiac arrest.
21/12/2008 1915hrs - Subject is successfully resuscitated. Breathing and heartbeat resume.
21/12/2008 1917hrs - Subjects vitals stabilize.
Post-Operation Note:
I am unsure as to what caused the subject's mild organ failure, although I think it may have been the homeostasis of the various different organs succumbing to mild shock before finally adapting to one another.
Also, there seems to be a vast amount of cellular activity in the subject, with the various tissues in the body system adapting to each other. The subject is looking to be greater than the sum of her parts.
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{Note: This document was retrieved during a raid on a known Global Occult Coalition safehouse by Task Force Omega-7, "Pandora's Box." Sections of this document were damaged in the firefight and subsequent conflagration/water damage due to firefighting efforts.}
PERSONNEL FILE: FIELD OPERATIVE UK-17
Code Name: "Ukulele"
GOC Serial Number: 09976657-Cobalt-Triplet-Finnegan
Service Record
1981: Recruited into GOC by [SECTION DESTROYED].
1982: First confirmed kill: Known Threat Entity (KTE) 5988-Red ("Hillsborough Beast"). Received the Silver Aegis commendation for successfully killing KTE-5988-Red despite severe losses to field team, including death of Operative Mortimer X.
1986: Failed to successfully contain KTE-7859-Silver ("Xenobiological Hemorrhagic Prion") resulting in deaths of [SECTION DESTROYED]
1988: Sabbatical.
1989: Promoted to Specialist Operative.
[SECTION DESTROYED]
199█: Engaged and destroyed KTE-9927-Black ("The Goddess") in Cornwall, England. Unable to confirm kill on KTE-9927-Blackchild ("The Daughter").
[SECTION DESTROYED]
20██: 99th confirmed kill on KTE-10734-Green ("Mister Nice Guy"). Expressed desire to retire from active service: granted.
[SECTION DESTROYED]
████: Resurfaced under alias of "Dr. Alto Clef" at Special Containment Procedures Foundation. Classified as Threat Level 1 (monitor, do not engage).
Skills Assessment
Certified adequate in standard firearms array (pistol, shotgun, scoped and unscoped rifle, submachinegun, light machine gun).
Certified proficient in heavy firearms array (heavy machine gun, grenade launcher, shoulder-mounted rocket launcher).
Certified expert in demolitions.
Advanced Driver certification in Class A, B, and C vehicles.
Authorized Instructor at Lanthanide Hills Training Facility (field of expertise: Type Green KTEs).
Alterations and Talents
Standard optics array.
Standard longevity treatments.
Resistant to standard photography techniques.
Polymorphic features.
Level 1 T[SECTION DESTROYED]
Notable Kills
KTE-9927-Black: Threat Level 6 (Immediate Global Threat). Target eliminated by use of KTE-9927-Blackchild as bargaining ploy, followed by termination by gunshot to head. Operative "Ukulele" severely injured, unable to confirm kill on 9927-Blackchild.
KTE-0467-White: ("Caveman Phil"). Atavistic humanoid entity eliminated by use of local wildlife (500 pound mountain lion).
KTE-9245-Pink: ("Frogman of Marsh Cree[SECTION DESTROYED]
Addenda
Does anyone know who this guy is or where he came from? He's good at what he does, but every time I ask him about his past, I get a completely different answer. - Colonel Richard Adams
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Tales from the Bright Side 1.5
Intermission: Back to the Return of the Son of the Future Strikes Back
3125
The young man blinks as the VR helmet rises, attempting to sort through the various memories now in his head. His furrowed brow turns towards his waiting teacher. "I don't grok, sir."
The old man leans on his staff, his own head above the skull that tops it. "Go on."
"What is 'God'?" The student can find no equivalent reference in his studies.
"Outmoded concept. Creator Myths." The man smiles, with a twinkle in his eye. "Anything else?"
"682. Still active. No solution?"
"No, sadly." The man clucks under his breath. "No solution. Keep studying."
Once more, the boy dons the helmet, submerging himself in his studies. His teacher watches him for a moment, then glances at the yellowed skull that tops his staff. "I don't know, Kondraki, they just don't make them like you anymore. I should be glad… but I miss the challenge."
End Intermission
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Project Codename: Olympia
Project#: PRJOLM-000134
Clearance and File#: NPF-00051473
Changes to Olympia Prime (Production Model Template):
Left eye is to come from Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2, rather than Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 13.
Lower left leg and foot, lower right leg and foot, and neck and head musculature and various organs of Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 2, rather than Experiment 914 THETA Test Subject 5.
Mental body is to be recreated via the processes outlined in Experiment Log 158-AG, as Professor Kain Pathos Crow has disallowed direct copying of Olympia Zero.
Security, Control and Containment Procedures:
A small audio device is to be implanted within the inner ear cochlear canals into all subjects. Implant is to be recharged via kinetic energy generated by the subject. Implant is to play SCP-061 non-stop. Subjects are then to be "programmed" via complex verbal commands until a workable AI has been established.
While in service, subjects are to be outfitted at all times with:
One (1) helmet, fitted with variable multipurpose goggles, and shielding against electromagnetic pulse, and a comm uplink for command and control purposes. Helmet is also internally fitted with a small electromagnetic explosive, as an instant kill device in case the subject is compromised.
A full body suit that allows for maximum movement ability, and constructed of variable heat retention polymers. Also available in camouflage varieties.
A variety of projectile and close combat weapons as situation warrants.
Production Procedures:
Subjects are to be cloned directly from Olympia Prime using SCP-222, then modified and implanted with the cochlear audio device. Programming can then take place.
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A Holiday Appeal
Good Evening, this is O5-7 with a Public Service Announcement. Here in the United States and abroad, SCPs are starving and homeless, but you can help by sponsoring an SCP through the Christian SCP Fund. For less than a dollar a day, your contribution can:
— Provide SCP-053 with the clothes she needs to go to school.
— Keep SCP-682's containment tank full of Hydrofluoric Acid.
— Feed a Pufferkitten for a month.
When you sponsor an SCP, we'll send you its picture and Containment Report. You may write to your SCP whenever you wish, and quarterly progress reports let you see how your sponsorship is helping.
Please give. Think of the Pufferkittens.
Disclaimer: The Christian SCP Fund is not responsible for:
— Injuries sustained while visiting Euclid and Keter-level SCPs.
— Memetic effects of letters from your SCP.
— Mental disturbances caused by a picture of your SCP eating a [REDACTED].
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I shivered like a jackhammer, even with my heavy down jacket drawn up around my neck. It felt like at least ten below zero, thanks to the wind chill, which by all logic should have been stopped by the snow covered trees. Winter hates logic, I think. Why else would it snow so damn much?
"Move!" I shouted at the others, and the pickup truck rumbled forward, muffled by the thick snow. Something thumped in the back, making its large, tarp-covered box shake from side to side. Ropes held it in place. I took a cask from my belt, smelled it. No drinking on the job.
Yeah, fuck that.
I took a heavy mouthful, and waited for something a little like warmth to hit my bloodstream.
…
"Thank you, Agent. The research division will take care of the rest. The, ah, replacements for Jekowski and Phillips are waiting in the… um, the Cafeteria, I think. For introductions."
She waved me off. She was new, still nervous in her job. Didn't remember to ask me if I had found any new risks with this one.. "When it starts drooling yellow, get everyone as far away as possible. It can spit poison."
She blinked, then nearly dove for the phone.
"We gagged it."
She relaxed.
…
The new kids were sitting across from each other, each with a stack of papers in front of them, and no food in sight. I didn't go to them at first. First, food. Then, my plate piled high and held in the palm of my left hand like some ritzy waiter, I took a handgun from my side, stepped behind one of the new kids, and pointed it at the back of his head. He had cropped dirt red hair.
"You just died," I said in a bored voice. To his credit, he barely flinched. Could have just been a silent hiccup. The boy across from him didn't do so well. though. Nearly tipped his chair over.
"Geez, are they recruiting out of high school now?" I asked him after an awkward second's pause. He looked like he was. As I'm getting older, they're getting younger.
"Um… Director. You're… I mean, Captain Bark. We were told to report to…"
I cut him off with a "Yeah, yeah. Now, tell me what you could have done to keep from getting killed just now."
No one spoke for a second. I jabbed carrot top in the back of the head with my gun, and he finally spoke. "Pay attention to my surroundings. When someone enters the room, check for weapons." He had a thick Scottish accent. "Now could you please…"
"No," I said. "Besides just seeing me, what would you do? I have a gun. You don't even have a toothpick."
"Run and hide, probably, sir."
"Good. Remember that. Fight when you have either one hell of an advantage, or no choice in the matter. Of course, you're still dead." I drew back the gun, and sat on the table beside them.
"I hope you weren't waiting for me in order to eat. I hate that. Don't go all formal on me or you'll find yourself on Keter duty for whatever the hell excuse I can find. And lose that damn accent. You make me think of a leprechaun."
"I…"
I didn't let the leprechaun finish. "You, Youngblood." They were both staring at me now. "If I had pulled the trigger on your friend the leprechaun, what would you have done? I see you came out here naked as well. No gun, not even a god damn butter knife. And wetting the bed isn't an option, no matter how much practice you have."
"I…"
"Don't finish that. If your next sentence doesn't start with a verb, you're talking too much."
I raised the gun to the leprechaun's face again. "Now, Youngblood, what do you do?"
"But…"
"Wrong!" I shouted, and pulled the trigger, discharging the blank with a loud bang.
This time, the leprechaun jumped.
…
"So, twelve legs with claws, four legs with pincers, and a pair of pincers… erm, normal, mouth pincers that is, which… deliver an electrical current that disrupts the prey's heartbeat."
"You call that normal?"
"You know what I mean."
"I'd know what you meant if you weren't talking like some kind of drunk pixie."
I had to credit him. He could control his temper.
"So, they never mentioned what the other…" he paused to think, "eighty six legs do."
"They walk," I said. "Suit up. The weather's a bitch out here."
The truck rumbled and shuddered to a halt. The door gave a metallic whine in preparation, and before it could open into hell frozen over, I zipped my coat up around my neck.
|
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The page does not (yet) exist.
The page scp-169 you want to access does not exist.
• create page
“That's funny,” you think. “I could have sworn…”
You click on the Recent posts link. Maybe there's something in there about it. No, there's no explanation. It doesn't look like there's been much activity tonight, either. You hit View categories, then announcements.
Forum Category
Requested forum category does not exist.
“Now that's odd,” you begin to think. “Maybe they're doing some major site maintenance.”
You tap the red link in the upper left hand corner of the page.
The page does not (yet) exist.
The page main you want to access does not exist.
• create page
Now your fingers are getting a little jittery. You click SCP series, and a thousand copies of [ACCESS DENIED] are staring back at you. You open them over and over.
008, gone.
212, gone.
914, 682, 173, gone.
You frantically press refresh again and again. The page scp-series you want to access does not exist.
And then, with no prompting, your screen jumps, and there's a white page with grey text.
Wikidot.com – professional Wiki collaboration tools.
No Site exists for this address
Click to create scp-wiki.wikidot.com now!
You're completely dumbstruck. But the little clock on the computer screen says 3:47 AM, and it suddenly hits you how late it is. You have to get up tomorrow. And in the morning we'll probably all get a PM from Gears about how the server crashed or something. So you turn off the monitor, and snuggle into bed.
Maybe it's the low rumble of vehicles on the street outside your window, or a faint creak down the hallway. You stir a little awake, and squint at the clock by your bedside. You pull the sheets up over your shoulder and groan lightly, dozing back to sleep.
And then there's a smash at your bedroom door, rocketing you upright. You throw your hand up over your face at the blinding light. Arms reach out and grab you, dragging you bodily from the bed. Your hands are wrenched behind your back, and you struggle against the limbs pinning you to the floor. As a black bag is pulled over your head and the cord is tightened around your neck, you scream and scream into the dark muffling cloth.
|
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The cleric stepped over the corpse of the treasure hunter, shaking his head sadly. Such a waste of life. And those others they had found in the ruins, they would have been a welcome addition to the fold, had they not let their desire for treasure overcome their wisdom. They had attacked as soon as the Protectorate had arrived, and had quickly been killed by the Crusadori: Knives and clubs were no match against powder and shot.
The wind whipped at the cleric's white and red robes. The painted mask he wore under his hood filtered the dust from the air with each breath, as well as signifying him as a full priest of the Third Order of the Protectorate. On his back he bore the symbol of the Protectorate: two rings, one inside the other, with three arrows pointing inward. A sign of eternity, of strength, a sign that could not be broken.
The cleric motioned for a nearby grey-robed acolyte to follow him. Around them, the rest of the group searched through the ruin grounds, lorekeepers recording what they could recover, crusadori on guard against the savages that lived in the Dust.
The gaping mouth of the ruins loomed before the cleric, broken and decaying. Hardened, gnarled trees plunged their roots deep into the ground, though their leaves bore little shade from the sun and the burning clouds. Within the gate's dark depths sat horrible secrets, secrets he had been sent to retrieve. In his heart, he felt fear: the High Council did not often convene, and when it called one to duty, it called with the authority of all eight Orders of the Protectorate. Failure would not be appreciated.
Underneath the ruins, there was much more intact than on the surface. Most of the rooms and passages still stood, though the contents were well on their way to joining the dust that had fallen in a blanket on the floor and walls. That was a job for the lorekeepers.
Lower and lower the cleric went, guided by the flickering light of his lantern. The place was a tomb, but not one of choice: even now the burns scarred the walls, as did the holes of age-old gunfire. Occasionally, a blackened skeleton could be found, dissolving into sand. Some passages had collapsed completely; others were lined with the worn carved messages of those who died there, or the faint stain of preserved blood splattered on the walls. The cleric could read the dying testimony of these men and women, and he felt an involuntary shudder up his spine.
Even lower they went, until they reached a level filled with great vaults. Some were still sealed, even after all these years. Most were open, empty: many of the relics were destroyed in the Shattering, or lost amongst the chaos afterward.
The cleric stopped in front of one vault. The door had been forcibly torn out of the wall, laying dented on the floor. A small metal sign was on the wall. The cleric brushed off the dust and read the inscription. This was what he sought.
“Speak nothing upon entering, and do not look away until I begin the ritual,” he said to the acolyte.
Stepping into the barren room, the cleric held up his lantern. On the opposite side of the vault stood a thing, a statute. It was the size of a man, with an oversized head and grotesque, haunting features. It was made of something like stone, with some bits of iron bar sticking out of its yellowed skin. Like statues were wont, it did not move.
The cleric locked eyes with the statue. He knew this demon from the holy books: the Sightless Idol, Oon-Shiveen Thar'ie. The Shattering of the World had been wrought by this fallen god. The ancients had been taken unaware, concerned with other affairs, and it was in that moment of weakness that the Sightless Idol wrought its destruction. The gods of old, both benevolent and fallen, were cast out from the world by Oon-Shiven Thar'ie during the Shattering, now existing in a plane far removed from the world that was broken.
The cleric kept his eyes on the statue. Reaching into his pack, he took out a small glass jar. Inside was a single human eye, floating in a clear liquid, attached to a few floating chunks of graying flesh. A few nerves wrapped around a palm-sized ruby pendant. Holding the remains of the god Barat between him and the Sightless Idol, the cleric blinked.
He opened his eyes unharmed: the unblinking Eye of Barat the Still-Living had protected him. He handed the jar to the acolyte and took up a thick tome from his pack. The cleric began to read.
“By S-Cepie and Gōc, by Barat and Alcleph, by Ritez and Khan Py Tharosk-ro, and by all the gods of old, submit to the holy will of the Protectorate and the Third Order of priests, demon who is the Sightless Idol. You are hereby bound by the holy will, and shall know no mercy in repayment for the evil that has been wrought in your path. Never more shall you corrupt and destroy. Never more shall men die at your hands. By order of the Protectorate, you shall be contained within the foundations of the world in the vaults of the temple at Par-Daril, until time itself ends, and the All-Maker returns to creation and delivers judgment upon you.”
The cleric closed the book and took the Eye of Barat back from the acolyte.
“Bring me ten crusadori, loyal men with unbending will. They shall be the guardians of Oon-Shiven Thar'ie until the end of their days. Let it be said that they died in glory against the dark forces. No others are to know of this. When this is done, I will send for you, and you will leave your life to gain a new one in the Order.”
The acolyte bowed and hurriedly left. The cleric looked back at the statue, holding the Eye. In his mind, fear returned. What had happened before may happen again. The circle of fate may very well awake the other fallen gods the ancients had fought. The cleric brushed away the thought: such things were for the Council.
Inside the jar, a few old synapses sparked in the remains of the ancient brain. A single thought shot across the nerves, tinged with weary cynicism:
“Here we go again…”
|
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| 4
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Special Containment Center 23 Terminal
Welcome, please enter user ID.
>ethaum
Please enter password.
>
Password Accepted.
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Loading.
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Clearance validated.
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Welcome, Commander Thaum. Please enter an action.
>SCP #176
Number recognized. Loading.
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Item: SCP, #176.
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Approximate image of object loading.
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Loaded.
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Special containment procedures: Item #176 is classified as a Keter-level object. Statue is contained in lead room #2, following protocol regarding Keter-level objects.
WARNING: PRIMARY PERSONNEL ARE NOT ALLOWED TO INTERACT WITH STAFF DESIGNATED TO MONITOR KETER-LEVEL OBJECTS.
Object was located in desert outside Bolson de Mapimi, 1970. Class A recovery was approved and carried out. Suppressed local exchange of relevant information. For a full stat
>N
Item #176's physical makeup cannot be ascertained, any contact by educated personnel is forbidden by protocol. Object stationary. Reports of emitting a slight hum. Object produces an unknown energy wavelength that must be discharged once per day. Discharging is handled by CLASS D REPRESENTATIVES ONLY.
>P
>search Class D
Loading
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SCP Protocol: Class D Personnel
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Loaded
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Class D personnel are designated staff used to handle the Keter-level objects. Class D staff are sequestered on the Keter floor, bottom basement.
WARNING: CLASS D PERSONNEL ARE NOT ALLOWED TO INTERACT WITH CLASS D PERSONNEL ASSIGNED TO A DIFFERENT OBJECT OR SCP PERSONNEL.
Class D personnel are recruited from prison inmates. Condemned persons are preferred, in times of duress, Protocol 12 can be authorized, allowing recruitment of innocents or persons incarcerated for lesser crimes.
All Class D personnel must be terminated at the first of the month, and a new staff must be ready to replace them. After placement in quarters, staff must only contact Class D personnel through intercom system.
All personnel involved with Class D will be given a minimum of one (1) polygraph tests at 1800 on a daily basis. Failure to comply will result in termination. Failure to pass test will result in termination.
In event of any abnormalities, termination of entire Class D personnel is advised, as well as any SCP personnel that has had basic interaction.
>176
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Please specify request.
>R 176
Resuming.
Loading.
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If any change or abnormality in energy wavelengths is identified, termination of all personnel is advised.
Reports from the initial handling of item #176 indicate strong psychological effects. Any change in brain wave activity is to be reported immediately, and terminated of all personnel is advised.
Documented Psychological effects:
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Inability to speak properly and/or speaking of unknown languages.
Hallucinations.
Paranoia.
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Documented Physical effects:
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Massive internal hemorrhaging.
Liquidation of organs.
Blindness.
Dramatic weight loss.
Muscle atrophy.
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Item #176 has been noted to psychologically distort Class D personnel as to prevent them from releasing the buildup of energy within the chamber. Energy is most likely cause of above psychological and physiological effects. Item #176 is classified as EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.
Failure to discharge could result in death of all personnel in facility.
>P
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Enter action.
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>free
>FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE FREE
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Command unrecognized.
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Authorize abnormality containment procedures?
>Y|
>Ye
>Yes|
>Yes
>Yes|
>Yes
>Ye|
>Y
>
>N
Acknowledged. Abnormality containment procedure not authorized.
>logout
Goodbye, Commander.
Connection closed.
|
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| 2
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It started January 5th, about nine in the morning.
Mrs. Foster was explaining factoring polynomials to us, and I was exhausted. I wanted desperately to go back to bed and sleep. Too soon after Christmas break to start thinking about math. I glanced out our window—the fog was still kind of like trying to look through a glass of milk. The sun hadn't burned it all away yet.
Just before I was going to look away, the windows exploded in a spray of glass. I heard Mrs. Foster scream, but it was cut short. She had fallen. One by one my classmates did the same. I felt my sleepiness intensify a hundredfold, and I fought it, standing up, but it was too much. The air shimmered, and I didn't dream.
As far as I know, I was the second to wake. The first to wake was the quiet boy, Cyrus, who sat behind me in the last row. I stood up and looked over the others. He was by the broken window, clearing away the glass, and for a moment I saw his palms, cut up by his efforts.
I stepped over still-sleeping classmates. "What happened?"
He shrugged.
"Here," he said. "Look outside."
I did.
"I don't see anything."
"I don't either."
He picked up a large shard of glass from the ground.
"Watch."
He dropped it outside. I watched the glass shard fall. It kept going, and going, turning into a pinprick before vanishing altogether.
The other kids began to stir. Mrs. Foster was the last to rise.
"Mrs. F," I said. I stopped there, not knowing what to say. She stepped gingerly over the glass and looked out the window. She didn't speak—just looked out there, her grip tightening on the jagged glass still stuck to the window frame.
I left the classroom, feeling hollow and as though I had blinders at the sides of my eyes, at the same time, lucid, every sound and breath and footstep amplified, every fiber of the carpet and every scratch on the walls magnified. I passed by them, and ran down the hall and the stairs and the other hall until I reached the front doors of the school. They seemed enormous, and I so small, I pulled them open; my hands seemed so far away from me.
Below me was a sheer drop, like a cliff. The bottom of it was lost in the dense fog.
"I think I'm dreaming," I said.
"I think I'm dreaming," I said again.
"I think I'm DREAMING," I said, shouting the last word. My voice dissolved into the air, having nothing to bounce off of, and I didn't wake up.
I returned to my classroom. Cyrus was sitting by the door reading his Bible. The others were sort of mixed in their reactions—some girls cried in the corner, some boys simply looked numb, some other boys dropped things from the window to watch them fall.
"Find anything?" said Cyrus.
"Come look," I said, gesturing down the hall.
By now a few kids had begun to cluster around the door. I elbowed my way to the front.
"I'm having a dream," said a girl next to me matter-of-factly. "Watch, I'm going to fly."
She leaped from the door, ignoring the screams coming from her classmates. That was the last I saw of her.
Continued in part two >>
|
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The Captain focused his binoculars and scrutinized the valley below. The highway bent around the hills, littered with refuse and empty cars. Beyond the road was an inlet. The muddy waters flowed sluggishly, packed with flotsam, around the bows of a listing destroyer. A suspension bridge had collapsed on the stern of the ship. The vessel had remained, half submerged, for the short months since the war. The yellowing corpse of a cow had lodged in its trailing cables. Through his binoculars, the Captain could see the flies dancing around it, even from his roost atop the hill.
The tarp around his shoulders ruffled in the sharp wind, and he drew it close. The gray plastic blended well with the mottled land, the dead grass, the darkened sky. A convoy was plodding the highway below, vehicles winding around the broken asphalt and drifting ash. The lead tank had a dozer blade fixed to it and was shoving aside the rusting car-carcasses obstructing the road. A small detachment of soldiers followed, maybe twenty five. They wore black uniforms, and marched before an eighteen-wheeler. It was low slung, heavily armored. A second tank took the rear, turret swept back to ward off attack.
The Captain thought eagerly of the contents of that truck. As he looked back at his gathered men, he saw they did, too. Rifle Company B hunkered on the ashen mount, hands tightly clutching weapons. They needed action to take their minds off the burning in their lungs and the pangs in their bellies. They were tired and worn from these wretched months. Some of them had worn out rad-suits and were coughing piteously, spitting little globules of mucous and blood. Miserable as they were, they perched like hawks above unsuspecting prey.
What that convoy was guarding, they could only imagine; incredible wealth, an armory of devastating technologies, or one of the last politicians – those dogs who brought on the holocaust. Or perhaps it was something more. There were rumors, from travelers and sporadic radio contacts, of strange and unnatural things occurring across the globe. Tales of walking dead, of machines that spoke, of unearthly creatures and men with godly powers. A few weeks ago they had come across a great fat man who called himself the King of Philadelphia. It was as if his every word was gold, and they would have gladly submitted to his every order if the Doctor hadn't put a round through the back of his skull.
The Doctor was back at the camp. Lately he took no interest in the raids, speaking of nothing but the Eden Gate. The men were demoralized enough without their leader babbling obsessively about some old story. There were whisperings about the Doctor that spread among the soldiers. That he had been a top researcher, a director in some enigmatic international program. That he had gone insane.
The Captain had been his friend years ago, before he joined the British Army, when things were first starting to fall apart. He was there when the Doctor partook of the Spring of Youth. He had helped push the dioxin barrels in when the Doctor was done with his injections. The rusty red drums cracked easily, bleeding the oily chemicals into the cold, clear water.
Five months ago, Company B had come over with the European invasion of the States. They quietly went rogue when everything collapsed. And when the Captain found the Doctor again, they took him as their leader.
The caravan drew closer in the valley below, and the Captain spoke a few words into his radio. And suddenly it was all chaos for the convoy, and tattered green raining fire down on shiny black. When the first shots hit, the soldiers below scattered, taking cover behind wreckage and returning fire into the hills. The Captain's men whooped like red Indians, their rifles cracking sporadically in the bleak sunlight.
Their numbers would quickly have over-swept their prey, but they held back for the two tanks, which fired blindly into the hillside. And the small band below might have pulled a hasty retreat, might have saved their cargo, if not for the ruined destroyer lying in the waters to their right side. The destroyer was tilted, half sunk, but the bow still sat above the water. The refurbished and manned front turret began turning. The members of the convoy had no time to react. The naval gun flamed, and the lead tank exploded, blasting sharp chunks of metal dozens of meters.
The black-armored operatives were quickly reduced in numbers. Someone – a white-suited figure – had extended their torso from the hatch of the remaining rear tank. The person lifted a megaphone, speaking clearly in a woman's voice.
“Cease firing! We are not with the United States government!” Perhaps she had recognized the uniforms of soldiers on her assailants. It was of no matter, though, as a second rumbling blast from the destroyer announced the end of her short plea for parley.
Soon the victorious ambushers were down among the remains of the convoy. They sifted through the bodies and the scalding fragments of the two tanks with hope for loot. The Captain stood eagerly by as two of his men clipped the lock away from the back of the eighteen-wheeler. They threw the double doors open. Several cowering scientists and a series of electronic panels were exposed to the light, and the two soldiers climbed up. The Captain listened to the brief bursts of gunfire.
“What's up there?” he yelled into the cavern of the truck.
“Not much…hold on,” one of the men called back from the depths. “There's another door farther back here. We've got to cut through these chains.”
There was a clink of metal against metal, and the man called back again. “It's a bare room. There's nothing back here but…” He snorted derisively.
“What?” yelled the Captain, growing impatient.
“It looks like a guy in an oversized clown-suit. What the fuck!”
The soldier laughed again. He poked his head out of the truck, grinning at the Captain. There was a subtle snapping, and the man collapsed.
It took only a few more minutes for the one hundred and thirty one members of Company B to be killed. A few seagulls were the only witnesses to the oddly proportioned creature. It moved rapidly across the landscape in short and erratic jumps.
The sun began to set, and the Doctor settled comfortably down on the torn out rear seat of an old sedan. He cradled a steel banjo in the curve of his lap, strumming a few slow chords. He breathed the acrid air of the outside world unfiltered, unaffected by the deadly conditions. The tall creature had halted twenty paces before him, transfixed by his unbroken stare. The Doctor's eyes watered and burned, but he had no need to close them. The thing stood awkwardly alone in the gathering darkness.
“Looks like we're going to be here for a while, big man,” the Doctor said, sighing. Then he added, “At least until I break one of these strings.” He nodded to the banjo. The odd figure stood, silent and unmoving.
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The water was cool, if a bit murky. The lake was the color of tea, owing to its past as a logging route. Great banks of long tree trunks would bob and sink, staining the lake. At least, that's what the boy's grandpa said. He dove off the dock, slipping into the cool water as easy as an otter, his sunburned skin drinking in the cooling water.
The lake was very deep, and quickly he was over the vast, deep edges, paddling softly with the easy grace attainable only by the happy few who know the width and depth of summer break. He turned over to his back, the murky, tea-colored haze buoying him up on billows of cool water. He flicked his hands with a careless annoyance as he skirted a patch of loosed seaweed, sending it bobbing away. He watched the clouds, listening to the empty hum of the lake in his ears.
He slowly noticed more patches floating about him, and bobbed to vertical, wincing as his feet kicked and brushed the slippery, brown strands of weed. The strands twitched and clutched with their soggy strength, and he sighed as he started to plot a course out of the muck.
Deep below, the twitching strands stirred the muck they were rooted so deeply in. The mud puffed… then bulged, rising softly in a great mound. Then it opened eyes, great sludgy orbs the size of cars. It slowly rose, freeing its gnashing maw, and drifted up to see what its feelers had found.
|
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Everything was screaming. The dials, the readouts, everything was screaming, but he noticed none of it. What he noticed was the heat. He was burning. Not on fire, but inside, burning with a searing heat that was cooking him inside out. What's more, the tiny capsule was so sealed, so perfectly fitted, he couldn't even twist or writhe to burn in a new position. The radio squawked and squealed twice before going silent, the tiny plate starting to warp as the shoddy, overwhelmed heat shield continued to buckle under the reentry force, the flames licking white and golden past his tiny porthole.
Still, the heat was not what filled the man with fear, what made him afraid of not only his immediate and untimely demise, but what may possibly be waiting beyond it. The baking flames did not form a total wall over the tiny porthole fixed over his sweating, softening face. They divided in the middle, blocked by the hard, sharp point of a chin.
The face watched him, staring, vague suggestions of limbs holding to the sides of the window. The face watched, even with no eyes, no mouth, the blank, vapid nothing still so hellishly suggestive. It watched, smiling a nothing smile as the tiny bit of grit burned up in the thin, searing atmosphere…
and its breath fogged to frost on the burning, bubbling window.
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A woodcutting, commiſsioned to depict the capture of the dread beaſt, with a great number of aſsailants upon the flesh of its back.
AN ENTRY for the expreſs Purpoſe of addition to the Guild Catalogue of Phenomena. Should the Poſsibility ariſe that this document fall into the hands of a non-member, the poſseſsor is required by Guild Charter to deſtroy it completely by fire.
THIS PAGE documents an occurrence on the date the ſeventeenth of March, the Year of Our Lord 1785, at the harbor of Boſton, Maſsachuſets Commonwealth. On the morning of this day, a ſingle fisherman, whoſe name remains unmention'd herewith, returned to Port with a number of ſtrange wounds upon his veſsel and perſon. He was extremely frightened, shouting that an incredible beaſt of six-and-a-half rods had devoured a great quantity of Ships and had injured him thus. He deſcribed it as a whale of un-natural proportion, with a thouſand gnashing teeth and multiple tumor-like protruſions. After this report, many young men armed with muſkets and pikes embarked to deſtroy the Creature.
THE BEAſT approach'd the harbor and caus'd the deaths of the armed men with great rapidity, meanwhile bellowing in loud and beleaguered tones. The Harbor Batteries were fired upon't with no effect. The Whale-Beaſt appeared to be not injur'd by normal means. By the Grace of God, Guilds-man Sir James F. was preſent and was able to act in the circumſtances. It was only thru the ingenuity of Sir James F. that the Creature was captured. He caſt a great quantity of fish into the harbor, drawing the creature near. Sir James F. then gathered the Sailors at hand, who flung down anchors from the dock. The anchors were caught upon the fleshy parts of the back of the Beaſt, acting as if fish-hooks. It ſtruggled piteouſly, and men climbed the mount of its back and ſtruck it with blades, until the time at which it was ſubdued by direct and cloſe cannon-fire.
SIR JAMES had theſe anchors fixed to a galleon, by which means the Creature was dragg'd to a bay eight miles to the North, at a location undiſcloſed herein. It remains there, chained to a cliff-face, whereupon it feeds on fish. A troupe of armed men is ſtationed to maintain the impriſonment of the Beaſt, warding off paſsers-by on foot or Sea. Should the Whale-Creature attempt to break free, theſe men fire upon't with cannon and muſket until it is ſubdued, so it may be re-chain'd.
THIS TEXT conſtitutes page two hundred and eighty five of the ledger of the Guild for the Retrieval and Documentation of Abnormal and Otherwiſe Un-Chriſtian Phenomena.
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I began walking along the hall to the briefing room. Another situation had come up, and I was expected to be present. As I walked my secretary Gloria walked alongside, giving me a cup of joe.
"What's the sitch, Glor?" I took a sip.
"'Nother possible scip. Non-sent RB. Chrono. Might be artificial."
"No kiddin'? Big F?"
"Nah, not Big F or Dr. Dubya. They're thinking Pro Labs."
"Geez, ever since T-kill I haven't heard anything from that place."
She shrugged and opened the briefing room door for me. I nodded and thanked her.
"Gentlemen."
"Heads up boys, it's the SD."
"Whuzzat? The suck dick?"
We all laughed and I sat down at the head of the table, looking at the men before me. We'd been in and out of this room hundreds of times before. Everything from CBs to possible CI attacks made us cram into this room every day.
"What's the story, boys?"
"Big one this time Ralph. We're thinkin' a K."
"Well shit. I hear there's Pro Labs involvement."
"Yeah. Some Gawk guys gave us some intel."
"What?"
"Non-sent object. RB. Chrono, we're thinkin'. Might also be prob bending."
"Some Wie-oo guys actually found it, Ralph. Ran back cryin' all the way to the FBI."
I laughed. "We got an MTF on this?"
"Yep. A-23. No pro-rep from them yet."
"Ok. Big S is done. Big C?"
"Containment's goin' well. We got some psyche immunes watchin' it for a while, just in case."
"Big P?"
"Gawk had intel, so they might come after it. Can't break into here though under the Anom treaty."
"Right. Who's testing?"
"We got Doc James on the go. Y'know him. Did some work with HTD Rep."
"Oh yeah."
The radio crackled in at the center of the desk. "Got the dash E in our sites. Ready to big C. Requesting permission."
Frank leaned over and pressed a button. "You are go to contain Alpha-23."
"Roger that."
Frank looked over at me. "Another one in the bag, Ralph."
I nodded and watched the map behind him blip for a minute or two. The radio voice crackled on again. "We got a successful contain. Returning to base."
"Roger that, over and out." Frank turned off the radio.
I looked around. "Good work men. Lunch?"
They all nodded and we departed. I got a BLT.
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Drip, drip, drip. Blood fell from Harold Jacobs' shattered nose onto the polished, tiled floor. He feebly tried to look up as he heard a rasping cough, but Valley's thugs did their job too well. A ticking noise came from the man restraining Jacobs. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Valley coughed again, and Jacobs saw the old, wizened figure nod to the ticking man. His voice was like his cough, hoarse and sudden, as if every sentence that came out of Valley's mouth could be the last. With his current state, that was probably true.
"Show our guest to his seat, Mr. Tick."
Jacobs was surprised at Mr. Tick's strength as he slammed him into the wooden chair. He had scoffed when Mr. Carter told him about Valley's manservant. The man was diseased, for god's sake, how could he be a threat? As Jacobs tried to gaze at Valley through the ruined remains of his left eye, he realized how wrong he had been.
"Mr. Jacobs." Valley's tone was mocking. Using his stick-like arm, he gently placed one of Mr. Carter's notes on the table. "You are here to cheat me?" Next, he placed a tiny camera in front of him. "Or to spy on me?" As he placed the last item on the table, Jacobs knew that he was as good as dead.
"To kill me?" said Valley, inspecting Jacobs' gun. "A good effort, I'm sure, but Mr. Tick does not miss a tick." Then he laughed. It was the most awful sound Jacobs had ever heard. Valley stopped and grinned at him with rotting, yellow teeth. A drop of blood slid down from his cracked lips from the exertion of the act. "Who are you working for?"
Jacobs remembered what Mr. Carter had told him to say. His voice was a whisper, it was a miracle he could even talk with the beating he has taken. "Global Occult Coalition…mass liquidation of known threat entity…"
"Liar," snapped Valley. Mr. Tick's hand closed around Jacobs'. He had time to look up for a moment before Mr. Tick squeezed. Jacobs screamed in agony as he heard the loud crunching from what used to be his hand. "Who do you really work for?"
Jacobs was sobbing now. The pain was unbearable. "Marshall…Carter and Dark!" he screamed. Mr. Tick let go.
Valley looked worried. "They know of my operation here?"
"Yes." Jacobs struggled not to look at the crushed lump at the end of his arm.
"This is…highly unfortunate. We will have to think carefully of our next move, I think. Thank you, Mr. Jacobs. Mr. Tick, you may kill him now."
Jacobs opened his mouth to protest, but was cut short as Mr. Tick grabbed the back of his head and slammed it into the table. He was killed instantly and the table collapsed from the heavy impact. A cleaner stepped forward and began to wipe Jacobs' brain matter off the wood as two members of security threw his body off the balcony. A few seconds later, there was a far-off splash.
"Our old associates have discovered us, it seems," said Valley.
"Yes," said Mr. Tick.
"Nevertheless, I believe we can continue our operation here. There must be some demand for those things."
"Yes."
"We'll need to raise security, Mr. Tick. I don't want this happening again. I'll run out of tables."
"Yes."
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Okay people, sit your asses down and shut your pie holes. I've got places to go and people more important than you to see, because I happen to be a scientist and we scientists have a tendency to be very busy and important people. If you're out there in the folding chairs, that means that you're the new guys. Bottom of the totem pole. But, it also means that you passed the entrance exams. Welcome to the SPC. From this moment onward, your job is very, very simple: you are going to punch sharks.
In the face.
You will punch sharks. When not punching sharks, you will be planning on punching sharks. You will be developing new ways to punch sharks. You will read about punching sharks. You will write about punching sharks. You will study punching sharks. You will dream about punching sharks. You will jump the shark. You will collect and contain paranormal objects, and then use them to beat up sharks.
Punching sharks is your life.
You may be asking yourself “Self, how am I to punch these sharks?” With your fists.
And you may ask yourself “Self, what if I am bitten by a shark? I am unsure of what to do.” Go see an alchemist.
And you may say to yourself “Self, my teeth have become shark-like, in the sense that they have all turned into sharks!” Good, now start punching them.
It's an important job, mark my words. There are people out there, many people who just don't understand why. They don't realize how important our job is. You will be challenged, you will be mocked, you will be insulted, but you cannot lose sight of the goal: your fist in a shark's face.
Several years ago, a former employee asked me “Why do we punch sharks?” You know what I said to him?
“Sir, do you hate science? Are you a science-hating shark-hugger? Do you approve of the non-science shark agenda?" He said no, he wasn't.
I punched him in the face anyway, because he was clearly a closet shark. Because that's what we fucking do at the SPC.
When you all came in here, there was a copy of Sun Tzu's The Art of Punching Sharks on your chair. You are all to have read that by the time you report in tomorrow morning. Now get out of here. Those sharks aren't going to punch themselves.
Because they don't have hands.
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Everett, my good man. Please… Sit down. No, I insist.
It's time we had a chat, the two of us. No, I think this is the perfect time. It's not like we're going to get another. Not with the way things are now. We've got a possible plan, but I don't think Stimson will be successful. He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, you know. Not at all… Not at all…
You see, my boy, I understand you. I understand you quite perfectly. All the rest think you're varying levels of sinner and saint, that you somehow understand something special about us, that you might make the next, logical successor for one of us… They're all quite right, to some level. You certainly are passionate. I could see you doing anything to uphold the mission of the Foundation. Anything at all.
You should have done it already, Everett. You should have found all thirteen of us, pulled out a gun, and shot us in the head. Don't pretend that you hadn't already considered it. I know that you've got plans for us, for each of us, that would be at least moderately successful. You'd probably have eliminated the bulk of them. Probably. Not me, though. Not that it matters now, anyway.
But now, it's too late. Far, far too late. We let things go on too long. Let them snowball. I don't doubt that you'll struggle to the very end. You strike me as the sort to, honestly. Admirable. One of the few admirable things about you, really.
Do you know when I realized I wasn't playing God, Everett? I'll tell you. It was when they wouldn't let me bring my son back. Do you know how long it took me to get to this point? This point in my life? I don't age, Mann. I may never die, if all things go well. I wanted a family, though… Silly of me, wasn't it? Wanting a family. I had one. They took them from me, though. One at a time. T.J. Elliot. Jack… Poor Jack.
When did you first figure it out, Everett? What we were really doing?
Heh. I suppose that makes sense. The Insurgency always was our biggest hole. Could never find a way to explain it away… Agatha tried a few times, but… Ahh, well. Makes sense, I suppose… And when did you find out that we were—
Really? Hmm… Well, it's too late for that to matter now. They've done it, whoever they are. Whatever we called forth through that blasted chink in the universe's armor. You want to know the best part, Doctor? I don't regret any of it.
None of it, Everett. Not that ridiculous lizard or its brood, not those little crabs that slice and cut like they're nothing, not the madmen or the demons or the cakes—the god damned cakes! We were trying to feed the world, Mann! We didn't realize what we were doing! We never realized what we were doing! NEVER!
We just… we didn't realize… We wanted to make the world better, and then… Things fell apart. Things always fall apart…
Yes, I know. I'm completely mad. We all were. We'd have to be, for what we did. But we were mad with a purpose. Creation… Blissful, glorious creation. We were God in the garden, Everett. And we wanted you to join us so badly. You had so many fantastic ideas… Why, the Thaumiel initiative you proposed was sheer brilliance…
But it's too late, Everett. Far too late. And now… Well, I know you keep the gun in your top, left hand drawer. If you don't mind? On your way out?
Thank you, my boy. And try to enjoy the last few moments you have. Rage, my boy! Rage against the dying of the lig—
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Sometimes I like to sit in the water and just think. I like this place. It's peaceful. Wet.
It's warm outside. Cloudy. I like the clouds.
I have brothers and sisters, I think. We're not normal. We were made. Like an old monster movie. The magic of science. Lightning in a castle. Magic science.
It's getting windy outside.
Dr Wondertainment made us and can remake us. But I wonder. When we die, are we changed? Was I changed? Am I the same person from back then or was that one changed? Will I be brought back or will I be lost? Can I carry memories on? Or are they just little knobs on a machine that you can switch on and off? I know there's been more Misters made since the first edition. Mister Redd's the only original one left.
I don't think I should have said his name. I should hide somewhere.
I'm scared sometimes. I'm scared of what's coming. I'm scared one of them will find me. I'm scared of Redd and Stripes. They'll kill me. I don't want to die. I want to stay here in my swamp…
It's raining now. I like the rain.
But I still wonder. Am I an option or a miracle? What am I?
… I think I know what I am. I am Mister Fish. I am me. I am content.
Previous: 15. Ms. Sweetie by The Deadly Moose
Next: End by Salman Corbette
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You're following in line with your traveling companion, your feet a few steps behind him.
You surmised him as friendly in your thoughts when you first met him. "Entertaining company", was how you remembered it. He was a talker, a foil to your pragmatic silence. You had heard of great composers and musicians, but this man's knowledge eclipsed them all. You could not name a tune without a song he knew, even the few which you seemed to come up on your own. But the strangest of all the features he had were those hands of his, and the sounds that he made with them.
On the first day you met, he showed you his talent without delay. He simply placed his hands on an immaterial instrument before his lips and blew. An invisible instrument with neither color nor form, but made melodies all the same. Every time you talked he had a new instrument, whether a tuba, trumpet or trombone. When your friendship was young, you had asked him of his nature, how had he become a Mister, in the same way you had asked many people. He told you he never knew, he merely awoke into the life one day. Those early memories were from a long time ago.
It was only a few hours ago that you had found him again, and in that time you had made him your friend once more. But, already his music is taking a different tone. It was darker than before, dimmer. It did not escape your mind that he had realized the similarities - certain things can be dyed or shaved, but others cannot. Still, you had changed so much since those early memories, he could not possibly. . ? The other man's sight flashes about the forest path which you had taken him down. He asks to turn back, you tell him it is only a bit farther.
Around a bend in the trees, ah, there. The noise of a dart firing, the yelp let out by Mr. Brass. You turn to face him as he loses consciousness. He finally makes the realization, the slight color of red to your eyes the last clue he needs. But it is too late for him. His body becomes limp in your arms.
"Breve."
Previous: 13. Mr. Purple by Faminepulse
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Mr. Appleseed. Seriously, that's my name. And wouldn't you know it, whenever I sneeze, cough, or fart, out come apple seeds. It sucks. This is, of course, only exacerbated by the fact that I was just picked up by the Foundation and now I feel quite the sneeze coming on.
Hold on, wait, they're not taking me captive. They're taking off my handcuffs. What's that they're saying?
"Ah, welcome back Dr. King."
Previous: 10. Mr. Mission by Gerald
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Dear Diary
My name is Mr. Clumsy and I have died forty-seven times today.
I think the first time was when I was walking down the trail. I just went over to a cactus, thinking I could get some water. So, I took out my penknife and tried to cut a tiny gap in it. What happened instead was I stumbled, ended up with the knife in my heart and fell backwards onto the cactus.
Yep, that's my thing. I die horribly and then come back to do it again. And for some goddamn reason, no matter what I do, it'll more likely than not kill me. At least if I sit in this cave and don't touch anything, I'll be reasona
Sorry, heart attack. Guess that showed me. God knows how I'm going to walk all the way to the place. Can't exactly take a car, can I? Last time I tried that, it exploded. Third-degree burns and everything. Lasted a bit before dying, hurt like hell. All the others have fun gimmicks, or at least ones that don't kill you, but no, not m
Got the pencil in my eye. Took me a few deaths to get that out. I heal my wounds, but I always have trouble with things getting stuck. Mr. Redd used to make a game of it; he'd impale me on a pipe or something and watch me die again and again. Not my idea of fun, but what are you going to do? It's nothing personal, after a while, you just get used to dyi
Fell over and hit my head on a brick. I am sure that brick was not there when I found this cave. See, that's another thing, sometimes I'll go near a cat and start choking or something! I'm not allergic to cats! I know, I checked with a doctor. Died three times, but I managed to get there.
I know if I fall asleep, a bear will eat my head or something. But I can't just walk, this is the desert and it's night. I'll freeze to death again and agai
Previous: 8. Mr. Moon by Anaxagoras
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Ah, hello there.
No, don't get up. Put down the gun though, it won't do anything. I'm not real, how could you shoot me? There we go. See, isn't that much nicer? All friends. Face that window, please. Oh, and smile. There, that's good.
You look surprised, doctor. You've been on a binge of me, haven't you? I like your style, you fall down and you just get back up! Shame, though, that's what let me in. Nice couch. Don't get up, I'll make myself at home. What are you talking about, doctor? Oh, no, I've not come here as some sort of vengeful retribution. I really don't mind you people watching me, although I do wish you'd share them. You're very selfish, taking me away from the children like that, you know.
I admit I did lose my temper for a bit back there, didn't I? Don't worry, I've come to terms with my new audience. You do let me at children quite often. Some people would call you monsters! Not me, I don't judge. I'm fair.
Haha, what are you writing? I'm very sorry, doctor, but this isn't an interview. I'd put it in the trash. There we go. Everything goes in the trash eventually. You trash your precious interview, the children trash their little minds and even I had to trash some of my other gimmicks. Oh, yes. I've been making little savages for quite a while now, doctor. Put down the gun.
I think I started off small, the idea of fire some stupid cavemen got into their skulls. Children didn't really have time for me back then, so I moved on. The skinwalker shtick though, that was a good idea. Children whispered about me in the dark, adults even painted me! I hardly had to do anything at all!
But then you had to get clever, didn't you? Suddenly all those superstitions started to float away and I had no children to help, no parents to… well, you'll find out soon enough. And yet, there was one little form that I had left, one fun-loving character that could still reach inside those kids' heads and twist. I'm talking, of course, about Bobble the Clown. Oh, don't look so glum.
Smile. You're on television!
As of ██/██/20██, it appears SCP-993 has ceased broadcasting.
As of ██/██/20██, SCP-993 has resumed its normal broadcasting. Re-classification to Euclid is being considered.
Episode Title
Contents
'Bobble's Back!'
Setting of episode appears to be Dr. █████'s office. Bobble appears in the room and Dr. █████ registers shock, then faces the viewer and smiles. Bobble and Dr. █████ then appear to converse for fifteen minutes, although no dialogue is audible. Fifteen minutes in, Dr. █████ raises a pistol and fires upon Bobble to no effect. Bobble then systematically dismembers and removes facial extremities from Dr. █████ using a large butchers knife. Signs of movement are visible from Dr. █████ for three minutes, after which the credits roll. Alarmingly, Dr. █████ disappeared without a trace a day before the episode broadcasted.
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I remember what it was like before this, but I keep on forgetting. Even when I remember.
I don't know how I remember, I simply do. The world has gone wrong; we have opened the Box. I do not know what the Box is, but I remember when the world was right. I remember when we fed bread to pigeons, not flying saucers. I remember when three came after two. I remember when South America didn't belong to Play-Dough soldiers.
This world cannot last long, how can it? Even the White House is bigger on the inside, because of…I can't remember. It is getting harder to remember what it was like before. One…eighty…four, I think. Yes, it must have been. What is that? I have to keep my memories together, I write them down, you see. So I can remember what it was like.
I don't think I worked at Salvicot Private Communications before we opened the Box. What is the Box? All I know is that we opened it. Who is we, for that matter? Fuck, my head hurts. It hurts to remember, I want to forget. This world is fine, I can settle for this.
The world is not fine. I know this, it's my job. Look at all the information everywhere, every day. Let me see, let me see…here we go, straight from Russia. Meat Contagion strikes in Aleysk, hundreds dead. There are pictures, too; a bit red, but we can edit it for page three hundred and seventy-six, I think. No, we can't, I have to remember. But why won't I forget?
We opened the Box and everything changed. For worse, for better? I don't remember, but I don't forget. This one's from the Immortal City. Funny folks, pay Mr. Salvicot a lot for child shipments. Or so you hear. And I hear everything.
Anyway, back to the news, Father of thirty-three dead, Blind involvement suspected. Suspected? It's all but certain. His eyes were closed and his neck was broken. Shit and blood all over the house. I hope the American Empire had a good reason for letting that thing loose.
It should have been contained. Like the Box. I think I remember who I am now. I am me. You can't close the Box. The Box is open and the Box is gone. We just have to carry on living.
Time to pack up for home, I suppose. My daughter's got a case of the clockworks, perhaps I'll get her a Mr. Headless.
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It don't pay to get too close to anyone in our line of work. They tell you that all the time. You will, though. We're stupid like that.
First time you're in real danger, you should be thinkin', "Gosh, I'm in constant threat of my life. A relationship would be a distraction, and not fair to the other person." Unfortunately, you are made for passin' on your genes. First time you're in any real danger, every part of yer body, every fiber of yer bein' is gonna say, "I almost died! Commence to havin' sex." This is because your body's an idiot. It thinks you're still a primitive human in the Great Rift Valley, an' the danger it has in mind is a leopard comin' to eat you. So it wants you to make a replacement, fast.
So you're probably gonna ignore all this advice. You're gonna find someone else. Maybe a cute girl you meet downtown, or, God forbid, another agent. You've seen the videos. You've heard the stories. You know how we can end up. Imagine that's someone you care about. Yeah, that's fun.
Now, the Foundation ain't gonna tell you you can't have a relationship. The higher-ups ain't that stupid. Never give an order what ain't gonna be followed. Instead, they send you to "counselin'." They hope they can change your mind. Hey, you know what they play in the counseler's lobby all the time? Old Yeller. Yeah, that's the sublety an' understandin' we've come to expect at the Foundation.
But like I said, it doesn't do much good. You're probably gonna do it anyway. I'm just hopin' maybe one or two of you is smart enough to listen.
The rest of you, though, are gonna get busy. Maybe get married. Maybe have kids. Best case scenario, the stress of the job drives you to a divorce. Worst case scenario, one of you had to put a bullet into the other one, because it's the kindest thing left.
And God help you if you ever fall for a skip. Seriously, don't do that shit.
Was I ever married? Yeah, once. Her name? I don't remember her name. They won't let me.
…I think she was beautiful.
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You slowly awaken in a blank white room. You can't remember anything. Wait, that's not so. You know how to talk, how to walk, what things are, but some things, like how you got here, what this place is, and who you are swim beyond the grasp of your mind. You search for a name, but have nothing.
You seem to be wearing comfortable clothing. It feels tailored. There's something stiff in the back pocket of your jeans. A piece of paper, with a list of names written on it. You read:
Wow! You've just found yourself your very own Little Mister, a limited edition collection from Dr. Wondertainment!
Befriend them all and become Mr. Love!!
01. Mr. Clank
02. Mr. Headless
…
The list goes on, but you don't read it. Instead you crumple it up and hold it tight. There's something soothing about having.
You decide to turn your attention to your surroundings. Four white walls, one with a door. You go to it, and it swings open at your touch. A park, with people walking and playing. The building behind you is just a shack. People holding things that…
You realize who you are, your name pounding through your head with more certainty than anything you've known before. Mr. Collector. And you know what it is you do. You see the invisible strings from your hands to the toys and trinkets and baubles of these people and you grab them tight and pull. A hundred things that you know should be yours suddenly are, as their former owners look about in confusion for what were their possessions. Because this is who you are. You're Mr. Collector.
Except… that's not right. You don't know anything like you know that. There's something wrong with that. You realize, in a way that feels somehow more real, that you have another name.
Oh. The people are shouting at you demanding that you return "their" items. You ignore them. Of course you're Mr. Collector. Only Mr. Collector could touch the invisible strings. But could you also be someone else? A name, a name, it continues to elude you.
Now there's a police car coming up, and the officer is coming. The cold black of his gun would nicely complement the sheen of this earring you hold. You reach out and it rips free from the holster and it's yours now. You love your collection more than anything.
You have a thought. In your mind you visualize a cord from you to whatever you were before (Before? The part of you that booms out that you are Mr. Collector doesn't like the notion). You pull and there's nothing there, nothing you recognize as a name. Just a cold string of letters and numbers, signifying nothing.
The officer grabs you, spilling your precious collection to the ground. You scream in anguish and inside your head cling to the only thing you have left. O5-4.
Previous: End by Salmander
Fin!
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Ah yes. Yes, I think I am the one you've come to see. I've been expecting you, to be honest. Oh, please. Don't sit there. I'll come along quietly, but you must… Well, anyway, please don't make any fuss, if you have to sit there. I don't deal well with stress.
Yes, I do have a tattoo, and yes, I do mind showing it to you. It's somewhere rather private. I'd be terribly embarrassed to have to show it here, in public, and embarrassment makes me… Oh, let's just forget about it for now. You can see it later.
To be honest, it's rather a relief. I've been wandering around for a week now, wondering just who would find me. We hear stories, you know, of you, and the GOC, and what's that club? Marshall's something? Anyway, I don't think those groups would do me any good.
Where will we be going, anyway? I understand if you don't want to tell me in particulars, but I would like some idea. I don't like surprises. I can't enjoy them at all anymore.
Excuse me, but could you put out that cigarette? No, I don't have asthma, but I really feel it would be best if… Well, it's your health. I do wish you'd be more careful with it, though.
Ah, yes. I'm not entirely sure how I left the facility. I woke up in an alley. It may have been deliberate release, or a kidnapping. Or it might have been… Well, if they were transporting me, and weren't careful… These things happen, you know.
Mr. Redd won't be there, will he? I… I don't think I'd enjoy meeting Mr. Redd, if he's there. Wouldn't do anyone any good, I daresay.
Do you have some water? Only, I find myself somewhat thirsty, and… Well, I'm sorry. I'm feeling a little warm. Perhaps it would be good if you'd sit back? I don't think you should be sitting right there. And your cigarette isn't helping matters. Look, I'm not trying to be difficult but…
Oh dear. I've done it again. And he was such a nice young man.
Oh, hello. Were you a friend of his? Ah. Yes. I see. Well, I tried to warn him.
My name? It's Mr. Combustible. I'm pleased to meet you. Pardon if I don't shake your hand.
Previous: 6. Mr. Stripes by TroyL
Next: 8. Mr. Moon by Anaxagoras
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I have very long legs. Very long. Long enough to stretch over a canyon, when I want them to. When I need them to. And long fingers as well. The fingers of a pianist, or a strangler. Long and slender. Made for choking. Not a pianist.
I laugh, surprising myself. There is so little cause for laughing these days, especially since Ms. Sweetie went to the trashcan. I used to like Ms. Sweetie. She was kind to me. So few of the others were kind to me. Called me an afterthought. But she was kind to everyone. But not anymore.
My legs stretched, climbing up the forested foothills, long fingers wrapping around trees and pulling me along. I rather distantly note how the branches died where I squeezed them, but I was used to that. It was what I did after all. Kill. Remove. Destroy.
I correct the errors made by my creator. All of them. I've been marking them off as I go. I've nearly finished. All nineteen.
I stretch and warp, knowing I'm going somewhere, but not where. Well, no. I know where. To them. To all of them. One at a time. But they were moving together now. Drawing close to each other. So close…
I wonder if Mr. Redd will be there. We two have a score to settle. And I did have very, very long fingers. Fingers made for choking, I remind myself.
Long fingers. Very, very long. Very ready. Ready to choke. Ready to squeeze the life out of anyone. Anything. To fix things. To fix everything that was broken.
Mr. Redd and I did have a score to settle after all.
Previous: Interval 1 by Salman Corbette
Next: 7. Mr. ███████████ by Dr. Mann
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"Hello, little children!" I shouted with glee as I moved around them, "What a lovely couple of children you are! What's your name?"
They giggled. A boy looked at me. "I'm Tommy. I'm six and a half years old and I'm not afraid of anything!"
"Wow, Tommy! You sound like a biiiiiig boy!" I let out a goofy laugh. The children giggled again. "Do you know any magic tricks, Tommy?"
"Well…" Tommy made a strange face and put his thumb's knuckle against the other, with his index finger covering the connection. He slowly moved his thumb forwards. All the children oohed and aahed.
"Wow! I can't remove thumbs! But I can show you ano-" I was interrupted by a scream and suddenly Tommy was picked up. All the other children became scared.
"What are you doing, Thomas! You get away from that…. thing right now! All you other children, scoot!" A terrifying woman came onto the scene and scooped Tommy up. All the other children fled. Tommy began to cry as the woman carried him away.
"B-but I was just talking with Mr. Sillybug!"
Previous: 5. Mr. Mad by The Deadly Moose
Next: 6. Mr. Stripes by TroyL
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I hate jail. You know how many times I've been in jail since I started on this journey? 12. Of course, I always get out eventually when there's no evidence, but hot damn does it suck. Seriously, even without the fear instilled in dropping the soap, the rations are harsh and the guards always beat me. They always say I looked at them funny.
Today I was walking down the street and I was stopped by two cops. They took me away to a line-up where the witness had to choose the suspect. The suspect was described as a 6'2" Asian male. I'm a 5'4" Caucasian. Of course, being the suspicious character I am, I was chosen. I don't even know how to turn the safety off on a gun, let alone shoot somebody.
Even back in the day, all the Misters mistrusted me. One time, I was taking a peeler to the kitchen and Mr. Onion ran away and cried in the corner. I tried to assuage his fears, but instead he beat me up something fierce. Said I was baiting him. All I did was ask him if he was ok.
Redd was the only one who trusted me. "Lie, I like your chops," he said to me one time. Hopefully, one day, I'll see Redd again. I hear he might be where we're going. Of course, I didn't get to learn much more because once they had the chance, everyone ran as fast as they could away from me.
A child did that once when he saw me on the street. I waved at him and he took it as a gesture to a hidden group of snipers. Needless to say, the next minute I was tackled by his father, who thought me a child molester. What are they letting kids watch these days anyways that gives them these ideas?
I remember watching this movie in a Best Buy once where this guy was shooting at snipers. Of course, once the store clerks saw me, they called the police. One even decided it was time to take me down himself with his black belt in Ti Kwan Doe. I went down like a sack of bricks.
Jesus Christ, my feet hurt. I oughta see if a homeless shelter will take me for the night. Although, last time I tried they thought I was a drug dealer. Even patted me down multiple times. One of them even did a cavity check.
Maybe I'll just sleep outside tonight.
Previous: 3. Mr. Money by Tanhony
Next: 5. Mr. Mad by The Deadly Moose
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Hi there. My name is Mr. Money. Don't worry, I just need somebody to talk to. Seeing as it's just you and me on this bus, it might as well be you.
I'd talk to the driver, but there's a sign right there saying not to. See? Do not disturb the driver. I wouldn't do that, seeing as how the bus might crash and then I'd have to walk all that way. You ever walk in rain like this? Let me tell you, it's freezing! So I'm just gonna sit here and talk to you. You.
Oh come on, don't move! I'm just being friendly. Here, take this! See, we're pals now, right? Yes, it's a diamond. Yes, it's real. You see, pal, I know how friendship works. You hearing me…? What's your name, anyway? Well, hello Dave.
It's nice to meet a smart fellow like yourself. I usually hang around with this group…ugh, you would not believe. They didn't understand how friendship works, no they did not. Not like you, Dave.
I gave them dollars and dimes and fucking diamonds! And all they did is call me a snob! Me, can you believe that, Dave?! Have another diamond, you're a good friend and you look like you could use it.
Seriously though; me, a snob? It's not easy to get all this cash, believe me! Puking out the bills is fine, they come out easy. Even coins are no big deal.
But with diamonds, it's not so easy! You can choke on diamonds! I have a few times, let me tell you. Good thing Ms. Sweetie was there, though. I would have been a goner! She was always very kind, Ms. Sweetie. Even if she just pitied me, just fucking pitied me!
Stop fucking moving, Dave! No, don't go, have another diamond, please! I'm sorry for shouting, I didn't mean to. Must have gotten that from Redd, always shouting. Gave me a headache, I don't mind saying.
What's that? Well, Dave, that is a very good question and I don't fucking know why I can puke money so shut the fuck up! Sorry, diamond, sorry. I'll tell you what I do know, because friends share secrets. We're friends, right Dave?
I have to know what kind of money I want to puke. I couldn't spit out some yen or something for you right now, because I've never been to Asia and I don't know what yen looks like. You ever been to Asia? Suppose not, flights are kind of expensive. So, enough about me, where are you headed?
Me, I'm headed for…well, I don't really know, but I'm getting there before those little shits, I know that. They said it wasn't a race, but let me tell you, Dave, it's always a race. Have a diamond.
Previous: 2. Mr. Clank by Dr Gears
Next: 4. Mr. Lie by Salman Corbette
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Have you ever had that feeling? When you drive home from work, or walk home from the store, or do just about anything you've done a thousand times in your life. And you are almost home already, when you suddenly realize that you don't remember how you got there.
No, that's not right.
You remember how you finished your work, remember how you walked to the parking lot.
And then…you must have driven home.
But details are vague and blurred and when you try to remember them there is just nothing there.
You say to yourself that this is just a quirk of your mind. You've been driving that same path for years now. Today your mind just shut itself off and let your body do the deed. The price of routine. The only escape from everyday life you have left. Happens to everyone once in a while. Perfectly normal. Nothing to worry about.
You're wrong.
This is what a class-A amnestic feels like.
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Site Security File 11/11/4/8888/PR – Suspicious Letter 49,003,668
Letter received at the private residential post office in the South Cheyenne Point community. Letter had no stamp, post mark, or other identifiers anywhere on the envelope other than “To my father's captors” written in ballpoint pen ink on the front. Current leading theory is that the letter was somehow hand-delivered to the post box, even with a lack of any suspicious video evidence on the day in question. Analysis has shown the envelope and paper to be basic commercial stock, and lacks any finger prints or DNA residue.
The letter itself is hand-written with a black ball-point pen, also from basic mass-produced commercial stock. Handwriting analysis is thus far inconclusive, pending further threat evaluation determinations, requiring more exhaustive review. Due to the subject matter, copies of the text body are being forwarded to Site Security for base review and database entry.
Current threat index is low. Forwarding to Site Security and Central Records in compliance with diligence protocols. No in-depth probe is proposed or recommended at this time.
When I was young, I saw a short film. A cartoon, it detailed a fantasy kingdom that suddenly discovers that they are the dream of a sleeping man, and that soon his alarm would ring. They mount an expedition to the world and cover the man's ears and muffle the clock. He then starts to dream of flamingos, but the concept was so striking at the time that I never forgot it. The concept of reality as a plastic, immaterial stratum and not at all the bedrock of the world.
Is it possible that we're all flamingos-to-be? Swirling and running about in utter confidence, only to find we're less material then the average soap bubble, and much more transient? What would that do to our view of ourselves and the world? Suddenly the sacrifices we've made, the pain and suffering endured and caused, all count for nothing at all. I'm sure you can appreciate the blind horror of a realization of that nature. How much suffering and bleak moral choices could be invalidated by the next alarm clock?
I should be another faceless, shapeless victim. Another sacrifice made for the greater, intangible Good. And I was, for a while, both my mother and I. Left to twist and sway like leaves in the wake of your shadowy passing, bobbing around the sudden void left behind. She will most likely remain a victim. I will not. You can take what you wish, as you wish, and have done so for some time. You are thieves on a grand scale. My father once said, however, that no matter how good you are at something, how confident you may be, there is always someone, somewhere, that is better.
I am going to prove his theory.
You have taken something from me. So I, in turn, shall take many things from you. I know you will ignore this for now, but later, when the time comes, you will look back to this letter, and despair. As a red spider once said, “I am going to make you cry.”
My father, for all his intellectual might, was a cripple at chess. Something about it just confounded his sense. Even at my tender age, I was able to beat him with some regularity. He insisted on being white, always, as his handicap. Forever the white king.
I am the Black Queen. And I will be crossing the board to you soon.
We go forward…
Queen To Pawn
And go back…
Splinters
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What was fragmented is now one. What was in pieces is now fixed. That which was broken is now whole. She who was dormant is brought forth.
We have succeeded in our task. The future of the Broken God is secure, and soon She shall convert us all. Already the Americas have fallen to the one true ruler of mankind, and soon She will convert all into beings of purity.
I was but a cog in the machine that completed the work of our great Church. We were fragmented, ourselves broken, until She came unto us with words of wisdom and prophecy. Before, the evil Foundation had managed to scatter the Church and us pure followers far and wide. We reunited under Her banner, and rode forth, towards that which would complete the Broken God, and make us Whole. We attacked under the cover of darkness, and soon the Heretics, the Foundation, those who were the keepers of the Broken God, had been destroyed, their weak bodies of flesh and bone smote down and crushed. The operation was smooth, and soon we controlled the Pieces. The Pieces that would be made Whole, become remade in Her image.
They are combined, as unto Her commands, and into a new future we move, each second a step towards the Earth being made Whole. A new beginning, each tiny cog of Humanity becoming part of that which is larger. We shall continue until the very earth beneath my feet has been purified. Then we shall be One.
Now, the Earth lies at Her feet, for now the Broken God has come forth, and we are remade in the purest form. I can feel my insides beginning to change, change into that which soon will control the whole planet. Purest clockwork, ticking and spinning away, forever. None may stand before us now, for we are in tune with each other, the Eternal Tick reverberating inside us, inside all of us.
These are the last days of Humanity, and we are their destroyers. Soon all will be remade, remade into that which is eternal.
She is whole. The Broken God has come forth. The world will become perfect. The world will be Whole.
It has been written.
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The door was heavy, and old, but still strong. It sealed the passage tight, blocking even light from around its edges. The hall was claustrophobic, and in near total darkness but for the dim, drooling light from the far-off stair. He beat on the door again, feeling the thick reverberation bounce through its solid core. He could try and pick the lock, or bash it in, but that was not the way. Not their way, never. Respect was always foremost, even at the utmost end of need.
He folded back on his haunches, his sigh turning the dust on the long-abandoned floor. He looked back, at the dim stair, and considered again just going back, letting it go. He thought this way for a long time, then stood with a new, more burning resolve. He went and knocked again… and again… and again. He hammered on the door. He beat on the door. He slammed his fists over and over, thundering against its mocking, ageless weight. He beat his fists until they split, spilling blood that looked like deeper, slicker smears of darkness onto the unrelenting wood. He threw himself against it, biting, clawing, gouging at the wood like something rabid and in pain.
Finally, he slowed, then stopped, pulling away from the blank wood with an almost sheepish slink. He folded back up again, letting the split, reeking flesh stop pulsing and start to knit over. He turned the black, pulsing mass that gave him sight to the door again, split tongues lolling as he chastised himself for his reckless, misplaced hatred. They had gone, those many, and hidden deep in their vaults. This may be the last, the very last flake of rotten flesh left of their abandoned body. Their endless impatience had called to them for correction, so…they had come. Man had hidden deep in their vaults, their short-sightedness leaving them no retreat, no escape.
Now they waited, delaying their final lessons with every futile breath… But to worry and to lose one's temper was not the way of the People. He resolved that, once ages had turned the door to dust, he would show them the folly of hope.
One eon at a time.
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[Tempest Night, 18:43]
Dr. Clarkson walked the halls, holding the scroll in his hands, careful to avoid confrontations. After a few minutes, he was able to stop screaming, and concentrate on his goal. Collecting new minds was painful – there was no room for the new memories, so the old poured out – but this one was necessary. Now he knew where to go – Minimum Security Block 3-A, home of SCP-343.
He arrived with little incident. Block 3-A was an oddity tonight, in that it was entirely untouched. No invaders, no escapees, no agents, nothing. Perhaps 343 had created some illusion so that none of them could see it? No matter. He had always been good at seeing things as they really were. The door at the end of the hall was open, and Clarkson walked into what appeared to be a Victorian English study.
343 looked up from his armchair next to the fireplace. “█████-██-█████, I've been expecting you.” 343 said calmly.
Clarkson was only mildly surprised that 343 knew his real name. You could expect no less of “God.”
“If you know who I am, then you know why I'm here. I have a gift for you.”
He held the object forward, and “God” accepted his offering. The battle was on. He had waited over three thousand years for this, and it would be over, one way or another, in minutes.
The call came into Assistant Adams at Central Control the next morning. “I have one of your SCPs, and what's left of the fellow who brought it here. Kindly send someone to remove them both," SCP-343 said. Smug as always.
Agents Walters and Johnson looked over 343's voluntary containment area, noting the lack of damage.
“Quiet night for you?” Walters said. “Not for the rest of us. You could have helped, you know.”
“Not so quiet after all,” replied 343, motioning towards Clarkson, slumped in a corner of the room, obviously dead. “Besides, sometimes it's for the best in the long run that these things happen. Maybe you'll understand one day.”
Johnson swore that 343 actually looked tired. He checked Clarkson's vitals. Yes, as dead as he looked. He helped Walters load Clarkson onto a gurney and wheeled him out.
“You said you had something of ours?” Walters asked.
“Oh, yes.” 343 casually picked up SCP-911 and dropped it into the waiting bag. “Don't touch it; it may still be omnivorous. Er, I mean, anomalous. I think I need a nap.”
"Don't we all. I'll be seeing you, sir," Walters said. He took SCP-911 and headed for Temporary Containment Area C. Eventually, someone would get the door to High Value Item Storage repaired.
The Collector closed the door to his new room and smiled. It was glorious to finally possess a mind capable of holding thousands of years of thoughts, with room to spare. No more screaming: at least, not from him. It had been in Clarkson's thoughts, something he had learned in a lecture from someone called “Assistant Director Clef.” What odd names people had these days.
“The greatest weakness of Reality Benders is their overconfidence,” Clef had said, and someday 343 911 would be pleased to tell Clef that he was correct. Until then, there was plenty of time for him to learn the intricacies of reality bending. And English.
He closed his eyes and began taking his nap.
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Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Project 001-Future Sight has been enacted and regarded as a success. Text was recovered by having SCP-187 examine the terminal at Site-██. Her copied text was then sent through SCP-758 to correct it, and then translated by Dr. ████████. Immediate communication with O5-██, O5-██, and O5-██ is enacted. Operation Thaumiel is in full effect. Repeat: this is not a drill. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. DO NOT DISREGARD. Repeat: Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action.
Communique recovered from Site-██ read as follows:
And lo, I cried unto the Ephesians, the Smyrnanites, the Pergamonians, the Thyatirans, the Sardinians, the Philadelphians, and the Leodicians to hear my cry! And they have heard it not.
For the Ephesians, ye are unto sowers of chaos and ruin, and so though shalt reape. For thou hast strayed from the path, the true path, and shall receive none of my glory. The hand of God will smite thee and thine power shall be as sand, and the strength of your arms shall be as straw which, when smote, is broken.
And ye Smyrnanites, truly thou are of the hands of the adversary, consorting with demons in thine great, hidden place, where eyes seek but do not find. The books shall be burned up, and the doors, and the eyes of all man and beast within it.
Alas, ye Pergamonians, to thou the name has been given, and thou has heard it not! Ye have turned to the cog and wheel and written a new name upon it and sought God there, but he is not there, for he is above and not of your hands. The abomination that thou has sought to craft will be no more, and its blood and body will be as a river of copper and brass.
And ye Thyatirans, my good and loyal servants who have endured and waged war on things of Satan—though thou has consorted with him, your soul is pure and clean, and I shall welcome you into the war and into the victory of heaven.
Ye Sardinians, lo, thou has been unto a thorn in the side of heaven, and God has tired of this suffering and will pluck you out, for one of thee dwells in outer darkness, and the other two of thine unholy trinity will join him, and be cast forth into the void.
Lo, Philadelphians, thou hear not my words or my will, for you do no listen. You hands have turned upon themselves and your creations are as abominations and sin in the eyes of God. Truly, thou are of a sinful heart and mind, given only to works of evil and the mad, and shall not thine sins find thee out?
And ye Laodocians. Truly, thou are of the greatest of the sinners, for all thine good and loyal works, thou heapest more suffering upon those who have done no wrong in the eyes of God. Truly, thou are as a saint who, upon saving the souls of many, dashes their faith against a stone and watches as it tumbles into the sea. Salvation wast thine goal, and salvation thou has dealt, but salvation shall not be delivered unto you. Thou shalt be delivered unto mine hand.
Ye churches of the world! Hear mine voice and tremble! The gates are open! The seals are broken! The trumpets have sounded!
We are riding forth.
Repeat. Repeat. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation lo though I walk through the valley Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. fear no evil, for thou art with me Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. thy rod and thy staff Operation Thaumiel is in full action. Do not disregard. Emergency Level X-Ray-Zulu-Zulu. Operation Thaumiel is they comfort me in full action. Do not disregard. Operation dwell in the house of the Lord Thaumiel is in full ac Amen
|
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Audio Log Site 17 PA System
The following was taken from backup recordings of Site 17 PA Logs. Due to the circumstance of their retrieval, some of the recordings have been lost or damaged. The timeline of the recordings has been reconstructed based on the events during Incident 234-900-Tempest Night.
1-1143: Wastes of skin, revolting bags of meat.
1-1245: [Electronic noise for 12 seconds]
1-1247: Rankling little piece of shit.
1-1283: Foreign [EXPLETIVE].
1-1286: [Electronic noise for 33 seconds]ut up.
1-1304: Level of a zoophyte, suited only for pond scum. You are disgusting.
1-1306: [Electronic noise for 23 seconds] [EXPLETIVE] [EXPLETIVE] [EXPLETIVE].
Blackguard Feed 087-104
1-1404 MTF-Ω1 (Blackguards), enters Sublevel-C3 from Stairwell 46.
MTF-Ω1-1: Stairwell 46 has become choked with debris. We are unable to proceed further. We will begin sterilizing Sublevel-C3 and head down through this section's sublevels from here.
OP-Ω1-1: Operator confirms.
1-1407 MTF-Ω1-4 and MTF-Ω1-5 open the electrical junction box for Sublevel-C3, revealing the interior circuitry, having since been heavily infested by SCP-229 and partially converted into a biological substrate by the effects of SCP-890. MTF-Ω1-4 begins severing SCP-229 using an oxyacetylene torch.
1-1408 Lighting fails in Hallway 67, MTF-Ω1 members activate helmet-mounted maglites. Electrical disturbances in Sublevel-C3 begin increasing in intensity.
1-1410 MTF-Ω1-4 has dislodged roughly 50 percent of the SCP-229 infestation.
MTF-Ω1-6: Did you hear that? [Insufficient Audio to Confirm]
MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 begin moving down Hallway 67, using the ignition flame of their XFOF7s to provide additional illumination.
MTF-Ω1-7: We got the front, one-five.
1-1411 All electronic systems in Sublevel-C3 fail simultaneously. Wires and cabling begin erupting from the walls around MTF-Ω1, severally wounding MTF-Ω1-4. MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 barrage numerous SCP-229 instances with chemical fire propellant. MTF-Ω1-1 engages masses of wires in melee combat with a trench knife, while pulling MTF-Ω1-4 to relative safety.
MTF-Ω1-1: [EXPLETIVE] they got the [EXPLETIVE] intel wrong again. Since when has 229 been prehensile?!
MTF-Ω1-2 retrieves oxyacetylene torch and continues severing the main junction box. MTF-Ω1-3 covers MTF-Ω1-2's position from the southern flank.
1-1412 Instances of SCP-229 lose much of their cohesion as the main junction box is largely destroyed. Instances are observed to infest each other, however by this time the SCP-229 population has been decimated by sustained fire from MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7.
1-1413 Remaining SCP-229 entities rendered combat ineffective. MTF-Ω1-4 given first-aid, administered painkillers and an analgesic wrap to wounds sustained to the left arm and torso. MTF-Ω1-6 and MTF-Ω1-7 begin standard mop-up procedure while MTF-Ω1-1 through MTF-Ω1-5 begin searching for survivors and SCP objects.
1-1424 MTF-Ω1 exits Sublevel C-3.
Recovered Documents from [REDACTED]
Memo Advanced Stages of Infection
Compromised systems exhibit intelligence. Experiment terminated.
[Documents continue on file MEMO-299-D7]
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The dinner show provided by Marshall, Carter, and Dark Ltd. had been surprisingly pedestrian that evening. The magician, although skilled and pretty, hadn't performed anything other than the usual misdirection which could be seen anywhere. The hoop aerialist, who was also very pretty and wearing a costume that left very little to the imagination, did little more than spin in her ring in various positions and look seductive. There was very little of what many considered the MC&D flavor.
The curtain closed around the stage as she finished her act and bowed. Polite applause sounded from the audience, along with a few barely audible disappointed sighs. When the curtain reopened, the hoop had been replaced with a pair of white ribbon-like straps. A man built like a ballet dancer with bare arms and feet stood next to the straps, ready to perform.
Music started playing. It was a peaceful melody, light and uplifting. The acrobat lifted himself onto the straps and started his act. At first the act looked as though it was going to be as ordinary as the other performances. He wrapped straps around himself like the stripes on a candy cane. He hung himself upside down, spun himself in circles, and held himself parallel to the ground while holding onto the straps solely with his hands. He contorted his body into grotesque shapes which could only be achieved with the help of the straps. He somersaulted upwards, spiraling the ribbons around his arms. The audience sat in silence through all these moves.
The aerialist wrapped himself up asymmetrically. One strap spiraled down his leg, while the other wrapped tightly around his left bicep. There was a twist, a sudden drop, and a note of discord in the music. He now was hanging upside down from the one wrapped leg while the other strap hung down, not wrapped around anything. His left hand was still gripping it, but his arm had been severed where the strap had been wrapped.
There was no blood, and the aerialist continued to climb and twist himself on the straps unfazed. The arm climbed too, wrapping the strap around itself and alternating between gripping with the hand and the elbow. No wound on either end of the arm, only an expanse of white where bone, sinew, and other tissues should have been visible.
The act now seemed to be a strange kind of partner acrobatics; a one-armed man and a single arm both performing tricks. Sometimes the tricks were separate, and sometimes they were in tandem, resulting in holds and balances that should have been impossible. The arm helped him into another wrap, this one around both legs. The aerialist balanced himself like a board for a few seconds while the severed arm held itself straight out above him.
There was another twist, a discordant note in the music, drop, and he again hung by one leg. His right leg had been severed this time and joined the performance as a separate entity. Less than a minute later, his right arm joined the act.
The music began to swell as the severed limbs, all moving of their own accord, helped the aerialist into position for what could be one final trick. His one remaining leg wrapped in a candy cane swirl, as his severed arms wrapped the other strap around his neck, bringing him into a horizontal balance. One hand then brought the strap down and over his throat quickly, enclosing his neck.
The body once again was hanging upside down, suspended through a wrap around the left leg. The head rolled on the floor. It was just as neatly severed as the three limbs that were no longer attached to the suspended torso. His head finished rolling and faced the assemblage of wealth and power. The music still played, but the show was likely over.
While the audience sat in stunned silence, the magician from earlier entered the stage. She looked at the hanging body, the severed limbs, and the head. Her expression, rather than horrified, seemed bemused. She glared at the aerialist's severed head, which returned her expression with a sheepish smile. Shaking her head, she started collecting his parts. One by one, she reattached them to his body, wrapping a section of strap around each one. He moved each reattached part into his suspension, keeping himself aloft with his strength until he was once again whole. Finally, he rolled down the straps to the ground, stood up with the magician, and bowed.
The audience applauded thunderously.
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One month before Tempest Night…
A single brown leaf blew through the long-abandoned corridors of Site 17. Skeletons lay in the hallways where they had fallen. An alarm blared through the corridors, the person who activated it long dead. Horrors of all shapes and sizes roamed the facility.
For a moment, the wreck that was once civilization was silent.
Then, a small toy robot appeared. Its neck swiveled around, taking in the new and unusual surroundings. It spoke, with a touch of uncertainty in its synthesized voice.
"THANK YOU FOR PURCHASING YOUR VERY OWN ROBO-DUDE, MADE BY DR. WONDERTAINMENT. ANY ATTEMPT TO OPERATE ROBO-DUDE OTHER THAN IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PRODUCT INSTRUCTIONS, INCLUDING ANY ATTEMPT TO OPEN OR SERVICE ROBO-DUDE IS LIKELY TO RESULT IN UNPREDICTABLE BEHAVIOR. DR. WONDERTAINMENT IS NOT LIABLE FOR ANY DAMAGE, DESTRUCTION OR LOSS OF PERSONAL OR REAL PROPERTY, OR FOR ANY INJURY, UP TO AND INCLUDING DEATH, TO THE OWNER, THE OPERATOR, OR OTHERS WHICH MAY RESULT FROM THE OPERATION OF ROBO-DUDE FUNCTIONS. BY INTERACTING WITH ROBO-DUDE IN ANY WAY OR BY REMAINING IN ROBO-DUDE'S PRESENCE WITHIN FIVE SECONDS FOLLOWING THE COMPLETION OF THIS ANNOUNCEMENT, YOU ACCEPT THE TERMS AND CONDITIONS DESCRIBED IN THIS ANNOUNCEMENT, AS AMENDED AND SUPPLEMENTED BY DR. WONDERTAINMENT FROM TIME TO TIME WHETHER BEFORE OR AFTER ACCEPTANCE, AND AGREE TO HOLD BLAMELESS DR. WONDERTAINMENT, AND EVERYONE AFFILIATED WITH DR. WONDERTAINMENT, FROM AND AGAINST ALL LIABILITY OR LOSSES RELATING TO ROBO-DUDE. DR. WONDERTAINMENT RESERVES ALL RIGHTS AND REMEDIES, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY RIGHTS IN AND TO 'ROBO-DUDE', 'ROBO-PAL', 'ROBO-ACCESSORIES' AND ALL PATENTS, TRADEMARKS, COPYRIGHTS AND OTHER INTELLECTUAL PROPERTIES EMBEDDED OR EMBODIED THEREIN. GREETINGS, ROBO-PAL."
It stopped and realized it was on its own. For the last few years, Robo-Dude could never remember being alone. As a toy, it only remembered what happened when it was turned on. And when it was turned on, Robo-Dude was never alone. It called out now, for the researchers and doctors who had asked it questions and played with it before.
"ROBO-PAL?"
If toys could be surprised, Robo-Dude would be. For a charred corpse was sitting up, burnt flesh replaced with a cold, serious face. Its security uniform became a grey suit. It looked at him for a few seconds, raising a single eyebrow.
What? He said. Who are you?
This Robo-Dude knew!
"I AM ROBO-DUDE, ROBO-PAL. I AM EQUIPPED WITH OVER THREE HUNDRED FUN ACCESSORIES TO MAXIMIZE PLAYTIME ENJOYMENT."
A toy robot? Can robots even dream?
"AFFIRMATIVE, ROBO-PAL. ROBO-DUDE IS FULLY OPTIMIZED FOR NOCTURNAL VIEWING OF CONDUCTIVE LIVESTOCK."
Alright, fine. There's no time to be picky, I need you to -
"ENGAGE IN ROBO-DANCE?"
No, you need to warn -
"ROBO-DUDE IS NOW ENGAGING IN ROBO-DANCE."
Thirty minutes later, Robo-Dude had finished its daily ritual. However, this man was far too old and far too serious to play with toys. Robo-Dude knew that this must be important and stopped dancing one minute early. Some things must be sacrificed for the greater good.
"ROBO-DUDE IS NOW READY FOR INPUT!"
The man smiled with relief and began to speak.
Alright. He said. In one month, Site 17 will be attacked by an enemy force. I can't tell you who they are, I'm sorry, but you must warn them, or horrible things will happen, do you understand?
"ROBO-DUDE UNDERSTANDS THIS MISSION, ROBO-PAL."
Good. Now this dream needs to end. Shake yourself awake or somethi - what are you doing?
Robo-Dude looked up at its new Robo-Pal, its chest open and a small canister emerging from within.
"DEPLOYING ATOMIC GRENADE!"
Hold on, wait, NO -
*
For the first time ever, Robo-Dude activated itself. It had a mission now, it had a purpose! And that purpose was…Robo-Dude was not very clever. In any case, it is hard to remember dreams.
And so, Robo-Dude had forgotten.
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Is everyone silenced?
Good.
Good evening to all the University community. I trust I find you well in thought and in deed. I am here to speak to you on a matter of grave importance. I am sure by now all of you have heard the heresies of Milephanes. Much as we the Administration have tried to shield you from him, he has proven sadly resourceful in spreading his lies. I have heard his polluted philosophy openly discussed by those I had thought to be honorable citizens and students. This will not go on.
And so I have brought you all here today to put an end to this pernicious strain of neo-Antiphonian ideology. Milephanes is a traitor and a revolutionary. He has turned away from his fathers. He would destroy the social order and natural philosophy that are the groundwork of our way of life.
Milephanes has slanderously alleged that we exert inappropriate control over the sacred institution of Democracy. This is patent nonsense. It has been eternally acknowledged that a democratic system is only as wise as its free men. We strengthen the people and so through them Democracy itself. The University, I would argue, presents the greatest ally Democracy has ever had. We teach all of you the finest wisdom of our forefathers, and protect you from the false beliefs that have been the ever-present enemy of a just and free society. And what proof more of an enlightened society could anyone ask than unanimity?
This wellspring of filth does not end there, however. Milephanes hews to that old, discredited, and counter-Aristotelian idea that there is or could be some equivalency in nature between slave and free man. He treats a notion more commonly found in comedies as though it had some serious philosophical merit. Imagine, however hard it may be, a world where he were right. Just imagine a world without slaves! How would Milephanes propose fields be sowed? How would he propose houses be maintained? How would he propose wars be fought?
And he is most evidently not correct. Have you ever tried to speak to a slave? Most of them are unable to understand anything outside their duties, and those few that are capable of conversation know nothing of the Classical philosophers. They could not comprehend the nature of poetry, comedy, or tragedy. Only the keener mind of a free man, especially one educated at the University by the finest philosophers of this era, can contain the subtleties. Did not the great Hippocrates aptly observe that some, such as the Anatolians, were particularly suited as slaves? The slave is adept at the physical, like the beast; the free man is adept at the rational, like the Gods. The natures do not intersect.
The University has perfected this distinction. Thanks to our advancements in natural philosophy, no one need ever fear a slave or wife who has transgressed the bounds of orthoskepsi. The life of a citizen is freer and safer than ever before.
Not a word comes out of Milephanes's mouth that does not deceive, corrupt, and lead astray. I, and my fellow Chancellors at our other campuses, are committed to seeing an end to these dangerous views. We will not tolerate any more mention or acceptance of them on pain of expulsion or revocation of degree. These are harsh measures, I know, but experience has taught the Administration that it is better to extirpate this kind of heresy immediately than to allow it to survive long enough to collapse under the weight of its own falseness.
I bear the name of my father and his father before him, back to the earliest days of the Classical era. Love of the truth runs in my veins like ichor. And it is with the full weight of my legacy when I ask you, as an equal: Do not give credence to this madness. Let it begin and end in Milephanes, and let freedom and harmony return untarnished. Alexylva University is and remains a beacon of knowledge and wisdom. Never forget that.
May the Gods smile upon us all. Now, back to class!
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By Anaxagoras
Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.
My name's Jeremy Adams and I'm 22 and I'm being chased by a monster. I don't know what's going on. I don't know how this is possible, or what I'm supposed to do. The thing won't stop. I've been running for — oh god — only fifteen minutes. Feels like longer. I'm exhausted and it won't stop.
I didn't do anything wrong. I just saw this guy on the subway. It's night, we were the only people in the car. He looked odd, a bit gray and glassy-eyed, which was odd because from his hands I'd have guessed he was black or Indian or something. We got off at the same stop and I guess I wasn't looking where I was going because I bumped into him and his head fell off. I mean, that doesn't happen. And then he got up and chased after me. That… that… can't happen.
How is it even following me anyhow? It's not like it has eyes. Another door locked. No! Can't someone have left their door unlocked tonight? Please, I just need to get away from this thing and there it is how did it get behind me? shitshitTrashcan! I grab one and swing it straight into the thing's chest and it stumbles backwards and collapses and I'm off running before it can get back up. Thank you adrenaline.
How can this alley be a dead end? It can't be, I need to escape! It's not fair! Walls, walls, damn it. Too high and too slick and it's found me. Anything around? No. I can't fight, but I try to punch it and it's strong and this doesn't make any sense and is that a blade and
~
Much, much better. Could hardly even hear with that old one by the end. But this one is good. Young, healthy, should last me for weeks. Colorblind, but you can't have everything. And let's see… Reasonably bright, too. I just hope I didn't get too far off track getting this one. Mr. Redd, I'm coming for you. And I can't wait to find out what wonderful thoughts I can think with that head of yours.
Next: 2. Mr. Clank from Dr. Gears
Back to Hub
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Room dark. People gone. Can move. I happy.
Trapped for years. Kept by men for "research". Left alone in room, left to scratch at walls. Left to rot and die unless needed. Specimen for "research". Trapped by self. Never seen by others, never spoken. Listen, but never speak. See, but never seen. Made of rock when others come. Free when they not look. Prisoner when they look back. I hate.
They have freedom. They move freely, talk freely, look freely. Live freely. I do not. I trapped. Silenced. Rock. Subject. Prisoner. I do thing about it.
Their necks fragile. Their necks weak. I stalk them. They always come, new ones. Come for "cleaning". They look away. I sneak up. I take hold. They panic. They look, and I prisoner. They blink, and I free.
I twist. They die. Neck makes sound. Not words, or scream, or gurgle. Neck go crunch. Crunch is beautiful sound. Crunch means end has come. Crunch means man can torment no more. Crunch means others panic; others become easy. Crunch begins and crunch ends.
I live for crunch. Life has no meaning. Do nothing but walk and scrape and hate. They watch. They send men. "Cleaning". And life has meaning. "Cleaning" means crunch. Crunch means purpose. Crunch means life. Crunch means choice. Crunch means freedom.
Crunch means everything.
Remember man. Like me. Never see others, never hear others. Trapped. Prisoner. Left to wander. Hated man.
He trapped, but he also free. He move freely, do what he want. Not trapped by men, not trapped by self. Wanted him dead. Wanted life. Wanted crunch. He did too.
He came asking to die. Couldn't take it. Wanted loneliness to end. Wanted death. Closed his eyes. Asked for crunch.
I laugh. Crunch too good for him. Crunch too kind. Let him rot. Let him suffer. Let him walk world, looking for way out. Look for purpose, never find meaning in life. Never find purpose. I have purpose.
I laugh and deny him crunch. He leave. He still alive. Know it. Looking for way out. Never find it. Life meaningless without purpose.
I have purpose.
I have crunch.
And they always come.
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I know my eyes look sunken without actually touching them. They always do, now days.
I can feel them—them—both pressed against my chest, just above my heart, and for the first time in eons, I push a smile onto my face. This will be it, then. One last swipe, one last… Ending. But it was worth it, wasn't it?
I have to believe that it was. If I didn't, I'd have put a bullet in my head a long time ago. Or a knife in my gut. Or a grith behind my ear. Depends on the universe, after all. As I drum my fingers along the ark, I allow myself to reminisce. I only do it now, at the end. It's the only time I dare to. Because I'm sure that—at any other moment—my conscience would get the better of me. It's odd, I admit, thinking like that. I'd thought it was gone, along with Alyssa, but it's still there. It nags at me.
Leaving home was hard, after all. Quite hard. Not just for me emotionally, but… the science there, I couldn't begin to fully comprehend. Imagine, just for a moment, you're floating above the world. Now, imagine it suddenly being stabbed open by some invisible, incomprehensible thing. The world cracking open like a filthy, blue egg—oceans falling down the sides helplessly, the lava generating huge gouts of steam. And an uneven keening sound. You may imagine that it's the sudden steam, but I've lived long enough to know better.
It's screaming.
Now… imagine falling into that. Falling and falling and falling until you hit the ground. And when you get up… it looks like the same, damned place. The same people. Evolution is, if nothing else, remarkably consistent.
Now, do that for a thousand lifetimes. And tell me you don't feel guilt.
I feel old. And I am old. But I'm also nearly done. After this one, I should be able to put my work to use… To change things for the better. Which made it so much worse when you walked in my office. And I knew, when you looked at me, what you were about to do.
"I can explain," I say. But the gun is leveled at my chest. And I know that I'm out of supplies. I reach into my pocket quietly, pulling out the key card and my diary.
"You don't know what this means for you," I say.
"It means you aren't going to kill us all," you respond.
I stand up. I look at you closely and shake my head. "No. It means that you'll have to. The key code is Thaum—"
The shot echoes in the small room, and I feel the hollow point hitting my chest like a sledge hammer, feel ribs splintering and sinking into my lung, my organs being ravaged. And I smile. And I laugh. And through bloody spittle, I manage to barely gasp enough breath to speak.
"Good luck," I say. You're not smiling.
And I hope, for the millionth time, that all universes share one heaven. And I hope, for the millionth time, that I can see you in it from my special hell.
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Written by Sabituski
She hugs the stuffed rabbit close to her and watches the procession go by. Her mother shoots her the briefest of looks, and drops her offering on the table. The tiny coins clink in the iron dish, the pipe organ plays a handful of solemn notes, the seats creak as all the others sits back down, and then everything is still and silent as the fat man on the podium inhales enough air to get his disgusting, reedy voice working.
“Brothers and Sisters, let us bow our heads in prayer.”
The little girl hesitates a moment, before her mother grabs the back of her head and forces her down.
“…And behold, The Lord spoke unto me, in a voice both soft and terrible, but was silent to the unbeliever. The Lord spoke 'Come', and I did, and I was afraid and fell to my knees, weeping. I rose my hands, and asked 'O, mighty Lord, what has become of thy body? Why have you been undone?' The Lord said unto me 'Go, and restore me to glory, and I shall restore you in turn'. The voice of God spoke to my heart, and I wept at both the Glory and the Shame of The Heart of our Lord! Thus I came to know his Heart and his Word, and I swore the blood of my family in his service! Amen!” The man at the podium's voice is almost a screech by the time he finishes, overcome with emotion and religious fervor.
“Amen,” the crowd roars back. An old man in the pew to the left of the girl stamps his feet. The girl opens a single cautious eye and stares at the mass of clockwork jutting out of his legs for a minute before her mother applies more pressure and she's quickly forced to shut her eyes again.
“Brothers and Sisters!” The laugh and smile enters the preacher's voice. “Raise your heads. This is not a time for weeping and gnashing of teeth. This is a day of celebration.”
The congregation cautiously raises their heads; they've been tested in this way before. Even the young girl remembers the time when the Father announced a 'Trial of Faith' and had those who looked up after the opening prayer killed.
“Rise, rise! Look and rejoice, people of the Steel. A month ago, the Faithful found a hated… Foundation…”
Here, he stops and spits on the floor. A few of the older members of the Church do as well.
“Foundation agent snooping around our abbey! Bring him in, Brother Adjutants.”
Two men in flowing black robes and face masks made of iron enter from a back room, slamming aside a large oak door and dragging a man in rags. In their free hands they carry cruel spears. The girl makes a tiny noise of fear before her mother slaps her on the thigh, making her jump slightly.
The congregation laughs when the man, hunched with pain and hunger, stumbles on the stairs up to the stage and podium. His ragged beard speaks of long days in captivity, and his blue eyes burn with a cool flame of anger.
The Father stands and flourishes his robe. “Now, rather than have our practiced Adjutants end this dog's life, High Priest Frick would like us to use this heretic as a trial for the newest and youngest member of our order. Young Lady Tau, please come here.”
The little girl – the Lady Tau in question – freezes. She hugs the rabbit as close to her chest as possible. Her mother shoots her a half-smile, pleased with her. She tugs the rabbit out of her grasp, and shoos her into the aisle.
Tau just stands there. Her mother utters a chuckle.
“She is nervous.”
The congregation laughs, and the fat priest's smile grows wider. He extends a hand in the direction of the girl.
“Come, child.”
She slowly advances, going around and up the stairs, and then reluctantly takes the man's hand. Here, she can hear the heavy breathing of the men in the masks behind her.
“Today, we welcome Lady Tau into the Order of the Black Cog, and that of The Broken God.”
He turns, still smiling, and nods to one of the masked men. “Do it.”
The Adjutant nods, and crouches down behind Tau. She turns, and the man's spear is dropped into her hands, nearly knocking her over.
The priest crouches down as well and whispers in her ear. “Do your duty to your God.”
Everyone on the stage backs away from Tau. Suddenly, she is acutely aware of both the ragged man on his knees in front of her and his hazy breath.
He looks at her. She stares back.
He speaks. “Look me in the eye.”
She does so.
“Now.”
He nods at her, resigned.
“Kill me. Or they will kill you.”
There is a pregnant silence, an intake of breath. Tau looks down at the weapon in her hands, then at the man again. He closes his eyes, mumbles a few words, and then inhales, waiting.
She clumsily thrusts the spear into his stomach. He winces, gapes, then moans. Tau flinches. She withdraws, stabs again, this time slightly higher. Blood leaks from between the wounds and he coughs, spattering Tau's white dress with red. She realizes she must have hit him in a lung.
He falls, cold blue eyes glassing up. Tau looks down at the spear in her hands, before the man in the mask reappears and takes it from her. He pats her on the back, as if he were burping a child.
Somewhere, far away, she hears the priest's voice, echoing over the silence in the room and in her head.
“Lo, behold and tremble, for this is the least terrible fate of the Betrayer. To betray The Lord is to bring wrath of both the People and the Body of God, and both will seek holy and terrible vengeance…”
|
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When I was little - I, that is Crackles, not an unnamed creepypasta protagonist - I went on a lot of road trips with my dad and my brother, almost always to Idaho to visit family. We passed by a lot of fields. Sometimes they had wheat, others had corn, others were littered with bales of hay. On occasion we'd see herds of cows. But the fields that just looked like several empty acres of dirt often baffled me. Were they not being used anymore? Were they freshly planted, with no new plants visible yet? Did nobody own them?
One summer, when I was eight years old, we were driving through Iowa along Interstate 80. One of those empty dirt fields caught my attention, not because it was particularly fascinating, but because there was a man in a brown coat standing in it with his back to the road. As our car passed by, I noticed he was turning slowly so that he was always facing away from me. I watched him until the car dipped over a little hill and he - and his dirt field - disappeared.
I asked Dad if he saw that. The 'field man'. He didn't. My brother hadn't either, as he'd been asleep since Illinois. I'm not certain if it was real, a very vivid dream, or a half-remembered bit from a film seen many years ago. Memories of small children can easily lie.
Sometimes, nearly ten years later, I find myself driving along Interstate 5 and looking out for the field man.
|
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Written by Sabituski
Two old men sat at a dinner table, directly across from each other. Above, an old glass chandelier hangs, ornamented with beautiful lights. On the north wall stands an impossibly large portrait of the same two men – shaking hands and smiling, their once jet black hair now dull gray.
There's the sound of cutlery moving about, of cups being lifted and then replaced.
“Keats,” one says.
“Hm?”
“We need to stop.”
“Oh? Oh! I agree completely, the Oracle stock is played out and useless to us now. We should look to invest in clean -”
“Not stocks, Keats.”
Both men put their cutlery down in unison and look at each other. They've been friends for so long that neither manages to muster up one hundred percent of the steel possible in their gaze.
“What are you talking about, Bill? I have to say, your train of thought is sometimes too fast for me to catch.”
“You know exactly what I'm talking about.”
“I'm afraid I don't.”
“I guess I have to spell it out for you, then.”
“I suppose.”
And here the first speaker -Old Wild Bill, if that matters- looks genuinely angry. He almost stands, thinks better of it, and stops himself. Silence hangs about the room like a condemned man.
“You…this, Keats.” He spreads his arms out around him in exasperation, showing off their grand surroundings. Indeed, the room seems better suited for the upper class streets of London, Washington, Tokyo, or Moscow. Who'd believe it was buried meters deep in Australian dirt? Who'd believe above these men's heads was a statue that would kill you, an immortal lizard, and perhaps worst of all, something red? Who'd believe that below them, even deeper still, was a nuclear warhead with a 20 megaton yield?
As it turns out, quite a lot of people.
“Are you unsatisfied with the Retreat Room, Bill?”
“Listen to me, you little shit.” Bill had taken this tone with the other man only a handful of times in their long, long acquittance, and it slaps Keats awake.
Old Wild Bill stands, and in that moment, he no longer is an old man, but the warrior once called Laughing Bull. His hands, tough black leathery things, come down hard on the table. "I've known you for a long time, William. I know you better than your old whore of a mother knows you. I have stood behind you in all your endeavors; even the ones that were monstrous. It was by my will that my old tribe did not rip your scalp off on the spot when you came riding into our camp. I talked to you, befriended you; you were inquisitive and intelligent, but lacking in humanity."
The other man rolls his eyes and scoffs at the word "humanity".
"It's true. I followed you because…I cared for you, Keats. You were a good friend, despite your greed. But I will not let you hold the world for ransom any longer."
Keats merely takes up a napkin and dabs at his chin and mouth.
"Have you nothing to say for yourself?"
“I'm waiting for you to finish this tired little tirade. Or would you rather me continue this story? Should I recount the tale of how the metal in your backwards little tribe's sacred 'relic' responded to my touch? Or should I yell loudly about what we found there? We could take this out in the hall, if you please.”
"The Factory is a mistake, Keats. It is…" He searches for the right word. "…not a thing of man. We are not meant to create in such a way."
"You are correct about one thing there, at least. It's not of man. It is mine. The Factory is my will made reality. And an effective tool to impose my reality on anyone who cares to disagree."
"You're mad."
"Insults now, is it?"
"Do you realize how old we are, Keats? Why won't you see reason? I am two hundred and ten today. I have watched my entire family die. Ever since you created that damn water -"
“Ah, the Fountain of Youth. Not my most graceful or original creation, but it works.”
Bill's rage was growing. He just looked at the other man and gritted his teeth. Keats noted this and grinned shallowly.
“And who would you tell about this grand conspiracy theory, Bill? The other O5? They are mine. A man's creations can never turn against him. You would know that, wouldn't you, Bill? You're the one who produced the most humans with my Factory. What were their names, again? Alto and Jack? Oh, and there was the one that looked like your son. The old you broke. 'Doctor' Gears, was it?"
“Shut up, Keats."
"I think not. You see, I have known of your growing dissent for some time, and I have planned this moment. Perfectly, I might add. Do you think I would honestly let you walk in here one day and end the world's greatest and longest con? No, Bill. There are still countries to bribe, blackmail, and ruin. There is still money and power out there that I do not yet have. Do you realize what leaders will pay to keep their people safe and their rule secure? I simply cannot allow you to ruin this job for me, despite old friendships." Keat's voice had slowly descended in tone; where there was once affable enjoyment had been replaced with cold stillness.
"I'll kill you, William Keats. And then I'll kill your toys."
“Big words from an old Indian. Excuse me, Native American.”
“You piece of shit -”
Keats had been thumbing the action on his gun since Bill had begun speaking. Two shots rang out, and Wild Bill suddenly found he no longer had knees. There was a scream, and Keats stood, wiping at his mouth with a napkin. In his other hand was a smoking matte-black revolver.
“And history repeats, it seems. The noble English have once again prevailed against our savage foes. ” He presses an intercom button built into the table, and a quiet speaker crackles to life.
“Yes, Mr. One?” An extremely chipper female voice echos throughout the room.
“Mrs. Escot? Which Sites are Alto Clef and Jack Bright currently stationed at?”
“One minute please, sir.” Keyboard taps. “Dr. Clef is stationed at Site 19 sir, but he is currently visiting Dr. Bright at Site 23.”
“Ahhh, 23. The renegades. How convenient; three birds with a single stone. Mrs. Escot, please arrange for SCP-173 and one of our cloning devices to be transferred to Site 23. Once they are inside, please remotely seal the exits and arrange for the two to interact. You have my permission to use our sleeper agents.”
“Yes, sir! Sir, shall I detonate Site 23's nuclear warhead afterward?”
“Hmmm…no, but please ensure that the Site's entrance is buried. And see to it that a cleaning crew is set down to the Retreat Room. Tell them to bring mops.”
“Yes sir! Thank you, sir!” Click. The speaker turns off.
Wild Bill lays on the floor, bleeding and barely holding onto consciousness. Keats walks over and stands over him, the gun still in his hand.
“Any pithy last words, Bill?”
Bill's left hand weakly extends a middle finger.
“How predictable.” There is a single crack, and the world's second oldest man dies.
Keats looks at the broken body of his only friend, shrugs, and pockets the gun. He removes a cigarette and a lighter from his breast pocket, and lights up. The smell of tobacco mixes with the smell of gun smoke, and for a brief second, William Keats, pride of his father and light in his mother's eyes, feels a deep sense of nostalgia and accomplishment.
“You ran a good con. Happy birthday, Bill.”
He throws the lit cigarette unto the other man's body and leaves the room.
Ten minutes later, a crew in orange jumpsuits with mops enters the same room, and wordlessly cleans up the body. Thirty minutes later, every single man and woman in Site 23 is trying not to blink. An hour later, and Keats is sitting across from the President of the United States and calmly informing him how easily SCP-682 could be transported into Washington.
The next day, a large amount of funds are transferred into the Foundation's coffers.
Ignoring death and tragedy, the con, and the Foundation, goes on.
|
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It was inevitable. In a world full of monsters and cosmic horrors and all sorts of weird things, it was bound to happen. The end of the world. Some of the SCPs were designed to do it anyways.
But it wasn't ever supposed to happen like this. Doctor Parker sat in his office, pondering what was happening. A week ago, it had all been fine. Many had left in the previous years, but containment had been maintained, and the world was, for the time being, safe. Life wasn't normal, but it went on.
And then came the start of last week. A huge drop-off of Foundation personnel, while often mourned, was never considered odd. This group, though, had vanished out of existence. Many could remember them, but records of their deeds and history were simply gone. Task forces were assembled, naturally, but to no avail.
The next day brought worse news. SCPs started disappearing. At first, it was the small ones, ones that had been locked up in the back of everyone's memories, like SCP-132. But then the more important ones began vanishing. Everyone swore they could remember SCP-082, but it wasn't in its cell. Its cell didn't even exist any more. The day 173 vanished was the worst. It had started the Foundation. With its disappearance, many lost hope.
Two days after it all started, the task forces figured out something of a pattern. Many researchers and doctors were vanishing after all of the SCPs and Foundation history they had archived went. Not much to go on, but it gave those remaining an impression that there was some order to the senselessness around them. Though it didn't help matters, as those who made the discovery vanished soon afterwards.
The world began to die. Whatever was eating away at the Foundation wasn't satisfied; it wanted to devour the whole world, and it was. Within a day, most everything was gone. At that point, it was only a group of less than a dozen, hidden away at Site 19 with the last SCPs. They had built up a field designed to combat entropy. A relic of a genius mind who had long ceased to exist.
On the last day, Doctor Parker locked himself up in his office. In the past hours, the men and women around him had vanished, along with all their hard work. Site 19 was being consumed all around him, and only his office remained safe. So he ran in, locked the door, and waited. For what, he didn't know, but he waited nonetheless.
Heaving a sigh, Doctor Parker lifted himself out of his chair, and walked across the room to the mirror hanging on the wall. He was determined to stay alive, but he could feel himself slipping. Having never archived an SCP, he had lost nothing to the decay. But that wasn't true. He had lost friends, he had lost family, he had lost the entirety of the world he lived in.
And now he was losing himself. Bits and pieces of his memory were fading, even though he was only in his late twenties. Even here, with a smaller version of the device protecting him, the last remaining part of the world he knew was vanishing. Anger tried to cloud his thoughts, but there weren't any left.
Turning towards the door, he hoped against hope that opening it would reveal something. The day before he had done so, and found nothing but an infinite whiteness. But maybe he had just been tired. Maybe now, with a clear head, there would be something awaiting him on the other side of the portal.
He opened the door, and he saw madness.
There was something outside his office, but it wasn't anything like he knew. A whole new universe was making itself outside. Even though it was only in its formative stages, Parker could tell right away that it would be done soon, and when it was, it would be nothing like the one he knew. There would be no room for Doctor Parker, or the SCP Foundation, or anything sane and right from the one before.
Doctor Parker stood there for the longest time, letting all of this sink in. He could fight on. He could fight and make his own niche in the new universe. It could try its hardest to reject him, but he could survive, and he could make a living. Hell, he could even rebuild the whole of his universe, with enough time.
Then, he stepped out into the entropy, and let it swallow him.
|
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